The Ultimate TG Experience
by McKenzie Rigby
as told to Andy Hollis and Jaye Michael
The Rigby Narratives:
The Ultimate TG Experience
by
McKenzie Rigby
as told to Andy Hollis and Jaye Michael
Chapter One -- The Placebo Effect
"I don't think so," a voice said from behind him.
The straps on his head prevented McKenzie from turning to see who had spoken,
but he was fairly certain that it was not his savior. The voice was light and
lilting, a woman's voice, but there was a viciousness beneath those sweet sounds
that sent icicles to the very core of McKenzie's being.
"Don't struggle, you'll only hurt yourself, and we wouldn't want that
now, would we?" she said with mock concern. Slowly the woman strolled into
his line of sight. Mac was surprised at how short she must have been, only her
head and shoulders were visible given how little he could turn his head. She
was of indeterminate age, anywhere from thirty to sixty, and a bit on the plump
side, with short hair in a pageboy style and a pretty face, except for the sneer.
"Help me, please. Undo the straps and let me out of here." McKenzie
couldn't quite keep the whine out of his voice.
"I don't think so, since I was the one who put you there." She sauntered
over to a stool that put her eyes even with Mac's and gracefully settled onto
it.
"But why? Who are you? What did I ever do to you?"
"Questions, questions," she sighed. "Always the same stupid
questions. Well, we'll get nowhere until we've dealt with the minutia so listen
carefully.
"My name is unimportant. You may call me 'Cariclo'," she said smiling
as she paused to watch his reaction. Mac blinked once and then the tension washed
out of him as his body relaxed, his chin gently dropped to his chest, and his
eyes closed.
Sliding off the stool, Cariclo strode to a desk located behind McKenzie's chair.
As if on cue, a man in a white lab coat, entered McKenzie's line of sight, wheeling
a cart loaded with electronic equipment into the room. Picking up a pair of
headphones, she placed them over the sleeping man's head and typed a command
on the attached computer. She paced as the computer spoke to him, strengthening
the hypnotic commands, inserting and reinserting a series of post-hypnotic commands.
The tapping of the steel tips on her low heels echoed about the small room in
place of Mac's screams as she waited for the program to run its course.
It took nearly an hour and even pacing had worn thin when the computer's tinny
speakers announced, "Program complete."
"At last," she sighed and removed the headphones. "Kenzie, dear,
wake up."
-=-=-=-=-
His eyes opened and he smiled. "Oh, hello Mrs. Everes, how are you today?"
It was as if he was unaware he was in a dank basement strapped to a padded chair.
"Fine thank you Kenzie. Are you ready to return to work now?"
"Certainly, Mrs. Everes. Thank you for letting me rest my head for a moment.
Migraine headaches are absolutely horrid."
"I understand dear. Just give me a moment. I'll tell you when you can
leave."
"Certainly Mrs. Everes," he smiled brightly as he waited.
"Okay Kenzie, dear. You may leave now."
Without another glance at his surroundings, McKenzie Rigby walked out of the
room and headed back to his office on the tenth floor of the Everes Building.
Sitting down and quickly positioning himself comfortably, Mac returned to his
analysis of the current sales figures and calculated trends, working diligently
on them until quitting time.
-=-=-=-=-
Unlike most junior executives at Everes Pharmaceuticals Ltd., McKenzie lived
modestly in a small condominium within walking distance of the office. It was
a two bedroom unit, but only because he had purchased it from the estate of
the previous occupant at significantly less then the going rate for a single
bedroom unit. Apparently the greedy relatives had accepted the first offer made,
only interested in getting their hands on more of the deceased's money. With
the exception of a few books on esoteric subjects that no one, even Mac, had
any interest in, the apartment had been stripped bare, as if a swarm of locusts
had passed through it.
McKenzie was not a joiner and with no family, he had few keepsakes. The apartment
was tastefully, albeit minimally furnished and the second bedroom, actually
the larger of the two, was left vacant. Mac entered it only to dust, and even
that was infrequent. Returning home from work, he dropped his briefcase in the
entry closet along with is raincoat and began heating the meal he had prepared
the night before. Usually, he felt washed out after having a migraine, yet tonight
he did the dishes and rather than stretching out for a bit of mind numbing television,
he felt the urge to clean the apartment.
Saving the second bedroom for last, he entered it for the first time in nearly
a month, lightly dusting and then vacuuming. On a whim, he opened the blinds
and let the last of the day's sunlight stream into the room. The many hues,
blurred by the light evening smog, seemed richer and more varied then usual
and he stood there watching the light fade while feeling at total peace with
himself. Only when the last of the orange red glow had disappeared did he move
again, leaving the blinds open as he left to shower and prepare for bed.
Earlier than usual, especially considering the time spent cleaning the condo,
McKenzie was in bed reading another story in one of the mystery magazines he
always kept by his bed. With the fourth yawn, he knew it was time to stop, even
though he still hadn't reached the point where the long-suffering shamus finally
unveiled the murderer.
He reached for the light and stopped. He had forgotten something. Groaning,
he slid out of bed and back to the hall closet. Pulling out his briefcase, McKenzie
fished out a bottle of pills that the office courier had delivered that afternoon.
After reading the instructions and opening the seal, he meandered back to his
bedroom. Popping two pills into his mouth, Mac swallowed them dry. Then set
the bottle on the night table beside his bed and slipped back under the covers.
His last conscious thought was that it was nice to work for a drug company where
one of the fringe benefits was free vitamins and other medications, even if
they were experimental.
-=-=-=-=-
"Hey Mac, how about lunch today?" Rhea Calchas popped her head into
McKenzie's office and waited expectantly for the usual declination from her
friend. The other girls had often asked her what she saw in the shy loner and
she had to admit she didn't have a good answer. Something about him, a frailty,
a longing for friendship, had touched her from their first meeting and she had
cultivated their friendship for over two years now, drawing him out until they
now were close friends.
"Sure, why not. This is the first time in weeks Mrs. Everes hasn't had
me working on some project or another through lunch. I swear I'm losing weight
from all the meals I've been missing."
"Hey, alright. I knew I would wear you down eventually," she smiled
coming all the way into the room. "Say, when did you get rid of the mustache?"
"Uh, about a week ago. Do you like it this way?"
"Actually, I thought the mustache was just an affectation, you know, to
make you seem more manly. I didn't think you needed it and I think you look
fine without it."
"Fine?"
"Handsome. Debonair. Like a young gentleman," she kept fishing for
the right words as she watched for a positive response from her friend. "You
know, boyishly charming. Cute."
"Oh. Okay. That sounds kind of nice-I guess."
"Oh, I'm sorry Mac. I didn't mean it as an insult you. Please forgive
me."
"Nonsense Rhea. Cute." He rolled it around on his tongue. "Cute.
I kinda of like it. So who else will be there?"
"Well, let's see. There will be Madeline from Accounting and Amy from
Mrs. Everes' office. Of course, Brad will be there, but Amy's got a crush on
him so don't you go playing your usual one-upmanship games with him.
"I promise Rhea," McKenzie smiled and made a cross over his heart
as he walked her toward the office door. "I'll keep my claws in, at least
for lunch."
-=-=-=-=-
Lunch was quiet. Every one complimented everyone else on how good they looked
and McKenzie let Brad do most of the talking. Luckily, they left early, as Amy
had to get back to work early. Mrs. Everes was immersed in some hush-hush project
and Amy had needed to get a papal dispensation to even make it to this lunch.
She would not have bothered except that she had already arranged with the others
for Brad to come and there was no way she was leaving him unattended with the
other women after all her hard work.
After the two would-be lovebirds left, Mac gave a sigh of relief and turned
to Rhea. "So, did I behave myself?"
"You were a perfect angel," Rhea chuckled and the others concurred.
"You even let that comment about the relationship between the cube square
rule and penis size pass."
"Yeah," Madeline chimed in, "I wonder what he thought he was
fishing for with a comment like that in front of Amy?"
"You know very well what he was after. How many men have you ever met
who weren't interested in a little extra on the side?" It was Rhea who
answered, but Mac too smiled knowingly.
When McKenzie returned home that night, he brought a small Rhododendron that
he'd seen in one of the shops Rhea, Madeline and he had passed on the way back
to the office. For some reason, it had called to him and he had just "had
to have it." Of course, he'd also needed to get instructions on how to
care for the first plant he had ever owned. He put it on the windowsill in the
other bedroom.
-=-=-=-=-
"Hi Mac. Ready for lun..." Rhea's voice trailed off as she saw her
friend sitting primly behind his desk. His hair, which had been getting a bit
long, had been carefully combed down the center with the tips curled forward
to frame his face.
"Hello Rhea," he looked up from his desk. "What did you say?"
"I asked if you'd like to go out to lunch today." Rhea debated for
several seconds, but then decided to speak up. "Uh, Mac. Is that a new
style for your hair?"
"Why yes it is. Do you like it? I saw it and just fell in love with it,"
Mac beamed with joy.
"Actually, it reminds me a bit of Mrs. Everes' hair style."
"Oh." Mac looked crestfallen. "Well, I still like it. And before
I forget, thanks, but Mrs. Everes has me tied up again this lunch time."
"Oh. I'm sorry Mac. I really didn't mean to hurt your feelings. It's a
wonderful hairstyle. It's just such a dramatic change from what I'm used to
that I guess I was surprised. Please forgive me. Please."
"Of course," he assured her solemnly. "You're my best girlfriend
and a little difference of opinion is not going to come between us. But I really
do have an assignment for Mrs. Everes this lunchtime. Maybe some other time-if
I don't wither away from lack of food first?"
"Sure Mac. Sure. I'll see you at the planning meeting this afternoon."
As soon as Rhea left, McKenzie grabbed a hand mirror from his desk and critically
examined himself. With a sigh, he also pulled out a brush and tucked his hair
back into a ponytail.
-=-=-=-=-
Rhea was late to the meeting and she could only share a brief nod with Mac,
who sat several seats to her left. This was an important meeting, as it would
decide that direction for the company's advertising budget for the next six
months.
McKenzie presented his piece on sales trends by demographic groups, concluding,
to no one's surprise, that the teen market was their biggest customer. Rhea
noticed that he seemed more animated than usual, gesticulating as he identified
specific points instead of his usual monotonous delivery. He even broke tradition
and used a pointer. Apparently she wasn't the only one to notice the difference
as Mrs. Everes complimented him, although she immediately followed it with a
suggestion that "Kenzie's" ponytail was inappropriate to a work environment
and that he get his hair cut or styled in a more appropriate manner.
Seeing him standing, Rhea also noticed that he was right about his comments
about losing weight. His shirt seemed to drape about his stomach with more folds
than it should. Rhea wondered if she should suggest he shop for some better
fitting shirts, but was a bit leery given her faux pas about his hair earlier.
More troubling was the feeling that she was missing something. That there was
something else about her friend that she should be noticing. It wasn't until
she stood and walked past him on the way to the front of the room for her presentation
that she realized what it was. His nails. Folded neatly in his lap now that
his presentation was done, they were longer, almost a half inch beyond the nail-and
they had a clear coat of polish over them. It was then that she decided that
she just had to talk to McKenzie, privately and soon.
-=-=-=-=-
Their dinner had been the best fun Rhea had had in months, maybe years. The
food had been excellent and the conversation had been witty and stimulating,
so much so that she'd been having too much fun to broach her concerns to McKenzie.
It had been like too best friends out for some innocent fun and having a blast.
The best she'd been able to do was suggest he come over to her house for an
after dinner drink on the way home, but he'd surprised her and insisted she
come to his condo instead. It was only after they'd headed off in separate cars
that she realized why it had been such fun; the sexual tension that was always
there between men and women was missing. There had been no innuendos, no subtle
hints, no furtive gestures, nothing.
"Are you sure you don't mind me inviting myself into your home Mac?"
she asked feeling a bit guilty about not being totally honest with her friend.
"Nonsense Rhea," he pooh-poohed as he opened the door. "I invited
you, remember. In fact, I've been thinking that we need to get together more
often, do more things together. You know, be friends."
"Mac, your condo is beautiful," Rhea stood in awe at the sight before
her. The living room walls were off-white with a set of Queen Anne brocaded
chairs flanking a matching love seat. Plants were everywhere-cut flowers, potted
plants, even bonsai-created the feeling of a secret garden hidden in the bowels
of the building. Framed paintings peeked through the foliage, carefully lighted
to be highlighted and to encourage the shrubbery to grow around them and frame
them even more. Rhea recognized a Matisse or two and assumed they were copies,
but given Mac's behavior lately, was unsure.
"Have a seat. I'll make us some tea. Then we can kick off our shoes and
talk." Before Rhea could answer, he was gone, leaving her to the carefully
manicured garden. Remembering the serious subject she needed to discuss, Rhea
chose a chair rather than the love seat where her intentions might be misunderstood,
but she had been in heels for much of the day and the idea of taking off her
shoes was so appealing she couldn't resist. A more detailed examination of the
condo could come later. Shoes off, she curled up with her legs under her on
the surprisingly comfortable chair.
Mac returned shortly and Rhea sucked in her breath in shock. There was another
person standing before her carrying a tray with a porcelain oriental tea set
and suddenly Rhea realized why their night out had been absent sexual innuendo.
Standing before her was Mac, but it wasn't Mac. His hair had been re-combed
to again part down the center and the ends again gently flipped forward frame
his face. His toenails had gone the way of his fingernails and now they too
sported a matching clear coat polish. He was wearing a kimono-style bathrobe
with a floral design that matched the tea set, but most shocking was the gently
curved shape beneath the robe.
"Tea's ready. Shall I pour?"
Rhea gulped, still staring, and nodded rather than risk speaking.
Mac gracefully set everything on the coffee table. His movements were like
choreography as he poured, in what Rhea was willing to bet was a fairly good
emulation of the Japanese high tea ritual. Finally, he set a delicate china
cup before her, another by his side and curled up on the love seat.
When she still had not moved or spoken, he gently prompted her. "Have
some tea, Hon. Is something wrong?"
Finally, the dam broke and through a deluge of tears Rhea choked out, "Oh
Mac. We have to talk."
McKenzie immediately jumped to her side hugging her only to be shocked when
he was pushed away, an obvious look of distaste on Rhea's face. Seconds later
Mac had run crying towards the bedrooms.
It took several minutes for Rhea to compose herself and several more as she
debated between slinking ignominiously away and searching out McKenzie to explain.
Loyalty and friendship won.
Rhea forced a smile as she faced three doors and remembered the fable about
the "Lady and the Tiger." She wondered which, if either, she would
find when she located her friend. The first door lead to a bathroom, Spartan
and clearly masculine. The second door led to a small bedroom-again, clearly
utilitarian and masculine, and again no Mac.
The final door led to a second, larger bedroom. This one too was filled with
a profusion of flowing plants of assorted varieties. It also contained a matched
bedroom set including a canopied bed, armoire and makeup table. Her friend was
sprawled on the bed, still sobbing.
Tentatively, afraid to disturb him even more, Rhea padded silently to the bed
and settled herself gently on the edge. A comforting hand reached out and touched
Mac's shoulder and she was relieved a bit when he didn't flinch.
"Mac, please listen to me. We're friends-and we need to talk. Something's
been happening to you. I don't know what it is. I see little things, things
that have changed, things that don't make sense. It's like you're changing-or
something's changing you. It's...oh I don't know what it is." Rhea was
now crying again too.
It was Mac who recovered first and he sat up and hugged Rhea for all he was
worth. An eternity later, they were both recovered enough to separate and Rhea
started to speak, only to be gently shushed.
"I know Rhea. You're a good friend, my best friend, and you've been trying
to tell me something all night."
Rhea nodded silently, unsure what to say.
McKenzie sighed and let his shoulders slump. "Is it that I seem to be
changing? Is that it?" His hand trembled as it rested on her arm while
he waited for her response.
"You-you know? These changes. They're intention-al?" Rhea was in
shock.
"Please. Let me explain, I beg of you. It's not what you think."
"You're becoming effeminate and it's intentional?"
"Effeminate? What are you talking about?" Mac was immediately indignant.
"I meant the way I was opening up, letting myself feel and react to the
world more."
Rhea choked out the words "Oh my god!" and tried to run from the
room in embarrassment, only to be stopped at the door by Mac's gentle hands
on her shoulders.
"Friends?" He asked. "Friends can say anything to each other-even
if it hurts sometimes. Now tell me what you mean. Why did you call me effeminate?"
"Mac," Rhea's face was now bright red. "We're friends and I
don't what to lose that, but I've already hurt you unintentionally, and I don't
want to do it again, so please just let me go and we can pretend this never
happened.
McKenzie gently turned her to face him and stared into her eyes for several
seconds. His hand lifted from her shoulder to gently caress her cheek. "Friends,"
he whispered before taking her by the hand and leading her back to the now cold
tea.
-=-=-=-=-
They sat uncomfortably in the Queen Anne chairs holding hot tea and saying
nothing. Finally, Mac cleared his throat. "Maybe I should start?"
When Rhea said nothing, he continued.
"You know I've always been shy. You're just about my only friend and that's
because, for some unknown reason, you've taken pity on me."
"That's not..." Mac raised a hand to stop her.
"It's okay. I appreciate it, but it's the truth. I rarely talked; you
usually carried the conversation. I would eat at my desk every day if you didn't
drag me off to lunch. When I had to talk in a public meeting, I'd be stiff and
stammer, saying the absolute minimum, as Mrs. Everes has rather acerbically
pointed out on numerous occasions.
"Anyway, I screwed up my nerve and finally volunteered for one of the
company's testing programs, the Metamez trials. The one's where they were testing
a new hypnotic to help psychiatrists overcome their patient's persistent thought
disorders like delusional thoughts, obsessive-compulsive behaviors. That sort
of thing.
"They accepted me because they felt my shyness was sufficiently severe
to be a major detriment in my life. They said the instructions would be to change
myself so that I could accept myself, like myself, and feel comfortable around
others-and it did. I actually talked at lunch last week and I got through a
staff meeting without being criticized for the first time ever."
"Mac," Rhea spoke in a near whisper. "Would you please open
the top of your robe a bit?"
"I guess." The robe opened a bit, enough to show the absence of any
chest hair.
"A bit more." This time the view was of two small but quite feminine
breasts. Mac glanced down and then back up at Rhea.
"So?"
"What do you see?"
"My chest?"
"And what else?"
"My nipples?"
"And..."
"This is getting boring-my breasts."
"Final question. Who has breasts, a man or a woman?"
"Why a woman, of cour...oh!" Mac carefully examined his chest; touching
the breast and watching it shift under pressure from his finger and then slide
back when he removed his hand.
"But...why doesn't it bother me? I should be 'freaking out,' shouldn't
I?"
"I think that's an answer you need to ask the people at work."
McKenzie just nodded. There was no doubt that she was right.
-=-=-=-=-
Interlude One
The glow from the computer monitor cast a pale light on the man's face as he
typed. His skin, sallow and pasty white under normal conditions, appeared gray
in the reflected light and his forehead glistened with beads of sweat as he
considered each word of his story in progress. Clearly it was a long way from
being finished, but it was a good start. Likeable characters, strange happenings
and, of course, a male being transitioned into a female. It should be perfect
for the folks on that mailing list.
Somewhere, sounding miles away, the doorbell rang.
While McKenzie Rigby typed another sentence the doorbell rang twice more, finally
breaking his train of thought. Growling to himself, he pushed away from the
computer desk and stood up.
At twenty-nine, McKenzie already appeared middle aged. Balding, with a belly
that hung well over his belt, he moved slowly toward the door with the same
shuffling gait that caused clerks offer him senior citizen discounts wherever
he shopped.
He opened the door and found a small boy of ten standing in the hallway holding
on to a smaller gray and white dog, a mixed breed with the ears and fur of a
wire hair terrier and the expressive eyes of a basset hound. "Oh, thank
heavens you're safe, Timmy. Good girl, lassie, you brought him home."
"Very funny, Uncle Mac. It's me, David," the boy said rolling his
eyes at the bad imitation of an old time television show he did every time David
came by. Holding out the dog he said, "Here's Igor."
"That's pronounced Eye-gor"
The boy sighed, "They told me it was Eegor."
"Well, they were wrong, then, weren't they?" the older man replied
contentiously, before asking, "Want a soda, David?"
"Okay, it's a long walk home, Uncle Mac. You know you could walk your
dog yourself. It wouldn't kill you."
"Okay, okay," McKenzie surrendered and slipped a five-dollar bill
in the boy's hand. "That's it for this week, got it? I'll walk him myself
tomorrow."
David followed the man inside the cluttered apartment, wrinkling his nose.
The room smelled almost as bad as the man did. "There's a storm coming…."
"What?" McKenzie asked as he took a container of Coke out of the
fridge. "Oh, you want a ride home, right? I'm right in the middle of a
very special project right now, you know."
"Writing more of those stories of yours? The ones I'm not old enough to
read?" David asked, pointedly.
"Yes, and someday I promise I will show them to you." Muttering to
himself, he added, "After your mother is long dead and buried, if she has
anything to say about it.
Turning back to little David, he continued, "Here, let me get the keys
and I'll drive you home."
"Thanks, Uncle Mac. I knew I could count on you, despite what mom thinks."
-=-=-=-=-
The drive took less than ten minutes. McKenzie hoped to drop the boy a block
away from the house and take off before his sister could corner him, but no
such luck. The rain started drumming down on the roof of the car before they
reached David's street. Lightning crashed overhead and, the way a passing tree
shook from the thunder, McKenzie wondered if the car would be hit.
He pulled into the driveway, only to see his sister standing by the side door
pointing at him and motioning him into the house.
"You set me up for this, didn't you?"
"Sorry," David said and meant it. "But she is my Mom, you know."
The man and the boy ran for the shelter of the house. Both made it to the kitchen
dripping from the rain.
"Sit!" Janice Rigby-Corwin told her brother and pointed to a kitchen
chair.
"But, sis, I'm in the middle of something important. I need to get…."
"You need to get your butt down in that chair-or do I have to call Mom?"
"Better do as she says, pardner," David drawled and tossed his uncle
a bath towel. "She means business. Some warm milk, perhaps?"
"No, thanks," McKenzie said drying off his head.
"Want to take a shower?" Janice asked her brother pointedly, wrinkling
her nose distastefully as she tried to sit down next to the man.
"I will and I always take a shower before I go to work so you don't have
to look at me as if I haven't bathed in a week." McKenzie said, hurt.
"Then you have a serious problem, little brother. You look like death
itself. You smell like it, too. I blame that stupid computer of yours for that,
too. Do you ever get out these days? Even to buy groceries?"
"I'm a writer, sis. There are a lot of fans of my work out there and I
can't let them down."
"Oh, yes, the writing. How many people are on that mailing list of yours?
Three? Four? There is more to life than your online buddies and those stories
of yours. When was the last time you sent something to a real publisher?"
McKenzie stammered out, "Okay, so nothing this year, but there are a lot
more people on the TG-TF list than you think. It's what I do, sis. I have a
job, it's not much of job but it pays the bills-and I write."
"Do you even have a girl friend anymore?" she asked, quietly.
"Not since that-since Barbie broke up with me," he said trying very
hard not to look at anyone.
"I liked her," David pointed out. "And she made you keep your
place nice, too."
"So? I'm not into housework," McKenzie protested.
"It's about time you were," Janice said. "Look, we have about
thirty minutes to get downtown. David, go move the stuff off the front seat
of the car for your uncle, then you get in the back seat."
"Okay, Mom."
"What's this about?" McKenzie demanded.
"You have an appointment for a complete physical with Dr. Robinson. Mom
is paying for it, and I made the appointment. Knowing your lack of love for
all things medical, I had David get you here by any means, fair or foul, so
don't blame him. Let's go, and no, you don't have a choice. I will not lose
another sibling."
-=-=-=-=-
McKenzie slammed the door of his apartment open, and then slammed it shut with
an even louder bang. "Of all the rotten tricks," he thought. "That
bitch he called a sister had really done it, this time." Igor whimpered
and stared inquisitively at the man as he stormed over to the computer and clicked
the icon to connect to his ISP.
"Nothing much," he complained to the dog as a couple of letters from
the list came in. Junk and spam. Spam and junk. "Why should I be surprised?"
The only stories that were being sent out, these days, were just the "Mommy
made me dress as a girl, and look at me now" type or someone was trying
to find a new way for the Catwoman to turn Robin-or Batman, or both-female.
"It's been months since I posted anything to list," McKenzie noted absently speaking to the computer monitor as much as to the dog. "It's time I did. They need to get some real stories again, not that garbage. And I don't care what that stupid doctor said. I'm in good health. I feel fine. Maybe I could get a bit more exercise, but I need to get things going again with the list. That novel… That might still have a chance. I know, I'll send the 'Ultimate TG Experience.' Perfect. Now they can find out what real writing is all about."
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER TWO
[St. Elmo's Fire]
The
Rigby Narratives:
The Ultimate TG Experience
by
Andy Hollis
and
Jaye Michael
It was a dark and stormy night. The lightening flashing through my basement
studio's high casement windows was bright enough and frequent enough to interfere
with my enjoyment of my favorite video. Of course, I knew the scenes and the
lines to Dr. Jekyll and Sister Hyde by heart, so I wasn't really watching
so much as using it for background noise as I typed away at my latest novel,
The Placebo Effect. Placebo was going to be my opus magnum, the
finest, most comprehensive, work of transgender fiction ever written. It was
going to be the story of a man who turns into a woman a la Kafka's "Metamorphosis,"
with subplots including a man who runs afoul of his bosses and has to hide.
In the same tradition as "The Purloined Letter," he decides-actually
his girlfriend convinces him-to hide in plain sight. Did I mention that one
of the characters was to be a scientist and that she was to have been raped
in high school? If I did this right, know one would know what was really happening
until the very end, where there would be a surprise worthy of O'Henry.
Anyway, the lightening was so bad that I finally gave up my writing, turning
off and unplugging the computer. Better to have it off now and live to type
another day. Actually, even Jekyll and Hyde was getting hard to hear above the
cacophony from without so I also turned off the television and, like mama taught,
unplugged it too. After all, I was not so rich that I could afford to replace
all my electronic equipment.
At that point, I would have gone over to Barbie's place, but her roommates
had made it clear that she did not want to see or talk to me any more, not since
she'd found I had used a pair of her panties to…well, you know. In keeping
with my bland life, I'll save the graphic details for my stories. The bottom
line was, no girlfriend. She hadn't even bothered to take them, or any of her
other clothes, with her when she'd stormed out, saying she didn't even want
to try to remove the stains from my pathetic sex acts from them. I admit Barbie
is tall for a girl at five-foot ten, but geez, you'd think I'd been wearing
them; like I could fit my six-foot eight-inch, three hundred twenty pound frame
into her size sixes even if I wanted to. Actually, she was another reason why
The Placebo Effect was languishing. I missed her and just couldn't seem
to concentrate on my plotting when all I could think of was her.
With no television, no computer, no job, no girlfriend and even the dog asleep,
I was at a loss as to what to do and 3 AM is way too early for bedtime when
you've been on the night shift for the last five years. I would have been there
now, playing night watchman while waiting for a better paying job in management
and finishing off the great American transgender novel, but the owners had torched
the warehouse in order to insure maximum return on their investment and, as
the cop who questioned me noted, "There ain't no reason for ya ta guard
ashes."
The good news was they didn't think I had set the blaze, although they still
wanted me to stay in town and available. "S.O.P." the cop had insisted.
So, what was I going to do? She had taken her collection of Barbie dolls, but
I could feel her clothes beckoning me. They were still in her closet and the
top three drawers of my dresser. I hadn't had the heart to box them and try
to send them back to her. I think, deep in my heart of hearts, that I still
hoped we could be together again, but then I glanced at her picture, hanging
above my computer, smiling joyously as she glanced over at me as I snapped her
picture. I had taken it just after she had aced her serve during this year's
semi-final game at the regional volleyball tournament. Her long blond hair framed
her angelic, heart-shaped face and sparkling blue eyes-and the bikini didn't
hurt either. Slowly that smiling visage was replaced by hers as I saw her last,
hurt and angry beyond words and I knew I could never win her back. She was too
angry.
I ambled over to the couch and stood on the back so I could get high enough
to look out my basement window at the night sky. Looking out the window into
the storm, the flashes from the lightening were even brighter and more blinding
than before, so I used one hand to shade my eyes while holding onto one of the
water pipes suspended near my ceiling for balance. The sky was so brightly lit
that, for a moment, it reminded me of that old SciFi movie, The Day of the
Triffids, and I chuckled to myself for my foolishness. Everyone knew that
all that stuff about aliens and ghosts and magic was just bunk, but it might
help with a story line someday, so I filed it in my memory for later consideration
and cranked open the window in order to get a better view. I was going to have
to break down and wash them one of these days.
That was when things got strange.
This huge, six-foot glowing ball of light appeared in front of my open window
as if examining me. It gave off a faint hum as it hovered above the sidewalk
before me. I had heard of St. Elmo's fire, but I had thought that that was usually
found out over the ocean or some other large body of water since most of the
reports were from sailors. This was Columbus, Ohio and the largest body of water
near me, besides some poor excuses for rivers that flowed through the city was
the Hoover Dam on the opposite side of town.
If that wasn't strange enough, a smaller ball of lightening, this one only
about a foot in diameter, separated from the original and leaped at me. I didn't
even have time to react before it was on me, encircling my body so that I too
was glowing.
I initially felt just a mild tingle, like lying on one of those magic-finger,
vibrating beds in a motel. I know I never actually felt pain, but the next thing
I remember, I was lying on the floor with Igor-that's my dog-licking my face.
I had singed hair and tingling skin to go with the bitter, acrid odor in the
air. Everything hurt, and I mean everything, so I cautiously dragged myself
into a standing position, using the couch to lever myself up, and staggered
off to bed.
When I woke again, after some of the most amazing dreams of my beloved Barbie,
the storm had passed and it looked like it was late afternoon from the position
of the shadows on the building across the street. My skin still tingled and
I felt dizzy, but the pain was mostly gone. Nature was calling again-you'd think
she'd have given up in the midst of a major metropolitan area like Columbus-so
I visited the bathroom and relieved myself, sitting for safety.
After getting shocked by the ball lightening I had basically crawled into bed
and slept off the major effects. I knew it was time for a shower and some major
cleaning up, as there was a thin layer of soot on the bed that must have been
the remains of my clothes and hair. I didn't even want to look in the mirror
until after cleaning myself thoroughly, but I must admit that I was cautiously
examining myself while I showered to see what might have happened to me. I knew
very little about getting struck by lightening, but I felt certain that it was
not good for the human body. Thoughts of burns (there were none), blindness
(I could still see) hearing loss (I could hear the sounds of the shower running
and Igor whining outside the bathroom door like he does whenever I close the
door) were just a few of the fears that ran through my mind and I probably would
have gone to my doctor or an Emergency Room (if I weren't deathly afraid of
them and I could afford it). I didn't and I couldn't, but the fears were still
there so I kept checking for anything different, anything at all.
I had lost all my body hair, but I was pleased to find that I still had hair
on my head. It felt fuller than before and I wondered if my body still held
a small charge of static electricity that might be fluffing it out like when
someone touches a Vandegraff generator. I also noted that the tingling had not
gone away. It didn't seem to be concentrated anywhere, but I imagined it felt
stronger than when I had first woken up. Maybe I was going to turn into a woman,
like the people in the stories I wrote. I laughed dismissively knowing the impossibility
of such an event.
When I finished my shower, the mirror was steamed up as usual. I checked for
some paper towels to clean it off, but I was out again. Leaving the warmth of
the bathroom to dig a new roll out from the kitchen cabinets really didn't appeal
to me, so I just opened the door to let some of the steam out. I figured that
if it was still steamy after I had dried off, I could use the towel to clean
it off. Off on the far wall, over the computer, I could see Barbie's picture
staring back at me through the crack in the door. My first thought was for the
fantastic dreams I'd just woken from, but then things changed. I could almost
imagine her beautiful smile transforming into a sneer as she waited for me to
melt into a puddle of primordial slime as partial penitence for my crimes against
her.
My skin was definitely more sensitive and I had to pat myself dry after my
shower instead of rubbing myself off as usual. Another thing, my hair definitely
felt longer as I toweled it dry. Some of my characters had used a form of electricity
called electrolysis to get rid of hair. Could electricity also stimulate hair
growth? Paper towels or no paper towels, it was time to clear the condensed
water from the mirror. I almost felt like it was an unveiling, like I was going
to see someone different in it. I marched back into the bathroom and balled
up my towel. Then, I cleaned the remaining steam off the mirror.
There was a body staring back at me. I was relieved as I realized I had half
thought the lightening had killed me and I was really a ghost. But the fact
that I was alive was the only good thing, since it wasn't me, the "me"
I'd grown up as, in the mirror.
It was Barbie.
The hair was dark brown instead of blonde, but that was probably because it
was still wet. There were no breasts and the hips did not swell like her luscious
curves, but the face was hers, the arms and hands were hers, even the long,
slender legs were hers.
Quicker than I could consciously track, my mind went looking for, and found,
additional similarities. Her mole, the cute little one beside her mouth. I had
one too. Her long, slim, graceful neck. I had that too. Her nipples, full, large
and reddish brown. I had them too.
As I continued cataloging the changes, I absently wondered how I could have
missed things like the changes in my nipples in the shower. A moment later,
the answer came as the tissue under my nipples began to slowly expand outward
from my body, reminding me of two small, round balloons being inflated. In shock,
I watched them grow, certain that when they stopped, they would be the same
D cup beauties I had, until recently, fondled. I remember thinking, in a detached
and demented way, that now I wouldn't have to make up with Barbie. I'd be able
to play with her boobies whenever I wanted.
When the twins were done filling out, I looked further south, waiting to see
if the process continued as expected. I had been so engrossed with them that
I had not realized that my waist had narrowed and my hips had widened. It was
almost anticlimactic when my genitals slowly migrated back into my body leaving
me with a completely female body.
The voice in my head was the final straw as it said, "We claim this structure
for the Electrolytic race. Let the invasion commence."
-=-=-=-=-
Interlude Two
McKenzie removed his glasses and wiped his tired eyes. The sun was up and it
was time to stop writing and go to sleep. Unlike the unemployed character in
his most recent story, tomorrow would be another boring day of work. His job
as a night shift security officer at a customs warehouse would give him plenty
of time to decide where to take the story in the next chapter, if when he got
around to it. With a lifestyle that left little time for friends or fun, the
praise of his anonymous friends on the Internet was the high point of each day.
He didn't remember how he had found them, probably stumbled across a website
and from there been directed to the mailing list. It wasn't even that he cared
about transgendered issues. He'd just read a few and thought he could do better.
He did. He got a bunch of messages asking him to write more and he was hooked.
His computer beeped, telling him that the piece he had just written had been
sent to the list and that it was shutting down. Standing and rubbing his bulging
belly, Mac headed for bed. He stopped first to ruffle Igor's head. The dog yawned,
wagged his tail for a moment and the, wisely, went back to sleep. Next McKenzie
stopped for a check of the refrigerator, looking for a quick before bed snack
for Igor and himself. The deep fried, breaded sauerkraut balls tasted great,
but neither of them slept well.
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER THREE
[Dominatrix Barbie]
More [The Rigby Narratives]
The
Rigby Narratives
The Ultimate TG Experience
by
McKenzie Rigby
by
Andy Hollis
and
Jaye Michael
Chapter Three -- Dominatrix Barbie
Cold water splashed over the bed. I woke screaming as I realized that someone
was standing over the bed with what looked to be a nasty weapon.
"Oh, it's you, Phoebe, what do you want?" I sputtered, still half
asleep despite the water dripping off my face and down my upper torso.
The girl, one of Barbie's long time friends, shook her head sending her dark
red hair rippling over bare shoulders. "Not acceptable, Kenny boy. You
will address me as Mistress Phoebe from here on.
"I beg your pardon?" I asked trying to cover myself with the dry
half of the sheet.
"You will learn to beg and beg hard, slave boy. Sit up!" she ordered
cracking a whip over my knees. "Mistress Barbie is considering-only considering
mind you-taking you back, even after what you did, but it will not be easy for
you. No, not at all."
"Get out of here," I snarled, finally awake enough to realize what
was happening. Barbie's girl friends were going to punish me for hurting her.
It might have been sweet if I were into that sort of thing. Unfortunately, I
was not. "I've had a rough night, and I don't need any of this shit. I
made one little slip but that doesn't mean I'm about to tolerate this S&M
garbage. I'm not into humiliation."
"I don't remember asking your opinion about this," Phoebe sneered.
This time the whip cracked against my chest-and it really hurt. Ow!
I grabbed the end of the whip and yanked, pulling the thing out of the girl's
hand, and threw it against the far wall. Then, I stood up with the sheet around
my waist, looming ominously over the leather-clad woman. "Get out now,
before I call the cops."
Something clicked behind me that sounded a lot like the hammer of a revolver
being pulled back. I turned my head around and then spun the rest of my body
around to face Barbie herself. The woman was dressed from neck to toe in a shimmering
black latex outfit, complete with knee length boots of brushed leather. With
one hand she held a large-bore gun pointed at my chest. There was a riding crop
in her other hand.
"Hello, Kenzie," she said sweetly, but with ice clearly lurking just
beneath those dulcet tones. "I thought you might give Mistress Phoebe a
hard time. You were a naughty boy just now, throwing Mistress Phoebe's whip
and you will pay dearly for it."
"Oh pu-leeze, Barbie, this just isn't you. I ."
"May I, Mistress Barbie?" Phoebe asked interrupting me.
"Yes, of course, Phoebe. I think our Kenzie had better start learning
some manners right now. Drop the sheet, McKenzie."
"And if I don't?" I asked shaking my head. This could not be happening.
I had written TG stories before, but never anything to do with the rough stuff.
It just wasn't my scene.
Barbie aimed the pistol. She aimed low and fired at something behind me. I
heard a short, agonized yelp and turned to see Igor lying on his side, bleeding
from the shoulder the bullet had just grazed. A second bullet struck me in the
leg and I felt hard with searing flashes of lightning running through my closed
eyelids as I fell to the floor.
"Now, Phoebe!"
The leather-clad girl yanked the sheet away from me, and a second later I opened
my eyes to see her standing over me holding a large syringe. Before I could
say anything, she bent down, and rammed the needle into my ass. I felt my entire
backside burning as she forced the fluid into what little muscle I had in my
buttock.
"That, Kenzie, is an extremely fast acting mix of estrogen, progesterone
and estradiol with a sedative and a few special concoctions of my own making
added in. Phoebe will be giving you one of those shots twice a day. You like
wearing women's clothing? You like abusing yourself with women's clothes? Feel
what it's like to be a woman."
Phoebe held up a frilly, French Maid's uniform that looked to be a perfect
fit for her, a petite size four. "When I am finished with you, Kenzie,
you will fit into this, and you will look good in it as you serve like the pretty
little slave you will be."
"That's crazy," I stammered out trying to hide a yawn. I tried to
ask about Igor, but there was a sharp crack as Barbie's riding crop lashed across
my cheek. "You will address me as Mistress Barbie, and only if you are
requested to do so. The rest of the time you will remember your place as my
lady's maid. You will fit into this outfit-one way or the other."
Then she laughed, a cold, heartless, terrifying laugh. The choice was easy;
I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to think about what the other way would be.
I knew that, no matter how many hormones she shot into me, my body would adjust
only so much, and hormones would not make me shrink.
Crack, the crop found my other cheek. "There will be no zoning out, either.
I expect your undivided attention, Kenzie, and I will get it."
"Okay, okay," I said, only to get another crack of the riding crop
on my leg.
"You will address me as "Mistress Barbie", and only if I give
you permission to speak. You are my slave. Remember that
. Well?"
"Yes, Mistress Barbie," I stammered out.
"Mistress Phoebe, please ask Mistress Helen to bring in the things we
selected."
"Of course, Mistress Barbie," was the gleeful reply. "I can't
wait."
It was all I could do to stifle a yawn. They said there had been a sedative
in that shot and I believed them. I fought to keep my eyes open as Barbie's
second roommate brought in a large trunk.
"Thank you, Mistress Helen," Barbie said. "Remove the pellet
from Kenzie's leg if you would be so kind. No lidocaine. I think he will need
several stitches, but he has not behaved well enough to earn the use of an anesthetic."
The girl studied me for a moment with a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Has
he received the shot yet, Mistress Barbie?"
"Yes. Go ahead."
In spite of the sedative, I felt every second of the procedure. The stitches
forced a scream from me, twice, and both times Barbie and Phoebe used their
respective tools. I passed out when Barbie attacked my genitals.
"Wake up," Barbie said pulling me upright by my hair. She shook my
head for a bit. "Now comes the fun part. See what I brought you?"
Phoebe held up a large white bra, with padded cups. "You will be needing
this in a few days, slave, so you had better start getting used to it now."
A few days? This was crazier than I had thought. I know how hormones work on
the male body. I, unlike so many TG writers, had done the research and read
the case studies on the subject. It didn't matter how large of a dose I got,
my body would use what it needed and eliminate the rest. The process would take
months, but if I told these hellions that, I'd get punished again.
I must have dozed off from the sedative. When I woke, I found myself in a strange
room on someone else's bed. Soft cords attached my wrists and ankles to the
bedposts. I managed to sit up enough to see the silky pink nightgown I wore,
but even that effort was enough to make me dizzy. I closed my eyes and drifted
off before I had a chance to try to find Igor.
I'm not sure how long I stayed that way, waking and sleeping. I remember the
burning pain in my butt every time Phoebe or Barbie gave me my shot. I don't
remember eating during this period, but I don't remember wanting to, either.
"Okay, Sleeping Beauty, time to get up."
Through the haze left over from the drugs, I looked up at Barbie and blinked.
"Mistress Barbie?"
"Good, you're learning. Get up now, and walk over the mirror there."
The movement made my whole body protest. I sat up and stretched, only to notice
how the nightgown hung on me. I felt my hair, now, touching my back several
inches below my shoulders. "Mistress Barbie? How long have I been in this
bed?"
"Three days. As you will see, the serum has worked a major miracle with
you, Kenzie."
Trembling, I faced the mirror to see a slim, young woman with curves in all
the right places staring back at me. God, I was a knockout. "That's impossible."
"Until now." Barbie pulled the nightgown over my head.
I stared at my reflection for what seemed like hours. For all intents, I was
a girl. My manhood had all but shriveled away; my body had been shaved or depilated
so that I saw no body hair at all except for my head and eyebrows. My eyebrows
and had been plucked and shaped to form twin arches over my eyes. My ears had
been pierced several times. At that point I noticed how much I had shrunk. Barbie
stood several inches taller than I did now.
Again, this was impossible, but I held my tongue.
"I don't think that I ever mentioned that Mistresses Phoebe and Helen
are genetic researchers? Oh well, no big deal. Just wait until you meet Mistress
Eleanor today?"
"You have four roommates, Mistress Barbie?"
"Not at all. Mistress Eleanor is the surgeon who will be doing your sexual
reassignment. We've decided that you are much too pretty for that maid's outfit,
Kenzie. After the surgery you will need a lot of training in how to please a
man, so we do have about a dozen young men ready to give you all the lessons
you will need. Doesn't that sound like fun? Just think, girl, the next time
you wet your panties it will be for the same reason that we all do.
Interlude Three
McKenzie gave the chapter a quick proof reading before he sent
it off to the list. He yawned, stretched and shut down his computer for another
night. The adoring emails could wait until tomorrow. Besides, he needed to get
to bed early so that he could be up and gone before his sister Janice came by
to drag him off the that damn doctor.
Too bad, he thought for a second. Too bad he didn't have a girlfriend
like Barbie. Unlike the story, where she wouldn't take him back, even if he
became the little beauty he'd become in his story-a fascinating image that-McKenzie
was confident that he'd have no trouble convincing her to return; of course,
first he needed a girlfriend. McKenzie sighed. No girlfriend and no chance of
finding one while working the nightshift on a dead end job.
Igor yawned a stretched. When Mac got into bed, Igor jumped up
and joined him. It wasn't the same.
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER FOUR
[The Hundred Percent Solution]
More [The Rigby Narratives]
The Ultimate TG Experience
by McKenzie Rigby
as told to
Andy Hollis
and
Jaye Michael
Chapter Four -- The Hundred Percent Solution
"I say old chap, what seems to be the matter?"
"Eh, what's that Watson?" Sherlock Holmes, the Great
Detective, put down his violin and glanced inquisitively at his portly friend,
just returned from setting the kettle to boil for tea.
Watson would have asked Mrs. Hudson to prepare the tea, but
she had recently traveled to Binghamton after selling Holmes the building.
She had been getting on in years and had finally decided to live a more retiring
life with her oldest daughter Olivia. Watson had just buried his third wife
and ended his medical practice for what he swore before King and Country would
be the last time. Similarly, the Great Detective had not gone to field on
a case in more than two years, instead limiting his investigatory activities
to occasional consultations with Lestrade's replacement, one of that new breed
of detective convinced that there was little to be learned from the likes
of Holmes. They had all been getting a bit long in the tooth of late.
"You've fought a starved, half crazed wolfhound, you've
battled Moriarty beside the precipice at Rikenbach Falls and you've faced
down some of the most atrocious evil-doers of the century. Never once have
I seen you afraid,"
Dr. Watson gulped a breath of air and quickly continued, fearful
that if he did not, he might never have the courage to ask the question again.
"As your friend and as the chronicler of your investigations, I wonder,
of what are you afraid, Holmes?
"Watson, old friend, you know I routinely chide you about
how dashing and adventuresome you made me appear. Surely you know that nowadays
I would much prefer to remain here in our flat and concentrate on my investigations
of scientific criminology."
"You can't fool me, Holmes. I've seen you with that bloody
seven percent solution as soon as you begin to become bored. We both know
that when 'the game's afoot' you are a different man, much like that Stevens
chap's 'Jekyll and Hyde'."
"That's 'The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde' by
Messer. Robert Louis Stevenson; quite a good tale of its kind, if a bit out
of date. I believe it was written more than thirty years ago," Holmes
noted as he settled back into his overstuffed, Chippendale armchair. "And
I do recognize your concerns regarding my use of cocaine for restorative purposes
between investigations."
"Then why do you continue using it? You know it is addictive.
You've seen the dens of iniquity where the chinamen, and those other poor
unfortunates they've sucked into their evil practices, lie indolently smoking
the seed of the poppy and you know that vile solution you inject into your
arm is an extract of that same horrid plant."
"Will it please you to hear that I've sworn off, that I
shall no longer inject myself with that 'vile concoction' as you've so often
called it?"
"Well yes. Yes it would."
"Then buck up old chap. You're sage counsel has convinced
me. Never again shall I infuse this body or this brain with cocaine."
"Bravo old chap," Watson effused happily over the
sound of a whistling teakettle. "Good to hear it. About time. So let
me take the kettle off the heat and then you can tell me what you will do
to keep away the ennui between investigations?"
"Sit Watson. You've done it often enough. Just this once
allow me to bring the tea to you." As Holmes stood and strode purposefully,
if with a bit more assistance from his cane than he would have liked, out
of the sitting room, he continued, "I've been experimenting and I think
I've come up with a capital way to pass the time. It's the result of a series
of fortuitous events including my time with 'That Woman'
"
"You mean Ms. Adler?"
"Quite. As I was saying, it is the result of my interactions
with 'That Woman,' my considerations of the implications of Messer. Stevenson's
hypotheses as outlined by his character Dr. Jekyll and examination of the
properties of the various rare elements and vegetation your friends from India
continue to send you."
"I say Holmes, I'm at a complete loss as to where you're
going with this."
"That's all right my dear friend. Allow me to finish here
with the tea and I'll be right in."
Holmes completed the task with his usual efficiency of movement
and was back momentarily. Once seated again, he took a sip of tea and savored
the flavor. "Not as good as yours I'm afraid, but I do hope you will
enjoy."
Using both hands so the tremors of age would not induce spillage,
Watson too took a sip. "Nonsense Holmes, this is excellent tea although
it's not the usual is it?"
"Very observant Watson. No, it's not. It's a special blend
I've only discovered of late. What do you think of it?"
"Well," Watson took another prodigious sip and considered
his words before answering. "I taste traces of some of the indigenous
spices of the East, India to be specific
"
"Quite correct old man, although I believe there are also
traces of items that can only be found in the Orient. What else?"
"It has a slight bitter taste although I cannot determine
exactly what since it is all but hidden by the sugar. Not bad mind you, but
still present."
Holmes merely nodded and smiled, encouraging his friend to continue,
and the good doctor made an elaborate pretense of sniffing the steamy air
above his cup.
"I
I can't quite seem to recall
the aroma is
familiar, but my nose has gotten on in years along with the rest of me.
It's
it's
it's laudanum. You put some of that bloody
poison in my tea!" he shouted angrily and started to rise, however, the
laudanum had done its job and he quickly slid back into his chair, too lethargic
to make a second attempt.
"Why Holmes? Why?"
Morpheus was rapidly overtaking the good doctor so the Great
Detective was quick to provide the explanation although he felt certain he
would need to do so again. "Yes Watson, there is laudanum in the tea,
but only enough to mask the other compounds and to reduce the pain to come.
If it will help you to know, I too have taken the same formula and it is much
more than mere laudanum-laced tea. If my research is correct-and I am quite
certain it is-it shall wash away the pain of old age, a condition from which
we both suffer.
"Eh, a fountain of youth? Balderdash. Holmes, you know
there's no such thing."
"Quite correct old friend. There is no such thing as a
fountain of youth, but the concoction you've just imbibed-that we've just
imbibed-will act in the same manner as that fabled spring. By morning we shall
both appear to be in our twenties instead of our seventies."
"But
but why didn't you just tell me old chap? I feel
confident that I would have willingly imbibed such an elixir had you shared
this explanation and your research with me."
"Because there is a unique
flaw
to my discovery,
much as that fellow Stevenson suggested in his book
"
"You mean I-we-shall become ravening beasts?"
"No; definitely not a ravening beast, old friend. The flaw
is much more subtle than that. It shall produce a change of perspective, but
not from man to beast, not from higher to baser emotions, but from male to
female."
Watson fainted.
-=-=-=-=-
Interlude Four
McKenzie stopped to rub an aching neck and shake his arm to
stop it from tingling. This one had been more difficult than most to write.
The medical research, the character development, the linguistic characteristics
had taken time and it was late. Janice's demands that he check out the causes
and treatments for his obesity and his angina had been the stimulus for the
story. Janice would probably be even angrier than usual if she knew she'd
spurred him to write even more of that 'TG junk' she so despised. Served her
right for making him go to a doctor and hear himself get told he needed to
take better care of himself. It was one thing to have chest pain and tingling
in his arms. It was quite another to have someone label it, even tentatively,
and tell him how to run his life.
A quick glance at the clock and McKenzie realized he'd have
to fly and get ready for work or he'd be late. Good segue. Enough thinking
about things that he couldn't change.
"Bad Igor. Why didn't you remind me to stop for work?"
He chided as he playfully rubbed the dog's head. Igor just licked his hand
and wagged his tail hopefully. Mac could almost swear the little fur ball
was talking to him with its sad eyes, saying, "Maybe next time McKenzie,
you'll remember to include a dog in the story?" Truth be told, McKenzie
was more worried about what to tell Janice to explain why he had failed to
make the doctor's appointment to which she had all but tried to drag him.
He was about to shut down the computer when the words of that
message asking him to finish some of his stories popped into his thoughts.
Staying his hand, instead he opened another file and labeled it chapter two.
McKenzie stared at the blank screen for a few seconds and then wrote some
phrases to remind him of what the next chapter should cover.
Smiling, he quickly left for work, rushing to make certain he
was not late and docked pay. In his hurry, he left the computer on. On the
still glowing computer screen were the following notes:
go find Lestrade
give him the elixir too
all three move to America
get connected to a reclusive American millionaire named Charlie
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER FIVE
[Faster Than a Speeding Tall Building]
More [The Rigby Narratives]
Chapter Five - Faster Than a Speeding Tall Building
The Ultimate TG Experience
by McKenzie Rigby
as told to
Andy Hollis
and
Jaye Michael
Chapter Five -- Faster Than a Speeding Tall
Building
The wind tickled my eyebrows as I flew my daily patrol over Tinytown, USA.
For me, the world's most powerful kid, the patrol took less than a minute,
on a good day. I mean, how many things can go wrong in a mostly rural village
that spread out over twenty square miles, tops?
I flew back to Tinytown Middle School, with my red and blue
cape fluttering behind me. Landing just outside the schoolyard, I wondered
again, why the Earthling children never realized that I, SuperKid, a visitor
from another world, went to the same school as they did, or that I was actually
their contemporary, Clark McKentzie, in my every day guise.
As always, the kids crowded around me. I was pleased to note
that Lana Ledo and Barbie Bennigan were among them. These two girls were always
fighting for my attention.
"Hey, SuperKid," said Harry Hooter, one of Clark's
best friends. "Can you get me Bat Person's autograph.
"No, get Spider Guy," called out Freddie Fudrucker, another chum.
I gave them both my classic, pensive pout and asked in my whiniest
voice, "And why not mine?"
"That's okay, Superkid," they both said. "Maybe
some other time."
"You can autograph my blouse," Barbie simpered holding
open her sweater. "Right here, by my heart."
"And just what is wrong with my autograph?" I asked
Harry in a more serious tone.
"Nothing, Clark-sorry, Superkid-but you've already signed
everything I own twice and three times so far. I mean
I know someday, when you grow up to be SuperPerson, defender
of Truth, Justice and the Politically Correct
Way, all those autographs will be worth a major fortune, but
give me a break now, okay?"
"Okay, chum," I said and flipped my head to get my
bangs off my face.
I noticed the grins that spread across the faces of all the
boys present. "What?"
"It's nothing," Lana said. "Ignore them, Superkid."
"But he's turning into SuperChick again," said a boy
in the eighth grade. "You promised to go to the last dance with me, SuperChick
and I mean to hold you to it, this time."
Reaching up to my head, I found that I indeed had a head of
now glorious blue black curls that just touched my shoulders and my bangs
were now just above eye level. I looked down to find that the rest of me had
not changed.
"Not again, this is the fifth time this month," I
groaned. "Who could be doing this to me now?"
"What about young Alex Applebee?" Barbie asked. Last
month Alex had tried to change me into a mermaid.
"No, young Alex is still in St. Cuthbert's Home for the
Criminally Insane and Children's Sweatshop, but not for long, knowing him."
"Then could it be another fanfic author pandering to the
prurient interests of his Internet readers?" Lana asked.
"No," I said with a long sigh. "I'm underage,
and PC Comix would never permit it. Besides, all of us here are too young
to understand any of that stuff."
Everyone laughed in agreement with me-I hoped.
"Then you'd better see Dr. McDonald, the official PC Comix
Pseudoscientist, SuperChick," Freddy said. "He can tell you what
you need to do."
"You're right, thanks." I said raising my arm in farewell
to my friends before jumping into the afternoon sky.
I flew the distance to Majormetropolis, where someday I hoped to work as a
reporter for a good-sized metropolitan newspaper, if only I could get my grades
in English up. A few seconds later, I landed outside the office of Dr. R.
McDonald, pseudoscientist, whose motto read: "We make the logically impossible
not only plausible but almost believable." Just my kind of scientist.
On the door, however, I found a note that read: Thanks for stopping
by, but I'm on an extended vacation in Cancun. Please see my colleague, Dr.
Wendell Whitecastle for any of your pseudoscientific needs. This means you,
too, Superkid. I'm on vacation and you won't find me no matter how hard you
look.
I can take a hint, I thought as I flew over to the next building.
There I found the office of Dr. Whitecastle easily enough, and walked inside.
"I'm SuperKid," I told the girl behind the front desk, who looked
smashing in her dark red business suit, with mauve blouse and accessories.
"I need to see Dr. Whitecastle right away."
"Go on in, Kid of Iron-or is it Girl of Germanium-he's
been expecting you since Doctor Ron went on vacation."
Dr. Whitecastle was an older man, dressed in a lab coat, with rather grubby
looking jeans and a badly stained gray t-shirt underneath. He peered at me
through his thick glasses. "SuperKid?"
"Yes, Dr. Whitecastle, I need your help. I'm turning in
a girl, again."
"But that is logically impossible, SuperKid. Other than
your rather feminine hairstyle, I see no sign of other female characteristics.
This is a bit more than you're supposed to know at your young and impressionable
age,
SuperKid, but males cannot turn into females; not even young
males from Kryptune. However, they can take on a female appearance with years
of hormone therapy and extensive plastic surgery. Is someone threatening you
with this?"
"No, of course not, Dr. Whitecastle. I have been changed
into a female more times than I can count, and it is happening again. I need
you to help me figure out how and who is doing it to me this time."
"I see, and with all those so called 'super powers' of
yours you cannot tell?"
"Are you sure you're a real pseudoscientist?"
"Of course not, SuperKid. I have my doctorate from M.I.T.
I have more letters behind my name that even you could lift. I am a real scientist.
I deal in cold, hard, observable facts, not this mumbo jumbo about space aliens,
and ghosts and E.S.P. I can help you, but an investigation like this could
take years."
"I see, thanks, Dr. Whitecastle but I am a space alien
and I need a real pseudoscientist."
"In that case, I'd suggest Kevin Koá«nigburger. He's
a good man, and his office is one floor up."
I found the office easily enough, and went inside. Dr. Koá«nigburger
was a tall, pale man, with a dark goatee. He asked me to sit down.
"Tell me what's going on."
I filled him in on my latest changes. He nodded his head and
wrote it down on a notepad.
"And you say you have been a girl more than once?"
"I get changed once or twice a week. It started a while
ago with this lady from outer space. I thought she was just some space bimbo
with a feminist agenda, but I did come to learn that her changing me into
a girl was a good thing. I needed to get in touch with my feminine side. But
after that every super villain with a grudge has been changing me."
"I see, and has this presented any problem at home?"
"No, my foster family has been great about this. I'd swear
that I have more girl's clothes at the house than boy's clothes."
"And you are comfortable with this?"
"Dr. Koá«nigburger, I have a reputation to maintain.
I have to be well adjusted no matter what I look like. Otherwise, I'd have
to transfer my contract to that other comix company, you know the one, Marvelous
Comix."
"I see. Now, when you are a girl, do you feel like a girl?
Have you considered dating boys?"
"Doctor, please!" I exclaimed. "I'm underage.
Plus, like I just said, I am obligated to the youth of America and PC Comix
to be well adjusted, morally pure and one hundred percent heterosexual no
matter what my gender. I mean at PC we are liberal, but not that liberal."
"I see, but these days, don't you find PC Comix a bit commercialized?"
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Never mind. But, if you are that well adjusted and comfortable
with being SuperChick instead of SuperKid what's the point of changing back
into a boy when you will just be changed back a day or two later."
"I can't let the villains win, that would be sending the
wrong message, wouldn't it? I'm the Superhero-or I guess it's Superheroine
in this case. We're required to win in the last few frames."
"But don't you find winning and losing to be just so much
masculine posturing? Competitiveness isn't something that should concern you,
young lady."
"In many ways I know you're right, Dr. Koá«nigburger,
but I have my plot line to think about. Oh well, thanks for the help."
"I might suggest you see that new pseudoscientist in town,
Ivan Ihopsky. He might be able to help you further."
With nothing left to lose, I flew on to Dr. Ihopsky's office.
Dr. Ihopsky was a big, beefy man who wore a full black beard.
He welcomed me into his office with open arms. "Ah, da, da I yam Ihopsky
and I yam an official pseudoscientist at your service, SuperKidsky. Please,
vont you sit down?"
"Dr. Ihopsky, I'm surprised at you. This is PC Comix, after
all."
"Ah, yes, I forgot and by using my accent I have inadvertently
poked fun at people from different cultures. I am apologizing to all Slavic
speaking peoples that may have been offended by my accent. Is that PC enough
for the editors?"
"It should be Doctor, and thanks. As you can see I am turning
back into SuperChick and I need your help."
"Is this a problem? You are a rather attractive young lady,
after all. Much more attractive as SuperChick than SuperKid."
I felt myself blush. "You really think so? No, I can't
forget myself, even for a moment. I am SuperKid and I have to find out what
arch fiend is doing this to me this time."
"Hmmm, simple enough. Is there anything new in your life,
friends, objects, hairstyles?"
"No new friends, and my hair always does this when I change
to SuperChick, but Barbie gave me this locket yesterday, and Lana gave me
this watch."
Dr. Ihopsky nodded, and said, "If you were to look inside
those items with your x-ray vision what do you see? One or even both of the
girls might have been duped."
"Yes, of course," I agreed. "That has happened
quite a few times in the past." I scanned the locket and said. "Nothing
there, but a picture of me and Barbie. I signed it, of course, and…."
As I checked the watch, I felt shivers running up and down my spine. Inside
the watch I saw a small pebble that had a distinctive pink glow. I tore open
the watch, and found a grain of pink Kryptunyte of all things. As soon as
the pink glow touched me directly, the rest of me changed. I felt my hips
widen and my chest expand, but just a little; after all, I was still underage.
"It would seem that we have found the answer. Pink Kryptunyte,
I would imagine, a remnant of your home world of Kryptune."
"But what can I do, Dr. Ihopsky?" I asked as I flipped
my hair and posed prettily with one hip slightly forward.
"We cannot look at this logically, SuperChick. Think about
it. You came from a world that we know must be hundreds of light years away
from Earth. Your parents bundled you, as a baby, into a space ship that had
a faster than light drive, which of course is a logical impossibility right
there. When the planet exploded, dramatically enough moments later, pieces
of Kryptune, no matter how violent the explosion could not have been thrown
into space at speeds faster than light, so it is a logical impossibility that
Kryptunyte could even exists, let alone cause you so much grief now.
"So, we have to postulize that the faster than light drive
of your ship must have created some sort of vacuum that not only sent the
ship to earth but pulled along a substantial amount of matter from your home
world with it. That matter, during the trip must have been bathed by the ionic
after burn of the FTL drive which would account for it's changing from harmless
dirt and rock to deadly or unusual Kryptunyte. Now a lot of that matter would
have burned up in Earth's atmosphere if it had been ordinary space debris,
but since it was transformed into Kryptunyte instead we can assume that all
sorts of different colors of the stuff actually landed intact here, on Earth."
I applauded. "Now that's what I call great pseudo-science,"
I said. "I believe it. I believe it."
"Thanks for that vote of confidence, SuperChick. Now, logically
it would seem that if pink Kryptonite would make you female then blue Kryptonite
would make you male, but again, logic has nothing to do with this, so I'd
say you need to find some yellow Kryptonite real quick. Not gold, not blue
but yellow." He rubbed his hands. "Just think, SuperChick, if my
hypothesis is correct, that spaceship, your salvation from the destruction
of your home planet could, ironically enough, be the cause of your own destruction.
Good luck, and find that yellow Kryptunite before this change is permanent.
I'd say you have less than twenty-four hours, so get moving."
"I will, Dr. Ihopsky, and thanks. Thanks for everything,"
I said and took off through his window. After the sound of shattered glass
faded-most pseudoscientists install glass-free windows to avoid exactly that
problem-I did a quick flight around the world, scanning for yellow Kryptunyte.
I must have spotted tons of green and red Kryptunyte but no yellow, and no
time to destroy the vile stuff that I did find.
After a brief venture into outer space, I still had no luck
in finding yellow Kryptunyte. Depressed, I finally flew home to Tinytown.
I had less than eighteen hours to find some and there was none to be found.
The secret door behind the barn on my adopted family's farm opened and I flew
in through the secret tunnel into the secret closet in my bedroom.
"Great jumping horny toads," said Pa McKentzie as
I flew into the basement workroom. "Ma, Claire is back-again. What happened
to you this time, girl?"
"Pink Kryptunyte, Pa," I sighed. "I must find
some yellow Kryptunyte in the next twenty-four hours to counteract the change."
"Oh good, Claire, you're back. A new catalog just came
in and I need your help with some things,"
"Just a second, Ma," Pa said. "The girl needs
some yellow Kryptunyte. Know where she can get some?"
"Oh, sure, mothers always know these things, Pa,"
Ma said and shook her head. "I just read in the paper this morning about
the big Kryptunyte show that Arthur Applebee is holding at his place. He's
got every color including plaid and paisley. Now don't you go trying them
out, sweetheart."
"Arthur Applebee, isn't he young Alex Applebee's dad?"
I asked.
"Why yes, I guess he is. Now just because you and Alex
don't get along, sweetheart doesn't mean you should hold that against his
folks. If Arthur has this yellow Kryptunyte you need I'm sure he will let
you have some. Good folk, those Applebees. Always concerned about the neighborhood.
They serve a mighty mean barbeque, too."
"Way to go, Ma," Pa applauded. "Your Ma's got
this non-commercial commercial business down to a 'T', don't she, Claire?"
"Where is this exhibit being held, Ma?" I asked ignoring
Pa's outburst.
"Over at the middle school, of course, but I guess you've
been too busy fighting crime and saving the world from alien scum to notice.
Oh, and don't forget to put all your dirty costumes in the hamper dear."
"I should have known that. The writers love that sort of
irony," I sighed. "I'll be right back."
I flew to the auditorium to find the place swarming with kids
from the school, all there the see the exhibit. At the far end of the room,
Mr. Applebee stood collecting tickets. He let each child study a long display
case filled with glowing rocks.
There, I sighed as I spotted a small chunk of yellow Kryptunyte
right between the red and the green. I mean, how color insensitive was this
guy?
"Hey, wait your turn," some guy told me as I landed
a foot away from the display case. I glared at the dweeb until he apologized.
I had one chance to grab the yellow stone before the radiation
from the green or the red stones affected me. Using my blinding fast super
speed, I opened the case and snatched the yellow Kryptunyte in a millionth
of a second. As I stood back, waiting for the changes to start, I called out,
"I apologize for the interruption, but I have to borrow this."
Sure enough, as Dr. Ihopsky had postulated, the yellow stone
quickly transformed me back into SuperKid instead of SuperChick. Unfortunately,
the stone, once its purpose had been served, crumbled into so much yellow
dust in my hand.
"That was the only known specimen of yellow Kryptunyte
in the known Galaxy, SuperKid," Mr. Applebee shouted angrily.
"I know, and I am sorry, sir, but I had no choice. I…."
"Smile for the camera, SuperKid," a man's voice said
from behind me. I turned around to pose, only to have the flash go off in
my eyes. A pink glow surrounded me and seconds later I changed back to SuperChick.
I stared at the now useless yellow Kryptunyte dust in my hand for several
seconds as I counted to ten in several languages in order to calm back down.
The photographer lowered his camera. He was a tall man, swarthy-skinned
and wore a huge grin. "That was the only specimen of yellow Kryptunyte
in the galaxy and once again you fell for my trap, SuperChick. It is I,"
he said and removed a plastic mask to show the dark face of one of my old
adversaries.
"Doc Pappajohn," I gasped. "The Voodoo King."
"Correct, SuperChick. Better ingredients make for better
spells, don't you agree?"
"No, I don't, and my mom does those 'non-commercials' a
lot better than you do. I may be SuperChick again, but that doesn't mean I
can't arrest you. Maybe this time, they'll lock you up for good."
"Ah, but when are things what they seem?" the man
said and removed still another mask.
"Dr. Ihopsky?"
"Yes, SuperChick darling. I did this because I can't see
you, a real mega-babe, wasting herself on some mistaken notion that it's better
to be a dull clod of a boy."
"You won't get away with this, Ihopsky. I will…."
"You can't threaten me, SuperChick, I'm underage,"
the man said in a teenaged voice that I had heard before.
Once again he removed a mask to show the face of my arch nemesis.
"Young Alex Applebee," I exclaimed.
"That is so stupid," he said with a sigh. "Of
course I'm young, I'm a kid just like you, so there is no need to point that
out."
"Yes, but the editors of this comic decided ages ago that
the kids that read it are way too mentally deficient to figure that out for
themselves, Alex. Those kids are reading this comic after all. So, you are
young Alex. What do you want?"
"The same thing I've always wanted from you, SuperChick-a
date. I mean really, I ask you out one time and you treat me like some sort
of master criminal."
"You mean to tell me that you went through all of this
just to go out with me?" I said with a slight smile as I batted my super
long eyelashes at him before demurely lowering them.
"Yes, I am telling you that. Go ahead and snatch me baldheaded,
SuperChick, but will you go out with me?"
I thought for a second and looked again at the remnants of the only known
specimen of yellow Kryptunyte in the universe. "I thought you'd never
ask, Lexie. Where do you want to go?"
"No, SuperKid," Lana yelled out, her voice growing
more and more desperate as she spoke. "Don't listen to him. There's got
to be more yellow Kryptunyte. You can find it. You have to find it."
-=-=-=-=-
Interlude Five
As SuperChick and Alex walked hand and hand out of the auditorium,
in spite of the girl's protests, McKenzie Rigby sent his latest story to the
list. Now that's what fan-fic is all about. He turned off the computer and
sighed. He'd check his e-mail tomorrow.
Igor whined and Mac laughed. "Sorry boy, you can't be in
every story. Maybe next time."
"Say," Mac continued. "Isn't young David overdue
for your morning walk? Looks like I'm going to have to do some of that exercising
Janice insists would be good for me."
Grumbling, McKenzie was already huffing and puffing from the
exertion before he'd made it outside. Maybe this time he'd make it all the
way to the park before needing to rest and let the pains subside; four blocks
away. McKenzie wondered if David's absence wasn't part of another one of Janice's
machinations to get him to act healthier. Knowing Janice, it was an easy bet.
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER SIX
[Puppick]
More [The Rigby Narratives]
The Ultimate TG Experience
Chapter Six -- Puppick
by
McKenzie Rigby
as told to
Andy Hollis and Jaye Michael
Chapter Six -- Puppick
Welcome to Castle Dracul," our tour guide spoke with that guttural broken
English that anyone who's ever watched a horror movie has learned to expect.
He was even dressed in the traditional, at least for Bavaria as opposed to Transylvania,
forest green shorts with crossed suspenders and knee high socks one expects
from a local tour guide. The little plastic tag with the name "Fritz"
on it was the most glaring inconsistency, but there were also some equally phony
looking wall hangings and suits of armor, as if Vlad the Impaler would have
used a jumble of late 14th century English and French armor. To put it bluntly,
it could not have been more fake looking if someone had tried. In point of fact,
as far as Melvin Ukiah Dodson could tell, only the physical structure itself
was authentic. Luckily, that bothered the middle-aged gentleman not at all.
"Save me the spiel, Hans," Melvin interrupted imperiously while waving
the tour guide into silence. "I don't need it and I don't want it. I'm
here to see the ghost you're village aldermen claim inhabits the castle, so
point me to the dungeon and let me stretch out my sleeping bag and gear."
"Ah, er, but of course Mr. Dodson." But it was quite evident from
the man's expression and tone of voice that it was not all right. "Follow
me please."
"Is this satisfactory Mr. Dodson?" Fritz asked icily.
It was the dungeon and it was dust free. In fact, it was actually the best-kept
room in the castle if you ignored the green slime seeping down one wall-probably
the one nearest the moat-or the flickering candlelight that didn't even reach
to the other walls. The rack and the iron maiden even looked authentic and period
appropriate.
"Sure, fine Hans. Now can we forgo the rest of the ten-cent tour and really
talk? I do have questions and I'd like to hear the answers, but not that garbage
that you hand out to the tourists."
"I'm not certain what you mean, sir..."
"But you'll stay as long as I'm paying for your time, right?"
"Well, yes-at least until nightfall. I will not remain in the castle after
nightfall no matter what the payment."
"Fair enough-if a bit clichéd. In the meantime, how about the real
story here? We both know the Dracula crap is exactly that-crap. Vlad's castle
is at least a hundred miles east of here."
"Well "
"Yah, yah. The Burgermeisters will be angry. Don't worry. I'm not going
to tell anyone, so your job is safe Hans-in fact, I'll triple your salary for
the month if you're completely honest with me. I'm independently wealthy and
I don't need to publish my findings. I'm just looking for one single instance
of a true paranormal event. It's become an obsession with me ever since-well,
for a long time."
The guide thought for several seconds before he answered. Melvin watched as
the guide's eyes transitioned from anger at Melvin's snide remarks, to calculated
greed and finally to acceptance.
The bad Transylvanian accent was replaced by the cultured tones of a public
school educated Englishman. "I believe we have a deal, Mr. Dodson. We shall
start with my real name, William I. Harrington."
"Pleased to meet you Will," Melvin said pumping the other man's hand
vigorously and smiling. "So, grab a seat beside me here on the rack and
tell me what's really happening here."
"Delighted. As you have already surmised, this is not the famous castle
of blood. No skulls ever hung from the ramparts and most of the furnishings
you see here are inferior Asian copies of other eras and other places. In fact,
one of the breastplates in the Great Hall is actually made of plastic. Quite
gauche.
"The true story of this castle is actually somewhat more peculiar, involving
an Englishman, a Priest, and a demon."
"This has all the makings of a really bad joke, doesn't it?" Melvin
asked propping his sleeping bag under his buttocks in order to get more comfortable.
"I hope it will at least have a good punchline. But I warn you, one more
lie and you get absolutely nothing."
"Oh, it will have an outstanding 'punchline' as you call it sir, it will "
-=-=-=-=-
The year was 1812. There was yet another war going on in those upstart colonies
across the ocean and Horace Whitting and his brother were somewhere in the Carpathians
cursing the driver who would not, or could not, understand their instructions
to drive at a slower, more respectable pace. The carriage bounced insanely down
the deeply rutted dirt road. Trees, so ancient and massive they completely arched
across the road, had swallowed the full moon and it was inconceivable that the
driver had the slightest concern for the safety of the horses, the carriage
or it's occupants. At the sound of a wolf, baying in the distance, the driver's
whip flashed and the carriage swept through the night with even greater abandon.
It became all its occupants could do to hold on to the handrails and pray for
safe deliverance.
Such was their condition, eyes closed, praying for Heavenly aid, that they failed
to notice the carriage shoot into a clearing with neatly plowed fields. It was
the silence visited upon them, the absence of creaking leather and groaning
springs that first caused them to realize that they had stopped.
Pulling aside the curtain, Horace espied flickering lights through a window
and realized the carriage now stood before a local hostelry. He tapped his brother,
Father Reginald, on the shoulder, so that he would drop his beads and open his
eyes. Then, pulling his brother along behind him, Horace stepped quickly from
the carriage, fearing the madman posing as a driver would suddenly decide to
continue his race through the stygian night.
As Father Reginald knelt to kiss the ground fervently, Horace examined the inn
before them. The lettering on the sign was faded enough to be illegible, even
should Horace have known the barbaric local dialect, but the image, in slightly
better repair, appeared to show an inverted five pointed star and a man's head
with the horns of a ram growing from it. Upon the door was a huge wreath of
a smelly tuberous plant that could only be garlic-it wasn't bad enough that
the locals had to cook with the vile stuff; they even used it as an adornment.
Surveying the rest of the village yielded less than a score of other structures
in even poorer repair then the tavern before them. With a sigh, Horace, pulled
at his brother until the priest was again standing and guided him toward the
inn.
"That is a sign of the devil. I will NOT enter that building."
"Henry Whitting," Horace shouted, using the priest's given name.
"You are my younger brother and I promised mother I would take care of
you. Now priest or no priest, you are not going to remain out-of-doors this
night unless you have decided that dying of consumption shall assure you of
martyrdom."
"I am not a martyr and I "
A great thud sounded as the brothers' wooden wardrobe trunk was flung from
the roof of the carriage, landing at their feet.
"Watch what you are doing you bloody great oaf," Horace shouted up
at the driver, but the frightened looking fool just spat and ignored him.
"Watch your language brother. I may be your junior, but I am also a priest,
as you have just reminded me." Father Reginald turned to the driver who
was frantically scrambling back to the driver's seat. "You there. Driver.
We wish to be brought to a different inn."
Without even glancing back, the driver clambered into his seat, jerked his
whip from its resting place and snapped it at the horses. The one on the left
reared when the whip struck its hindquarter, pawing at the air, foaming at the
mouth from the night's exertions. With a single wild roar it collapsed to the
ground, shuddered once and was still. Without even that much fanfare, the second
horse crumpled beside it and was dead also.
The driver stared down at the carnage below him, face white, eyes wide with
fear. Jumping from the carriage, he ran off into the twilight screaming. In
the distance the wolf howled again. There was a loud scream and then silence.
"Be strong brother. At best the image is a tasteless joke. At worst, there
are souls in there for you to save. Unless you wish to sleep outside with the
wolves or die of consumption, you will join me at this inn." Without glancing
back, Horace firmly grasped the trunk and, dragging it behind him, entered the
building, taking care to avoid the aromatic herbs on the door.
The wolf howled again. This time it was followed by an ungodly scream, much
like a man might make if he were being gutted and eaten alive. Father Reginald
hurried after his older brother into the inn.
-=-=-=-=-
"That was not too bad now, was it Henry?" Horace asked as he tossed
a chicken bone out the window of their new carriage.
Horace was again gently tweaking his brother for his fears at the inn. It had
actually been surprisingly clean and comfortable. The innkeeper, a man who talked
so much the bothers wondered if he also spoke in his sleep, had explained that
the inn had been named "The Devil's Horns" by an ancestor with an
unpleasant sense of humor and a tendency to serve "long pork" when
there was insufficient cattle, goat, or pig at hand. Despite this gruesome revelation,
their dinner and breakfast repasts had been surprisingly tasty. For that matter,
the innkeeper had been quite helpful, finding another carriage and driver to
take them to the conclusion of their journey. He had even prepared the evening
repast they were currently enjoying, for despite the man's best efforts, it
had still taken much of the day to find someone willing to bring them to whence
they wished to be taken.
Now, their journey's conclusion was almost at hand, Castle Fodor, was a short
way above them on the winding road they followed. Built on a mountainous crag,
its crenels and ramparts sullenly overlooked the valley below. Had it been light
enough when they had stopped the night before at the Devil's Horns, they would
have seen it, outlined by the blood-red glow of the setting sun.
"Our inheritance is almost upon us brother," Horace noted greedily.
"Not ours-yours, Father Reginald corrected. "I am here at the family's
request to insure that the place is free of all pestilence and evil. Once that
is completed I shall return to my contemplative duties at my order."
"True. True. Your wisdom is my undoing yet again and that is the real
reason for your presence. I may be the warrior who jumps to the fray, but you
are the scholar with the wisdom that tempers my blade. But look. It is upon
us. Rejoice, for this shall soon be over."
-=-=-=-=-
It had taken much of the afternoon to make it to the top of the mountain. The
slopes were steep, the switchbacks were sharp and the road narrow with an abrupt
drop off, so the carriage driver had moved slowly and deliberately. As soon
as they had reached the portico at the entrance to the castle, the driver had
unloaded their luggage, turned the rig and left, despite their repeated protests.
The two brothers stood by the main portico to the castle as the sun set through
the clouds of dust from the carriage's hasty departure.
As they watched the carriage disappear in a rapidly diminishing cloud of dust
behind a craggy outcropping, Father Reginald tried to make light of the situation.
"It must be a local tradition. They must be rushing off to evening mass."
"I think you must have the truth of it brother," Horace noted wryly,
"but I would have thought he might be patient enough to receive his fee
for services."
"So what now?"
"We explore the new family home," Horace answered as glibly as he
could under the circumstances. But then, as he grabbed the traveling chest,
he grumbled, "This is becoming a habit."
"Nonsense, dear brother. We'll have nun of that talk of habits in this
barbaric land."
Horace just groaned. Whether it was due to the bad pun or the strain on his
back, he would not say.
-=-=-=-=-
"This building must have been designed by a madman," Horace groaned
after yet another coughing fit. They had slogged through room after room; all
empty, excepting dust so thick it caused clouds when they walked through it-and
not a single right angle.
"Has anyone ever lived here," father Reginald wondered out loud.
"There's dust everywhere, all but this dungeon; not a trace of dust here."
Father Reginald examined the room. Green slime oozed down one wall. Along another
wall was an Iron Maiden and in the middle of the room was a rack. "I fear
that some great evil has occurred in this place. Give me a moment to lay out
my vestments and prepare. Then I shall bless this room and exorcize whatever
demons lay hidden in this place of evil."
"Do you not think you might be laying it on a bit thick brother?"
Horace asked, the wry smile that had faded as they had examined one dust-filled
room after another, returning to his features. "This is a dungeon. Most
dungeons have seen blood and death, but this castle has been empty for ages,
possibly centuries. We haven't even seen any rats. What self-respecting demon
would hang around such a barren accommodation?
"Next we shall hear the crack and rumble of thunder such as Madam Shelley
used in her tale of horror. What was the name again? Frank something? We read
it together at school; under the covers during a stormy night as I recall."
A cold breeze flew through the room, causing the candles to gutter and nearly
expire. Next there was a sharp crack followed by the prolonged booming of thunder.
It was muffled by the stone walls surrounding them, but still clearly identifiable.
"Feeling better now?" Father Reginald chided. "The Lord has
answered. Now allow me to complete my blessing."
"Sorry old chap, but I am afraid I must insist you desist from such actions."
The brothers turned as one toward the new voice, deep, rich and cultured, yet
somehow dripping with evil. The Iron Maiden was slowly opening. Horace perversely
wondered why the hinges did not squeak and began to wonder if it might not be
a newer, less valuable piece than he had initially guessed, albeit an excellent
copy. He quickly lowering his estimate of it's probable value, but this line
of thinking, and much of the rest of his reasoning capacity, squealed to a grinding
halt when he saw the thing coming out of the instrument of torture.
Father Reginald was first to recover. "Be gone vile demon!" he shouted
while reaching for the vial of holy water he had just set upon the rack.
Horace turned toward his bother to see what he was doing, or at least he began
to turn. He swiveled just far enough to see Father Reginald, hand extended,
face a rictus of terror, frozen in the act of reaching for the holy water.
"Oh, do turn your eyes this way. It is quite rude not to look at the person
with whom you are conversing."
As one, both brothers turned to face the Iron Maiden. From behind the half
opened door stepped an apparition from a nightmare, a horror of pulsing body
parts in constant motion, sliding from place to place on a vaguely humanoid
shape. As they watched, the mouth slowly slid into view at the crotch. They
watched it speak to them as it slowly traversed the body, zigzagging this way
and that around larger objects until it was located in the general vicinity
of a human's mouth.
"I must admit that it has been several centuries since I last had the
opportunity to speak to a mortal. Please make yourselves comfortable. Horace
found himself bending to seat himself in what felt like an overstuffed lounge
chair, except that he could see nothing.
Would you like a cigar?" A long cylindrical object slowly crept from the
thing's mouth. Smoke wafted gently from the tip and, as the creature took a
deep puff, the tip turned cherry red. It was only after the smoke cleared that
Horace realized exactly what was burning. He fought to scream and vomit at the
same time, but could not move.
"Tut tut dear lads, we must maintain proper decorum," the thing said
and suddenly the only desire either man has was to sit quietly and attentively.
"Gads, how rude of me. Here I am tutoring you in manners when I have neglected
to provide proper introductions.
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Puppick, Arch Demon Sloth Puppick
at your service. And you are?"
Each man found himself providing a proper introduction.
"Much better. I am quite certain we shall get along famously. The two
of you shall assist me to escape my captivity in this barren castle. You, priest,
shall say the incantation, while you," he nodded politely to Horace, "shall
provide the physical form for me."
With that, Father Reginald stood and donned his vestments inside out and with
his cross hanging upside down. Then with great care, he urinated into the vile
of holy water. In the meantime, Horace carefully stretched himself out on the
rack, limbs spread to emulate the five points of a star. Puppick strode to a
position between the two placing one fluctuating extremity on each man's head.
Father Reginald, again unable to move except to speak, began reciting in Latin,
speaking the Lord's Prayer in reverse. The candles flared brighter and suddenly
Puppick started laughing maniacally. Then Horace started laughing also. As the
prayer proceeded, the demon's laughter became quieter and eventually stopped
while Horace's laughter grew louder and louder until it seemed to shake the
entire castle.
Father Reginald finished the prayer and stood mutely staring at the scene before
him. The demon's extremities slowly oozed to its sides and then the demon slide
to the floor in a quivering lump.
"Free. I'm free!" Horace shouted as he jumped joyously off the rack.
Father Reginald, still unable to move anything but his mouth called out to
his brother, "Horace. Quickly. Kill the monster. Show me the faith I know
you have and grab the cross from my neck. You can stab it into the monster to
kill it."
"I think not," Horace answered.
"But
" Father Reginald's eyes bugged out as he realized what
had happened.
"Ah, the good Father comprehends. Your dear brother is there." Horace
pointed to the disgusting mass on the floor.
"Sadly, you have shown that you still have the presence of mind to be
dangerous. I would have preferred to keep you about as a pleasing reminder of
my debased nature, but then I would need to be on guard constantly.
"No. I fear you must die, but if it will make you feel any better, your
death shall permit your dear brother to live, albeit in my shadow."
Horace's hand lashed out, penetrating the priest's chest and then slowly pulling
out a still beating heart. Horace muttered something and tossed the heart onto
the demonic mass. It instantly disappeared into the shifting masses.
Looking down at the thing that Horace had become, the demon tsked. "You
are an unsightly creature. Well, we shall do something about that immediately.
"I have left you a bit of my personal magic, just enough to permit you
to perform a few simple magics and, more importantly, to assure that the wards
on this castle recognize you as the demon to be contained herein rather than
me. Now stand and make yourself pleasing to me."
The creature stood. With a shudder, the body parts were engulfed by skin, raw,
red, pustule covered skin.
"More pleasing."
The skin became healthy. Hair formed. A duplicate of Horace stood in place
of the monster.
"Still more pleasing. I have been many long centuries without recourse
to satisfy my lusts.
Horace blurred and changed yet again. His waist shrunk. His chest developed
two large globes. Hair flowed to just above the buttocks and the body became
pleasingly soft and rounded. When the changes were done, Horace was now a fair
representation of Adam's first wife, Lilith, femininity personified. She bowed
and asked, "How may I please you, my lord?"
The new Horace jerked his thumb towards the rack.
-=-=-=-=-
"I can do without the lurid details," Melvin interrupted with a brief
frown of distaste.
"Uh-yes. Of course. Silly of me. Allow me to jump ahead to the conclusion.
"Horace was ravaged multiple times in more ways that any creature of flesh
and blood should ever become aware. Eventually, much later than it had originally
planned, the demon left. I suspect the hell spawn has been responsible for much
of the evil that has befallen the world in the years since. He left Horace,
broken and quite mad, in the castle with just sufficient magical ability to
change his form and do some simple parlor tricks. Horace has been responsible
for much of the castle's reputation as haunted. However, that same magical ability
also trapped Horace in the castle. It's been many long years since he's walked
anywhere but the dust filled halls of this decaying monument to the long dead
demon that created him.
"Nice story. Now how about some of that honesty you so glibly promised
me?"
"Certainly. I fear you are correct," the guide responded with a toothy
smile. "I was not completely candid with you. However, the lie was in my
name, not in my story, for I am not William Harrington, but Horace Whitting.
Melvin nodded knowingly, if a bit disappointedly. He had expected that little
plot twist. So obvious. So plebian. It destroyed the fabric of what had been
until then a fairly good story. Until then, Melvin had almost been willing to
pay for the story in lieu of an actual ghost.
He had just decided to wrap up this little morality play when he was interrupted
by a question from the guide. "By the way, did you wonder about the shapes
of the rooms?
Have you figured out why they are so irregular?"
"Nope. But you're going to tell me, aren't you?"
"But of course. It is the least I could do in return for your generosity.
It is the entire castle, by the way. It was built in the shape of a pentagram,
thus the irregular shapes of the rooms."
"Great. But your suggestion that I'm going to give you anything is mistaken.
I told you I would pay you if, and only if, you told me the complete truth.
You just admitted to lying about your name so the deal's off."
The guide's hand made a slight, but not quite perceptible gesture and Melvin
was unable to move.
Melvin attempted to rise but found he could not. "What the hell is going
on here? What did you do to
?"
Another gesture and Melvin was silent.
"Such a wonderful thing, the ability to do magic," the guide said
as his body slowly reformed into what appeared to be the appearance of an eighteenth
century gentleman. "Puppick left me so little, but I have scrimped and
saved and stolen so that I now have almost as much as he did. It is amazing
how much can be done when one is patient and has the perseverance to work toward
a goal. I've been such a good student too, practicing all the time. Did you
know that practice makes perfect? It also means that I can do more with the
magic I have than Puppick ever dreamed possible. Instead of giving up something
of myself like Puppick did to escape, I can just walk out of here, with your
assistance. I have decided to find Puppick and destroy him, taking his magic
for my own. You shall join me and serve me in my quest. I shall require a squire."
The guide spoke several words in an unrecognizable language and made two more
hand gestures. He watched as Melvin slowly changed.
"Of course, there must be priorities to life and I too have needs."
He snapped his fingers and Melvin could move. He quickly scrambled to his feet
and started to back away from the madman before him. Melvin almost didn't notice
the changes until he tripped and nearly fell over the cuff of his pants. Focusing
on himself, he felt movement to a part of his body that should never have moved
like it had. Looking down he realized that he was smaller
and
and
and
she screamed.
"Come to me my dear," Horace beckoned to the beautiful woman before
him. "First you shall salve my needs while providing me the last bits of
power I need to escape this prison. Then, we shall leave here and..."
-=-=-=-=-
Interlude Six
"I wonder, do you think anyone will get the Yiddish joke
about the name?" MacKenzie asked his dog. Igor refused to respond, lying
with his back to Mac.
"What? You're still angry about not being in that last story?
Geez, I didn't know dogs held a grudge. You're in this story as two characters-actually
more than two. First you are the wolves. Note the plural. That means more than
one. Then you were also the inspiration for William I. Harrington. Get it?"
"William I. The "I" actually stands for Igor."
The dog remained unmoved.
With a shrug, McKenzie sent off the story and then downloaded
his mail. There were a couple of pieces of spam, nothing significant, just attempts
to sell him swampland in Florida and others of that ilk.
MacKenzie quickly moved on to his list mail. "Okay folks,
let me see all those wonderful letters of praise and encouragement," he
thought with a smile. There was the biweekly announcement of how to unsubscribe
from the list. There were a ton of messages debating the proper terminology
to describe rabbit fur. Where were the damn letters of praise? Wait. Here was
one, about his Sherlock Holmes story. It was from someone called Wally the Weasel.
"Why didn't you tell the readers up front that Holmes and
Watson were old? How much older were they anyway, sixty, seventy, eighty. I'll
bet they were over a hundred for that kind of science to be around."
"Grrrrr." Flame time. MacKenzie started typing again.
He didn't stop until the tingling in his arm was so intense he could no longer
hold it over the keyboard. The tingling was accompanied by some minor chest
pain. McKenzie assumed it was probably discomfort from sitting hunched over
the computer for so long.
-=-=-=-=-
"Hey Igor," McKenzie asked as he looked up from the
television during the inevitable commercial, stretched and tried to rub the
tingling out of his shoulder. "Did you ever notice how email never comes
when your messaging program is in active use? I think it's an immutable law
of nature, much like 'a watched pot never boils' or-well you can come up with
another one on your own."
McKenzie had taken a day off from writing, from work, from family,
from everything-a vacation as it were. It wasn't that he was out of ideas; it
was just that Sister Dearest had finally trapped him. She had come by, allegedly
to make amends and to take him out to lunch, but instead had driven directly
to a physician's office where she had scheduled an appointment for him. Crafty
as ever, and knowing he'd never let her get him back to the first office, Janice
had found a physician with a second office in the same building as one of his
favorite restaurants. As a result, McKenzie hadn't even realized what was happening
until they got off on the wrong floor. There, in front of the dozen or so people
staring at him through the glass wall from the waiting room, he'd had to decide
whether to make a scene or go quietly into that dark night-er, into that examining
room. Now, every time he thought of that restaurant, it was immediately replaced
with memories of that medical exam. Instead of thoughts of wings, ribs and other
delights, both culinary and pulchritudinous, the thought, "I may never
appreciate white tee-shirts and orange short-shorts again," kept bubbling
to the forefront of his conscious.
Of course, the news from the doctor didn't help. High risk for
a heart attack. Morbidly obese. Lose weight. Eat healthier. Exercise more. Sleep
more. Blah, blah. In other words, stop living. It was advice like that which
added significantly to Mac's dislike for medical professionals and this one
even upped the ante by checking McKenzie's blood sugar, telling him he was borderline
diabetic and that the advice was now a necessity-if he wanted to live into old
age.
Anyway, today was a "relax and do nothing" day, a day
to pamper himself. Today was the last day of his life-er, his old life. After
today his life would change forever. Tomorrow he would start doing things right,
creating a better life for himself. Eating healthy. Sleeping right. Exercising.
But today those next two donuts looked awfully good.
When Igor balefully watched him down the donuts, and a third for
good measure, McKenzie's only response was to say, "What? At least I'm
not singing. I can you know."
Igor continued to stare with sad eyes at his master.
"Okay dog. You asked for it. "The sun will come up tomorrow "
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER SEVEN
[SRU to You, Too, McKenzie]
by
as told to
and
McKenzie found the shop at the end of a long, barely used corridor in the mall. A faded "Going Out Of Business" sign still hung in the front window, along with a collection of junk, knick-knacks and sundries. The sign over the door read, "Spells R'nt Us." A large sign on the door proclaimed in larger letters, "No Spells Here. That Means You. Under New Management."
Pushing his way through the door, McKenzie heard the tinkle of chimes overhead. The store had a wide array of goods, mostly used and all of it marked down for quick sale. He picked up a porcelain horse.
"Hi, McKenzie, how can I help you today?" said a young voice from behind.
The man turned and found a small boy, dressed in a gray business suit standing about a foot behind him. "How did you know my name?"
"All part of the whole Spells R'nt Us shtick, you know. I know, you were expecting someone older, dressed in a bathrobe, but the old dude is gone and I'm here now. Meet my guard dog," the kid said pointing to a puppy that looked a lot like a wolf cub.
"Oh, nice dog. Listen, I need something for my girlfriend, well, my ex-girlfriend, that might get her to change her mind about me. Heck-er, gosh-I just want her to love me."
The kid reached up and pulled on McKenzie's shirt. "Hey, mister, how old do I look to you?"
"Ten, maybe eleven," McKenzie said with a shrug.
"Good guess. I'm eleven, but do you really think I know anything about girls and what they want? Get real, here. You're supposed to wander through the shop, find something that you absolutely adore, give it to her and then have her laugh about how hideous it is. That's what usually happens. Look over here," the boy said and motioned McKenzie to follow. "See, we have an almost new Beauflex machine. You know you are a bit of a porker, there, mister. Twenty minutes a day and maybe in thirty years it will give you real twelve-pack abs. Wouldn't that impress your girl?"
"That's supposed to be six-pack abs."
The boy laughed. "You know anyone that has those in real life? Most guys that buy these things work out for twenty minutes, throw the machine away and spend the rest of the day pounding down twelve packs-like my dad. Forget six-pack, in thirty years you'll find out what twelve-pack abs look like. So, shop all you want, mister. Ring the bell when you're ready to check out."
Smart-assed kid, McKenzie thought as he walked down the first row of shelves. Nothing there, he thought as he headed down the second row, then the third. Eventually he made two complete circuits of the store before he noticed the doll. The toy looked to be an antique, with a pale-white porcelain head, a brown wig and white hands. A touch of rouge was painted on each of the doll's cheeks and it was dressed in a flowing white dress with lavender bows. Barbie would love it, he decided. She collected old dolls, after all.
He carried the doll to the counter and rang the bell. The wolf cub yipped a couple of times until the boy in the suit came out of the backroom. He took one look at the doll and nodded his head.
"Good choice, McKenzie. She might actually like that. Now how much do you think a priceless antique doll like that would cost?"
"Priceless antique? Please, kid, don't make me laugh. I'll give you twenty for the doll."
"Done-Sold American!" The kid snapped and grabbed the offered twenty. "That has to be exactly what your girl friend wants. Have a good afternoon, mister. Come back anytime."
McKenzie cradled the doll as he walked out the door. Something about that transaction didn't seem right. The kid hadn't put up any sort of fight over the price. Too young, or perhaps the doll really wasn't as valuable as he thought. In any case, he thought as he settled the doll on the front seat of his car, he would take the doll home and work on finding the best time to give it to Barbie.
Over the next week, McKenzie relaxed by brushing and arranging the doll's hair. He bought several, old fashioned outfits for the doll to wear, and he found that he liked dressing her-so much so that by the end of the week the doll had a pretty outfit for each day. He especially liked the frilly white dress he had picked up for Sunday church services.
Sunday morning came. McKenzie spent time primping himself, brushing his freshly washed hair, shaving very close and even clipping the hair in his nose. Finally, at ten that morning someone knocked on the door.
He walked over to the door and opened it. Barbie walked in, still as pretty as ever.
"This has better be good, McKenzie. I had hoped I would never see you again."
Fighting the sudden cramps in his stomach, McKenzie nodded, and managed a nervous smile. "I know, Barbie, and I know that we can never be any more than good friends now, but I do want to be your friend. I found this for you."
"What?" she asked, less than impressed.
McKenzie walked over to the doll, picked it up and hugged it. This was crazy; he couldn't give up his doll. She was his, not Barbie's. Not sure what to do, he stammered out, "Uh, uh, I…."
"Oh, what a beautiful doll," Barbie exclaimed. "I love her."
"No, she's mine," McKenzie shouted. He felt the doll tingle in his hands. "I love her. She's mine."
"Then what was it…oh, my God," she said as the man visibly shrank five inches in front of her. He shrank again, and his face grew younger. McKenzie's hair stood out from his head as it grew longer, blonder and curly. He had no chance to pick at his oversized shirt, before he shrank again. This time, his clothes changed with him.
"What?" he managed to blurt out as his shirt and pants flowed together to make a little girl's party dress. His shoes changed to Mary Jane's complete with white ankle socks, and a large pink ribbon tied itself in his hair. McKenzie, now the size and shape of a five year old, closed his eyes as the world shuddered.
Melanie opened her eyes, and held her dolly tight. "Oh, thank you, Mommy, she's beautiful."
"That came from an old friend of Mommy's, Precious. He will never know it, but he gave me you and you were exactly what Mommy wanted. Let's go get in the car, and go home."
"Yes, Mommy."
The wolf pup whimpered as the kid closed up the shop.
"What?" the boy asked.
Another whimper, followed by a whine.
"So? I know it's traditional, but this is my shop now and I don't do bimbos."
-=-=-=-=-
Interlude Seven
"Yes!" thought McKenzie, as he read the latest batch of messages from the list. They still love me. Even Igor seems to have forgiven me. Maybe it was the wolf pup in this latest story. Maybe it was the one less donut McKenzie had eaten today. Mac really didn't care why the dog was paying attention to him again as long as he was doing it. With Barbie nothing more than a digital fantasy, Igor was his only real-life friend.
Of course, he had more friends on the 'net. There had been three different messages of support, or to be more accurate, messages chastising his critic, Wally the Weasel; whoever that was. Boy that felt good; another one or two and it would probably turn into a full-blown flame war. Changing identities, Mac happily typed away. Before he was done, not one, not two, but three new messages were flying through the electrons of the Internet to help the war along.
as told to
Andy Hollis
and
Jaye Michael
Chapter Eight -- Vector/Victoria
"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.
as told to
Andy Hollis
and
Jaye Michael
Chapter Nine -- The Princess Journals
"McKenzie Rigby?" The man at the door wore a dark gray suit that screamed money. A red rose resided in the lapel of his suit jacket.
"Yeah?" McKenzie asked scratching at his chest. "That's me. Who are you?"
"I am Count Kristoff von Dachnaney. I represent the government of the Kingdom of Slovarnia. May I come in?" the man asked showing McKenzie his ID and papers.
"Sure, I guess, but what do you want with me?" McKenzie stepped out of the doorway. The man headed directly to the kitchen table and picked up the metallic gray object.
"Do you know what this is?"
"No, and I didn't steal it, if that's what you're thinking. I found it at work."
"It's yours, your highness. This is the case for the Royal Seal of Slovarnia, The Lion and the Tiger. Open it please."
McKenzie took the case, fingered it a couple times and, as if on cue, the case popped open to show what appeared to be a solid gold medallion with the images of a lion and tiger standing on their hind legs with a large seal between them engraved into the metal.
"So?" McKenzie looked up from the seal.
"Mr. Rigby, you have that seal because you are destined to have it. You are aware that you were adopted at birth, are you not?"
"Sure, why? My mother told me that when I was a kid, but I never could find my birth parents."
"Your birth parents were the last King and Queen of Slovarnia, King Richard, and Queen Emma. You were their first born child and thus are the heir to the Royal Throne."
"McKenzie laughed. "That has got to be the worse joke I have ever heard. Look, Mister, who are you really?"
"I really am from the Royal Court and I am here today to escort you, your highness, back to your kingdom. You were born the Princess Maryanna Magdelaine Eustacia Tatiana von Korngold."
McKenzie shook his head. "Look, Count. I don't know what you are trying to pull, but I am a male, there is no getting around that simple fact. I pee standing up, I shave and I never took a hormone pill in my life. No amount of surgery or injections when I was an infant could have done this to a female baby."
"Oh, no, your highness. We don't have all of that new science and technology in Slovarnia, yet. An old Gypsy woman named Bombi performed the magic that made you a male, in every respect."
"Bombi?"
"Yes, that's the one. An old Gypsy woman. Do you remember her? No? Doesn't matter then. She was an old crone when you were born and is positively ancient now. That is why we have to rush. If she dies before she removes this curse from you there could be dire consequences. Dire for you and the kingdom."
"I don't like the sound of that," McKenzie said. "Sounds like something I'd write. What would happen if Bombi died before removing the spell from me?"
"I don't know for certain, your highness, but I think you would turn into a little dog-a cute little black dog, with a pug nose."
"Ah, but you don't know for certain. Who is ruling Slovarnia now?"
"That would be your uncle, Count Bedrich Smetanoff. He is taking care of the country, but everyone knows that he is just a straw man, waiting for your return."
"Ah, I see, but if my uncle usurped the throne so many years ago, why would he give it back to me now?"
"Good question, your highness, and I imagine he wouldn't give it back-that is if he was the one that usurped the throne. That was done by a rogue, a real wizard of a confidence man, who called himself Ozzie Mandious. He proved to be nothing more than all flash with no substance, and your family did take back the throne last year with great rejoicing. Now, to make the celebration complete we ask that you, your highness, return to your ancestral home as well."
"This Ozzie guy, are you saying he killed my parents?" McKenzie demanded.
"Oh, no, not at all. Your mother and father, the former King and Queen of Slovarnia, retired to Monaco with most of the family treasury. They are still there as a matter of fact."
"Then why, in the name of all that is holy, was I turned into a boy, given to poor peasants in this country to raise, when my family is living it up in Monaco?"
"It is traditional," Count Kristoff explained with a shrug. "Your father was given to peasants and your grandfather before that. You grew up in poverty to get a better understanding of your subjects. Look around you, your highness. This flat, that computer and your job must be one hundred times better than the wealthiest of the peasants in Slovarnia. In Slovarnia you would be lucky to have a dirt hut and chicken of your own.
"Now don't go worrying that soon to be pretty little head of yours about the peasants, your highness. They have lived this way for hundreds of years. They wouldn't know any other way, so there is no need for you to start thinking of reforms. It isn't traditional."
"I see. Since my parents have most of the family treasury, as Princess would I have anything, or would I be lucky to have that same hut and chicken?"
"But you have the Ruby City, your highness, and the Ruby Palace and the lifestyle that goes with it. You also have any number of rich, royal suitors. You will not want for anything."
"Royal suitors? Oh, but I have a girl friend. Well, she was my girlfriend, but…."
"Do not worry about Miss Barbie, your highness. She has been silenced."
"What?" McKenzie shouted horrified. "You killed Barbie?"
"No, of course not," the count said quickly. "But, by now she will be hanging by her thumbs in Castle Caerfydduffyn to keep her silent. We cannot have anyone that might give you away to the enemy before your coronation, your highness."
"But I thought the Usurper was gone. What enemy?"
"Ah, this will be a problem, but nothing that you can't handle, your highness. Your cousin, the Grand Duchess Ginger has decided to take the crown for herself. She is claiming that you are dead. We must get you to Bombi before she can usurp the throne from you."
"But if she did, couldn't I then retire to Monaco with my parents?" McKenzie asked.
"No, Grand Duchess Ginger has never been one for traditions. She would have you killed in a heartbeat if she knew where you were."
"I've written about men transforming to women," MacKenzie mused aloud. "Okay, I've written about a lot of men transforming to women. I like the idea of being royalty, but I'm not sure if I want to become a female in real life to do it. I'd wind up as a little dog if I don't?"
Count von Dachnaney nodded solemnly.
"Then shouldn't we go?" McKenzie asked, making up his mind.
"Yes, your highness."
"I have nothing to keep me here, then. To Slovarnia. How long a trip is it?"
"By the Concorde, not long at all. We do have one desert to fly over, and that is rather awful, but then you will experience the delights that Slovarnia has to offer it's true Princess."
Two cars waited outside for the Count, both nondescript Japanese makes. Five men waited in the second of the cars.
McKenzie glanced at the man and he nodded questioningly.
"You're honor guard," the Count explained. "Those men have sworn loyalty to your family and to you, your highness. They would give their lives for you."
"Really?" McKenzie asked, glancing back at the men in awe. He scratched his chest.
"Yes, and pray that you don't have to test that loyalty," Count von Dachnaney said quietly.
The flight across the continents took forever, but the amenities on the plane made up for it. For the first time in his life, McKenzie flew first class and had stewardesses actually treat him with a show of respect. And the deference from each of the guards could grow addictive, he thought as he sipped another gin and tonic.
"If my friends on the list could see me," he said wistfully.
"They will eventually, your highness. After all, when you are restored to the throne, it will make international news. Be prepared for the fame that follows."
"But I don't know how to act like a princess. I grew up poor, remember?"
"Of course, it is tradition. Because you are the Princess, no one at court will dare laugh at your social blunders or your less than eloquent way of expressing yourself. They will, of course, titter behind your back all the time just loud enough that you will hear them, but not loud enough that you can call them on it. That, too, is tradition. In time, you will learn what you need to know about surviving court functions, but you will have a couple of good years for that, at least until the next usurper comes along."
"The next usurper?"
"Yes, they have one maybe two years to usurp the throne while the next Crown Prince or Princess is an infant, and after that the chance is lost. There are no registered usurpers at the moment, but that could change."
"One or two years?" McKenzie asked feeling lost.
"The Royal Heir must be an infant in order for the change of gender to be effective. Two is pushing it, although it has been done. Expect some turbulence when we approach the air space over the desert. They don't call this flight the twister for nothing."
"I feel that I should be riding a house and have a little dog at my side?" McKenzie admitted. "Usurpers, courtiers and Princes, oh my!"
McKenzie watched the luggage from first class circle around the luggage rack. He froze at the sound of a stern woman's voice from behind him.
"Now which one of you-a-hem-handsome gentleman would be McKenzie?"
All of the men turned to stare at a tall woman, dressed in military style, from her olive tunic down to her patent leather pumps. She wore rather large diamond earrings and makeup that set off her green hair and eyes.
"Well, Grand Duchess," Count von Dachnaney said quietly. "What brings you here?"
"To see the fool that will be playing 'MaryAnn.' What else, my good Count? Anyone of you have the guts to admit it?"
"I'm McKenzie," one of the guards said bowing his head.
Shamed by this show of self-sacrifice, McKenzie answered as well. "No, I'm the one you want, Ginger, my dear. But where is the Skipper and Gilligan?"
"Don't listen to him. That's Gilligan, my dear. I'm McKenzie," added another guard.
"Don't look at me," said the third guard. "I'm just a guard."
Ginger looked behind her to her men, also dressed in quasi-military uniforms. "Take that one out and shoot him. There is never 'just a guard,' in situations like this."
"Wait!" cried an old voice from down the hallway. "Wait." A young man arrived in a sweat, pushing a wheel chair with an ancient lady half sitting, half slumped in the chair. "I am the Gypsy, Bombi," she said. "I can tell who the real Princess is."
"Get the old crone before she spoils everything," Ginger demanded.
"Princess?" several of the guards asked. "You said that the real Princess was dead, your Grace."
"She will be in a minute, once you've killed her. What difference does a day or two make? Get that crone or you will all pay dearly."
"I will pay a lot better than she does," McKenzie added.
Bombi pointed to the men, then stared at McKenzie. "You were just a babe in arms the last time these old eyes saw you, your highness. The real Princess has a strawberry shaped birthmark about an inch above her left breast."
McKenzie scratched his chest, and frowned. He opened his shirt and looked down at the red blotch that had been itching recently. "It does look like a strawberry, doesn't it?"
"Your Highness," Bombi said quietly. "You are the true heir to the throne of Slovarnia."
A thick white mist surrounded McKenzie from the floor up. He felt his entire body tingle, then shake as years of overeating melted away from his frame. His pale, pasty skin turned rosy fresh and his body developed some rather interesting curves. He felt his chest swelling against his T-shirt and, at last, his hair turned into golden tresses that curled over his shoulders.
"Your highness!" all the guards exclaimed including Ginger's.
McKenzie stopped studying his new body. He would have time later to shower and get used to his new shape, but for the moment he had to be the person in charge. "Ginger, you lose. You know the penalty for spreading rumors about my death and trying to usurp before I even take the throne."
The woman bowed, and McKenzie realized his gamble had paid off. "Bombi?"
"You are right, your highness." She pointed at Ginger. In seconds the erstwhile Grand Duchess changed into an exact copy of McKenzie's old self. Ginger stared down at herself, then screamed. She coughed, surprised by her new, lower voice and then screamed again.
"Do I still have it, or what?" the old lady asked.
"You bitch," the new McKenzie choked out. "You horrid bitch. This is worse than death."
"Don't worry, my dear," Princess Maryanna said. "I'll have Count Kristoff here take you back to the states, show you around your new home and teach you about your life there. If you ever try to return to Slovarnia…."
"I understand, I know the rules of exile. Very well, you've won this time, your highness, but there will always be usurpers to follow me."
The weeklong pre-coronation party was finally over, Maryanna thought as she strode gracefully, in her newest gown, across the marble floor to the dining area. For someone who had spent the better part of her adult life writing and dreaming about being female, Maryanna was in hog heaven. She had been fitted and measured for days and now had a wardrobe that would do any Royal proud. She had learned, and quickly, to walk in heels, apply makeup and carry off all the other essentials of a feminine lifestyle. For everything else, she had people to do for her.
The table fell silent as Maryanna took her place at the head. She sat down, tapped a spoon on her crystal wine goblet and cleared her throat. She glanced down at the long row of courtiers, sycophants, hangers on and other riffraff that had taken up residence in the Palace.
"Ladies and gentleman, by now you all know me and know that I was raised as a typical American male. This is not a matter for your amusement, it is a statement of fact, and as such I wish to make myself perfectly clear. I am the Princess of this Palace. I have spoken with my parents now, several times on the telephone and I have their blessing in this as well.
"I intend to trample all over the traditions of this country like people walking on grapes. I think Slovarnia needs new traditions and rulers to implement them. I intend to do just that. Anyone who objects will be asked to leave the palace, permanently.
"My actions may seem boorish to some of you, but if I ever catch anyone laughing or tittering about it, according to tradition, they will be tossed out the door. Is that understood? You know my guards, and you know that they can do it and will."
"Well, of course you would expect that kind of behavior from one of her background," a young woman tittered to her neighbor.
"Oh, my dear," Maryanna said quickly. "I am so sorry, but I was speaking to you. Eric, be a love and throw that lady out on her rear. She can send for her things."
"But, I never. It's tradition…. I never meant any thing by it, your highness…." The lady in question was promptly escorted away from the table.
"Any questions? I hope not." She looked out at the gathered guests, and gave a little nod to Prince Rupert, her only official suitor, at the moment. He was a hunk; she had to admit, even if he refused to get rid of his overbite. She tapped the glass again. "Okay, let's eat."
Maryanna walked through her suite of rooms cradling her son, the Crown Prince Philip. "There, there, sweetheart, don't cry," she cooed, although the infant's face was still red from the effort. "It's…. Who the hell are you?" she demanded of a short, middle-aged man dressed in black garb.
The man, a noble by the look of him, stepped completely into the room and bowed. "Good morning, your majesty. I am Duke Edward, and an officially registered usurper for the Throne of Slovarnia. I do admit that the people love you, Maryanna, but it's my turn now."
"There, there," she cooed at the baby. "Did that horrid man scare you? It's okay, my little snuggle-bunny." Maryanna turned to the usurper, and shook her head. "Sorry, it's not a good time for me, colic you know. Can you come back in a couple of years?"
"No, I can't. You know the rules."
Maryanna sighed, and walked over to place her baby in a large crib. The instant she did so, a brilliant golden light surrounded the crib making the infant coo and giggle as he watched it sparkle.
"What on earth is that?" the man demanded.
Maryanna held a finger to her lips and walked away from the crib. "As you know, tradition is a very real and powerful force in Slovarnia. It is stronger than even the gypsy magic that created that glow."
Someone screamed. They turned back to the crib to see a girl, standing beside the crib with two blackened stumps on her arms instead of hands. Tears ran down the girl's cheeks as glanced at the Princess.
"There, there, dear. You had to expect that, didn't you?" Maryanna asked. The girl nodded. "Those will heal just fine in a day or so, but now you stay there and guard that crib against the next girl that tries."
"Yes, your majesty," the girl said quietly.
"You see, she was, according to tradition, trying to whisk the crown prince away to some old gypsy woman who would then, according to tradition, turn him into a girl and send him off to be raised by peasants. I was. My father was before me and his father before that. I say 'to Hell' with that. If I retire to Monaco, my child is going with me, which is why that precaution. I had the devil of a time tracking him down the last time some fool of a lady's maid made off with him."
"The last time?"
"The last time some idiot tried to usurp my throne. Don't I know you from somewhere, Duke Edward?"
"Although we haven't met in this country, your majesty, we have met. I was flamed often enough by you on the TG-TF list, and at the last bash we both attended, McKenzie. I write as Wally the Weasel."
"The critic?"
"Yes, the critic, which makes this so much more pleasurable. You and your clique flamed me for daring to share my opinions on the list about those miserable excuses of stories of yours. You had the entire list against me quite a few times, but now, now at last I will get the last word in."
"So, Wally the Weasel. I wouldn't have flamed you at all, if all you did was critique my stories, but no. You went out of your way to demolish them. There are writers on the list that can't even spell their own names, let alone write legible stories, but did you go after them? Oh, no. Let me get one comma out of place, and you said it ruined the whole piece. Oh, and by the way, Wally…." She started.
"By the way, what?" he asked after a moment.
"'In' is a preposition. It's bad grammar to end a sentence with a preposition." Maryanna's fist crunched into the Weasel's nose hard enough to send the man sliding on his backside across the polished marble floor until he crashed his head into a solid marble desk. "Ow, that had to hurt," she said as two of her guards rushed into the room.
"Are you all right, your majesty?" the taller of the guards asked.
"Of course, Eric dear," she said and ran a finger down the man's cheek. "That awful man wants to send me away to Monaco where I'd never see you again…."
"I'll take care of him," Eric said quickly with his face burning crimson.
Both guards picked Wally up and held him, feet dangling in the air, between them.
"There. That's much better. I feel so much better now. Eric, be a love and tell Duke Edward what the traditional punishment is for failed usurpers."
"Certainly my dear," he said in his booming baritone voice. Turning to Wally, Edward announced, "The traditional punishment for a failed usurper is to be flogged to death in the public square."
"Goodie, I can't wait. I want to see Wally the Weasel flogged to death."
"Guards, attend me. I am the registered Usurper," Wally choked out. "It's tradition!"
Maryanna smiled. "So sorry, chump, but I announced at the beginning that there were would be a lot of changes made. These guards aren't from Slovarnia and they don't follow all of the old traditions. I do agree with you that it is important for the people to love me, but more importantly, so do the guards, and boy. They love me too," she said with a sigh and a slight smile on her lips. "Where is Prince Rupert?"
"His Highness is either in the gardens or packing for Monaco, your majesty. He wasn't sure what to do."
"I'll find him and let him know," she said and retrieved the baby from his cradle. "See you later, Weasel boy. I think I will put a streaming video of the flogging online so the entire list can see you meet your fate. That will teach those critics something."
"Yeah! Death to all critics!" McKenzie thought as he sent his latest chapter off into cyberspace. He sat back in his chair with a slight smile on his face. Now that would be the life. Pity, he thought, glancing at the gray box on his kitchen table. Why couldn't that be the royal seal after all? Even if it were just for a moment, it would be great to have all the Wallys on the list tremble a bit.
Igor was sitting with his back to Mac. It was evident the dog was pouting.
"I know. I'll try to write in a bigger part for you next time, boy. I promise. Besides, it felt really good to kill off that lousy critic."
Igor stared at me pityingly.
"Don't give me that. All writers do it. Agatha Christe once brought in a new character just twenty-five pages from the end of a book, just to tie up some loose ends."
The dog kept staring.
"I can't stay and argue this with you Igor. I've got to get to work."
Exaggeratedly ignoring the dog, McKenzie stood, but then dropped back into his chair.
"Whoa! Stop spinning world." After resting a moment, he got up more slowly. This time he made it upright without the dizziness.
as told to
Andy Hollis
and
Jaye Michael
Chapter Ten -- Fangs for the Memories
Didn't your mother ever tell you it was bad manners to play with your food?" Phil Baso was scared, really scared-and that made him bluster.
The woman before him was clearly crazy, but she was amazingly strong and faster than anyone he'd ever seen before-almost supernaturally so. With promises of sexual gratification beyond his wildest dreams, she had led him to this squalid room, in this third-rate flophouse, in a part of town where his body might not be found for days and then might just be tossed out with the trash.
"Silence worm or I shall consume your essence even sooner. Do you not wish to know what I have in store for you?"
"About now I'm wishing for the keys to these handcuffs and to have never met you, you crazy bitch. For the umpteenth time, release me now and I'll walk out of this room and forget I ever met you."
He felt like the open-handed slap nearly tore his head off. Such a feminine act, such pain, it should not be possible. When his head stopped spinning, Phil had to wonder if the crazy lady's crazy story wasn't true.
It was only about fifteen years ago, a fleetingly short time when you are immortal. I had been working as a night watchman in a warehouse by the dock. All sorts of strange things happened there, especially on the night shift.
There were noises from the creaking building as it expanded and contracted with the changes in temperature. There were pipes that would bang whenever there was a demand from the furnace or air conditioners. There were faint scrabbling sounds that I hoped were from mice rather than rats or cockroaches.
And then there were the echoes. With its high ceilings, even when the warehouse was full, which is was better than half the time; it was basically a huge empty space. Every sound was revisited in gradually decreasing harmonics as it echoed from wall to wall and back.
To add to that, there was the lighting. Some companies would keep the full lighting on 24/7. Of course those were usually the warehouses that were in use continuously around the clock unlike the one where I worked. I guess that given the choice or providing better lighting for the mice, insects and watch people they decided to save the pennies and use minimal emergency lighting and make us provide our own flashlights for our rounds. Most of us would keep a spare set of batteries or two and change them during breaks, just to be able to see.
Even once you'd been there a while and learned to recognize the noises and not get spooked by the shadows, there was still the problem of theft. I think I remember reading somewhere that some experts had once estimated that better than 20% of all goods coming through any American port are contraband or diverted into illegal channels. Warehouses, especially ones that closed down for a full shift or two like the one where I worked, were prime targets. All of this added up to making the life of a night watchman more exciting than most of us wanted.
The night in question, the shift was just half over when I started hearing the flapping sounds. I assumed that it was a bird that had snuck in during the day when the loading dock doors were often wide open.
Normally, I wouldn't worry about a bird. There was nothing I could do that would get it out any sooner than waiting for morning and letting it get hungry enough to fly out of the building in order to forage. The problem was, this bird didn't sound right. There was too much flapping. Most birds sleep during the night hours, especially if there was too little light to navigate safely. Even if you disturb them with your flashlight, they usually find the nearest perch outside the glare of the light and settle back down again. This flapping only stopped for brief moments and then started again. Additionally, it seemed to start in one area of the warehouse and be slowly moving closer to me, as if it were searching for something.
The training for a night watchman is pretty skimpy. They tell you to call the police if there's someone in or around the building that shouldn't be there, they tell you to call building maintenance if there is a problem with the physical plant and they tell you to make regular rounds to check for one of the two types of problems mentioned above. If something outside the two realms described above occurs, you're on your own.
I took the course of least resistance. I ignored the noises and went about my business making my duly appointed rounds. I don't know who was more surprised, the bird or me, when it struck me in the face and somehow scratched my neck. I spent the rest of my rounds trying to stop the bleeding. For some reason, it just wouldn't coagulate.
Normally, I would not have remembered the event, but it was indelibly etched in my mind because it was coupled with my firing. I swear, the only unusual sound I heard that night was the bird, but somehow, someone managed to haul a three by three by seven-foot crate out of the warehouse without my seeing it. The company assumed I had stolen it, or had at least been a knowing participant in its theft. What was worse, I couldn't explain why the electronic key boxes showed that I had failed to complete my rounds over a two hour period.
That's when they started, about a week after I got fired. Night after night, it was always the same dream-only it kept changing, just a bit. If I compared from one night to the next I couldn't tell the difference but, if I compared two versions of the dream that were several days apart, there was a change. Unlike my usual dreams, I remembered these dreams; I remembered them as clearly as if they were real.
At first, I welcomed the dream. I was out of work, no girlfriend and no money for entertainment. This took the place of two out of the three and I wasn't in any rush to go find a job when I still had some money in savings.
They all started a minute before midnight. I'd be in bed and I'd come awake in a cold sweat with the alarm clock ringing. I'd reach over to turn it off and there she'd be, standing by the door to the bedroom. She was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, ever imagined. She would pose for a moment unclothed-never naked, unclothed-and then glide to me with that enigmatic smile on her face.
I would reach my hand out to hold her, to touch her, to make myself believe she was there, but as she approached I found myself putting my hands down and turning my head away. I would try to turn back, to raise my hand, but in the dream, I couldn't. I had no will of my own. I just lay there waiting for her, barely breathing for fear she would leave.
Slowly, seductively, the covers would slide back off my body. I was naked too and fully aroused. The first I would feel of her was her hair-long, silky, blonde hair-as it danced over my face and chest. Each contact was like an erotic adventure. Within moments, I was begging for more, yet secretly afraid that I would die from the ecstasy of the next of those brief touches.
Next, I would feel the bed give as she crawled onto it beside me, still killing me with each gossamer tingle. It seemed to go on forever as she slowly positioned herself on top of me, her breasts against my chest, her legs straddling my waist, her head in the crook of my neck.
I could feel her kissing my neck, light butterfly-like touches. The ecstasy would grow and grow until I would explode and die. When I would wake again, I would be in bed. The covers would be on the floor and the clock would read one minute past midnight. That first night, I lay there for hours reliving the dream, trying to indelibly etch every aspect of it and that woman into my memory. That was how I realized it was changing.
I slept late that first morning, almost until dusk, but I expected that. I don't think I actually fell asleep again until just before sunrise.
When I finally crawled out of bed, the dream still crystal clear in my memory, I showered and shaved, the usual waking rituals. Surprisingly, I wasn't hungry so I passed on that. Instead, I flipped on the TV and submerged myself in mindless escapist entertainment, or at least I tried to submerge myself. It didn't work.
The dream kept intruding as I compared each actress to the woman in my dream and finding that the actresses kept coming up short. Oh, one might have hair that was close to my dream woman's and another might have a smile that was close, but not quite as bright. Yet, not one single one was her equal. Fool that I was, I was looking forward to the night, hoping I might dream of her once again. I was so anxious to meet her again, I remember going to sleep early, before the evening news, to give me time to ready myself for her arrival.
And like clockwork, at eleven fifty nine that night she appeared again. Standing in the doorway, gliding toward me, the touch of her hair, her body, her kiss …
Again, I slept late and again I wasn't hungry. Again, the television was unable to offer me her equal and again I went to bed early.
That third night she again appeared just before the witching hour and again we danced our dance of love.
The patterns were now set. I would live for her touch in my dreams, sleep late, skip eating, be bored with television and go to bed early in order to be ready for her when she next appeared.
It wasn't until two weeks later that I realized I hadn't eaten since the dreams started. I probably wouldn't have noticed even then, except that the building superintendent came pounding on the door to find out why the place smelled so bad. I hadn't taken out the garbage. Most of the perishables in the refrigerator were spoiled too.
I apologized with a twenty-dollar bill and lied, saying I had been out of town. Then I emptied the refrigerator into the garbage and dragged it down to the dumpster. I promised the Super I would walk down to the corner and get some food from the bodega there, but when I got there, nothing appealed to me, not even the fried lantanas and my friends had teased me often about how I was addicted to the greasy things. Instead, I went home and repeated my usual routine.
That night I realized that her hair was a shoulder length brunette and her breasts seemed smaller. I remember trying to change my dream, to bring back the blonde beauty I had first seen and with whom I had fallen in love, but it didn't work.
A week later, the routine was shattered when I was wakened by a friend from work at about three in the afternoon who had heard of a watchman vacancy at a nearby warehouse. It took an unimaginable amount of effort to move my hand the short distance to the telephone beside my alarm clock on my nightstand and I could barely croak out the answers to his solicitous questions. Rather than hang up the phone afterward, I just dropped it to the floor. I could hear rain beating on the curtained windows and the noise was just intrusive enough that I couldn't go right back to sleep.
Struggling to my feet, I dragged myself to the bedroom door, planning to visit the bathroom and then return to my warm comfortable bed. Pulling the door open, I was nearly blinded by the light pouring through the living room windows. It was so painfully bright that I actually stepped back and closed the door.
Now I was wide awake and feeling rather stupid as I realized that I actually felt afraid of the light. Using one arm to shield my eyes, I again opened the door, although much more slowly this time, and forced myself to stagger off to the bathroom. It was ridiculous, but I couldn't bring myself to let the light actually touch me, so I was careful to skirt around the patches that glowed like some hot desert sun on the living room floor.
The bathroom was light enough that I didn't bother to flick the light switch. Too tired to try aiming, I sat and relieved myself. As I washed my hands, I glanced in the mirror and realized that I badly needed a haircut and that I needed to start eating again. I was wasting away.
I decided then and there that I needed to get dressed and go shopping for some food. I was going to do it immediately after showering, but when I came out of the bathroom, still drying my longer hair, the sun was so bright that I decided to wait until the evening. Besides, it was still pouring rain.
My clothes didn't feel right. There was nothing I could put into words; they were just a bit too loose one place, a bit to tight somewhere else. The legs on my only pair of clean jeans needed to be rolled up; the size was right so it must have been a manufacturer's defect.
I lost track of time waiting for sunset and so it wasn't until ten that I finally headed out. My first stop was the corner bodega, but again, I just couldn't find any food I wanted to buy so I went two blocks down and stopped at the Arby's ®-and still couldn't bring myself to eat anything.
Giving up on food, I started back home, but instead stopped at Louie's. It's a tiny little bar in the basement below the bodega. Cheap beer and quiet enough to think.
Grabbing my usual seat at the bar, just below the television, I ordered a beer and tried to figure out what was happening. It didn't take long to realize that I had no clue and I had just moved on to my next concern of trying to figure out who I could see who could help me figure out what was going on, when my beer came.
I had dropped a ten spot on the bar in anticipation. It's an old trick. You make a promise not to take more money out and once whatever is on the bar is gone, it's time to go. Some people keep the swizzle sticks from their mixed drinks; I drop a bill on the counter. The problem was, Louie left my beer, but didn't take the money and make change.
"Hey Louie, when did you start giving it away?"
"I didn't. The guy at the end of the bar is paying." Louie jerked his head in the direction of a tall, dark haired man about my age, sitting at the far end of the bar. Never being one to look a gift beer in the mouth, I gave the guy a brief toast and returned to my thoughts.
A moment later, he was sitting at the stood next to me. I was about to tell him to get lost, I wasn't into guys, when suddenly the world blurred and I was back in my apartment, lying in my bed. The dream was starting again.
It continued like that for what seemed like forever. Each night, just before midnight, I would find myself in my bedroom and the dream would start. It didn't matter where I was; the dream found me and brought me back to the apartment. Once I even went to a friend's house in Jersey to try to get away. It didn't work. Instead, I got a call from the friend the next morning asking where I had gone.
I tried locking myself out of my bedroom. I tried handcuffing myself to the radiator in the living room. I tried staying at Louie's all night on several different occasions. Nothing worked, although I seemed to be offered drinks more and more often. I felt like I was Bill Murray in that movie, "Groundhog Day."
And if that wasn't bad enough, my visitor kept changing. My vision, once the most voluptuous, most beautiful creature imaginable, slowly became plainer and plainer, to the point where one night I realized that she wasn't a woman any more. She was a really effeminate man.
But it didn't stop there. If I focused every week or two I would realize that she-I mean he-was slowly becoming a remarkably handsome man.
Almost as strange, was the fact that I was not upset by the idea of having a man kissing me each night. I had no idea why, but I had to admit that it was just as enjoyable having a man kiss me now as it had been having a woman doing it before. I began to think about the guys that kept offering me drinks at Louie's, how this one had a pretty smile and how that one had a cute butt. I found myself enjoying it when one leaned close to touch me, so much so that I began leaning into them so they would have to touch me. I even began wanting them to bring me to a private place touch me other places besides my hand or my hair. Hell, I wanted them to take me to bed and have their way with me.
As I noted earlier, no matter what I did, I just couldn't break away from the dream or break the pattern of the dream. It was always the same dream, only my visitor changed, ever so slowly. I eventually I had given up and just waited in my bed, waited for it to happen so I could go on with my life.
Finally, it happened. My visitor was an absolute Adonis with long blonde hair and a physique that would be the envy of a Greek god. I couldn't help myself as I almost drooled in anticipation of his touch, his kiss. He appeared out of nowhere, standing by the door, smiling at me. I waited patiently as he slowly approached me, threw off the covers and sat beside me. But this time something happened. Instead of running his hair over my chest before mounting me, he smiled and spoke to me.
"You have turned out well my child."
Those words were like a shock to the system. It was like I had been hypnotized and, after months in a trance, had suddenly recovered my wits. I took one look at him, another look at myself, and screamed.
He nonchalantly waved a hand and I was calm again, although this time I was cognizant of the tremendous changes that had occurred to my body and, I belatedly realized, my brain. I knew what I was and my new role in life, or rather death.
"Succubae and incubi, we're one and the same. It's only a matter of the form we happen to be in. I'm still not quite as good as my creator, thus the handcuffs, but after our first kiss, you shall be mine-if you survive that is. That's why there are so few of us, you know. Most humans seem to die before the process is completed, but I have high hopes for you, that you will be my first child. We shall see."
I lay there on that cheap motel room bed, handcuffs chaffing, as I glared up at the beautiful but mad woman before me telling me her bizarre and nightmarish tale. She sat beside me on the bed. Slowly she leaned forward to kiss me.
"Damn, that one was fun. Let's see if that one gives someone a chubby. Time to check the mail and go to bed. Mac quickly scanned the files in his inbox.
"Garbage.
"Garbage.
"Story. We'll set that one aside to read later when I have time.
"Garbage.
"Garbage.
"Only two stinking responses? Damn that stinks. So what do they say?
"Loved 'Faster than a Speeding Tall Building.' Keep writing. Please."
"Good. Good." MacKenzie beamed with pleasure.
"In 'Vector/Victoria' you incorrectly defined the word 'vector.' It's actually, 'a quantity possessing both magnitude and direction.' You would have been better off calling it a 'medium,' but then you would have to change the name of the story to something like 'Medium Matilda,' and that might give people the wrong impression." It was from Wally the Weasel. Damn.
McKenzie Rigby cursed and turned off his computer and slumped into his tattled couch. "Ungrateful… Why the hell do I bother Igor? I'm not asking for a lot, am I? Just an occasional 'Thank you'."
Igor just rolled his eyes and remained as he was, curled into a comfortable ball.
"What?" McKenzie asked, still angry. Am I being unreasonable?"
McKenzie waited impatiently for a response, but Igor wisely said nothing.
"Oh, I know. You think I should write just for the sake or writing? Right?
as told to Andy Hollis and Jaye Michael
Chapter Eleven -- My Auntie's Panties
Catherine Rigby walked her son, McKenzie up to the front porch. "Now behave yourself, for God's sake," she told the eleven year old boy before she rang the doorbell.
"I will," McKenzie answered, sullen. "I always do." The boy stood on the porch, holding onto his suitcase for dear life.
Every summer, for two weeks, he always had a visit with his aunt, Prissy. Pricilla was okay, for a grown up, but she didn't have kids of her own and never knew what to do to make things fun.
"There he is," Aunt Prissy said from the doorway. "Hi, Mac, still way too pretty to be a boy."
"Everyone says that," Catherine added with a laugh. "I have to run, Prissy, but I will call tonight. Watch him, though. He's going through another one of his phases, you know, everything has to be completely logical."
She laughed and headed down the walkway as McKenzie watched her go.
McKenzie carted his suitcase inside the cool, dark hallway and took in the scents of freshly baked cookies. He flipped his long, brunette hair off his eyes and gave Aunt Prissy a big smile. "Just in time for cookies?"
"You got that right, Sweetheart. Now, take your things to your room and hurry back before they cool. You do remember what happens to little boys that are bad, don't you?"
"I'm eleven, Aunt Prissy, and not so little anymore."
The lady looked down at the boy and laughed. "Put your things away and I'll tell you."
McKenzie combed his hair before hurrying downstairs. He trotted into the kitchen for the cookies only to be met by a small, gray and black bundle of muscle and energy that barked. The dog all but knocked the boy over as it tried to lick his face.
"That's Igor," Aunt Prissy said. "I got him for you-and to keep me company."
The boy managed to get up from under the beast. He sat down at the table and took a couple of the cookies. His Aunt poured a tall glass of milk for him and then sat down herself.
"As I was saying, this year I have some rules that you need to remember. I know there aren't that many kids in this neighborhood, except the new boy that moved in next door, but he's older than you are. But, I don't want you on the phone to your friends all hours of the day and night, nor do I want you on the computer all that much. You can play outside as much as you like, just remember to tell me if you leave the neighborhood."
"Sure, Aunt Prissy. I will."
"If you don't, you will regret it. I'll make you wear skirts or lacey dresses and take you shopping with me so everyone can see you."
"That's a punishment?" McKenzie asked with a slight frown on his face.
"Yes, for you."
The boy laughed, "There is girl in my class, Lauren? She wears skirts and dresses all the time. She's being punished?"
Aunt Prissy sighed. "No, it's not a punishment for a girl. Girls are supposed to wear skirts. Boy's don't."
"Yeah, but girls wear pants, too," McKenzie added. "Sandra wears jeans with a zipper in them and everything. I've got a lot of sweats and shorts that don't have any opening at all. So why would it be a punishment for me to wear a skirt?"
"Girls can wear whatever they feel like wearing, boy's can't. Have you ever asked your mother for a dress?"
"No, I haven't thought it about before," McKenzie lied. "Mom buys my clothes for me and she doesn't ask me what I want. She just gets it. What's wrong with wearing a skirt? You're wearing one. You know, that looks a lot cooler in this heat than my shorts do."
"There's nothing wrong with me or any girl wearing a skirt. It's okay for girls to wear boy's clothes, but it's not okay for boys to wear girls clothes."
"Why not?" the boy asked with a deliberately straight face.
"Because no boy wants to look like a girl," Aunt Prissy said quickly.
"But girls want to look like boys, right? So you mean that it's a lot better being a boy than a girl." McKenzie sat back and waited for the reaction.
"Yes-I mean no," she half yelled, turning pale. "It's different. I mean it's different being a boy or a girl but it's not any better. Do you want to dress up as a girl?"
McKenzie shrugged. "I don't know. I've never done it before," he lied again. "You want me to try on a skirt to see if it fits?"
"What are you talking about," Aunt Prissy demanded.
"You said if I misbehaved or broke the rules you would make me dress up in skirts or lacey dresses, so do you want me to try one on?"
"Aren't you scared that someone would see you?"
"Why should I be?" McKenzie asked. "You told Mom that I was too pretty to be a boy, so if anyone saw me wouldn't they think I was a girl anyway?"
Aunt Prissy held her head in her hands. "Your mother told me about that logic thing, but I didn't listen.
It's…." She stared at the boy for a moment, and smiled. "You don't mean a word of that, do you? No, not really. You think you can talk me out of this with your word games. Not a chance, mister. I don't have any clothes for you to wear now, but I'm taking you shopping for something pretty, right now. Let's see how you feel when it's for real."
"I don't like ponytails," McKenzie whined as Aunt Prissy pulled his hair back and tied it up. She did leave the boy's bangs hanging down over his forehead. "You know, it's okay," he said glancing out the car window at the mall. "I don't really need new clothes."
"Thought so," she said, opening the door for the boy to slide out. "That was just talk. You don't want to wear a skirt anymore than any other boy, do you?"
"I don't care about skirts or dresses," he said, quickly enough to make his aunt smile. "I was just worried about all the money you have to spend."
"Right, I get it. Come on, Missy. This should be fun."
McKenzie let himself smile as he walked beside his aunt into the mall. If she felt better about forcing him to dress, he could play that part, too.
In spite of his protests about not needing new clothes, Aunt Prissy took him through the Gap for Kids, Fashion Bug and Penny's in a matter of minutes. After being measured and told by countless salesladies how pretty he looked, McKenzie walked out into the mall wearing a short pink top, and pleated white skirt, and opened toed sandals. He now had two sundresses, another skirt and three complete sets of underwear including cotton panties and training bras. Aunt Prissy told him the bras were just in case he did something really awful, but McKenzie only shrugged, and promised her he wouldn't do anything that bad. Besides, he had a couple of pair in his suitcase already, but he wasn't going to tell her that.
Aunt Prissy watched how comfortably McKenzie walked in his new skirt, and noticed that fact that he developed a rather feminine swing to his walk. She wondered, for a moment if the boy had ever dressed in female attire before, but decided against it, in spite of the fact that he smoothed his skirt before sitting down.
Kids crowded the ice cream shop, most of them with their mothers. McKenzie smiled as several boys gave him more than casual glances. One of them, a real cute boy of about thirteen, walked up to the table.
"Hi, Ms. Rigby," he said quickly.
"Hi, Bradley," she answered. "McKenzie, this is my neighbor, Brad. Brad Jackson, this is my-niece, she said at length. McKenzie will be staying with me for a couple of weeks-more if it works out."
"Hi," Brad took McKenzie's hand, and gave it a quick shake. "Would you like to dance?"
Both Aunt Prissy and McKenzie looked at the boy with mixed emotions. McKenzie nodded and looked down. "I'd love to Brad," he said then looked up at his aunt. She nodded, and Brad led the new girl onto the dance floor.
How McKenzie could dance with that boy and not show any sign of embarrassment or even hesitation at pressing his cheek against Brad's was beyond Aunt Prissy. She remember being forced into skirts herself as a girl, and being forced to dance with boys, at least until she reached college age. And yet here was her nephew, a much prettier, and certainly more feminine, girl than she had ever been-yet he was a boy. Perhaps this wasn't the right punishment after all, but now what could she do? If she told Brad that McKenzie was really a boy…. Bradley probably wouldn't believe it for a second. Looking at the girl now, she didn't believe it.
After a few dances, Bradley led McKenzie back to the table. Both kids looked as if they were riding cloud nine for all they were worth.
"I trust you had a good time?"
"Yes, Aunt Prissy," McKenzie said, beaming. "Can I walk home with Brad? He knows the way."
"I'm sure he does, and no, you may not. We have a lot more to do this afternoon, young lady. Brad, we will see you later," she said, dismissing the boy with a nod. Brad clenched his teeth, and pressed his lips together, but nodded himself and walked off.
"He is so cute, don't you think?" McKenzie asked his aunt.
"Yes, but I had no idea you were gay?"
McKenzie's smile didn't falter as he said. "I don't know. I might be. I've never been a girl before and I wanted to try it out. That's the logical way to do this."
Aunt Prissy relaxed. "I suppose it is. If Bradley asks you out again, and I think he will, will you go?"
"Yes, I need all the information I can get."
"Aunt Prissy, Aunt Prissy!" McKenzie called as he ran up the front steps. He banged his way into the house. Today he wore boy's shorts and a white T-shirt, but his ponytail did bounce on his back.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Brad asked me to the Fourth of July Dance. Can I go? Please? Can I get something to wear?"
"That's getting serious, at least for around here," Aunt Prissy commented. "What happens if Brad finds out you're a boy?"
McKenzie shrugged. "He said he didn't care when I told him," she said with a pause, "Just before he kissed me."
"What? You didn't. He didn't. Did he?"
He nodded, "Just a peck on the cheek, but I don't think he believed me. He said he didn't care if I came from Jupiter, I was the prettiest girl he had ever seen."
"You are, that, but…. Okay, if Bradley knows then it's okay with me. Come on, we have some major shopping to do."
Actually, McKenzie thought as he climbed into the front seat of the car, he didn't tell Bradley the whole truth-or his aunt, either. Bradley had asked him to the dance, then kissed him full on the lips.
McKenzie blushed and looked down, demurely. "Oh, Brad, that was so nice. You know I have to ask my Aunt, though. She might not want me to go with you."
"You think so?" he asked.
"I don't know, the last time a guy asked me out she took him aside and told him I was really a boy…."
Bradley threw his head back and laughed. "You're kidding. Think anyone would believe that?"
"He did, Jon, that is. Would you still take me if I was a boy?"
Bradley laughed again. "I don't care if you're from Jupiter, you're the prettiest girl I've ever met and I want to take you to the dance."
McKenzie sat back in the car seat and hugged himself, secure in the knowledge that if Aunt Prissy did try to spoil things with Brad he would be prepared.
By the time they finished at the mall, McKenzie owned a lovely, pale green gown, accessorized with his first purse, white, and his first pair of heels. The heels were maybe two inches, but he managed to get his balance right away. He also wore two bright green emerald studs that pierced his ears. The trip to the hairdresser's salon would wait until just before the dance.
"This has been the best summer ever. Thanks, Aunt Prissy, thanks for everything." McKenzie gushed on the ride home.
"It's okay, dear. I'm just glad that you're happy."
McKenzie hurried upstairs to his room, unlocked his suitcase, and dug into the deepest corners to pull out a small, weathered book. He opened the book to the appropriate page, and read through the instructions again. Two more kisses from Bradley would be all that was needed, if the spell was to work. It had to work, he thought and packed the book away to study himself in the mirror. How could Brad resist kissing him again, who knows, maybe even tonight?
"You want to come over to my place?" Brad asked as McKenzie locked fingers with him.
"Okay," he said. "There isn't that much to do at my aunt's."
The Jackson's had a large, dark brick house that looked like money, McKenzie thought as they walked up the front steps. Brad opened the door.
"Mom? Hi, it's me. I've got McKenzie with me, the girl from next door?"
"That's nice. Hi, McKenzie," she called from the kitchen.
"Hi, Mrs. Jackson," McKenzie called back. He stared at a book, with a gray, weathered cover on the coffee table. A second later he picked it up, and flipped through the same book of spells he had hidden in his suitcase.
"Oh, that," Brad said, quickly. "Mom got that for me before we moved here. Kind of hokey, I know, but it's fun to read."
"You ever try any of the spells?"
"No, most of them you can't get all the ingredients, you know?"
"I guess," he said and put the book down. "Why don't you show me around the house. It's really nice."
"Thanks, Mom's been working her tail off on it. I help, but she usually wants to do it all herself. Thinks I don't have any taste."
"Well, if you pick out your clothes, you do," McKenzie added quickly. He let Brad take his hand as they walked through the house.
Later, standing on the front porch of Aunt Prissy's house, Brad gave McKenzie a much longer kiss, before saying "good night." McKenzie felt his whole body respond and tingle at the kiss. The flush on Brad's face showed that he felt the same way.
After a day of primping at the beauty parlor, trying on a hundred shades of make-up, lipstick and nail polish, McKenzie finally felt ready to meet Brad on the evening of the dance.
Brad, dressed in a dark gray suit, met McKenzie at Aunt Prissy's front door.
Aunt Prissy took a picture of the pair holding hands. "You both look fabulous. I know you will have a great time tonight. Brad, McKenzie did tell you that he was a boy, right?"
Brad nodded. "Yeah-he mentioned something about that. I don't care what he or she is, she's still the prettiest girl I've ever seen."
"Go on then, but be back early, you are both still too young to go out on a real date. Do you want to walk, or can I give you a lift?"
They decided to walk to the community center to take advantage of the still cool summer evening. Hand in hand the two kids walked, slowly down the street until they were out of sight of both houses. Brad looked down into McKenzie's eyes, then bent over to give the younger boy a third kiss. McKenzie's mouth opened and their tongues met.
It is better being a girl, McKenzie thought as his heart raced. The world spun around and the change completed. McKenzie didn't have to check to realize the she was now completely female from head to toe. At least Brad would never know…. Brad?
She opened her eyes to find herself kissing another girl.
"Brad?" she asked.
"It worked," Brad replied looking down at his new gown, and they way his chest now poked out. "I'm a girl."
"But, I don't understand. What happened?"
"The spell in my book," Brad said with a grin. She opened her purse and pulled out a small compact to check her make-up. "Three kisses from a boy would do it, right McKenzie?"
"You knew? You knew all along I was a boy?"
"There aren't that many kids around. Your aunt told me a few times that her 'nephew' was coming for a visit, and when I saw the two of you at the mall that first time I wasn't sure. You were good, I'll say that for sure, girl friend, but when we danced I read you as a boy, for real."
"But you were like-such a hunk. You wanted to be a girl?"
"Since I was four I've wanted to be a girl. Mom used to let me dress up, when I was little, but not since. She thought I grew out of it. But look at you, you were so lucky, McKenzie. You were completely feminine as a boy. I bet you had a hard time trying to pass as a boy."
"I'll say. I gave up trying years ago. Mom never noticed. I was a boy, and that was final."
"But once you got into a skirt, that was it. You were a girl. But me, you know the way I looked. If I wore a dress…."
"You would stick out for ten miles. You're pretty as a girl, though."
"Thanks, girl friend, and you will be ravishing when you get older. Come on, I'm Michelle now. Let's go to the dance and find a couple of guys."
As they approached the community center, the two girls, still hand in hand, turned a lot of heads as they passed.
"There," McKenzie told Igor as he sent the next chapter out, "that was a good one."
What?" he asked as the dog barked. Sad eyes stared remorselessly at him.
"You were in it. I know it wasn't a big part, but you aren't a big dog." He laughed, but Igor didn't join in.
"Well, what do you know," he asked rhetorically while reading the newest batch of letters. "Wally the Weasel didn't like 'The Princess Journals', poor baby. That's odd; no one else did either. Bunch of idiots. Don't know quality when the read it. No one got the Oz jokes-bunch of losers, well I know they will like this one."
Annoyed, he sat back to wait for the next batch of replies not hearing Igor's low angry growl.
as told to Andy Hollis and Jaye Michael
Chapter Twelve -- Blonde Like Me
What do you do when a blonde throws a pin at you?”
I was so bored I didn’t even bother answering. Jack was my best friend and fellow member of what Outrageous Ads called it’s brain trust, but he had been telling blonde jokes for the last fifteen minutes and I was, to say the least, bored. The only surprises so far had been that there were so many and that he had remembered them. Usually, Friday night at a bar like Bloody Bob’s with a friend is a much more uplifting experience.
“Run like hell. She’s got a grenade in her mouth.” Even his guffaws were beginning to wear thin.
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, anything to break the cycle of bad joke after bad joke. “I’m going to ask that girl over there to dance.”
“You mean the pretty one? Over there?”
“Yeah.” I turned my back before I could be asked any more questions or–perish the thought–be told any more blonde jokes. I worked out, albeit not regularly, and at six foot and a hundred and sixty-five pounds, my $500 suit draped nicely over my body and my wavy black hair fell an inch or two below my collar. I usually had no difficulties finding a good-looking woman to join me for an evening of fun and frolic.
“Excuse me.”
She came up to my eyes, which put her at about five-foot six-inches tall in her three inch heels, with light brown hair and green eyes. I wasn’t in love–yet–but I definitely wanted to get to know this girl better.
“Yeah?”
“Would you like to dance?”
“Aren’t you from that table over there? The one telling all those blonde jokes?”
“Well, my friend Jack is the one telling them,” I agreed. “It his bald head. I think he’s got hair envy. I can’t get him to shut up. In fact, I was hoping you would dance with me and save me from…”
“No thank you. Your friend is being really demeaning, but you’re behavior is worse. By not telling him how bad what he’s doing is, you’re condoning and even encouraging it.”
“But…”
Ignoring me, she turned her back on me and returned to the conversation I must have interrupted with her friends. I slunk back to our table just in time for another blonde joke.
“How do you keep a blonde occupied for hours? Give her a piece of paper with the words “Turn Over” on both sides.”
“Damn it Jack, will you shut up already?” I grumped.
“What’s the problem dude?” Jack was actually a graduate of Princeton with an MBA, but when he wasn’t telling blonde jokes he was practicing speaking like a surfer to help him prepare for an upcoming ad campaign.
“Nothing. I just lost a chance to meet a really good looking girl because she was turned off by those damned blonde jokes of yours.”
“Whoa. Bleed off. That sucks.”
“What?”
“Bleed off. You’re getting blamed because you’re near me. That’s prejudice man and it really sucks.”
I was shocked. He was right–sort of. Where I had planned on telling him that he was prejudiced and it was hurting my chances for a love life, I backed off. Sure, he was telling some really crappy jokes, but was that reason for that girl to assume anything about me? I looked back at the girl I had asked to dance and suddenly she didn’t look quite as interesting any more. Instead, I bought us both another beer and Jack moved on to a different class of jokes.
“Why won’t sharks eat lawyers?”
I groaned. This was a yuppie bar and easily a third of the people in it were probably lawyers. The damn fool was going to get us killed yet.
“Professional courtesy.”
Forgoing the drinks that had not yet arrived, I tossed some money on the table for a tip and dragged him outside. It was time to call it a night.
“Gentlemen,” Jonas Hastings glared around the boardroom table, “we are going to loose our shot at this account if someone cannot come up with something BIG. We need ideas and we need them soon. Hank, take your wiz kids,” he pointed to Jack and me, “back to your office and don’t come out again until you have at least one blockbuster idea.”
It was a morose group that sat around Hank Pensivo’s office. Hank was stretched out on the black leather couch with a newspaper over his head while Jack sprawled out on one of the matching chairs, filling it with his girth. I was pacing as usual, burning off energy faster than I could take it in. Coffee cups, soda bottles and empty pizza boxes covered the coffee table between us.
“Come on guys,” Hank beseeched us. “This shouldn’t be this hard. It’s a goddamned women’s hair coloring account. How difficult can this be?”
“I know a ‘narly’ blonde joke about a new slogan for hair dye? ‘Buy a double batch and get a snatch to match.’ Who ever heard of a company making hair products only for blondes anyway?” Jack whined for the umpteenth time.
“The company comes from Sweden,” Hank sighed and reminded him yet again. “They consider themselves ‘experts’ in all things blonde.”
“Can the damn blonde jokes Jack.” He may have been right about that girl’s attitude being prejudiced, but I was still a bit burned by losing my chance with her because of his jokes. “We’ve been at this since Friday afternoon,” I added, turning to Hank, “and it’s now Saturday evening and none of us have come up with any new ideas since about 4 AM,” I croaked. “We’re stale. We need to take a break.”
“You heard Jonas,” Hank responded. “This account could be more than thirty percent of the gross income for this firm. We may not need to stay in this room for the remainder of our lives–or until we give him his winning slogan, which ever comes first–but we do need one and soon. Dig deep. One of you must have something.”
“Nope.”
“Sorry Hank.”
“Okay,” Hank sighed in resignation. “Let’s stretch and get the kinks out; then get back to it in a few hours.”
“Hey! There’s that girl again. You wanna ask her to join us and see if she can help inspire us? Hell, you can even pay them the standard focus group participation fee.” Hank didn’t disagree so he continued, “and I promise, no blonde jokes.” We were back at Bloody Bob’s, Hank too this time. We had promised to leave in just two hours to return to the office and hammer out a campaign slogan, but he wanted to make sure we didn’t go AWOL. I turned questioningly to Hank.
Hank just shrugged and went back to staring at his Vodka martini. He was turning out to be a morose drunk and this was only his first drink.
I didn’t wait for him to reconsider.
“Excuse me miss.” I tapped her on the shoulder. “I was wondering if you and your friends could help us.”
She turned with a bright smile on her face, but that quickly soured when she saw me. “Oh, it’s you again. Couldn’t you take the hint last night?”
“Actually, I did take the hint if you’ll recall–much to your loss–but now I’m asking you AND your two friends here to assist us with a work-related problem.” I paused to see if I had at least gotten the interest of one of her friends.
“We,” I made a sweeping gesture to include Hank and Jack before offering my business card, “work at Outrageous Ads and we’re having a problem coming up with a slogan for a product line. If you would join us for a short while maybe you could help us?”
“Oh come on Caroline,” the taller brunette chimed in. “It sounds like fun.”
“Sure,” the other brunette added. “Cindy’s right. Why not?”
“Because we have plans and are going to leave in about a half an hour,” Caroline responded, but I knew it was a weak come back. I was gaining.
“I’m empowered to offer a focus group participation fee of twenty-five dollars each?”
“Oh, why not,” Caroline strode over to our table and sat down, leaving her friends, and me, to scurry along behind. “But if I hear just one of those demeaning blonde jokes we’re gone.”
“I’ll personally hold Jack so you can pull his black hair out at the roots if he tries even one single blonde joke. How’s that sound?”
Jack was endearingly sheepish as he promised. Hank looked up at Caroline’s arrival and tossed me a quizzical look. He must have missed much of the earlier conversation.
“I’m Caroline,” the blonde introduced herself before pointing to each of her friends, “and this is Cindy and Maggie. Now what kind of work project are we supposed to be helping you with?”
Hank must have caught on as he responded before I could. “We work for Outrageous Ads over in the Glover Building, across the street. We have a potential client–you’ll pardon me if I don’t give you the client’s name–who wants to introduce a series of beauty products into this country. The catch is, they are specially produced only for blondes.”
“Oh well, that leaves us out,” Cindy and Maggie said in unison, sounding disappointed.
“Not necessarily,” I noted. “Were running into a brick wall and so we need as many different perspectives as we can get.”
“Besides,” Jack added, “the only way our client is going to make any real money is if he can convince more people to become blondes.”
“But why would I want to become a blonde?” Maggie asked.
“Yeah,” Cindy said.
Before Jack or I could answer, Caroline asked in a menacingly quiet voice. “What’s wrong with being a blonde?”
“Nothing Caroline,” Cindy responded and Maggie nodded vigorously to show she too agreed. “It’s just that you have the coloring for it. It suits you. I don’t think Maggie or I could pull it off.”
I should have just shut up, but “pull it off” had a peculiar ring to it. It’s much like the only time you should ask a woman if she is pregnant is when you see the baby’s head coming out; there are some questions that just should not be asked. “Does that mean you’re not a natural blonde?”
Her face was instantly bright red and I knew I was in trouble, so I used my advertising skills to backpedal as best I could. “I mean, I never would have guessed.”
Too little, too late.
“Whether I’m a natural blonde or not is none of your business,” she huffed, standing and gathering her drink and purse. “If this stuff is so great, it should make anyone look like a natural blonde. Why don’t you try it?”
With that, she left. A moment later, Cindy and Maggie had made their excuses and left too, trotting to catch up to their friend. I slumped down onto the table and groaned. “My life is over,” I sighed overly dramatically. “We may as well go back to work now.”
“You’re right.” It was Hank. He had that glow in his eye, the one he gets when he’s onto an idea. “We’ve got work to do.”
“What’s going on?” Jack asked. “Did I miss something?”
“The answer Jacky Boy. The answer to our problem,” he said, bubbling over with excitement. “Come on.”
“How can you tell if a blonde’s been using a computer?” Jack asked, trying to lighten the mood in Hank’s office. We had been arguing violently for the past hour and I had offered my resignation twice. I was going for three.
“Shut up!” Hank and I both said in unison. Then Hank added with a tentative smile, “You see, we can still agree on some things.”
“Yes, but apparently not on the important things. I categorically won’t do it.”
“You’ll see white-out on the screen.”
“I said shut up,” we responded in unison.
Turning to Hank, I continued. “If you think this is such a good idea, you do it, or convince Jack here to do it. I can just see him standing on stage, modeling the product and telling blonde jokes.”
“Which would go over like a lead balloon,” Hank answered. “Besides, he’s bald. There’s not enough up there to pull it off.”
“At least mentally,” I grumbled, not quite as quietly as I had meant if Jack’s expression was any indication.
“Look. You know it’s a good idea. It’s different. It will catch people’s attention, just like those borderline porn ads from Ralph Lauren ®.”
“It IS porn.”
“No it isn’t. You’ll be fully dressed.”
“But I’m not blonde. I have black hair.”
“So? That’s the whole point. If our beauticians can use this stuff and make you look good, it will work for anyone.”
“Then it’s just plain weird.”
“Of course it is. Weird sells as you very well know.”
“People will think I’m some kind of ‘sicko’.” I was running out of excuses and I knew that he knew that I couldn’t afford to quit this job. I’d never find one that paid anywhere near as well.
“And you can laugh all the way to the bank. Besides, maybe the client won’t like it…or will want a different model doing it.”
He had me there. I had early on recognized the value of money. From paper routes, to yo-yo string supplier, I had been working since I was eight. The problem was, this was a good gimmick and I knew it.
“Okay. But I want a promise to make a hard sell to the client to find another, better model.” Hank knew I was already running ideas through my mind as to how I could make the idea work, but still make such a bad impression, the client wouldn’t want me.
“Hey Caroline,” Maggie called. “Look at this. I hear this stuff is absolutely great.”
“So you girls are serious about going blonde?” Caroline asked as she glanced at the ad Maggie was pointing to in her magazine. They were back at Bloody Bob’s for a pre-makeover celebration.
“Cindy says she’ll do it if I do it. I’m just not convinced that I’d look good as a blonde.”
“Of course you would and that ad’s the proof of the matter.”
“What do you mean? What’s that ad got to do with proving we should go blonde?”
“Look at that model’s face. Does it remind you of any one?”
“I don’t think so. How about you Cindy?”
“Nope. I don’t recognize her.”
“Sure you do. Think a moment.”
Both girls examined the model carefully, before again denying they recognized the model.
“You met her here.”
“Here in Bloody Bob’s? I don’t remember seeing anyone that looked that good in here. I’d remember that kind of competition.”
“We joined them to discuss the same product being advertised in that ad.”
“The only time I ever talked to anyone about this stuff in this bar was with those guys…”
Caroline just smiled knowlingly.
“You don’t mean…”
Caroline nodded.
What? What Maggie? What’s Caroline talking about?” Cindy stared at the picture again. “Oh? Oooooh.”
Caroline nodded again. “I wonder if he still lets his friend tell those terrible blonde jokes?”
“Damn it Mac, you’re killing yourself. Even the doctor says so. Why do you think he called you a ‘heart attack waiting to happen’?”
McKenzie scowled. He would have asked his sister to leave, but he was at her house instead of home. Plus, it would have been rude after the wonderful meal she had prepared, especially when still at the dining room table. David had been smart and taken Igor for a walk. David was a free agent, but McKenzie was going to have a talk with Igor about deserting him like that.
“I am who I am sis. Not you, nor the physician are going to make me different.”
“Great. So I should start the funeral arrangements now? Remember Jenna? I still wake up crying some nights after dreaming of Jenna. You used to help change her diapers Mac. She worshiped you and I though you cared about her too. Remember how she kept putting off medical exams? By the time she realized she had cancer of the cervix it was way to late. Mac, think for a minute. I’m not asking for a lot, just to have my younger brother around for a few more years. You’re way overweight.”
McKenzie nodded in grudging agreement.
“You have the first signs of diabetes.”
“I’m dealing with it Janice.” His words sounded plaintiff even to McKenzie.
“You NEVER exercise.”
“I walk a lot at work.” This time he clearly whined as he said it and Janice snorted in response.
“Look Mac. You have a crappy job,” Janice waved off his retort and plowed on through her speech. “You have no friends and you spend all of your spare time sitting in front of a computer writing stories in a genre that has maybe a few thousand enthusiasts world-wide. You won awards for your writing in high school AND in college before you dropped out. At least write something normal, something you can get paid for.”
The evening went downhill from there. McKenzie was only too happy when he finally headed for home to get ready for the “early shift” he didn’t really have.
Chapter Thirteen -- The Writing Life
"‘Dear McKenzie,’ the man read out loud to his dog. ‘That last story of yours wasn’t up to your usual standard. Come on, Mac, blonde jokes are out. Get a grip and write something decent for a change.’”
Igor barked.
“The only response I got to that story and it has to be from some asshole who doesn’t have a sense of humor. Christ! What do they want from me? This isn’t supposed to be great literature here.”
McKenzie pushed away from the computer but glanced back as the email dinged. “Oh, great, Wally the Weasel.” With sarcasm dripping from his voice, he added, “I can’t wait to see what he has to say.”
Once again, McKenzie Rigby inflicted another pointless story onto the readers of this list. How long will it take before Mr. Rigby gets the message that his writing, at least in the genre, is, at best, pedestrian and his talent, or lack there of is not welcome on this list or any other.
Hello, McKenzie, it’s Superboy not Superkid, and he works for DC comics, not PC. Get it right if you are going to write fan fiction.
And while I’m at it, get a map. There is no country named Slovarnia.
Also, I’d like to see someone like you try to flog me to death….”
McKenzie hit the delete key, “Anal retentive son of a bitch! The word is parody, but that’s beyond your IQ of negative 20 to grasp.”
The list wouldn’t stand for that, he thought. Any second, he expected to see a bunch of mail in support of his stories–any second now. One ding came after five minutes from–Jeff Hollis. Jeff had always supported him in the past. “Hey, that’s one of my identities,” McKenzie realized as he opened the letter.
“I have to agree with Wally, this time. Big Mac’s stories are getting kind of lame.”
After checking the email address twice, McKenzie opened Netscape to Webmail 5.0 and pulled up the account. He couldn’t get in. This is my account, he thought as he tried the password again. Someone’s going to pay for this, but... If I tell anyone that I’m Jeff Hollis... No, better let that slide. He pulled up a couple of his other identities, still secure, but he changed the passwords to be safe.
“You want a flame war, Weasel boy? You got one. And it’s not funny,” he told the dog. McKenzie could swear the dog had been laughing at him. Igor just yawned and rolled over, but the dog’s ribs were still moving in a manner that reminded Mac of laughter.
“Or better yet, I’ll quit the list. That will show them.” McKenzie reopened his own account, and typed out the letter.
“To all of my friends on the TG-TF mailing list. Since that is the way you feel about my writing, I will honor your wishes and leave this list for good. I could have been posting to some of the big lists like TSA-Talk or Fictionmania, but I appreciated the intimacy of a small, seldom used list like this one. That’s it, amigos. I am out of here.”
“I wouldn’t post that if I were you,” a voice said just behind McKenzie’s left ear.
McKenzie spun around and, of course, no one was there.
“Over here, writer boy,” the voice said again. This time the man spotted a ball of sparkling white light that was maybe two inches long.
“What?” McKenzie stammered out. He squinted at the ball of light until it resolved itself into the figure of a tiny man, dressed in a sparkling white suit. A pair of multi-colored butterfly wings fluttered on the homunculus’ back.
“What in hell are you supposed to be?”
The man bowed. “I’m Fred, the fairy list uncle. You gonna make somethin’ of it, Mac, old boy? See this wand–this one right here?” Fred asked and held out a tiny stick. “This wand can do a lot of damage.”
“Oh, I get it. I’m dreaming.”
“Guess again, writer boy. I’m not a dream, but I can be your worst nightmare if you send that letter to my list.”
“Your list?”
“The TG-TF list. It’s still not a big enough genre to get real list uncles like the others, so I’m it. And I hate it when one of you writer types gets a hair up his over-sized ass about something that someone said and you threaten to leave. Or, in your case, you threaten to leave just to get sympathy because that nasty critic hurt your feelings. Well, boo hoo, Mr. Rigby and stop whining.”
“But he started it,” McKenzie said, with a pout. “I’ve put my heart and soul into those stories and he trashes them.”
That’s what critics do. They have their purpose, as do you writers. Okay, so you’re a competent storyteller for the most part, but no great shakes, you know? If you can’t take a few non-constructive criticisms along the way you had better give it up now.”
“But he’s so incredibly stupid,” McKenzie protested.
“That may be, but it’s not for you to say so. Most of the people that are–discriminating enough to be on this list know old Wally for what he is, and they have a good idea what you are, too. So, if you want to quit my list and go to another one, feel free, but don’t do it publicly. Leave and be done with it, but don’t spend the next five weeks whining about it. Got me?”
“Or what? You’ll turn me into a girl with that wand?”
McKenzie felt his body tingle for a second, before he shrank and shriveled down into a five-year-old girl holding a misshapen dolly with red yarn for hair and no internal skeleton. He looked at himself, then at the doll. “Very funny, Freddie.”
“How about this?”
The child grew, and developed into a teenaged girl, then into a rather well endowed adult. McKenzie hesitated for a moment before touching his right breast. “It’s real,” he said in his own voice. Startled, he looked at his reflection in the windowpane only to see his own ugly face topping the body of a voluptuous bimbo. He screamed.
“Told you the wand could do a lot of damage. Now do you believe me?”
“Please, I’ll do anything you ask, just do something about this.”
Two seconds later, McKenzie changed back into himself. He patted his chest, and sighed. “You could have left me female, you know.”
“Not in the contract, kiddo. I don’t do wishes. Behave yourself, or else. Don’t mess around with my list. Oh, and you really don’t need to be your own fan club. You can have that email address back, but keep all your various pen names to yourself. Don’t make me come back.” Fred said, bowed and vanished.
McKenzie stumbled back to his seat, and sat down glaring at the computer screen. He deleted the letter in progress, then typed out a quick note to the list: “Thanks, Fred. Thanks for waking me up.”
Within a minute, at least a dozen responses came back. All but one of them read to the effect of, “Hey, you met Fred. Cool! What’s he like?”
The last was an admin message asking that the ‘Thanks Fred’ thread to be dropped as off topic.
Typing again, McKenzie wrote a private letter:
Dear Wally, we need to talk. Please respond at your earliest convenience. Thanks.
“There,” McKenzie told Igor as he sent the next chapter off into cyberspace. “That sort of realism always gets them. Think they will believe I really had a change of heart and decided to stay? Hell, if this keeps up I’m going to have to consider the possibility that Janice might actually be right, and that’s something I’d prefer not happen. It would be just one more time when she could gloat about how big sisters are always right.”
Igor growled, barked once and then settled down to chasing his tail. He clearly didn’t share my concerns. “What do you know, you stupid pooch? Let’s see what the readers have to say.”
But as McKenzie sorted through his e-mail, his thoughts kept coming back to Janice’s comments. Taking a break, he trudged over to the refrigerator and took out a stalk of celery to munch on. He hated it when Janice was right, but given all the aches and pains he’d been feeling recently, the celery was a start.
as told to Andy Hollis and Jaye Michael
Chapter Fourteen -- The Curse
It was a good time to be alive. Nebuchanezzer was king and I was his youngest son, Amechdel, or "Angel." I was just fourteen, but I had already learned the central concept of life, "It's good to be the king, but if you can't be king-and with thirteen older sons, even my mother, Amytis, had no expectations there-it's almost as good to be royalty."
My needs were met with remarkable alacrity. I had but to ask. The food was excellent, of course his Royal Highness insisted on that. The royal library was pretty cool too, as long as Amel-Marduk wasn't around. He was first-born and loved to lord it over us. Better were the Hanging Gardens where I could run and play to my heart's content. But best of all was the market.
Babylon had to have the biggest market in the entire world. Where the rest of Babylon had streets a hundred cubits wide, wide enough for Dad's armies to march thirty abreast, the market was chock full of booths leaving labyrinthine and meandering pathways, sometimes barely wide enough for two to pass. No two booths were alike. Strange and amazing colors, aromas and objects were everywhere. Rugs from Persia lay next to racks of spices. Vegetables from the outlying farms were displayed next to jewels and trinkets from the mysterious East. What better place for games like hide and seek?
It was during such a game that I found it at a trinket stand. I had left Hammad with a servant so he would not bark and give me away. Running the stand was a beady-eyed Sumarian with no teeth and a missing left hand-a sure sign that he had been a rather poor thief in the past. You could see his eyes narrow and calculations go through his head as he saw me in my gold brocaded vest and pantaloons. Then he turned and slowly walked back to his display, gesturing me to follow. It was as good a place to hide as any, maybe even better than some, since it provided more to a common taste as so was sufficiently different to be an unlikely place to find one of my refinement.
"Young master. Welcome to my humble establishment. What may I display for you this fine day?"
"Nothing. We are playing hide and seek and I am looking for someplace to hide."
"Well, come right in young master. Hide in my tent. And feel free to examine my merchandise while you are there."
"Thank you. I shall." With that I pushed past him and entered the tent just behind his table of worn wares. The inside was even filthier than that outside if that was possible-and more crowded. Though I had refused to admit it, something called to me. My game of "Hide and Seek" forgotten, I moved through the tent in a daze; my fingers running lightly over object after object as I searched for something-something that kept eluding me.
At the back of the tent, buried amongst a pile of used and soot covered lamps, I found it. It was a lamp just like all the others in the pile; a scruffy thing, green with tarnish and lacking any jewels that might dazzle the eye or appeal to the baser interests of the less informed. Yet it drew me, drew me as nothing I had ever seen before. When I touched it, I knew I must have it.
I ran to the tent entrance with the lamp clutched tightly in my hand, yet held far enough from my robes to avoid dirtying them. I was certain the proprietor would stop me as soon as I lifted the flap, but for some reason he was nowhere to be seen. In fact, when I turned back to the tent, expecting that I had run past him, the tent was missing, replaced by a livery shop.
I recognized magic when I saw it and we had always been taught that there was no such thing as good magic. Maybe Amel-Marduk had decided, for some arcane reason, to start removing competitors for the throne from the bottom up. Shaken and frightened, I ran all the way home, not stopping until I was buried amongst the silks and pillows of my bed.
I don't remember falling asleep, but I woke later that afternoon with Hammad licking my face. His tail wagged tentatively and his eyes looked worried. It was as if he too were fearful of the sudden entry of something terrible into my life. The lamp was beside me covered by a pillow.
The royal tutors had taught me well and I did not even try to pick it up. The disappearing tent, the obsession to take it, the lamp had to be magic and probably evil magic at that. Instead, I carefully slid away from it and continued sliding away until I was off my bed and on the far side of my room. I was about to call for a servant to find one of the court mages when I realized Hammad was still on my bed. If he moved the wrong way, he might activate the lamp and spill whatever evil resided in the world inside the lamp out into ours.
"Hammad! Stay! Don't move, boy. Stay!"
"Woof!" Hammad wagged his tail happily. He thought I wanted to play with him.
"No Hammad! Stay! Don't move. Don't move." I kept repeating the command as I slowly circled around the bed so I could grab him and pull him off before he could set off whatever magic was in that horrid lamp. I almost made it when Hammad gleefully jumped into my arms, convinced I was playing with him.
I stood there holding Hammad, blithely oblivious to his frantic licking as I held my breath waiting for a cloud of smoke, a wavering in the fabric of reality, a demon floating above a pit of fire or some other sign that the lamp's magic had been invoked.
When nothing happened, I pushed Hammad's face from mine and held him tightly so he wouldn't accidentally do something stupid as I ran to my door and called for a servant.
It was dark out the next time I woke up. I was still in my bed, covered with silks to keep out the night chill, but something was not quite right. As usual, I had been dreaming of houri and other heavenly delights. The curve of one's hip as she danced for me, the deep, dark, sensuous eyes of another who fed me grapes and pomegranates, the bounteous breast of yet another as she carefully cleaned my feet; many such beauties passed before my eyes as they lovingly ministered to my needs. It had to be heaven.
A deep, rumbling voice interrupted my reveries. "You mortals are so predictable," the voice sneered.
"Huh?" I frantically searched for the intruder. The biggest problem with being royalty is the risk of assassination and the first step in avoiding it was to know where a potential assassin might be. However, the room was empty. Only Hammad was there, standing beside me, staring at me, eyes glowing red.
EYES GLOWING RED!
"By the Great Djinn, you humans are slow," Hammad snarled with that same rumbling voice, the owner of which I had been seeking.
"What have you done to Hammad?"
"Just like a mortal to ask the wrong questions," the dog sighed with a sound like the last, wheezing gasp of a dying penitent receiving the King's justice. "Hammad has gone to his reward. I have assumed his form as it is required that a Djinn appear in a manner familiar to the mortal who has summoned him."
"So Hammad has passed beyond?" I was desolate. Hammad had been with me since my birth. He had stood by my crib and protected me. He had been my constant companion as I grew up. He had been my eyes and ears in the palace, helping to protect me from the various intrigues of my brothers and sisters. I had to save him if I could. Screwing up my courage, and realizing that Djinn were the masters of the wish, I asked, "What if I wish him back?"
"Too late foolish mortal," the dog laughed. It sounded like stone grating against stone. "You have used your wishes, each providing you different aspects of your new life. I am only here for the personal satisfaction of observing you as you as you discover the full extent of your errors."
"What do you mean?" I asked, but I already had a suspicion. My body felt fine, so it seemed safe to assume that it had done nothing to me. My room looked the same, the silks and pillows were the same; the hanging rugs were the same.
Hammad, or whatever he had become just laughed and faded away as the sun peaked over the palace walls and shone into my bedroom. Even in the light, everything looked the same. I was the same. The demon Djinn had done nothing but lie, perhaps hoping to trick me into making foolish wishes.
"Amechdela? Angel?" It was my mother Amytis. "Wake up my dear. Your father, King Nebuchanezzer, is meeting with King Pasuad of Persia this afternoon and he wants his entire family to join him. You must rise now so that you can be prepared dear daughter. Pasuad has brought several of his eligible bachelor son with him."
See. Everything is just as it should be, Amechdela thought to herself; but still, there was the faint sound of laughter from a distance.
McKenzie pressed the "enter" key and sent the story off.
Hearing a growl, he turned to see Igor standing behind him snarling.
"What? You were in that story. You know you were. What's the problem?"
"Grrrr."
"Damn! What? You were in there. Who the hell do you think Hammad was?"
"Grrrr."
"If you think you can do better then go right ahead," Mac retorted.
Igor stopped growling. Instead, his eyes began to glow red and Mackenzie Rigby began to see the world swirl and fade from view as he began to fall through a long tunnel, fall toward a light-a distant light…
Amachdela quickly jumped out of bed in response to her mother's call. Running lightly toward the door to hug her mother and start the day, she glanced back and called for her dog, the dog that did everything with her.
"Mackenzie? Come Mackenzie girl. We must prepare."
No one understood why she called the pretty bitch Mackenzie instead of some more common name-like Hammad.
Interlude Fourteen
McKenzie was huffing and puffing, but he forced himself to walk, albeit slowly, along the path as Igor romped merrily in the piles of leaves. Janice was coming by tomorrow and he wanted to be able to say that he had exercised, even if it killed him. Otherwise, she'd spend the entire visit haranguing him to take better care of himself. Besides, given the lack of praise for his writing of late from those fickle fools on the web, Janice's insistence that he try to write something more mainstream was actually becoming tempting.
"Stay close, Igor," McKenzie instructed the dog as he dropped the leash and let him run free. They were in a relatively secluded area. Across from the bench McKenzie had chosen was a small field, surrounded by heavily treed hills that curved around three sides leaving a narrow opening just to the left of the bench. The trail continued into a tunnel leading out of the park. It was a perfect place to let Igor stretch is legs a bit-and for Mac to rest.
Taking a dog biscuit from his jacket pocket, Mac called for Igor's attention then threw the biscuit as far as he could toward the distant trees. With a bark and a furiously wagging tail, Igor was off, leaving Mac to his thoughts.
Unfortunately, McKenzie hadn't really been enjoying his thoughts of late. Maybe it was Janice, maybe it was his recent health concerns, or maybe he was just growing up, but Mac kept wondering why he was writing the stuff he was writing. In the past, he'd always insisted that he was just writing science fiction, or at least fantasy. After all, the vast majority of his stories involved magic, space aliens or pseudoscience, which Mac preferred to describe as future science. None of that trashy soft porn for Mac; he was a real writer. But then, why was he writing almost exclusively about men changing into women?
For the tenth time since he'd started this walk, McKenzie blustered about how that was the McGuffin, the hook he was using to draw in this particular group of readers, that the concept had no other appeal to him whatsoever. That answer had been getting less and less acceptable each time the question had arisen. This time it didn't work at all. The niggling little doubt had become a full-fledged torrent. Maybe transgender stories mean more to him than just a venue? Maybe he liked reading the stuff? Maybe he wondered about what it would be like to be a woman? Maybe he wanted to be a woman?
His usual response was to brush these thoughts off with a comment like, "And maybe the moon really is made of green cheese," but it just didn't work this time. This time he was really going to need to think about the questions seriously and give an honest answer. He didn't dress in women's clothes, so that wasn't an explanation. Sex was sex. He didn't visualize himself as the woman having sex, so that wasn't it. He didn't even dream of being a woman or feel like he was trapped in the wrong body, as some described themselves, so that wasn't it either. Wasn't doing it because he was jealous of women and the power he perceived they had in our current society, so what was it? So the answer was he didn't know?
The problem with hard thinking is it doesn't stop when you say you don't know. Probing further, McKenzie realized that there was something he was jealous about. He was jealous about how small women were, how they could demonstrate such amazing flexibility, and grace, in their movements. Maybe he really didn't care about being female. Maybe he just dreamed of being small and flexible and graceful and free of pain and…. But why females? Why did the vast majority of his stories describe men changing into women rather than other smaller, more graceful, more flexible creatures like-porpoises-or cats-or…
Because he wasn't the kind of author who could write a story from the perspective of a non-human creature. He'd never write something like Richard Bach's Jonathan Livingston Seagull. It was such an obvious answer, so easy to jump on as an explanation. McKenzie was tempted, so tempted. But then, he wondered, why not write about transformations into children-and he was back to square one.
Without even realizing he had done it, McKenzie tossed another dog biscuit to Igor, then another, and then another.
A while later, he realized the dog was standing in front of him barking and he had no more biscuits to throw. A bit surprised, McKenzie ponderously rose to a standing position. Walking over to the dog, he grave Igor a brief, but vigorous petting. Then he bent over and grabbed the dog's leash before slowly heading home.
As he walked, his thoughts were diverted to another topic. There was a strange taste in his mouth. It took a moment to realize what it was-dog biscuit. No wonder igor had been barking at him. He hadn't been throwing the biscuits to the dog; he'd been eating them himself. What better proof that the diet wasn't going that well.
The Ultimate TG Experience
by McKenzie Rigby
as told to Andy Hollis and Jaye Michael
Chapter Fifteen -- Resistance is Futile
A low hum, and bright white light flooding through his basement window, woke McKenzie from a deep sleep. Igor's barking didn't help any either. He blinked against the light for a moment, listened to the throbbing hum outside and then rolled over to go back to sleep. At that point he noticed that the mattress was further away than it should have been. He was floating-about six inches off the bed.
First, he stretched out his hand to touch the mattress and pillow; then he waved his hand in the air between the mattress and his bed, searching for anything that could be supporting him in the air. His increasingly frantic search was interrupted when the window opened by itself and he started floating toward it. This was crazy, some sort of a nightmare, he thought, but when he pinched himself, he felt the pain and nothing changed.
"I can't fit through that," he muttered to himself as his head began to push through the small basement window, half relieved that he could wait, floating there until someone came and helped him. But then McKenzie watched in shock as the window grew larger and larger until his entire body slid outside without any trouble. Once he was through it, the window shrunk back to its original size and then shut itself.
Looking up again, McKenzie blinked against the light until he could make out a huge, dark shape overhead.
A crowd of people gathered below him, drawn by the light-although the floating man might have had something to do with their interest too-making McKenzie grateful he never slept in the nude. He kept rising higher and higher above the heads of the onlookers.
"Okay, what's going on here?" a uniformed policeman demanded. "Why are you floating up there like that?"
"Ask them," McKenzie replied and pointed up. "This wasn't my idea. I think I'm being abducted by aliens. Could you call out the National Guard or someone?"
"Good point," the officer agreed as McKenzie rose a higher still. He pulled a radio off his belt, and opened a channel. A moment later he called up to McKenzie. "Sorry, mister, that there is a weather balloon that's pulling you up. When you get to the basket you'll find instructions on how to land it. That's what the Air Force Public Information Officer tells dispatch anyway. Nothing to be alarmed about, folks, this happens every day."
Several people laughed, and someone called out, "Hey, Rigby don't forget to get pictures."
By then, McKenzie had floated too high to hear much from the people watching him. Craning his neck to look up, he saw a huge, black, saucer-shaped vehicle with red and white lights blinking along the underside, just before the world blanked out.
McKenzie found himself lying on a long silver surface that looked like metal, but felt soft, like a cot. It was the same color as the walls, floor and ceiling of the room. Monitors, and computer screens of all sorts surrounded him. He looked down to find leads and IV tubes attached to his chest, arms and legs. There was the frame of what might be an opening in one wall, but it was also a solid silver mass and there was no doorknob. In fact, there was nothing else in the room, not even a button to push to call for room service.
A blob-the only thing he could think of to describe the tall, amorphous, brown mass that entered the room, oozed over to the cot-touched McKenzie on the forehead, then backed off. A second blob, this one blue, oozed into the room as well.
"We are the Borg. Resistance is futile," one of the things thought at him.
"No, you aren't," McKenzie said, puzzled. He'd seen enough episodes of StarTrek to know that Borg were people with funny wires sticking out of assorted body parts, not pretty colored blobs.
"That is, from what we have deduced from your entertainments, the appropriate greeting from a space faring race, such as ourselves, to a member of your species."
"Not even close. You are supposed to say 'Greetings, Earthling. We come in Peace.' Then you're supposed to say, 'Take us to your leader.'"
"Oh, right. Of course, then do we say, "We are the Borg"?
"Yes, then you say it. Now, do you wish to try it again?"
The brown blob cleared its throat…er…its thought pro-duction apparatus.
"Greetings Earthling. We come in Peace. Take us to your leader. We are the Borg. Resistance is futile."
"Got it. Turn this thing south, follow I-95 to Washington DC and I will point out our leader when we get there."
"Actually, Mr. Rigby comma McKenzie, we came to speak to you."
"Me?" McKenzie pinched himself again and was a bit disappointed to find that it hurt, again. For the first time he began to believe that the space ship and the blob creatures might be real. Either that or he was going to have to ask his psychiatrist to up his medication. "Why me?"
"Because you, Mr. Rigby, are a great philosopher and we wish to learn from your wisdom before we once again travel into the great beyond. We have been ship-bound for hundreds of generations. We still receive transmission from our home planet of Gygaxion daily, but at this point the educational reports are hundreds of years old.
"You see, when we first began to receive signals from your world about fifty of your planetary cycles ago, we were thrilled. At last, after all of our voyaging, we had found a sentient species that was not only a civilization of builders, but space farers as well. We could not understand, however, why a great Federation of planets, who had built state-of-the-art starships such as the Enterprise, could send a scientific mission, including a family with young, into space in such a substandard ship as the Jupiter Two."
"McKenzie laughed. "You didn't realize that was fiction?"
"No, not at that point. After many years of study, we did reach the conclusion that some broadcasts were meant strictly as entertainments, while the rest were informative. We have never had such broadcasts from Gygaxion, and we assumed, incorrectly, that your broadcasts were also educational only.
"Now, of course, we are aware of the mistake and we, the scientific community of this ship, in fact all Gygaxiennes on the home world as well, have questions, many questions, that we need to ask you, Mr. Rigby."
"Why me?"
"We have access to the computer transmissions known as the Internet as well as your space broadcasts, and we have studied fictions such as those that you write. You, of all the writers we have found, have not only stated much of our own philosophy, but have advanced the concepts one-hundred-fold. You, with your brilliance and wisdom, could be the only logical choice for us to contact with our pressing questions."
"I see." McKenzie responded craftily. "Of course, I am a busy man."
"You will be handsomely rewarded, Mr. Rigby. We will see to that."
"In that case, I suppose I could find some time in my schedule for you. Not that I meet space faring aliens everyday, mind you. What did you have in mind for the reward?"
"That we will leave up to you. First, I have always wanted to know, why were a group of humans, stranded on an island for years and why were they never rescued by other humans even though they had cameras and broadcast capability?"
"That was an entertainment. You see there are several ways that you can tell Earth entertainments from Earth educational broadcasting. Usually, in educational programming, the human addresses the camera directly as if he or she is speaking to the audience personally. In entertainments, the humans pretend the camera is not there."
"Ah, we had every faith in you, Mr. Rigby comma McKenzie, and it is wonderful to know that our faith was so well placed. We knew that your wisdom would clarify things.
"Second, in several of your writings, you define the field of pseudoscience correctly, but you do not delve into the related field of absurdity. Is there a reason for this?"
"You must be aware, that ninety-nine percent of human culture is based on absurdity? There is no need, when writing for my species to delve into it. It is understood by everyone, except those in power, that everything we do is absurd."
Several blobs applauded. McKenzie had not noticed them entering, but now there was a green one, an orange one and a chartreuse one.
"That is why we sought you out, not some public representative who does not realize this simple fact. We listen to political speeches all the time. What can be more absurd than that? Do these people not know this when they give the speeches?"
"Of course they know it. Politics is a game to see which candidate can tell the biggest lie. See, the bigger the lie, the more people believe in your ability to carry on the tradition of absurdity in politics, so the biggest liar wins."
"If people know this, why do they go along with it?"
McKenzie sighed. "It's intuitively obvious to anyone familiar with the science of absurdity. You see, humans want to believe in magic, you know, they want to believe that someone can wave this magic wand and make everything better again. Of course, this never happens in real life. Even if someone had the magic wand, they wouldn't use it like that. But, people still want to believe it, so that's why they believe in the politicians. Magical thinking, true, but there you have it."
"Absurdity. Pure absurdity. Then this also explains your news broadcasts?"
A screen came to life in one wall. The tape rolled to show a local newscaster looking into the camera. "Good evening. In our top story tonight a local man, security guard and sometime writer, McKenzie Rigby was caught and literally pulled from his home by a rogue weather balloon. Witnesses state that Mr. Rigby seemed to float out of his apartment and up to the balloon. The local Air Force Public Information Officer declined to be interviewed, but did release a statement suggesting that it is impossible to float in the air and the eyewitness reports of such were either people in need of psychiatric treatment or hallucinating due to leakage of helium from the weather balloon.
"Although landing instructions are clearly printed in the baskets of all weather balloons, this one was seen leaving the area at an extremely high rate of speed. The National Weather Service reports that this is not unusual for weather balloons, since they are equipped to travel at high rates of speeds from weather event to weather event. They also report that, occasionally, a rogue balloon will accidentally snag passers-by. Rogue balloons can also be difficult to land, but they assure us that eventually Mr. Rigby should be able to land the balloon. Members of the National Weather Service wish to speak to Mr. Rigby as soon as he lands for debriefing in order to make the weather balloon landing instructions more user friendly."
"Yes," McKenzie agreed with a completely straight face. "Our government believes that if they admit that other space faring civilizations exist and that they have visited this planet, the population will panic. A panicked population is to be avoided at all costs-apparently it's bad for business somehow-therefore they feel compelled to make up stories like that one. Now, of course, the population doesn't believe those stories, but they feel that if the government has enough time to create such obvious works of fiction, then it must have everything under control, so they don't panic. The logic behinds this escapes me, but it works."
"Thank you so kindly for putting that into perspective for us.
"Now. Next question. Which tastes better-Coke or Pepsi?"
"That is a matter of personal preference... Pepsi," McKenzie added quickly. "After all, 'It's the choice of a whole new generation,' you know."
"Yes, we know. But how can they be certain that the whole generation likes it?"
"They can't. Advertising slogans are just that. Absurd, logically impossible, but there."
"Then you would say that humans, for the most part, are illogical?"
"No, not at all. I think most people are strictly logical, except when it comes to communicating with other humans. That's where the absurdity and illogic comes in. It's human nature to exaggerate, to make oneself appear much better than someone else, to tell the biggest lie. In dealing with space faring races, such as yourselves, I hope we can do better, but I don't think so. It's also human nature to mistrust things we don't understand. If I did take you to my leader that would be the worst thing I could do for you."
It was hard to tell that they were confused from their facial expressions, probably because they didn't have any-faces that is-but the way their thoughts fluttered and flitted in his mind made their feelings absolutely clear.
"You have to give up all logic and even basic sanity to work for the government so you won't get anywhere with our leaders. They won't pass on any information and they will have weapons pointed at you the entire time. That's just the way it works. You must have seen that in our entertainments."
"Yes, but we had hoped it would be different in real life."
"Not a chance. When I do go home, I will have to tell the-Weather Service, or whomever they are, that I finally managed to press the right buttons to land this rogue balloon. They really should put better instructions in the baskets."
"They won't believe you."
"I know," McKenzie said with a sigh. "You folks hypnotized me to forget that I was ever on anything but a weather balloon. That is what they will believe."
"Absurd. Well, Rigby comma McKenzie we appreciate everything that you have done for us. Your explanations were everything we hoped they would be. We can safely report that we met you, the greatest philosopher of your world, and that nothing else is important. Now, your reward."
"Wait," McKenzie called out. "Before you do any secret surgeries on me, would you please answer a couple of questions?"
"Of course, but quickly as we must be going. There's a lot more space for us to explore."
"Okay," McKenzie thought for a moment. "Yeah, I gotta ask this first. Why do you keep calling me Rigby comma McKenzie? My name's McKenzie Rigby."
"Why to honor you of course. We call you by the name listed on that most high of all awards offered to a human-the name as it is printed on your paycheck."
McKenzie woke up after the weirdest dream. Something about rogue weather balloons. She shook her long, strawberry blonde hair and laughed, a tinkling sound that made her one of the most sought after stars in the history of Hollywood. Now all she had to do was get a better part than being stuck on a stupid desert island with nothing but bit players, and a cartoon voice-over.
"There we go, Igor, another masterpiece for the list. At least my loyal fans will get a kick out of it. Maybe I should have offered those aliens Wally the Weasel as an experimental subject. No one would miss him.
Interlude Fifteen
I don't believe it. They're complaining that I haven't finished a story and that Weasel is leading the pack.
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER SIXTEEN
All Dolled Up
as told to Andy Hollis and Jaye Michael
Chapter Sixteen -- All Dolled Up
The rain fell in sheets and the wind, gusting first this way and then that, made Corey Plaz's umbrella useless. He was completely soaked by the time he had run the short distance from his car to the employee entrance by the loading dock of Scagliola's Body Works. With his umbrella in one hand and his briefcase in the other, Corey leaned an elbow heavily on the doorbell while cursing fluently; hoping it would get him inside just a little bit faster. Furious, he was ready to start pounding on the door when it finally opened.
"Wet out there, ain't it Mr. Plaz?" The man who opened the door was short, but his hunched back made him seem even shorter. He has been working at the Body Works even longer than Plaz, and Plaz had been there almost twenty years in just about every capacity possible, yet he still didn't know the other man's last name.
"Yes Iggy, it's a little wet out there," Corey snarled back through gritted teeth as he shook as much of the water from his clothes as he could. It left a sizable puddle.
"I better mop that up or someone'll get hurt."
"Good idea-and don't leave the damn mop bucket in front of the bathroom like you always do. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work do to. Is Rigby here yet?"
"No sir, but I found out that someone left the wax bath on. I got burned. It hurt," Iggy reported, proudly displaying his hand for Plaz to see. Is Mister Rigby okay? I'll pray for him. Mama says I pray good."
"Great! You pray, because I'm going to kill that son of a bitch if he doesn't show up by the time I get to the office and confirm the order for tonight," Plaz grumbled, ignoring everything but the fact that the only other person doing the mannequin assembly for tomorrow's orders was missing in action. "I need him tonight." Corey stalked off to the Pit, as everyone but Corey called the mannequin staging area that was his office. He didn't bother the check whether Iggy limped off to get a mop. Without Rigby, it would be a very long and hectic night. He'd even have to do some work.
Corey had just finished laying out the parts for the second group of twenty mannequins he needed to set up when Rigby strode cheerfully into the Pit. "Hi Mr. Plaz. Just a bit wet out there tonight, isn't it?"
"You're late! Where were you?"
"So much for small talk," Rigby responded, trying unsuccessfully for humor. "Didn't you check the answering machine? I live in a basement apartment and it flooded. When I left, there was already about six inches on the floor. I got everything of value as high off the floor as I could and then came to work."
"The answering machine is in the administrative offices on the other side of the building. You know I wouldn't take the time to go all the way over there, especially when there's so much to do tonight. You know, being the owner's son does not give you the right to just blow off work when you feel like it. Consider yourself docked the two hours and get to work. The orders are on the table there. Start rounding up the parts."
"Dock me?" Rigby began gathering items as he spoke. "How many times have I spent my own time just to make sure one last rush order went out on time? My home is under water. I would think you could cut me just a bit of slack."
"Slack? By my estimates, you owe this company thousands of dollars for the work you haven't done."
"Owe the company time? We'll let my father decide that. I'm outta here." They had gradually moved to the edge of the Pit area, near the loading docks, as they argued. Rigby interrupted his departure to turn back and confront Plaz one last time. "Hell! I've been carrying you for years you…"
"Don't you walk away from me, you little snot," Plaz shouted as he grabbed at Rigby when the younger man started to turn away. Afterwards, he could never quite decide how it had happened. Possibly, Rigby had tripped on his feet as he tried to turn. Surely Plaz's attempt to stop Rigby could have had no impact on what happened next.
As Rigby fell backward, his head bounced off the two-inch thick solid-steel fender of the company's palette loader. There was a loud thud and Rigby crumbled to the floor, unmoving.
"Rigby, you little snot! Rigby! Rigby?"
When Rigby failed to respond, Plaz kicked him.
No response.
"Rigby?" Plaz knelt beside the body and checked for a pulse.
There was none.
"Oh shit."
Plaz ran toward his office to call 911, but as he picked up the telephone, he hesitated. He had told Iggy he was going to kill Rigby. The little man might not be the brightest light, but he had a good memory. He'll tell the police. Oh shit! They'll think I killed the stupid bastard. He slumped into his desk chair and held his head in hands feeling sorry for himself and thinking furiously.
It was not until Plaz raised his head and looked out the glass wall of his office that the idea struck him. His first sight was of Rigby's body, still lying on the ground by the loading dock. I've got to get rid of that body, he thought, but where. His eyes scanned the warehouse and factory that was Scagliola's Body Works. That was it! The factory. Hadn't that idiot Iggy said the wax bath was still hot?
Plaz hurried to the wax bath. Sure enough, it was still on. The wax was bubbling away at 800 °F, more than hot enough.
First, Plaz dragged the body to the wax bath and threw it in. Then, after a few moments to recover from his exertions, he grabbed the mop and bucket from in front of the bathroom where Iggy always left it to mop up the blood stains that showed where Rigby's body had been dragged. But not before cursing at himself for not using the loader to make his life easier and vowing not to make the any more stupid mistakes.
An hour later, Plaz had just finished another set of mannequins for delivery when Iggy hobbled by. "Hi Mr. Plaz. Do you or Mr. Rigby want anything for your break?"
"No Iggy, and Rigby hasn't shown up yet. You told me as much when I came in tonight. Remember?"
"Sure Mr. Plaz. I 'member. But he come in after you. Ain't he here?"
"I haven't seen him yet, but I'd certainly like to-so I can fire his lazy ass. If you see him, tell him I want to see him immediately."
"'Kay, Mr. Plaz. I'll find him and tell him. I'm good at finding things." He started to leave, but hesitated. Turning back, Iggy added, "I guess I gotta pray harder." Then he bowed his head, assumed a respectful position with hands cupped by his mouth and began to pray.
Plaz rolled his eyes. Ignoring the comment, he interrupted the quietly praying moron. "Iggy?"
"Yes Mr. Plaz?"
"Get me a large coffee with cream and extra sugar. And the biggest chocolate donut you can find. I'm feeling hungry tonight."
"Yes, Mr. Plaz."
When Iggy left, Plaz ran to the wax bath and pulled Rigby's body from it with a long handled dredging hook. He had guessed right. The flesh was roasted and soft to the point where it was sloughing off the skeleton in large chunks. Quickly using the hook, he pulled the majority of the flesh from the skeleton, leaving only the skeleton and interior organs.
The roasted skin was cut into sections, stuffed into garbage bags and tossed into the company dumpster. Luckily, the rain had stopped.
Hauling a hanging hook over to the body, he pulled the chain it hung from until he had sufficient slack. Then he jammed the hook into the shoulder blades. Pushing the lift button on the control switch hanging beside him, Plaz raised the remains high enough to get the feet off the floor, and then used the hook to drag it to the nearest mold. Positioning it between the sides of the open mold, he slammed the mold closed.
The next part was tricky. Wax had to be poured from the bath into the mold, but not so much that it overflowed the mold. It took only a few moments to connect the pump and piping to send wax from the bath to the mold. Plaz was about to start the pump when he cursed and undid the mold. Reaching carefully around the body, Plaz greased the mold so the wax would not stick. Then he closed it back up and started pumping wax.
Plaz jerked in surprise when Iggy came back just as Plaz finished pouring the mold.
"Here's the coffee you asked for Mr. Plaz. There weren't no chocolate donuts. I'm sorry, Mr. Plaz. Real sorry."
"Don't worry about it Iggy. Thank you for the coffee."
"No problem Mr. Plaz. I'm just sorry about the donut. I asked and everything. They just didn't have none."
"Like I said Iggy. Don't worry about it."
"'Kay Mr. Plaz. If you say so, I won't worry about the donut. Say, did you do a mold tonight?"
"No Iggy. I don't have the time and it's not my job. Have you found Rigby yet?"
"No Mr. Plaz. I ain't found Mr. Rigby. I'll keep looking-and praying. But I don't remember no mold."
"Of course there must have been a mold. Maybe you didn't notice or just forgot after burning yourself. You know I wouldn't have time for such nonsense, especially when Rigby still hasn't shown up. In fact, why don't you find him like you promised?"
"'Kay Mr. Plaz. I'll find him. I promise." With that, Iggy quickly left the area.
While he waited for the wax to dry, Plaz sipped at his coffee and finished the last of the shipments for the next day. A couple of times he even found himself whistling and ruefully thought to himself that if it was going to make him feel this good, he should have killed Rigby long ago.
The mold was finally cool enough to open and Plaz did so. Hoisting the newly covered wax form, he carefully checked it to make certain that no bones or organs were evident and he was pleased to find that the wax had covered everything evenly. A little bit of light sanding removed the rough edges where the two sides of the molds met. Grabbing a pair, Plaz popped plastic eyes in, spread some makeup-luckily, dramatic was more than acceptable so he didn't have to be too careful-and then sprayed the entire body with a fixative designed to protect the wax from damage.
And now Plaz thought with a chuckle, Rigby-or what was left of him-was a beautiful, if rather shallow and plastic, young woman. Then, he actually laughed out loud at the thought of Rigby gracing the aisle of some woman's wear department for many years to come. At least no one would consider him a pervert in his current condition.
Now the only question was how to dispose of the new mannequin. Looking back, Plaz realized he had made things more difficult for himself when he hadn't just put the whole body in the garbage. But maybe it wouldn't be so bad. On all those crime shows on television, the body, even in parts, always turned up at some inconvenient time to trip up the criminal. At least now, no one would recognize the skin as a body part. The only thing that might be safer would be if he were to tan it and make it into a jacket or something. Humm. An interesting idea. For a moment, Plaz actually considered quickly going out to the dumpster and grabbing the bags with the skin to toss into the back seat of his car. Nah. That would be too gross.
"Hi Mr. Plaz," Iggy waved cheerfully. "I got to talk to the police again today." It was another stormy night, much like the one when Rigby had died-er, disappeared, but at least Iggy had been on the job this time and opened the door immediately. Plaz was still soaked, but not quite so grumpy.
"Again?" Plaz asked as he signed in. "Why?"
"Mr. Rigby. He's still missing."
"So? Certainly they don't think you had anything to do with his death, do they Iggy?"
"I don't know Mr. Plaz. They don't tell me nothing. They just ask questions."
"Well, I wouldn't worry about it Iggy." Suddenly, Plaz turned pale.
"Are you 'kay Mr. Plaz? You don't look good. Maybe I should pray for you too?"
"Thank you Iggy. I'm fine. You don't need to pray for me. Say, would you mind if I borrowed the sign-in book? I'd like to make sure I haven't missed a day or two."
"'Kay Mr. Plaz."
"Is Danny here yet?" Danny was Rigby's replacement. Not being a relative, he was much more careful to do exactly as Plaz told him. The only problem was that, like Iggy, he wasn't that smart. In fact, he was probably dumber than Iggy, so without regular checks, the work just didn't get done.
"Sure is Mr. Plaz."
"Good. I'll see you Iggy." With that, Plaz grabbed the sign-in book and nearly ran to his office. After checking the invoices outlining the night's work, he got Danny working and locked himself in his office.
The first thing he did was close the blinds on his window and door. Then he grabbed the sign-in book and flipped back to the day of Rigby's death, five months ago. Both Iggy's and his signature were there in black and white, but, with a sigh of relief, he realized that Rigby had forgotten to sign in. Another loose end wrapped up. Without that signature, no one could prove Rigby had ever been in the factory that night. Of course, with his skin decomposing in some landfill and his skeleton currently serving as a mannequin in another country, there really wasn't too much to worry about.
"Hey Mr. Plaz," Danny called as he knocked on the glass window. "Could you come out here?"
"What's wrong now Danny?"
"I found something."
Plaz sighed. Danny was always 'finding something.' "I'll be right out," he called.
Closing the sign-in book and carefully putting it back where it had been filed, Plaz opened the door to see Danny standing in front of him, but he didn't have his usual, slightly vacant stare and he was wearing some sort of strange hat.
"Okay Danny, what did you find this time? And what's that thing on your head?"
It was the last question he asked before blinding pain drove him into unconsciousness.
When he came to, Plaz found himself with his hands stretched upward, tied to a lift hook. His feet barely touched the floor. No, looking down, he realized they weren't on the floor. He was standing precariously on a mannequin and his feet were tied to it so that he could not move.
He started to ask what the hell was going on when he saw Danny. The boy-actually he was a man, but it was hard to think of him that way considering how child-like he usually acted-had a fiery glow in his eyes that Plaz had never seen before. They stared crazily at him, but there was more; they were angry eyes, angry, insane eyes. It was like Plaz was looking into the pits of Hell as he looked into those eyes. They sucked him in, further and further with promises of torture most exquisite, horror most intense. They-he tore his eyes away from them, feeling real fear, but the view before him did not get any better.
On the floor beside Danny were two plastic garbage bags filled with something. They looked vaguely like the two bags into which he'd stuffed Rigby's skin, but that couldn't be. Those bags had to be long gone, decomposing somewhere in a landfill. Danny hadn't even been working at Scagliola's when Rigby had died. Plaz decided he must have been imagining things because of the weather and his conversation with Iggy.
Then he looked up again and saw what was on Danny's head. It wasn't a hat, or even a bad wig. It was the upper portion of the skin from a human head. Plaz could see the roughly cut edge as it started just above Danny's eyebrows and curved down behind the ears to just above the boy's collar and then back up again on the other side. As he watched, something small, and white, and wriggly peered out from underneath it for a moment before disappearing back underneath it. And the color, it was reddish blond, just like Rigby's.
Plaz screamed-and screamed-and SCREAMED. Then he fainted.
When Plaz woke up the second time, both Iggy and Danny were sitting on the floor about twenty feet away, watching him and waiting. When Plaz's eyes opened, they got up. Each picked up a bag and strolled over to him.
"Ah, you're awake Plaz," Danny said. "We were beginning to wonder if I might not have struck you a bit too hard."
"Wha…"
"How do you like my new leg, Mr. Plaz?" Iggy asked and did a brief dance around the bound man. His limp was completely gone.
"That's enough Iggy. We have a promise to keep and work to do," Danny gently chided.
"'Kay, but I like my new leg."
"And I like my new brain. It's nice to actually know what's going on in the world around me for once."
"'Kay."
With that, ignoring Plaz's curses, threats, screams and pleadings, they undid their bags and allowed the contents to ooze out onto the warehouse floor. It was skin. Rigby's skin.
Once it had been completely emptied from the bags, it seemed to combine into one. Then, excruciatingly slowly, the combined skin continued to slide toward Plaz.
"What the hell is going on here? Iggy! Danny! Let me go."
"Sorry Mr. Plaz," Danny responded. We can't do that. We made a deal. Didn't we Iggy?"
Iggy nodded in agreement.
"What do you mean you can't let me go? Do you want me to have you arrested? You'll go to jail. Is that what you want?"
"He promised us that wouldn't happen and we believe him."
"Him? Him who? What are you two lunatics babbling about?"
"Why Mr. Rigby of course. Surely you remember him. After all, you killed him."
The mass of skin had come within a foot of Plaz's feet. He was feeling a tremendous urgency to get away from it and tried desperately to loosen his feet, too somehow slide the bindings off his legs so he could escape.
"What are you talking about Rigby's d…disappeared. Iggy and I were just talking about it." Iggy nodded his agreement again.
"That's not completely true. Is it Mr. Plaz? You were going to say dead, not disappeared. Mr. Rigby is dead and that's all that remains of him. It's his skin. The skin that you took from him."
"That's impossible. Even if I had done what you say, he disappeared months ago. Any skin would have rotted or been eaten by vermin by now."
"It almost was, but then Mr. Rigby made a deal with the rats and they protected him and brought him back here, to the very dumpster where you left him. It was slow work. They had to hide him during the day and it was hard for them to drag him. That's why it took so long for him to have his revenge. That's where Iggy found him. Mr. Plaz made a deal with Iggy too. He gave him a good leg.
"This is insane. You're both insane. Now release me this instant," Plaz demanded.
"I don't think so. You see, Mr. Rigby made a deal with me too. Just like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, I got a brain-a good brain, one that works so well that I know that you're bluffing. Did you know that before tonight, I wouldn't have known what a bluff was?"
"That's great. That's wonderful. Now let me go and I'll make a deal with you. I'll make you an offer you can't refuse."
The last came out in a snarl. Combined with the glare from Plaz's eyes and the rictus of his face, Plaz could have scared the bravest soul, but not Iggy or Danny.
The oozing flesh had made it to the top of the mannequin. It was mere inches from Plaz's foot. The bound man's snarl broke, to be replaced with terror as he realized how close it had come. Forgetting about his two captors, Plaz redoubled his struggles to escape.
"Oh, I almost forgot to tell you what's about to happen Mr. Plaz," Danny spoke over the noise of the struggles. You're going to provide the skeleton and organs for Mr. Rigby. You see he's coming back. And I also forgot to tell you what the rats took for their part in helping Mr. Rigby return. They wanted to create a race of super rats, so they took his genitals.
"Of course, after having given up all that flesh, Mr. Rigby recognizes that he needs to make a few compromises."
Plaz looked down. The flesh had bunched up and formed into a remarkably close approximation of a cobra head, poised and ready to strike. But it held still, as if waiting for Danny to finish.
"I wasn't completely accurate when I said that Mr. Rigby was coming back. There just isn't enough of him left to do that."
Plaz's eyes brightened. Maybe there was hope. Maybe the vile thing preparing to attack him was overextended. Maybe he might live through this after all.
"Mr. Rigby told me you might show hope when I said that," Danny laughed. "He said to wait for that look before continuing. Now I can tell you the rest.
"I was inaccurate when I said that Mr. Rigby was coming back. As I said, he's had to make some compromises. There just isn't enough of him to make a full-grown man and he has no interest in being a child again. It will actually be Mrs. Rigby who comes back."
With that Danny and Iggy turned and left. Just before the cobra head struck, Danny complemented Iggy on what a good job of praying he'd done.
Interlude Sixteen
Mac sat at the computer, staring at the latest critique of his stories. Sure enough, Wally the Weasel had his–no her two cents thrown in.
“Once again, Big Mac Rigby has inflicted another piece of incomprehensible writing on this list. In “Resistance is Futile”, Mr. Rigby is showing that he is as casual about the English Language as he is about his own health….”
Although all of the other letters actually liked the story, pseudoscience and political absurdity aside, Wally had to trash it.
“Not this time,” Mac said aloud, to Igor. He walked over to the phone, picked up the receiver and dialed his sister’s number.
“Hello?” Janice answered.
“We need to talk, and not just about your inability to read and critique fiction, Ms. Weasel.”
“Well, you finally figured that out, did you?”
“I had wondered why your attacks were so personal,” McKenzie added. “You know, honest critiques are one thing, but what did you hope to get out of the drivel you wrote?”
“I thought maybe, just maybe you would get the message that you could do so much better than those stories on the list. You have talent, McKenzie, not much, but some, and you are wasting it.”
“Because I like the stories I write, most of the people on the list like them, too. It would be a waste of my talent if I didn’t write, not what I write, Janice.” Mac considered hanging up the phone, but shook his head. “You’ve made your point, let it go.”
“And if I don’t?” she asked, sweetly.
“I will ruin you, online. I’m not a computer geek for nothing, Sis. Wally the Weasel is dead, okay?”
Janice sighed, then cleared her throat. “Okay, but you can’t blame me for trying. I love you, I really do, and I am worried about you.”
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Mansion and the Madame
The Rigby Narratives:
The Ultimate TG Experience
by McKenzie Rigby
as told to Andy Hollis and Jaye Michael
Chapter Seventeen -- The Mansion and the Madame
The storm raged on as bolts of lightning split the night sky. It was the only light available as McKenzie tried to locate his car before dashing to it through the pouring rain. Power looked to be out everywhere. Yes, McKenzie thought, another freaking Dark and Stormy Night. The wind tore at Mac's umbrella as he pushed off from the warehouse and ran for his car.
After three tries, the old clunker finally turned over. Hell, the car was only thirty years old, he thought as he listened to the engine knock and sputter as loud as the thunder. He eased the beast into drive and took off with a groan and a jerk, heading for home. He might not have power there, but at least he would have Igor for company.
The rain drove harder on the windshield and, as if to add to the ambiance of the night, McKenzie's wipers gave out. The blades, after all were original equipment. Mac cursed, but kept driving as he peered through the rain soaked glass.
How long he drove, he had no idea, but eventually he came to his turn, made it and drove for another couple of miles before he realized he wasn't on his street. From the look of things, he had driving far out into the countryside. He must have missed his street and left town, without knowing it. He banged his fist on the steering wheel in frustration, stepped on the brakes, and prepared to do a u-turn. That's when he heard a tire pop.
That was it. He managed to stop the car on the shoulder, before he lost it. What else could happen to him, tonight? The wind found the crack in the doorframe and blew a sheet of cold water right onto McKenzie's lap.
That did it. He pulled out his cell phone, dialed in his sister's number and pressed send long before he realized he had no service. Nothing. Not even a hint of a connection. He sighed, as he put the phone away, and buttoned up his greatcoat before opening the door on the rain.
The driver's side front tire had blown, and badly. There was nothing left of the rubber, from what he could see. McKenzie hurried to the back of the car, opened the trunk only to find an empty space where the spare should have been. Then, he remembered that the spare tire was already on the car. Cursing, her peered through the deluge, trying to find someplace where he could get some help.
There! On the top of a hill to his left, McKenzie spotted lights blazing against the darkness. The place looked far off, but he saw nothing else that even offered a glimmer of hope. He turned his collar up against the wind and rain, and started walking.
About an hour later, McKenzie found himself at the entrance to grounds of some stately mansion. He couldn't remember anyone rich living out this way, in the middle of nowhere, but there was no mistaking the size of the house. He found an intercom set into the gate and pressed the button.
"Yes?" a female voice crackled over the speaker.
"Uh, hi. My name is McKenzie Rigby, I'm a night watchman, and I was on my home when my car broke down. My cell phone is dead and I would really like to borrow a phone to call for help."
The gate swung open. McKenzie hurried up to the front door, which opened before he had the chance to knock. A girl with amazingly long legs and a huge bust line stood in the light wearing a black and white maid's uniform.
"Uh, wee, monsure, ze madam has been expecting you. Zis way, por favor."
"That has to be the worst French accent I have ever heard," McKenzie said with a laugh
"Oh, please, monsure, do not say such zings. I weel be horribly punished if I do not make ze good impression. Please, senor."
"Tiffany, what is taking you so long to show our guest inside?" an older woman's voice called out from down the hallway.
"I am letting him een now, Madam. We weel be right zere. This way, mein Herr? No, zis way, monsure. Follow me, ouá? No, I mean, sá? I don't know what I means anymore. Please, monsure, run for ze hills while you still can. I was einer-Einer Kleiner Nacht Musik, before I came to zis place, no, I means I was a freaking ball-not. I had, no I was uno macho dudette? Zis process zat the madam uses is most confabulating?"
"I'm sure it is, my dear, but the madam is waiting."
"Damn straight I am, Tiffany. Bring our guest in here this instant, and prepare a tray of our finest house de la chat, and some champagne."
"Ah, wee, wee, madman. I vill pour ze 1942 Virve Kickyou. Perhaps monsure would care for un cocktail de estrogen while he waits for ze appetizers?"
"No, a diet coke without the estrogen would be fine. How long will it take me to turn female? Will I get to wear a uniform like yours? What about the bust line? The bigger the better I always say."
"Ah, monsure makes ze joke wiz Tiffany. Zis way to ze madam."
McKenzie followed the girl down the hallway made of the finest cream-colored marble he had ever seen. The blocks were evenly colored, no discolorations or cracks anywhere. Erotic tapestries lined the walls and, after a couple of turns, Tiffany led the man into a formal sitting room.
A tall woman, perhaps in her early forties, reclined on the settee, as Tiffany flounced back down the hallway to fetch the refreshments.
"You are most welcome to my home, unfortunate stranger. I understand that your car is in need of repair. Please, sit down and make yourself at home. I will have my butler-slash-chauffer retrieve the vehicle in question and you should be on your way in a trice. Champagne?"
"Oh, yes, thanks," McKenzie said taking a delicate crystal glass from the tray now offered by Tiffany. He could see millions of bubbles rising to the top of glass as he took a sip. He downed the bubbly, and took another glass and waited. Nothing happened. No lengthening of his fingernails, no slimming down of his waist. Nothing. He drank the second glass, and still nothing happened. "A truly vintage year, Miss?"
"Oh, yes, I have been remiss. I am Helga Gatochateu, the owner of this house that serves so admirably now for your refuge from the storm. Oh, Brucie, Brucie, would you be a lamb and come here, dear?"
"You rang?" a tall lady in a chauffeur's gray uniform said.
"Brucie, please fetch Mr. Rigby's automobile and have it repaired for our guest, post haste."
"The car is already in the garage, Madam. It will be fully restored within the next couple of days."
"Excellent, you don't see many Falcons still on the road, these days. Oh, by all means, Mr. Rigby, try one of the appetizers, chef's special, you know."
On the tray that Tiffany now held under his nose, McKenzie found two styles of crackers, both covered with gray stuff. Half the crackers were piled high with the filling that now resembled a female breast. The other crackers had the gray stuff spread eagled to resemble a female pussy-cat, pussycat, I meant pussycat.
McKenzie sampled both of the crackers, quite a few times, but in spite of the tingling he felt in his fingers, nothing happened. "Very good," he mumbled, a little disappointed.
"Is something the matter, Mr. Rigby?" Madam asked, quietly.
"Not at all, this is excellent. Pá¢té?"
"Yes, a house blend, you must understand. Tiffany, my dear?"
"Yo, Big Mamma! Here I am. No, that wasn't right. Un Mille Pardone-somethings. Madman knows how terribly difficult zis ees for moi. What service can I be attending for you, Mistress?"
"Please take Mr. Rigby to his room, and make sure he has some dry clothes. Dinner will be served in the dining room at eight, promptly, Mr. Rigby. Since you will be sharing the hospitality of Chez Gatochateau for the next few days, I do wish you to be comfortable while your automobile is being restored."
"A tire blew, that's all, Mrs. Gatochateau. What is going on here, really?"
"Whatever do you mean? Nothing is going on except for the fact that you came to our door asking for shelter and succor in this storm and we have provided it. You think, perhaps, that we intend to use you as the subject of some foul experiment right out of the mad scientists' club? Perhaps you think we are about to turn you into a simpering female ditz like Tiffany there? Nothing could be further from the truth. We are not mad scientists or Domineering Dominatrixes here. A ditz like Tiffany has to be born, not created, and we have no desire to be anything but hospitable to you."
"My apologies, Madam, I have read too many stories lately about some luckless traveler captured and changed in a situation such as this. I will be ready for dinner, gladly, at eight."
"Yes, and while you are here a few rules, if you please. You must never sit in the Master's chair, and you must never go to the West Wing. The rest of the mansion is yours to explore. Please, be our guest."
Even without the dancing china and flatware, McKenzie found the mansion a fascinating place. But here he was, no matter what the lady had said, in the perfect setting for a TG story and no way of changing. The food and drinks didn't do it, although that estrogen cocktail might be promising, but…. Would he trust anything coming from Tiffany the ditz? There, down the hallway, he spotted the girl.
"Oh, Tiffany, my dear, I had some questions for you."
"Oh, no, non, monsieur senior. I am not Tiffany. I am called Brigitte. Tiffany is, how you say, my littermate? Nein, this is all wrong. Nyet. She is mein hermano, nome de plume, mein mister, she's my sister but she ain't heavy. Not on 97 point 6 on your FM Dial where Rock rocks you all day long. Is this not correct?"
"Brigitte, were you always a maid in this place?"
The girl laughed, a sparkling sound that sent shivers down McKenzie's spine. "Oh, non, senor. I am, how you say, un gato? A chat? Das Pussy Galore? No. Zis is ze home of ze famous Dr. Meow. No, I mean Dr. Merrow," she purred. "He changes me from ze housecat common, no, I mean…. I am Siamese if you don't please! Am I not ze perfect cat for zis, ze chateau le cats? Midnight, not a zound from ze pavement, I am warning you and yet, if you touch me you will know what happiness is and owe me lots of mice and rats and sprats and…. God said, let zere be cats to gobble ze rats and you must never go to the West Wing, which is right down zere."
McKenzie glanced in the direction she pointed and spotted a huge, metal door at the end of the corridor. A bronze plaque read "West Wing." "Ah yes, the West Wing, I see. Tell me there isn't a rose in a glass jar-or should I be expecting Martin Sheen instead?"
"Non, no, nein. No roses just mouses for ze catses. Catnip got your tongue? Youse better watch out, see. No admittance."
"Thanks for the advice, Brigitte. I really appreciate it."
As the girl wandered off, McKenzie glanced over his shoulder to see her enter a room, before he walked down the hall to the West Wing. When he got closer he could see small print on the bronze plaque. It read: Achtung! Verbotten! West Wing. Area Forbidden! Abandon All Hope all those who enter here. This means you, too, Mr. Rigby. Signed, The Management.
"Nein mister man, don't go near zat portcullis!" Still another maid shouted as McKenzie tried the door.
"Brigitte?"
"Nyet, silly rabbit. I am Simone, Brigitte is mein sister."
McKenzie opened the door, hurried inside and closed it before the girl had a chance to say anything else. Where did this Dr. Merrow find these girls? He looked around the room to find himself in what appeared to be a huge laboratory complete with Bunsen burners, and racks of chemicals of all sorts.
"Velcome to my la-boratory, Mr. Rigby," said a tall, round man who appeared, as if by magic from behind a bookcase. "I am Dr. Morouser, the master of this house, and quite a beast if you ask any of the girls. Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked before clouds of white smoke billowed from his ears. "Old joke, quite?"
"Very amusing, Doctor. What are you doing here? Those girls? This place? This really isn't a cat house, is it?"
Dr. Morouser laughed and shook his head. "Yes, it is, but perhaps not in the sense that you use the term. You see, I am a cat, or was. My human owner was a great man, and certified lunatic, but he developed a way to turn cats into humans, and vice versa. Why any cat would wish such a demotion is beyond me. I certainly didn't, but the process is one way for the most part. I can never be a cat again, so I have decided to continue my owner's great work. You may have met my girls?"
"Yes, I was wondering about them. So they were all cats?" McKenzie asked, impressed.
"No, they were all people-men to be exact, that came to this house seeking aid, such as yourself. My process turned them into cats, and back into the lovely ditzes you see now. More than that however, you will be the fourth ditz, which is quite important to me. You shall be Annabelle."
"Annabelle? Why not just Belle, since this whole set up is going that way?"
"That is the crux of the issue. Do you have any idea how rare it is that an appropriate male subject, such as yourself, comes to this house? Hardly ever happens, let me tell you. I have been trying for years to complete the set, and now, it is done. You see I have Brigitte, Simone and Tiffany, but I needed the 'A'."
"I still don't get it."
"Of course not, silly kitty. I need to spell out B A S T, you see. Bast, the ancient goddess of cats. When the set is complete I may finally have an offering to give the goddess to entice her into helping me. While my former owner, who is now Ms. Gatochateau by the way, created this process, even he was unable to reverse it. Only Bast, my goddess would be able to save me from this indecent human shape. Oh, to be feline again!"
"You're mad," McKenzie said and tried backing away from the man.
"Certifiably, my dear Mr. Rigby. Mad, I tell you, is so much fun. But not nearly as much fun as being a cat-as you will find out in a few moments. Cats are the true rulers of this planet, Mr. Rigby, and soon you will have a taste of the power, the freedom, that only cats have, until, of course, I change you back into a serving wench. As Annabelle, you will join your sisters is complete ditziness, and my work will be done."
"You fiend, you beast. How long do I have to be a cat before you turn me into a girl?"
"Yes, you are eager to begin," the doctor purred. "I wondered how real those stories of yours were, Mr. Rigby. So, you are not frightened of these changes? You really wish to be a girl?"
"Yes," McKenzie admitted. "I want to be a girl."
"Even knowing that you will mate with other males like an alley cat?"
"Yes, even that. I have always wanted to be a girl, but I could do without the cat bit. Couldn't you just turn me into a girl?"
"What is wrong with being a cat, Mr. Rigby? I would give my right foreleg to be a cat again, and you, you disdain my gift to you? Perhaps I was too hasty in choosing you to be Annabelle…."
"No, I love cats, I really do. So does Igor, he loves cats, and my little nephew David loves cats, and everyone I know loves cats. I'll adopt a litter of cats from the pound when I get to be Annabelle."
"Deal, but you keep them in your room, along with Igor. Now, then, you have eaten the cat food, as it were, and the changes will be taking place as soon as I give you this activator shot."
McKenzie hid under the bed, yowling, as the three girls tried their best to coax the cat out of hiding. Now a beautiful Siamese female, McKenzie had no desire to give up her position of power to be a simpering ditz. She fought, kicked and clawed at the girls when they came close.
Dr. Morouser sighed and told the girls to move out of the way. He kneeled down, stuck a long pole with a noose under the bed, and forced the rope around the cat's neck. He dragged McKenzie into the room, and threw a blanket over the still struggling cat.
"Happens every time," he said as he picked up the animal and carried her to the West Wing.
Annabelle woke up, took one look at her perfectly formed, voluptuous human body and screamed. "No, I'm a cat. I don't want to be human again. What have you done to me?" She cleared her throat, and said. "Hello? My name used to be McKenzie Rigby and now I am a perfectly formed, voluptuous female, and I'm not a ditz. I'm not a ditz." Now this, he thought, had possibilities. He would still rather be a cat, but perhaps he had better not mention this to Dr. Morouser.
"Here you are, my dear, Annabelle," the man said as he entered the room. "Lovely and perfectly formed. My procedure is getting better and better." He gave the new girl a skimpy, black, French maid's uniform.
"Why zank you, monsewer, eet is loverly. I weel wear zis forever."
"Such a pity you had to be a ditz with the rest of them, but such is life. Get dressed and report to the lab in the West Wing as soon as you do. There are signs on the wall if you forget the way."
"Oh, may we, mein senior. I vill be there pronto,"
As Dr. Morouser left the room McKenzie dressed, amazed that the skimpy little outfit could fit her so well. She patted her hair into place, checked herself in the mirror one last time and walked out into the hallway.
"This way to the West Wing," Tiffany said. "Dr. Morouser sent me to keep an eye on you."
"That was rather thoughtful of him," McKenzie responded, then looked the girl over. "You're not talking like a ditz?"
"Took you long enough to figure that out, sweetheart. The master is waiting."
"But why the act? What are you planning?"
Tiffany laughed. "Us? We poor pitiful little ditzes don't have enough of a brain between us to plan anything, don't you know, monsuer? We wouldn't do anything to spoil the master's plan to return to cathood."
"I see. Neither would I. Lead on, MacTiffany."
"You think I don't know Shakespeare, don't you? I know more than you think, Mac. I was an English teacher before my Desoto broke down outside. Say, did we ever win that war?"
"With Iraq? It's still going on."
"No, I meant with Korea. Don't you read the papers?" Tiffany asked.
"Oh, no, that one is still going on, too. It's the year 2003, you know."
"That's a load of bullshit! It's 1950. Looks like we got us a real ditz."
"What was that?" Brigitte said, joining the group.
"Annabelle thinks it's the year 2003," Tiffany said with a tinkling laugh.
"2003? It was 1972 when I came in here."
"What was 1972?" Simone asked. "It's 1996."
"Perhaps the three of you have been playing ditzes so long you never bothered to check notes," McKenzie suggested. "Hmmm, if this was the Outer Limits, we can't let Tiffany go outside. She might age 53 years in seconds. This presents a problem, but we need to address Dr. Morouser, first."
"I call him 'sweet cakes'," Simone admitted.
"He's my 'sweet tomcat'," Tiffany answered.
"I didn't want to know what you call him" McKenzie tried to explain. "I meant he is the first problem we need to solve."
"No problem at all," Tiffany said. "Not if you rub him right here on his jaw line. He loves that."
The door to the West Wing swung open as the girls approached. Dr. Morouser stood just inside, and moved aside to let the girls in. "How nice of you to come. Been expecting you and all that. Tea? Coffee?"
"No, thanks," McKenzie said. "Okay, kitty cat, this is where the world's biggest ditzes kick some mad scientist butt-starting with you."
"Oh, really. Brigitte, Annabelle, Simone and Tiffany! Give me a B, give me an A give me and S and T. Put them all together and what do have you got?"
Automatically, the four girls began doing cheers. "B A S T is Bast, Bast, Bast. Rock them, sock them and grind them to dust. Go Bast, go Bast, there's no messing with us."
A pale yellow glow formed in the middle of the room. An ancient presence woke in the Light and stared at her surroundings. Dr. Morouser could make out the shape of slanted, transparent eyes in the middle of the light. They turned to stare, with vertically slit pupils right at him.
"Who has woken me, and what is the meaning of this noise?" the goddess spoke, in a whisper. The girls stopped their cheers.
"Mistress, it is I. I, who once served you on the alters of Egypt have been trapped in this dreadful human form for centuries now. I beg a boon, one small boon for your faithful Amencatep."
"And are these all but brainless creatures with you?"
"These are a gift for you, Mistress. All four of these were once mortal men, changed by my arts to feline, then back into the brainless creatures you see now."
"That is very nice, I'm sure, my pet, but what do you expect me to do with them?"
"We wish to be cats, again, mistress," Brigitte said for the group.
"My talents are not great enough to change them again, Mistress," Dr. Morouser explained. "Naturally, whether you do anything with them is no concern of mine. I created them simply to call you, Mistress. I wish to, once more, regain my true shape as a cat."
"Amencatep, who do you think is responsible for you being in that shape? Would I let just anyone turn my alter cat into a human without my express consent? Silly cat," she said and chucked the man under his chin. "How long have you been human now?"
"Three thousand years and some. I've lost count."
"Very well, that seems like a long time for a punishment. You will have your wish, and be a cat, once more. As for these lovelies, I hardly think they are worthy of being cats. Mice, perhaps, but not cats."
"Mistress please," Annabelle said. "This person used us without any thought about our feelings or needs. He turned us from men into cats just to tease us with the feline shape before he turned us again into the creatures you see before you now. He ruined our lives, and we would wish compensation for that."
"Perfect example of a cat. Very well, Amencatep, return to your natural form."
As Dr. Morouser shrank back into a cat, the Goddess turned her attention on the girls. "There is great wealth here in the house, and the people that live here do so without needed compensation. You girl, you were a writer before you entered this house?"
"Yes, I was. I wrote about men turning into girls, and as you see it happened to me. I am not complaining about this shape, mistress. We who have known the joy of being cats, only wish to return to that shape to serve you."
"I see that you also own a dog?"
"Well, that was before I knew what it was to be a cat," Annabelle protested.
"I see, but dog people never make good cats. Return to your dog and your writing, Mr. Rigby, perhaps if your writing pleases me, in time I will see my way clear to make you a cat once more."
McKenzie found himself behind the wheel of his fully restored Ford Falcon convertible, driving for home. A moment ago he had been at that mansion. He sighed, and snapped his fingers. "What does a guy have to do to be TG'd these days?" he asked.
Interlude Seventeen
"What?" McKenzie asked as he sent off his latest chapter to the list. He looked down at Igor and sighed. "So? I like cats, too, you know. I never said I didn't. Besides, you were in the story, too. Weren't you?"
The dog whined for a moment. When MacKenzie ignored it, he whined again, louder and more forcefully.
Finally, McKenzie took the hint. With the usual groans and grunts, he stood up, stretched and grabbed Igor's leash. Where was David? The kid usually didn't miss walking to dog. McKenzie didn't want to do it himself-he didn't feel that good-but, if David was a no-show, he might not have a choice.
About to open the door, Mac thought he heard a knock. He opened the door to find a large, familiar looking cat sitting on the porch. "Amencatep?"
"Meow," the cat replied and strolled grandly into McKenzie's apartment as if it owned the place, which, as McKenzie thought about it, she might.
Igor was less than happy and began barking frenetically, but, in spite of Igor's barking, or maybe intentionally as the Amencatep refused to recognize the existence of such a lowly creature, the cat walked around the apartment, jumped up on the sofa and promptly fell asleep.
Igor's barking became even more frenetic, if that was possible. It was clear the dog wanted this interloper out.
"Me?" MacKenzie asked innocently. "I'm not moving that cat. If you want it out of here, Igor you'll have to do it yourself. Come on, that's a good dog. Get that cat. No? Then don't complain. It might be someone important.
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A Well Heeled Spy
as told to Andy Hollis and Jaye Michael
Chapter Eighteen -- A Well Heeled Spy
Igor Batinoff was a small man; small of body, small of stature and small of mind. While he was still a young man, his size was not the result of immaturity.
It was the afternoon of his eighteenth birthday when Igor marched proudly into the Red Guard recruiting office in the basement of the Government Building on Independence Square, but he had barely started the pre-induction physical when he was pulled aside and given the news. He had failed the meet the physical requirements for the armed forces. His boots had three-inch heels designed to bring him up to the five-foot four-inch minimum for enlistment. They never noticed the two-inch lifts inside his boots.
Of course, he made certain to make a truly impressive scene, first demanding and then begging the recruiting officer to reconsider. Igor was a good actor and was very believable, not that he really wanted to enter the armed forces. Thus, at a time and place where it was expected-no required-that every young man join up, Igor was surprisingly unconcerned by his rejection. He had charted a different direction for his life.
Igor Batinoff's grades were not good enough to become a diplomat and his family was not sufficiently well ensconced in the Party hierarchy to provide him a sinecure within the corrupt Soviet government. Working in the family grocery for the rest of his life would involve manual labor that he outright despised, so Igor had decided that he was going to be a spy. Actually, he was not so much interested in being a spy as he was in being intimately involved with foreigners. That was where the money was. It had been a process of elimination.
With a remarkably sympathetic rejection letter in hand, especially considering the stoic nature of Soviet society in the nineteen-seventies, Igor gleefully headed across town to the nearest known secret office of the KGB. The letter would help prove his patriotism.
The buses were only an hour behind so, less than two hours after being rejected by the Soviet Armed Forces, a cock-sure Igor Batinoff stood at the corner of Lenin and Melnikaite Street, the wind whipping at his hair. Unlike most, he had let it grow long as a way of showing he was aware of the world outside the Motherland.
Before him was a dingy white monolithic stone structure. With no windows on the first two floors and a smooth gray cement frame surrounding the entrance, the six-story building that served as office space for the KGB looked more like a vault than an office building.
Taking a deep breath and straightening his shoulders, Igor strutted boldly into the front door of the KGB offices in Minsk. Seated at a desk in the small, dingy lobby was a strikingly beautiful woman. Igor whistled appreciatively, forgetting for a moment why he had come, and looked for a nametag on her desk or blouse. All he could find was a small tag, just over her left breast, with the Cyrillic word "Receptionist."
Looking up from the papers on her desk, the dark haired, blue eyed beauty gave him a sultry smile and asked in tones that made it clear she was offering much more than directions, "How may I help you comrade?"
"I wish to become a spy."
"I do not understand, comrade. What about a spy and why would you come here?"
Igor wondered whether the beautiful woman before him was truly ignorant of the role of the bureaucracy for which she worked or if this was some sort of test. There was no nearly invisible smirk to suggest she had a secret. Her eyes gave no clue that there might be a razor sharp brain lurking behind them. His intense examination of her face gave no clues, but he decided that it really didn't matter. He had to act like it was a test, a test to see if he could make it past a simple secretary.
"I said I wish to report a spy." This was a statement that was much more likely to get me inside and I could correct the misunderstanding then. While he waited for her to react, Igor examined the lobby around him. She sat behind a large semicircular marble desk bracketed by the bright red flag of the Motherland. Behind her was a second semicircular shape, but taller, reaching halfway to the two floor high ceiling with jagged edges at the top so that it looked like a mountain. Behind that, on the left were two elevators and on the right, a pair of steel double doors with a sign reading "No Admittance" on each door. Two huge men in cheap black suits stood by the doors, apparently talking, but I could see them eyeing me carefully and I was willing to bet they were guards. Nowhere was there a directory.
"This is an import-export company. Why don't you make your report to the government?" she asked with innocent sincerity.
It was clear Igor was not going to be admitted without some work on his part. While he did not believe that a mere secretary could stop him, he was quite certain that two strong, well-trained guard, each at least twice his size, would have no trouble whatsoever. This was going to take some ingenuity.
"Spacebo Madam. It appears I am at the wrong location." With that, he turned and rapidly walked out the door before someone could stop him.
Quickly turning arbitrarily to the left onto Melnikaite Street, Igor quickly half walked, half trotted to the corner and turned the corner heading way from home on Lenin. As he turned, he checked to see if he was being followed. He was, but they didn't seem like in any hurry to catch him. It was almost like they were playing with him. This too had to be part of some test.
Without a second thought, Igor strode as swiftly as his short legs would permit towards the family market, only a couple of blocks away. If he had looked back, he would have seen the two men, laugh at turn into a bar. It was time for them to take a vodka break and do some serious haggling over the price of an illegal shipment of American blue jeans.
During his trip home, Igor considered his options while keeping a surreptitious eye on his back to see if he was still being tailed. Surely, if the front doors were that well protected, the back doors would be impregnable. He might be able to find a way in through the city sewer system, but even the city police avoided them. The sewers were mob territory and no one in their right mind went there. That left only one way in. Igor started gathering the equipment he would need. Tonight would be a busy night.
Igor was not afraid of hard work; he just recognized that there were better ways to obtain one's desires. To quote that Americanski capitalist pig, Barnum, "There's a sucker born every minute." Tonight's effort would be hard work, but if it got him into the building, it would be worth it.
Across Lenin Street from the KGB office was a taller building, the offices of several real Import-Export companies and one business I was familiar with through my family's business. The People's Farm Cooperative provided all the fruits and vegetables as his family's bribes could obtain. Igor was a familiar sight there as he had come often with his father, who still hoped the younger Batinoff would be an asset to the family business.
"Good afternoon Olga," he greeted the plump matronly woman at the reception desk. Igor couldn't help but make unflattering comparisons to the beauty at the KGB office. "You know where I'm going," he added as he jerked a thumb at the elevators.
"Don't forget to sign in…." But Igor had already bolted into the elevator and the doors were closing. He almost didn't get his bag inside before the doors closed.
Olga just shrugged and moved on to the next person coming in the door. Instead of stopping at the third floor where the Coop was, Igor kept going to the eighth and top floor. Exiting the elevator, Igor scrambled around the corner to the stairway and climbed the last flight to the roof. The bag was heavy and he almost dropped it when it bumped against the door to the roof, but he got it threw and let it clatter to the tarred surface as soon as the door closed. Sliding to the tar, Igor sat with his feet stretched out before him. After catching his breath, he grabbed a sandwich and a contraband bottle of Coke. It would be a long wait until dark.
About six o'clock, clouds began to roll in making the rooftop a dusky, shadowless gloom, perfect for what Igor had in mind. Pulling a heavy rope, a light rope and a heavy metal hook from his bag, Igor fastened on end of the heavy rope around a chimney. Then he took the light rope and looped it through a large eyelet he'd welded to the end of the hook and pulled it half way through. One end of the thin rope was tied to the loose end of the thick rope and the other end was tied to a conveniently located plumbing vent.
Walking to the edge of the roof, Igor looked over the low escarpment, across the street and two stories down was the flat roof of the KGB building. Near the center of it's roof was his goal, a small shed-like structure-the roof access.
Stepping back from the edge, Igor gripped the rope about six feet from the edge. Starting slowly and then speeding up, he swung the hook around his head. When the speed was great enough that he could barely control it, he let it fly. The hook clattered on the KGB building roof and Igor cheered. Then he started carefully pulling it closer. It caught at the edge of the roof and he jerked it to make certain it was firmly attached-and it slid off, following an arcing decent until it hit the building on which he was standing. There was the sound of broken glass as it hit, followed by the rich sounds of cursing.
Igor yanked on the rope, pulling it back up-and got rope burn when the hook caught. Cursing again, he lowered the rope and shook it as he pulled up. Luckily, this time it came free. Thirteen tries later, a very tired Igor Batinoff grunted in muted approval when the hook finally caught on the roof of the KGB building's roof access.
Moving slowly, and not just because he was being careful, Igor slowly pulled the rope through the eyelet on the far hook, watching the heavy rope play out over the edge of the roof. In the dim light, it looked like some huge snake, stretching out into the air, searching for the sent of its prey.
There was a dicey moment when the tip of the thick rope finally made it to the hook and jammed. Several gentle tugs later, Igor was cursing again. He really did not wish to start over again. Finally, with a deep sigh of frustration, Igor gave a hard yank and prayed to his mother's Christian god that it would work.
It did.
Pulling the rest of the thick rope through the eyelet was gratefully uneventful. As soon as he could reach it on its return trip, Igor grabbed it and pulled it as tight as he could before fastening it to the roof. Then, returning to his bag, Igor pulled out a strange contraption of straps and hooks. One end, Igor strapped around his chest as tightly as he could. The other end was a thickly braided piece of leather that looped over the rope stretched tautly above him.
Igor stepped up to the edge of the roof. Everything else had been just a buildup to what was to come next. This would be what his mother would call "a leap of faith." He stood there for at least half an hour debating whether he really wanted to do this. Did he really want to be James Bondsky? Just how badly did he want to be a spy? How much more work was what he was doing now than all the work in the family business he so wanted to avoid?
Eventually, he stepped off into space.
Eyes closed tight, Igor felt the wind blowing past his face as he slid down and across. He was going to make it. Oh how he looked forward to seeing the faces of the KGB folks when he sat behind their leader's desk when he came in the next morning. Surely they would have to accept him if he could pull it off.
The wind was slowing. He must be near the end. It was time to unbuckle and drop to the roof of the KGB building.
Igor opened his eyes and looked down-six floors to the ground. He hadn't made it. He was hanging in the air about ten feet short of the building.
-=-=-=-=-
He was still hanging there two hours later when dawn broke and both vehicle and pedestrian traffic started to pick up. Igor had tried everything he could think of to make it those last ten feet. When he reached up to pull at the rope, he belatedly realized that he had made the loop he was hanging from too long and so could not reach it. He had tried to rock forward, but he had apparently not pulled the rope taut enough and he was at the bottom of a small valley. Even when he was able to rock forward forcefully enough to move forward a foot or so, he immediately slid back.
Dejected and exhausted, too tired even to curse, Igor hung there as the sun advanced through the sky. It was only as he hung there that he realized exactly how foolish he had been. The KGB would not make a spy out of a failure like him. If they wanted him, they would have come to him, not waited for him to prove himself with some hair-brained scheme.
Around 10 AM Igor began to wonder why he was still hanging there. Were they playing with him like a cat with a mouse, waiting to see what he would do next, or was it possible that no one had yet looked up and seen him? Papa had always said, "Why look up to see if the sky is still there? It always is." Maybe the KGB felt that way too. Maybe.
His thoughts were disrupted when someone opened the door to the roof of the KGB building. They were carrying a rope and they brought it directly to the edge of the building nearest Igor. Clearly they had known he was there.
"Catch this," a gruff voice called out as the man on the roof threw the rope at Igor.
Igor caught it the first time, ruefully thinking that it would have been nicer if things had gone that well a bit earlier in this project. As soon as Igor had wrapped the rope around his waist and tied it in front, the man pulled him forward. Once he was over the building, the man pulled him low enough that he could reach the heavy rope Igor had been hanging from and cut it. Igor fell unceremoniously to the surface of the roof.
A moment later, Igor was standing, dancing on the tips of his toes. The man grabbed him by the back of his harness and led him toward the roof access door as if he were a bag of groceries.
-=-=-=-=-
Except for the soft, rich, overstuffed leather furniture, the office looked much like what Igor had learned to accept as "comrade bureaucrat" modern; bookcases filled to overflowing, an eclectic array of pictures from foreign artists to tractors. From behind the high-backed executive chair, currently facing out the window toward the building from which I had approached, a female voice spoke. "You are either a very ingenious man or a total fool. I am betting on the latter, but why don't you tell me what you were trying to do and answer my question?"
"I wanted to work for your organization, for the KGB. I wanted to be a spy. The receptionist wouldn't let me in to apply, so I had to find a way to get past her, to get your attention."
"Actually, you had your interview and were rejected." The chair turned around to reveal the "receptionist" with which Igor had spoken the day before.
Standing, she walked slowly over him. Igor considered running from the office in embarrassment, but a brief shake from the huge man behind him, who still had a firm grip on his harness, convinced him to remain where he was.
"Well Ivan, I guess we have another fool," she said with a smirk to the huge man as she walked up to Igor.
"I am not a fool. I may not have succeeded, but that was only because I had limited resources. With the resources and knowledge of the KGB behind me, how could I possibly fail?"
Igor's voice sounded self-assured, but the way his voice cracked gave him away. Still, the woman was impressed. This little man, shorter and slighter than she, was showing signs of bravado. Most people faced with the full might of the KGB quickly withered into quivering bowls of blubber. She examined the small man carefully, reconsidering her initial assessment.
"How did you plan on getting inside once you made it to our roof?"
"I would have either picked the lock or chiseled the hinges off."
"And then what did you plan to do, my impetuous little one?"
"I planned to enter your office, grab a seat in that big chair of yours and wait for you to come in to work."
"Thereby showing me how persistent and ingenious you are, no doubt," she said with a genuine smile. "Did you realize that I would have to kill you on the off chance that you might have read some top secret document?"
"I…I…No." Igor admitted, hanging his head in shame.
The woman's eyes glared into Igor, examining him much as if he were a lab rat.
"Well, we have need of volunteers for our research teams," she mused aloud. Then, in a totally unexpected change of topic, she ordered Igor to cry.
"What?"
"Cry. Right now. Cry."
"But…"
"Cry!"
Igor cried. Deep stomach wrenching sobs tore from his throat.
"Stop!"
Igor stopped crying as if a faucet had been abruptly turned off. It looked like the acting skills he had practiced in front of the mirror in his bedroom had paid off.
"Good. Very good. Perhaps we can use you after all. Ivan, bring him to Professor Mengal. Take him to the lab. Tell the good doctor that this is to be his best work ever." With that she abruptly turned and returned to her desk, ignoring the two men as she examined the papers on her desk.
-=-=-=-=-
The room Ivan dragged Igor into might as well have been a mad scientist's dungeon lair. Cinderblock and tile replaced the traditional rough-hewed stone, but the strange devices giving off sparks, the human-sized cages off to one corner and the wrinkled, bent and wild-haired man examining Igor like some bug about to be dissected made up for the absence of stone.
Ivan stood holding Igor by the collar so that his feet continued to dangle in the air. Igor couldn't be sure, since the way he was being held it was hard to get anything more than a glimpse of Ivan's face, but it seemed like the huge man was afraid of the frail old man with the wild hair.
On the way Ivan had actually warmed up a bit since he knew Igor was going to be a part of the agency and explained that Dr. Batinoff was a refugee from Germany who had earned a reputation as a researcher and experimenter during World War II. Among other things, he had developed and ran the agency's development services for special talents.
The tableau remained unchanged for at least five minutes while the old man worked at something, but Igor couldn't make out what. Finally, he looked up and glared myopically at the intruders in his dungeon.
"Vaat do you vant?" It was the strongest German accent Igor had ever heard.
"Control says this is to be your best work ever," Ivan explained with a gentle shake to indicate he meant Igor.
"Fine. Strap him down dere," the old man pointed to a gurney.
As Ivan strapped the small man down, "Are dere any limitations?" Igor was beginning to understand the words behind the accent.
"Control wants a functioning agent. You can hurt him, but he needs to remain sane."
"Fine. Leave me. Come back in six hours. He vill need several veeks of recovery. That vill be your problem. I vill not ignore mine researches for longer dan necessary."
Ivan nodded and left very quickly.
"Who are you and what are you going to do to me?"
"Who I am is of no concern. You may call me Dr. Batinoff, eh? Und as to vhat I am going to do, vhy I am going to make you into a functional agent of course." The laughter that followed was the scariest thing Igor had ever heard.
Batinoff ignored all further efforts by Igor to find out what was going to happen. It was as if he was an inanimate object as the old man roughly shoved hoses up his nose and placed a shower cap over his head and covering his eyes before wheeling the gurney under a series of showerheads. A valve squealed from disuse as it turned and a red-yellow slime began oozing out and dripping down onto Igor.
It burned!
Igor struggled and screamed until a drop landed in his mouth, then he just struggled to get loose before he ran out of breath. After a minute, he realized that there was fresh air blowing in through the hosed that had been jammed up his nose, but by then every movement was like a demented dentist was running a sander across an unexposed nerve and he was trying very hard to avoid breathing, let alone any other movement.
He might have passed out, he wasn't sure, but then his world quickly became a lot cooler. Risking getting burned again, he opened his mouth-and tasted water. Whatever had burned him was being washed off. Igor was proud of himself. He had not revealed any information. Maybe now the torture would end and he would be told of his duties as a member of the KGB.
He could see a shape approach through the translucent shower cap and assumed it was Batinoff. The hoses here yanked out of his nose, causing him to jerk in pain and then again when his movement caused even more pain to his raw and tender skin. A moment later it was confirmed when the cap was ripped off his face. Hair sprayed over his face, but he could see Battinoff standing before him and smiling. This time, he limited his movement to slowly and cautiously pursing his lips and blowing the hair out of his eyes.
"Vell, that takes care of the hair und skin," Batinoff muttered to himself as he wheeled the gurney to another corner of the lab. This section looked like a surgical suite. Batinoff puttered a round a bit, before turning back to Igor.
"You vill not be avake for dis part, vhich detracts from my enjoyment. To make up for dat, I vill tell you vhat is about to happen and imagine you're nightmares as you sleep.
"Once I put you under anesthesia, I vill complete several surgical procedures. Specifically, I vill shave your nose und larynx. Den I vill relocate some of your fat cells. Finally, I vill give you un injection to help fix you in your new form.
The mask slid over Igor's face. He tried to hold off breathing as long as he could, but it wasn't long enough. Eventually, the need to breathe was stronger than his will. As he took his first ragged gasp and inhaled the acrid gas, Batinoff added one last comment. The last thing Igor heard before Batinoff's maniacal laugh faded away with his consciousness was, "If it is of any comfort to you, I had much practice during the var vhile I vas at Auscvitz. Vith your new genitals, you vill make a beautiful Mata Hari. You vill especially like the vay you valk in heels after I shorten de tendons in your legs.
And then, Batinoff did the scariest thing he possibly could have done. He laughed. "Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha."
-=-=-=-=-
Interlude Eighteen
McKenzie opened his e-mail program. The first message was from his nemesis, the Weasel. He considered deleting it unread, but instead decided it was better to know what the evil creature was up to. The letter read, simply,
I need your help from Wally the Weasel.
My brother is in horrible health, and I thought that if I could convince him give up writing for this list and take care of himself, for a change, I could actually save him from almost certain death. He needs to be out walking, not tied to a computer and vegetating.
To all of the good readers on the TG-TF list. I know most of you have complained bitterly about my nitpicking and trashing every story put out by McKenzie Rigby, but I had a good reason. You see, Mac is my brother, and, in real life I am actually his sister, Janice.
I admit that I really do like my brother's stories, but if something isn't done, and now, he may not be around much longer to write them, so I am asking everyone on this list, to please, please help me get Mac to watch his health, not a computer monitor.
Thank you,
Janice Corbin-Rigby
-=-=-=-=-
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER NINETEEN
McKenzie, the Giant Killer
as told to
Andy Hollis and Jaye Michael
Chapter Nineteen -- McKenzie, the Giant Killer
Once upon a time, little Jack Rigby skipped along the path that led from his mother's small cottage, to the village. He stopped skipping long enough to collect the family's old cow, Betsy. He tied a long rope around the cow's neck and led her out of the pasture.
Old Betsy, no matter how hard Jack tried, refused to skip. In fact, she refused to do anything but plod along much as an old cow would. She did pause every now and again to nibble at grass along the way, and to fertilize the path.
Over hills, through dales and down into the valley, Jack lead his faithful cow. He tried hard not to think of the terrible fate that awaited Old Betsy at journey's end. He had grown up with Betsy as almost a member of the family, and the thought of selling her at the fair was hard on the lad. After all those years of service, and gallons of milk given, it was even harder for Jack to think of Betsy going to a butcher, or to some fast food chain for hamburgers.
"Where are you going, my fine lad?" a man, in brightly colored clothing asked as Jack crested the top of another hill. "I am Tom Busch."
"To sell my cow, Old Betsy, at the fair," Jack answered politely, and openly in the way small boys do, especially those that are sent out on their own without their mothers.
"And what are you going to do with the money you get for Old Betsy?" asked the man, remembering himself what it was like to be a small boy out alone, without his mother.
"Why I am going to buy a new cow-a young cow to take Old Betsy's place. I will call her Betsy, until she gets old," Jack said, solemnly.
"An excellent plan, my little man, have a good day at the fair."
Little Jack stared at the man, and frowned. "Aren't you going to offer me something in trade for old Betsy?"
"Sorry, my lad, but I have nothing to trade for Old Betsy, and I make it a point never to trade with little boys, either. The last time I did, I was sued by his mother for everything I owned."
"Oh, I'm sorry, mister. Would you like some milk?" Jack asked.
"Why thank you very much, my lad."
Jack asked Old Betsy for a little more milk for the man who had nothing, and the cow gave him a drink. "There, we had better get on to the fair."
"Go on, with my blessing, and here," he said reaching inside his tunic for a small bag. "To repay your generosity, have these. They are magic beans. Plant them at Midnight on the night of the full moon and you will get a surprise beyond compare. But remember, never tell the recipe to anyone, not even your dog."
"Thank you," Jack said and tucked the beans inside his shirt. "But I don't have a dog, just this cow."
"Just as well, lying deceitful creatures, dogs."
Little Jack walked on, whistling instead of skipping since he now had the beans and the cow.
A little while later, on the outskirts of the village, Jack met an even stranger individual. This one, who looked like a six-foot tall, two legged fox, walked up to him.
"I say, my good fellow, you wouldn't have seen anything of a boy made of wood, have you?"
Jack shook his head. "I've only seen a man who had nothing but magic beans. Do you have anything to trade for Old Betsy here?"
"I may be a carnivore, young man, but I have better things to do with my time than take care of a cow. I…" The fox turned in disgust as a little wooden boy ran right by them. "Now look what you made me do. I've been waiting for that puppet for ages. Here," he said and reached into his shirt for a large bag. "Take this for your trouble, boy, and good luck."
Jack looked inside the bag and made a face. "What are they?"
"Magic cow patties. Plant them at Midnight on the first night of the Full Moon and you will get an outstanding surprise. Go on with you, now." The fox ran after the little wooden boy. "Hey, Pinnochio, over here."
Jack thought better of putting this bag in his shirt, and tossed it aside. He led Old Betsy right to the center of the village.
"Moo."
Jack turned around to see a long line of cows, both young and old following him and Old Betsy. Thinking ahead, something that only fairy tale boys do, Jack walked down the line of cows, selected the best looking bull, and cow, then tied them to Old Betsy. He sold the rest of the herd for a huge bag of gold, and walked his three animals back toward his mother's cottage.
"I bet with this much gold we could move to a de-lux apartment in the sky," he said to Old Betsy. The cow shook her head, as old cows do, and followed behind the boy who was trudging now under the weight of all the gold.
Jack's mother, Beatrice Rigby, stood outside the cottage waiting for her son to come home. Imagine her surprise when she saw that the boy had come home with three cows, and a huge bag.
"Look, Mama, I've got gold and lots of it," Jack said and opened the bag for his mother's inspection.
"Bah, worthless stuff, gold. What were you thinking?"
"I thought we could move to the hills of Beverly with movie stars and swimming pools, and TV's and computers and name brand clothes."
"Greedy brat. Did you at least get the magic beans?"
"Yes, mother," Jack said, and quickly handed over the bag. "The man said to plant them at midnight on the night of the full moon. The fox that gave me the magic cow patties said the first night, but this guy didn't get specific."
"Go inside, boy. Your gruel is almost done."
Jack looked longingly at the bag of gold that his mother tossed aside. "Mother, may I buy my own fast food restaurant?"
"Of course not, boy. We're in the middle of a fairy tale not the Wall Street Journal. Go inside."
"Stupid fairies," Jack muttered as he wandered inside to get his gruel.
At eleven-fifty on the first night of the full moon, Jack leaned on the windowsill staring up into the starry night sky. The moon hung above the cottage like a big pizza pie, and a hush seemed to fall all over the world.
There, he saw the little star burning bright blue. The wishing star, he thought. "Little star, I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight."
A comet seemed to break off from the star and traveled in a direct line from the star to Jack's window. A large and lovely lady, dressed all in blue, appeared at the window. She floated inside, waving what appeared to be a magic wand.
"There you are, my dearest boy, soon you will have your heart's desire and be a real boy."
Jack looked down at himself. "I am a real boy, lady, what are you talking about?"
The blue fairy blinked a few times. "You are not Pinnochio, where does the woodcutter live?"
"Oh, you want the wood boy. Two cottages down that way. But do I get my wish?"
The fairy tapped Jack on the top of his tousled head. "You, too, will have your heart's desire, Little Jack."
He looked across the way, and stared up at the fairy. "Where is it? I want my own all night fast food restaurant."
She laughed, with a sound of silver bells tinkling. "Silly boy, this is a fairy tale, not the Wall Street Journal." With that, she vanished, in search of the wood boy.
"Stupid fairy," Jack muttered as his mother emerged from her bedroom still wearing a nightdress and nightcap.
A two legged mouse, along with a two legged dog and a duck walked up to Jack. "Say, Jack," said the mouse with a high-pitched laugh. "Have you planted those magic beans yet?"
Jack shook his head, and whispered into the mouse's ear. "Not in front of the d-o-g, you know. Lying, deceitful creatures, dogs."
"Oh, I didn't know that," the mouse said and studied his companion as if for the first time. He laughed again.
"We'll just be going."
Once the interlopers had gone, Jack followed his mother outside. He knelt down in the garden, dug a hole with his little spade, and waited until his new designer watch, with built in PDA beeped midnight. Jack's mother dropped the beans, one by one, into the hole, and Jack covered them up.
As his mother returned to her bedroom, Jack stared up into the night sky. "This isn't my heart's desire, you stupid fairies. I want food, real food, meats and lots of dairy products, I'm a growing boy here."
"Hush, Jack," his mother called out. "Worthless stuff, meat. If gruel every day was good enough for your father and his father before him, it's good enough for you."
"Yes, mother," Jack said with a sigh, and cuddled down in bed for the rest of the night.
Imagine Jack's surprise, the next morning, when he walked outside to find a beanstalk growing miles into the morning sky. He stared up and up and up and couldn't see the end of it. "I'd better go milk the cows and tend to the farm," Jack said to the morning sky. "Before my mom sees that and makes me climb it."
"Hold it right there, sonny boy, and where do you think you're going?" his mother said from behind.
"To milk and feed the cows, and tend the farm, Mother."
"That can wait. First you need to climb this beanstalk and bring back any magical treasures you find."
"What if there's this huge ogre up there that wants to grind my bones to make his bread?" Jack countered.
"Then you will just have to outwit him, and steal his treasures anyway. How hard can it be for a bright kid like you to outwit an ogre? Move it."
"But I'll be days and days. Okay, I'm going, I'm going," Jack grumbled as he started to climb the beanstalk.
As soon as he had taken his first couple of pulls up the thick trunk, Jack found the trunk moving upward. He held on, riding the trunk of the huge vine as the beanstalk grew taller.
After a while, he could see clouds over his head. Soon enough, the beanstalk grew right through the clouds, and stopped. "Everyone off!" a voice rustled through the leaves. "This stop for giants, trolls and ogres."
"What about magical treasures?" Jack asked the voice of the beanstalk.
"Get real, kiddo, there aren't any. You should have bought yourself a chain of fast food restaurants with that gold while you had the chance."
"Stupid fairies," Jack yelled out as he dropped off the beanstalk and landed on solid ground, even though it was covered in rolling clouds. He waded through the clouds for a bit, and there, in the distance, he saw a shimmering palace just waiting for a bright little boy like him to enter and search for magical treasures.
As Jack walked closer to the building he could see that it was, indeed, a huge palace painted a brilliant white from the columns that decorated the front entrance, to the white shades covering the windows. The entire structure seemed huge, as if designed for people twenty times his size.
Jack struggled to climb up the steps to the front door, which stood open as if to further invite him inside. As he passed through the door he halfway expected to see a sign pointing him in the right direction, but no such luck.
Thunderous booms could be heard from outside. Startled, Jack ducked for cover in a huge coat closet, hiding underneath a huge coat. Soon, a little man, hardly bigger than Jack himself boomed into the hallway. The little man was wearing oversized cowboy boots and a twenty gallon white hat that was way too big for his head.
"Fee Feye Fo Foy, I smell the blood of a fairy tale boy," the little man said in a voice that rumbled through the halls.
"So?" Jack said, and stepped out of the closet. "What are you going to do about it?"
"Well, I'm George the Giant, from Texas, but my friends call me Dubya."
"You're a giant?" Jack asked, then broke out laughing.
"That's cause I look so big on TV. I've been out hunting terrorists in the Kingdoms of Passaic, Piscataway and Patuxent. Did the I's last week and next week I'll be invading the Kingdoms of Ohio, Omaha and Oklahoma where the wind comes whistling down the plain. Them terrorists is tricky birds and you never know where they will turn up next."
"What do you do with the terrorists when you catch them?" Jack asked.
"I turn them into harmless things, things I can use around the house. Would you like to see my new Osama bin Ladle?"
"No, my mother sent me here to get some magical treasures since she didn't want me to buy that chain of fast food restaurants with the gold I earned yesterday."
"Oh, right, you're that kid. Go on, there's got to be a few around here somewhere. If you can find them, you can take them."
"Thanks, Mr. George." Little Jack skipped down the hallway and wandered into the first open room he found.
A tall, balding man stood up from an overstuffed chair and Jack entered the room. "Well, hello little boy. I'm Vice-Giant Bruce, and I just love little boys."
"This isn't that kind of a fairy story, mister. Get out of here." Jack commanded.
The man vanished, and in his place stood another tall, and-this time-rather distinguished looking gentleman. "You found me. I am Vice-Giant Don, and that was my undisclosed location."
"Sorry, Mr. Don. Have you seen any magical treasures around here."
"Just down the hall to your right should be a few. Good luck." With that, Vice-Giant Don turned into a smallish, and rather plump lady. She patted her hair into place. "Don't tell anyone where I am."
"Uh, okay Ms. Dawn." Jack turned and left the room.
Following the corridor a little further, he heard a harsh male voice singing out of tune. "We can still win the war, the great Satan will be no more. We can still win the war, the great Satan will be no more, rah rah."
Jack peeked inside the room and saw a harp, made out of gold, apparently playing and singing by itself. In fact, he could see a little face on the pedestal of the harp; complete with a big bushy mustache that was doing the singing.
"A magical treasure," Jack said. "I'm Jack, the little boy who will rescue you from the awful palace. I'm going to take you home with me."
"I am Sadone Harpstring," the instrument sang out. "I sing of a time when I was once a great ruler, Emperor of all I surveyed, until the giants came and took away my land, and my precious Ku-wait."
"Ku-wait?"
"Yes, my hen that laid the golden eggs. The first George the Giant took Ku-wait away from me, and his son, the second George the Giant came and took everything else. He said that I was a terrorist; can you believe that?
Lying, deceitful creatures, giants."
"I thought that was dogs," Jack answered.
"Them, too. If you really can rescue me from this horrible White Palace, please do not forget my darling Ku-wait."
"I'll go find her and I will be right back," Jack said.
Now where would he find a hen in a palace this size, Jack wondered as he started walking. Usually people kept hens in henhouses outside, but would George keep a valuable golden egg laying hen outside where a fox could get it, that is if there were foxes up on this cloud, or maybe there would be thieves, not little boys who have to find magical treasures for their mothers, but real ugly big thieves that would roast the hen. Wow, he thought, that was a long sentence, but he shrugged it off, as little boys who never have studied grammar are wont to do.
"Hey, are you Jack?"
Jack turned around and spotted a face in a mirror hanging up on the wall.
"That's me. Have you seen Ku-wait, the hen?"
"No, but the giant is looking for you. You'd better hide or be eaten as an afternoon snack."
"But George is such a little giant. I bet I could beat him up."
"Not George, his big big big big brother, Jeb."
"Fee Fi Fo Foy, I'm looking for a lost little boy," boomed a voice that actually sounded gigantic.
A panel clicked open beside the mirror. Jack ducked through it, and pushed the panel closed before the real giant could find him.
Lights flickered on to show Jack a large dressing room. A girl's dressing room, he thought from the dresses and things hanging in the open wardrobe, and the thousands of brushes, hand mirrors and jars that lined the gold trimmed, white French provincial vanity.
"Over here," said a voice from the vanity. It was male, but…
Jack walked over and picked up a glowing magic mirror.
"Hey, Jack, I've got just the thing for you to hide you from the giant, too. I'm going to make you-fabulous!"
"Fabulous? Me? Why?"
"Jeb the Giant is looking for a dorky little boy, not a vision of loveliness that I will create. You can take your magical treasures and waltz out of here and neither giant will be the wiser. Any more smart-ass questions? Good, didn't think so. Now, sit down and hush up."
"Yes, sir-madam-sir," Jack whined, but still he sat down in front of the mirror. Instantly the brush and comb floated up and tackled his hair. With each stroke of the brush, Jack's hair grew longer; the combing made it more luxurious and shining. Soon enough spritz bottles spritzed, and bottles of lotion, splatted all over Jack's hair.
Creams applied themselves to Jack's face, while tweezers plucked at the boy's eyebrows. With a touch of lipstick, and blush, the chair moved back. Jack stared at the mirror in disbelief. There, indeed, sat a vision of loveliness, from his golden blonde tresses down to his gorgeous face and bright blue eyes.
"I look like a girl!" Jack shouted.
"Well, duh, sweetheart. You are a girl. Stand up."
Jack stood up as invisible hands pulled his clothes off. A long, light blue dress, flew over from the wardrobe, and boyish undergarments were replaced with feminine frills. Jack lifted up his arms as the dress settled down over his head and on his shoulders.
"Fabulous!" the voice cried out in elation.
Jack shook his head. "For a girl, but I'm a boy."
"If you stay a boy you won't live to see another day, Jacki. This way, you can go home to your mother."
"But how do I change back?"
"Take the clothes with you, doll. They were made just for you, and the make up and the brushes and combs. You will need them in your new life."
A small pink overnight case flew over to the vanity as all the articles packed themselves inside. A moment later, the mirror shrank down to fit as well. Jacki sighed as she picked up the case, and walked back out into the hallway.
A man, twenty feet tall if he was an inch, stood in the hallway moving his head this way and that. "Say, little girl, have you seen a dorky little boy named Jack?"
"No, why, Mr. Giant, sir. Should I give him a message if I do see him?"
"Tell him that Jeb the Giant is looking for him. That's the dear."
"Oh, by the way, Mr. Giant, sir, have you seen Ku-wait the hen?"
"Oh, sure. Going to feed her, are you? Go down that hallway there to the end, turn left then count five doors down on the right to the indoor henhouse. Whatever you do, don't let the fox in."
Jacki followed directions, and it was hard to miss the right door since the six foot tall, two legged fox stood outside it. Wearing the same brightly colored clothes as the day before, the fox gave the little girl a huge grin.
"Well, what a lovely little lady you are, sweetie. What's your name?"
"Jacki," she said with a frown. "Look, I know you're the fox, and that you're trying to get into that henhouse. It's not going to happen, so back off."
"Big talk from such a little lady."
"Go chase wooden boys," Jacki said. As the fox sputtered in surprise, she slipped through the door and slammed it on his face.
Inside, Jacki found a large, white, two legged rabbit, standing in the middle of a dozen nests, each nest held a hen, and each hen looked identical to the next, the same white feathers, and yellow legs and feet.
"Hello, Mr. Rabbit, I'm looking for Ku-wait the hen," Jacki said.
"That's very nice, little girl, but I'm the Easter Bunny, and I'm waiting for my eggs. If these hens have names, I didn't know it. Ku-wait?"
None of the hens responded to the name. Each of them clucked and strained and produced a multicolored egg for Easter. Except one, Jacki noted, and walked over to the hen that laid the golden egg. He watched as the hen moved aside. A geyser of black liquid bubbled up from the egg. "Ku-wait," the girl said and named the hen. He picked the bird up and carried her back to the room with Sadone the harp.
The Easter Bunny picked up the odd egg, and made a face. What little kid would want just a plain gold egg-one that spewed out black junk?
"Ku-wait, my precious Ku-wait," the harp sang out as Jacki walked into the room still carrying the bird.
With the best wishes of the Giant brothers, little Jacki left the castle with her hen and harp, and rode the beanstalk back down to ground level.
"Jack? Jacki?" Jacki's Mom asked, stunned at the sight of her new little girl.
Jacki handed over the hen and the harp then opened her carrying case. She took the mirror out. "Okay, mirror. I'm out of the castle, turn me back to me, please."
"I can't do it," the mirror said. "I can't unmake perfection, little lady. You are fabulous, as I promised, learn to love it!"
And she did. Jacki used the golden eggs to buy her own franchised fast food chain, because she knew that she would grow up to be a beautiful and respected CEO, and that people would really listen to her ideas and opinions even though she was a girl. After all, anything can happen in a fairy tale.
-=-=-=-=-
Interlude Nineteen
Igor growled as McKenzie sent his latest story to the web. The man looked down at the dog. "What? Oh, I know I was a bit curt with dogs in that story but it had nothing to do with you. Really."
Growling some more, Igor turned his back on McKenzie and left the room.
"Lying, deceitful creatures, dogs," McKenzie muttered and shook his head. "The cat will be his friend. She'll purr and sit in my lap, unlike that fickle dog, Igor," McKenzie thought.
Standing and stretching, McKenzie absently rubbed at the dull pain in the area of his chest and left arm as he looked for Amen-whatzits. McKenzie found the cat curled up on the ledge just below the awning window almost five feet above the couch.
"How the hell did you get up there, cat?" Igor more actively ignored McKenzie, if that was possible.
"Come-ere fur ball. Come to Poppa McKenzie and get yourself some good rubbin'," McKenzie cajoled, but the cat, unsurprisingly, ignored him.
"Just like a cat," McKenzie groused. "Make me come to you."
Turning to Igor, McKenzie made one last offer. "How about it Igor? Last chance to make up and be friends again before I make Amen-cat-zits my new best friend?"
Igor offered a low growl in response and turned away.
"Sheesh! Okay cat, you're my new best friend-at least for today. Let's get you down from that perch and start the purr motor going." With that, McKenzie climbed onto the couch and reached up to get the cat, while it watched McKenzie's actions impassively. Then, just as McKenzie climbed onto the back of the sofa, balancing precariously as he moved within inches of the furred feline, it hissed and lashed out with extended claws.
Yanking back his hand was justifiable, but very much the wrong thing to do. Over balancing, McKenzie fell backward. He managed to get one foot back enough to bounce on the couch seat cushion, but it was not enough to recover and he continued to fall backward, although now his trajectory sent him even further into the room and he sailed almost to the kitchen table before hitting the carpeted floor hard.
Amazingly, McKenzie managed to avoid breaking anything, but the wind was knocked from his lungs and it took a minute to recover. Additionally, McKenzie realized he was going to have some major bruises and probably be walking very slowly for the next several days. When he did, McKenzie looked up from his position on the floor to see the cat, still on the window ledge, nonchalantly washing itself.
"What the hell is your problem cat? You don't want to get picked up, tell me. Igor does, you can too."
McKenzie looked at Igor for support only to see the dog laughing at him.
"Screw you too, dog! This can quickly become a pet free zone. And you too cat. You want back out on the street, just say so. Geez! What the hell does a man have to do to get a little friendship? You'd think I was asking you two to be friends, or mate, or something really weird. I…I…"
McKenzie had been working up to a really good snit when he was interrupted. With a confused look on his face, McKenzie felt a sharp pain in his chest. Knowing that he had not hurt himself there-almost everywhere else, but not there-McKenzie looked down as if waiting to see a knife suddenly sticking out of his chest. Nothing was there, but the pain was getting worse-and he was having trouble breathing. Then he started to get dizzy. When he slumped to the ground moments later, it was anyone's guess whether he had passed out from the pain or the lack of oxygen.
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER TWENTY
Tempus Fudges
as told to Andy Hollis and Jaye Michael
Chapter Twenty (of 21) -- Tempus Fudges
Welcome. My name is-er, was-Michal Rossetti Salieri, and, as you've probably guessed given that I've given the author permission to include my story amongst this series of stories, I've undergone a rather significant change. In deference to my long passed relative, I've certainly changed register, abandoned my basso profundo, moved up an octave, or any of several other rather poor analogies. I'll let Mr. Rigby explain. Certainly his skills, unlike mine, include the ability to spin a tale.
Oh, before I forget, don't expect an in depth discussion of the theories and procedures I've developed. First, Mr. Rigby is not adequately trained to understand them-of course I doubt anyone alive to day is-and because I have no intention of providing anyone else the fruits of my labors-at least not without some really impressive compensation. Anyway, enough! Here's what happened.
-=-=-=-=-
"Einstein was wrong." M. R. Salieri stood behind the lectern in the Oak Room staring out into a puddle of twenty or so apparently bored attendees. The conference management had turned off his microphone to avoid echoes and feedback there were so few in attendance. He cursed the ungodly hour. Who expected a groundbreaking research discovery to be announced at eight in the morning on a Sunday, but he gamely continued.
"Einstein was wrong. The single most basic premise in his ground breaking formula, E=mc2, was that he assumed the speed of light to be a constant. It is understandable how he would arrive at this assumption, just as Newton considered gravity to be a constant. At the time, given the available data, it seemed obvious. Newton never got to see the evidence that gravity varied from planetary mass to planetary mass, while for Einstein, in the absence of lasers and cesium chambers nothing seemed able to travel at a speed faster than light. Now we have quarks, we have red-shift data with clear breaks, we have…
Salieri wiped his forehead and looked out at his audience. No one was listening; well, maybe the guy leaning on the mop off by the empty and unattended bar area.
"Is anyone here actually listening to me?"
No one answered.
"Is anyone here from the government? The corporate sector? Academics? The Press?
"None of the above? You there!" he pointed to the only person actually sitting in the back row of the vast sea of seats in the conference room. "Why are you here?"
Instead of answering, the man put up his feet and stretched out across several of the chairs in his row. Salieri could almost imagine him snoring before his head touched the plastic seat bottom. Frustrated and angry, he squinted to see the other attendees more clearly and realized that the other four men were standing about wearing coveralls and leaning on brooms or against cleaning carts.
With a curse, Salieri packed up his papers and stormed out of the hall. It seemed like a cliché, but M. R. Salieri vowed he would not be trifled with. "I will get even," he snarled as he stormed past the bored cleaner. It was slight, but still there was some slight feeling of satisfaction as he kicked the mop out from under the cleaner and saw him fall as he left.
-=-=-=-=-
Always a loner, even as a child, he had been home tutored until he left for college, only to return after one semester, disgusted with the ignorance of his professors and the puerile material they presented in their lectures. Two more attempts at different universities ended similarly and his one attempt at a conference presentation was the final straw, convincing him that humanity had no redeeming value.
Salieri's mother died shortly thereafter, of a broken heart having watched her hopes and dreams for her son collapse if you believed the whisperings of some of the house staff. His father, already having difficulty dealing with the strange and reclusive man he called his son, and now devastated by the loss of his wife, threw himself into business. The result was he tripled the family's already sizable wealth in less than five years, but it was at the expense of his health and he died of complications after triple heart bypass surgery before the end of that fifth year.
Abandoned by both parents, Salieri withdrew even further into his own world. It was not long before only the committee that was responsible for handling his fortune-since he would not-and the occasional scientist with whom he would correspond on specific issues of interest to him were aware of his existence. More and more, his world revolved exclusively around the pursuit of knowledge and the application of that knowledge to new and unusual inventions. Only his strong moral standards, imbued early in life by a series of nannies and private tutors, prevented him from being what the world at large would call a mad scientist. Or did they?
-=-=-=-=-
"Finish this last circuit board. Connect the power supply. What else do I need to do?" Salieri spoke out loud as was his habit after long years alone. The cluttered tabletop upon which he worked stretched for nearly thirty feet in the center of his workroom in the basement of the family mansion. Every couple of feet there was another "project" in progress, some electrical, some biological, and some representing studies into even more abstruse forms of science. Along the wall behind him was a small fortune worth of bin after bin of tools and equipment, enough to bring a smile to almost any scientist in almost any area of specialization.
Taking the completed circuit board with him, Salieri strode purposefully to the Rube Goldberg device filling the remaining half of the huge room. Opening a panel he shoved the board into the last remaining empty slot.
"Yes! Done at last," he sighed and rubbed his tired eyes as he slumped tiredly to the floor. The last seventy-two hours had been a nonstop effort to finish the project that would finally prove, once and for all, his genius to an unknowing and uncaring world.
Like most truly great discoveries, it was both striking in its simplicity and remarkable in its complexity. It built on the complex concepts behind string theory with its multiple dimensions and found a simple mechanism for moving beyond theory and actually manipulate and least some of those dimensions.
-=-=-=-=-
Sorry to interrupt, but before you ask, let me ask you a question. If you had just developed a usable application of a device that permitted both time and inter-dimensional travel, would you stop and take a nap, or would you want to try it out immediately?
-=-=-=-=-
I couldn't wait. All thoughts of sleep fled before the excitement of finally being done, finally being ready to demonstrate that I truly was a genius magnitudes beyond Einstein, DaVinci and those other pikers. But then I realized my problem. I had spent so much time in conceptualization and development that I had never really thought what I would do if-I mean when-I finally finished. I knew I had to do something significant, something that the whole world would see and recognize my greatness. And that was the rub.
It's always the simple things that seem to be overlooked. With all my planning I neglected to consider how I others would realize what I was doing. If I went back in time and changed history, there would just be a new history waiting for me when I returned. No one would know what I had changed. The only way I would be able to prove it would be to take someone else back with me, but then there would only be the two of us, not the adoring world I so wanted.
The bottom line was, I went to sleep after all. This was going to need some thought and I did my best thinking in bed, when the mind can float free and make associations that might otherwise never occur.
-=-=-=-=-
I would not have thought it possible if I had not done it, but I slept around the clock-a full twenty-four hours. The good news is, the time spent sleeping had been well spent. When I woke up I realized that I was looking at the problem the wrong way. I wanted validation, proof the other's acknowledged me as the genius I was, but I didn't need to change the world and then came back to show off what I had done. Instead of having people impressed when I returned from some when or where after doing something amazing, I could just go somewhen and be someone amazing.
I know this narrative has been long on talk, and short on action, but if I don't give you this background information, Dr. Salieri has threatened to rewrite history to insure that I include it. Like most laws of nature there are limits or constants. Newton thought it was the speed of gravity, 32 feet per second. Einstein thought it was the speed of light, 186,000 miles per second. For course, both were wrong. The only constant is that what is, must be. Matter cannot be created from nothing and history, at least in one dimension, cannot be changed. My plan was to search the nearly limitless multiverse until I found a situation were I was world famous. The problem is, that I would have to accept all of the other variables and conditions present in that dimension. In other words, I might need to be a different person in a different dimension, but that would not be bad. My life as Michal Rossetti Salieri was not perfect; otherwise I would not wish so badly to be what I was not.
It took me only a month to decide.
-=-=-=-=-
"And…cut! That was perfect, as usual. Your best yet. No question, this is going to be another blockbuster. What will this be, your thrity-fifth?" the Director gushed excitedly while the crew cheered and applauded. The man and the woman in the huge, silk covered, oval shaped bed basked in the adulation being heaped upon them for several seconds before the man slipped out of the bed and added his applause to that of the others.
With complete disregard for the sheet slowly sliding down to settle on her lap, Michal Rossetti Salieri, shrugged her perfect alabaster shoulders and allowed her breasts to jiggle slightly. It was enough to silence the entire crew. Several shifted positions to ease growing pressures below the belt.
"Gentlemen, I thank you for your thoughts, but I would be nothing without you to make me look so good." With that she strolled regally off to her dressing suite. She never bothered to correct the director and tell him it was actually her thirty-eighth mega-hit. It was great to be adored and admired at last.
-=-=-=-=-
Interlude Twenty
Damn! I actually fainted. Maybe it was the shrimp I grabbed out of the refrigerator. They did taste a bit funny.
Oh, hell. Who am I kidding? It wasn't bad shrimp. It was my heart. I'm obese. I'm more than obese; I'm a freaking blimp. This isn't a matter of just loosing a bit of weight. I need to make some drastic changes. Janice and mom were right all along. I need to see that doctor, and soon. I'm going to call Janice and get an appointment ASAP. I'm too young to be with Jenna yet.
CONCLUDED IN CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Code Pink
as told to
Andy Hollis and Jaye Michael
Chapter Twenty-One -- Code Pink
Sirens wailed as the ambulance raced for the emergency room door. The two emergency medical technicians in the back of the vehicle kept a constant monitor on their patient's vital signs while the driver yelled into the radio.
"We'll need at least two people out on the deck-STAT. Maybe three. We've got a very large patient that needs to be moved.
On the stretcher, McKenzie Rigby groaned and opened his eyes. He groaned as the sights of the ambulance interior registered. "What?" he managed to croak out.
"Looks like you had a heart attack, Mr. Rigby," one of the medics said.
"Yeah, you panty-freak queen. You're going to find out what we do to sissy boys around here."
Hold it right there, McKenzie.
"Huh?" Mac looked up from the computer, scanning the room to find out who had talked. After all, it didn't sound like the cat and Igor never really did anything more than growl and groan.
You know people don't talk like that in real life. That person is a highly trained medical professional, and he wouldn't be jabbering at you like that.
"What's going on?" he asked twisting around in the chair as I kept trying to see whoever was speaking. "Who are you?"
I'm your internal editor, of course. You can call me, Carey.
"Carey? Wouldn't your name be McKenzie as well, since, as you say, you are my internal editor?"
You're not going to saddle me with some stupid name like McKenzie. Besides, how could we tell each other apart if I had the same name? Answer me that, Mister I'm-Going-to-be-Logical-About-This-Whole-
Disembodied-Voice-Thing?
"You don't speak very formally, I mean for an internal editor," Mac pointed out.
I don't care about your writing, you clod. I'm your internal editor. Have you noticed that pressure in your chest and the fact that you are having a hard time breathing?
"Now that you mention it, yes. But that happens all the time. Hey?! You mean I'm having a heart attack?"
On the nosey! It might be days before anyone finds you so why don't you call 911 now, while you still can? It's that or let your life flash before your eyes with me along to edit it.
Mac reached for the phone in spite of the ever increasing pain. He dialed out 9-1-1 as someone knocked on the door. "Help," Mac sputtered out. "Heart attack."
"An ambulance is on the way, sir. Just stay calm and keep breathing."
The knocking grew louder. Then a key turned in the lock and David pushed his way inside.
"Uncle Mac?" Dave screamed as he ran over to the computer table and shook the man. "Uncle Mac?" David screamed again as he shook the man's shoulder. A second later, he grabbed the phone out of
McKenzie's now limp hand and heard a voice.
"Hello?" he offered hesitatntly.
"This is the nine-one-one operator. Who are you?"
"Uh, David. Mac-Mr. Rigby is my uncle. He looks like he's dead."
"Just hang on, son. The medics are on the way."
"Okay, I'd better call Mom."
Before the emergency operator could stop him, David hung up and called home. Igor licked McKenzie's face, and David looked up in time to see the cat, Amencatep, bolt out the still open apartment door.
"Mom," he half shouted into the phone. "It's Uncle Mac. I think he's had a heart attack. He must have called 911 and there's an ambulance on the way here."
"Does he have a pulse?"
"Yeah," David answered as he felt Mac's neck. "It's, like, really fast."
"I'm on my way, sweetheart. You stay there until the ambulance comes. If it gets there before me, go with Uncle Mac to the hospital and I'll meet you there, instead."
"Sure, Mom. I will," David promised as he heard sirens outside. "I think the ambulance is here."
David stood outside watching the ambulance leave, with sirens blaring and lights flashing, with his uncle on board. They wouldn't let him go with Uncle Mac, something about being a minor. He frowned as he saw his mother's car turning onto the street right in the ambulance's path. She swerved out of the way just missing the ambulance. David started to wave to her in hopes of catching her attention before she followed the ambulance and left him here at Uncle Mac's apartment.
"Watch out!" David's wave turned to a horrified shout as he saw Amencatep dart across the road in front of his mother's car.
Janice swerved the car again, this time to avoid the cat, and stomped on the brakes. The result was a sideways skid, right into a large tree.
"Mom!" the boy screamed as he raced to the car. Yanking the door open, he stood and gaped at the sight of his mother, lying motionless in the car seat. "Mom?"
There was no response.
David knew better than try to help directly. He opened the back door, reached into his mother's purse and retrieved her cell phone. He dialed 911 again.
-=-=-=-=-
"Do not vorry about a zing, senor Rigby. Ich bin Antoinette, und I am your nurse for the evening, if youse please."
Mac heard the voice from a mile away. He heard the constant beep of his heart monitor overheard, and the usual sounds of a busy Emergency Room: kids crying, staff yelling, and nurses pushing equipment up and down the halls.
He licked his lips, and tried to focus on the tall, blonde woman standing over his gurney. "Don't I know you?"
"Wee wee, monsur Big Mac. Do not play ze cat und mouse wiz me, I beg you. You remembers your Antoinette."
"But I wrote you," Mac protested. "You're from the Cathouse. Dr. Morouser and Madam Gatochateu. You aren't real."
"Ah, but signore, there is real and there is real. Remember da cat. If eet is real, zen vhy cannot I be real aussi-how you say, also. Vas is happenink to you now is very real, wouldn't you agree?"
"I want a real nurse," Mac half shouted as he tried to sit up on the gurney. "I…" His words turned to an anguished scream as he felt his chest being crushed. Pain shot up into his jaw and down his left arm as part of his heart muscle died from the lack of oxygen.
"Code Blue," Antoinette shouted. "Code Blue in the ER!" She looked down at the patient lying unconscious on the bed struggling to breath. "Code Pink!" she added just above a whisper as she smiled knowingly.
The first doctor raced into the room and almost knocked the tall, blonde nurse to her knees in his rush. He positioned his arm for a pericardial thump, watched the monitor, and pounded Mac's chest with his closed fist. He tried again before shouting for the defibrillator.
"Clear!"
Twice the doctor jolted McKenzie's heart, and still the monitor showed no sign of improvement.
"Epinephrine in a cardiac syringe," he shouted, then took the syringe from Antoinette. After three doses injected straight into McKenzie's heart, the monitor showed the heart rate slowing down, back into normal sinus rhythm. "Get a line in with lidocaine and monitor…."
He glanced down at the syringe. Something was wrong. The pink stuff inside could not possibly be epinephrine. "What is this?" he asked, already fearing that he knew what it was.
"Oh, Herr Monsur Doctore, you asked for ze epinephrine."
"But this is estrogen, isn't it?"
"Si, si, yavohl. Estrogen, epinephrine, same zing. It vorks like charm on senorita Big Mac."
"Doctor?" Another nurse called out. "Look at the patient!"
"Holy Mother of God," the man said watching his patient visibly shrink on the gurney-and it kept on shrinking, as if it was folding back into itself. He turned back to Antoinette, but the girl was gone, as if by ancient magic.
On the litter, McKenzie's frame seethed and shifted as skin and muscles shrank against the bones. Years of culinary abuse melted away as the hormonal balance changed from male to female.
Five minutes later, a young woman, all fresh faced with unblemished skin lay on the bed in place of the man having the heart attack. The woman was less than a quarter the size of the man that had been there moments before. She was also beautiful, with long tawny blonde hair and a face to make a supermodel jealous.
"What do we do now?" the nurse asked the doctor, who could only shake his head. "I think he-she-whatever-might notice this."
"If she doesn't notice," the doctor commented staring at the girl's face. "I'm asking her out."
-=-=-=-=-
McKenzie woke with a flutter of eyelids. Gradually, she opened her eyes and glanced around the hospital room with a frown on her face. Something wasn't right, and she couldn't pinpoint the problem. But, she was alive, heart attack or no.
"Good morning, sweetheart," a voice said, from far away.
Focusing on the voice, McKenzie made out her mother's face. "Mom?" she choked out, then cleared her throat. Her voice sounded odd.
"It's okay, darling. Everything will be fine. You're alive, and in much better shape than you were when they brought you in here, but there was a slight problem?"
"Slight?" McKenzie asked. "Slight? I feel totally wrong. My voice sounds totally wrong. What happened? That nurse…."
"Yes, apparently that was the cause of this, Darling. She gave you the wrong medication while they were working on you."
McKenzie managed to hold up one arm. She stared at it for a moment, then studied the long, tapered fingers that adorned her hand. She choked back a scream. "This can't be for real. What did she give me?"
"Estrogen. Well, estrogen plus a bunch of other medications that the doctors here still haven't identified," Mrs. Rigby answered slowly, not sure if her new daughter would understand. "Instead of epinephrine, the nurse gave the doctor estrogen to inject into your heart. It caused some…changes."
"But changes like that aren't possible," McKenzie insisted. He studied his hands, with the long, slender fingers, tapered nails, and let his vision take in his slender, almost hairless arms. Slowly, he pulled the sheet up and looked down at the good-sized lumps underneath. "Okay, I never thought changes like that were possible."
Mrs. Rigby sighed, and pulled her chair closer to the bed. "There's something else."
"What? Now that I'm your daughter instead of your son you're going to kick me out of the family?"
"No, of course not. It's David. He needs you now, more than ever. I won't be able to take care of him for that much longer."
"What do you mean? Where's Janice?"
"They didn't tell you?" Mrs. Rigby asked, suddenly quiet. The elderly woman took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, yet at the same time seemed to shrink into herself. Mac was getting really worried now.
"I guess there's no easy way to say it. Are you sure you're ready for this my dear? I don't want to hurt you. I can wait until you've had a bit more time to recover…"
"I may have changed," Mac laughed. "But you certainly haven't. How about coming to the point, just once, Mom?"
"Janice died in a car accident shortly after the ambulance brought you here. She was on her way to your apartment after David called her and told her you'd collapsed. She ran into a tree. She died instantly.
Even worse, David is missing. He wasn't at your apartment and he wasn't back at Janice's house. Social services is trying to find him and they may involve the police very soon."
McKenzie shuddered for a moment before she broke down crying.
-=-=-=-=-
Interlude Twenty-One
It was an oversized casket, vaguely reminiscent of a piano crate, but with a smooth mahogany finish. Of course, that wasn't very surprising considering McKenzie's girth. It wasn't even surprising that it was a closed casket. That was a request direct from McKenzie's will. What was surprising was how many mourners there were considering how few people were still alive in the Rigby family, and even to David's young eye, some of them appeared to be a bit…odd, as it were.
The gravesite was surrounded with flower arrangements, more than David had ever seen. Apparently, most of them were from a Ms. Everes of Carlico Industries. The notes apologized for not being able to be at the funeral due to a previous business engagement and offered sympathies.
Of course Grandma was there, standing to David's left as they stood before the gravesite. She had done an amazing job of keeping David's spirits up while organizing two funerals and an adoption.
Then, there was Caroline, the social worker who had overseen David's adoption by Grandma Rigby. She stood to David's right, her blonde hair blowing in the gentle breeze. Behind her were several friends of hers that came to offer David and Grandma moral support in this difficult time. Cindy and Maggie were redheads, while the second blonde, Jacki, had absolutely luxuriant, long flowing hair, but wore a rather austere, male-cut business suit. Jacki stood a head taller than any of the other women. She seemed to be Caroline's closest friend, always standing nearest to the social worker, always with a protective hand at Caroline's back. Maybe they were sisters. From their conversation, carefully designed to avoid painful topics like death, it seemed that Jacki was an account executive for an ad agency as well as a model for some hair care products with a successful series of television commercials, which was probably why she seemed vaguely familiar to David.
Actually, there were several rather famous people at the funeral, made even more surprising when one considered that McKenzie Rigby had worked as a night security guard. David wondered when his uncle had had the opportunity to meet some of them. Most notable was Michal Rossetti Salieri, the internationally renowned star of stage and screen.
Another actress was at the funeral too. David had never heard of her, unlike Ms. Salieri, but Victoria Lane had been introduced as one by Freddy, the man who had accompanied her. Freddy was one of the stranger people at the funeral with his bright blue leisure suit and his constantly moving hands, but he was more surprising for the fact that he was one of the few males there.
There was even royalty at the funeral. David really had no idea why they were there, but considering the rather large and evil looking guards hovering near them, he decided that cowardice would actually be the better part of valor and had no intention of approaching Princess Maryanna Magdelaine Eustacia Tatiana von Korngold of Slovavia to ask. Similarly, the rather sharp knives being displayed by the swarthy guards surrounding Princess Amechdela and her consort were daunting, but at least she was his age. David decided that, if he got the opportunity, he would at least try to talk to her to see how she had met uncle Mac.
Uncle Mac's ex-girlfriend was at the funeral too, although she seemed to be hanging in the background. David guessed that she was there because she still cared for Uncle Mac, but didn't want to talk to
Grandma or him after the break up. Some of the people David saw her talking too were a bit weird though.
One was a lady with skin that was so smooth that she reminded David of a mannequin. Another was a really ugly looking fat man with skin so flabby he looked more like a blob than a person. He had introduced himself as coming from somewhere called Gygaxion or Gigantion, or something and talked funny. There was a really pretty teenaged girl with a Russian accent and wearing some of the highest heels David had ever seen. He wouldn't have noticed if Caroline had not commented on them to Jacki. The Russian girl was talking to two other girls who also had strange accents. One was wearing a full-length black dress and a huge hat with a veil so thick that you couldn't see her face. She kept standing under a large Elm tree, seeming afraid to step outside the circle of shade that it provided.
Then there was the group that looked like they were escapees from a circus. There was one guy with a leisure suit as bright as the one that Freddy guy was wearing. He kept asking people if they wanted to buy stuff. There were these two little guys with him, not much taller than David himself, that kept roaring at people and telling everyone that they were giants and that people needed to do whatever they said or else.
No one from David's school had shown up, but there were a couple of kids about David's age at the funeral. Unfortunately, both sets seemed to have paired off. The two girls kept giggling and whispering to each other as they pointed smiled and waved at David. They were pretty, but David wasn't ready for girlfriends yet. The other two, a boy and a girl, were holding hands. David wasn't certain, but about half way through the service, he thought he saw the girl fly off carrying the guy.
The only problem had been when the casket broke the straps holding it up and it went crashing down into the grave. Somehow it dropped smoothly into the pit without popping open or anything gross like that, so everyone tried ignore it. The minister intoned the words "ashes to ashes, dust to dust," threw a handful of dirt on the casket and everyone but the lady with the veil standing under the tree began to file by to do the same.
After the last few stragglers filed past the grave to drop in a flower or some dirt, the group milled around, apparently waiting for something rather than moving off to their cars. The last mourner was a tall, rotund man sporting a full head of gray hair with black stripe down the center. He carried a rather large cat that looked a lot like the one that Uncle Mac had had. He was also surrounded by a gaggle of women who were so voluptuous as to be caricatures of women, if the snide comments of some of the other attendees were any indication.
One of the women whispered to the man, who had previously been introduced to us as a Dr. Morouser. He shook his head, but the woman whispered back and gave a look that could only be described as pleading and he relented. Smiling brightly, the woman, a blonde, approached Grandma and offered her condolences, although she seemed to be smiling as if she had some special secret rather than looking somber.
"Mademoiselle Rigby, on behalf of Mein Herr Doktor, I'd like to offer yahs our sympathy und ask about vouz daughter. Ve doesn't see her here."
Grandma looked the woman up and down distastefully before answering. "Thank you for your concern. McKenzie is obviously in a better place, as is Janice."
"Oh nein, no, nada. I meant vouz other daughter, Jenna."
"You know Jenna?" Grandma was surprised.
"That's enough Antoinette." The man with the distinguished looking hair interrupted the woman. She immediately bowed her head and respectfully stepped aside, allowing the man to step forward as she stepped back to join the other three.
"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Morouser and I am a genius. I represent most of the other mourners when I say that we are more concerned about your new daughter's life than your son's death."
Grandma was flabbergasted.
"Grandma, what's going on?" David asked, tugging gently on the older woman's sleeve when she didn't respond.
"I don't know, David," she finally answered and turned back the doctor to see that the rest of the mourners had gathered around them. It might have been scary except for the fact that they all looked so friendly and concerned.
"David's question is an excellent one, Mrs. Rigby. Would you like me to explain?"
"Yes, please."
"Why don't we move over to that bench? This might take a few moments to explain." When Grandma made no objection, Dr. Morouser gently too her hand and escorted her over to a horseshoe shaped bench under the shade tree where the woman with the veiled hat stood. The other mourners separated to allow them to reach it, but then reformed around them, even closer than before.
Grandma chose a seat to one side of the bench with David beside her, being hugged tightly while the doctor gracefully seated himself on the other side of the "U," facing them.
"I think you were going to explain something?" Grandma prompted once he was seated.
"Like I said, this will take a bit of explaining," Dr. Morouser sighed. I need to start by making several statements of fact. While several may be a bit hard to accept, please believe me when I say that they are completely true.
"First, there are other dimensions."
Grandma snorted and began to get up.
"Please, wait. I warned you this would be difficult. Besides, I'm guessing that McKenzie Rigby developed his love of storytelling from you. Do you really have somewhere to go that is so important you would miss the chance to hear a tall tale, not that that's what I'm going to tell you, but still…"
Grandma sat back down and waved the doctor on.
"Like I said, 'First there are other dimensions.' I don't mean the eight, twelve, twenty or however many the string theorists claim describe the universe; I mean the kind of dimensions where other people live.
"Second, except for a very few of us, we are all from different dimensions.
Grandma rolled her eyes, but remained seated.
"Third, all of us owe our very lives to McKenzie Rigby."
"Excuse me," Grandma interrupted. "I loved my son very much and thought he had the potential to do great things, but even a mother has to recognize some truths and McKenzie was no hero."
"You misunderstand, Madam. McKenzie did not save our lives. We owe our lives, our very existences, to him.
"Huh?" David looked around, wondering who said that, until he realized that he had and scrunched down closer to his grandmother.
"Mr. Rigby authored a variety of stories and published them on the Internet. We are the characters from those stories. Had your son not written those stories, we would not be. I guess, in some way, we are all your grandchildren."
He stopped to let Grandma stop choking. David started to pat her on the back only to find that it was already being done. Jenna had returned.
"I'm sorry I was late folks. Car trouble. Almost missed my own funeral."
"Hello, Jenna," Dr. Morouser greeted the newcomer with his usual leer. "I see you're looking well."
"Yes, thank you, Doctor. I heard you explaining what happened to my mother, please don't let me interrupt." With that she took a seat on the other side of Mrs. Rigby from David and placed a hand around her mother, briefly reaching beyond to lovingly ruffle David's hair.
"Ah-hum. Yes, of course," Dr. Morouser cleared his voice before continuing.
"Where was I?"
"Vous is ze characters," Tiffany, Brigette, Simone and Antoinette, his "wards" shouted out in unison before giggling, also in unison.
"Hush! That was a rhetorical question," the doctor grumbled, but then continued.
-=-=-=-=-
Togetherness
On top of Olesmuki Mountain in the southern continent of Gygaxion there was a brown lump. It was staring up into space and thinking when it saw what looked like a shooting star. As a scientist, it was fascinated by all things not of Gygaxion. It had even had the opportunity to take a sample from another world once.
Seeking to better examine the phenomenon, it modified its shape to create a parabolic receiver and sensors in the electromagnetic range. It took a moment to focus on the object, but then it rippled with shock. It was a red and blue flying creature of a shape very much like the human it had examined. Even more amazing, the human creature was flying toward it.
"Greetings," the caped human said as it gently landed beside it. "Is this Gygaxion and are you the blob that studied a human specimen named McKenzie Rigby on your spaceship?"
"Yes. May I help you, uh …."
"They call me Superkid, and yes you can. I'm looking for a, I believe the politically correct term is, polymorphic intelligence who recently studied a human male of outstanding wisdom called McKenzie Rigby?"
"Why yes. What can I do for you?"
"You can come with me to meet several other people whose lives have been touched by him."
"You mean I might be able to speak to the one and only McKenzie Rigby once again? I am overwhelmed by the honor. Take me anywhere you wish."
The blob rolled itself into a small, hard ball and bounced into Superkid's arms. Faster than a speeding tall building, they were off.
-=-=-=-=-
"I am NOT the creation of some human's imagination." When the conversation had started, a remarkably nondescript man of average size had been speaking, but as his anger grew so did his size. He was now at least ten feet tall and his skin had changed from the unhealthy pallor of one who spends too much time indoors to a ruddy red similar to that of a smoldering ember and he barely fit inside the circle drawn on the floor that he made every not to cross.
"Are you not known by the name Puppick?" Michal Rossetti Salieri, internationally known actress and physicist calmly asked, yet again as she stared upward at the demon looming menacingly over her.
"Arch Demon Sloth Puppick is the name you puny humans know me by, yes."
"And do you remember how you escaped from Castle Dracul?" Michal double-checked some papers on the clipboard in her hand. "Excuse me Castle Fodor."
"Of course. I remember all my victims. The Whiting brothers were especially tasty…"
"Don't attempt to play games with me. I meant Melvin Dodson."
"Have you met the lovely Melvin?" the demon sneered disdainfully down at the woman questioning him.
"Actually, yes. Several times now," Michal responded solemnly.
"Is she the reason why I am held in this boring dimension against my will?"
"Well, Melvin helped us find…"
"Us, there are more of you pathetic humans about? There goes the neighborhood."
"As I was saying," Michal tried again, "Melvin helped us find you, but you are here because of McKenzie Rigby; not because of any desire to see you again on Melvin's part."
"My little succubus would not wish a repeat of the best sex she will ever have? I'm shocked," the demon growled, yet still managed to sound insincere. Then, he examined Michal appraisingly and added, "Of course, you will do quite nicely as a replacement. Release the ward and you shall receive pleasure beyond your wildest imaginings-before I destroy you."
"There are no wards," Michal calmly replied. "But I should warn…"
"Warn me later-if you survive. First you shall pleasure me." With that the demon growled and grabbed at the woman's blouse. It's intent was to rip it from her body. The result was that it's clawed hand stopped less than an inch from her body.
"What trickery is this?" it asked as the creature's formidable muscles contracted and flexed as it struggled to grab Michal. "The ward is on, you liar."
"No, I did not lie. There is no ward. On this world, in this dimension, violence, such as the rape you attempted, is not permitted."
"Impossible!" The demon spit the words out, still struggling to reach Michal, whose response was the light tinkle of laughter.
"A demon, a being of magic, alleges impossibility? Now I've heard everything."
The Arch Demon Sloth Puppick growled and continued to struggle. It swore to itself that it would not be denied this taste mortal, but as the seconds turned into minutes, if finally gave up.
Michal sighed. She knew that the creatures of this dimension could not be injured by violence, but she had not been certain that it would apply to a creature of magic like the demon.
"Walk with me Sloth. I have a story to tell you."
-=-=-=-=-
"So we all got together," Michal stopped to brush several strands of hair from her face. There was a breeze picking up and David shivered and huddled closet to Grandma. "It took a while, and the debates were fascinating, albeit occasionally bitter, but we finally agreed that your son McKenzie was our creator and that he was in trouble. We did what any self-respecting honorable group of characters would do. We saved him and made him one of us."
David's Tale
David stopped typing and wondered if that would be enough. It had taken quite a while, but Grandma finally believed and then she and Jenna had explained it to David. Uncle Mac had almost died from a heart attack. Instead, he had been saved by being turned into a young woman named Jenna. There was a lot of discussion back and forth between Grandma and Jenna. Mostly it was Grandma asking Jenna if she had been writing all those stories because she wanted to be a woman and Jenna insisting that they were just something to write about.
The boy didn't care about those stories. There was only one fact that was important, he thought. Uncle Mac had written stuff and it had come true. The first chance he got, David snuck into Jenna's room and turned on her computer. Starting the word processing program, David began to type.
Mom was alive and well. It had been someone else in the car.
-=-=-=-=-
THE END