My horribly modified body fit snugly into the cylindrical space of the garbage can, nestled in among the old newspapers, the eggshells & coffee grounds. Martinette loomed above me in the moonlite. With that trashcan lid and pooper scooper in her hands she appeared to me as a fierce Barbarian warrior queen brandishing her shield and battle axe. Her beauty still took my breath away...

"Goodbye Gregor. There's just no place in my life for you anymore. With all the remodelling we're doing, and how ratty you've gotten- you're embarrassing! You're headed for Garbage Island now, a fitting end for a worthless thing like you. You were a poor excuse for a man, but perhaps you'll make adequate landfill..."

She laughed evilly as she emptied the pooper-scooper out onto my head and locked the trashcan firmly into place above me, plunging me into absolute blackness...

.

.
My origins, you ask. How did I become an incorporeal diety worshipped by millions? It's like nothing you may have heard, or might imagine. Once I was a man much like you...

Or no, probably nothing like you. I was never very decisive, or assertive; there was a crucial element of manhood that I always felt I lacked. I had "issues", as we used to say in those chaotic confused times, and my dear wife Martinette struggled futilely to understand. Hers was a personality that was the diametric opposite of mine. Strong, confident, she never once seemed to doubt herself. Good traits I suppose for one of our state's top surgeons. Gradually I came to defer to her in regards to every decision within our household.

Then when I lost my job at the dildo factory (I was quality control, I had to shove every tenth dildo that came down the conveyor belt up my ass and assess its various qualities...) my self esteem reached its all-time low. I put in a few resumes here and there, but there didn't seem to be much call for an industrial butt boy...

So mostly I hung around the house and indulged in my secret hobby---you see I was a crossdresser---always being sure to be back in my drab male garb and get all the makeup off my face when Frau Doktor Martinette got home from the hospital at six...
.

.
CHAPTER ONE: SISSY SURPRISE
.

My story begins more or less on the morning of December 22 1998, back when such a date had meaning. Martinette had suddenly announced that she would be leaving for a few days, flying off to some emergency preparedness conference in Las Vegas.

"Another conference? But you just went to one last weekend! That TRIAGE AND TRIBULATION seminar."

"I know. But the new millenneum is just over a year away. My hospital has to be ready for it, and this seminar, CARING THROUGH THE CHAOS is vital to that."

"If you ask me all this Y2K business is just some Chicken Little story. I really don't think all this terrible stuff is going to happen because of a little confusion about the date in some computers..."

"But I didn't ask you, did I? Do you really think some stay at home dad knows more than the top experts in the field? Than the keynote speaker, Dr. Recshaun from the Thanatos Institute, a close personal friend of mine?"

"You're right Dear," I sighed, suddenly chagrined at my unwarranted arrogance. "I really shouldn't have an opinion. But I had really hoped we could spend Christmas together."

"Oh shut up! Of course we'll be spending Christmas together. I'll be home on the morning of the 24th. You know, not everybody starts celebrating the holidays in September. Believe it or not, some of us have responsibilities."

I cringed, "I just meant .............. You know, for Bruni."

"Well of course it's for Bruni. I said I'll be here. Now shut the fuck up!"

As soon as I dropped Martinette off at the airport the next morning I picked up a Christmas tree at the Boy Scout's lot, one of the last few sorry-looking trees they had left, then rushed home and changed.

Into Regina. A long bath and then shaving every part of me, and when I stuck on my long acrylic nails I didn't skimp on the glue. I wouldn't be going out or even answering the door until it came time to go meet Martinette's return flight...

As I waited for my nails to dry I lit up a JEZEBEL MENTHOL 200 and posed in front of the mirror with it. I thought I looked pretty sexy with the cigarette in my mouth so I stuck another one into each of my nostrils and one in each ear before deciding this was a bit much and removing these.

When I finally reappeared from the bathroom---my third cigarette in hand---our two year old was delighted. Brunhilde just loved Regina! That first night at dinner that she'd started babbling about this "nice lady" who plays with her I started to panic, until I realized that Martinette---barely glancing up from her LANCET magazine---had decided this Regina must be some imaginary friend of Bruni's...

Still, to be on the safe side I decided it was nap time for Brunhilde. I put her into her crib and taking great hits off of a fistful of ciggy-poos I blew smoke in her face, until my little darling got all confused and sleepy looking and went to sleep ..... Awwwwwwww!!

I was in my favorite backless blue dress, decorating our little tree and singing SANTA BABY along with THE BETTY BOOP CHRISTMAS ALBUM, when the front door opened.

"Well well, what have we here?" chuckled Martinette. It was an ominous sound. Cold and mocking.

"I can explain," I stammered.

She laughed evilly, "I don't think that'll be necessary. I always knew you were a little sissy faggot-"

"I'm not gay," I whimpered, "I like women."

"So do I, on occasion. And I have to admit you make a prettier than I would've imagined possible," she said, standing imperiously in front of me. Carressing my cheek. Exciting me. "But when I'm with a woman I have to be the one in charge. Oh you like that, don't you?"

As she cruelly squeezed my mouth in her fist I nodded as best I could, my eyes lowered submissively. This was a scene right out of my favorite, most forbidden fantasies.

"Do you promise to be an obedient little female plaything? Doing exactly as you're told?"

"Yes, I-"

She slapped me hard, "Your voice destroys the illusion. We'll need to work on it. Until then you will not speak unless I tell you too. Otherwise you must only nod or shake your head. Understand? Good. Now upstairs with you. My room, I think."

I nodded meekly and scurried up the stairs, where I was dressed in a corset so tightly confining that I not only could barely breathe, but my heart seemed to be struggling to function properly. I was tied spread eagle to the bed, and then she pretty well destroyed my man pussy with a Swiss Army strap-on dildo; stopping every fifteen minutes to engage the various attachments and laughing evilly.

When we were both spent and sated, she said, "You may speak now. Did you enjoy that?"

"Yes, Mistress," I said. For this was what I'd been instructed to call her.

"And I suppose you want me to untie you now?"

It had been incredible. An exquisitely terrifying and painful role-play experience. But now that I'd been brought to climax---my minescule 'clitty' of a penis having spurted its meager load of 'sissy juice' into the bedding---I'd had enough of being trussed up. "If you would."

"I wouldn't. You're going to stay my sissy slave forever. Mine and anyone I choose to give you too. And as far as you claims of not being into men ....... I think we'll have to expand your horizons in that regard," she said, and laughed evilly.
.

.
CHAPTER TWO: MY YEAR OF SPIRALLING AGONY
.

JANUARY

The new year was rung in with an evil laugh...

I spent my days in service to Martinette's every whim, and nights locked in the closet, while from the basement came the sounds of hammering, drilling, sawing and what might have been blasting with dynamite.

At last the basement was ready and I as I was led down there in my shackles I felt a mixture of curiousity and deep dread. It was about what I'd expected. The farthest, dimmest third of the basememt---farthest away from the steps and the room's one high little window had been sectioned off with iron bars and a jail cell door, with various manacles and eye bolts in the floor, ceiling and concrete walls.

"This will be your home now," announced the woman I was already thinking of quite automatically as Mistress, and laughed evilly.

I should have been aghast at finding myself locked in what could only be called a dungeon but I was relieved because it was so much more spacious than the closet I'd been sleeping in. There was even a bed here, to which my collar was attached by a chain. Mistress made me kiss the locks that went onto either end of the chain before she snapped them shut.

There was also a cold-water shower and a galvanized bucket for me to poop in. I was so happy. My own bucket!

"Thank you, Mistress!" I squealed, deleriously grateful and hating myself for my own submissiveness.

As she was leaving the basement, one foot on the stairs, and just before she flicked the wall switch off with an evil laugh---plunging the room into darkness---I noticed that another large part of the basement had been sectioned off, completely and rather professionally with dry wall spackle and paint. A stainless steel double door leading into it was labled OR.

"Or what?" I wondered. And since no one else was around to do it I laughed evilly.

.
FEBRUARY

I should have realized it wasn't the "or" but Operating Room. It is state-of-the-art, clean and brightly lit and full of gleaming machinery and fancy monitors with an operating table in the center. This is where Martinette and her mysterious male assistant---tall with rather nice hair and cold pitiless eyes, the two of them naked except for their surgical masks---realigned the bones in my feet and held them fast with pins, resulting in Barbie feet- so that I can now only walk in heels of no less than five inches. This is where my bottommost ribs were removed so the corset could constrict my waist to a frightening degree. And this is where I was given two saline breast implants, that had been cut out of a dead junky hooker by a friend of hers who works in the morgue.
.

MARCH

I was finally formally introduced to Martinette's assistant- Dr. Hugh G. Recshaun of the Thanatos Institute, who is now living with us, screwing my wife, and who I must address as Master.

I was given a second pair of breast implants, which make my tits look rather funny, bulging out at the sides, but I was assured that as more are added they will even out. Apparently there's no shortage of drug-overdosed hookers showing up at the morgue.

There was no kindness in Hugh, but at least I gained a sense of being useful for something. I was proud when I heard his grunts of pleasure, this implicit praise of my cocksucking abilities, that I had learned to do this so well- after being flogged into unconsciousness whenever I didn't...

But mostly I have to stand alongside the bed in my french maid uniform with a tray held out all night while they screw, drink absinth and snort cocaine, rubbing it all over each other and licking it off. I get to eat their cocaine boogers.
.

APRIL

I'm really coming to hate the OR.

I was on my hands and knees giving Master a blowjob when Mistress maliciously ground her cigar out on my ass. I couldn't help flinching from the pain.

"OW! THE BITCH BIT ME!!" screamed Hugh.

Martinette grinned from ear to ear as she took his coiled whip from the end table and offered it to him.

"No," he hissed, gingerly rubbing the dents in his pecker, "It's too late for that. If the little whore hasn't learned to control herself by now she never will. I think it's time for a more permanent solution. Let's get her down to the OR."

They took me down to the basement and yanked all my teeth out. I guess they did an okay job considering all the nitrous oxide. I wish they would have given me some.

"Oh thit, I have a lithp," I said the next time I tried to speak some hours later.

"I like it. You talk like a pussy. A pussy accent for a soft little pussy-hole like you!" said Martinette. And then she laughed evilly.
.

MAY

Do you like my earrings? They were my testicles, chromium plated, to match my new collar.
.

JUNE

Yesterday was Bruni's third birthday. I heard her party going on through the basement ceiling, Martinette and a bunch of moms who had brought kids from Brunhilde's age up to about six, is my guess, playing Bruni's SESAME STREET'S GREATEST HITS cd and sliding chairs around. Eating and playing kids' games.

So weird that a monster like Martinette would have such normal friends, and that none of them suspect the depraved miniature universe that lie beneath their feet, in which the mad Doktor keeps me as a slave and a sinister sort of art project.

Knowing I had missed the party, and realizing how long it'd been since I had seen my baby girl I started crying and couldn't stop. I cried all through my whipping and even when Mistress fucked my sissy ass with her authentic SS ceremonial Dildo (slavishly lubricated with I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S NAZI BUTTFUCKER), which usually cheers me right up. Finally she couldn't take the fact that I was crying over something that had nothing to do with her, and she relented.

"All right. I'll let you see Bruni for a little while."

Then even though this is what I had thought I wanted, I was suddenly dreading the idea-

"But she'll see me like THITH!" I lisped, "Thith hideouth toothleth big-titted fweak you've turned me into!"

"Don't worry, Bruni won't love you any less for it."

Which was true, because she neither loved or remembered me at all. I was shackled to the floor of my cell on my hands and knees. Bruni was brought in, wearing the most adorable little dominatrix outfit and carrying her own little whip.

"You see, baby? This is what we do with men. Men are scum and need to be subjegated and sadistically tortured for no apparent reason," said Mommy as they whipped me together, and she introduced her to the finer points of laughing evilly.
.

JULY

In a moment's insolence, when Mistress complained that I hadn't cleaned a part of the floor good enough enough I threw my toothbrush at her and told her to do it herself. She said if I didn't appreciate it I could do my cleaning without it. I now have to clean the whole house top to bottom with my tongue. I think Hugh deliberately misses the toilet because of this.

Also, to symbolically remind me that I must never attempt to stand up to her, my legs were lopped off about six inches above my knees. I was given a break from housework for most of this month while my stumps healed, but now that I'm back at work I find that being much closer to the ground I can perform my cleaning chores much better.
.

AUGUST

But apparently my mistress doesn't agree with me, for she has hired a cleaning woman. And this month my arms were removed as well, reduced to useless nubs the size of beer cans, and my duties have been reduced to those of footstool, doorstop and of course big-titted sex toy, toilet and ashtray for Hugh, who finds my total helplessness incredibly exciting. The Bitch With The Built-In Bondage...

"Just think," Martinette taunted me, "Your life is no longer about what you do---since you can no longer do anything---but only about what is done to you. You're now not only not a man, but not even a human being anymore- just a sissy thing that lays there and gets fucked!"

And then guess what she did.
.

SEPTEMBER

I became very apathetic at this point, my body responding to pain but my spirit dead and without hope. Which meant I couldn't be humiliated. Which caused my two tormentors to tire of me.

Work was done on the front porch and I carried out there by Hugh, my first glimpse of the outside world in the better part of a year. The air smelled so clean, the sky looked so blue but only for a moment.

Directly in front of the front door was a rectangular wooden pit, half filled with wet concrete. As I was held over it and realized I was going to be pushed face down into it I began to squirm.

"Relax, we're not going to kill you! Do you think I want you rotting and stinking up my porch?"

And true to her word, as I was shoved into the cool grey muck---my head entirely submerged---there was a dildo positioned right where my mouth was, through which I could breathe. Water and liquified Spam would also be fed to me through this (except on the days when Martinette forgot), and my poop was blasted off of my ass and I imagine down into the rose bushes beside the porch with a high pressure hose...

There was the faint prick of a hypodermic in my ass cheek, which knocked me out so I wouldn't squirm while the cement hardened. Only my shoulders, back and ass were exposed to the world- presenting a relatively flat surface which the screen door just barely cleared.

Time did weird things in this sensory deprived state. I tried to tell time by the comings and goings of feet across me, but soon gave up, finding the evening cold and the morning sun on my ass much better indicators. I couldn't see anything now but I could hear, sort of. And a loud buzzing noise told me there was someone seated or kneeling next to me- in the instant before the whirring thing began digging into my shoulder, jabbing me a hundred times a minute.

In the Kafka story IN THE PENAL COLONY, the condemned were placed in a machine that would spin them like a hot dog on a roller while it slowly carved them up- a steel stylus working its way deeper and deeper into their body; in a pattern which they would come to realize was writing something. The judicial system in this Kafka tale is rather- well Kafkaesque; so that these men wouldn't even know what crime they'd been convicted of until the deciphered the words being carved into them as they died (Franz Kafka would later go on to write three excellent Beach Party movies for Columbia Pictures...)

Luckily for me my tormentors had never read this story, and what I was being subjected to was nothing more sinister than a tattoo gun, which would permanently etch seven immense letters into my entire exposed surface. Before the initial W was completed I knew what was being written on me. I was to literally become a door mat.
.

OCTOBER

It must be Halloween night, the feet walking on me are much smaller, and there are a lot more of them. Mostly bummed that the people who live here have stiffed them by going out for the night, none of them seem to notice anything unusual about me; until later in the evening when one loudmouthed older-sounding kid exclaims, "Whoah- Check it out! This thing's got a asshole!"

I'm glad it was only a modest sized firecracker they stuck into me and lit before running off down the steps and away from the scene of the crime, laughing evilly...
.

NOVEMBER

Cold, very cold at night. I don't like being a door mat.
.

DECEMBER

They tired of me as even a doormat. Decided they needed something classier to go with all the remodelling they were doing. Busted up the concrete around me and pried me out of the porch with a crowbar. Martinette marched alongside as Hugh carried me out to the trash and dropped me in.

Nestled amid the banana peels and shitty diapers, the coffee grounds and cigar butts, I looked up at my wife of five years.

Martinette peered down at me pitilessly, "Goodbye Gregor. You're going where you'll finally be of some use in this world. The Garbage Island landfill..."

This was the first time she had used my actual name since this whole ordeal started. But rather than being encouraging it pronounced this moment a terrible farewell.

The duct tape across my bright red and obscenely-collagened marshmallow lips kept me from responding. I had long ago given up any hope of mercy from Martinette, but since she was in essence murdering me here I made one last attempt, the only way I could, imploring her with my eyes.

"Weak," she sighed disgustedly, then dropped the galvanized steel lid onto the trash can, plunging me into darkness. Sealing my fate. I buried my face in my soft squodgy beachball-sized tits with their five implants apiece and sobbed uncontrollably...
.

.
CHAPTER THREE: RESCUED ......... NOT!
.

The next morning I was woken up when the lid was yanked from my steel prison and I was dumped into the back of a garbage truck.

"Well lookie here," cried one of the burly Negro sanitation workers, "A sissy!"

By rubbing my face against a soggy soiled diaper I am able to loosen the duct tape over my mouth. I look up at them, and pleaded, "Help me..."

"Sure Darlin' we'll help you. This looks like a two man job," says the big one, "Gimme a hand here Otis."

"I just cain't figure out these white folks. Thowin' out a perfectly good sissy like this!" said the other, and they both climb into the hopper, wading thigh deep into the garbage, the big one in front of me, the bigger one behind me.

They're talking about me like I wasn't here. I repeat my plea: "Help me!"

"Don't worry. We'll give you what a sissy bitch like you needs," leers the one in front of me as they pull down their pants, "Give ya a good send off! HWAAAAH! HAHHH! HAHHH!"

After their large negroid penises spew their spermy loads into me they clamber out of the back of the truck---"You got to love this job sometimes!"---and without so much as a goodbye to me one of them pushes the big button labelled GARBAGE SQUISHER.

A huge vertical metal plate slides forward on hydraulic pistons, pushing me and the rest of the refuse in the hopper back into the recesses of the truck- a packed mass of waste material.

And this is how I die, I reflected, their manly evil laughter still ringing in my ears, and knowing that as more and more garbage is pushed back into here and compacted I will sooner or later---probably sooner---be smothered and crushed. Odd that I find myself so resigned about it; but really, what's one less snivelling castrated amputee sissy cuckold in the world?

But after three more houses we've reached the end of the block, and apparently this garbage truck's route for today. Because now we're tooling down the boulevard, and then climbing the ramp onto the freeway. Crossing the bridge to the harbor. And I also somehow survive the rear of this truck being upended on hydraulic jacks, dumping its load onto a waiting automated barge. I am one of the first objects to tumble out, and before the entire load can land on top of me find myself rolling off into the corner of this barge, where I land face up.

The sky is blue and beautiful. Graceful white sea gulls whirl above me. One alights on my left tit, his bony toes digging into the soft flesh, and seems to regard the nipple of my right one as something tasty. But my shout scares it off, and for the rest of the eighty mile journey the gulls are wary of me...
.

.
CHAPTER FOUR: MY LIFE AS THE WILLENDORF VENUS...
.

Sunburned and poop-spattered, I arrive at Garbage Island, and again manage to survive as these many tons of garbarge are dumped onto the dock and pushed a hundred feet inland by one of the swarm of robot bulldozers that inhabit the island. I lay on my side this time, parked up against an old washing machine or something, and figure my fate will be to die of thirst and hunger out on this forsaken isle. It would have been an easier death if I had been squished.

Already I am hallucinating from the heat and thirst. Some of these heaps of trash seem to be moving around, scrambling over the mountains and valleys of garbage...

But as one approaches me I realize it is a human being---or sort of---wrapped head to foot in a random array of rags and torn polythene bags, and decorated with little broken toys and other colorful bits of trash. He is gathering whatever he can find that might serve as food, most of it in such a dreadfully decomposed state that I wouldn't feed it to a dog. After my encounter with the garbage collectors I am hesitant to call out to him, but after a while his wanderings bring him to where he spies me.

And when he does he staggers forward, the filthy bearded face peering out from his deflated beach-ball helmet regarding me with disbelief. He drops to his knees before me, gasping, "Looba Loo!"

"Do you speak English?" I ask him, "No I guess not..."

"Looba Loo ........ Looba Loo," he repeats in awe, pointing at my tits and then at my useless dangling cock, and starts patting his head with one hand while the other rubs his belly in a circular motion.

Oh great! After he fucks me this loony tune will probably eat me. Clearly he's in awe of how much fresh meat he has stumbled across here, I think, but I couldn't have been more wrong.

Finally he staggers to his feet and bellows skyward, "O Sooshbah! Dizdah blishday fromma olee propsees! Looba Loo see commid! Alooja! Alooja!"

Which is how I met the wild Bumsmen of Garbage Island. The others come running, and seeing me they too fall to their knees and start patting their bellies and rubbing their heads, which I would learn later is a gesture of utmost reverence) and crying "Alooja!"

A makeshift stretcher is brought for me, the top of a busted card table, and two of them are appointed to lift me onto it. They gaze at me beseechingly, apparently wanting my permission before they'll touch me. I smile and nod and they gingerly load me onto my litter.

One runs off ahead, so that when I am carried into their little village in a valley between two great drifts of trash I am given quite a reception, the whole community of fifty or sixty people lined up on either side of the central road between their garbage shanties, while two young girls scatter plastic flowers in my path, along with music CD's (these shiny silver disks were highly valued, being used as currency here...).

The processional stops, and the oldest inhabitant of the village, who being covered only in royal blue cloth scraps, plastic and trash must be their chief, brings out their holy book (an amputee she-male porno magazine!) and---after comparing me to the photographs in it for several minutes---falls to his knees before me. The whole village follows suit, and they all perform their peculiar form of genuflection. Sooshbah! Looba Loo! Alooja!

I am set down in the exact center of the village, the spot where my temple will be built. This society must have originated on the mainland United States, and no more than a few decades ago, so it seems odd that they speak this totally unknown language, and seem to know nothing of life anywhere but Garbage Island. The priest asks questions of the group that found me.

Everyone in that foraging party was made a saint of some sort, especially the two women who loaded me onto my litter. They and the doctor are deemed the only ones who can touch me, and it is they who give me my bath. Water is scarce here on the island, so it's a real sign of my status as a living goddess that I am gently washed and my hair shampooed and conditioned with the dregs of plastic bottles of hair cair products; not just once but nearly daily from then on. Reverently the two girls---who's names I discover are Oona and Loona---make my face up, and tend to my injuries with a nearly depleted tube of antibiotic cream. After being tortured and abused and called a worthless piece of crap so long it's kind of weird to find myself pampered and worshipped and prayed to...

A great feast is held in my honor, where I am fed the choicest bits of garbage, but being so soon after Christmas there are garbagy treats galore, and everyone gets their fill. There is singing and dancing long into the night---to a percussion band of steel drums and trashcan lids smashed together---the music and dancing reaching a creshendo at exactly midnight.

Not that we use timepieces here, but I know when midnight arrives the same way I know that it's now January 1st 2000- the new millenneum and the end of the world as I had known it...

I was really getting into the party, rocking out on my little stumps and just as I shouted "HOOOO-YAAAAH!" there was a tremendous flash in the sky, followed by a terrible rumbling, the sight of a towering mushroom cloud on the mainland 80 miles away.

The Y2K bug has proven far more disasterous than even the worst disaster junkies had predicted; not just shutting down all power plants and telecommunication but accidently firing off nuclear missles all over the globe. Goodbye Martinette ....... and my poor baby Brunhilde...

And of course this was seen as something I had done. The music stopped, and everyone looked fearfully at me. Was the goddess Looba Loo angry?

"Hey don't worry about it, let's keep on dancing! We're gonna party like it's 1999!" I laughed, figuring that we would all be dead of radiation poisoning within a few days, but the steady norwester winds somehow kept us safe...

Were there any survivors? Yes. But in our immediate area and for the rest of my mortal life there was one that I knew of- Dr. Lenny McAllister, a plastic surgeon that had been out sailing solo on New Years Eve and landed on our island after seeing what was left of the city.

When the garbage barges stopped coming our society was forced to change radically, from being garbage scavangers to learning to fish and growing corn from the popcorn we planted (Dr. Lenny was very helpful in this, becoming not only our medicine man but an all around advisor in many practical areas. And he was a real wizard with machinery, building a still for the desalination of seawater and salvaging generators for our wind farm made out of old umbrellas...)

Over the next few weeks my temple is constructed around me. Columns of old tires capped by a dome made from a fiberglass satellite dish- one of those really old models that are ten feet in diameter. It's here that I will live out my days.

Oona and Loona become my preistesses, my handmaidens, my hands and feet, the ones who and bathe and feed me, wipe my ass for me and take my poop off to use as night soil in the sacred orchard; and as I learn the language here they become my very best friends, although since they regard me as something far more than human they never completely relax around me.

Bones was a friend who treated me like a normal person, at least when we were alone together, playing chess and fooling around (!), but I found his endless nostalgia for the way things used to be quite depressing...

My favorite duty as a hermaphrodite diety was when babies were brought to me for blessing. I missed my daughter, and hoped she had died quickly when the end came...

And speaking of endings, as my 83th birthday approached and Bones informed me that as near as he could tell my sudden drastic weight loss was a symptom of cancer (which as you might suspect was endemic on our semi-irradiated little island), it was becoming obvious that I wasn't going to be around much longer. And since my people regarded me as immortal this was a real problem. I'd been settling more and more disputes between the island's four main families lately, the only thing preventing outright war being that The Goddess' word was deemed final. But luckily I thought I might have a solution...

Sili was a young transgender person who had been sneaking into my temple in private for years, praying for the great Loobaloo to turn the male form she'd been been born with into that of a girl, or even a halfling creature such as myself.

Sili was fortunate that her parents and the rest of the village here abided by her wishes to be considered female, but she was quite traumatized as her body began developing along masculine lines. It broke my heart that I wasn't really a goddess, and couldn't perform any magic for her. And also as her adolescence progressed---either through identifying with me so strongly or some quirk that would have happened anyway, she developed a serious amputee wannabe fetish. I was told how she'd been found several times having buried herself in the garbage up to her thighs, smiling down happily at where her legs appeared to end. Neither of these body-image conundra were something that a young person should have to go through, but they were there. They alone wouldn't have prompted me to go forth with my plan, but she was a bright kid, and very compassionate, who I felt would make an excellent Goddess Loobaloo. It was almost as if she'd been delivered to us by some providence far greater than the bogus god I was...

I met with Sili, who leapt at the idea of never being able to leap again.

"You're sure you want to do this, Sili? This isn't some fantasy. Once this is done there's no going back."

"Oh my dear Goddess, it's all I've ever wanted! You don't know what it's like to have all these horrible arms and legs and testicles!"

After this I conferred with her parents, and then with Dr. Lenny, outlining my plan to each in terms they could understand. The doctor was the hardest sell, saying that to remove perfectly good limbs would violate every ethical standard of medicine, but I finally convinced him, citing Sili's Body Image Integrity Disorder ("Is it really that different than removing 'perfectly good' nose flesh in a rhinoplasty? Or breasts for a female-to-male transsexual? Who are we to judge what's good for Sili?") and saying how chaos would descend on the island with my passing (remember Islam after Mohammed died?) if we didn't do this. Then I called the whole community together.

The Goddess announced that her physical shell was wearing out and would soon die. And that just as she had been born a male (I'd given my people an account of my life before the island, which they garbled and mythologized almost as quick as they heard it. I particularly liked the part about my trials in the "underworld" at the hands of the terrifying she-demon Martinette, and how she was being evoked to explain the presence of evil in the world!) so would her successor be. That upon my death my immortal spirit would pass on to Sili, who would from then on be the Goddess Loobaloo, until such time as she would need a successor, if one should voluntarily (I stressed) come forth.

Bones' outdoor operating theater wasn't the best there ever was, but it was fairly clean, and Sili was able to save up her own whole blood in the community refrigerator a few weeks in advance of her operation, in case it was needed...

Sili was anesthetized, castrated and her humeri and femora were truncated while the largest of my several left and right breast implants were being removed and sterilized, and then placed inside Sili's chest. Upon awakening she squirmed ecstatically at the sight of her sexy boobs and her bandaged stumps, at knowing she was so gloriously and permanently immobilized...

Over the next week as we recovered (or rather she recovered, I got worse) we continued our lessons, just a couple of sexy torso gals perched side by side in the temple, me trying to impart what little I knew about being a goddess while I still could. Sili loved what had been done to her but complained to me how much her chest hurt from the implants (wracked with cancer as I was, I wasn't terribly sympathetic about this!)

Then came the rigamarole of the goddess's transmigration into her new host. A scrap lumber funeral pyre was built for me, and I was set on top of it wrapped in flammable greasy cotton. Wires trailed from the spaghetti strainer on my head down to a bubbling lava light, which the villagers regarded as magical, and from there to the spaghetti strainer on Sili's head, who was perched on the Sacred Wheelchair looking far more scared about all this than I was. But I could see why she was. My journey was nearly over while she was facing the responsibilities of godhood...

As my pyre was lit, Bones secretly gave me a shot. I'd really had enough of pain for one lifetime. Before the fire even reached me the morphine knocked me out then paralyzed my heart and lungs, killing me deader than shit.
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CHAPTER FIVE: MY DEATH AND BEYOND
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My people thrived. Over the centuries they multiplied, going forth into more and more of the world as it became inhabitable. I'd like to say that wars and oppression were never perpetrated in my name. The most upsetting to me (maybe because we're otherwise pretty good about respecting sexual and gender self-determination) is a thing I'd feared from the outset- those few times when a less-than-willing candidate was railroaded into being feminized and mutilated and ensconced in the Temple as the Goddess for political reasons, for who their families were or whatever. But I really think Loobalism has had a much better track record than the other two big emerging religions. They're pretty darn mean (they're patriarchal- EWWWWW!).

Sili made a very good Goddess Loobaloo. 60% of the time she seemed to know right what to say, and the rest of the time she would pray to me for guidance. What's weird is that if I think really really hard, seven out of ten of these times I can communicate my decision to her, not like a conversation but more like a note folded and wedged between the slats of a park bench I knew she'd be sitting at later. I only seem to have this ability with my successors and the occasional Saint like you. And when the goddesses eventually grow old and die they all come HERE, wherever this is, since people are praying to them too. I never much though of it this way but Sili tells me that she finds being completely incorporeal even sexier than being limbless. Silly Sili!

It's a funny thing about death. You might have heard it proclaimed at some funeral, 'As long as we remember his wonderful deeds, his loving spirit, his humor, Joe So-and-So will never truly die...' And if you're like I was, you probably considered this some atheist's weak metaphorical grasping at straws in the face of our inevitable nonexistence; and you might have thought, 'Aw bullshit! The dude is DEAD! We can remember him all we want to, HE'S not gonna know about it!'

Well from what I've experienced, this statement seems to be right on the money. Moreso than any Heaven or Hell or reincarnation the religions promise. So that at your funeral you're right there in the room with them all, and can practically pick up and gnaw on one of the Buffalo wings at the reception afterward. And then little by little, as people stop thinking about you constantly, there's these intervals of nothingness, which you're jerked out of whenever someone misses you or recalls what an asshole you were and gloats over your dying. But finally, as memories fade and those who knew you die off themselves, the nothingness is pretty much all there is, interrupted only when someone walks by your gravestone and wonders who this long-ago person might have been. People instinctively know this, which is why so many want to be famous. The best thing, for those who value being sentient after death, is to have a monument in your nation's capitol or a museum they drag busloads of school kids through...

So now imagine that you're being revered as a diety. People all over the world are praying to you, asking your help. After a while you can almost start to believe your own press.

Maybe I don't deserve this---it was a case of mistaken identity that made me a goddess in the first place---but I deserve this more than I did Martinette's reviling me as a worm. Maybe we all deserve to have our godhood recognized. I have never felt so loved.
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