"Thank you ladies and gentlemen. Thank you." Another bow and the applause finally died. Victoria Lane glided off the stage and to her dressing room, or as she preferred to call it, her closet with built in makeup table.

"What took you so long dearie? Waiting to see if one of those jealous queens was going to throw you a bouquet?" Freddie asked as he carefully removed the pins and slid Victoria's wig off her head. Freddie was the best dresser Victor had ever found.

"Ouch," Victoria complained. "Be careful. You nearly pulled out the rest of my hair."

"I didn't pull any of your hairs dearie and you know it. Someone's got a bit of testosterone poisoning, if that shiny dome is any indication."

"I am not going bald. I'm…"

"Already bald," Freddie interrupted with a huge grin. "You've been bald as long as I've known you. More than ten years now. Why I knew you when you were still…"

"Victor Lansky," Victoria said in significantly lower male voice. "But I'm still the best damned female impersonator in this city and the only one who's straight."

"True, true, but what a waste. You know you'd have 'em lined up and waiting if you'd just give 'em a nod."

"There's a better chance I'm going to give up little Victor. Why don't you give them a thrill? I know you want to."

"I probably would, but you know as well as I that they want the star-they want you, not me."

"Oh hell. This corset is killing me. Help me get out of this rig," Victor demanded as he grabbed a handful of cold cream and started rubbing it on his face. "I wanna go home and watch the Knicks game, assuming I set the VCR properly."

"You need a man to do that properly," Freddy smiled cattily and paused for effect, "the VCR I mean."

"Be careful dearie. You know this is a bad area," Freddie said as he waved goodbye from the stage door.
"Don't worry about me Freddie. I'll be fine. I've been a New Yorker all my life." Victor waved and strode confidently up the garbage-strewn alley.

While it's true that people are doing things twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week in any city, and that New York, being one of the largest cities in the world, has more people working the off-hours than most, 3 AM is still a pretty quiet time. The bakery and newspaper trucks have yet to start their appointed rounds. The night shifts won't end for another three hours or so. Only the bums, hookers and others with a special affinity for the dark are about.

If Victor had not been making this same walk to the IRT every night for the last fifteen years, first as a stage hand, then as an apprentice like Freddie and finally as a star, he would have felt much less secure. Even so, he still kept his head down and walked briskly, not wanting to intrude or allow others to intrude on his life. He would stay in the lighted sections of the main streets, walking near, but not next to others who had clear destinations and steer clear of the loiterers, the ones who wanted something from you. Too many people got mugged, maimed or murdered because they didn't know the rules and Victor had vowed that he would not be one.

The quick pop, pop, popping sound changed those rules. One pop might have been a tire blowing out. More than one meant trouble with a capital "T" and that meant find a safe spot and hide until the turf war, hit, or marital disturbance was done.

Unsure where the noises had come from, or even if it really had been more than a single pop due to the echoes off the tall buildings surrounding him, Victor picked a direction at random, ran the few feet to the nearest alley and bolted into it. That was his first mistake.

As he entered the dark alley two large men, each easily a head taller than him ran past him. One struck Victor a grazing blow as he passed, making the man lose his grip and drop the already half opened medical transport container in his hand. The bump knocked Victor off balance and sent him spinning even as he tried to reverse direction. That was his second mistake.

If he had just stopped or even fallen immediately as a result of the bump, he probably would have been okay. However, Victor, not connecting the two men to the probable gun shots he had heard, tried to keep moving into the alley and regain his balance. Instead, he staggered backward several steps until he tripped and fell over something. Victor used all the grace and fluidity he had learned and practiced since starting gymnastics and ballet classes as a preteen to twist as he fell, hoping to turn enough to allow him to use he hands to cushion the fall. That was his third and final mistake.

He nearly made it. One hand, still bent at the elbow, struck something large and soft. It was an awkward position, but the lump saved him from a possibly serious injury had his unprotected elbow struck the pavement. He did manage to extend his other hand and the palm of that other hand struck the litter strewn cement and skidded producing pain.

Cursing prodigiously, Victor started to push himself into a kneeling position so he could get up when his eyes acclimated to the lower level of light in the alley. That's when he realized that the lump he was lying on was a man, a very dead one given the significant portion of his head that had been blow away.

Sad to say, in this day and age not everyone is a model citizen. Victor thought long and hard before he pulled out his cell phone with his uninjured hand and called the police. He was sorry almost immediately.

In what was, in Victor's admittedly limited experience, a very short time, a police car pulled up to the entrance to the alley and two large police officers clambered out. Neither was smiling and both acted like Victor had pulled the trigger.

Both had flashlights and while the smaller of the two half-heartedly examined the body for a pulse and shook his head. "He's got a uniform on. Looks like he does deliveries for some company called BioGenTech." Standing, he strolled back to the patrol car to call the coroner to pick up the body and the detective squad for whoever was on call. While he was doing that, the larger cop roughly pushed Victor against a brick wall and shone his flashlight in Victor's eyes as he demanded identification.

"License!"

Victor pulled it from his wallet and gave it to the cop.

"Victor Lansky, 112 Houston apartment 15E." Frowning the cop examined the photo on the license and matched it against Victor's face.

"That you?"

"Yes officer."

"It's a little late to be taking a stroll this far away from home. What are you doing here?"

"I'm an entertainer. I work at the 'Cattle Call,' two blocks south of here. I was on my way to the subway to go home when…"

"Slow down. I don't want your life story. Ain't that that gay sex club?"

"It's a club and some of the patrons may be other than heterosexuals, but it's not a sex club. Besides, what does that have to do with…?"

"I said, I'd ask the questions. So what made you decide to turn in this alley when the subway entrance is two blocks north?"

Victor sighed and decided that the next time he found a dead body he was going to walk away. It was going to be a long night."

"My don't we look like shit?" Freddie asked as soon as he strutted into the dressing room and saw Victor's face. Victor was too tired to even respond. "What's wrong? Are you sick?" he asked solicitously.

"No, just dead tired. I found a dead body last night on the way home and made the huge mistake of calling New York's Finest. I haven't slept and I spent most of the time since I found the body being grilled like I was the murderer. It was just moments ago that I cleaned up the cuts and abrasions on my hand. Boy was there a lot of blood." Head slumping onto his arms on the makeup table, Victor's muffled voice added, "I'm dead tired and I feel like I'm going to throw up."

"You're burning up too," Freddie noted as he pulled his hand away from Victor's forehead and shook it like he'd burned himself. "You're going back home and to bed. I'll tell the manager you're sick."

Victor's objections were overruled by his sudden need to vomit."

"Felling any better dearie?"

Victor found himself in his own bedroom, staring up at his friend. Freddie was holding a tray with a bowl of something on it. "Here's some chicken soup. I got it from the kosher deli down the street so it should have enough good stuff in it to cure whatever you've had. It's been four days by the way. Do you think you can sit up? Would you like some help? I can…"

"Whoa Tonto," Victor held up a hand to stop the torrent of words. His arm looked thinner than he remembered and Victor thought, "I must have been really sick," but he elbowed himself into a sitting position and realized he was in his pajamas but still had his breast forms on.

"Freddie, thank you for all you've done, whatever you've done, but I'm beginning to feel better. Can you help me to the bathroom so I can relieve myself and then can you help me get these damn breast forms off? I'm going to have a horrible rash." I opened my pajama top to display the offending appliances.

"Ah Victor? I think there's something you should know. While you were sick, something happened. You…"

The doorbell rang, followed immediately by the sounds of loud and insistent pounding on the door.

"You…"

"Open up in there. This is the police."

"You…"

"Had better get the door Freddie. You can tell me whatever it is that's so important after the cops have gone."
With a sigh, Freddie left to get the door.

"Are you Victor Lansky? No, you're not him. Where's Victor Lansky?" The voice grew louder as it approached Victor's bedroom."

"You can't go in there I've got a sick friend in there," Freddie said shrilly.

"Yeah. Right." A second later, the detective who'd replaced the street cop and questioned me all night and most of the next day was in the bedroom.

"Victor Lansky, you are under arrest for the murder of…" He stopped and stared at the breast forms.

Annoyed Victor purposely left the pajama tops hang open as he used his best Marilyn Monroe voice to answer, "Can I help you officer?"

"Uh…uh…"

"Cat got your tongue officer?"

"Are you Victor Lansky?"

"Do I look like Victor Lansky?" Victor smiled sweetly.

"It says here Victor Lansky is an entertainer, a female impersonator to be specific. For all I know, you are Victor Lansky," he replied gruffly, still staring at the breast forms.

"Well, what do you want me to do officer, strip my pajama bottoms off so you can decide whether I'm a boy or a girl?"

"Uh…" You could almost smell the smoke from his overloaded brain. "Uh…no. I guess that won't be necessary."

Turning to Freddie, he said, "If you see Victor Lansky, you tell him to contact Sergeant Lincroft at this number." The officer shoved a business card into Freddie's chest pocket. "It would be best for him if he turned himself in."

"Ooh officer. Can I have another card?" Freddie asked dreamily.

The officer cursed and stalked out of the apartment. As soon as the officer was gone, we both laughed hysterically. When we had finally recovered enough to talk, I reminded Freddie that I needed to get to the bathroom and also to get the breast forms off.

"That's what I was trying to tell you before Officer Lincroft so rudely interrupted. Now look dearie, I'm going to say this fast, before there are any more interruptions, so don't freak on me, okay?"

"Freddie, just tell me whatever it is you have to say already. If you keep procrastinating like that, I'm going to wet the bed soon."

"Right." He took a deep breath. "Those aren't breast forms, they're real breasts. Somehow, you've turned into a real woman. There, I've said it."

He stood expectantly, waiting for Victor to tell him he was nuts, but Victor just got a distant look on his face as he mumbled, "BioGenTech. Biosample case. Cuts on hand. More blood than I would have expected from the minor injuries I had. Oh shit." Victor Lansky fainted.

"When Victor woke up, Freddie was sleeping in a chair beside his bed, head back, snoring quietly. Careful not to wake him, Victor slid out of the bed and padded into the bathroom. The urge to relieve herself was strong, but the urge to examine herself was much stronger.

She felt faint when she saw the image reflected back in her mirror. The height looked to be about the same. Five foot eight, she guessed. And she estimated that her weight was now a bit less at about 115 lbs. instead of 145, but that was where things diverged dramatically. Her bald head now sported a luxuriant mane of blonde hair. Her "breast forms" appeared to be a healthy D cup. Her waist was positively tiny, flowing outward into a clearly feminine pair of hips and down into an outstanding pair of legs-the word "gams" fought for and quickly supplanted legs as the appropriate descriptive term. All in all, Victor had to admit that whoever had created the concoction-she couldn't think of a better word-that had changed her, had done an absolutely fabulous job.

Curiosity finally assuaged, Victor began her morning ablutions, showering, shaving, relieving herself, moisturizing, etc. It amused her to note that the differences were minimal. Basically, she did not need to shave her face or don one of the corsets she so hated. One of the advantages of being a female impersonator was that she was already doing much of what the average woman would do, although some additional study regarding the unique peculiarities of feminine hygiene and medical care seemed a high priority.

The other thought that kept running through Victor's mind was "why am I not more upset by this?" It has made me a non-entity. I can no longer do my job. Even if I can find a way to become Victor Lansky again, I'm going to be a fugitive. She was still pondering these issues as she walked out of the bathroom and found Freddie in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

He had set the small round table with a clean white tablecloth and placed a single rose in a narrow fluted vase. Wondering what was going on, Victor sat and watched as he placed the finishing touches on a plate of sliced fresh strawberries covered in freshly whipped cream and lightly dusted with powdered confectioner's sugar. Beside that, he added a steaming cup of coffee with a touch of Irish Cream and more whipped cream.

"What's the occasion?"

"I guess we could say it's your coming out party."

Victor hesitated several moments, uncertain how to respond. "I'm not quite certain I understand Freddie. Do you mean we're celebrating my becoming a woman?"

"And the first time I've ever slept over at your place. And your new career. And…"

"Whoa. Slow down there. I'm still a bit slow it seems. What are you talking about? I've lost my identity and my job. I'm a fugitive. I've got some disease or something that's changed me into a woman. I don't understand what we're celebrating."

"Tut, tut dearie. You worry too much. Relax. Enjoy your breakfast and let old Freddie explain."

Victor didn't move.

"Come on. Eat up. You wouldn't want to hurt my feelings now, would you?"

"Perish the thought," Victor couldn't help laughing. Picking up her fork, she took a small portion and chewed it daintily. "Say this is really good. I should have invited you over years ago."

"Just one of my many talents. I once spent a year at a culinary school. Now enjoy and allow me to clarify your life."

Victor nodded and took another mouthful, allowing it melt in her mouth. It was hard to concentrate on anything but the fantastic flavors bursting in her mouth, but she made the effort.

"I've been awake a lot more than you and so I've had more time to consider what's happened here. Let's take things one a time.

"First, whatever the biological vector was that caused this change…"

"BioGenTech. The guy had a BioGenTech delivery uniform."

"…right…it's a biological vector. Now I once spent a year and a half working for the New York City Coroner's Office and I learned that there are really only two types of vectors, those are methods of transmission, for biological agents.

"They can be transmitted through the air, but I've been breathing the same air as you for nearly a week with no impact, so we can probably rule that out.

"They can also be transmitted through bodily fluids and I've handled enough of yours while you were sick, that I'm pretty sure we can rule that out. Besides, just to make sure, I did the old blood brother oath thing with you-you know, mixing our blood together-without being effected.

"The bottom line is-you're not contagious."

"That's good, right?"

"Yes dearie, that's very good.

"So that leaves the issue of identity and employment.

"And the fact that I'm now a wanted fugitive."

"Wrong dearie. Victor Lansky is a wanted fugitive. You're not him any more.

"Let's take care of identity next. Remember how you asked me to help you find a way to travel as Victoria without getting arrested when you were running from gig to gig last year?"

"The fake IDs?"

"Exactly dearie, the fake IDs, the best that 42nd Street could provide. You have a birth certificate, a driver's license, a social security number, and even a credit card in the name of Victoria Lane.

"Victoria Lane," she mussed. "Victoria Lane. I'm Victoria Lane. Pleased to meet you, I'm Victoria Lane." She extended her hand to Freddie and he shook it with a big smile.

"But that leaves money. I don't have a job any more."

"Of course you do dearie. Seymour down at the 'Cattle Call' has been calling every day to check on how you are doing. He wants you back so bad it isn't funny. Business is off more than 30% since you went out sick."

"But Freddie. I can't be Victoria Lane the person and Victoria Lane the entertainer. It won't work. Who's going to want to see a female impersonating a female?"

"Dearie, dearie. That's the absolute beauty of it. You won't be a female impersonating a female; you'll be a female impersonating a male who is impersonating a female. Didn't you ever see that movie with Julie Andrews and Robert Preston? It's called…"

"Victor/Victoria." Victoria hugged Freddie for all she was worth.

McKenzie scratched at the itch on his chest. It had been itching a lot lately. And he was also going to need a haircut soon or his supervisor at the warehouse was going to get on his case. He had hoped it was just an allergy that would subside once Igor went on his quarterly trip to the groomer, but no such luck. The dog had been groomed more than a week ago and the groomer had been very specific about the absence of fleas, tics or anything else that might explain a rash.

It was like a conspiracy. Even the dog groomer wanted McKenzie to see a physician. "But no," Mckenzie shouted and danced around the apartment with his arm extended like he was flying-until he tired and dropped heavily back into his computer chair, "SuperKid is free again, no pseudoscientist will trick me into another visit to a doctor's waiting room again."

Turning away from the computer, Mac stretched and walked over to the gray box on his kitchen table. Inside, it had a gun-like object with a shiny golden sheen. There was what looked like a handle and a barrel, but no other buttons or triggers. McKenzie had to admit it might not even be a gun except in his imagination. Whatever it was, it had fallen out of one of the boxes he had accidentally knocked over at work when the bird had tried to dive bomb him to keep him away from it's nest. He'd have to think about that. Maybe he could use it in a story he thought as he turned it in various directions and flicking the trigger several times.