Alright. Longtime reader, first time poster. I think I started tuning in around the end of the Bush (the lesser) years. Here's the beginning of a pretty basic story that I think could be fun.
If you like it and want more, say that and I'll post the continuation.
If you hate it and want me to kill myself. Maybe just say that you don't like it.
It's whimsical, it's dark, it's twisted and borderline nonsensical.
Chapter One
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It was fourth and goal from the six yard line, last play of the game. We were leading by five points against the number four team in the country, UCLA. We’d dropped all the way to eleventh after a loss the previous week, one more and we could kiss a shot at the playoffs goodbye.
So they had to throw it here, with a quarterback that was already being projected as a first rounder in the draft and a 6’7” Tight End named Erulic Adajanti who was considered a freak talent. And lil’ ol’ me had to shut down what through five weeks of the season was being called the most prolific offensive duo in the country. Not a problem.
See, I’m fucking awesome. Just sayin’. This was my senior year, and I was gonna get drafted too. Maybe not a first rounder like the two guys I was up against, but definitely second or third at worst. Anyways, I was good too is what I’m saying.
They broke their huddle and the Adajanti immediately headed out wide to the right. I followed him, keeping tight to the line of scrimmage so that I could jam him at the snap. Did I mention this guy was big? Not just tall, but big. Easily two-fifty of solid muscle, and a good four inches taller than me. I was our tallest defensive back, hence my drawing the honor of guarding this monster, and everyone in the stadium knew he was going to get the ball here. As he jogged across from me I waved my arms at the screaming crowd and the formerly deafening din reached an ear splitting level of intensity.
He lumbered to a stop outside the numbers and I got as close as I could without being offsides. A familiar feeling settled over me as I lined up a little inside his left shoulder, the world around me faded out of focus until there was only me and Adajanti. This was what I lived for. The ten or so seconds immediately preceding and following the snap of the ball.
I wasn’t looking at the ball, I didn’t need to. When the colossal took a step forward I threw myself into him in an attempt to disrupt his route. This initial contact, over in a blink, would dictate which of us would be the hero and which the goat. His forearms hit my chest like a pair of iron clubs, creating a half yard of distance between us. But I’d taken away the slant route and he immediately turned away to head for the back corner of the endzone.
Fade. The word was all that mattered as my cleats chewed up the turf between us. I’d caught him before he crossed the goal line. By the time he took another step I was brushing off the hands that were trying to push me away. Halfway through the end zone I was on him like a blanket as we both turned to look back towards the quarterback.
There it was. The ball was just reaching the top of its arc, it would come down just behind us. The quarterback was good, he had thrown it nice and high trusting in his All American teammate to use his height to come down with the pass. I could feel Adajanti behind me as the ball started its descent, he tried to push off my shoulder but I shrugged his hands away before leaping backwards with all of my strength.
I couldn’t see the ball, only the clear sky as I extended my right arm above my head reaching with all my might for where I knew the ball’s trajectory would carry it. Dimly I could feel the receiver behind me extending himself to catch my target, could feel his forearm against the back of my hand. Something touched the tip of my gloved fingers and I flexed my arm to bat it away.
By the time we tumbled to the ground together in a tangle of exerted limbs I knew I’d done it. As we slid to a stop out of bounds I caught a glimpse of the football landing near a cameraman some ten yards away.
What happened after that is a bit of a long and confusing blur of excitement. Before I could even raise my arms in the air to celebrate it seemed like half of the team was jumping on top of me in their rush to celebrate our win. I saw Peters and Wright, Jeffrey and Chambers, all of them screaming in excitement before my best friend Mike was able to get me to my feet. His face was lit up like a Christmas tree as we and sixty other guys jumped and flailed in a downright palsaic dance of victory that can only be experienced by those who can no longer perceive the idea of disappointment. To be sure, I’m pretty sure I suffered more bruises in those moments after that play than I had in the entire season up to that point.
Very distantly I knew I was being interviewed by the sideline reporter, Mike at my side. I muttered a series of congratulations to our opponents for a great game and espoused the virtues of my teammates and coaches before heaping praise on the other members of the defensive secondary when the reporter asked about how we had managed to keep one of the best passing teams in the NCAA to under three hundred yards of total offense.
After leaving the field we almost tore the walls down when Coach congratulated us on a game well played, and I took the usual post game questions with an arm around Mike and Switzy (our nickle corner) before the inevitable party began in some frat house or another on campus. “Fuck. U.C. LA” was being chanted all night as the defense and I did our best to drown ourselves in whatever alcoholic beverage came into our sights.
At some point around midnight Mike and I ended up playing Bowser party with a few other guys. I could barely see straight after some six or seven hours of drinking and I’m pretty sure that I ended up sending Yoshi straight into a spinning serrated saw or something similar. “I think you’re ready for pong!” Mike shouted in my ear after that. He was a few inches shorter than me, and a bit smaller in general. White Thunder and Black Lightning were our nicknames, not exactly the most creative way to describe a hard hitting white guy safety and his faster black guy counterpart but what are you gonna do?
“I can barely hold this controller!” I shouted back at him over the music, managing the previously unheard of feat of swaying in my seat.
“Dude, you’re holding an uncooked bratwurst.” He informed me in an understanding tone.
My heart swelled with friendship. “You’re right, Mikey. Get the balls!” A roar went through the room at my declaration and some blonde was stuffing her tongue down my throat as a backup defensive lineman named Casey was dragging me through the trashed house towards the dining room.
All the chairs had been removed and a series of cups had been arranged at each end of the handsome table. Mike was making out with what very probably might have been a potted tree at one end, while at the other were our top two runningbacks who seemed to be defending a victory. There must have been thirty people crowded against the walls and hanging in the two doorways and what sounded like Kendrick Lamar blasting through the house. Casey cleared a path through the mass of humanity that made me wonder if he should have been a fullback before he threw me towards Mike and was bellowing “QUUUUUUUUIEEEEEET!!!!!”
The immediate vicinity met his demand, and even Kendrick Lamar seemed muted as he began narrating in a booming voice “ladies and gentlemen… our main event! In the left corner, we have two douchebags who barely gained a hundred yards between them!” A chorus of boos and conflicted cheers answered him as Mike emerged from the brambles in which he'd become engaged. “And in my right corner… You know them, you love them. They’re as handsome as a couple of straight guys can be. IT’S WHITE THUNDER AND BLACK LIGHTNING!!!!”
I did what might generously be described as an interpretive Egyptian dance while someone filled the cups in front of us with beer and Casey tossed two ping pong balls to our opponents. “Runtards are defending, they get first shot!” He announced to the room.
Leaning over to Mike I told him “Hey, if that fullback thing doesn’t work out for Casey, I think he could be a sportscaster.” He looked confused as I turned back to the table to watch two balls land in our cups. “Oh fuck” I said to myself as we each chugged one of the cups a ball had landed in.
Five cups later we had defeated the RB’s and advanced to a double or nothing challenge in which the cups in front of each team would be filled with vodka and crown royal instead of beer.
After that, all I remember is Mike and I staggering back towards the dorms at something like four in the morning. Somebody offered us a ride. I thought it was weird that he was driving a van down the sidewalk, but before I could bring it up he was waving a weird smelling can in front of our faces and I felt strongly like taking a nap.
What felt like a lifetime later I became aware of my surroundings. I’d like to think that my hangover is an excuse as to why it took me so long to realize what an extremely bad situation I was in. Seriously, I probably had alcohol poisoning.
You’ll have to forgive me on the somewhat scattershot nature of the beginning of this narrative. As I said, I was drunk on victory and later on… well, on irresponsible amounts of alcohol. And this part. Well it’s a bit hard for me to bear. But I’m doing my best here so don’t be a dick. I was a football player, not a writer.
Anyway, to skip a long period of confusion I’ll just say that I was restrained on a gurney and spent what was probably a few hours trying not to vomit. Eventually I started to take stock of the room. It looked like I was in some kind of warehouse that had fallen into disrepair, judging by the spiderwebbed ceiling I could dimly make out some twenty feet above me. There were no walls, rather what looked like discarded medical curtains. You know, those kind they hang in the ER to give a semblance of privacy? Well these were stained and torn in places, very not-comforting.
The light in the ‘room’ came from a couple of construction lights standing to either side of my gurney which allowed me to see that I was hooked to a series of beeping readouts that looked more or less normal for a hospital setting as far as I could tell.
I hadn’t quite gotten to the point of screaming in terror at my vaguely Saw-esque surroundings when the curtain to my left was swept aside and a tall figure strode into my limited field of perception.
He was a fairly ordinary looking man, a bit tall maybe. He had an unremarkable face and close cropped hair that was greying a bit, as was his well maintained goatee. He wore medical scrubs and tennis shoes, I could tell. And he seemed very happy to see me.
“It’s so good you’re awake!” He exclaimed. He had a German accent that, combined with the rest of my surroundings, did not inspire a sense of well being. “I was afraid you would sleep all day, my young friend!”
He walked over to my side and began fiddling at the machines that had begun to beep a little more rapidly with his appearance. “Ummm, sir?” I started, with no idea where to take the conversation.
The man looked down at me and smiled. “What can I do for you Mr. Myles?”
Thoughts and, in particular, words seemed to come a bit slowly “uh, where am I?” I asked a bit lamely.
“Oh, you’re my guest. And a very special one at that.” The man told me with a pat on my shoulder. “We’re going to accomplish great things together.”
Any hopes of being told that this was just a really shitty hospital vanished pretty quickly as I stared into deeply brown eyes that can only be described as ‘batshit insane’. “Well, sir” I told him in as non-confrontational a tone as I could manage “I hate to be rude but it occurs to me that I didn’t call my mom yesterday after the football game. And if I don’t talk to her soon, y’know it’s just gonna be this whole thing. And there will be accusations of unappreciative sons, and ‘getting too big for my britches’ and the like. I mean, last time she called the campus police and had them almost busting down my door because it was after one o’clock…” I smiled sickly at my caretaker and belatedly added “eastern time…”
“Oh, don’t you worry young man.” He told me with a smile that didn’t reach those eccentric eyes. “I don’t think your mother will be bothering us. We’re quite safe here.” That last bit was delivered with a wink that did nothing to allay my concerns.
“Who are you? What are you doing?” I blurted. Unable to avoid the questions anymore. I’d obviously been kidnapped by a madman. Hell, I’d known it as soon as I heard that fucking accent. Look, I’ve got nothing against Germans. Excellent engineers, but as unexpected medical providers in obviously unlicensed facilities they carried a bit of a reputation.
Mr. Scary arched an eyebrow at me and sat on the edge of the gurney next to my restrained wrist that I had been trying to wriggle free in what I hoped had been a discrete effort. “My name is Dr. Kind” he told me, “and I am going to assist you in reaching your full potential on this Earth.”
Dr. Kind, who seemed anything but, apparently wanted me to be excited at that announcement. But all I could say was “how’s that exactly?”
The ‘Dr.’ sprang to his feet and clapped his hands like a child and practically sang to me “well, I have perfected a serum that isolates the deviation gene. If my calculations are correct, in fact, I can even determine what changes it makes in the subject!” The insane smile that spread across my captor’s face made my blood run cold. This psycho was going to try and deviate me! I didn’t need this! I was going to have a chance at the pros! Sure, it’d be an uphill battle. I didn’t quite have the top-end speed required in the pass-happy NFL these days, but I had the size to be an asset in run support and the coverage skills to take care of tight ends!
But deviation!?! What possible reason could he want to force that on me? And artificially no less! “Please, doctor, I uh… I don’t really know if that’s a great idea! I mean, I’ve got commitments to maintain. And the NCAA would want me to take a bunch of tests to ensure I wasn’t trying to acquire an artificial advantage. Maybe I could pass on this?” I don’t know what I expected, but of course he wasn’t buying it.
“Oh, my son” he patted my head in a manner that was anything but fatherly “you won’t need to worry about football anymore. Once I grant you superior physical strength and speed I will be engaging you to my financiers. They will make good use of you, I’m sure.”
That smile again, as he turned and strode out of the room. I lost it. I’d always tried to keep things calm, a remnant of growing up in a broken home according to the school shrink, and whatever part of me that was responsible for that personal attribute disappeared that instant. “Are you out of your fucking mind!?!” I bellowed at the insane man as he pulled the curtain aside. “Let me go! I won’t be deviated, it’s fucking impossible! Get back here! Turn around and face me! Let me out of these straps and I’ll rip your goddamn head off with my bare hands! Real tough man, closing the curtains! You can’t even! You fucking! FUUUUCK!”
Needless to say, I was screaming for quite some time as Dr. Douchefuck left me in there. I struggled against the straps around my ankles and wrists, I tried to break the gurney, I even did my best to shout the roof down.
To no avail, I’m afraid to report.
Eventually I screamed and exerted myself out. After that I just lay there, envisioning what this maniac might do to me. Deviate. He wanted to deviate me and, unless I’d been mistaken, sell me to whatever assholes paid his bills. Leaving aside that anyone who wanted to ‘buy’ someone who’d deviated was guaranteed to be a Grade A asshole, I really didn’t want to be deviated.
I’d dodged that genetic bullet when it first cropped up in 2019, and was happy to have done so. I’m not prejudiced or anything, but I was happy with what basic homo sapien evolution and my own hard work had given me as far as physical attributes. Superpowers, can’t say I was too interested. Especially considering all the possible physical mutations one had to deal with.
The ability to fly or deadlift a city bus wasn’t worth the chance of having tentacles sticking out of my ears is all I’m saying.
And this asshole said he had a way to force my body to make those changes. The fact that he was making those claims at all did not make me feel better about his implication that he could control the mutations. Nobody could control deviation, it was the next stage of human evolution according to science. It had to work itself out.
While I was ruminating on my borderline panic Dr. Kind swept back the curtain again and walked toward me. The insane smile had been replaced by an unsettling frown as he walked to my side again and began raising my bed into a sitting position. “You were very unkind, Mr. Myles. Very unkind.” He nodded at me severely before administering an I.V. that connected to a bag of fluids. “I did not appreciate your profane language at all. So I will allow you to see that I am very correct in the administration of my treatment before I help you grow into a more perfect form.”
The pouting look he shot me made my stomach roil as he walked to the curtain directly in front of me and drew it to the side. I could see Mike directly across from me, similarly restrained to a gurney. He also was connected to medical equipment, but there was a whirring machine to his right that I had never seen before. It looked… weird. Like a small windmill made out of ice cream scoops with a centrifuge in the middle. I don’t know, it was fucking weird.
Out of this device Dr. Kind fed an I.V. line and inserted the needle into Mike’s arm. Mike was thrashing about and attempting to scream, but a gag of some sort had been stuffed into his mouth. I watched in horror as Kind fiddled with the strange machine for a few seconds before the I.V. line began feeding a disturbing blue liquid into my best friend’s bloodstream.
Mike thrashed harder than ever as the substance entered his body and I was screaming for him. I shouted every obscenity at the doctor that entered my mind, doing my best to rip my bonds from their foundations on the gurney.
We locked eyes, Mike and I, as a horrible ripple spread across his dark skin. I could see his eyes bulging with pain and fear as he began convulsing in his restraints.
My incoherent screaming must have lasted hours after Mike’s limbs had stopped thrashing, I can’t quite remember. I’ll leave the details out, but suffice to say that it became very apparent very quickly that the Dr.’s serum was flawed. Mike diverted, I suppose you can say, but there was no surviving the changes that his body underwent.
I saw it all. His skin bursting in a dozen places, his panicked eyes, the Dr. gibbering beside him.
He died, that’s the last I’ll say about it. My best friend died at the hands of a goddamn psychopath who thought he’d discovered the secret to human perfection. And I just sat there, on my gurney.
Eventually I must have sobbed and screamed myself to sleep, because I remember waking up with a jerk as the Dr. was standing next to me administering a new I.V. The look I gave him must have spoken volumes because with a faint smile he told me “not to worry, my son. We know just what went wrong, just give me a bit of time to revise the formula. No mushrooms for you!” He tried to pat my arm and I roared in protest and did my best to get a hold of some part of him.
He retreated without touching me and I sat there alone for some time, pondering my very existence. Eventually, though, he returned with a bowl and a folding chair. He set the chair next to me and said “we need to keep that strength up, my friend! Here, a bit of soup.” He sat down and made to feed me some of the rancid looking concoction contained therein. As soon as the hand holding the plastic spoon was in range I bit into it with a savagery previously unknown to my spirit.
Dr. Kind’s eyes widened in shock as my teeth pierced his flesh and clamped down to the bone. He was howling like a banshee trying to get loose, but I ground my teeth and relished the coppery taste of blood that filled my mouth. The madman threw the lukewarm dreck into my face as he tried to pull away and I felt his index finger pop in its joint, locked as I was between it and his thumb. He thrashed at my face with his free left hand, raining down blows on my eyes and nose. I ignored them all, savoring the terror and pain in his suddenly wild eyes. Eventually he got his free hand on a weapon because a sick thud over my temple left my vision blurry and my jaw involuntarily relaxed long enough for him to pull away.
A surprising amount of blood was covering my body as Dr. Kind danced away hooting in harsh Germanic syllables. I’m no linguist, but my general impression was that the good Dr. was not appreciative of my rebellious gesture. That feeling was reinforced when he turned to face me, hunched over his mutilated hand like Gollum over the one ring.
“You fucking animal!” He screeched, face contorted in what I have to say was a pretty intimidating mask of rage. “Look at what you’ve done to me! And while I have been trying to help you evolve!” The mad bastard waved his maimed hand in front of me. To be fair, it was pretty gruesome. I hadn’t even known a person could do damage like that, maybe I’d already diverted a super powerful jaw.
The flesh between the man’s index finger and thumb was hanging in a loose and ruined mess, and I could see quite a bit of white bone. And the index finger itself was in a horribly unsettling position, not quite connected to the bottom knuckle. I’d say I think I’d dislocated it, but that doesn’t quite say everything I think needs to be conveyed. It was really fucked up, is what I’m trying to tell you.
Anyways, he ranted and raved for a minute or so about how grateful I should be before stalking off through the curtains again. I’d spent the time trying once again to free myself of the restraints and eventually calmed into a weird state of giddy anticipation. I knew he wanted to do terrible things to me, and I probably wouldn’t get another chance to strike back again, but this act of revenge for Mike had put me in a fairly positive mood.
I’ll fast forward through the very long time that passed when he did not feed me, or indeed even check on my condition, and just let you know I think it was at least 24 hours before I saw him again.
Kind was looking a bit unwell when he hurriedly entered my presence, muttering hysterically. That right hand was heavily bandaged and in his left was held a very serious looking syringe and needle containing an odd salmon colored solution. I was pretty weak from my captivity and didn’t do much more than mumble threats as he began preparing what was clearly going to be my injection of his serum.
I was almost completely resigned by then so I didn’t struggle, or indeed even pay him much attention, until a loud boom shook the building. Dust rained down on us from the shadowed ceiling and the Dr. looked behind him in a panic. “Whas appening?” I murmured.
Kind didn’t respond, only continued his muttering as he swabbed his own blood off the inside of my left forearm.
A series of loud crashes and what might have been a woman’s voice letting out a stream of curses came from somewhere outside my curtained world. It occurred to me that this might be a rescue. “Help!” I croaked, as loud as possible. “Over here!”
I began struggling then, as Kind picked up his needle with his good hand and set about to administering what could not possibly be medicine. I thrashed wildly, screaming for help, and tried to keep my arm moving so he couldn’t find a vein, but my movement was extremely limited and my strength dangerously low. I heard a voice, to my right. Clearly a woman’s, I thought I heard her calling to someone else “this way!”
Dr. Kind looked in that direction and I tried to slam my forehead into his jaw, but he pulled back and, with very poor medical technique, jammed the needle of his syringe into my forearm.
I screamed and bucked, at first in defiance and an attempt to get the needle out, but soon from the mentally fracturous pain that seized hold of my body the instant the Dr. pressed down on the syringe plunger.
My sanity was afire, and my body an inferno of indescribable agony. My vision almost immediately was reduced to a tiny pinprick of perception as a red haze settled across the world. 'This is it', I thought. 'I’m going to die, just like Mike.' I knew Kind was babbling incoherently about his successes, but could barely hear his words as I watched my body seem to waver like a poorly secured poster in the wind. I managed to catch “I’ll find you, precious.” Before he must have fled.
Every bone in my body seemed to break at once after that, attempting to reshape themselves to whatever insanity the Dr. had deviated onto my genetic code. The pain was beyond any description, a starburst within my flesh.
Very distantly I saw a woman fly across my feet, a purple haze surrounding her hands. Then, a man’s face was hovering above me. Concern and horror etched into what were most likely quite handsome features in less extreme times. He was talking, I could tell because his lips were moving, but I could no longer hear. And before long, consciousness mercifully deserted me.
Well let's give part two a try here. Who knows, it could be fun.
Chapter Two
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“What’s new, Puddy-Tat?” Gregg asked the room as he launched himself feet first into lying down on the couch. He’d taken a liking to the Tweety Bird imitation as an easy way to diffuse his own awkwardness about the situation.
I didn’t mind. It wasn’t funny but I expected his usage of what amounted to a social shortcut to die off rather quickly once everyone got over how fun it was to throw things at my tail. Not to mention that we were going on day six of me living in his house without paying rent.
Gregg had been one of my best friends, and an early corrupting influence, since the day I’d stepped foot on campus. Not only had he been possessed of an almost unsettling ability to conjure weed and booze seemingly out of thin air, but he was a genuinely nice dude. Not for the first time I wondered how much care had gone into choosing him as my host.
In a past life I had been a head taller than the strapping young Jew, but now he absolutely towered over me at his generously listed six-foot height. I gave him an exaggerated wagging of my eyebrows by way of greeting from where I was fighting to save the universe, gently compressed by the tired leather of the ‘old man chair.’
Exceedingly plain looking and completely unable to sport a tan with his dreadfully pale features, Gregg was something of an absolute babe magnet. I’d always felt the need to display my ‘chill’ as I’d called it around the ladies, but Gregg had the ability to wander into any social group with his giant curly mop of hair perched atop his head like a poorly constructed bird’s nest and instantly be the gold standard for interactive conduct.
It helped that he was the most relentlessly positive person I’d ever meant.
Orphaned at three when his biological father murdered his mother and her husband in a double murder-suicide he’d bounced around boys’ homes until he was adopted by a failed actress who was attempting to score a reality TV show. After that had gone south, barely three months into shooting, one of his school teachers had made an emergency bid for temporary custody of the young boy. Two years and a supreme court ruling later, Gregg was a straight-A student and the top of his class when his ‘new’ father (the aforementioned teacher) was granted full guardianship.
After that it had been good grades and football scholarships all the way to being drafted late by Seattle, then cut, signed by Los Angeles, cut again, signed by the other Los Angeles team, traded to Minnesota after a good preseason game, cut, signed by Miami in time to start three games at the end of the season, then signing a modest multi-year deal with Seattle to be the backup quarterback.
And all of that in the two years since he’d graduated when I was a sophomore.
Needless to say, Gregg was the guy to go to if you had any kind of problem. Most things were easy to put into perspective with the generous product of a mind bendingly awful childhood lending a hand.
After days of reflection there was little doubt in my mind that it was Miranda who had decided to stow me here. It smacked of her social brilliance. I’d been irrationally nervous and emotional since waking in the hospital and had actually cried when Peters had made an attempt to give me a hug after my nerve wracking escape from the Shadow Men. The poor muscle monster had broken down himself after I’d involuntarily shied away and had a full blown panic attack.
It was awful. I knew why I was being so odd, it was literally my new perspective of the world, but that hadn’t done my lizard brain (Kitty brain?) a bit of good when a man I’d once been able to hold my own with physically now loomed over me like a building. So I’d cried and dry-heaved for the entire trip to Coach’s house while Peters tried to drive through a lake of his own tears as he piloted his shitty van.
Then it was a night of people talking over me as I tried to unfuck my brain before brunch with Gregg at Letennies’ near campus (my favorite place to grab an early bite) where Miranda and Trey had handed me off to the positivity generator himself.
“Any progress?” He asked from around his phone.
I shook my head carefully to keep the precariously balanced microphone headset from tumbling to the floor. I was still on live chat and didn’t want to give the types I was gaming with any insight into my machinations. A few seconds later the digitally scrambled voice of Xchange101 was saying into my ear “I’m done, kids. Hit me up tomorrow.”
A bit of chattering came from the rest of his crew, a din to which I added my own voice that my microphone had been programed to alter into an approximation of Kermit the Frog, as the sycophants wished their Nazi leader a good night. I waited a few seconds as the activity icons winked out before turning off the game and removing the batteries from the headset I had been using.
“I swear, they spend more time talking about that game lady than they do world domination.” I lamented.
“Which one?” Gregg asked carelessly.
“I don’t know. That’s the thing. Every day it’s a new one, I think, and I just can’t handle going to the websites.” I rubbed my arms as the damn fur stood on end.
“Well, you know what they say about Nazi’s.” The unconcerned son of Abraham said.
A long pause followed before I gave in. “What? What do they say?”
Gregg lowered his phone and made eye contact, his face filled with dramatic tension. “The worst Nazi is the one you can not-see!” He said with a truly awful German impersonation.
I shook my head, unable to keep a smile off my face. “He who would pun.” I began.
“Zey vill have all ze fun!” Gregg interjected.
I fixed him with as steely a gaze as I could muster under the circumstances “You disgust me. And I just spent an hour talking to actual Nazis.”
“Always” he fired back, returning to the endless delights of his phone.
No longer able to stay sitting I clambered out of the delicious comforts of the ‘Old Man Chair’, as it was commonly known, and made my way to the kitchen where my precious Mexican Cokes were being kept at a perfect thirty-four degrees in Gregg’s smart fridge.
As I considered the materialistic trappings Gregg had seen fit to surround himself with, none of which was more disturbingly technological than the smart fridge, I tried not to get too worked up by the last hour I’d spent with those disgusting insults to the human spirit that called themselves ‘Racial Preservationists’.
“Hey, can you grab me an ‘aide?” Gregg called from his back.
“Sure” I answered, wincing at the exceptionally girlish sound that made its way back to the proprietor of the house. That had been happening since I’d first torn the feeding tube out of my throat, it didn’t take a genius (jury’s still out) to know that my voice box or whatever had changed and I was compensating somewhat during normal conversation.
“Hello!” The robot fridge broke into my thoughts from where it lurked next to the dishwasher, a more traditional appliance that had the good grace to stay silent when I was walking by. “What can I get for you?” The monolithic water cooler asked.
The insidious machine had taken a disliking to me from the start. First it had shouted at me when I tried to get a glass of water my first day as Gregg’s ward, leading to a fit of crying in the bathroom that Gregg and Wilks pretended not to have seen or heard, and then the mechanical monstrosity had refused to categorize the sodas Wilks went out of his way to acquire for me. Nevermind that Wilks’ accounting of both events described a polite refrigeration servant attempting to assist a guest with the procurement of a beverage and proper storing of sugary sodas, I just wasn’t having it.
It leered at me, the small touch screen that served as the control pad on the left door blinking calmly. “I am taking a soda and a sports drink.” I told it, enunciating every word as if speaking to a foreign gunman whose english skills I found wanting.
“Ok!” It said cheerfully, the opaque window that covered most of the right hand door cleared up as the internal camera highlighted the shelf where the two drinks could be found. “I will send a note to Gregg.” The thing told me as I extracted the chilled bottles. “We need more sports drinks, Wednesday is going to be unusually warm.”
Swinging the door shut I scowled at the camera, unwilling to accept its conspicuous concern for human needs. Almost as if in response, the crafty thing displayed the view of the external camera on the right hand monitor.
I still wasn’t comfortable with how I looked now, and the fucking thing must have known it. It showed me, offset to the side of the camera, in all my deviated splendor.
That insane bastard had done it alright, whatever ungodly chemicals that had been introduced to my bloodstream had immediately started a chain reaction of biological shifts within my body that had left me in a drastically altered physical condition.
The diminutive creature that was delivering a nasty look to the self-important icebox was an unfortunately adorable catlike female, the smoky white fur that covered her entire body standing on end. And she was me. The new me.
The amount of gratitude I had for having deviated into a new form that was relatively aesthetically pleasing could not have been overstated. I was a furry cat girl now. It sucked, sure. But in the big picture? At least there were a shitload of weird white kids I could always have a shot at dating.
I mean really, even Gregg had thought I was trying too hard to be positive when I’d first tried to explain to my rescuers and friends. But I needed no imagination to be grateful for having kept a relatively socially conforming figure, I’d seen what happened to Mike.
Maybe it was all of the trauma, but my attitude had taken an incredible turn after waking up in the hospital. I’d always prided myself (secretly) on being smart and adaptive, but all things considered it didn’t take a whole lot of introspection to see that I was handling the entire ordeal remarkably well. Mike was dead, and I was now a pervert’s wet dream, but I was alive. And I was going to find that sadistic asshole and get even.
Turning around, I took a swipe at the technological terror with my tail on the way out of the kitchen.
“Did the scary refwidgidator try to get you?” Gregg prodded as I walked back into the sitting room.
The sloshing thud that could only be a bottle of electrolyte infused sugar water impacting flesh was my response.
As the chortels followed me towards the back porch I made the executive decision to skip past the noodle haired millionaire so that the impotence of his verbal antics could be appreciated.
And why not? I was having a pretty good day, on the whole. The immersion into Nazi culture that had taken up a part of my afternoon had been concluded by Gregg’s dopey company, and what more could a pussy ask for?
Coming to rest in front of the french doors I looked out at the drizzling rain that was so common in this part of the country. A lot of people didn’t care for the lack of sunlight, but as one who has always loved inclement weather I found the reliable rains of Washington calming. Gregg had a hell of a view, too. This house was a rental from one of his far wealthier teammates, a cornerback I think, and it perched on the edge of a hill that provided a beautiful landscape of wooded mountains stretching into the distance and on a clear day a glimpse at the Pacific ocean.
Seattle was kind-of northish, hidden behind a couple of mountains, so Gregg enjoyed impressively light-pollution free nights when it was clear enough to see the stars. There won’t be any tonight, I thought to myself as I looked out at the darkening trees. It took an effort not to shiver as I thought of the Shadowy Men. Could they be out there in those trees? Watching?
“You ok, girly?”
Gregg was standing next to me with a concerned look on his face. “Huh?” I muttered, blinking furiously.
“I said you’re freaking me out.” He put a hand on my shoulder, I was proud that I barely flinched, and gently pulled me away from the window.
“Just lookin’ out the window.” I said dismissively, rolling my eyes at the friendly giant.
My friend smiled at me through his arched eyebrow. “You’ve been looking out the window for a while there, champ.”
Scoffing I brushed his hand away and shoved my unopened soda at his face. Another side effect from the mad doctor, inability to operate most precision based finger functions. Between the tiny hands and soft fur it was mostly impossible to do things like twist bottle caps or season my food. Crippling cuteness, Coach Taylor’s daughter had named my new condition when she saw me having trouble with the salt shaker. The same damn kid who had once looked at me with eyes the size of dollar coins and asked if Mikey and I were going to win a national championship.
Gregg took the soda and casually twisted the cap off before handing it back. “You’re going to be ok.” He told me. “We’re gonna figure it out.”
I plopped down on the vacated couch, claiming it for future catpeople, and tried to look disinterested.
“Wilks and Peters are coming by. I’ve got somewhere to be.” Gregg said.
“Hot date?” I asked, hating the lame question.
Gregg waved a hand as if to ward off the stupid I’d just thrown in his direction. “I think Miranda is going to be here.” He casually said, walking towards the stairs.
Not even trying to feign an aloof disposition, I bolted upright. “When!?!” I cried.
Miranda hadn’t said more than a word to me all week, despite having been obviously crucial to my escape from the shadowy ‘government’ forces. I was as desperate to sit down with her as I was terrified of being in the same room with her.
Hurrying past Gregg to race up the stairs I heard him say something about “five minutes” as I slammed the door of the room he’d given me.
Turning into a catgirl hadn’t been in my list of short term life plans, but luckily I had a bunch of friends (and girlfriends and boyfriends and whatever friends) of friends who had leapt at the chance to clothe the newfound feminine feline so certain logistical concerns had been eased shortly after my arrival at what we were now referring to as Fort Greggarious.
Digging into a pile of clothes that had been deposited on the floor of the closet I managed to get a tube top over my head and a preselected pair of capri’s on that I’d cut a tail hole into already.
I did some quick preening in the mirror, just making sure my fur was all in the right place, as I thought about what I could do to make the upcoming conversation as easy as possible. It was such a fucking nuisance, the fur. Why did it have to be all over the place?
Extracting strands of what seemed to be my more traditional ‘hair’ out of my freaky ears I tried to mash the pure white strands into something resembling sanity while the doorbell began to cry out for attention.
I was doing a weird shuffle towards the door while trying to keep my face in the mirror. Why did it look so weird? I’d thought I was getting used to the damn thing but in a moment of crisis it looked even weirder than normal. My mouth and nose had a bit of a Cat thing going on at the time, and just take my word for it that when everyone is telling you how cute your face hole is you start getting self conscious about that shit.
The stupid bell stopped ringing.
Something that sounded like The Fonz was in the house. Setting anxiety aside I threw myself out the door and quite literally down the stairs. When I tumbled to the ground floor in what was now a cramped foyer the regrets started.
Lying on my back with one leg sticking in the air I was the focus of what looked like a dozen upside-down faces. “Hey…” I started.
Gregg started laughing from somewhere that might have been my left. It was hard to tell, upside down or whatever.
As I tried to regain my feet, stubbornly ignoring the chuckles, a plump Asian guy who looked like he belonged on a sitcom took a step forward and asked me with no preamble “You’re the one.” Wait, was that a question?
Before I could work out a response Miranda was standing next to this new character with a cold look on her usually kind Haitian features. “Kay Tee” She said.
Everyone was looking at me.
You know that awful moment when someone is waving in your direction and you start to wave back before realizing that the friendly hand signal was never meant for such a low creature as yourself? Yeah, that’s what I felt like. It’s a pretty distinct feeling. I actually looked behind me to see if the wall had an opinion.
“Is that me?” I finally asked.
Miranda stepped forward, her expression softening immediately as she wrapped me in a hug that was horrifically comforting. “This is JassTannor.” She told me.
My eyes, already weirdly big compared to ‘normies’ must have turned the size of dinner plates.
“Oh, shit’s gonna get real.”
Here's part 3. I have read all of the comments and appreciate them very much. I think that I have a structuring problem to deal with that likely stems from my tendency to frame my narrative as if writing for film.
Bear with me, I'm trying to improve on delivery. Like I said in Ch. 1, I've never done this before but please keep the advise coming so that I can keep trying to improve my efforts.
This is a short chapter, but I didn't want to go any longer without updating. I promise that there is a plan in place for all of the floating mysteries, I'm not J.J. Abrams.
Ch.3
A chuckle rippled through the gaggle of what could only be the makings of a Rebel Alliance. Wrapped as I was in Miranda’s friendly grasp it was something of a task for me to maneuver my face around an elbow in search of eye contact with the famous Radical.
Not a terrorist, not a reactionary, a radical.
I always kind of liked that. Words are fun, they should be used in fun ways sometimes.
JassTannor was a symptom of the American dream. Or the plague upon it. I would say that both arguments have merit but then Jass might have me murdered for disloyalty or something.
“Well, Tee” Jass looked at some of the unfamiliar faces in the hall. “Real shit is about right.”
Another few chuckles met that statement as I squirmed out of Miranda’s grasp, my tail flailing. I swear there’s something I should do with it during physical altercations but unfortunately the local UFC gym doesn’t have a Jiu Jitsu guy who specializes in human-animal hybrid freak monsters.
“Who is Tee? Or Kay Tee?” I whispered to Miranda in what I thought were undertones.
“Codename, kid. Keep up dummy!” Gregg rolled his eyes at me while slithering through the crowd and out the door.
“He’s right.” Jass said calmly. “That is, of course, should you choose to be a part of this operation.”
“Are we in a fucking Tod Cruze movie?” I asked Miranda, again in undertones.
Face split by a smile I hadn’t seen in too long, she was about to answer when Peters materialized at my elbow. “These folks are here to help. They still get the news East of the Colorado, apparently.”
That was the final straw. Since when the hell had Peters ever made a political reference?
Setting myself firmly in front of the Oklahoma City Bombardier I locked on to the man’s eyes.
“You’re here about what happened.”
“We want justice. You aren’t the first of his victims.” Something was missing in person. On television or internet clips it was very easy to find Jass charming, he did have a non-threatening air about him.
But in person I found that there was nothing pleasant in the man’s eyes. I didn’t doubt he wanted people to pay for Kind’s crimes, but something told me that justice was far from first on his mind.
“Jass contacted me two weeks ago.” Miranda told me.
“Is that why you wouldn’t talk to me?”
Shrugging, she turned back to the crowd that had began to filter into the house. “I didn’t want to burden you with this stuff. Not until I knew you could handle it.”
My lips moved in an interesting way, something between a snarl and a smile that was new to my expressive repertoire. “I’m ready.”
Wilks slipped to stand beside the radical. “Right the fuck on, man. You look like a cat.”
“Hey buddy!” Why did I sing that?
“Seriously, I never knew you were into that kind of stuff.”
“Really?”
“Not a bad look for you though.”
“Yeah!?!” Why was I smiling so much. Stupid face.
Jass coughed lightly. “We will be convening in a few moments.”
Miranda nodded and escorted him down the hall, leaving me quite abruptly alone with Wilks. The stunted kicker looked concerned. Somehow it made me feel better that he was only like half a foot taller than me, and a ragged scruff of beard was particularly inviting on his tired features.
“How have you been holding up?”
“Honestly?” I shrugged “Not bad.”
“That’s good.” He nodded calmly. “So is it like, all of you?”
I did a little pirouette for my friend, struck by the urge to make an impression.
“Yeah... that looks like all of you.”
I winked at him. “Do you know what the fuck is going on?”
A distasteful look crossed his face. “My brother called. Said JassTannor wanted to get involved. I told Miranda, and now here we are.”
“She seems off.”
Wilks sighed heavily and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “What can I tell you, man. It’s been almost a month. She dealt with it pretty well, when they found you guys. She got to meet Star One and Cason Pointe, they broke the news about Mike.”
“And me taking a nap.” An outbreak of commotion carried down the halls from wherever the vanguard was preparing for the planning session, excited voices and crude language abounded.
“C’mon, man. Don’t say shit like that.” His hand was resting warmly on my shoulder. “She was so happy when she found out it was you. She’s really glad you made it.”
I was nodding meekly. “This is all just hitting me so fast.”
“Oh no doubt. I can’t even imagine man.”
Drifting away from his touch I made sure to keep my voice low this time as I tried to get to the bottom of the situation. “So what the fuck is Public Enemy Number One doing in Gregg’s house? How did that happen?”
Shrugging and sighing again Wilks shook his head. “I told you my brother called, and I put him in touch with Miranda. I don’t trust these guys, but they’re the real deal.”
“Look like a bunch of film school students.”
He chuckled. “Those guys saved you.”
I fixed him with a suspicious stare.
“No shit, who do you think told Miranda about the Shadow Men?”
“Oh fuck.” I breathed.
“Yeah.” He stated. “They were all over that shit from minute one. I think there’s something really big going on here.”
A thoughtful silence fell for a minute before Miranda’s authoritative voice called out “Hey plant heads! You coming?”
Wilks and I shared a look, years of bonding allowing for the transmission of complex ideas through no more than the briefest of facial gestures.
He laughed in response to my unsaid question, digging into his pockets.
“Of course, I brought the Greenie Meanie too.”
“Special occasions!” I said excitedly. Gregg didn’t partake anymore, eschewing the hassle with league drug testing policies so I’d been left bereft of herb since the escape from the hospital.
“Yeah, you haven’t had any in a while.” Wilks cautioned, packing a bowl. “This shit gonna make everyone look like they coming out of walls.”
“Don’t joke about that shit!” I reprimanded him, taking the apparatus and proffered lighter. A massive rip sent me into a coughing fit as the THC hit my ‘virgin’ lungs. “I have a fucking night light now.”
“Oh, you take it like a bitch! I thought you was a cat!” He was clutching his side, so forceful was his laughter.
“Fuck you, playa.” I said, taking another hit.
“Seriously, though. I bet that shit was terrifying.” He said, taking the equipment back and taking his own tokes. “Dudes coming out of walls and shit.”
“Yeah” I murmured, my head starting to float deliciously, “that’s just fucking weird right?”
Nodding serenely while he held in the smoke Wilks made a gesture that started us walking towards the activity deeper in the house.
“I mean, a bunch of Men in Black dudes is one thing. It’s the fact that they were all doing that shit at the same time that fucking terrifies me.”
A cloud of funky smoke plumed from Wilks’ exhalation. “Do you remember when the world was normal and shit?”
“Right!?!” I exclaimed. “I remember the first time I saw a Deviated person”
“Kind of puts everything in perspective, I think.” He mused.
“Who gives a fuck about monetary policy when people are being murdered?”
“Nah bro” Wilks said as we turned into the sitting room. “Fuck tomorrow if you can’t live today.”