THE THING (2020)

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020

Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.

Author's Note: A silly, cheeky tribute to John W. Campbell, John Carpenter, and Bill Lancaster. Any overlaps in copyright I cede to them.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

RT

START

"Who could that be?" asked Norris.

He and the others watched the red car race toward the mansion. It veered crazily along the narrow driveway. Suddenly, it smashed into a large oak tree. Flames flickered. The tree started to burn. The lawn started to turn brown.

"The magnolias!" cried Clark.

"Holy shit!" yelled Childs.

"Get the fire extinguishers!" shouted Blair.

"Magnolias? There's a burning car and your thinking of the fucking magnolias? What about the lilac tree?" shouted Fuchs.

"I don't want anything to do with this," muttered Nauls who slunk away to the kitchen.

-----000-----

"Mac, it'll be ok. Nothing to it. The clouds will clear up a tad," said Bennings.

Mac looked out the window at the blue sky. It was sunny and a pleasant 20 degrees Celsius outside. Mac looked at Bennings who shrugged his shoulders.

Mac said, "Fine. You say the car came from that dark, creepy, strange mansion on the other side of the evil-looking, imposing, and really high mountain. I'll check it out. But I'm not taking Dr. Cooper with me!"

Dr. Cooper looked at Mac bashfully. "You don't have to, Mac. But I really do like riding in that big F150 with you.... You know." His voice was meek: just like, he thought, Mac had always liked it.

-----000-----

The front doors of the grim-looking mansion were open. The two men entered. What they saw staggered them.

There was the usual detritus of a Bacchanalian femdom fest. Empty champagne glasses. Chocolate wrappers discarded carelessly on the floor. A stray pink stocking. A broken fur-lined handcuff. Soiled panties. A large dildo under a couch. Helium filled balloons stuck to the ceiling. And Celine Dion playing in the background.

"Where is everyone?" Dr. Cooper asked to no one.

"Fuck," said Mac.

"Not yet. There's more searching to do here," replied Dr. Cooper to deny himself immediate gratification. Mac looked at him in astonishment.

The two men proceeded upstairs.

"Mac, over here!" Dr. Cooper cried. "Look!" He pointed to a large, humansized wardrobe filled with French maid outfits. On the sides of the wardrobe was stenciling. The stenciling was in script, human script, not alien script. The script was in all caps, bold, underlined Arial 256 font and spelt: 'Harkton Maids Academy No. 2871-F'.

"Whatever it was, those dirty dozen doms let it out," Mac muttered.

"Pardon?" asked Dr. Cooper.

"Are you wearing your hearing aids?" Mac asked with exasperation.

-----000-----

"Mac, over here!" Dr. Cooper cried yet again. "Look!" He pointed to a small, frail, tiny, puny, scrawny, skinny French maid sprawled on a child's bed in the maid's room.

"This stinks!" Mac observed.

Dr. Cooper nodded his agreement. "Chanel No. 5," he opined.

Mac looked around and found what he was looking for immediately next to him: a switch. He lightly hit the French maid with it. Nothing. He hit the French maid with full force. The French maid whimpered in delight.

"Now what?" asked Dr. Cooper.

-----000-----

A few hours later:

"We found this," Dr. Cooper said to the assembled others once he and Mac returned.

Mac flung open the wardrobe doors. There were gasps and cries of horror as he unveiled what they had brought back.

All the other men stared in astonishment at the wide variety of exquisitely sewn, lace trimmed, satin, nylon, and light cotton assortment of French maid clothing. And the dozens of 6-inch heels. And the many varied hosiery: sheer, control-top, toeless, opaque, matte, sheen, and so on, and so on, endlessly so on.

"We also found this," Mac declared, as he turned on the video and streamed it on the big screen that was awesome for watching football, soccer, and basketball (but not golf...).

The images were unusually disturbing (except on SissyFictionWild websites): dozens of French maids cleaning the other mansion, from top to bottom, from head to toe, inside and out, from left to right, and there and back again. Vacuums. Swiffer dusters. Javex. Cleaning rags. Brooms. Mops.

"I need to study this," Blair quietly said as he gently fingered the wardrobe.

-----000-----

"This," Blair pointed to a large, heavy, metal bolt on the doors of the wardrobe, "is masculine. All of us understand it. It's large. It's heavy. It's metal. And dark grey; don't forget dark grey. Masculine.

"But what we have here," Blair said to the others as he opened the doors and pointed to the contents, "is not masculine at all."

He paused because he knew that pauses in short stories --- like pauses in novels and literature, like pauses in plays and movies, and like pauses in life, real life --- served no purpose except dramatic ones. Here, he simply wanted the attention that a drama-seeker like himself deserved. Rightly deserved. Despite what his overbearing mother, his loathsome older sisters, and his despicable ex-wives had told him.

"That's sissy," he softly whispered in his professional opinion as he slowly wrapped a garter belt around his wrist.

"I don't want anything to do with this," muttered Nauls who slunk away to the basement.

-----000-----

A few hours later:

"Hey! Everybody! Get down here fast!" Windows shouted at the top of his voice. The others raced into the room. They let out a collective gasp: several of the French maid uniforms, pantyhose, and heels were missing.

"Who had the key to the wardrobe?" shouted Garry.

"You were the last one!" retorted Palmer.

"No, he did!" yelled Norris, as he pointed to Blair.

"That stuff wouldn't fit me even if I wanted it!" countered Blair.

"The best outfits are gone!" shrieked Fuchs. Everyone shut up at his remark and stared hopelessly at the cedar-lined, spacious interior of this delightful Baroque wardrobe.

-----000-----

A few hours later:

"This is a big fucking problem," Mac forcefully said in his baritone voice as he surveyed the horror.

Everyone had gathered yet again in yet another room in the mansion. There, they had seen with their own eyes the immaculate, shiny floor, the polished veneer furniture, the dust-free bookshelves, and the shining windows.

"There's a sissy on the loose," Mac said grimly. "And it's cleaning this place. Pretty soon, our very masculine manly of most masculinity manliness weekends for men only is going to be sissified."

"I think we should call our wives and ask them for help," begged Herbert who was not a character in any written, staged, or filmed production of 'The Thing'.

"Are you fucking crazy! They'll never let us live this down if we do that!" shouted Garry.

"What if you're wrong?" countered Childs.

"Then you're wrong! Again! You're always wrong. You've been wrong since high school," said Dr. Cooper, remembering that sordid incident with Childs back in grade 10 behind the boys' locker room.

-----000-----

"Look here," said Blair, holding up a pair of frilly panties. "I found these in the hamper. Very mysterious. Very mysterious."

"They belong to my wife. She wore them yesterday before she and the others went to the City for the play," remarked Norris.

"Oh, sorry." Blair's comment was a meek excuse.

Norris knew that he had just caught Blair in a sissy act, but he didn't want to alert him to his suspicions. Not yet anyway. It could wait until night. With a smoldering fire. With fluted champagne glasses. And Celine Dion playing in the background.

-----000-----

"Noooooo!!!" The loud cry pierced the tranquility of the lovely mansion. Everyone raced to the source: the kitchen.

"Fuck!"

"Oh no!"

"I don't believe it!"

"Will this horror ever end?"

They gazed upon the disaster.

All the chips, peanuts, cashews, Doritos, chicken wings, French fries, doughnuts, coke, beer, vodka, whiskey, Scotch, marijuana, THC, CBD, and brownies --- all the good food --- was put away neatly in several boxes. The boxes collectively were squarely lined up with the tiling on the floor. Precisely centred on top of each immaculately taped box was a piece of 8.5 x 11 paper with one inch margins. On each piece of paper were listed in an unknown sans serif 14 pitch font the box's contents.

Worse, on the kitchen island were several trays of washed and sliced vegetables and fruit, recyclable bottles of sparkling mineral water, and low calorie biscuits.

"I don't want anything to do with this," muttered Nauls who slunk away to the garage.

-----000-----

"I've devised a cunning test to find which of us has turned into a sissy," Mac said.

"What's the test?" asked Garry.

"Does it hurt?" asked Blair.

"Oprah is on in 15. Will we be done by then?" Bennings asked.

"Shut up! I'm about to tell you all about the test. Now fucking shut up!" Mac was getting mad. He started pacing around the room. "Sissies like to clean. Real men have wives for that. Real men don't clean," he began.

"I have a Filipino maid and no wife. Where does that leave me?" Palmer asked.

"Shut up and smoke some more shit," Mac replied. "So, what I figure is this test by which we see a sissy forced to come out of hiding. To reveal themselves. To show themselves. To demonstrate---"

"Get on with it!" Someone shouted.

Mac moved to the door to another room. "I reckon a sissy can't stand a mess. A sissy can't help but want to clean up a mess. It's in their nature. It's who they are. It's what they---"

"Get on with it!" Someone shouted.

"So, I created the biggest mess possible in this next room," he pointed to a door, "and left some vacuum cleaners, brooms, mops, feather dusters, rags, and buckets --- and Lysol for COVID-19 --- all over the place in that room. And I left the TV on the NFL channel. I figure no sissy can resist the temptation to clean the place and to switch channels to the Shopping Network."

He looked at each of his friends in the eye. Several of them looked back at him. With anticipation. With hunger. With lust. Frankly, it started to creep Mac out.

"Anyway, we can't have any sissies in this group. We all wear jeans, plaid, baseball caps, and work boots. No sissies." He grew serious. "We all watch football." He grew even more serious. "We eat greasy pizza."

He opened the door.

-----000-----

All his friends threw themselves into the room and picked up some cleaning utensil or tool and started sissy-handling the chaotic mess straight away.

They were done in minutes.

Mac stared at them. He was flabbergasted.

"All of you?"

They collectively shrugged their shoulders and murmured: "sorry, bud,"; "it's just that way,"; 'easy and quick actually if you put your mind to it!"; "my wife is happy when I do it,"; and so on, and so on, endlessly so on.

"For how long?"

They collectively grunted and groaned: "wedding,"; "moving in together,"; "after I met her mother,"; "third date,"; and so on, and so on, endlessly so on.

Mac hung his head. He kicked the floor. He sighed.

He stood defeated, alone, surrounded by his friends.

"Is it any fun?" he asked, resignedly.

END

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020