Blonde Joke Chapter One by Jeffrey M. Mahr   How does a blonde commit suicide? Dumps her clothes in a pile and jumps off.

"What was the blonde psychic’s greatest achievement?”

The two men surrounding Tom Brodsky shrugged as they waited for the punch line.

Surreptitious glances confirmed that Dr. Katrina Issekson was busy and apparently not paying attention.

“An in-body experience.”

Tom’s guffaws were deafening. The others blushed knowing that Dr. Issekson just had to have heard him. Dick Baldwin coughed and nodded covertly towards Katrina to try to get Tom to notice and stop. Harry Walton began sidling over toward his lab counter and began trying to look busy.

Tom continued oblivious to the actions of the others, “How can you tell if a blonde’s been using a computer?” Without even waiting, he choked out his answer between roars of laughter, “There’s whiteout of the screen.”

“Ah-Hum.” Katrina turned and cleared her throat.

“Oh. Hello, Dr. Issekson. Did you hear this one? Why do blondes like to drive BMWs? Because they can spell it.”

“Mr. Baldwin. Mr. Walton. I suggest you get to work. Mr. Brodsky you must have somewhere else you need to be, don’t you?” Katrina glowered at him briefly and then returned to her lab counter to stare once again at a graphic representation of a gene. She slowly twirled an errant strand of blonde hair as she tried to regain her train of thought.

Tom cocked a conspiratorial eyebrow at the other two men, who tried desperately to disappear into the floor in anticipation of the battle that was probably to come. Dick excused himself and headed towards the bathroom at a rapid pace, figuring he couldn’t be trapped in the crossfire if they couldn’t find him. Harry considered joining him, but instead followed instructions and bent over the computer on his lab counter working furiously and desperately trying to ignore either of the two people who could make his life an absolute hell.

Oblivious, Tom swaggered over to Katrina and put his arm around her as he spoke. “Did you know I have a BMW? How about a ride up to the bluff to watch the submarine races?”

“Mr. Brodsky!” Dr. Katrina Issekson’s scowl could have turned lava to ice as she quickly turned out of his grasp and faced him, hands on hips. “Mr. Brodsky, you are rude, crude and unintelligent. As I have told you repeatedly, I have no interest in going anywhere with you. Only the fact that I am unsure of the meaning of the phrase ‘submarine races’ keeps me from immediately filing sexual harassment charges against you. Not withstanding the fact that your father owns this company, if you ever touch me or speak to me again in a derogatory manner, I will file charges seeking enough damages to bankrupt your father, this company and you. Now get out of this lab immediately.”

Tom stared down at the irate woman in shock at her outburst apparently not understanding what he might have done to anger her so. Understanding slowly dawned in his eyes, more rapidly followed by anger. “My father owns GTI, but I run it. He may have hired you but I’m your boss and I can fire you, so don’t threaten me Dr. Issekson.

“My family retains more attorneys than the average small city. I strongly doubt that being asked out on a date will be considered sexual harassment and neither will a few clean harmless jokes.

“For that matter, part of your employment contract calls for professional conduct, conduct that does not in any way embarrass this company. That includes being unable to perform your duties due to extremes of emotionality. I suggest you take a pill and get back to work yourself.” With that, he stormed threw the swinging doors and out of the lab.

Passing Dick, who was peaking out from the bathroom door, he smirked and winked. “Start thinking about your next assignment Dick. The good doctor will not be with us much longer.”

Katrina glared after him, face burning red, fists clenched. Ex-football linebackers like Tom Brodsky always seemed to be a pain–and at twenty-eight, the youngest project leader in the company and female to boot–Katrina knew she was an obvious target for his special brand of locker room humor. After a last glare at the now closed lab doors, she took several deep breaths and forced her body to relax. Turning to Harry, she spoke with only a hint of anger in her voice, “Go feed the lab rats please.”

The annual convention of the International Association for the Advancement of Genetic Technology was to start tomorrow and Katrina was typing feverishly at her computer to finish off the paper she was going to present while Dick and Harry were gathering slides and samples to offer colleagues who wanted to verify her findings.

“Gentlemen,” a smiling Tom Brodsky interrupted their furious labors. “You have a convention to go to. Get out of here, get your bags and get to the company plane now.” Tom took the slides out of Dick’s hands, waved to Harry to put down the samples he was placing in the cooler before him, and started leading them out of the lab.

“But Dr. Issekson will need these for her presentation tomorrow.” Harry noted as he gave a worried glance towards the once again scowling Dr. Issekson and thought how that always seemed to be her expression when Tom Brodsky was around.

“You don’t mind, do you Doctor?” Dick asked over his shoulder as Tom had his arm around Dick guiding him away.

Before Katrina could respond, Tom expansively answered for her. “Of course she doesn’t mind; she’s not leaving until later tonight so she’ll have plenty of time to pack the last few specimens.

“Now, did you hear this one?” Brodsky asked as he put his arms around the shoulders of each man and dragged them out of the lab. “‘Why do blondes have the letters TGIF written on their shoes?’ It stands for ‘Toes Go In First.’” The volume of Tom’s guffaws was reduced to a more acceptable level as the lab doors closed behind the three men. Muttering under her breath, Katrina returned to her typing.

Less than rested from her overnight flight, Katrina rushed to the hotel to check in. Hoping the unsupervised bellman would get her suitcases to her room without incident, she grabbed her briefcase, and the travel case with the specimens and slides in it, and rushed to the convention check-in desk. Unless there had been a change, her presentation was scheduled to begin in less than fifteen minutes and nothing was set up. Leaning over to sign her ID card, she heard an irritatingly familiar laugh.

“How do you amuse a blonde for hours? Give her a piece of paper with ‘Please turn over’ written on both sides.” The guffaws were back, joined by polite chuckles from several other sources.

Turning, Katrina was unsurprised to see Tom Brodsky standing amongst a group of men in expensive suits, no doubt sales representatives rather than scientists. Seeing that Katrina had spotted him, he called out to her. “Dr. Issekson, you better hurry or you’ll be late for your presentation.”

Seeing the ID card in her hand, he stepped over to her and solicitously took the card from her, knocking her cases to the floor in the process. Ignoring the scattered cases, he said, “Here, let me help you or you’ll be late.” Quickly stripping the covering off the adhesive backing, Brodsky pressed the ID down on her left breast and patted it down several times before Katrina could act.

Then, extending an arm around her shoulder to cope yet another feel of her breast in front of the openly snickering sales representatives, he took a step and dragged her along as he pointed. “You’re in the Presidential Room. Go through there and off to the left.” He moved away and stood waiting for her to continue on her own. She stopped, lips pursed in anger and turned back to pick up her briefcase and travel case before continuing without saying a word.

Tom watched her leave and returned to the group with which he had been talking. With a jerk of his head to the departing scientist, he commented, “Now there’s an oxymoron if ever I saw one gentlemen, a natural blonde with a Ph.D.”

It was close, but Harry and Dick helped. Dr. Issekson was set up and ready to go only five minutes late.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, we have mapped the chromosomes, labeled the genes and have made significant progress on relating the four proteins that are the building blocks of each gene–adenine, guanine, cytosine, and thymine, or AGCT as we call it–to various physical and emotional conditions. For example, for years we’ve known that there is a small stretch of AGCT at the tip of the X-chromosome that can predict homosexuality and another on chromosome 17 related to anxiety. We can now identify combinations of AGCT related to more than 1,400 different physical, emotional, and attitudinal characteristics of human beings with more being identified daily.

“Aside from the ethical considerations inherent in any discussion of human gene alteration, which have also been hotly debated over the last several decades and which I will not debate in this forum other than to offer a heartfelt prayer for intelligent and compassionate action, I present ‘virally targeted gene segment manipulation’ or ViTaGeSeM. Developed in conjunction with Gene Technology Incorporated, ViTaGeSeM is a computer-aided technique for genetic manipulation via a viral medium that will only attack specific gene segments. Unlike previous developments in this area that have attempted to adjust AGCT levels with concomitant difficulties controlling the microscopic quantities involved, ViTaGeSeM has two advantages.

“First, ViTaGeSeM may be applied either in a permanent or time-limited form. This should tremendously enhance our ability to assess various AGCT combinations as they can now be evaluated without permanent impact.

“Second, ViTaGeSeM operates by permeating the entire body to attack and replace the selected gene segments. The ViTaGeSeM viral medium can spread to include the entire body within three days. It is safe in any of several transmission formats and non-contagious short of direct blood-to-blood transfer, so only standard bodily fluid precautions are required. Even these precautions are only required for the first six days, after which the ViTaGeSeM transmittal medium is destroyed and eliminated by the body’s normal defense systems much like any invading cold virus. Depending upon the extent of the genetic changes, they will be completed within as little as another six days and not longer than six months.

“Finally, at the request of Tom Brodsky, President of GTI and his many accountants, I would like to add that it is projected that when in full production ViTaGeSeM will cost about half the price of current processes.” Katrina was pleased that the smattering of laughter was quickly drowned out by applause. She was even more pleased to see the scowl on Tom Brodsky’s face. “Serves him right!” she thought as she gathered her papers and waited for questions.

The banquet was as uncomfortable as Katrina expected. Harry and Dick were nowhere to be seen, probably an intentional situation as they too tried to avoid events that required Brodsky and Issekson to be together. Unsurprisingly, Brodsky’s behavior vacillated from insincerely solicitous, one minute treating her as his date, to rude and demeaning, the next minute coming out with yet another deprecating comment. She could barely tolerate the arm around her shoulders and having him order for her. The omnipresent blonde jokes did absolutely nothing to help.

“Hey Franz,” he called to another suit across the tale and several chairs down, “Did you hear this one? Two blondes are in the parking lot trying to unlock the door of their BMW with a coat hanger. The first blonde says ‘I can’t seem to get this door open.’ and the second blonde says, ‘Well you better hurry. It’s starting to rain and the top is down.’ Did you get it? The top is down.”

Between the blonde jokes and Tom’s hand finally coming to rest on her knee, Katrina had had enough. She abruptly excused herself and left. Laughing, Tom called out after her, “Is anything wrong dear?”

The sound of someone knocking on her hotel room door woke her. Still groggy, Katrina glanced at the time on the clock radio by her bedside. It was not quite four in the morning. Grabbing a robe, she padded tiredly to the hotel door and peered out the spy hole.

“Go away Mr. Brodsky. We have nothing to say to each other.” Katrina turned to return to bed only to stop when Brodsky began pounding on the door and cursing.
“Go away or I’ll call hotel security.”

“And tell them what, that you are in my room? I made the reservations Doctor. They are in my name, not yours.” The slight slur to his speech told her that Brodsky was drunk.

The temptation to call his bluff was very strong, but she was willing to bet there would be no more sleep this night if she did. Several days of limited sleep preparing for the convention, followed by a miserable night flight to get to it, followed by a late night in her room answering the questions of the press and her colleagues while graciously accepting their praise had resulted in one very tired Ph.D. Seeking a compromise that she hoped would allow some badly needed sleep she called back. “Very well, Mr. Brodsky. I need to get dressed. I’ll meet you in the hotel coffee shop in fifteen minutes for exactly fifteen more minutes.”

“No. Open the door now Issekson.” The pounding continued.

“Continue what you’re doing and I won’t need to call security, someone else will. That is my final offer, the coffee shop in fifteen minutes.”

Katrina began dressing and would say no more. After several more half-hearted attempts Tom left. Katrina continued dressing and was shortly ready. Cautiously checking the door’s spy hole and seeing an empty hallway she headed off to the coffee shop.

As she approached, she could see Tom waiting impatiently in the nearly empty room. Katrina watched him alternate between sipping his coffee and tapping his fingers on the tabletop as she stepped out of the elevator into the lobby. She hoped that the coffee would assure he was sober enough for a rational conversation.

“Now, what’s so important that you have me sitting in a coffee shop at four in the morning?” Katrina slid into a seat opposite him.

“I wanted you to know that I considered your comment about GTI’s accountants and me in poor taste. As per your contact, you are expected to refrain from making derogatory comments about your employer or its representatives. To insure that there are no further such comments I am formally instructing you to pack your bags and leave this convention immediately.” Tom had been hunched forward so that his face was just inches away from Katrina’s. He slowly leaned back into his chair and crossed his arms. His face was impassive but there was fire in his eyes.

“Was that all? If you’re done then I’ll be going back to bed.” Katrina started to rise.

“That was not a joke. I want you out of here and I want it now.” Katrina sat back down again.

“Let me make sure I understand this. On behalf of GTI, I’ve just announced the discovery of ViTaGeSeM to the inter-national scientific community and you want me to leave the convention where I announced it because you are insulted by a comment in my presentation that your office instructed me to include. What’s really going on here Mr. Brodsky? You’ve done your level best to prevent me from developing ViTaGeSeM. You’ve been rude and insulting. You took my lab assistants away from their packing the day before the convention requiring me to take a later plane and almost miss this convention. I realize you don’t like me, but I don’t understand why you would act in a manner designed to injure the company for which you are responsible. As I said before, ‘What’s really going on here Mr. Brodsky?’”

Tom sat silently while she spoke. Then, gritting his teeth, he repeated his original message, “I’ve given you an instruction Doctor. Pack your bags and leave. You’re in a company-paid hotel room and the company no longer wishes to permit you to use it.”
“And I repeat. What is the problem?” The silence extended for quite a while as the two stared coldly at each other. A waitress came out of the kitchen and saw that her one customer had company. She started over with a menu, but veered off to another table to fiddle with the setting when she saw their faces. Eventually Katrina became bored with the standoff.

“This is fruitless. I’m tired and I’m going to bed.” Katrina stood.

“I expect you to be out of that hotel room and on a flight back to GTI by eight this morning. Here is your plane ticket.” Katrina stared dully at Tom for several long seconds before she left.”

Blonde Joke Chapter Two by Jeffrey M. Mahr   What is a blonde's response to the comment, "Think about it."? I don't have to, I'm blonde.

Katrina was back in her lab, but not for long if Tom had his way. She had declined to leave the convention although she had paid the bill for her room out of her own pocket so Brodsky couldn’t accuse her of illegal use of company funds.

Unsurprisingly, Tom Brodsky had followed up his threats at the convention with a written letter of termination. Efforts to reach his father, Franklin Brodsky, owner of GTI and the man who had originally hired her, were unsuccessful, so here it was six o’clock in the evening on a Friday and she was packing her personal effects.

“...call 911 in an emergency? Because they can’t find the number eleven on the telephone buttons. Gentlemen, this will now be your lab. I expect...” Tom Brodsky, with Dick and Harry in tow, stopped short upon seeing Dr. Issekson. “What are you still doing here?”

“Packing my personal effects and hoping to see you one last time Mr. Brodsky.” She took a folded piece of paper from her briefcase. “This is for you.”

“Let me guess, Dr. Issekson, a subpoena. Am I correct?” He tossed the paper onto a nearby lab counter.

“No, Mr. Brodsky. It’s a restraining order. You may not offer ViTaGeSeM for sale to anyone, for any reason, without my written consent. There will be additional filings shortly challenging my termination and seeking damages for ‘pain and suffering.’ My lawyers tell me it should even be possible to sue for damages under Title VII for gender discrimination for creation of a ‘hostile work environment.’ With luck, when my attorneys are through, I may own this company, or at least a majority holding.” Katrina returned to her packing smug in the knowledge that Brodsky would have to relent.

“Dick, Harry? Would you please excuse us?” The two men gave one last frightened glance at Tom and Katrina and hastily disappeared. Turning back to Katrina, Tom continued.

“You’re alone here Doctor?”

“Yes, but I’m taping this meeting Mr. Brodsky.”

“Oh, that’s all right Doctor. I assumed as much.” Tom’s feral grin produced a slight shudder of fear in Katrina. Tom saw it and his grin grew even larger.

“If you are so certain of yourself, would you mind telling me why?” Tom sauntered over to the counter by the sample refrigerator and leaned against it as Katrina slowly backed away keeping a counter between them.

“You mean like the proverbial villain who gives away his secret plan to destroy the world to the hero before attempting to kill him?” Sarcasm dripped from Tom’s voice and, if possible, his grin grew larger. “I don’t think so. You’ll just have to use that incredible mind buried beneath that blonde head of hair to figure it out.”

“No Mr. Brodsky, I understand why you’ve acted as you have as a ‘business man.’” The words came out as a curse. “I don’t approve of your tactics, but I understand your overriding desire for money and power. I know you would want to use ViTaGeSeM in ways I would not approve. With my, as you would probably call it, ‘quaint’ ideas of morality, it was just a matter of time before we had some type of falling out. I only wondered how it would occur.” Tom’s grin, frayed a bit but he immediately regained his composure and his grin as she continued. “Actually, I meant why the blonde jokes?”

“You mean like ‘What happens to a blonde when she gets Alzheimer’s disease?’ Why Dr. Issekson, don’t tell me they bothered you?” Brodsky asked disingenuously. The grin was back full force. “By the way, the answer is, ‘Her IQ goes up.’”

“You mean the only reason was because you thought they would bother me?”

“And thereby keep you off balance, thus making my job easier to implement.” Tom opened the sample refrigerator and reached in. “But now I guess it’s time to end this pleasant little táªte-á -táªte. Dick and Harry may not be first-rate researchers like you, but they are competent, don’t have your high moral standards and do what they are told to do. Normally, I would just call security and have you removed from the building and grounds but, as expected, you’re making this difficult, so.…” Taking a vial from the refrigerator, Tom opened a drawer and withdrew a syringe.

“You...you don’t want to do that Mr. Brodsky.” Katrina took another step backward. “You don’t want to inject me with anything.”

Ignoring her, Tom quickly walked to the double doors and locked them. Turning back, he saw Katrina pushing at the crash bar of the emergency exit.

“Oh, I guess you didn’t get my memo. That emergency exit is temporarily sealed closed for the next week while we remove some asbestos from the ceiling tile and piping in the adjacent hall.”

“This building is too new to have asbestos problems.” Katrina slowly edged towards her desk.

“Oh my. And it so pleased the labor-management committee when we announced it.” Tom carefully inserted the syringe into the sample container and withdrew 5 cc. of a clear liquid. Reaching her desk Katrina frantically searched inside the middle drawer.

“The gun is no longer there.” Tom slowly advanced on Katrina.

“You seem to have thought of everything. Now what are you going to do?” Katrina slumped against her desk, warily eyeing Tom.

“Nothing drastic. This is a mixture of ViTaGeSeM and some DNA. It started out as your DNA but then Dick and Harry modified it according to my specifications.”
“And they are?”

“Oh, nothing much. You’ll still look the same, but you won’t be a genius any more. My guess is your new IQ will be in the low normal range. Also, you’ll be much more interested in the pleasures of the flesh. Finally, I’ve personally added a rather strong hypnotic to the mix. It was developed here at GTI several years ago and I plan to use to reinforce some very specific instructions.”

Katrina kept edging away from him as he slowly approached. “Isn’t that a bit hackneyed? Why don’t you just kill me and be done with it?” She tried to keep him talking on the assumption that when he was talking he was less likely to act.

“Well, yes, but it was easier to have you alive and doing as instructed for the short term rather than transforming someone else into your image and having the risk of them being branded as an imposter. After all, they would not know everything you do and I’m sure you’ve been smart enough to set up a variety of identification procedures so people know you are you.”

Tom stopped his slow chase of the elusive Katrina. “You might as well stop running away from me. If you continue you’ll just make me angry and I’ll just be a bit rougher with the injection and add a few more post-hypnotic suggestions.”

“You mean like to make me your ‘love slave’ or some such pathetic balm to your male ego?”

“Actually, yes.”

“So this was all about sex?” Katrina had made a full circle of the room and was back by her desk.

“You flatter yourself Doctor. This is business and while I suspect I would find it enjoyable, any additional commands like that would be mostly for the purpose of adding to your embarrassment. Now stand still before I get angry.” Katrina was now by the sample refrigerator. Suddenly she reached in and grabbed out a pre-loaded aerosol injector. Holding it in front of her, hands shaking, she aimed it towards Tom.

“You didn’t really think I would fail to notice an extra vial or two in my own sample refrigerator. I found it last night. My computer analysis hasn’t finished yet so thank you for telling me what to expect.”

“What do you mean, ‘what to expect?’” Tom feinted right and went left around a counter. Katrina squeaked and bolted around the counter to avoid him.

“I loaded a sample of what you had concocted into this aerosol injector. If you try to inject me, I’ll inject you.”

“That will only work if the injector is flush against my skin.” Tom swept everything off the counter between them. “You’re getting me annoyed.”

With a roar of anger, Tom lunged over the counter grabbing Katrina’s hand before she could inject him. With a smile of satisfaction, he began squeezing her hand. “Drop the injector.” He squeezed harder and gave the hand a shake. “Drop it now!” When Katrina tried to reach the injector with her other hand, Tom put down the syringe and grabbed the other hand too. A last shake and the injector fell from her hand onto the counter next to the syringe and Tom began pulling her screaming and struggling over the counter towards him.

When she was close enough, he stopped briefly to hold both hands in one hand and grab her hair with his free hand. Then he resumed pulling her slowly toward him as she screamed even louder. Pulling her all the way over the counter, Tom twisted around so his back was to the counter and forced her arms to cross in front of her. Jerking his head back, he narrowly avoided the back of her head as she tried to slam it back into his nose. When that didn’t work, Katrina started kicking him.

With a curse, Tom turned her around and bent her over the counter hands still crossed beneath her and held her feet against the counter with one of his legs. Pushing down on her back with his chest he released one hand to reach for the syringe. Katrina began struggling even harder and managed to free one hand.

Suddenly there was a hissing sound and Tom cursed. Regaining control of her free hand before she could reach back and scratch at his face Tom pushed down harder still and grabbed the syringe. Quickly positioning it over her buttocks, he jabbed it through her clothing and injected her with the substance, then quickly backed away breathing hard.

Katrina scrambled as far away from Tom as she could and glared at him as she rubbed her sore buttock. “Now what, you unmitigated bastard?” The words were ragged, spit out between gasps. She made a conscious effort to calm her racing heart and slow her breathing knowing it would slow the absorption of the injected solution.

“We wait.” Tom rubbed his hand. Looking down he saw a red spot where he had been injected with whatever was in Katrina’s aerosol injector. “Shit!”

“Then the injector did get you. I thought I heard it release.” She smiled. “Then I guess it really is a waiting game now.”

“Not if I use the disinhibitor to stop the action of the ViTaGeSeM.” He walked towards the refrigerator, yanking the door open, but looked up when he heard Katrina’s laughter.

“The disinhibitor only works if it’s used before an injection. We designed it for physicians and nurses who might accidentally get pricked by a used needle. It won’t work after the fact.”

“We’ll see.” He reached in and grabbed another vial. Moving to the drawer with the syringes he grabbed one out and filled it with the disinhibitor then quickly jabbed himself in the arm.”

“It’s even less likely to work as an intra-muscular injection. It’s supposed to be intravenous. You really must read my project reports more thoroughly.” She continued to laugh, stopping only when she felt dizzy and reached out an arm to prop herself against a counter.

“We’ll see.” Tom spoke through gritted teeth. He was torn as to what to do next. If she was telling the truth, he was in trouble. He considered calling Dick or Harry in to advise him of the truth, but if he did then there would be a witness to his perfidy. Finally, he decided to wait. If it was too late for the disinhibitor he would live with it until he could change back, if not, he had still had a few choice post-hypnotic commands to impress on the “good Doctor.” After all, he could always have Dick and Harry recreate his DNA later and re-inject him so he could become himself again. Suddenly he had a horrible thought. Did they make this permanent? Could he become himself again? Fear won out over business and he grabbed the phone.
“I see you’ve dialed an internal extension. Wondering whether the stuff you injected was the permanent version by any chance?” A leg buckled and Katrina fell back against the counter again. It took an obvious effort to stand.

Tom’s laughter was ragged as he began to feel the pain associated with the ViTaGeSeM transformation. “Damn.”

Katrina buckled and slid to the floor. “Are you going to make it Brodsky, or are you going to become comatose before you can give me your post-hypnotic commands?”
Tom buckled at the waist and joined Katrina on the floor. Gasping from the pain, Tom asked, “Why did the blonde climb the glass wall?”

“I don’t know.” Katrina’s eyes were becoming glazed.

“To see what was on the other side.” Tom sniggered once and they both slid into oblivion together.

Blonde Joke Chapter Three by Jeffrey M. Mahr   What do you call a blonde wearing a leather jacket on a motorcycle? A rebel without a clue.

Katrina struggled to attain awareness without quite making it. There were voices, or maybe dreams, but it was difficult to make out what they said. Instead, Katrina gave up in favor of a low groan and a return to sleep. The next time she woke, it was to bright sunlight shining in her eyes so she couldn’t see, but it took too much effort to move a hand to block out its glare.

“Good, you’re awake.” The voice was familiar, maybe if it continued she’d figure out whose voice it was. Female. It was a female voice. Mom? No. Someone from work? Maybe, that sounded right. A secretary? No….

“Well, open your eyes already,” a someone demanded in a hoarse whisper. A shape moved in front of the sun blocking it out. Katrina opened her eyes and focused enough to recognize it as a woman’s shape to match the voice. With the sun behind the woman, Dr. Issekson couldn’t tell who the woman was, just that she was sitting on the bed next to Katrina.

“Geez, you dumb blonde, come on,” the whisper continued. “Hold your hands over your ears, maybe you’ll be able to hold a thought.” The woman weakly shook Katrina, but seemed to loose her balance and fell over onto her. With the sun in her eyes, Katrina was again blinded, but there was a face on the bed next to her. With an effort, she lifted a hand to block out the sunlight and turned to examine the face just inches from her own. It was her face staring at her and muttering.

“What the hell do I have to do to get you to move, tell another damn blonde joke?”

“You!” Katrina struggled to her elbows. The movement pushed the other woman off the bed to the floor, where she landed with a thud. By the time they both made it to a sitting position, they were gasping from the exertion.

“What kind of hypnotic did you use? I feel like crap.”

“We both feel like crap. Those morons, Dick and Harry, found us passed out in the lab. They must have panicked and locked us here in the biohazard lab. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“What do you mean we paleface?” Katrina’s laugh was cold. “Since when did you start expecting my help?”

“That’s why they call a blonde with one brain cell gifted. Come on ex-genius; use that solitary brain cell before it dies of loneliness. We’re trapped. We don’t know who knows we’re here. We don’t know if we’ll be released. We do know that the people who put us here panicked because otherwise we wouldn’t be here. We either work together or we may die together. Do you have a preference?”

“And how do you know all this?”

“Because I came to a few minutes before you. I must have rolled over and pulled out the IV drip we’ve been on without it being noticed. I managed to wake in time to see that rat Harry walking out of the lab. Then, I managed to roll over again and yank your IV out.”

“Don’t you ever really answer a question?”

“Don’t you ever really use that brain cell Blondie? I saw Harry leave the lab.”

There was silence as Katrina glared at Tom, until she suddenly burst into laughter.

“Now what the hell is your problem? Have you finally lost it? Come here and let me blow in your ear; you need a refill you airhead,” Tom snarled but was still too weak to do much more.

“Well.” The chuckles continued making it hard to speak, “I think you should look in a mirror–or since we don’t have one, look at me seeing as it’s the same thing.”

Tom’s jaw dropped causing Katrina’s guffaws to return.

“The shocks don’t stop there Tommi girl,” Katrina stressed the word “girl.” Let’s open door number two shall we?” There was silence so Katrina continued. “Do you remember what you told me was in the vials we were injected with? The ViTaGeSeM DNA we were injected with was designed to lower our intelligence. What did you say to expect, low normal intelligence?”

The look on the face of Katrina’s new identical twin was absolutely precious. Katrina couldn’t restrain herself as she continued.

“...and now I guess it’s time for door number three. Do you remember what else you programmed our bodies for? What was the phrase you used? Wasn’t it the ‘pleasures of the flesh?’ Unless I miss my guess, you set things up to make us very horny ladies–although, bitches in heat might be a better term. How are you going to like having sex with guys Tommi dear?”

“Eh-hum.” The tinny voice came over the intercom. “Excuse me. May I have your attention please?” Tommi and Katrina interrupted their current argument to see what was about to change in the last week’s boring schedule of get up, eat and argue. They argued incessantly about anything and everything. If it weren’t for the clock, the only way to tell time would have been the meals. The biohazard room’s airlock would open and remain open until they took out the plastic containers of food and changes of clothes. The room itself had been stripped of everything but two soft chairs, a television set, a portable toilet, a field shower, a lab counter with a sink, and the double bed on which they’d woken up. Shortly after dinner on the ninth day, something finally changed.

“This is Harry Walton speaking. Would you please move the week’s garbage and dirty clothes into the airlock?” The interior airlock opened.

“Why should we?”

“For once in your life don’t argue.” Tommi growled as she quickly moved to comply with the request.

“Thank you Mr., I mean Ms., Brodsky. Would you now please move out of the airlock so I can close it?”

“It’s me, Tom Brodsky. Recycle me out, damn it.”

“I’m sorry Ms. Brodsky, I can’t do that.”

“What do you mean you ‘can’t do that’? Open the damn door now!” She began pounding on the exterior door.

“Ms. Brodsky! Stop that or I’ll have to exhaust the air in there until you both pass out.” The pounding continued.

“I’m not kidding. Stop that and move out of the airlock.” The pounding stopped when a hissing sound started.

“What the hell is the matter with you Walton? Let me out.” Grudgingly, against his better judgment, Tommi backed out of the air lock and the hissing stopped.

“I’m sorry Ms. Brodsky, I can’t do that. You’ll both need to stay there for a while longer.”

“How long?” Katrina interrupted.

“I’m not sure Dr. Issekson. We’ll let you both out as soon as we can. Please be patient.”

“Then could we please have some better clothes than these hospital gowns...and some makeup?”

“Yeah, I’d like some decent clothes too,” Tommi grumped as she slumped onto the bed. “These gowns are too much like dresses.”

“Uh, I guess so. What do you want?”

“Some shirts and pants would be a great start. Oh, and how about my old body?”

“I assume you won’t let us out to buy them,” Katrina smiled grimly and continued as if Tommi hadn’t spoken, “so how about bringing us the clothes and cosmetics from my house?”

“All of them? I doubt I can do that.”

“Fine. What can you bring?”

“Uh...I’m not sure.”

“Can I give you a list?”

“I guess so. But I won’t promise to get it all.”

“How about the shirts and pants I asked for?”

“Will you stop already Tommi? Your clothes are not going to fit any more, and if they haven’t given you back your old body yet; they’re not going to. Are you Harry?”

“Uh...no. I’m afraid not.”

“Why the hell not?” Tommi was up and pounding on the airlock door. “I’ll destroy you fools. You’ll never work in this field again. You’ll spend so much time in court you’ll be asking the judge to set up a cot for you to sleep in his chambers.”

“Tommi? Are you getting dumber every minute or is it my imagination?”

The pounding stopped as Tommi turned to glare at Katrina.

“Listen. He’s gone. The speaker is off. You can tell by the absence of the faint telltale hissing sound.” Tommi returned to her pounding on the door lock. Katrina just shook her head and sighed.

Sobbing and exhausted, Tommi finally slumped on the floor by the door lock. For the first time in their captivity Katrina’s tone of voice showed concern. “Tommi?” No response.

“Tommi, please. We need to talk. If we don’t work together we may never get out of here.”

As she spoke, she slowly approached Tommi. Kneeling beside her, Katrina gently took Tommi’s hand and pulled her into a caring embrace. Pressing her head against Tommi’s, she whispered.

“We need to work together, now, before we lose the intellectual capacity to plan effectively. I don’t care what you do once we are away from here but, for now, working together is our only chance to get out of here. Now keep sobbing and let me help you to the bed. We’ve got to talk and we can’t let our captors overhear us or realize we’re planning something.”

Tommi kept sobbing, but didn’t move. Instead, she whispered back, “Why should I work with you?”

“Because they’ve had us for more than just the one week we’ve been awake. Considering how drastic your transition has been, we have to have been here almost four months. If we don’t get out of here within the next couple of weeks, we’ll probably be too dumb to plan our way out of a paper bag. So let me help you up and over to the bed where we can lie down together and talk with a modicum of privacy.”

Once again, Katrina gently pulled at Tommi, but this time Tommi moved with her. Reaching the bed, they sat rocking gently back and forth with Tommi’s head on Katrina’s breast while Katrina gently held Tommi and stroked her hair.

“What have you got in mind?” Tommi whispered.

“First let’s agreed to the conditions of the problem.”

Tommi nodded imperceptibly. If Katrina hadn’t been holding Tommi’s head against her breast, she would not even have felt it.

“Within a month or so the intellectual and hormonal modifications will kick in and we’ll both be vacuous imbeciles with just one prime motivating thought–sex.”
Another nod.

“We absolutely must get out of here before that occurs or we’ll have no chance to ever get back to the way we were.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it hasn’t happened already and you just heard Harry say he wasn’t allowed to change you back. Dick and Harry couldn’t plan this and they are not going to let us out or return us to our original physiques without instructions from someone else. They haven’t done it in the last three months so it doesn’t seem likely that they’re going to do it at all.”

“That doesn’t make sense. There’s no one at this company who would dare stand up to me. Unless.… Would he?... He must have. They’ve got to be taking orders from my father. Shit! In that case, it’s most likely that he feels it’s easier to have us disappear than try to control you or explain me. Oh hell, that means he’s going to really get rid of us as soon as the heat’s off. I knew the old bastard was ruthless, but his own son? Damn! You’re right. We’ve got to get out of here and fast.”

“Then we’re agreed?”

“God help me yes.”

“Then I’ve got an idea, but I don’t like it and I’m positive you’re going to hate it, so bear with me and after I’m done I will gladly listen to any alternative proposals you would like to offer. Deal?”

“Deal–at least until we’re both out of here. Let’s get more comfortable.”

“Okay, but no funny business, Mr. Brodsky.” They both smiled, albeit a bit raggedly, as they slid into a lying position on the bed. They remained, huddled in each other’s arms on the bed for the remainder of the evening. The sobbing was soon over and before slipping off to sleep more than an occasional giggle could be heard.

I still remember my thoughts when I awoke. My first thought, as it had been everyday for the last year and a half, was thankfulness that I was still alive. My second thought–one that had been happening less and less frequently over the last couple of months–was that this was a good day because the pain was not totally debilitating. From then on, things began to get confusing.

Maybe I should explain a bit. For that matter, maybe I should apologize in advance if this narrative seems to jump about. My name is...no, my name was George LaPierre. I was a research scientist with a specialty in genetics and oncology. You see, all four of my grandparents had died of cancer at an early age and so had my parents–heck, I barely got to know my mother; she died when I was just six. I figured that my body was a ticking time bomb, just waiting to go off–and I was damned if I as going to “go quiet into that dark night” or however the quote goes. Selfish? Certainly. In my shoes, I expect you would be too.

It was at my mother’s funeral that I first announced that I was going to cure cancer. As you can guess, my father and my relatives humored me. After all, who takes a six-year-old boy seriously when he says he is going to change the world? Especially when he announces that he is going to cure something as ubiquitous as cancer rather than become a superhero like most kids.

After her funeral I was quieter, less apt to play with my friends and more likely to spend hours on end in my bedroom. It became very common, whenever my father would check in on me, to find me on my stomach with my feet up in the air and my elbows propping up my head as I stared at one of a collection of books about the human body. One of my presents for my seventh birthday was a new children’s book of anatomy. It was to replace the book I had worn out with my constant perusal.

At first, my father was concerned by the abrupt change in me, but one of the psychologists he was required to talk to where he worked–he was a nuclear physicist, and the government wanted to be sure that everyone working around “the project,” as they called it, was as stable as possible–advised him that I was just going through a particularly intense grieving process and that if I didn’t get over it in a while, my father should bring me in to talk to him. Lucky for me, Dad became caught up in his work as his own way of grieving and soon considered my behavior normal.

Do not get me wrong. I still did all–well most–of the things kids do. I played ball, climbed trees, debated the merits of various comic superheroes and went to school. I was a Boy Scout and still am–at least at heart, if you believe my best friend Paul. I developed an interest in girls at an early age–like I had a choice living on an army base–and I went to college, joined a fraternity and graduated summa cum laude. It might have been magnum cum laude were it not for that unfortunate incident at the lab where Professor Carlson was splashed with semi-permanent skin coloring. It had been meant for my lab partner, in response to his attempt to substitute alcohol for water during one of my experiments. Had I not recognized the distinctive aroma of ethanol, I might have blown up a good portion of the college’s Chem. Lab. Paul, yes Paul my lab partner, thought it was hilarious to see Carlson with a bright green face. The unfortunate part was that Carlson–Professor Carlson Waldorf Maldonado, yes that Carlson–did not, and tried to fail me. Luckily, I was good enough that he couldn’t make an “F” stick, but he did only give me a “C”–thus, the summa instead of magna. Oh well, I still ended up getting a better job than the girl who was magna cum laude.

Back to when I woke up. Once the initial joy of surviving to live another day passed, I examined my surroundings; pale green walls, fluorescent lighting and medical equipment everywhere. This was not my bedroom. It was not even Kansas –and if I had a little dog named Toto, the dog would not be around either. If the preceding didn’t make sense, perhaps I should explain that the morphine I’ve been taking makes thinking very difficult. It is like you are wading through a swamp and making the simplest connections is a major effort. That is probably why it took me so long to realize that I was in the same hospital room that I had been in for the last month and a half.

It is also probably why it took me so long to notice that the pain was gone, but then it is always harder to recognize the absence of something. My best friend Paul Goldblum–the same Paul from the Chem. Lab incident–is a trial lawyer and he would always complain that it was harder to defend the innocent ones than the guilty ones. For the guilty ones, Paul invariably found that they were playing pinochle or poker with their best buddies at the time of the crime. For the innocent ones he had to prove that they were at home, in bed, alone, with no witnesses. It must be my Boy Scout training, but I always silently cheered when Paul told me he really had an innocent one.

I think the same thing applies to pain. First, you have to realize it has gone–that absence thing. Then, and only then, you can begin to recognize the extent of its absence. Is it just the morphine dulling your senses so you cannot feel it? Are you still dreaming; imagining what it would be like to be pain-free again? Are you dead and feeling no pain at all? Believe me; given the excruciating pain I had been in, I had been wondering about death a lot lately.

It was not until I actually moved that I truly began to appreciate the absence of pain. I had cancer of the bones, one of the rarer forms of cancer, even for my family. Notice I did not say leukemia, which is effectively cancer of the bone marrow. They are both phenomenally painful, but there are treatments for leukemia, treatments to extend your life–sometimes a significant length of time. No such luck for cancer of the bones, especially once it had metastasized and spread throughout my body making surgical removal impossible.

As I said, the movement brought home the absence of pain. My joints did not ache. The muscles did not rub agonizingly against bones warped by the cancer, nor did I feel the sharp pain of snapping bone, weakened as the cancer leeched away the calcium so vital to healthy bones in milk commercials.

If I am depressing you, I apologize. That is not my intent. Did you hear the joke about the lawyer’s opening remarks in behalf of a client accused of breaking a valuable vase from the Ming Dynasty? Remind me at the end of this story and I will tell it–and in case you are wondering, I collect lawyer jokes. It is a defense mechanism, my way of getting back at Paul. As I’ve mentioned, Paul’s a lawyer and he’s always got another mad scientist joke to tease me with so, in self-defense, I “zing” him back with lawyer jokes.

Actually, I think I have it easier. Have you noticed how many lawyer jokes there are out there? If, as many suggest, there is a grain of truth in most humor, it does not speak well of the legal profession; although Paul has never, ever, given me reason to believe he was anything other than a hundred and ten percent honest. Why I remember once he found a satchel filled with money and he...well, that is a different story.

Thinking of Paul reminded me of why I was not in my own bed–or actually, our last talk together as he witnessed me signing the papers that got me here....

“George, are you absolutely certain you want to do this?” Paul asked as he stood looking worriedly down at me from beside this very same bed. “You know that there are always new procedures being developed, procedures that are not as radical as this one. You also know how much can go wrong between animal trials and human trials. I strongly encourage you to think carefully before signing these papers.”

I took the papers from his hand–or at least I tried. It only took me four attempts and I was too weak afterwards to reach for the pen. “Look at me Paul. I am dying–I have days, maybe weeks to live. There’s no time for a new cure.” I stopped to catch my breath. Even breathing was getting to be a strain and I had learned to speak through gritted teeth more than a year ago. “And even if I had the time, I’m not sure how much longer I’m willing to live with this pain.”

Paul nodded sadly. I knew he understood. We had had variations of this conversation for over a year. He was just being a good friend and trying to make certain I was making a considered decision. Rather than make me suffer the agony of further speech, he carefully placed the pen in my hand and guided it to the proper place on the paper. Once I was done signing and initialing, he took it all from me and notarized the document–I was hopeful, but neither one of us knew whether this was really my salvation or just a quicker, and more legal than suicide, way to attain the inevitable. He walked out of the room without another word, but I heard his ragged sobbing before the pneumatic door closer finished its task.

One of the interesting things about cancer cells, and I will try not to lecture here, is that they are really your own cells. Cancer is your own body, your own DNA, turning against you. Sure, there are pre-viral strands of DNA that enter the cell and live on the helix, but they seem to be segments of DNA, in effect part of the human genetic matrix. It is just recently that we discovered that the cell changes result from the waste products of those pre-viral strands interacting with selected segments of our own gene strands on a number of different chromosomes. In effect, the little bastards shit all over us, causing mutation.

The problem has always been that we can’t seem to kill the pre-viral strands without killing, or at least mortally wounding our own cells; and efforts to eliminate just the specific cells using lasers and surgery haven’t always worked because it doesn’t always get all the pre-viral strands. They are still in the body searching for a likely cell to make into home sweet home.

The goal of my research was to develop a pre-pre-viral strand. In effect, we wanted to build a critter that would attack the pre-viral strand. It is like the limerick–sorry, you would think I would have remembered the exact quote, but things have been a bit difficult lately. The part I can remember goes something like this:

Well, I accomplished that. I built an even smaller strand of DNA–really just a clump of the four proteins from which DNA is comprised–and designed it to only attack partial strands of DNA. AND IT WORKED! It actually worked. Our protein clumps would only attack partial strands of DNA and destroy them. In the process, it also eliminated the mutagens in the cell nucleus and gradually allowed the body to replace the damaged cells with healthy new ones.

However, that was only half the battle. The other half was to speed the healing and cell replacement process so that the body regenerated itself before it died from the double insult of cancer and the war of viruses as the protein clump, or prion as it’s called, killed the pre-viral strand. For that, we turned to the research of Dr. Chen-Liu and his colleagues. You have probably heard of him, or at least the line of topical skin rejuvenation formulas the cosmetics companies have created based upon his discoveries. Not as well known but, in my opinion, much more important are the injectable “scrubber viruses,” as he calls them, that clean up the waste material in the cell and dispose of it in the kidneys and intestines. For some still unknown reason, it also served to increase the rate of cell regeneration–sometimes logarithmically depending upon the strength and purity of the viruses injected.

We were able use this as part of a one-two punch to cure cancer. The first step was injection of our protein clumps to kill the pre-viral strands and the second step was to flush the clumps, the strands and the damaged cells from the body. We used the completely undiluted version given the tremendous amount of cell repair needed.

That brings me back to waking up pain-free for the first time in recent memory. Paul was there, looking haggard. He had not shaved in several days and given his tendency to forget to eat when he’s concentrating on something, I was betting he hadn’t done much of that either. I stretched and groaned as I used muscles that had been dormant for a while and he was instantly awake and by my bedside.

“How,” I croaked and tried again, “How long?”

“A week and a half. How are you feeling?”

“Probably better than you, if looks can tell anything,” I gave him a wan smile to show that the croak was not a problem. “How long have you been here?”

“Since you were injected. Last night, the doctors said it was too early to tell for sure, but that you seem to be fully recovered. Everything went exactly as predicted. They removed the IVs with the morphine drip late last night.”

“Everything?” It was great news to hear that the cancer was gone, that I would be able to live, and that I would live without excruciating pain, but the procedure had a down side too, one I had been unwilling to consider seriously until now.

“Everything,” Paul answered quietly, searching my face for any indication of how I was going to take the news. He looked strange, almost wistful, which didn’t seem quite the right emotion for a best friend, but I brushed it off as the last traces of the morphine still playing havoc with my thought processes. Besides, I had “more important things to consider.”

With a tentative movement, my right hand–did I tell you I was right handed–moved slowly up my body. I felt it move across my stomach, past my ribs, and finally to rest on my chest. They were small, but they were there. Two of them. Fleshy masses. Breasts.

I did not realize I had been holding my breath until I released it with a hiss. Paul nodded, “That’s correct. Breasts. The doctors tell me that they will grow larger as you regain some of the mass you lost to the cancer. They tell me the rest is anatomically correct too.”

Turning for a moment, he reached to the nightstand and picked something up. The same man who had shouted down prosecutors, who had won our college fraternity’s Dollars for Decibels contest by shouting louder than anyone else, spoke so softly that I could barely hear him. “Would you like to see yourself?”

The answer was a no-brainer, but still I hesitated as all sorts of thoughts ran through my mind. The one side effect of this treatment, the treatment I had helped create, was that it destroyed all partial DNA strands. While this meant that some cells in the process of mitosis were erroneously destroyed, that was a small consideration in my decision to volunteer. After all, the scrubbers used in the second half of the process would just clean them out along with the rest of the waste. The bigger problem was the “Y” chromosome.

Have you ever looked at images of the human gene structure? Sure, most people know about the forty-six chromosomes, but fewer people consider how the “Y” chromosome looks like a withered up “X” chromosome with one leg missing. That is right the protein clusters considered the “Y” chromosome a strip of partial DNA and eliminated it. The “scrubbers” got the body to repair each helix, but had no “Y” chromosome to build on, so it duplicated the “X.” In effect, I was now genetically and physically female.

Now the thought of being female did not bother me. That is not why I hesitated. If someone were to ask me which sex was the better one, I would probably just look at them like they were crazy and offer a quasi-witty response like, “The one not paying the restaurant bill.” What bothered me was that I would have two identical “X” chromosomes. Do you have any idea how many “X”-related genetic disorders there are? I will make this easy. We already know of more than two hundred and more are being found every day. I was deathly afraid that I had done little more than exchange my cancer for some genetic death sentence. That is why I hesitated. I was scared, so scared that I just nodded my head rather than speak.

Paul took the hand mirror he had picked up from the nightstand and held it before me. My face was very much like my mother’s, and as my father had reminded me often before his death, it was a beautiful face with gray-blue eyes, a pert nose and eminently kissable lips but that is not what I was looking for. I looked for the telltale signs of genetic disorder. “What about the blood work?”

“Not all back yet, but so far the doctors say there are no signs of any identifiable genetic disorder.”

Not bad for a lawyer, I thought. He had really been listening when I described the risks and benefits of the procedure. Of course, he would have had to since he was the one who would have had to defend my decision in a court of law had anyone challenged it. Thank god that had not happened, or I would have been long dead before it was agreed that I could do what I wanted with my body. Actually, I was lucky. The fact that the research was done on a military base meant that there was sufficient security to prevent too many people from finding out and sticking their fingers into my life–or death.

“So can I get out of bed?”

“I don’t know. Let me ring for the doctor and we’ll see.”

It was seconds after Paul rang that the doctor entered. It was as if they were monitoring the room, just waiting to be called; it made me feel important until I reminded myself that this was not a general hospital. There are reasons for adages like “Don’t volunteer.” At a military base, too much attention is rarely good.

He did the basics, blood pressure, listening to my heart, thumping my back, checking my ears, nose and throat, and incidentally driving me crazy as he refused to answer any of my questions. Finally, he looked at the medical chart, “uh-hummed” a couple of times and looked at me–my eyes not my still growing breasts–at least until he spoke. “Well George. It looks like you may want to start thinking about a new name. Of course, with experimental treatments such as this, we can’t be certain, and you understand that we will not pronounce you cancer-free until you’ve gone at least five years with no new symptoms, but all indications are that the treatment was a complete success.”

“What about the genetic studies? Do I have a clean bill of health there too?”

“The nurse handed me a bunch of results that should include the last of them just before I came in here,” he took several lab slips from the pocket of his hospital greens and sorted through them. “Yes, here it is. Uh-hum. Yes. You test clean for all known, diagnosable genetic conditions.”

“So when can I get out of here? I’d like to walk around a bit.”

“As soon as you’re able. We have nothing to compare your experience to, so we will work at your speed. If you think you can do it, we will try it. Shall I call a nurse to assist you?”

“Yes please.” With that he left, leaving me smiling like an idiot and Paul shuffling his feet uncomfortably.
“What?”

“I um, I guess I should go now,” he stuttered and actually blushed.

It took me a moment to figure out what the problem was–remember I said I was still a bit slowed down by the last vestiges of morphine. When I finally realized, all I could say was, “Oh.” The nurse’s arrival interrupted our mutual discomfort session and Paul slipped out the door without another word.

Do you remember that book, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus? My training in biology tells me that this is not really true, but in terms of clothes, rituals and general body maintenance, it may well be accurate. Some parts are familiar but other parts are quite different.

For example, pants go on the same way, one leg at a time, regardless of gender, so do tee shirts and robes. The thing about reversed buttons takes all of one trial to figure out. Admittedly, the bra is a bit strange, but mostly because of its novelty–and the fact that it can be a pain to put on. The only other issue is the irregularity of women’s clothes. Much more selection than in clothing for men, women’s clothes seem designed to push the eye in one direction or the other with design features such as sweeping necklines, off the shoulder fashions and slit skirts.

The biggest difference in terms of rituals is the fine art of applying war paint, as I like to call it. There are just so many different options in terms of color, style and purpose, so many ways to apply it. I have often wondered if it was not some sort of defense mechanism. You know, smaller creature uses larger creature to protect it, much like those birds that perch, safe from predators, atop hippopotami and peck the bugs out of the skins of the hippos before they can cause the huge beasts irritation or even infection. If it is, I can tell you that it is a damn shame that any woman would feel so weak or in need of protection that she would feel the need to seek a protector.

Even bodily maintenance is similar, albeit more intense. Hair washing remains the same, there is just more to wash. Soaping down a body is soaping down a body, regardless of gender. It is just a bit different the way the nooks–I did NOT say nookie–and crannies are laid out. Then there is hair care, where things begin to get really different again.

Luckily, the nurse understood those differences even better than I after my weeks of intensive study as I prepared for this necessary transition. Patrice–that was her name, Patrice DeJesus–did not try to make me over into a woman right then and there. Instead, once she had done a bed bath, she gave me clothes I could handle, panties, jeans, a tee shirt, socks and sneakers. No bra, but then again, I did not really need one yet. She brushed my hair with a part down the middle to make it look a bit more feminine. Luckily, it was still a bit too short for any special treatment, not even a scrunchie to make a ponytail. We did not even talk about makeup that first day.

Finally, I was ready to stand up, but before she would let me, she called in an aide to help me in case I fell–and I almost did. It wasn’t that anything was wrong, I just hadn’t walked on my own for several weeks and physical therapy can only do so much, especially on an unconscious patient. No resistance, no muscle growth.

There I was. I was alive. I was walking. I was dressed. Life was great.

Wasn't it?

I had the freedom of the base. Actually, I had the freedom to go wherever I wanted, but I felt comfortable on the base, which is why I used one of the perks of my research position and rented quarters there where the brass could feel more secure about me as well as my research. With the PX for groceries and household supplies, the NCO club for the occasional libation, the base hospital to make sure I stayed healthy and work to fill any other voids left in my waking hours, my life was complete. Of course, now that I had survived, albeit with a change of gender, I threw myself into my research in hopes of solving the gender problem. I had actually convinced myself that gender was not an issue and that life would continue as before with minimal modifications such as a change of name from George to Kirsten, the name my mother had once told me I would have gotten had I been born female. Did I ever tell you about this bridge I keep in my back pocket? It is for sale–cheap.

There was no single event that brought reality crashing to the fore prior to that Thursday. Even that day had started off as a remarkably average day, two days shy of three months after I had awakened free of cancer–and a few other pieces of anatomy.

It started at the lab at around eleven o’clock in the morning. Felix Agutter and José Guttman were sitting by the electron microscope, taking turns examining a slide and arguing –again. That they were arguing was nothing new, they argued over everything from breakfast to bedding, girls to gametes. My role was to keep them on target. I remember once accusing them of arguing over so many things; all they had left to debate was how many angels could dance on the top of a pin, only to have them begin to debate exactly that. This time it was over the meaning of the latest test results showing that the protein clusters were remaining in my body long after we expected them to be gone. “The clusters cannot survive this long. In all our animal subjects they were expelled from the body within a couple of weeks,” Felix insisted. “They are regenerating somehow.”

“They can’t regenerate,” was José’s heated response. There is nothing to regenerate them. Somehow they are being reintroduced into her body.”

“Not possible,” Felix grabbed some papers off a nearby countertop and waved them at José. “This is a clean environment or we too would have them and our tests come back clean. Could it be that they are being reintroduced from some outside source?”

“No way José,” Felix responded, getting the desired scowl from his fellow researcher in response to the stereotypical statement. “No one else on this planet has these protein clusters. They do not appear naturally. Either her body is regenerating them or one of us is reintroducing them into her body.”

“Well, it’s not me and she has no reason to reinfect herself. You must be injecting her while she sleeps, José.”

“You could at least laugh when you say that. I guess we assume she’s regenerating them herself, Felix old boy.” He paused for effect. “Unless she’s reinfecting herself.”

“But she has nothing to gain from such an action and could actually be injured should it be determined that she is contagious.”

“Well, we’ve already ruled out contagion,” José tapped the papers again. “Could she be reinfecting just herself?”

At this point, I could see they needed some redirection. “Gentlemen?”

“Then maybe we’ve missed something and they really are regenerating themselves,” Felix grudgingly allowed. “Did her last MRI show anything unusual?”

“Gentlemen!” I tried again, louder.

“I don’t know,” he started flipping through files. “Give me a moment.”

“GENTLEMEN!”

“No coffee now. We’re trying to work here,” Felix grumpily waved me away without even looking up from his papers.

I gaped at him a moment, shocked at his boorish behavior before I laid into him. “How dare you? Where the hell do you get off making a comment like that, especially to the man who pays your salary? I ought to fire you on the spot and I guarantee you that it is not your personality that is the reason I am holding back. Now get out of here. Take an early lunch or something–and when you get back here I expect you to behave in a totally, you hear me, totally, professional manner.”

“Bye Felix,” José called out cheerfully as Felix stormed out of the lab. Apparently, he thought that meant he had won their debate. It was time to clear up that misconception also.

“And you,” I railed on him. “You’re not much better or have you forgotten the sound of my voice too? Until now, I’ve never stopped your incessant arguments, but I have expected to be able to be included in them and to be able to steer them in functional directions, at least while you’re in the lab.”

He hung his head, but didn’t quite wipe the smile off his face as he responded, “Yes, Ma’am.”

I think it was the “ma’am” that stopped me in my tracks. It was not wrong, but it just caught in my brain and seemed to jam the gears. Instead of standing there with my lips moving but no words coming out, I too stormed out the door.

When I returned from an extended lunch, Felix and José were back at work–silent. I got a polite nod when I entered and that was it. Every time I attempted to initiate a conversation, to loosen the tension, they responded with “Yes Ma’am.” or “No Ma’am.” and nothing else. Even my best lawyer jokes fell flat. I mean who does not laugh at jokes like “Why won’t a shark bit a lawyer? Professional courtesy.” or “What are 3000 lawyers at the bottom of the sea? A good start.” Even my very best, the vase joke I mentioned earlier, fell totally flat.

I did not have to be hit on the head with an anvil to realize what was happening; they were punishing me for being their boss. By the end of the day I was in a foul mood and happy to be leaving the lab for the first time in years. In hindsight, this probably set me up for the next blow. Paul came by to visit.

We usually managed to get together at least once a week, but I hadn’t seen or heard much from Paul in the last few months, just the occasional brief telephone call. Apparently, he had been tied up with an extremely complex case in another part of the state that had just been settled and he wanted to celebrate. We were to meet at the NCO Club and move on from there, so when I got back to my quarters I cleaned up and put on one of the two suit dresses I had bought in case I needed to present to some bigwigs. It was a simple navy blue and gray pinstripe that the saleslady had said looked “divine” on me. I also added the matching smoke gray pantyhose, navy patent leather shoes with the one-inch heels–she had pushed me to get three-inchers, but there was no way I was going to give up comfort for the sake of some saleslady’s image of the perfect female–and a simple white silk blouse.

Oh yeah, and a brassiere as I was now a 36C, whatever that meant. I cannot say that it was more comfortable to wear one, but it seemed less annoying than not wearing it, between leering enlisted men and unwanted movement as I bent over an electron microscope or reached into a specimen freezer. Finally, out came the scrunchie that had become a permanent feature of my attire and I ran my comb through my now shoulder length hair, then I grabbed my small, black, over the shoulder, utility purse. Sadly, I’d given up the wallet I usually kept in my back pants pocket prior to the change as I found it hard to put anything into the back pockets of women’s clothes, even baggy pants, assuming they even had pockets, which my skirt did not.

I was expecting him to be late and had planned accordingly, heading out a full fifteen minutes after the time he was supposed to meet me. If he was actually there on time, I was betting he would insist that I was early rather than admit to timeliness. His mother once told me he was even late coming out of the womb, which he claimed had set the tone for the rest of his life.

I once tried to pull his leg by telling him I expected him to be late for his own funeral but he just smiled knowingly and said, “I have every intention of doing exactly that.” It took the wind out of my sails and I had had to scrounge around for another way to tease him that night. If memory serves I ended up picking on his tie, one of those gag ties from the Warner Brothers Store with Taz ® dressed in a judge’s robe and one of those white powdered wigs, leaning over the bench to pound Elmer Fudd ® with his gavel while Bugs Bunny ® looks on laughing. As I recall, I kept asking him which one he was supposed to be and looking askance at him whenever he said he was Bugs. That tie saved the night and I hoped Phil would be as obliging again soon.

When I got to the NCO Club, I checked the bar and dining room to see if he had showed up on time for the first time ever. Once I had confirmed his ability to maintain tradition, I grabbed a stool at the bar and ordered a 7&7, laying out a twenty to cover the cost of drinks and tips for myself –and for Paul when he finally arrived. After taking a long, cool, refreshing swig, I set the plastic glass down and sighed. That is when I noticed the twenty was laying on the bar untouched.

“Hey Joe.” All bartenders are called Joe, are they not? Someone once told me it was part of the labor-management agreement. “You forgot your money.”

He looked up from the drink he was preparing and raised a finger to tell me he’d be with me in a moment, but before he could get back to me, an innocent-faced kid in fatigues tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a nearby table with three buddy-clones grinning hard enough to be just short of drooling. “My buddies and I paid for your drink. Would you care to show your appreciation by joining us?”

Now I remembered why I did not go to the NCO Club as often as I used to. It was nearly impossible to avoid the frequent pickup attempts by flocks of sex-starved teenagers. In memory of my own clumsy attempts at his age, I decided to be gentle, “Thanks for the offer, but I’m waiting for someone.”

“We don’t mind. Come sit with us until he arrives. That way there won’t be any more pickup attempts.” He waited expectantly, but I had heard that one before.

“Good try, but no thank you. Next you’ll be telling me that you have a bet with one of your buddies that you can get me to kiss you or something before the end of the night.” I still felt a responsibility to be gentle with him in memory of my own experiences so I waved to Joe and told him to buy a round for “Innocent-Face” and his buddies.

Turning back to my drink, I was surprised to find a hand on my arm gently trying to pull me from my stool. “Aw please Miss. We’re awfully lonely. Why don’t you try to be a bit more friendly?”

My mellow mood was gone and all the grief I had received from José and Felix came crashing back. How dare he try to tell me what to do! Smoldering, I slowly removed my arm from his grasp and whispered through clenched teeth. “Soldier, I strongly suggest you slink back to your friends right now and find some other way to occupy yourselves. You do not want to get into a brawl here. All the MPs will do to me is ask me to leave, but you could find yourselves doing KP, or worse, for the next month.”

He finally returned to his table and I turned back to my now unwanted drink. Pushing it aside, I turned my seat towards the Club entrance waiting impatiently for Paul to get his butt over here. My ears burned as I heard muttering from my erstwhile suitor and his friends, especially when I heard one phrase clearly, “Pukin’ Lesbian.”

I actually started to get up and stalk towards them, intent on the idea of cortical stimulation via sensitization of the pain receptors when I saw Paul standing by the entrance and squinting into the dimly light bar. Still angry, I considered inviting Paul to share the fun, but my self-control won the coin toss and I just stormed off to join him. When I reached him, I just kept walking, grabbing his arm and twirling him around so that I could pull him back outside while muttering angrily.

“Miss?” he sputtered from behind me. “Miss, do I know you?”

Once outside I stopped and turned back to him. Releasing his arm, I put y hands on my hips and growled, “What’s the problem Paul? Has it been that long since you saw me last?”

“George? I mean Kirsten?” His eyes widened almost enough to be mistaken for an anime character. “Is that you Kirsten?”

“Of course it’s me, and you’re late again, as usual. Now let’s get out of here before I drag you back in there and start a brawl with some snot-nosed kids.”

“Well okay, but wait just a minute while I get a good look at you.” He moved me under the entrance light, positioning me with his hands on my upper arms. Then he stepped back and just stared at me for a long while, long enough to make me uncomfortable.

“Enough already!” I brushed his hand off my arms and stepped back to let some other folks get by us and enter the Club. “So what do you want to do tonight?”

Paul claims that being a trial lawyer has honed his wit razor sharp, although I usually claim he is only half right, but he actually paused before answering. “I…I’m not sure. I was happy to get this latest case resolved and I just wanted to see my old friend and celebrate. I guess I didn’t plan beyond that.”

The corner of his mouth turned up just a bit and I knew he was about to offer a zinger. I was sure of it when he sounded "oh so pitiful" as he continued, “But here you are, and you’re not even dressed for dancing.”

Phil could instantly see he had made a mistake, as my face turned stormy and my fists clenched. He tried to backpedal. “Joking. I was joking. I sure got you this time, didn’t I?”

“Please tell me you didn’t just try to ask your best friend for a date,” I asked through teeth that were getting tired of being clenched so often.

“You know, until today I didn’t thing there were any major differences between men and women. I figured I was alive and that was all that mattered. Boy was I wrong.

“So far today, I’ve had intelligent researchers, people I’ve worked with for almost five years, exclude me from a discussion in my own lab and then have the audacity to ask me to get them some coffee. I’ve had the joy of being reminded that I need to wear different clothes than I’ve worn for thirty plus years, just to fit in enough to avoid a scene. I have had a group of fresh from the tailors non-comms try to pick me up and then publicly claim I was a lesbian because I said no. Now, my best friend, the guy I grew up with, who got mumps with me, who helped me with the knot tying merit badge in Boy Scouts, wants to date me. Since when am I your type, I thought you like the long legged, svelte bimbos with long wavy blonde hair and big tits….”

That was when I doubled over in pain and slowly collapsed into his arms. The damn fool was so surprised by my outburst he almost did not move in time to catch me. My last thought before everything went black was, “I bet he wishes he was holding one of those blonde bimbos instead of me.”

I woke up because sunlight was flashing over my eyes as a gentle breeze made the curtains in Paul’s bedroom flutter–and I was ravenous. If Paul walked in just then, I was going to start gnawing on his leg. Tossing the covers aside, I stood up and stalked toward the kitchenette, absently noting that I was wearing nothing but my briefs and an oversized tee shirt that must have belonged to Paul and that Paul was racked out on the couch in his living room.

Once upon a time, there was a television commercial. It was for an indigestion medication and the catch phrase was, “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.” As I sat there looking at the remains of Paul’s kitchenette, I couldn’t believe I’d eaten everything in it, probably a week’s worth of food for an adult male like Paul, and I’d eaten it all.

About half way through, Paul staggered in, saw what I was doing and gaped for a while before heading off to his bedroom to shower and dress. I think he left for a fast food breakfast because I could see the edge of a nearly empty cup of coffee with the logo for Dunkin Donuts on it on the end table by his hand as he sat in the living room watching television and waiting for me to finish.

Rubbing my pleasantly full belly and wondering where everything I had eaten had gone, I joined him, dropping down on the other side of the couch and comfortably crossing my legs on top of his coffee table. Paul just sat there watching me as I licked some icing off my fingers and watched CNN, something about a sudden, nationwide flare-up of criminal activity. Finally, I asked, “So what the hell happened and how did I end up here? The last thing I remember is doubling over in pain just outside the NCO Club.”

For the Love of Life

PART TWO OF THREE

by

Jaye Michael

Chapter Three:
Babe Tails

Did I mention that Paul is a lawyer? Have you noticed that lawyers never, ever seem to be able to give a simple, straightforward answer? If there was a fire in a movie theater, you could expect anyone but a lawyer to yell, "Fire!" A lawyer would want to interrogate the fire first to make sure that it was really responsible for the roasting flesh and burning chairs. Paul is occasionally better than that, but this was not one of those times. He stared up at the ceiling as he composed his thoughts, cleared his throat, and then answered me, "In my experience, the most difficult questions to answer are who, what, when, where, why, and how. I cannot even begin to tell you what happened leading up to your collapse, but I can tell you what I saw.

"If you remember, you were extremely angry, probably the angriest I've ever seen you. Again, I'm not certain why you were angry, certainly it couldn't have been anything I said or did," he smiled wanly, "but angry you were as evidenced by shouting, glaring, hunched shoulders and clenched fists."

"Paul."

"Yes?"

"Stop being a lawyer." Paul always hated it when I made the word sound like an expletive. "What happened already?"

He cleared his throat and tried again. "In a nutshell, you fainted and collapsed. I didn't think you'd want to go to the base hospital where all those male orderlies would be giving you bed baths et. al., especially after you blew up about some rubes at the bar, so I brought you to my car to go to St. Joe's. By the time you were in the car, you were mumbling about how you were okay, just very tired and how you didn't want to go to a hospital. Thus, I brought you to my apartment and put you to bed."

I blushed crimson as he told me he'd undressed me and put me to bed, but I wasn't sure if that was because he'd violated some gender-related taboo that I was now supposed to conform to or because I was embarrassed by how my body had changed. For that matter, I'd known Paul long enough that I was fairly sure that he was hiding something. I'd been able to tell ever since he admitted breaking the yo-yo he was supposed to give me as a present on my eighth birthday. A terrible weakness for a lawyer, he was just lucky I hadn't gone into the same profession.

"Thanks, I guess. But what is it you're not telling me Paul?"

"What makes you think I'm hiding something?" he asked indignantly. "I just did you a favor and you sit there in my tee shirt, on my couch, in my apartment, and call me a liar?"

"Paul?" He has this small artery just below his left ear that starts pumping like crazy when he's
lying. "Don't make me bring up the yo-yo incident again."

He actually considered denying it, even after the "yo-yo gambit," but finally he caved in, although I was not too sure listening to his elaboration. In America, we have an art form that started in the hills of Appalachia, was honed during lonely nights on the Great Plains and was finally perfected in the land of the Lone Star. It's called the tall tale and some of the classics involve Picos Bill or Paul Bunyon and his giant blue ox, Babe. Someone else might have guessed what he was going to tell me from the little signals I was getting from Paul and from my own body, but I was a genetic researcher and I knew the difference between a tale and a tail or at least I thought I did.

"Okay, you got me, again," he told me with that boyish grin that helps him win over the jurors, especially the female ones. "It happened pretty much like I told you, up to and including leaving the base to go to St. Joe's, but something happened before we got there.

"You know how Spaulding Boulevard is all lit up thanks to the Common Council's approval of billboards?"

"Yeah." I knew he had been opposed to that and had even spoken before the Council trying to get them to change their minds, but could not see where this was going at all.

"Well, it was a full moon, and we were passing through that stretch of Spaulding, and when we stopped at the light by Fulton Street I turned on the overhead light to see what I was doing as I reached over to check your pulse."

I was tempted to ask him when he'd picked up a degree in nursing but figured I'd just annoy him and he'd take that much longer getting to the punch line, so I just nodded noncommittally to let him know I was still listening.

"At first I thought it was a trick of the light, but then I looked again, more carefully. Your hair was longer. I couldn't tell how long because it was trapped behind you, but it was at least several inches longer, below your shoulder blades–and it was lighter, a platinum blonde instead of your usual dirty blonde."

What are you talking about?" I reached for my head to show him my hair, even after three months letting it grow; it still just missed reaching my shoulders. My hand came back with a handful of platinum blonde hair extending past my shoulder blades and halfway down my back. Knowing that hair is dead material and that it does not grow a foot and more overnight, I quickly scrambled about for a rationale explanation–and almost missed the obvious.

"Nice gag Paul. Which one of your girl friends did you put up to this? By the way, is it a wig or are they hair extensions?" I had tugged gently and it was not coming loose. I was betting on hair extensions because it felt like I was tugging on discrete bundles of hair.

"Neither. I think it's real."

"Paul, you know that this much hair can't grow overnight. It only grows at a rate of about a 32nd of an inch a day. Now come clean already." I was so sure he was still pulling my leg; I didn't even check that telltale artery.

"Then maybe you'd better check out another change. Look down."

"What?"

"Look down,” he repeated and pointed at my chest. “Don't ask. Just do it."

I figured I might as well humor him and looked down. "Two arms, two legs, two breasts; what's the problem?"
But I couldn't resist, I just couldn't let it end there. "Wait a minute. Two breasts? That's not right. How did that happen?"

Paul groaned so I went in for the kill. "I'm supposed to have three breasts. Where did you hide my middle breast, you thief?"

"Alright, wiseass. If you don't want to know, go get dressed and I'll bring you home." He turned to watch yet another report of the country's rapidly spiraling crime rate on the television and refused to speak anymore. I made a few half-hearted attempts to get him talking again, but then gave up; it wasn't that good a prank anyway. Standing up, I headed back towards the bedroom to look for my clothes.

"Check the mirror on my inside closet door while you're there," he called out as I was almost to the bedroom and then returned to his studious examination of CNN.

“Why? Is it missing?” I retorted–an absolutely abominable line if I do say so myself, but I humored him by walking over to the closet and opening the door–and saw someone else standing there. She was my height, but she was much more buxom. She oozed sensuality. Even the act of standing still with one hand resting on the doorknob seemed an invitation to unimaginably sensual delights. My mind raced, trying to rationalize it as another trick from my personal Loki, I mean lawyer, but came up blank. It was me; or rather, it was the woman I had angrily described to Paul back at the NCO Club less than twelve hours ago. Dressing forgotten, I stepped slowly backward until my legs made contact with a piece of furniture and I slid slowly to the floor, my back propped against the bed as I stared at the stranger in the mirror.

A couple of minutes later, Paul came in and stood by the door. He watched me sitting there, unmoving, staring at the image in the door. Then, with a sigh, he closed the closet door, knelt beside me and held me. I never realized how much I needed a hug until that moment and I hugged him back with sufficient force to draw a surprised grunt from him.

This seems like a good time to drop back ten and punt … er, punt-ificate. Having accepted with reasonable good grace the presumably more traumatic change from male to female, it might seem strange to have me break down over something as insignificant as a glamour makeover, even if it is one that might have cost a pretty penny given the breast enlargement and facial reconstruction, not to mention the lesser but still relatively astronomical price of hair extensions, dye job and perm. A lot of you men are going think it was just "wunna them thar woman things." ERNNNNT! Wrong. In fact, there were two entirely separate problems.

First, as a geneticist I was absolutely certain that this was impossible. Changes like this don't happen without some external source and there had been none. If it couldn't have happened, it must not have happened, yet it did happen so it must be possible, but it wasn't possible. See? It was cyclic logic, much like calculating pi to the last decimal place. It was the kind of logic that the heroes of cheap sci-fi adventures use to thwart the evil robot in the last reel. In effect, I just couldn't reconcile my years of study and research with the facts of what appeared to have happened.

Second, I had had years to live with and learn to accept my mortality and, more importantly, months to accept the absolute need to accept a change of gender if I wanted to continue to do the research to which I'd dedicated my life. I knew what would happen; I had even developed computer models that had predicted how I would look with surprising accuracy. In effect, I made a carefully planned transition from one me to another me. Yet here I now was, with no warning and no chance to acclimate, someone entirely different.

To be completely truthful, there might have been a third reason. I had accepted my change of gender as a necessity, much like brushing one's teeth to prevent tooth decay or wearing a seatbelt in case of an accident. Once it was over, I really did very little to acknowledge that my gender change had even occurred. I'd worn the same jeans and tee shirts as before, just a different size. I'd worked at the same lab with the same people on the same project as before. I'd lived in the same quarters on the base as before. I'd kept the same few friends as before. You get the idea; I had done the absolute minimum necessary to accommodate the changes that had been forced upon me. Yet, here I was looking like something out of my personal fantasies, read wet dreams if it will help. The way I looked now, I couldn't possibly minimize my new gender. Life with a brassiere wasn't going to be a choice but a necessity; situations like the rather clumsy pick-up attempt at the NCO Club would be frequent and inevitable. Heck, I was jealous that I could not date myself.

Now I'm sure you understand that all this wonderful introspection and analysis came later. What actually happened next was I finally regained sufficient composure to ask Paul to release me and he did, although a bit reluctantly.

Then, I had to convince him that I would be all right for long enough to get dressed. Alone, I put my words to action and dressed. He had left me with my panties on the night before and I had nothing to change into anyway so I left them on and added a borrowed pair of sweat pants to complete my lower half.

Did you ever notice that the more important something is the shorter the word used to describe it? The bra–it was a brassiere when there was a choice–was a total loss, painfully insufficient for my new and improved bust. Realizing that, I dropped the half-baked idea that I had been formulating involving accidentally forgetting to put a top on to tease Paul for sneaking a peek last night.

Knowing that some sort of support was absolutely necessary, I searched around in Paul's drawers–that's chest of drawers for those of you with other things on your mind. You'd think a guy with as many girl friends as Paul would have some female clothing left at his apartment, but there was nothing. All I found was an old tee shirt about three sizes too small. I think elves place them there during the night just so half awake people can struggle with them each morning, trying to get them on and wondering why they do not fit until they wake up enough to check the size on the labels.

The next trick was to tie it. They always look so nice on the magazine models, but it is not that easy, try it some time. I fumbled around with the tee shirt until realized that I needed to cut it open first, which I did with Paul's permission, and got it pulled tight and knotted in front. It wasn't a lot of support, but it was definitely better than nothing.

I checked myself in the mirror to see how I looked and almost decided to leave it that way, nipples poking through the thin cotton material, but reconsidered. I was looking to get home, not inflame lust. As you may have gathered, until now I had tolerated being female and had tried to make it something other than the primary focus of my life. I really didn't want to start now, so I went digging through Paul's clothes again, looking for something to wear over my handy-dandy new bra.

My cover up ended up being one of Paul's old flannel shirts, also tied off, but this time at my waist. Luckily it was early fall and it was getting a bit cooler so I wouldn't roast. Unluckily, I still looked like a walking advertisement for sensuality. Regardless, it would have to do since I was out of options. With a shrug of my shoulders, I headed back into the living room, returning to my same spot on the opposite side of the couch from Paul.

"Paul?"

"Yeah?" He acknowledged my question, but kept his attention on the news.

"Do you have any idea how this happened?" I surprised myself that I was so calm.

"I was hoping you'd tell me."

"And I was hoping you'd tell me. I realize this is no gag. The hair is real and so are the breasts. I want to say it's impossible, but the proof is right in front of my face." I watched his lip turn up into a leer momentarily, then his eyes studiously locked back onto the television, and realized he was thinking that I was right about the proof being in front of me, but that he felt it was a bit lower down on my anatomy than my face.

"I can't help you there, Georgie-Girl. You're the researcher, not me. I'm just a simple country lawyer." He still wouldn't look at me.

"Is there some reason why you aren't looking at me when I talk to you? And stop calling me Georgie-Girl. You know I hate it. When this happened I agreed to go by the name Kristen, in honor of the name my mother would have called me had I been born a girl."

"I prefer not to at the moment."

"What? You prefer not to look at me or not to call me something besides 'Georgie-Girl?'"

"Both."

I was flabbergasted. "Paul! What the hell is going on here?"

He finally took his eyes off the television, but still wouldn't look at me, instead staring intently at the coffee table. "I…you…it's..."

Now I was doubly flabbergasted; a lawyer, especially Paul, at a loss for words. The world was truly coming to an end. "I didn't quite catch that Paul. Did you say, 'You worship me for my brilliance and wish to humble yourself before me?'"

Now he added a crimson face to his stutters. This was going to be one for the annals. I'd never, ever gotten him so thoroughly flummoxed before. The only problem was I still didn't know how I was doing it. As I pondered how to press my advantage, I was shocked when he got up and stalked into the kitchen and then out the door, leaving me alone in his apartment.

Damn. What the heck just happened? This wasn't how the script was supposed to go. We were supposed to banter back and forth, sometimes one teasing the other and then the reverse. It was always gentle jabs, not knockout punches. We were best friends, blood brothers. We "grokked" each other. It had to be a gambit, a feint on his part. He was going to walk back in momentarily, laughing about how he'd "gotten" me. That theory was quickly shattered by the sound of a car driving away.

Running to the window, I saw that it was his car.

What had changed? How had things gone so wrong? It had to be...it had to be…my body. That's what was different. Not me. Not him. Not the apartment. Not our banter. My body.

I look back now and realize I was in a near panic state. I had somehow alienated my absolute best friend, my secret brother, the only person in the world I could tell anything. And it was all because my body had somehow done the impossible.

I wanted my best friend back and I wanted my old body back, more than wanted it, I needed it. I couldn't go through life as this overstuffed bimbo. I just couldn't.

By now, I was crying so hard, I couldn't see. I just kept repeating my new mantra. My body. My old body. I want my old body back. It doesn't matter which. Even my old female body.

About that time, I felt the pain start.

I did not faint again, although I wished I had and death even seemed desirable for a short while. The pain was excruciating. It was not the dull pain of a headache but the mind-numbing agony of the worst migraine imaginable–and it did not just settle in one part of the body, it was everywhere at the same time. I survived by rolling onto the floor and into a fetal ball. Then I clenched every muscle I could, as tightly as I could for as long as I could. When I could finally open my eyes and drag myself up onto the couch, it was all over but the hunger.

I did not know when he returned, but Paul was back. He sat unmoving, paralyzed, with a horrible rictus of a smile stamped on his face. I could guess what he was thinking, although I hoped I was wrong. “Damn that hurt.” My voice did not sound any different, but I had not noticed a difference the last time either. I guess it is true, you really cannot recognize your own voice.

Reaching for my hair, I discovered it was short again, just above my shoulders and dirty blonde instead of platinum blonde like before. The lumps on my chest were smaller too. Further investigation was going to have to be postponed pending some serious binge eating.

I staggered to the kitchen only to find I had eaten all of Paul’s food after my last transformation. Either I was going to go out to get something to eat or I was calling out for a delivery. I was so hungry I was ready to just grab my money and head out. I might have, except my new clothes no longer fit and I knew it would do me no good to be arrested for vagrancy. With a tee-shirt for a bra that was so loose and oversized my breasts were flopping about, frequently on display, and pants that were so loose I would have to constantly hold them up somehow or provide a public exhibition of another portion of my anatomy, that was a highly conceivable possibility.

Showing remarkable restraint, I called out to Paul to see if he wanted anything before ordering, but got no response. The delivery boy was going to get a good tip considering I had ordered enough pizza, wings and soda for a small platoon. There was little I could do now but wait, and I had always hated wasting my time hanging around, doing nothing. Another quick shower and my old clothes were next on the agenda for the day so I headed back through the living room and on through to Paul’s bedroom. Besides, doing something, anything, might help take my mind of the intense hunger I was feeling. At one point, I remember wondering if this is what a vampire in need of blood would feel.

On the way to the bedroom, I checked on Paul, who still had not moved and still did not respond to my words or gentle shakes. I was starting to worry about him, wondering about shock, yet I would have thought his legal training would have prepared him for the unexpected and this certainly fit the bill in that area.

The comb had just touched my hair when the doorbell chimed and I called out to Paul asking him to get the door. My only answer was another chime as the delivery boy started leaning on the button. With my belly growling loudly enough to drown out some of the melody, I dropped the comb, grabbed my purse and ran for the door. Shoving a wad of money into his hands, I grabbed the food and dove in before the door had completely closed on his surprised face. I suspect I would have been just as willing to injure him severely if he had failed to hand the food over.

About half way through the third large pizza, I was sated enough to wonder why Paul had not joined me. It was an afterthought, but I was also wondering how I was able to eat as much as I had without bursting at the seams. I called out a couple of times, but Paul never answered so after I polished off the third pizza, I grabbed some wings and wandered into the living room to find him–or at least that was my intent.

He was not in the living room, or the bedroom, or the bathroom, or even the balcony. There was no note, but when I remembered to look, his keys were missing from the bowl on the kitchen counter by the refrigerator where he usually tossed them, along with his change and his wallet. Actually, considering the condition of the kitchen after my two eating binges, it was almost surprising I had not eaten the bowl and its contents.

There had been times in the past when Paul had needed to think things through, like when he found out he was adopted or when my mother had died. In the first case, I had found him hiding in our favorite tree in a near catatonic state–at the time, I’d just thought he was fooling around–and had managed to break through to him by offering him my mother. That had worked and we had grown even closer, often joking about being secret brothers. In the second case, when my mother died, I was having my own problems and could not be much help. He had missed school for a week and his father had been on the verge of having him committed to a children’s psychiatric center when he finally came round. I was so upset that I had vowed never to let someone I knew of be placed in a position of such hurt and, so far, I had kept that promise to the best of my ability.

I was betting that Paul had gone somewhere to do some serious thinking, but was unsure where as our tree had been torn down several years ago as part of a land development project. Therefore, if he was not here in his apartment, the only other place I could think of that he might have gone was to his office. A quick call there got the answering service and, like most answering services, it was not helpful. I am not sure, but I think the people that answer the phones at answering services are trained by the three monkeys.

Even if I could not find Paul to see if he needed help, I still needed to figure out what to do about my own situation. Paul’s assessment of my situation was sadly on target and some fast research was essential. That left me only one viable choice. I called a cab and headed back to the base and my quarters.

The ride was not an enjoyable one. The cabbie kept staring back at me in the rear view mirror instead of at the road. There were at least three near misses as a result of his inattention and I kept checking myself to see if something was wrong with how I as dressed and feeling uncomfortable from his intense examination. It had been a while since I had taken a cab, before I got sick, but I never remembered running into any cabbies like that before and wondered if he was on drugs or something.

I probably should have explained earlier, but I am not in the military and I do not work for the military. I worked for BioLogInc, with a very small “n” as they preferred it written, which was a profit-making division of the state university. They paid me and they paid my research bills, including renting the space at the base. They chose the base because it was in closure mode and the space went for a pittance, not because my research was a security issue.

Back home, I left a message on Paul’s answering machine at the apartment and another message with the service for his office. Then, feeling exhausted, I went to bed, even though it was only about three in the afternoon. Unsurprisingly, I slept around the clock, not waking again until a bit after nine that Sunday morning.

I ate a thankfully normal breakfast, if you consider a grown man, ah woman, eating Frosted Flakes ® normal. Then, I left yet another set of messages for Paul–I was beginning to wonder if he was intentionally avoiding me–and did some long overdue housekeeping.

It was not that I was wasting time, or putting off the inevitable. I had at least until Monday after next to decide how to stop the human testing, so that was not priority one. I find that when I do routine tasks, like vacuuming or cleaning the bathtub, I can let my mind work at it’s own pace on problems, wandering about unimpeded by my usual attempts to organize and channel it. In effect, I was actually developing a plan of attack for the research I would need to do to discover how I was able to change shapes and evaluate the extent to which I could do it and the housekeeping just happened to be getting done also. By the time the bathroom was clean, I had decided how to proceed with my personal testing program.

There had been multiple variables to be considered for my personal testing regimen. I needed some place secluded enough to avoid being seen, especially if I was going to be different people. It had to be near a hospital in case something went wrong. I would have much preferred to have someone I trusted, like Paul, with me, but he still had not called back. Felix and José were out of the question. Aside from the fact that I’d try to kill one of them if they kept arguing twenty-four seven and I couldn’t get away, even for a few days, it was going to be a major challenge to convince them I was sane when I told them it was necessary to stop the human research studies. If I then had to tell them some story about how I had become a different person a lá¡ Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde they would be completely helpful, as they drove me to the nearest padded room. It also had to be near enough to the base that I could get there within an hour or most, assuming I still wanted time to study my new ability instead of just take a brief vacation.

When I put it all together, the obvious answer was the old family camp on the Sacaguea River. Our families, Paul’s and mine, had spent summers there in happier times. It was only a half hour away from the military base on the other side of town, so it was less than fifteen minutes drive from the university hospital, located I the center of town. Yet, the camp’s nearest neighbors were about a half-mile down the road and hidden from sight by a stand of trees that surrounded the camp property. I almost changed my mind and began looking for another place when the memories of life in easier times, when my mother was still alive, crashed down on me, but I did not have time. This would have to be my Menlo Park.

I left a message with the lab answering machine saying I needed to get away for a few days and think about a paper I was considering. Felix and José would understand; they were part of the “publish or perish” system that exists in most colleges and research facilities. That done; I grabbed some clothes and a toothbrush. Then I was off. My only stop was the supermarket near the strip where I picked up a carload of food. I was at the cabin before I knew it.

The cabin was as I remembered it, a small three-season home at best. It had framed out walls with exposed construction members rather than anything like sheetrock or plaster on the inside. All the heat was provided by a potbelly stove in the great room and, on cold nights, you opened your bedroom door and used a lot of blankets–or froze.

It was night when I got there and I quickly fumbled in the moonlight for the key in the fake rock by the front door. Once in, I went to turn on the main circuit breaker only to be surprised to find it on. I could have sworn I had gone through the whole place shutting everything down about two years ago when my father had died and the estate had been settled. Since then, I had not been back, instead leaving the cabin as a personal shrine to my memories; pictures, clothes, toys, sporting equipment, even a small but valuable collection of comic books, all as it had been when the estate had been settled. Making a cursory glance around the great room, nothing was obviously out of place so I shrugged it of, assuming my memory was at fault.

Next on the agenda was to bring in the groceries and do some light cleaning, just enough to make the place minimally habitable; after all, it was to be a temporary research site, not a long-term living arrangement. I had not brought a lot of food that would need to be refrigerated because it would take so long for the old refrigerator to cool down any perishables might be spoiled first, so I was even more surprised to find it plugged in, cool, and nearly full of food. The place was also a lot cleaner than I had expected it to be. The obvious explanation was that someone had been here–recently.

At this point, I had a really unpleasant thought; someone could be using the place right now. “Has someone been sleeping in your bed, little bear?” Even if I changed “bear” to “bare” the thought was NOT funny, especially when I remembered what happened to Goldilocks in the original Grimm tale. Suddenly, coming here did not seem like such a good idea.

I think it is safe to say that so far I had consistently minimized the impact of my change of gender on my life. Some clothes, the monthly purchase of sanitary care products, and slightly longer hair had been the extent of the accommodation. Even then, the choice had been to allow it to grow rather than enter that bastion of femininity, the beauty parlor. If it was not absolutely necessary to survive, I had ignored it. Thus, I used no makeup, did not date guys (or gals for that matter), and I had no sex, at least not with a partner. But now, a concept totally foreign to me for my entire life had forced itself to the fore; a concept that women live with daily, rape. I could be raped.

Before you ask, yes I did live elbow to elbow with several thousand horny eighteen year olds, at the peek of their sexual arousal, on that military base. But believe it or not, a military base is actually one of the safest places imaginable for a female, especially a female who appears to have rank by virtue of being in charge of a major research operation. The manual says you don’t mess with your own and there were ten youngsters who believed the credo and would be glad to help correct a straying mate should it be necessary for every one who might consider straying.

The thought of rape was a wonderful motivator. Food forgotten, I crept back into the great room, flicking off the kitchen lights on the way. Hugging the wall, I slid towards the front door and the baseball bat that was a permanent fixture behind it. It was surprising how much safer I felt with my fingers curled tightly around its stock.

Bat poised in the air before me, I turned off the rest of the lights and waited for my vision to adjust to the low level of light provided by the moon’s wan glow. While I waited, I considered my choices and again the decision was simple, if surprising, once I had clarified the problem. I was leaving. The risk of rape overrode my need for answers.

I suppose this was an inevitable choice at the time, but in hindsight–you know where you check back to confirm you have made an ass of yourself–it seems strange. I think the problem was my denial of my new gender. Women who grow up as females are forced to adjust. They learn to recognize that rape is always a possibility, but they also learn, of necessity, to accept the risks, adjust their behavior to realistically minimize the risks, and move on with their lives. Additionally, and also of necessity, they are intimately aware of the risks of pregnancy associated with rape. They learn to cope. I had not. Until that moment, I had still been operating from my years of male experience. Rape was bad, but it was something that happened to others.

Back to the wall, and still tightly gripping the bat with my right hand, I slid my other hand to the doorknob. Once I had a firm grip, I prepared to bolt out to the car. A deep breath, then another, and I was off.
The door slammed open and then shut behind me from the force with which I yanked it open as I rushed through it. In an instant, I was down the steps and at the car. The bat went flying toward the passenger seat, finally coming to rest on the floor. I threw myself in after it, scrabbling to the far side of the car to lock those doors and then back to lock the driver’s side doors. Forgetting my seatbelt, I dug into my pockets for the car keys–and stopped short. They were still in my purse on the kitchen counter.

Once again, the reflexes of a lifetime had betrayed me. I made a promise to myself then and there to explore and acclimate myself to every aspect of femininity as soon as possible–assuming there was an “as soon as possible” and assuming I was, for some reason, unable to reclaim my original gender.

Did you notice how, even then, I was still denying some of the realities of my gender? One of the possible outcomes of rape is murder. As a man, I trusted my physical strength and size to permit me to handle dangerous situations with the impunity of the immortal we all think we are. As a woman, I was not as strong as I had been as a man, or for that matter, as most men. Of course, I had acknowledged it in terms of cursing a difficult to open jar, but not in terms of being generally weaker than a man. Certainly, I had not acknowledged it in terms of a man being a serious threat to my life.

Now, however, I was in a very exposed position with little more than some safety glass and a baseball bat between me and a potential rapist. The situation was untenable. I had to do something. I was going to run into the cabin, grab my keys and run back to the car. Then I could get the heck out of here like I had originally planned. Another couple of deep breaths, my hand poised on the door handle, adrenaline surging thorough my body, and I was ready to go.

“TAP! TAP!” The sound was like twin rifle shots in the confined silence of the car and I jumped, my head bolting towards the front, passenger-side window and the source of the sound. I saw a face, a male face–and screamed in terror.

Half way through the second scream, I changed from terror to joy. It was Paul. I did not even think about it. The baseball bat was again on the floor, the car door was open and I was hugging him like a long lost son. I was out of the car so fast, he barely missed being hit by the door and I guess he was still off balance when I threw myself at him to hug him. We ended up rolling on the ground, still hugging each other.

I am not certain how it happened, but he ended up on top, looking down at me with a silly grin on his face while I smiled back up at him. Just when it was beginning to get uncomfortable and I was going to ask him to
let me up, he bent forward and kissed me.

Now, everyone knows that men, real men, do not kiss each other. The thing about quiche is wrong. I know that some of them occasionally do eat quiche. Heck, I even eat it once in a blue moon or two. The kissing thing, however, was still a problem and I froze in shock.

Paul felt me go stiff and immediately stopped. He was close enough that he could see the panic in my eyes. With a muttered, “Oh, shit.” He quickly got up and then helped me up. Without a word, he stalked into the cabin, leaving me standing alone and confused, by the car. Given that the keys were still in the cabin, I really did not have a choice so, admittedly hesitantly; I brushed myself off and followed him back into the cabin.

I found him in the kitchen unpacking one of my bags of groceries. Still without saying a word, he opened two beers, handed me one and marched into the great room. My purse, with the car keys in it, was staring at me from the kitchen counter. It was a tough choice, but I followed him into the other room.

We sat silently drinking our beers and wondering what to say, where to start, or if we even should start. I can only guess what Paul was thinking, but I know I was trying to figure out if there was any chance to recover the friendship we had had, at least that is what I was telling myself at the time.

I knew we were in trouble when he went for a second round of beers. At this rate, I would pass out drunk before he got ready to talk. It looked like it was time for me to shake him out of another major introspective spell. The only problem was that I was not sure I wanted to this time. This conversation was bound to be the weirdest we had ever had.

“Paul?”

He jerked like he had been struck. Still he said nothing, but at least he was looking at me now.

“Paul, listen to me. We need to talk. I will not try to tell you this is anything less than the weirdest situation I have ever been in. It is. However, we have been best friends way to long to loose that. So, how about it, are we going to talk or are you going to try to drink me under the table?”

A soap opera moves the plot along faster than it took him to decide whether he was going to answer or not and I was getting ready to explode from the tension when he finally made up his mind.

“You’re right. First, I need you to understand that I am sorry. I never meant for this to happen.”

There he went again, being a lawyer and confusing rather than clarifying things. Was he talking about the kiss, surprising me, disappearing from his own condo, coming here, or something else? This was NOT the time for pranks or verbal sparing. I vowed, probably for the first time in our long relationship, to keep quiet and just listen.

“We’ve been best friends for more than thirty years” Paul hesitantly explained. “I have cherished and valued our friend-ship. There are times when I do not know what I would have done, how I would have survived, without it. I don’t know how I will continue now if I have lost it.”

“Thank the heavens for that,” I thought. “He wants to keep our friendship. Now, can we keep it? That kiss was definitely weird–better than I would have expected–but still weird.”

“When I found out I was adopted, the world nearly collapsed around me. That may not be what happens to most people, I do not know, but it did to me. Not that my adopted parents were bad people, you know that they were not, but I was no longer who I thought I was. I was now someone I did not know any more. My whole world turned upside down–at least for a while.

“You and your family saved me. You gave me an anchor to grasp onto until I could regain my equilibrium and realize that my adoptive parents were still there for me, still loved me, until I could ‘wake up and smell the coffee’ as they say.

“In other words, I owe you more than you can probably imagine. The bottom line is that I will be there for you how ever you will allow me to be there, period. No questions asked. Guaranteed.”

Why did the phrase “one thousand percent” suddenly come to mind? No reason, just an errant thought. This was Paul, not some politician.

“And I will be there for you,” Paul continued as I began to feel a warm glow of companionship. “It’s just that something has changed, something basic, and it’s making it extremely difficult to keep the promise you just heard me make.”

Great. My stomach knotted, glow gone, even though, deep down, given my absolute belief in the universality of Murphy’s Law, I had known the other shoe was going to fall. I felt the need to become small and unobtrusive, but the best I could do was bring my legs up onto the beat up old stuffed chair I was sitting on and hug them tightly to me.

“I’ve been lying to you and I don’t want to any more.”

“Bu…”

“Please,” he did not move, but his eyes pleaded with me. He had beautiful, deep, innocent, trusting eyes. “Let me finish before you say or do anything.

“I’ve been lying to you. I was not recently on a difficult case. I have been here, in this cabin, with all the wonderful memories. I needed to think, really think about us.”

Yup. It was going to be that thousand percent, just like McGovern and Eagleton. I am about to lose my best friend and I don’t even have a clue as to why. My eyes became moist and I surreptitiously wiped them against my knees.

“When you changed…”

I groaned and then hoped it had been silent, but I was not certain. It might have slipped out as Paul was examining me strangely. First, that damn cancer was going to kill me, now it was going to kill the best friendship I had ever had or could ever hope to have.

“…it changed our relationship. I didn’t want it to and I tried to ignore it, but I couldn’t.”

Yup. It is over. I do not know why, but it is. My knees were beginning to feel damp from the frequent efforts to dry my eyes with fabric of my jeans.

“You see. I loved you like a brother until the change and then I fell in love with you as a woman.”

My head jerked up and my face went carefully neutral. No tears, no curl of the lip to show happiness, sorrow, or even anger and no glow of attentiveness in my eyes. I was barely breathing. A mannequin would have seemed more alive. It was a trick I had learned from Paul, who had learned it as a way of surviving as a trial lawyer. Most people interpret this kind of facial expression and body language as a severe rebuke and start talking, sometimes unwisely, in order to repair the damage. It is the closest thing to a “Perry Mason”-style trial ending that I ever saw happen in real life as the person on the receiving end blabbered until they realized they might be saying too much. Nevertheless, that is not why I did it, I was so shocked that I shut down in order to backpedal frantically and figure out what Paul’s words really meant.

Most people would smugly sit there as they read this and say something like “Jeez, what a maroon.” The whole story had been leading up to this point and, in hindsight; it is obvious to me also. At the time; however, I was still making that same fatal conceptual mistake. I kept thinking of my self as a male. Sure, it was faulty logic and sure, I had been given multiple reasons to review and revise my thinking in just the last several days, but intellectualizing something and letting it sink into you at a gut level are not the same thing. I liken it to the folks in Ireland, the Middle East or any of a dozen other sites around the world, who know that they would be better off without the death and destruction, but who cannot change the way they think so that they can move on and find a path to peace. On the other hand, maybe they can, but the old emotions, the hatreds, the scars, are just too deep and they do not want to change. It was still wrong, but I can similarly justify–or at least explain–my behavior. Regardless, I was still blinding myself to reality. I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts; I missed some of what he said next.

“…to hurt you so I’ll leave and get out of your life. I hope you can forgive me one day. Once I am settled, I will send you a forwarding address. I hope you’ll keep it…and maybe…one day …use it.”

He stood to leave, shoulders hunched, a broken man. My best friend was walking out of my life, when I needed him most, all because of some stupid gender change. I briefly marveled at how such a seemingly insignificant thing could possibly make such a tremendous difference. Nevertheless, my primary emotion was anger. He was making decisions about me, about us, without even giving me the chance to express an opinion–whatever my opinion was.

I snorted derisively. “That’s all you can come up with–to leave? I thought lawyers were supposed to think ‘outside the box,’ to be creative, to find the solutions that elude everyone else. For that matter, what kind of fair weather friend are you that you would walk away from thirty years over anything?” I was trying to hurt him; he deserved it for running out and, from the flush that rapidly spread over his face, I had succeeded admirably.

“Damn it! There is no other solution. I can stay here and agonize over how I need you desperately but cannot have you while second guessing every interaction, hoping–no praying–for something that is not there. Or I can leave. If I stay, I will not be able to function and I will destroy something I cherish, will cherish, forever.

“Did you ever wonder why I never settled down?” Paul asked, seemingly out of the blue. “It certainly was not for lack of opportunity. It was because I never found the right woman. I was looking for someone who could be a friend first and a lover second. The problem was, I always compared those friendships to ours and none ever came close.

“When you became female–not some ersatz female via hormones and surgery, but a real, genetic female–I was ecstatic that you were alive and I helped you through the legal processes because I could. However, the more time I spent with you, the more I realized that something very basic had changed. I was talking to a female and she was a friend, my best friend–and she was you.

“Now, we’ve both been straight all our lives and I knew from talking to you that you still viewed yourself as a male. As such, any relationship beyond friendship was impossible. Yet that’s exactly what I began to want, to dream of, to need, more and more.

“As I told you earlier, I lied when I told you I was busy with a case for the last three months. I was here–thinking.

“When I arranged that date…”

For some reason that word made it through the haze in my mind. It was a “date.” I was surprised to find that I liked the idea more than I expected and I smiled in response, buy Paul was still staring off into space as he spoke.

“…I had planned to explain this all to you, but then you changed.

“Now, maybe I should apologize for my hormones, but the change–when you suddenly turned onto a blonde sex goddess in the living room of my condo–made you into my image of the perfect woman, or at least the sexual partner of my dreams. It threw me for a loop. You had just changed the equation yet again and a relationship that was already difficult became impossible. I had to have you. Even glancing at you made me want you; want to rape you, my best friend, on the spot.”

“You mean you didn’t think I had become some horrible monster?” I was shocked. This entire time I’d been waiting for him to say I was no longer human and he was afraid to be anywhere near me. In the blacker recesses of my mind, I wondered if our friendship would be worth a fifteen minute head start before he called the authorities to send out the dogs and hunt me down.

“What would make you think that? Didn’t you see my hands clenching and unclenching in my lap? Can’t you guess what I was doing?”

“I thought you were just... No. I guess I didn’t.” First, I was actually relieved. Next, I realized I was also insulted, hurt that he did not love me as I was, but as some image of perfection. Then, I realized how foolish that was. This whole issue arose only because he did love me, regardless of whether I was male or female, average or zaftig. He loved me, the inner me. The exterior was just window dressing. This was information that most people would never know and would live their lives all the sadder for that lack of knowledge.

“Well I was. I was dying to kiss you, to hug you, to hold you. Instead, I got out of there before I did something we would both regret. Something that our friendship could never, ever, in a million years, survive. I came here again, to think, to evaluate my life, to try to figure out how I could be such a sick and perverted person.”

We just glared at each other; well, he glared, I was…bemused? It was a strange emotion for what we both knew was a major turning point in our lives, yet I knew what I had to do. No matter how this ended, I could not let him walk out of my life without talking it through. I cleared my throat to get his attention and then softly, tenderly, I beckoned to him, “Come back and sit down. Please.”

When he finally sat, on the couch, it was near the door and looking like a deer ready to bolt if it was spooked. Realizing that I would not be getting anything better, I began. “Paul. You have had your say and I listened to you. Now I hope you will do the same for me, as there are several points I need to make.

“First, I love you dearly and have for many years. You are more important to me than anyone else in my life. You are like–no, you are–family, secret bothers together.

“Just two days ago something impossible happened. I do not know how it happened or if it can or will happen again. I do not know if it means I may be able to regain my original body. Until then I would have said it was impossible, but lately it seems that word is highly over-rated. I do not know what the long- or short-term risks are. What’s worse, I need to develop a really good justification for stopping or at least delaying further human testing, currently scheduled to start to two weeks, or risk having the same kinds of changes happen to other people.

“I mention this, only to explain that while some might think them important, they are secondary to other changes in my life. Just an hour or so ago, I came to the belated conclusion that I was denying how pervasive and significant gender is in our lives. Regardless of how this turns out, I have promised myself I would embrace life again instead of denying it.

“I can’t tell you that I will marry you and have your children. I know I am not ready to consider sex with another person until I know what I am looking for in another person. Heck, right now I don’t even know what gender I’m going to end up, let alone the gender of my sexual or life partners. If you can bear with me long enough to permit me to discover what’s happened to me and what it means for me…for us, we’ll both be able to move on knowing that whatever happens was meant to be. It’s not a lot, but it’s the best I have at the moment, and I’d hate to lose what we’ve had for all these years without even trying to save it.”

I was done and maybe we were too. I had not offered much, but I hoped and prayed it was enough. I needed his help and his support desperately. As he sat there considering my words, I bit my lip and wondered if I should offer more, if I should, or maybe it was if I could, offer myself, to make certain he stayed.

“So you’re offering me the chance to continue the pain I’ve been feeling for the last three months, possibly indefinitely, to torture myself looking at and being near someone who doesn’t share, or even understand the meaning of, the love I feel for her. The only carrot you dangle is the possibility that your feelings will change over time, now that you know how I feel.” He wasn’t angry as I might have expected, he was resigned, tired, as if he had run a marathon and had nothing else to give.

“What I’m offering you is the chance to keep a lifelong friendship and maybe more.” I thought furiously, trying to determine what I could say that would keep our friendship intact. It was not the “guys thing” that was tearing it asunder; it was the “guy-gal thing.” I had to change my perspective if I was to succeed, but he wasn’t giving me any wiggle room. It was frustrating and I guess my next words showed it. “What do I need to say, that I’d appreciate it and I’ll show my appreciation however you’d like?”

His face turned red and he was glaring again, but he did not leave. “I’ve never forced myself on anyone and I don’t plan on starting now.”

“Then, like I just said, your choice is to stick around and be patient while I try to work things out and maybe retain a friendship you hopefully value, maybe more, or walk out and possibly doom us both to unhappiness at the least. What I am telling you is that I need your help to find myself, for I truly am a ‘stranger in a stranger land.’”

“What the hell does she mean, she’s concerned about some of the study results?” Felix asked, slamming his coffee mug onto the lab countertop.

“I don’t know,” Felix growled. You heard the same answering machine message that I did.”

“She’s losing it. That is the only explanation. She’s got to be losing it.” Felix stood and paced the length of the lab as he seethed.

“Possible, but that a side effect that would strongly support her claim that the results need to be reviewed again,” José noted with a smile.

“But José, we’ve been over and over it. Hell, she is more cautious than my maiden aunt from Dubuque. The only irregularity we found in any of the animal or human testing was the pre-viral clusters still in her body and they’re not a problem.”

“Maybe they are,” José mused. “We don’t know what the effects of long-term contact with the viral strands might be.”

“Oh no you don’t, I’m not going to let you sucker me in this time. I know I am right and I can prove it. Here, look at the chem. Profiles.”

“No sir, Dr. LaPierre is not in today.”

“No I don’t know when she’ll be back.”

I’m sure she knew about the meeting sir. I put it into her daily calendar myself.”

“Yes sir, it was sudden, but she did leave a message telling us she had a family emergency and needed to take some time off.”

“No sir, we haven’t notified the authorities.”

“Yes sir, if you insist.”

“Have a good…” and suddenly, Patrice DeJesus was speaking to a dead telephone. As usual, the most distasteful part of her job was speaking to Dr. LaPierre’s boss. She had once heard Calvin Coolidge described as a going through life with a pickle in his mouth. She did not know much about presidential pickles, but she often wondered if Carlton Maldonado went through life with one stuffed into a very different, hopefully more uncomfortable bodily crevice. With a resigned sigh, she dialed the police.

It had been a grueling couple of hours, but Paul had finally said, “Yes.” Kirsten had wanted to run over to him and hug him, but that would have sent the wrong message so she merely nodded and said, “Thank you, Paul.”

The next morning we began researching the changes. There were now two occurrences to start with and we discussed what had happened each time in minute detail. Maybe it was his lawyer’s skill at reading people’s emotions, but it was Paul who observed how angry I had been when I had changed.

“I have no clue how an emotional state could trigger a change of physical form, let alone control its shape, but we’ve nothing else to go on so let’s try it.”

“Okay. What form do you want to try for Georgie-Girl?”

“I guess my old male one–and don’t call me Georgie-girl.”

“Fine,” he agreed, but with less enthusiasm than I had expected. “Just don’t change into bimbo-Georgie. I do not think I could handle that. Oh, and would you prefer I called you Shirley?”

“Shirley? You know you helped my legally change my name to Kirsten. Now what the heck are you talking about?”

“How quickly they forget. It was a running gag in the movie ‘Airplane.’ Someone would ask Leslie Nielson if he really meant what he said, something like ‘Surely, you don’t mean that.’ and he’d response, ending his dialogue with ‘…and don’t call me Shirley.’”

I groaned. What else could I do?

“So now, if I need to ‘Paula’ joke out to calm you if you get too mad, I ‘Tina’ good way would be to call you ‘Shirley.’”

I did not even bother to groan that time.

“What’s the matter Georgie-Girl? No sense of humor?”

“That’s not humor. That’s a pun.”

“And you’re heavy and not my brother. Of course a pun is humor, possibly the highest form of humor.”

“Are you crazy? How can a pun be the highest form of humor?”

“What? Where were you educated, a pig sty?” Paul feigned shock.

“The same college as you, or have you forgotten?” I was getting annoyed now. He seemed to have gone off on a meaningless tangent rather than helping me study the change.

“I know that Georgie-Girl, but you must have slept through your classes. Don’t you remember Professor Kensington’s class in English Literature?”

“It was Professor Grisham and you took that class, not me. I took the class on Shakespeare.”

“It was Kensington, Georgie-Girl, and I suppose now you’re going to tell me that Shakespeare never used a pun in a single one of his stolen plays.”

“What the hell is going on here?” I demanded indignantly. “Have you lost your senses? Who the hell cares about puns? We need to get back to the business at hand.”

“No, you need to admit you’re wrong. Shakespeare actually wrote the first pun, something about a jester and a noose.”

“Paul! Stop this instant!” I stood and all but shouted in his face, but then buckled over in pain.

Instantly Paul was by my side, helping me back to my seat on the couch. “Now focus Georgie-Girl, focus on who you want to be. Focus on George LaPierre. Do it, damn it.”

I focused, but nothing happened. The pain was there, the tingling that seemed to foreshadow a change, but I was not changing.

“Damn it. Change you stupid slut.” Paul slapped me.

I was shocked. Through the haze of pain, I tried to slap him back, but he just blocked the blow and laughed at me. He laughed at me like I was the stupid slut he had called me. I wanted to kill him, but then I felt the changes overwhelming me and realized what he had been doing.

It was better than the previous time in that the pain was more bearable and I did not lose consciousness or even need to close my eyes against the pain. This time I could see the changes. I was becoming the slut I had just envisioned. At least it wasn’t the blonde Paul had asked me to avoid.

Frantically, I tried to refocus on my male body, but it did not work. My hair again grew out, this time into a curly black mop that extended to just below my shoulder blades. My breasts grew again, causing pain from my now too tight bra. Most surprising, was my skin. It turned a light coffee color. I guess there are small pockets of prejudice in the best of us, but the thought that I had become a mulatto actually worried me for a moment. Then I had a vision making myself appear to be black and finding out what it was like to live as a member of that population group like John Griffin did in Black Like Me. I too could be a temporary Negro. It seemed strangely humorous until I realized I was already doing the same thing in the female community, hopefully temporarily.

As the pain began to recede, I checked my watch. The entire transformation from noted transgendered Caucasian researcher to mulatto whore had taken about half an hour. As I stood and took off my tee shirt and now too small bra, I noted that the pain seemed to be less each time I changed. That is when Paul came back into the great room with a huge stack of pancakes oozing in maple syrup and butter. All other thoughts were going to have to wait until I had finished eating.

“Paul?” I popped the last bite of a pizza with the works into my mouth and sighed. The pancakes were long gone, but I was finally sated, well at least for food I was sated.

“Yeah, Georgie-Girl?” Paul came out of the kitchen still carrying a dishtowel.

“I realize what you were doing before, trying to get me angry. It worked. Thank you.” I gave up on correcting him about my name.

“Good, now how about putting a bathrobe on or something?” he said as he turned back to the kitchen. I had never bothered to cover my top after removing the brassiere.

“Paul?’ I stood and slid out of my jeans and panties. Now I was completely naked.

“What?” He turned back and his eyes turned into huge saucers. “What the hell are you doing?” he sputtered. “Get dressed.”

I walked towards him, making sure that my hips swayed noticeably as my left hand cupped and stroked my breast. “I’d like to thank you.”

“You did,’ he growled. “Now get dressed damn it.”

However, I was having none of that and I pulled him close to me. I had promised myself that I was going to discover my feminine side and I was damned if I was not going to do it right then and there.

Remember that hindsight we have discussed before? Here we go again. To say that my attitude at this point was dramatically different from what it had been an hour or so ago would be an understatement. My best guess is that I had inadvertently visualized myself as a whore and my vision of a whore was someone who had a phenomenally high libido. I will skip the biochemical discussion of estrogen, progesterone and the roughly twenty other hormones and proteins that were now flooding through my body, the result was that I was horny as hell, with minimal self-control and no shame. I knew what I wanted and I was going to get it.

When I grabbed him, Paul stepped back, bumping into the wall and I closed the space between us before he could dodge to the side and through the door. Again, grabbing him, I threw my arms around his shoulders and planted the biggest, wettest, sexiest kiss I could imagine on his mouth–and yes, we played tonsil hockey.

By the time I let him up for a breath, I could feel him rising to the occasion and I let one hand drop to his crotch. That is when the front door shook from someone pounding on it.

“Ignore it and they’ll go away,” I breathed huskily into his ear.

“Police. Open the door please.”

Oh, shit.

Paul pulled away from me and quickly strode to the door. “Get dressed,” he hissed back at me.

Ignoring him, I sauntered up behind him as he opened the door and began playing with his ear and kissing his neck. He opened the door just a crack. I guess the little dear wanted to preserve my honor. I giggled at the thought.

“Are you George LaPierre or Paul Goldblum?” There was a very large–I think its part of the job description–state trooper outside the cabin.

“I’m Paul Goldblum. Can I help you officer?”

He saw me standing behind Paul and I smiled sexily at him. Two would be even better than one.

“And what’s your name ma’am?”

“Why I’m whomever you want me to be officer,” I cooed through half closed eyelids as I tried to look sultry and adjusted my position to let a bit more of my breast peek out from around Paul.

“She’s my girlfriend, Wanda,” Paul interjected as he poked me with the elbow still hidden behind the door. “Wanda Langowski.”

I tried not to laugh at his choice of names. His reference was to a character from one of our favorite comic books. The cop’s expression made it clear that he didn’t think I looked like any Langowski he’d ever seen, but all he said was, “Would you please step outside sir?”

“I guess so officer. What’s the problem?”

“Oh never mind. You boys don’t gotta worry ‘bout my modesty.” I was frustrated, but I wanted very badly to hear what he had to say. “Come in side, officer. I’ll get dressed.” I made sure to give them both a nice show as I vamped my way to the bedroom to get dressed. Throwing on a bathrobe to cover my top, I was quickly back in the great room and sitting next to Paul playing innocently with his hair.

“What can I do for you, officer?” Paul asked as he irritatedly pushed my hand away and tried to concentrate on the police officer.

“We’re looking into the whereabouts of a Ms. Kirsten LaPierre.”

I’m not one of those people who get upset when people don’t use proper honorifics like “doctor,” but I was beginning to dislike this minion of the law, if for no other reason than he was interfering with my constitutional right to the pursuit of happiness.

“I’ve been out of touch with Dr. LaPierre for quite a while officer. Is something wrong?”

“We’d like to talk to her,” he said with that solemn unaffected face made so popular by Joe Friday. “I understand you had a date with her about three days ago.”

“Yes, we were to meet at the base NCO Club, but she never showed up. I figured she was involved in a research project that she couldn’t leave unattended.”

“Didn’t she call you to explain that she’d be busy?”

“No. Dr. LaPierre is a wonderful woman, but when she gets an idea in her head she can be quite focused.” Paul glared up at me, frowning as he gently pushed my hand away from the front of his shirt where it was slowly approaching his nipple. I of course pouted as sexily as I could and then started inching my way back there all over again.

“The gate records from the local military base show you left with a woman. Can you tell me who she was?”

“I’m sorry, officer; I met her that night and haven’t seen her since. She never gave me her name.” I swatted him playfully as if I were jealous, which when I thought about it, I was, even if it was me he was talking about.

The officer sat thoughtfully watching me as I clung to Paul so I bent over a bit more to give him a better view of the merchandise. He promptly cleared his throat and stood up.

“Here’s my card. If you hear from Dr. LaPierre have her call me as soon as possible.” With that, he gave us both a noncommittal nod and left.

I almost laughed aloud when I noticed him walking a bit stiffly. While I resisted laughing, I could not resist a parting shot so I called out after him as innocently as I could, “Oh officer, does that leg wound hurt?”

He just glared at me as he left, which gave me the opportunity to return to my previous research topic.

Unfortunately, Paul had other ideas. I knew he was interested, I could see the bulge, but instead of letting me complete my research project, he grabbed me by the shoulders and quick marched me into the bedroom.

“Go to bed. Take a cold shower if you need to. We’ll continue this in the morning.” He shoved me through the door and started closing it. “And don’t even think of sneaking out here during the night.”

Of course, I did sneak out of my bedroom, about fifteen minutes later, but he had locked the door to his bedroom. Spoil sport. I knew he was awake because I could hear him talking on his cell phone. It was hard to tell for sure–the door muffled his voice more than I would have expected–but it sounded like he was trying to find out why the police were interested in me. It hurt to admit it, since I really did want to dally a bit–actually a lot–but I realized that under the circumstances I had best leave him be. I wanted to know why the police were looking for me too.

The week was nearly up and I was back in my standard issue female body. Paul and I were reviewing the findings to date as we savored the last of our morning coffee.

“Okay, we’ve established that the process is painful, but becoming less so with practice. It seems that I can change into just about any female shape within about thirty minutes or less. The transformation is triggered by anger or, more accurately, the increase in epinephrine in the blood stream to some as yet undetermined level and the outcome is the result of focused visualization on my part. Each different body bathes the brain in a unique set of hormones and protein complexes that can significantly affect the thought process and emotions.”

Paul nodded and sipped patiently at his coffee while he waited for me to finish. He knew I would never be able to move on until I had clarified the issue for myself. “When I had finally wound down, he asked, “So is it my turn now?”

“I think so. As far as I can tell, I’ve completely summarized the status of the research to date–at least the research you’ve let me do.” I batted my eyes lazily at him and pouted for a moment to make my point, and to see if I could still, after all these days in close proximity, get a rise out of him.

“Good.” Paul pulled a legal size canary notepad from the kitchen counter and began leafing through it. “Then it’s time to discuss some basic issues like how to explain your disappearance, how to stop the human testing project, how, if at all, you are going to use your new ability and last but not least, how do we proceed with our personal relationship. I still think you should have called that police officer. It would have simplified things tremendously.”

“You’re almost certainly correct,” I sighed, “but this research would never have gotten done if I had.”

“Well, it’s water under the bridge, but we need to explain where you were in a way that either can be verified or at least sets aside any possible questions of impropriety or espionage.”

“Why not just tell the truth?” I asked innocently.

“We could, but then I need to have a justification for lying to an officer of the law, that is unless you’re planning to support me in the manner to which I’ve grown accustomed,” he grinned slyly.

“Why sure honey-chile, come sit on Momma’s lap.” I patted my knee hopefully and waited, trying to look as innocent and unthreatening as I could.

“Right,” he laughed. “But seriously, we could say we were having an intense interpersonal experience together and didn’t want anyone to know it. People would interpret that to mean ‘torrid affair’ but I can live with that if you can.”

“I suspect I would find it even more acceptable if it were true,” I answered wistfully. It had not taken long for me to make up my mind about our personal relationship, now I was eagerly waiting for Paul to decide I was serious and follow suit.

“To do that we need to be able to explain my night of wild abandon with the fiery Wanda. We could say it was you in heavy makeup. People would consider us a bit kinky and, of course, it would help if the cop is blind.”

“I doubt he’s blind, but anything else would start getting complicated. I seem to recall you telling me to keep things simple when dealing with the legal system, Paul.”

“A disciple,” his charming boyish grin was back. “I have a disciple. An excellent point and it is even true. If we stick together on that, it will be his word against ours and he probably will not care too much as long as you turn up and no one finds any other irregularities.

“Next we need to decide how to stop the human testing project. That one is probably more in your ballpark. Any ideas?”

“Well, there are a variety of options, but none of them are optimal. Simplest would be for me to reveal what the treatment has done to me to the rest of the team and ask for their support.”

“And become a lab rat? It is your choice, but I would certainly recommend against it. Of course, one variation of that would be to go public. No, filth like the National Enquirer would be the only ones likely to cover something so patently outrageous. Can you imagine a newspaper like the New York Times headline? ‘Researcher discovers Regenderification Process’. Even if they published the article, no one would understand it enough to read it.”

“I could just resign,” I mused aloud. “No, that would just delay things a bit and I wouldn’t be there to prevent the human testing after the short period of time it would take for the research team to come up to speed on the few pieces I’ve held back.”

“How about an anonymous letter to the FDA with copies to a few well placed muckraking news people?” I could always count on Paul to get creative.

“Tempting, and a good idea on the surface, but there are less than fifty people in the entire world who know anything about the project and maybe five who could provide sufficient technical information to make a credible presentation to the FDA et. al. Even if I were to pretend to be outraged by the disclosures, I would be top of the list as informer and would never work in the field again.

“Let’s set this aside for now. It doesn’t seem to be going well,” I sighed in frustration. “What was the last issue again?”

“You mean, ‘What to do with your new ability?’ or ‘How to proceed with our changed relationship?’"

I could not resist. He’d made it clear that he would not act until he was certain it was right for both of us, and had reaffirmed that position after we realized that different forms affected my personality differently. Even if he was not going to take advantage of me–the little dear–I knew that, if I had to go down, I was going to go down swinging. I gave him a saucy smile and went for it.

I'm skipping portions of the next two weeks, mostly because major portions of it were unbearably boring. Paul and I spoke often by telephone, but didn't see each other, which is just as well as I was spending about twenty hours a day at the lab with just two goals in mind. The first was to find out more about my newfound ability and the second was to stop the human testing project.

With respect to the first, I accomplished little as I could only work on my personal research project when Felix and José were not around. On a positive note, I kept "practicing" new forms and my body somehow accommodated to the process so that the pain was barely evident and the time to change was now a mere five minutes.

Additionally, I was now at the point where I only needed a couple of “energy bars” to recover from the drain on my body’s resources. Who says old researchers can’t learn new trick? Aside from becoming male–which just was not happening–I really do have a broad range of options, so broad I am still testing the limits. Don’t even think of going for the obvious pun there. I suppose I could come close to becoming myself again, at least in terms of everything but genitals. I'd always have some small growth of breast and a void where I'd be scratching if I were a ball player. Having never wanted to be a Pushmepullyou, I had early on resolved that if I had to be female, I would be female.

With respect to my efforts regarding human testing, they were little more than exercises in bureaucratic frustration as I tried to stop, or at least postpone, further testing. Felix and José almost quit as I kept pushing them to review and re-review the animal results looking for something, anything, I could use to justify my goals without letting them realize that my intentions were other than to be extremely cautious.

Interestingly, once I had finally decided to try to be female and put my mind to it, it was relatively easy to control them. Instead of trying to shout them down and having a temper tantrum when they ignored me, I expanded a bit on my makeup use, broadened my attire to include some above the knee skirts and asked them to do little things for me, the “helpless” woman. The first time Felix got me a cup of coffee and stood attentively in front of me waiting to see if it was satisfactory, I knew I had it down. I also nearly bit my tongue off trying not to laugh and spoil all that work. It is interesting to note that the reason why most women feel they can change a man–is because they can.

Patrice did quit once–yes the same Patrice who had been my nurse during my initial recovery. I had convinced her to transfer to the lab so she could keep track of my medical condition and help teach me what I needed to know about my new gender. She really wasn’t needed full time, so she had agreed to function as the lab’s secretary and make certain the reams of bureaucratic paperwork was completed in a timely fashion. After her first month in that job, our requisition forms and time sheets were submitted on time for the first time in months.

Anyway, she was tired of dealing with Dr. Maldonado's rudeness, but I talked her into coming back before her paperwork could be processed. Carlton was just being difficult–more difficult than usual, if that was possible. I swear he still had it in for me because of that ancient mishap with Paul in the college chemistry lab. It was his position that testing needed to proceed apace and everyone from project director to cleaner was responsible for insuring that it did. Furthermore, he felt it was his responsibility to remind each and every one of us of our responsibilities, as he saw them, and insure that we complied. It’s not a good idea to insist that a secretary explain why a project is behind schedule and harangue her to get it back onto its appropriate place on his projected timeline.

One of the reasons Patrice came back was that I told her that I'd convinced Carlton that his constant telephone calls were taking us all away from necessary final preparations and that he should cut back on them. Of course, I also told Patrice to get the phone company to install the Caller ID feature and use it. From then on, Carlton always seemed to catch us when we were all away from the phone working busily to finalize the next phase of the project. I suspect Carlton was so frustrated he would have fired us, if he had just been able to reach us. He actually did at one point, but he did not realize it as Patrice recognized his voice and quickly repeated the answering machine message and then beeped at him–smart girl, that Patrice.

It was late Friday evening, just four days after the start of operation Caller ID, and I had already changed. Now I was a rather plain looking middle aged woman with short graying hair, average height, and a tendency to enjoy chocolates just a bit too much–read stocky. Everyone else had gone home for a well-deserved weekend and I was back to the old drawing board. My latest theory regarding how I could control the changes had just gone down the drain when the MRI and C-scan showed absolutely no abnormalities in the brain. I'd gotten the idea from an episode of the "X-Files" where a brain tumor had caused new mental powers to manifest, which also demonstrated how far afield I had been searching for research hypotheses. Anyway, Carlton had actually left his ivory tower at the administrative offices of BioLogInc and come a-visiting, thousand dollar designer suits and all.

“You! What's your name?”

“Ulp!” He had shocked me. I had thought I was alone and I had not realized that I had left the door unlocked–careless, definitely careless. Patrice was going to ball me out for lack of feminine caution–if I told her.

"I asked you your name,” Maldonado snorted. “You do have a name, don't you, girl?" You would think he could be a bit ruder and more abrupt, but I guess he reserved that for people he really disliked.

"Umm, yes sir," I almost gave him my real name, which would have blown my secret out of the water, especially given Carlton's innate ability to sniff out a profit. "Virginia, sir. May I ask what you're doing here?"

"I run this lab. Where is everybody?"

"It's after eight on a Friday night and everyone’s gone home. Now I'm going to have to ask you to leave too sir, I know Dr. LaPierre and you're not him–or her–so you can’t be who you say you are." I began moving toward him, as much to keep him from coming to me where he might peer over my shoulder and see my research on the computer monitor as to get him out of the lab. It was interesting to note that he was my height, and I was only 5'2 at the time. I wondered if all small men acted as pompous as he did.

"I am Dr. Carlton Maldonado, Ph.D., Executive Director of BioLogInc and Dr. LaPierre's boss." He puffed up so nicely, just like a bantam cock. I knew then and there, I was going to have some fun with him.

"And I am the cleaner. I’m responsible for insuring the security of this lab until I can finish getting it cleaned and locked up for the weekend,” I huffed. “Like I said, I know Dr. Pierre and I don't know you. Do you have some identification?”

Did you ever meet one of those people, usually new doctors–Ph.D.s or M.D.s, it does not matter which–who are so full of themselves they introduce themselves with their degree and insist on being called by the title as if it were their first name? Most seem to be able to move beyond it within a year or two, but Carlton had been doing this for the past quarter century, which is why I took every opportunity to call him Carlton instead of Dr. Maldonado. As a result, I was only surprised with the intensity of his response–until I remembered that I was not his peer and the lead researcher in a project he was extremely interested in at the moment. I was just some faceless underling to be lorded over, not someone close enough to his “greatness’ to be permitted the right to challenge him. He immediately went from his usual pallid color to a ruddy hue, but he didn’t stop there. Even before he could start talking–read shouting at the top of his lungs–he moved on to a mottled, reddish purple. I was actually wondering if he was going to burst some of the small blood vessels in his scalp and was reviewing the medical procedures for dealing with apoplexy when the dam finally broke.

“You ignorant little pissant,” he stormed. “How dare you. What is your full name? I will have your hide for a wall hanging by the morning. You’ll never work for BioLogInc or any related company again.”

“I told you my name sir. It’s Virginia, Virginia Hyde.” I know, it was not very original, but I was betting he would fail to get the hint. “Now if you’re going to be rude, we can forget about any ID check and you can leave right now.” I took him by the shoulder and squeezed, hard.

Did I mention that I had been working on unusual features? I had long ago run the gamut of various forms of extrasensory perception and had found that abilities like telepathy and telekinesis did not really exist, at least not in any of the genes I possessed. The closest I would come there was the occasional hunch, like woman’s intuition–or “spider sense” if you prefer. I had liked that ability so much, I had kept it and I will bet you can guess what it had been telling me about Carlton.

Tonight I was also working on enhanced musculature. Just prior to Carlton’s arrival, I had been experimenting by lifting the slate-top lab tables with one hand. So, while I looked like a slightly dowdy forty plus year old, I was strong–almost as strong as the Great Muldoon, but that’s another story. Carlton’s yelp reminded me how strong I now was and I felt a twinge of guilt for hurting him–physically that is. As you’ve probably noticed, I had no problems with playing with his mind. Despite that, it felt great to have the upper hand and I quickly turned the surprised man, grabbed his belt with my other hand and quick-marched him out the door to the lab. Coming back inside, I locked the door, leaned back against it and, sad to say, laughed hysterically. I do not know what it was about the situation, maybe the look of shock on Carlton’s face, but in hindsight, pushing his buttons like that was not really that funny and it certainly proved to be one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done.

When he spent the next few minutes pounding on the door, it became even less funny. With Carlton making all that racket, the MPs would be around shortly. Then, I would have “some ‘splainin’ to do,” and my name was not even Lucy. Worse, it was not even Virginia as I had told Carlton. I could just imagine what the MPs, and Carlton, would think when they were introduced to someone in a research lab who did not have a legal existence.

That is what I got for letting my hair down and having fun. I felt the quiver that presaged another change and quickly reasserted my current image before I was in a position to do the Lady Godiva routine–although a good chocolate or two did sound nice.

Those were two of the problems that I was discovering with respect to these changes. First, it was getting too easy to initiate a change and second, if I was not careful it could get really annoying dealing with the various drives and urges of whatever body I was wearing. Besides liking chocolates, this body was not the smartest M&M in the bunch, which was not making things easier at the moment. I almost changed back into my Dr. LaPierre form and let Carlton in, but then I would have to listen to him rant and I really did not want that if I could help it.

A few judiciously expended brain cells later, I decided it was time to leave. The front door was out as Carlton was there and he would make a terrible doorman. Besides, my name was not Rhoda Morgenstern. The back door was also out as it was for emergencies only and would set off an alarm that would guarantee the MPs came running. That left a window. Unfortunately, the windows were of the style that cranked out, far too narrow for my current robust form. I reached into my memory for one of the super-thin actresses currently on television, but quickly reconsidered as that would make me too recognizable and cause other problems. Instead, I reached back into my formative years and a lady from the “Laugh-In” television series called Twiggy. Then, just to be certain, I made her even thinner. I think I ended up so thin, my internal organs were stacked one on top of the other, but I was thin enough to fit through the window and tall enough to reach the ground easily. Good thing this was a one story building.

Grabbing a copy of the Bernoulli drive with my research on it, I tossed the lab coat in a corner, grabbed my purse and slid feet first out the window furthest from the front door. Once out, I quickly changed back into my Dr. LaPierre persona and began slinking around the building toward the parking lot and my car. If I could get back to my quarters, I could come back to the lab for some late evening research and find Carlton there. I would still have to listen to his tirade, but it was becoming evident that I was going to have to face him sooner or later.

The parking lot demonstrated another flaw in my plans. It was well lit and only had two cars in it, Carlton’s and mine. Additionally, the front door was offset so that unless Carlton was blind, he would definitely see me if I tried making a run for it. The choices, face Carlton or make a break for it, were not great ones and they rapidly became even less appealing as a jeep pulled into the parking lot and two huge MPs got out.

I am not sure if it is natural selection or a planned breeding program, but I have never seen an MP less than six foot two and two hundred pounds with more muscle than any of the actors in Pro Wrestling. One went up to Carlton and suggested in a deep rumble that he stop pounding on the door and explain himself while the other one checked out the license plates on the two cars.

The two-car dash was now out of the question, so it looked like it was time to face the music, or rather the Maldonado. Maybe I could pretend I’d been out for an evening constitutional and then let Carlton dress me down–figuratively, please–the thought of him laying a hand on me in any literal sense caused me to shudder. With that in mind, I began changing back into Dr. Kirsten LaPierre.

That is when the unthinkable happened. Like a little lap dog that barely stood tall enough to stare at the MP’s chest, Carlton had been yammering away at the MP nearest him. The soldier had been stoically ignoring Dr. Maldonado’s dance of death, repeatedly advising him to calm down and explain the problem when, without warning and in mid-rant, the damn fool pushed the MP.

There I was, watching the end of my career. There was no way that Maldonado would ever settle for less than my head on a platinum–forget silver–platter. I told you he was not the best manager I had ever met and vindictive was just one of the few words acceptable in polite conversation his subordinates used to describe his administrative skills. I should have been panicking, and yet, I was nearly buckled over double struggling not to laugh aloud. He had not even budged the soldier.

Carlton just kept right on screaming and gesticulating. In his fury, I doubt he even realized what he had done, but the MP did. The soldier’s voice got loud and curt, with an undertone that suggested he should be listened to but hoped he would not be, and told Carlton to shut up and step back against the wall immediately.

It is sad to see an intelligent man with the cortex, or at least the frontal lobes, completely disconnected from the body. That was Carlton. Instead of meekly complying like any sane person, he pushed the soldier again.

I was watching when it happened, yet I have no idea how it happened. One moment Carlton was pushing the MP, the next he was face down on the ground being handcuffed. In the words of a wise and learned professor of mine during grad school, “the fit had shit the fan.” There was little more I could do but watch as they pulled Dr. Maldonado to his feet as if her were a toy and cart him off to their jeep. Next stop would be the stockade.

I had no clue what to do now. As I said, I had just watched my boss do what might have been the stupidest thing imaginable, which did not bode well for my career or my research. I could take my car and go around to the stockade to try to bail Carlton out, but the damage was done, and the last thing I wanted to do was be the target for his anger just then. Besides, I knew he could get himself bailed out in short order without my intervention. It would be a small delay, but even waiting the few days until Monday to see him would help him cool off a bit. I became Dr. Kirsten LaPierre. Stopping off at my quarters, I packed lightly and headed up to the cabin, making a call to Paul from a gas station along the way. I asked him Paul to join me there, telling him I needed to talk to him and get some advice.

It is so easy to see things after the fact. The lab accident in college was the first and biggest mistake of my life. It brought me to the attention of Carlton Maldonado in the worse way possible. It set the tone for our relationship through out the years to the point that I was surprised when he hired me for the cancer research project. In hindsight, this was probably the second biggest mistake of my life.

“Like the sands of an hourglass, these are the days of our lives.” That thought kept running through my mind as I waited at the cottage for Paul. The quote, from the opening to a soap opera, seemed to sum up my life recently, although maybe not; no soap opera I’d ever seen was quite as bizarre as my life had been in the last year.

The gravel crunched from the sound of tires as a car pulled up to the cottage and I ran to greet Paul I as so happy to see him. I had been waiting almost two full days for him to get my message and come to me and the cabin had been lonely without his company. Throwing the door open, I reached out to hug him and stopped in my tracks. Instead of Paul, there was some huge, muscle-bound, pug-ugly.

“Where’s Paul? What are you doing with his car?” I tried to look around him to see if anyone else was in the car, but couldn’t really see around him. Without speaking, pug-ugly handed me a note.

Dear Kirsten:
I have reviewed your research notes and I concur with your attempts to stifle further human testing. Instead, I have decided to take this project under my personal attention and make it a special project, with only a few personally selected candidates. We need to talk of many things, including Virginia and Paul.

Dr. Carlton Waldorf Maldonado requests your presence to discuss your future and the future of your research. The gentleman bearing this invitation will escort you to our rendezvous.

C.

I looked up at the man-mountain standing in front of me. He had heavy calluses on his knuckles. The only way I knew to get calluses like that was from punching something–hard–over and over again. Did I want to go anywhere, for any reason, with this guy? I didn’t think so. “I’m waiting for a friend. Please advise Dr. Maldonado that I’ll be happy to meet with him at a more convenient time.”
He stood there with a mildly bemused expression on his face and then handed me a second note. I was beginning to wonder if he was mute, possibly from repeated blows to the head.

Dear Kirsten:
Sammy is here to assure your attendance. He will do whatever is necessary. I encourage you to allow him to make your time with him as pleasant as possible. Oh, and as an incentive, Paul is here, so waiting there for him will do little good.

C.

This was rapidly beginning to have all the makings of a bad gangster movie. I knew Carlton was not to be trusted, but this smacked of criminal intimidation, as I was willing to bet Paul would not be with Carlton, at least not willingly. I opened my mouth to tell tall, wide and silent to get lost, but he already had something else in his hand.

A ring.

Paul’s ring.

It was his law school graduation ring. Paul was very proud of that ring. In one of the few instances of self-indulgence I had ever seen from Paul; he had designed it himself to include an emblem noting that he had graduated summa cum laude. He also never removed it, even in the shower, which meant that this no longer just “smacked” of anything; it was forcible kidnap. My shoulders fell as I grasped for ways to stall until I could think of something, so I asked for a few moments to get changed into something “more appropriate.” Some fast thinking was called for. I had clearly been underestimating Maldonado.

Fifteen minutes later, as I slid into the back seat of the car, I wondered just how far my ex-mentor and ex-boss–there was no chance that there could now be any other than an “ex-“ relationship–was willing to go to attain his goals, whatever they might be. The absence of a human finger inside the ring was a positive, but the thorough frisk, the metal and plastic protective shield between the driver’s seat and the passenger compartment and the absence of door handles or locking knobs answered that question.

The windows of Paul’s car had been painted black and they had installed a solid metal partition between the front and back seats so I would not be able to see where we were going. They had also removed the doorknobs and window cranks so I wasn’t going anywhere without a struggle. I wasn’t quite sure why they bothered as I knew who we were going to see and I didn’t really care where we were going as long as I could make certain that Paul was okay. As a result, I spent the ride to where ever we ended up planning and preparing–which is what I wanted anyway. To ensure the best chance in the event of a fight, I enhanced my hearing, vision, speed and strength to the maximum while retaining the familiar Dr. Kirsten LaPierre exterior to insure that I appeared friendly, harmless.

I also enhanced my appearance subtly to make myself appear helpless and non-threatening–and yes, desirable too. I was hedging as many bets as I could. I modified my voice to make it as friendly and sensuous as possible, enlarged my bust to the maximum comfortable within my dress and thinned my waist a bit. I also increased pheromone production, and finally, I stretched my legs a couple of inches but shortened my spine by an equal amount in order to assure that I was not looking down at Carlton. I wanted him to feel as assured and in control as possible in hopes that he would overestimate me. By now, there was no pain at all as I made the changes, and I covered the energy loss with a single energy bar from my purse. You know w hat they say about practice making perfect. I had been practicing.

Even when the car finally stopped, I still wasn’t certain where we were as it had pulled into a parking garage and the garage door closed before the car door opened, dashing any hopes I had of getting a clue to where I was by seeing the exterior of the building or the surrounding street.

Like most garages, this one was dimly light and I quickly increased the number of rods in my eyes to facilitate low-light vision to that approaching a cat’s. This helped as I could see a sign reserving a parking space for Dr. Carlton W. Maldonado, Director of Research and knew I was at the main offices of BioLogInc. Somehow, I had been expecting to find I was being taken to an office with fifty-year old furniture in some rat-infested warehouse. Certainly television had led me to believe that was where most gangsters did their business. The fact that we were in the corporate headquarters seemed to suggest that maybe Maldonado was not that much the villain and mobster I had been anticipating.

Once I had been thoroughly frisked a second time, we took the elevator directly up to the top floor and Maldonado’s office. I remember commenting to Paul that it was designed to intimidate. It was twenty by forty feet wide with a step up to the area around Maldonado’s desk and another step up to his desk, which spoke volumes about his vanity and a few other personality characteristics. Behind his desk, with the chair back, his feet up and his hands comfortably entwined behind his head, sat Maldonado.

I idly noted that his desk was completely barren of any indications of office equipment, files or even a telephone and the rather large wall hanging behind his desk that seemed at odds with the otherwise sterile environment. It was a copy–at least I assumed it was a copy ¬–of Rembrandt’s he Ascension” with Jesus standing on a cloud in a state of rapture as cherubs surround him and a crowd of humanity stares up at him in awe and reverence. As I thought of it, maybe the painting wasn’t so much out of place in that otherwise sterile environment as it was a portent, telling anyone who was astute enough what Maldonado’s real goal was in life–to be revered as a god-like figure. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the face in the painting had been modified. It didn’t have the beard I remembered the original having. It was clean-shaven and looked surprisingly like Maldonado’s face. Was he really egotistical enough to have modified the painting if it was an original? That was a scary thought.

In the pit area nearest the entrance was a conference table covered with material that looked suspiciously like the samples and research notes from my lab. Also, in the pit area, by the window wall, was a conversational grouping with some soft lounge chairs, the kind that you start sinking into and just keep sinking. In one of those chairs was Paul, flanked by Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee. They were obviously close relatives of Sammy, the man-mountain, who nodded amiably at them and then took a position directly in front of the door we had just come through. Once he had settled in, there was only a small segment of the door visible around his calves.

“Good evening Dr. LaPierre. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to join us. And may I note that you’re looking especially radiant tonight.” I knew he was a sarcastic bastard, but until that moment, I had not realized exactly how smarmy he could be. I had to fight the urge to shudder.

“As we both have many demands on our time, I’ll be brief.” He was again the crisp businessman as he stood up and gestured for me to sit in one of the other chairs in the conversational grouping. I followed his lead, but mostly because I wanted to look at Paul. He had not really moved or said a word since I had arrived and I was worried.

“Your friend will probably be fine.” In cheap detective movies, this is where they would note that the villain seemed to be reading my mind, but it was quite evident what I was thinking as I approached Paul and knelt daintily beside him so my face was inches from his.

“For now,” Maldonado continued, allowing the implied threat hang heavily in the air between us.

My response was, of course, “What the hell have you done to him you slime.”

Maldonado’s response, equally well scripted, was, “Oh, nothing much. I’ve provided him with a moderately large dose of one of the stronger sedatives. In a few minutes, we should begin to see the first symptoms of respiratory and cardiac collapse. He will shortly die, unless we can come to a deal.”

“Deal?” I couldn’t believe this piece of slime was talking business as he watched someone die. “I gather you tend towards the reform view of the Ten Commandments, ‘It’s not murder if you don’t get caught.’ How the hell can you expect me to make any deal I’ll keep under this kind of duress?”

“Sadly,” he gave me a wry grin, “along with being an annoying wiseass, you also have a rather intuitive mind. There is no guarantee I can actually expect from you. Have a seat and watch.”

“I don’t think so,” I growled and prepared to leap.

“Oh, I do.” He slid into a soft chair beside Paul and pointed to the Tweedle brother by the door. Sammy was pointing a gun at me. “He’s quite a good shot, especially from less than fifteen feet like now.

“I too am armed,” Maldonado noted while patting a lump in his chest, “but I’m quite sure you won’t make it necessary for me to use my weapon, will you Kirsten?

“Can you stop us all before one of us kills you and/or Paul? Please feel free to try. I’m actually rather interested and would like to see a demonstration.”

Damn, I cursed silently. For all his myriad faults, the man was smart. Could he really have figured out what happened from his brief time skimming the lab notes?

“What kind of demonstration would you like?” I asked, trying to assess how much he had learned as I stood and slid beside Paul. I made a show of putting one hand on his shoulder and rubbing it nervously. The move also put me next to, and barely touching, the Tweedle furthest from everyone. He glanced down and leered at me while I braced myself so I would not flinch or shudder, tempted as I was, as his hand furtively moved to rub against my buttocks. I had cranked up my pheromone production as high as I dared without making the room reek for weeks to come, so I would have been even more annoyed if he hadn’t made any move at all.

“I mean, are you expecting me to turn into a gorilla or something? What the hell are you expecting?”

Psychologists call it reaction formation, the use of sarcasm and saying the opposite of what is meant to confuse and misdirect. I made certain that my voice dripped with sarcasm as I continued my original plan, slid behind Paul’s chair and leaned down a bit to rub Paul’s shoulders with both hands. This served several purposes. It allowed me to shake my hair and let it flow appealingly over my shoulders and frame my breasts, highlighting then. It also allowed Sammy a better view of them and the lacy bra I was wearing. Finally, it allowed the second Tweedle guarding Paul to move his hand over to my rump. With luck, it was only going to be a matter of time before one Tweedle’s roving hand found the other Tweedle’s and they hopefully got mad at each other.

“No, I think something simple like a change of hair color, a breast enlargement or a height change would be sufficient.”

The height change would have been the most obvious way to get on Carlton’s good side, assuming there was one. He’d probably love the idea of beautiful woman who was shorter than him. It would make him feel all the more a man–a big man. Unfortunately, that would have made it much more difficult to maintain all the hidden musculature I had created for myself on the ride over. Instead, I chose hair. I made it shorter and darker, almost a crew cut like the lady who was hawking her diet book a while back, but still styled in a feminine manner. When the fighting started, there would be less chance of getting it pulled.

The rubbing stopped. Shit. I hadn’t thought they would be that observant. I cranked the pheromone levels up again, deciding it was more important that worrying about the room reeking. Actually, I was chastising myself for caring about the condition of Maldonado’s office considering what I was planning. I also, added a bit more wiggle to my butt as I rubbed Paul, just enough to insure that it would make contact with their hands again. Thank god for short memories and overactive glands; they were soon rubbing again.

The increased pheromone production had another benefit. Sammy had wiped some drool of his chin and taken a silent, sliding step closer to us. I gave a silent cheer, as I needed him to be as close as possible for this to come off. Next, I pumped up my breasts just a bit more and moved the nipple a bit higher so that it was visible above the edge of my bra. By increasing the sped with which I rubbed Paul’s back, I was able to increase the jiggle factor and he moved another two steps closer.

I had been ignoring Carlton the last few moments. Luckily, he was apparently caught up in his own thoughts, probably deciding how to make the most of my discovery. I wondered if he realized what I was trying to accomplish, but regardless, it was time for a distraction, “So what do I need to do to save Paul?”

“Why, merely walk over to the telephone by my desk and call 911, then provide CPR until they arrive.”

“Since I assume you will not be allowing me to do that until you have something, why don’t we stop playing these games? What do you want from me?”

“Actually, nothing any more. I have your research. I have your samples. Now I have the proof that it works thanks to you little demonstration.” He stood up and strode decisively to the table with my life’s work on it. He spoke with out turning back to me as he did something I could not quite make out, but the scent of lighter fluid suddenly became more overpowering then the combined body odor of three Tweedles. “I’ve already made copies of the relevant material and this job is no longer necessary to my plans. I will miss you LaPierre. You are a damned boy scout and you would surely interfere with my plans for a new world order, but as I have noted, you do have an intuitive mind. Oh well, “Qué sera, sera…”

When he did turn around, he had a syringe in his hand. “I’m certain you can guess what this is, your wonderful formula.” With that, he injected himself.

I knew I would not be getting a better chance. Carlton’s hands were full and the Tweedle family was in deep lust. Feigning moral indignation for his too free hands, I screeched and spun on the middle Tweedle and yelled “Fresh!” as I slapped him hard enough to break his jaw. Continuing my spin, I grabbed the far Tweedle and kicked him in the family jewels hard enough to fracture his coccyx before hoisting him backwards over my shoulder and sending him flying over Paul’s chair into Sammy with me flying right behind him.

The broken jawed Tweedle was on the floor moaning behind Paul’s chair, out of the action, at least for the moment. Mr. Crushed Cojá³nes Tweedle was a dead weight on top of Sammy, who had not dropped his gun as I had hoped, but who was struggling to move Cojá³nes so he could get off a clean shot. I was on top of them both before he could get off any shot, clean or dirty. With a loud crunch of broken bone, the gun was in my hand and someone below me was screaming.

A fast roll and I had the gun aimed at Carlton, or at least where Carlton had been. Instead, I was nearly blinded by the brightness of the yellow flames engulfing my life’s work. I was shocked into paralysis and that is when I heard it, the soft popping sound of a bullet. Maldonado was shooting at me.

It took precious microseconds to locate him, by his desk of all places, and he was able to get off a second shot before I emptied my pistol in his direction.

It would have been nice to be able to say that I was a crack shot, but I was not. Paul and I had been hunting with our fathers several times as youngsters and I knew enough to point the damn thing and pull the trigger, hoping the safety was off. Nevertheless, I had not shot a gun in twenty years and I had not been that good even then. Besides, even veteran cops will tell you that in the heat of a firefight, aim is the last thing you are thinking about. When I opened my eyes, I could see a cluster of bullet holes in and around the desk, but no Carlton.

A quick glance back at the conference table with my research burning like some damn Boy Scout bonfire was enough to tell me that it was a lost cause. I knocked Sammy and his clone on the head just hard enough to make sure they would be sleeping for a while and turned to Paul and the last Tweedle, Mr. Broken Jaw. That is when I saw the blood.

Knowing that there is about the same amount of blood in the human body as there is oil in the oil pan of a car does not prepare you for the shock of bright red flowing down the side of a white shirt. I followed the red upward as I traced it back to the source. There was a steady flow of blood gushing from a small hole in Paul’s left eye.

With a smothered whimper, I leaped back to Paul, only to find what I suspected but prayed would not be. There was a large, gaping hole in the back of my best friend’s head. No more would we trade barbs and think up jokes to tease each other. No more would we eat, or play, or study, or be sick together. No more would we be there to help each other. No more, no more, no more.

I knelt beside Paul’s chair and cradled him in my arms as the last of his blood dribbled out, mixing with my tears. Mr. Broken Jaw groaned and tried to move so I kicked him, possibly too hard as he stopped moving all together. The building’s smoke detectors finally realized that something was burning and the sprinkler system released a deluge that covered us all, turning Paul’s blood a pathetic pink. I do not know how long we stayed there. That is how security found us.

“Paul was dead, but I wasn’t even allowed to attend his funeral. It seems that Dr. Maldonado had prepared a bunch of phony records framing me, describing me as unstable since the experimental cancer treatment. There were counseling memos, pleading notes to the company’s Employee Assistance Program to get me into therapy, even a couple of calls to company security asking that they be present whenever I was in the building as he feared for his life.

“They never found Maldonado’s body, but that didn’t matter to the DA’s office as they had Mr. Broken Jaw Tweedle’s body and my confession to having kicked him. That was enough to guarantee Manslaughter and when the other two goons concocted a story about how I’d attacked them like a wild creature, breaking bones and shooting at poor Doc Maldonado in a fit of rage, as I accused him of sabotaging my work, they felt confident they had enough for Murder Two. You’d think the big strong Tweedles–by the way, just to show how quirky life can be, it turns out that they really were brothers and Tweedle really was their surname–would be too embarrassed to admit to have been beaten up by the little slip of a thing I was for the trial.

“The last straw was when the police went through my quarters at the base and found blue prints for BioLogInc’s corporate office building as well as directions to a local swamp known for its quicksand deposits, a map with directions to Canada using local and back roads, and a box full of money. The fact that I had never seen any of that stuff before was absolutely irrelevant–and besides, who the hell ever escaped to Canada except a few draft dodgers? That crap was the proof of premeditation that gave the DA his Murder One charge.

“At the time of the trial, it amazed me that no one asked how I could have beaten up those huge, muscle-bound men so badly. No one asked who had shot and killed Paul since the bullet didn’t match any of the guns in the room, or even why he was there.

“Do you know what my court-appointed attorney’s advice was? ‘Look innocent.’ I cannot even imagine what she meant by that, but she certainly didn’t do anything else to functionally present a defense for me. I suppose that’s why she sent me the Laura Ashley outfits to wear. I hear it helped their sales, although the only thing it did for me was get me voted best-dressed woman on death row. I am wearing one now under this orange prison issue jumpsuit. You can just see the top of the turtleneck.

“Actually, as far as I could tell, the only person in that court room who believed I was innocent, excepting the Tweedles, was Patrice. We had been friends since my initial treatment and she came every day. I understand that she has tried to visit me, but she was not my immediate family, my attorney, or someone the State wanted to see me, so we haven’t been able to speak in months.

“About now, she’s the only one I’ve got left. Would you please give her a message? Tell her ‘I love her and I’ll never forget her.’”

“So here I am, Father; with no family, no friends, no job, and no future.” I stopped him before he started the usual platitudes about how my faith will help me accept what was to come. “I know. God loves me. Well, if you were about to tell me to confess and free my soul, I’ve got a problem. That was my confession, I’ve confessed to being stupid, and naíve and innocent, but not to being guilty of the charges against me.”

“My dreams of helping mankind are dead; even if I could find someone to fund me, it would be years before I could recreate my work to this still incomplete point. To put it bluntly Father–and I apologize in advance for the language–but I’ve been raped and screwed in the most basic, albeit figurative, terms. Just as Dr. George LaPierre’s life ended when he contracted cancer, Dr. Kristen LaPierre’s life ends in a couple of minutes.”

“What about the other deaths, dear?” His hand trembled a bit as he poured a small quantity of holy water into a steel basin and then dipped his fingers to sprinkle it on me. I think he was afraid that he would join those that had died from being near me. That had been the kicker. With the near absolute control of the inmate population, anyone who had tried to talk to me had died under mysterious circumstances. They couldn’t prove I had done most of them, in fact most are still unsolved, but Maldonado made certain that a few were linked to me via circumstantial evidence, enough that the second trial resulted in the death penalty.

“I have never killed anyone, Father. Those people who died may have died because of me, but not by my desire. I’ve grown tired of trying to explain Dr. Maldonado’s real nature and his role in all of this. Do you want to hear that story again?”

“That won’t be necessary, my child. I shall pray for your soul.” The priest kissed his rosary and crossed himself before rising. He seemed happy to be finished blessing me, yet another successful convert to my side–not.

“Thank you, Father; but pray for this country and the world. Dr. Maldonado is still out there and if he’s even half as ruthless as I believe he is, we’re all in deep trouble.”

The sound of a key rattling against the bars made us both start. A contingent of four burly guards and the Warden was waiting just outside the cell. For some reason the joke about the King and the Jester came back to me and I realized that I heartily agreed with the punch line, “No noose is good news.” Oh, and that reminds me of the other joke I have yet to finish, the one about the vase. It is about an attorney making his opening address to the jury in behalf of a client who is accused of breaking a neighbor’s extremely valuable vase. It goes something like this. “Your honor, distinguished colleagues, and ladies and gentlemen of the jury, by the end of these proceedings, I intend to prove three things beyond a shadow of a doubt. First, I shall prove that my client never received the vase in question. Second, I shall prove that when she did receive it, it was already broken. Third and finally, I shall prove that when my client returned the vase, it was intact.” I almost wish my attorney had been able to match the quality of the attorney in the joke. Actually, I wish Paul had been alive to serve as my lawyer.

The Priest silently stood and backed out of my way. I had actually been waiting for this moment–or maybe it was that stupid noose joke–but I gave him a jaunty wave and said, “See you later, Father.”

They added handcuffs and leg chains before letting me leave the cell. Then, we all did a slow march, the Warden in front, the Priest in back and me, surrounded by the guards, in the middle. My escort was silent and grim, but the cheers from the surrounding cells was deafening and could be heard even after the heavy steel door at the end of the corridor closed behind us.

I had had many discussions with attorneys, news people, psychologists and guards over the past year and a half while the required appeals were processed–against my wishes, I might add–by do-gooders trying to help.

Meanwhile, Maldonado has had free rein to remake the world in his image. As a result, I was not surprised by the huge crowd seated in the bleachers in front of the gallows. But then again, I had been planning this moment for quite a while now.

We continued our slow march to the top of the scaffold. Then, I got to listen as the Warden read my list of crimes and verified that I was Dr. Kirsten LaPierre in accordance with state law. Were my situation different, I might have found it funny that after being in jail for almost two years, this was when they verified my identity. Finally, in a deep stentorian voice, he completed the ritual by citing the statute under which this execution was occurring.

Then it was my turn. I was asked if I had anything more to say. Still shuffling due to the chains, I stepped up to the microphone and glared out at the audience. “I have said it from the beginning and I say it again. I did not kill Dr. Carlton W. Maldonado. He is alive and he is amongst you plotting evil of such magnitude that it will stun you at the least, and could prove the undoing of this country, even the world.

“I know that you do not believe me. I know that you consider me the evil one. It saddens me that I have not been able to convince you to join me to fight the evil that is Dr. Maldonado, but fight him I shall, to my dying breath. One last time, I implore you to release me and join me.”

The silence was deafening. A guard shuffled his feet and the Warden checked his watch against the large clock mounted on the scaffold. It was almost time.

The guards escorted me back to a marked position on the trap door and offered me a hood, which I declined. Then the noose slid over my head and down my neck. Someone, one of the guards, was thoughtful enough to pull my hair through so it was not trapped between the noose and my neck. The chains stayed on; I guess they figured it would be added weight to insure that my neck snapped, then they added sandbag, which were attached to each foot by the leg chain. When I had been prepared, the Warden nodded to someone behind me. He declined to look into my face although I looked into his. Then, the ground fell out from beneath me.

For more than six months I had been preparing for this moment. I had read of this moment and I had dreamed of this moment. I had interviewed anyone who could tell me anything about it. I had even spent time on the Internet researching gallows construction and the medical details of hanging. I was at peace, knowing what would happen.

The first feeling was that of falling. My shoulder length hair floated up creating a golden halo in the morning sunlight.

Then, the thick hemp rope snapped taut and it was over, but for the perfunctory medical exam. I can honestly say that there was no pain.

They let me hang for several minutes. I guess no one ever told the Warden that asphyxiation as the actual cause of death in hanging is an old wives’ tale–or maybe he was just being cautious.

You did you know that hanging does not kill you by asphyxiating you, right? The actual cause of death is the landing, so to speak. More accurately, it’s the combined multiple insults to the body including the trauma to the brain as it is bounced about, the spine as it is severed, and the essential organs as they stop receiving messages to function. Trust me I speak from personal, first-hand experience.

Finally, they took me down and lay me on a gurney. The jail physician took out his stethoscope any listened for my heart, checked for a pulse and flipped my eyes open to see if there was any pupillary dilation. There wasn’t.
From then on, it was just a matter of time. I had asked for immediate cremation at the funeral home that had cared for my parents’ remains, but like most bureaucracies, it took almost five hours, lying on a freezing metal slab, before my body was released for pick up.

Right about now, you’re probably thinking of the ending of any of the dozens of “B” horror flicks Paul and I used to watch on Sunday mornings as we grew up. Someone always seemed to end up intoning in a somber voice, “There are some things man was never meant to know.” At least it makes sense in the context of wondering how I could possibly know about things like my death and the events that occurred after it. If it will help, I could tell you that it is beautiful up here and “a far, far better place to which” I have gone. However, I can assure you that I am not a ghost, nor am I some other type of supernatural being. My personal experiences are the result of living through my own death.

I told you I had been researching executions for months. After all, I am a research scientist and that’s what we do when we want to know something–research it. I also told you how a properly administered hanging actually works. Remember I had quite a bit of time for independent study during those many months in solitary confinement on Death Row. Thus, I practiced and honed my ability to change shape until it was effectively instantaneous. In the process, I discovered that the only limitation is my ability to properly visualize the biology, to imagine the change in sufficient detail that it is able to function. This means I can even assume various animal shapes, even in between shapes like a half man half animal. For some reason, I am partial to large white furred, ape-like creatures. Sorry, just kidding about that last comment. I don’t really have a preference of any sort, except for being male, which I still can’t do.

As the noose went around my neck, I created a shell-like exoskeleton under my turtleneck sweater extending down my spine and under my crotch. The upper part prevented asphyxiation and a snapped neck. The lower frame served as a support so I would not snap some other portion of my vertebrae. Once the trap door opened, I just played dead, removing the lower exoskeleton first so it would not be noticed when they lowered me off the noose. Then, I just moved my heart and major arteries well away from their normal position in my chest so that my internal organs dampened the beating sounds until they could not be heard by the good doctor. Finally, it was just a waiting game until the funeral home picked up my body and placed it in a casket to be cremated. When no one was looking, I just swapped another body for mine and disappeared amongst the next group of mourners.

From there, it was a quick bus ride to Patrice’s apartment to borrow some money, collect some clothes and say our tearful goodbyes. I cannot afford to lose my last true friend and I know Maldonado would kill her without a second thought if he thought she was helping me, but I am not worried. I can still call her if I finish the conversation within sixty seconds, or drop her an e-mail, even a letter to return the money she lent me. Besides, she gave me the hope that this will one day be over and I can again be with her. It will not be the same as it would have been with Paul, but no one should ever give up a friend without a fight.

Now I am free to seek out Maldonado. It will not be easy. I do not know her new name. I do not know what she looks like. I do not know where she is. I do not even know what her goals are. I just know she’s out there plotting, organizing and controlling more nefarious criminal activity and she must be stopped before she does to others what she’s done to me. She will also have the same ability to change her appearance as me and, when I catch her, I will have to tell her she is a lousy lawyer. I am certain she is still planning for our next encounter. She will believe I am dead as much as I believe she is dead.

I never wanted to be some kind of a hero. I never once thought to save the world. I just wanted to help my fellow man. Now, I have a mission–and I will succeed. I have to. I cannot let down Paul, or my parents, or those of you who have no way to protect yourself from Maldonado’s machinations. Like in the comics still at the cabin, I need a superhero name, but most of the good ones are already taken. I have combined the two things that are most prominently me. I am a biomorph and, as Carlton sneeringly pointed out, I am a Boy Scout.
Prepare yourself Maldonado. I am coming for you. Bio Scout is coming for you.

      "Sir? Professor Boatman?" A quavering voice was joined by a hand up and waving amongst the blurred mass of bubble gum popping, yawning, freshmen.

      "Yes?" 

      "Is this going to be on the final exam sir?"

      "What's your name son?" Richard wearily responded.

      "Uh, Al. Al Foster, sir."

      "Well Mr. Foster, what have we just been talking about?"

      "Uh, the definition of reality?"

      "Very good Mr. Foster. Now, can you tell me what we've arrived at as our definition of reality?"

      Silence.

      "Mrs. Foster, are you still out there?"

      "Uh, yes sir. I mean no sir. I mean yes I'm still here sir and no I can't say what we've defined reality as. We just talked about several different definitions of reality without coming to any final agreement."

      "Very good Mr. Foster. Take a bow. As usual you have confirmed my expectations of reality. The person most likely to give the correct answer on an exam is the one who asks if it will be on the exam. Now, for the rest of you." He turned and glared at the other two hundred plus students, "Yes, it will be on the exam. Everything we've covered will be on the exam. Are there
any other questions?" Foot tapping impatiently he waited several seconds.
"No? Dismissed." He turned his back on the hall, gathered his lecture notes and frustratedly stuffed them into his briefcase. Beyond a doubt, Intro. courses were the dullest courses imaginable, especially for the teacher. Of all the teaching staff of the Clarke University Psychology Department only Josef Rimsky and he had been routinely relegated to the pits of Into. to Psychology and, god forbid, Josef seemed to like it.

      A cold drizzle permeated his clothing as he trudged back to his office glowering at those who had the audacity to greet him. Watching a group, probably pledges from one of the local fraternities, playing touch football in the cold rain with some completely shirtless and the remainder in sopping wet orange tee shirts while another, more appropriately dressed group, cheered them on Richard wondered once again about the intellectual quality of the student body. He had almost made it to his office without incident when a missed football landed in a nearby puddle completing the drenching the rain had started. If only his research would pan out, then the weather, like everything else would be his to control.

      Grumbling, he made it to his cubbyhole of an office without further incident only to find another "love note" from Ivan Issaksen. The aging Department Chairman, doddering old fool was closer to Richard's preferred description, wanted him to attend another on of his damned committees, this time for curriculum development. "Damn, when will he do some of the work they pay him to do instead of dumping it off on others."

      "You must be talking about our beloved Department Chairman." Richard jerked his head up to see Josef standing by his partially open office door, his smile disarming as ever.

      "Close the damn door and yes." Richard grumped as Josef slipped into the cramped office and shut the door behind himself.

      "What does he want this time? Another committee? Another course? Another rejection on your research proposal? All of the above? None of the above? Wait, be still my heart, he's had an original thought and you're in shock." Richard slid a pile of papers off the only other chair in the office and onto the floor, then brushed off the seat before slouching into it.
 
      "No originality there," Richard waved the offending memo in the air, "just another committee. This time it's curriculum development." God I hate having other people tell me what to teach. It's an insult to the academic tradition."

      "Well, you know it's just that he has no backbone. He's afraid of Dean Johnson, he's afraid of President Schrader, and he's afraid the Board of Directors will make him retire. He's been here so long I doubt he'd know what to do if he wasn't here. You know, some of the older faculty talk about how he was a real 'firebrand,' as they call it, when he was younger."

      "I don't know. That seems to be an oversimplification." Richard tossed the memo into his circular file and listlessly leafed through some of the many papers on his desk. "It's like he's intentionally making so much busy work for me that I can't complete my research."

      "Well, I guess there may be some pressure on him from the Board. After all, you've not exactly endeared yourself to them with your suggestions regarding teaching vs. research."

      "Otherwise translated as 'They think my research is a crock' right?"
 
      Josef nodded. "Yes, but it's not their doubts about your research, any publication is good as far as they're concerned, but your presentation. What was the phrase you used? 'Pusillanimous polypragmatic political puppets?'"

      Richard nodded blushing.

      "Those that knew what you were saying were insulted as were those who were smart enough to use, or have someone else use, a dictionary to explain it." Josef sneered. "Lucky for you that won't be more than two or three of that dirty dozen."

      Richard's eyes were downcast. "I know, but they kept finding ways to keep me from finishing my research. I just got disgusted with all their game playing."

      "Tell you what," Richard rubbed his chin briefly considering. "If it will help, I'm willing to offer myself as a guinea pig as long as the process is not too intrusive."

      "Thanks Josef, but at this point the bigger issue seems to be getting to a final product that can be tested." Richard paused for a moment. "Say, if you really want to help me you could go to these damn committee meetings for me."

      "Sorry Richard, no can do. I've already been put on that same committee. I think it's one of the penalties of being a junior member of the faculty."

      "As you all know I object to the very concept of a committee mandating curriculum content, but if this committee has to create standards for the various curricula we teach why the hell don't we use the material already being used by the people already teaching the courses?" Josef was frantically trying to signal Richard to be quiet. The only outcome of his comments was going to be to anger the other, more senior committee members and if he kept it up it was likely to finally cost him the tenure for which he was currently eligible.

      "Thank you for your suggestion Dr. Boatman." Dr. Issaksen's voice was strained as he attempted to maintain his composure. "Please remember that the purpose of this committee is to assure that minimum standards are met. To do that we would first have to determine what those standards are, and to do that we would first need to review the field to see what others feel is important. Otherwise we would be abrogating our responsibility to assure quality and merely serving as a 'rubber stamp' for what might be less than appropriate for our students' needs." Josef silently groaned and cradled his head in his hands.

      "Richard, I like you and would like to keep you as a friend, but you've got to learn to shut up." After almost an hour of discussion Josef was getting exasperated. "Think of it from the point of view of Argyris." Richard gave a blank look.

      "Sorry, I forgot myself for a moment. He's from my area of specialization, industrial and organizational psychology." Richard gathered his thoughts before continuing. "Let's see, it was Chris Argyris, ...of Harvard. He wrote an article in the Public Administration Review in 1980, Spring or Summer I think." Richard began to fidget and Josef hastily continued.

      "It was called 'Making the Undiscussable and its Undiscussability Discussable.' I loved that title. I wish I'd thought of it for an article of my own. Anyway, his thesis was that society trains people to recognize and respond to threatening issues by, I think his words were 'easing in,' 'appropriately cover,' or by 'being civilized.' In effect, everyone in that committee meeting except you knew that you were right and would eventually have gotten to the point of confirming the appropriateness of the various curricula after first demonstrating that they were completely impartial and had carefully reviewed all the options. For god sake Richard, no one in that room had any interest in telling another faculty member...a peer...that they had to change what they were teaching. Now they've got to correct at least one faculty member just to retain the appearance of impartiality, all because you couldn't keep quiet. Knowing Issaksen it will probably be you."

      "Richard, thank you for the lecture, but the key points here are," he ticked his points of on his fingers," one, I'm right, and two, this entire process is unnecessary."

      "Of course it's unnecessary in terms of the expectation that anything will change. It's value is as a political process designed to," Richard's fingers came up also, "one, keep the Board of Directors happy, two, keep the accreditation association happy, three, make the parents who pay to send their budding young Einsteins to us in hopes they'll learn something useful like how to get and keep a job happy, and finally, to make the alumni who contribute to our endowment happy when they feel they are giving their money to a worthy school." Josef smiled at Richard and gestured at the hands still held up. "Four fingers beats two fingers, I win."

      "Oh all right." Richard sighed. "I'll try to be more tactful, but I really hate it when we have to bend and play with reality in order to accommodate the unreasonable expectations of others. What is should be immutable."

      "Thank you, I'd miss having you to argue with, but wait a minute, isn't that last statement diametrically opposed to what you've been saying with regard to your research? Is it possible that you don't believe the principles you've been espousing?" Richard agreed sheepishly.

      It was just past six in the morning. The sun was shining brightly, birds were chirping cheerfully, and the early joggers were out in force. Richard was unaware of any of this. In his cramped, cluttered, and windowless office the harsh fluorescent lighting found him still hunched over his desk muttering to himself.

      "It's got to work. Richard was right. It is all a matter of belief. Reality does not exist. It is only a matter of shared belief. I can do it. I can do it."

      "Richard? It's eight in the morning. Don't you have a class to teach?" Josef had been walking past Richard's door and stopped seeing the lights on and the door partially open. "And aren't those the same clothes you were wearing when I left you last night? Have you been here all night?"

      "Huh?" Richard started and squinted at the blurred shape at the door. For a moment it looked like his dear departed mother who came to his bedroom door and woke him every morning for the first eighteen years of his life before refocusing into the form of his lone friend at Clarke University. "Oh, hello Josef. What time did you say it was?"
"Eight A.M." Richard leaned against the door jam.

      "Yeah. I guess I must have been at it all night."

      "Don't you have a lecture hall now? Are you going to be able to teach it?"

      "Uh, yeah. It's, uh, Intro. to Psychology. Damn. I'm almost there. I can't stop my researches now." He looked at Richard and beseeched him. "Why don't you teach the course? You actually like teaching it and I'm so close. I just need a few more hours. Please."

      "Richard, I'd love to. You know how I do enjoy looking at the young women even more than you do, but I just came in early to grade exams. They're due back to my class in Analytic Methods at eleven. If I take a two hour lecture now I'll never get them done."
Richard said nothing but his face was a study in concentration as he stared at Josef. Josef initially smiled, but when Richard said nothing he began to feel a bit awkward.

      "Well, I guess I better go now." Josef turned to leave but hesitated. He felt briefly dizzy and put his hand on the door jam to steady himself. Shaking his head to clear it he turned back to the still concentrating Richard and spoke in a monotone. "My exams are graded. I forgot I stayed up late last night to complete them. I'd be happy to cover your Intro. lecture hall for you."

      "Thank you Josef I very much appreciate. Tell you what, how about lunch at the Faculty Dining Room at the Student Union at about two this afternoon. My treat."
 
      "Uh, sure. See you then." Josef turned to leave, still in a bit of a fog.

      "Oh, Josef."

      "Yes."

      "Here are my lecture notes." Richard held up a looseleaf notebook. Silently, Josef took the notes and left.

      Richard was quiet for several minutes. "YES. IT WORKS." He shouted in his excitement.

      Glaring at the coffee mug by his right arm, he waited for hot coffee to start gurgling up from the bottom. After a half a minute his elation was gone. "Looks like I still need to do a bit more work before I meet Josef for lunch." Once again Richard hunched over his research notes concentrating deeply. About a half an hour later he absently picked up his cup and sipped carefully at the hot coffee without noticing it was filled or hot again.

 
      "He's not a wicked or immoral person, but I do grant he can be intense."

      "Intense is an understatement Josef. Have you ever challenged one of his opinions?"

      “Yes Virginia, there is a god," Josef paused for effect, "... and his name is Richard Boatman." The two chuckled as they resumed their lunch. The faculty cafeteria in the Clarke College student union was gradually emptying as the various administrators departed through the huge, glass and metal archway leading to the student infested areas of the union for their paper empires. The few other members of the teaching staff had already departed for committee meetings or other essential activities although the milling throngs of students seemed to be increasing. While many found it distasteful to see youth wasting it time on pizza, pinball, and pool, Josef found great joy in observing and, when permitted, touching at least half of that mass of humanity.

      Virginia Hancock delicately played with the cubes of her gelatinous desert for a few moments while Josef surreptitiously fondled her rather pleasing breasts with his eyes. "But seriously Josef. He will listen to no one else. For what ever reason he cares about your opinion. He might listen to you."

      “And that is the operant word, 'might.' Considering his fanatical devotion to his current flight of fancy."

      "I know, I know." A deep sigh. "But Dean Johnson is threatening administrative action if he does not start paying more attention to his students." The uneaten cubes had been mashed into a red slurry. "I better get going or Dean Johnson will be trying to dock my pay, the dirty old bastard." With a frown she gathered her dishes and left. Josef took the opportunity to enjoy the plutritudinous scenery.

      "It's all in your mind."

      "What?" His pleasurable reveries shattered by the bellow Josef looked up from his chocolate mousse to see Richard Boatman pushing past the co ed he had been admiring as he stormed into the nearly empty cafeteria. The wild hair and beard did little to convince the onlookers of his reason or stability and the thick manuscript he slammed on the table in front of Josef sent the last three stragglers scurrying.

      "Would you please stop shouting, my mousse is quivering in fear. Why don't you get a cup of coffee and join me." Josef pushed his empty cup towards Richard, "I'd appreciate a refill. Cream and one sugar please."

      If it was possible for a coffeepot to show fear the tentative gurgles of this one would have made you wonder. Richard danced from foot to foot in his impatience as he prepared two coffees. Finally, coffee in hand he was back at Josef's table. Cups slapped ceramic against the plastic of the table top jolting Josef from the pleasurable visions beyond the cafeteria doors and Richard was seated.

      "I said 'the answer is that it's all in your mind.'"

      "Yes, I heard you, but if you don't mind, I'd prefer to discuss this variant of the greatest scientific discovery of the ages on a full stomach. By the way, the mousse is excellent."

      Richard was staring at the pudding cup, brow furrowed as he concentrated. Josef glanced up from his coffee and set it back down untouched. The mousse seemed to blur and loose definition. It crumpled up into a small lumpy ball. It seemed to become furry. A whisker twitched, a hairless tail appeared, there was a faint squeak and it was a small brown mouse that scurried off.

      Josef watched the mouse as it made a beeline for one of the snack machines. "Great." He muttered. "You can take the mouse out of the mousse but you can't take the chocolate out of the mouse." Looking back to Richard he continued more audibly, "That was very impressive. How did you do it?"

      "I told you, it's all in the mind."

      "Yes. And?"

      "Well, I was ... Hey, wait a minute. How come you're so calm. I just changed some chocolate pudding into a mouse. You should be astounded."

      "Impressed, not astounded." Josef sipped at his coffee. "It was an impressive bit of legerdemain, I grant you."

      "Legerdemain? You think that was some magic trick?"

      "Of course, albeit quite a good one."

      "I expected better from you." The hurt in his voice as Richard picked up the bound papers and prepared to leave was apparent.

      "Are you suggesting otherwise, Richard?"

      "Of course I'm 'suggesting otherwise' and I'm amazed you cannot distinguish a scientific breakthrough from a parlor trick." He was standing now, fists clenched and scowling.

      "Let's maintain our civility Richard. If I have in some way maligned your accomplishments I apologize. Why don't you sit down again and educate me." Richard wavered as conflicting emotions flashed across his face. Finally, he sat.

      "Thank you Richard. Now please tell me how you apparently transformed a mousse into a mouse."

      "Well, you know how there are discrepancies in Einsteinian Relativity Theory such as quarks that can travel faster than the speed of light?" Josef nodded but said nothing, surreptitiously stealing glances at some of the prettier coeds to pass.
"Physicists have been trying for years to explain these discrepancies by creating unified field theories. Always there has been the assumption that order can be made out of the chaos of the universe." Josef nodded affably again.

      "I approached this from the other direction. I assumed that there was no order."

      "Many have done that Richard. Look at Kafka for example."

      "Correct. But they were philosophers. They made the assumption and then stopped."

      "Once you've stated that there is only chaos where is there to go?" Josef took another sip of coffee.

      "Exactly the question I was facing, and then I remembered Chaos Theory. In large enough groupings even random events can be described in terms of systems. Chaos theorists routinely think in terms of mega systems. I hypothesized that when considered on the atomic level even microscopic events are mega systems. What we see around us are those mega systems, the billions and billions of atoms we see as systems called people, tables, and even a mouse ... one 's' or two."

      Josef pulled his attention back from a truly gorgeous redhead. "I fail to see where this is going Richard."

      "But it is so obvious. Chaos Theory will relate the flapping of a butterfly's wings in Asia to a hurricane in Kansas. I needed to find a way to effect the systems around me. It was just a matter of finding the key and that key is the mind."

      "I'm sorry Richard, I still fail to grasp your point."

      "Josef, you disappoint me. Put it all together. Point one, from examining the failures of the various attempts at a unified field theory, there is no order. Point two, from extrapolation of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, the mere act of examining something can change it. Point three, from Chaos Theory, the smallest, apparently insignificant thing can effect massive temporary systems. Now take each to the extreme. Nothing is stable and the smallest thing can effect massive change in the temporary groupings we call the systems that make up our reality. I think of something as different and the thought impacts on the thing changing it. It's merely a matter of overcoming inertia. If I think about it with sufficient certainty the changing thing can become what I think it is." Richard beamed at Josef with satisfaction.

      "That seems like quite a stretch Richard. If I understand you correctly, I could look at this cup of coffee and merely by thinking at it change it into something else, oh, say like a candy bar."

      "Absolutely." If possible he beamed even more. "That's exactly it Josef."

      "But it's still a cup of coffee." Josef turned the cup about in his hand as if to find some small portion that had turned to chocolate.

      "Of course not. Josef it is not enough to think about something, you must think at it."

      "And how would I accomplish this feat?" Josef placed the cup back on the table and delicately wiped his hands and face with a napkin.

      "That's what my manuscript describes, the final component to my discovery." He waved the thick sheaf of papers in the air.

      Standing Josef picked up and stacked the remains of his meal. "Richard this has been most amusing but I have a class in a few minutes and I would not wish to keep our lovely coeds waiting."

      "How dare you." Face contorted in rage, Richard almost screamed. "You think I am but a moment's entertainment, that I have concocted this tale out of whole cloth, that I have attempted to trick you with prestidigitation and persiflage."

      Josef's attempts to calm Richard were fruitless.

      "I shall prove my words by changing you. What would you like to become? ... a Dodo? ... a Hyena?" Josef's eyes had wandered from the irate Richard to a passing coed.

      Richard was reduced to sputtering at Josef's lack of attention to his tirade. Taking a deep breath to at least slightly reign in his anger he continued in the cold calm voice of one who has made the ultimate decision as he passed sentence. "Very well Richard become that which you so dearly covet."

      Once again Richard's brow furrowed as he concentrated. Josef dragged his attention away from the pretty young woman and noted Richard's concentration with concern. "Richard, what are you doing?"

      "Tell me Josef, what is the woman of your dreams? Is she a blonde or a brunette?" Josef failed to notice the cunning smile on Richard's face. Bemused he found himself answering.

      "Blonde, golden or honey blonde, almost approaching a light brown." Richard answered without questioning why he did.

      "Describe her to me. Is her hair long or short? Is it curly, wavy, or straight? Tell me what she looks like."

      "Wavy hair, down to the shoulder blades. A model's face, slightly asymmetrical, with arching blonde eyebrows, a straight, slightly pug nose, full lips ..." Josef found him describing his dream girl in excruciating detail prompted infrequently for additional details. He didn't understand why he was doing this or why he could not seem to stop, wondering if he had somehow been hypnotized as he calmly watched his words become his reality.

      "Look at yourself Josef. You are your dream girl. Examine yourself. Do you still consider this some type of deception?" He waited impatiently while his colleague examined herself.

      Eventually Josef tore himself from his inventory. "Amazing. Richard, I commend you. I do appear to be my 'dream girl.' Touch, taste, hearing, sight, and smell. They all give the same message. This is excellent Richard. I wasn't aware that you were such an accomplished hypnotist." Josef beamed with joy, clearly impressed.

      Richard stared in shock. "Hypnotist? You jest. You can't possibly be so limited, so narrow minded. Is there nothing I can do to convince you of the veracity of my claims? perhaps I should give you the enfeebled brain most would expect to go with that body ... no there is no retribution without awareness." He mulled his options aloud before continuing in tones more appropriate to a preacher speaking of hell and damnation. "I know, Josef listen to me. This is your curse and your salvation. Your curse is to have to act like the sexual plaything you seek. Your behavior will always be that of a sex hungry female to those about you. However, trapped behind the facade of a nymphomaniac, your mind will still be totally aware of who you are and who you use to be. Your salvation I leave you in this manuscript. Read it and believe the truth of what I have discovered and you may learn how to regain your past."

      With those words Richard faded away leaving his laughing lips and teeth to disappear last.

 
Part Two: Immortal Acts

 
      Assistant Professor Richard Boatman faded back into view in his cramped and cluttered cubbyhole of an office. The smile he had as he departed from the cafeteria and Josef, now Josette, Rimsky turned to a scowl as he surveyed his alleged domain.

      "This is NOT the office of the 'Master of Reality.' A god needs his own secretary and an office befitting his new station." He closed his eyes and began to concentrate. The world blurred again when he opened his eyes he was standing in the entry to an office complex with plush white carpet and royal blue walls trimmed with oak wainscoting and covered in art work that would have made the curators of the Lourve drool except for the ornate gilded plaster frames. About twenty feet away sat what looked like a playboy bunny behind a huge oak and glass desk that hid nothing of her beauty. Behind her was a raised gold sign reading...

      Richard glanced behind him. Where the battered wooden door to his office had been there was now a pair of glass doors leading into the hallway he had just left. The woman put down her telephone and glanced up, doing a double take when she saw Richard. She quickly pushed a button and came running around the desk towards Richard to be joined by a half dozen more women equally as beautiful. As they reached him they fell to the floor and prostrated themselves before Richard. "Welcome master. How may we serve you today?"

      "Take me to my office."

      "Yes sir. They jumped as one, each trying to out do the others to win his favor as they escorted him to a huge set of elaborately embellished oak doors as Richard thought how close this was to what he assumed was Josef's dream of perfection. Beyond the doors was a room the size of a small gymnasium decorated much like the hallway with a range of entertainment devices from pinball and video games to a small pool and hot tub. There was also a western style bar, brass rail and all behind which was a set of swinging doors leading to a professional kitchen if his nose was any judge, and a huge heart shaped bed with white silk sheets and about a dozen similarly clad silk pillows. At the far end of the room was the largest oak desk Richard could imagine and several plush chairs. Between the desk and the bed was another door with a sign over it that read "library." When Richard peeked in there were more than a dozen more beautiful, scantily clad women rushing about sorting, cataloging, and shelving books and other media. There were more labeled door along the remainder of the wall but Richard ignored them for now instead turning toward the back wall. The back wall was a window looking out onto a azure blue lake surrounded by a lush forest framed by snow capped mountains and a sky with fluffy blue clouds scattered about.

      The women continued to faun over him as he surveyed his new domain until he picked one, a blonde looking much like Josef when he had left her last, to show him around. The tour took more than an hour as Richard tried out each game. When he approached the bar another woman, this one a redhead, came out the swinging doors carrying several trays of hors d'oeuvres and began mixing drinks for the three of them. He skipped the library for the moment and was trying to choose between the bed and the pool and hot tub combination when he noticed a shipping palette stacked head high with paper. Walking over to it he grabbed a handful and discovered they were assorted denominations of United States currency, none smaller than a twenty dollar bill. Giving each a hundred that they immediately stuffed down their skimpy G-strings he walked back to the hot tub.

      "May we help you into the hot tub master?"

      "Ooh master, may I scrub your back please?"

      "No master, let me. Let me scrub your back please."
 
      "I asked first." The blonde shot at the redhead before turning pleadingly back to Richard. "I did ask first, didn't I master. Didn't I?"

      "But I rub better master." The redhead pleaded pushing the blonde away.

      The blonde fell back a step before recovering and then yanked the redhead's hair. "I was here first. You leave him alone." In seconds they were rolling about on the ground at Richard's feet.

      "Stop." The word was spoken barely above a whisper but both stopped, frozen in mid cat fight. "Don't fight. If you want the hot tub that badly we'll all get in." They quickly scampered to their feet, undressed him, and helped him into the tub before joining him.

      "May we undress also master?"

      "Very well." Soaking wet bikini tops and bottoms went flying as Richard adjusted himself comfortably on the padded seat situated in the center of the tub.

      "So where's the rubbing?" They giggled and began rubbing. The redhead at his back and the blonde at his front.

      Richard luxuriated in the bubbly warmth of the hot tub and the gentle ministrations of the two lovelies who had joined him. He quickly felt himself relaxing more and more except for areas of his groin. Down there he was feeling tense, albeit of a highly pleasurable nature. As if sensing his beginning arousal the blonde began rubbing closer and closer to his crotch while the redhead began pressing closer so she could rub her breasts against his back while her hands reached around to gently fondle his chest.

      "Tell me something." They instantly stopped and were totally attentive. "No. don't stop." The pleasurable rubbing began again. "I was just wondering what your names were."

      "Master, you have not yet named us. What would you like to call us."

      "What were your names before?"

      The redhead was first this time followed immediately by the blonde. "My name was Colin McCready, Master."

      "And I was Professor Ivan Issaksen, Master."

      Nonplused, Richard's nicely full erection began to shrink as he realized that these were actually men attending to him.

      Seeing the erection fading Ivan spoke fearfully, tears beginning to well up in her eyes, "Oh Master, have we offended. Please tell us what you wish so we may better please you. Please Master."

      "You were my Department Chairman?" Richard held Ivan by her shoulders examining her. He could see nothing of the fat, balding, constantly grumbling septuagenarian that had been Ivan Issaksen.

      Sobbing in fear, she could only nod her affirmation. Colin had also stopped rubbing and was cowering as far from him as she could get in the hot tub. Richard considered for several long seconds unmindful of the others' fear. Eventually, a smile crept back into his face.

      "Relax. both of you and come here before me." They quickly moved to stand side by side in front of him heads bowed in submission as they awaited his next words.

      Raising his hand he gently tapped each on the head and sprinkled water on their faces. "Ivan I dub thee Inga. Colin I dub thee Colleen. You shall be my favorites and shall serve me in all ways. Now return to your ministrations." They beamed with joy as they began rubbing again, more enticingly than before. It was but a matter of a few strokes before Richard was back to full erection and only a minute or so more before Richard was stroking and fondling them also.

      "Let's move this to the bed." Colleen scrambled to obtain several large towels, also color coordinated with the room, while Inga remained to keep him aroused. As he stepped out of the hot tub they both began drying him while never once forgetting the reason for leaving the tub. By the time he had reached the huge heart shaped bed he was unsure how much longer he would be able to contain himself.

      They slid onto the bed not bothering to move under the sheets. Richard was in the center while the two women positioned themselves on each side pressing their bodies against his as they continued to rub, tweak, and lick.

      "Inga, you first. I want to do to you what you've done to me so many times before over the years." Colleen pouted for a moment but then returned to licking and nipping at his nipples while Inga immediately positioned herself over his erect penis and gently slid onto it with a satisfied sigh before rhythmically raising and lowering herself.

      In less than a minute Richard was racked with the intense pleasure of the best orgasm he had ever achieved. As his erection faded Inga stopped moving in order to hold him within her for as long as possible but shortly the inevitable soft popping sound came and with a smug glance at Colleen Inga slid off.

      "Me too Master?" Colleen begged.

      Richard considered before smiling. "Certainly, my dear. After all, I am a god." Inga, would you be a good girl and bring me Dean Johnson? Screwing the one's that have screwed me in the past feels verrry good."

      Inga was instantly up and running for the door. "Don't forget to put on some clothes. You wouldn't want to cause a spectacle." Suddenly she was dressed in a conservative lavender business suit with matching heels and her hair was tied in a conservative bun. A pair of delicate gold wire rimmed glasses adorned her nose. He chuckled at the thought of the phenomenally beautiful woman not causing a spectacle dressed or undressed and turned back to Colleen.

      "Let's see. Where were we?" Instantly his penis was erect again and, if anything, a larger than before. Colleen's eyes grew round with wonder at the miracles she had just witnessed, but her amazement quickly changed to lust as she examined the little miracle of his newly risen penis.

      "How about some music?" In response to her Master's request Colleen clapped twice and called out, "Library."

      "Yes." A soft soprano answered from speakers on the walls at the corners of the room.

      "Music. Revelle's Bolero." She glanced back to Richard. "Is that satisfactory Master?" He nodded.

      They were relaxing in the glow of Richard's second orgasm when Inga returned. "Dean Johnson is waiting in the vestibule. Would you like to see him in the Throne Room, Master?"

      "That sounds like an excellent idea. Lead me there?"

      "Yes Master. Do you wish raiments Master?"

      "Why not. You two should be dressed also. Something formal but revealing." He thought a moment and he was covered in a floor length royal blue silk gown with a white fur collar that traced a deep vee to just above his navel and a blue and white bejeweled crown sat regally upon his head. The women were similarly dressed, but with more delicate tiaras.

      "I think we're ready now. Let's go." The women followed a step behind him, leaping ahead to open doors. He realized he knew without thinking where he was going and smiled smugly at his intelligence and forethought.

      Unsurprisingly, the Throne Room was exactly as he expected it to be. Easily the size of a football field, enclosed with gracefully arching oaken supports meeting in an arch at least a hundred feet above the marbled floor. Hundreds of women were lined up in two columns about twenty feet apart with the columns facing each other from the huge, elaborately carved door to his throne at the far end. Richard came out a smaller door just behind the throne. Sweeping around he went directly to it and sat while the women bowed.

      "Bring him in." He spoke with a booming voice that seemed to clearly reach every corner of the room.

      The far door opened and Dean Johnson entered bracketed by a half dozen more of his women. Richard watched solemnly as they approached, and approached, and approached. Finally the Dean was at the base of the throne and one of his escort whispered, "Bow to they Lord and Master."

      The Dean glared at Richard ignoring the command until two of them forced him to his knees and held his head down. Sputtering in anger he rose to his feet. "What is the meaning of this? I don't know how you've created this illusion but I demand you stop it immediately. His foot tapped impatiently as he waited.

      "Greetings Dean Johnson."

      "Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you ..." Josef half hummed, half mumbled as he sat in the Faculty Cafeteria of the Clarke College Student Union patiently waiting for Richard's magical reappearance and the end of his rather impressive parlor trick. After about five minutes it became clear that Richard was not returning.

      "Well, enough time wasted. I better get back to my office." With that Josef stacked his dishes, stood up and smoothed the collar of his blouse and skirt.

      "Damn," he chuckled, "he's one good hypnotist. I should be mad, but he's created such a beautiful illusion it's more fun to enjoy the view." He briefly pulled the blouse top apart and admired the soft flesh revealed. (Besides, whatever he's done is bound to wear off shortly and scoring that last batch of quizzes isn't going to happen by itself, is it?)

      Dropping off his dishes and remembering to bring the manuscript, Josef took his usual short cut and headed out the back door to his office. (Amazing. The hips seem to be swaying. The breasts seem to be jiggling. I even imagine I can smell perfume.)

      The walkways were crowded and she almost made it to the Arts and Sciences Building where her office was located before being stopped by a cute looking guy with dark hair and eyes wearing a letter shirt. She looked up at him. (Up? I'm 5'10" and I'm looking up. How tall is this guy?)

      "Excuse me. Would you please tell me where the Registrar's Office is?"

      "Oh my, you're a tall one aren't you." She thrust out her chest, batted her eyelashes at him, and chewed daintily on her lip for several seconds. (Why the hell did I say that?) "It's two buildings down on your left." A pause for a deep breath, a finger to the lip, and a bit of a pout before continuing. "You're cute. Are you new here?" (Why do I care about new meat for the college's grist mill? What's going on here?)

      "Yes. My name's Jack Dawson and I'm an exchange student from Northern State Community College. I've got a 2:30 appointment at the Registrar's Office and I'm already five minutes late so I really better run. It was nice to meet you."

      "The name's Josette. Josette Rimsky. Room 231 in this building here, the Arts and Sciences Building. Come up and see me some time." She vamped as he waved and ran off. (That's not what I wanted to say. What the hell is going on here?)

      Angry and bewildered she headed into the building and to her office, not even noticing the fetching sway of her hips as she climbed the stairs. 
      The secretary for the Psychology Department, Mrs. Grimley, was busy with another coed and didn't notice her walk past until Josette was at the door to room 231, her office.

      "Excuse me Miss, Dr. Rimsky isn't in. Can I help you?" She peered over the tops of her reading glasses. "Miss," a bit louder and more imperious, "I said Dr. Rimsky isn't in. Can I help you?"

      Josef turned about, prepared to advise her that her comments were less than humorous. Instead he found himself smiling and answering politely, "I'm sorry Mrs. Grimley, I wasn't paying attention, silly me. Dr. Rimsky asked me to stop by to see him." (Huh? That's not what I wanted to say.)

      "That's alright child. He should be here according to his schedule and I'm rather surprised he's not. He's rarely late. Can I help you with something in the meantime?" Mrs. Grimley smiled back.

      "Thank you, no. I'll come back some other time. By the way that's a beautiful shade of nail polish. What is it?" (Stop this. Go into the office. Why can't I go into my office? This is crazy.)

      "Thank you. It's called bright crimson from the Mystique collection."

      Their conversation was interrupted as a short, balding nebbish going by the name of Howard Emerson, Dr. Rimsky's teaching assistant, came into the Department office. "Hi Mrs. Grimley, is Dr. Rimsky in?"

      "Hello Howard ..."

      "No he's not." Josette pouted prettily. "I was just looking for him to." The pout changed to an enticing smile. "My name's Josette what's yours?" (This is insane. This is insane. What's happening here. Why can't they see who I am? Why can't I say what I want to say? What's happening here. Nobody can do hypnosis this good.) The frantic thoughts continued as Howard hesitantly took her daintily proffered hand and tried to decide whether to shake it or kiss it.

      "It's O.K. silly. I won't bite," she giggled, "that is unless you want me to."

      “Uh Humm." Mrs. Grimley loudly cleared her voice. "Mr. Emerson, don't you have a class to teach.?" No response. The chill in her voice grew more pronounced. "NOW."

      "Oh, uh, yes. Thank you Mrs. Grimley." He regretfully released Josette's hand, gave a last wistful look and dashed off.
"I'm sure you have somewhere you need to be now also." Mrs. Grimley's voice was still frigid as she returned to her work studiously ignoring the distasteful harlot before her.

      "O.K. I'll come back later." Josette flipped her hair and smiled brightly as she sashayed out of the office and into an empty hallway.

      "Oh my god. What the hell am I going to ..." She stopped abruptly. "I said that." Her hands went to her mouth in joy. "I said that too. I'm in control of my self again." She turned around and started back into the Department office growling, "It's time to let that old bag know who's boss."

      "Back so soon?" Mrs. Grimley's voice was only slightly warmer.

      (Here goes you old battle ax.) Josette smiled, "I'm sorry. I seem to have lost my purse." (No. No. Say 'I'm Dr. Rimsky you withered old prune. How dare you be so rude.')

      "What's that in your hand?" The smile would have made a polar bear shiver.

      "What?" Josette glanced at the purse in her hand. "Oh, thank you." She giggled. (Stop it. Say the words. Say help. Say something I want to say.) "Silly me. I'd loose my head if it weren't glued on." She again glided out of the office into the still empty hallway."

      "Damn. Damn. Damn." Mouth open she stopped again. "I can talk again." Her voice sounded frantic. "What's going on? I can talk again." She raised her hand and snapped her fingers. "I can control my body again."

      Grabbing an empty bench she slumped down head back fighting back tears of frustration. "This is crazy. Whenever I'm around people I can't seem to do anything but act like a simpering sex kitten."

      She slapped her hand hard on the bench. "Ow. Damn it." She punched herself in the chest and almost buckled over in pain. When she finally recovered she delicately touched the still sore breast. It felt like ... a breast.

      "This is insane. I've got to find Richard. What ever he's done he can undo. That's it ... Richard." With a new purpose she picked up the manuscript and her purse and headed off down the hallway toward Richard's cubbyhole.

      Three doors down Josette stopped perplexed looking at the space where the door to Richard's office was supposed to be. There was a large arched opening with a set of glass double doors. Before he could enter the doors opened and several ravishing women exited. They glanced vapidly at Josette and quickly headed off.

      Taking a deep breathe and squaring her shoulders Josette entered. Hesitantly approaching the bikini clad woman behind the large oak desk, afraid of what might come out of her mouth she waited to be seen.

      "Yes? May I help you?"

      "Hello. My name is ... J ... Jo ... Josef." She signed in relief. "Josef Rimsky. Dr. Josef Rimsky." Confidence grew with every word. "I'd like to see Richard Boatman please."

      "Certainly Miss." She gestured and another beautiful bikini babe came forward and escorted Josette nee Josef to the back of the Throne Room.

      "Wait here. You will be called." The escort left and Josef watched the events around him.

      "Bring him in." Richard spoke with a booming voice that seemed to clearly reach every corner of the room.

      The far door opened and Dean Johnson entered bracketed by a half dozen more skimpily dressed women who pushed Josef out of the way as they marched towards the throne.

      From his position beside the entry door Josef could barely see the events unfolding before him. What he did see was the Dean standing before Richard and then two of his escort forced the Dean to his knees and held his head down.

      Sputtering in anger the Dean rose to his feet. "What is the meaning of this? I don't know how you've created this travesty but I demand you stop it immediately. His foot tapped impatiently as he waited.

      "Greetings Dean Johnson."

      "How dare you. I'll have your job for this. You'll never work anywhere. I'll have you arrested for kidnaping. I'll, I ..." Apoplexy warred with stroke for what would be the primary cause of death before he finally began to wind down.

      "Silence." I was a whisper but Josef heard it clearly from his distant vantage point. The Dean seemed to be struggling again and his face seemed to be getting red again, but Josef could hear nothing.

      "Read the charges Inga." Richard turned to the blonde to his right who produced a large scroll with handles on each end and tied with a golden tassel. Untying it she scanned it briefly and then began to read.

      "Raymond Jehosephat Johnson. You stand accused of crimes against our Lord and Master. These crimes include failure to offer tenure, failure to appoint to desirable committees, failure to support his research grants, and most heinous of all, failure to attend to the words of our Lord and Master."

      "How dare you. You and your bitches can go to hell for all I care and I intent to see you get there." He turned to walk away.

      "Stop." Again that whisper somehow audible to Josef despite the distance. The Dean stopped. He was rigid and unmoving. Josef wondered if he was even breathing.

      "Rather than repent you insult me and mine. We shall see who is a bitch. From this moment on every work or act that intentionally injures another shall bring you closer to the bitch to which you allude. Take heed and learn from the lesson of your friend Josef Rimsky." A spotlight came from somewhere and highlighted Josef and he glanced around disconcertedly. Suddenly he lifted off the floor and floated rapidly forward, stopping several feet from Dean Johnson but about the same distance from the throne.

      "Do you take me for a total fool. This pathetic bimbo is not my friend Josef Rimsky." The Dean's sneer lasted several seconds before he grabbed at his crotch and then quickly reached inside his pants ignoring the stares of those about him. The sneer turned to shock and then dismay as he hand withdrew and his shoulders and head slumped dejectedly. Slowly he crumpled to the floor and began to silently sob.
"And you Josef Rimsky. Speak your mind."

      "Richard? Please explain. What's happening here? I now realize it is much more than some simple trickery."

      "Very well. For the sake of our past friendship I will explain. I have given you the type of body you have always lusted after. Outside of my presence you act to others as you appear, a witless, libidinous young woman. Only when you are alone are you capable of acting as you were, an intelligent, supposedly open minded, academician.
"What do you want of me?" Josef was distracted as Dean Johnson muttered something and pointed ears with white curly fur suddenly appeared. Fighting a strong urge to comfort Dean Johnson who shuddered and then returned to his quiet sobbing, Josef realized he had to seize this opportunity to find out how to regain control of his life.

      "For you to recognize me and my discovery for what it is, brilliance beyond anything to have yet occurred in this sorry old world."

      "I do. It is." The words stumbled off his lips in his hurry. "I apologize. I was blinded by habit and convention. Please forgive me, I beseech you."

      "No my friend." Richard laughed. "Your words are laudable but they are driven by desperation, not belief." Josef sagged.

      "But fear not, there is a way. You have my manuscript. You have but to read and understand. It is your key to the universe and beyond."

      Dean Johnson lunged toward the throne only to be stopped after less than two steps by Richard's acolytes. He seemed to writhe and transform before them. His clothes faded away and close cropped white fur grew over portions of his body while other portions continued to grow until it was a curly white mat of hair. Arms and legs blurred as paws formed, his body hunched over and shrank, and finally a muzzle and tail appeared.

      "Tsk, tsk. Naughty naughty. That kind of thinking and behavior will be the end of you." A pink collar and leash formed as well as large pink bows on the Dean's carefully trimmed tail and head. "I suggest you stop soon as you are running out of things other than your mind to transform. Richard turned from the quivering, whining mass of furry white creature back to Josef as a yellow stain began to spread from beneath its hindquarters.

      "To show my mercy Josef I shall grant it the boon of human voice, but only when the two of you are alone. At other times, like you, this creature shall act as it appears, a large white pure bred poodle bitch."

      Josef started to speak but Richard raised his hand and the words caught before they could leave his mouth.

      "Take her. Teach her. Like you her salvation comes from the true recognition of my greatness." Richard yawned.

      "Enough. Leave me now, I tire of your banality." A slight gesture and both disappeared.

      Josef found himself in a woman's apartment. Looking out the window he realized that it was his apartment, but redecorated to suit the tastes of a very feminine personality. Behind him there was a low growl. Turning he saw the white poodle sitting by the couch. The tail wagged tentatively.

      "Great. Now what do I do?" Josef dropped disconsolate onto the couch tossing the manuscript to the floor at his feet and closing his eyes to block out the room about him.

      "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm reading this damn manuscript." Josef opened his eyes to see the dog flipping through the pages of the manuscript.

 
Part Four: Researching the Whichness of What

 
      “Turn faster. This part's drivel." The be-ribboned poodle growled in frustration as it sat on it's haunches beside Josette on the living room rug staring over her shoulder at the manuscript that was supposed to solve all their problems.

      "I don't think we can afford to skip anything. This thing's so convoluted it would make a con artist dizzy." Josette brushed an errant strand of hair from her face and tried to get more comfortable on the floor of her apartment. "And please stop breathing on me. You have doggy breathe."

      "Now how could that be? Maybe it's because I seem to have a tail and a strong urge to chew on a bone?"

      "Talking about bones, are you hungry?" Josette got up. The dog pranced along with her as she walked over to the refrigerator to check out dinner options.

      "Woof. Who are you, old Mother Hubbard?"

      "I was a single male bachelor who ate out a lot, and watch the sarcasm, it's getting a little thick." She glared down at the poodle, hands on her hips for a few moments before snorting in anger and grabbing a telephone directory off a nearby counter.

      "What are you going to do, call for a delivery?"

      "I was thinking pizza, how about you?" Pages flipped.

      "Do they have female delivery people?"

      "Not usually...oh. Good point." The page flipping stopped for a moment as she thought furiously. "I guess I can have him leave it by the door and slide the money out to him."

      "That sounds reasonable." I wonder if dogs eat pizza? If we do, I'd like a small sausage and meatball." Sitting back he started scratching at the back of his neck.

      "Ahh. He's one I've used before." Noticing the scratching she continued, "Hey. Do I need to get you flea powder?"

      The dog shuddered. "Spare me. I'm just scratching an itch."

      "That's what I'm worrying about." But she laughed and started dialing. Her long nails tapped on the counter top as she waited for an answer.

      "Hel...loo." Her voice suddenly changed to a sexy, breathless whisper. (Oh no. It's a guy. I'm in trouble.)

      "Woof?" (What's wrong? Why did your voice change?) "Grrr, woof." (Why can't I speak?)

      "I'd like your cutest delivery boy to bring me two small pizzas, one just cheese and the other with sausage and meatballs. The address? Two eighty four Lincoln Park Drive, Northwest, Apartment 2C sweetie. Half an hour? Oooh, sounds dreamy. Remember, your cutest delivery boy. Bye bye." She hung up the telephone and put her hands to her mouth in fear."

      "Oh my god. It's not going to work. Even by telephone I couldn't help myself. I wanted to jump through the phone and start rubbing up against him." Tears were flowing freely. "What are we going to do?"

      "Damned it I know. All I could do was growl and bark. It was humiliating."

      "I know. I know. So what are we going to do? After what just happened I can't call them back and cancel, I might make a date with the guy on the other end of the phone."

      "So what happens when you hear the man's voice as he tells you who he is or how much you owe?" Josette collapsed onto the couch with a groan and the poodle jumped onto it next to her and sat staring at her.

      "I know. You can do it. I'll hide in the bedroom so I can't hear him and when he comes you can shove an envelope with instructions and the money under the door with your nose."

      "Master, is all well?" Colleen looked worriedly up at Richard while he rubbed his eyes. He also seemed a bit pale.

      "Yes, yes, of course. Are our next supplicants ready?"

      "Yes Master."

      "Well Colleen, tell us about our next contestants."

      "Certainly Master. Our next contestants are the people who run Clarke University. They make the rules. They hire and fire. They make the final decisions regarding important matters like which food service to contract and which grants to provide with matching funds. Let's have a big hand for our next contestants, come on down President Schrader and Vice President Quayle."

      A group of bikini clad babes began escorting the two men to the throne. About half way there Richard's impatience got the best of him and the entire group lifted off the floor and floated rapidly forward to settle just before him.

      "Bow before our Lord and Master." Their guards forced them to their knees.

      "What's the ..." Richard gestured and their protests stopped mid word.

      "You are here because you desire my intervention in your petty moral concerns. Speak or leave." The two men glanced uncertainly at each other and then President Schrader spoke.

      "We've discussed your amazing discovery with the Board and we are here to present you with a small token of the honor and respect it is clear that you have been undeservedly kept from all these years." He tapped Quayle who looked stared blankly back at him for a second.

      "Oh." He quickly reached inside his suit coat and started to pull something out. His escort instantly attacked and threw him to the floor. A blue velvet covered case fell to the floor only to be instantly covered by two more women. Schrader watched in shock before tentatively explaining. "I believe Dr. Quayle was about to hand me that case. Inside is the medallion of honor presented to those few who make it to professor emeritus. It was the Board's instruction and my proud duty to present that medallion and the accompanying appointment to the position of professor emeritus to you for your contribution the advancement of knowledge." He cleared his throat. Meanwhile the women of their escort had returned to their guard positions and Quayle slowly began to stand up and brush himself off.

      "With your elevation to this esteemed position we would expect you to concentrate on the development of further research into this amazing phenomenon." His gesture encompassed the entire room and he took a deep breath preparatory to continuing. Richard yawned and gestured himself.

      "While your obeisance is fitting and pleasing your ulterior motives are transparent. The Professorship is accepted. The research is concluded. You may study my words as prepared in that self same manuscript you returned to me unopened just two weeks ago." Richard cocked his head as if listening.

      "Let's eliminate the excruciating pain of your prolonged attempts to force me to reconsider. I'll make it easy and we can jump directly to that point where you finally realize the futility of your pleas." He closed his eyes and put his head back as he wearily spoke.
"How dare I. You'll fire me. I'll never work in academia again. You'll have me arrested for misappropriation of college funds and equipment. Yadda yadda yadda. Have I missed anything? No? Good. Now let's get on with this." Richard peered briefly at the two men.

      "President Schrader. You've impressed me. I thought you to be a man in command. Someone who knew what he wanted and how to get it. Someone I was ready to offer the world, but as I examine you I find, not a man of power and command, but a sniveling weakling, afraid of people and a puppet of the Board. You're not fit to be a man. You're not even fit to be human." Richard actually sounded disappointed as he spoke.

      "And you Vice President Quayle. You present yourself as a caring, compassionate, educated man, but you're nothing but a sycophant, a sniveling, power groupie who's done little more than fawn over President Schrader and cover for his ineptitude. I wonder if you even have the wit to spell a simple word larger than four or five letters...like the word 'potato.'"

      "Be what you are." Richard once more closed his eyes and slumped back into the throne. Colleen worriedly reached out to brush a loose strand of hair from his forehead. Inga too had been worshipfully watching him and almost imagined she saw the start of a tear. Uncomfortable with the thought that her Lord and Master might be unhappy she averted her eyes instead watching the two men being judged. The taller of the two, President Schrader, lofted into the air and his clothes disappeared. Next the hair on his pasty white chest fell off, each hair disappearing before it touched the floor. His bloated belly began shrinking and his skin became smooth, so smooth that Inga could no longer see any pours. In fact, the floating body didn't seem to have a navel either. Confused Inga's brow furrowed as she carefully scrutinized the floating body trying to understand the wisdom of her Lord.

      More changes continued. The body took on a more rigid, posed stance as it clearly became female. The hair on Schrader's head changed from grey white to surprisingly coarse looking ash blonde and grew rapidly to shoulder length, but no hair was forming at the crotch. In fact, no genitals at all were evident.

      The changes seemed to be slowing down as lines formed at the wrists, ankles, shoulders, neck, waist, and crotch. Inga wondered if this would be the start of new clothes, jewelry, or maybe some type of bondage device, but the lines only expanded longitudinally until each made a complete circle around a portion of the torso and stopped. The face though, that was the final answer. It became briefly less distinct and then reformed with perfectly painted makeup, but even the mouth and eyes were painted on.

      President Schrader had become the puppet he had been ... sort of. To be more accurate he had become a mannequin, and a female one at that. His transformation had fascinated Inga so much she had failed to attend to Vice President Quayle. He too had been changing. His head, arms and legs were gone and he was the most unusual color, chartreuse with blotches of orange and brown. A bright yellow blotch had formed about where the blue velvet medallion case had been. As she watched he lost still more of his body mass, becoming almost two dimensional. In a final blur he reformed into a tropical looking floral print minidress with spaghetti straps and floated on to the mannequin. The medallion case was now a bright yellow scarf that positioned itself jauntily about the mannequin's neck.

      "President Schrader, I know you're still aware inside that plaster and paint veneer. You can hear me too Mr. Quayle. Puppet and protector, mannequin and minidress, you shall stand immobile and mute before all who enter my offices. There was a small popping sound and then they were gone instantly reappearing beside the great oak and glass desk in the front lobby artfully posed to point reverently at the sign above it.

      The bedroom was just as she'd imagined it would be, ruffled canopy bed, cluttered makeup table, closets full of clothes. Josette had already played with the radio until she found her usual classic rock station. There was no television and although she had stretched out on the bed, she wasn't sleepy. The manuscript was still on the floor in the living room and the only reading materials were some glamour magazines. Bored, Josette began to skim through one thinking maybe there would be some jokes or maybe an article spouting the psycho babble usually passed off as advice in glitzy magazines like this one at which she could laugh.
The first article was about twelve ways to make your man happy in bed, a guaranteed laugh riot. Within seconds she was engrossed and oblivious to everything else.

      Twenty minutes later she had read the entire magazine, tried several of the makeup hints, and flawlessly redone her tear stained makeup. Her miniskirt and halter top had been replaced with a low cut, lacy, black, crotchless teddy, garter belt, sheer silk stockings labeled "dark taupe," and four inch black pumps. After a minute or two of posing playfully for the full length mirror on the back of the bedroom door the need to have someone else admire her grew unbearably strong. With a shrug she opened the bedroom door and entered the living room to pose for Dean as she'd decided to call the poodle.

      Dean turned at the sound of the door opening. "What the hell are you ..." The words trailed off and his jaw dropped as she stepped into sight. "M...Ma...My god do you know what you look like? You're beautiful, absolutely stunning." Her tongue was hanging out, and not just because she was a dog.

      Suddenly her tongue snapped back into her mouth and she swallowed hard. "Get back into the bedroom. That pizza guy will be here any minute, or are you planning to proposition your first man?"

      Josette hesitated. Somehow the idea of sex with a man didn't seem so bad. In fact, as she stood there it began to feel more and more desirable. Desire became need and need became craving.

      Dean watched the emotions dance across Josette's face with increasing worry. She started to growl and snarl. "You want to don't you. You want to seduce that pizza boy when he gets here. Well there's no way. I'm not spending even one more minute than I have to in this accursed canine body. Now get back in that room now!" She continued snarling as she advanced on Josette forcing her back. "Oh damn. I can smell the garlic. He'll be here any second." She lunged at Josette and Josette fell back into the bedroom fearful for her life. She kicked the door, slamming it shut in Dean's face.

      "Now stay there." She growled through the door. "I'll call you when you can come out." One last growl and then Josette could hear the padding of feet as she paced back to the living room and the front door.

      Frustrated and needy but afraid to leave the room Josette gazed out the window at the busy street below. Glancing up at the moon the fear became even more pronounced. The moon, the face in the full moon, it was Richard's face.

 
Chapter Five: Hell's A Popping

 
      "With no reports of volcanic activity, nuclear explosions, or unusually heavy meteor activity astronomers are completely baffled by the apparently miraculous transformation of the landscape of the moon. The huge landmarks that compose the features of what mankind has for aeons called 'the man in the moon' have somehow changed. Where the old landscape could be said to vaguely resemble a human face the new landscape appears to be an almost photographic quality representation of the face of a human male. Huge crowds have been quietly gathering in almost every city, town, and village to stare at the changes.

      In related news today Presidential Press Secretary Bloomberg adamantly insists there is no secret government military base on the moon, that said nonexistent base does not have any nuclear materials, and that the nonexistent base's nonexistent nuclear stockpile did not detonate, however cleanup operations are underway. Also, in related news, Pope John John II has asked the College of Cardinals to investigate the moon's change to determine if it meets criteria for a miracle.

      From Iraq in the Middle East, Sadam Hussein has denounced the change as an American trick claiming it is intended to undermine Moslem society by sowing the seeds of western culture. Finally, on the lighter side, Jack Seaman, Managing Editor of the Guinness Book of Records, has offered a prize of $100,000 to the person who's face most closely resembles the new lunar face with the one stipulation that plastic surgery is not acceptable.

      "Please turn that garbage off and get back here. I need help turning the pages." No response.

      "Josef. Turn off the television now!" Dean looked up from the manuscript in annoyance to see the very female appearing Josef staring raptly at the television where a clearly male reporter was describing events in London. She was still wearing the black Teddy and one hand was playing with an erect nipple through the thin fabric while the other hand had found the slit in the matching crotchless panty and was moving back and forth frantically. With a heart wrenching sigh the poodle got up and padded over to the television where he used his paw to turn it off. Instantly the movement of the hands began to slow. A couple of seconds later Josef's eyes blinked and the hands stopped moving.

      "Did I doze off?"

      "No. You were back in bimbo mode from watching the newsmen on the television."

      "Why do I feel funny?" Josef looked down to see where her hands were and jerked them behind her back. "Was I doing what I think I was doing?"

      "If you mean masturbating, yes." Dean said sourly while Josef blushed crimson. "Now how about some page turning?"

      "Sure." Josef moved quickly to skim the page before turning. "What did I miss?"

      "Not much, we've made it to the teenage years." Dean yawned. "No seriously, he's been prattling on about his hypothesis but still hasn't begun to talk methodology, and I must admit I've read better prose on the ingredient list of a tube of toothpaste."

      "Maybe we better skip ahead after all."

      "You've got the hands." Dean snorted. "I'm the one that wanted to do that from the beginning." Dean snapped his muzzle closed and looked hard at Josef. "What made you change your mind?"

      Josef blushed brightly again.

      "What shall we do now My Lord?" Colleen was gently massaging Richard's neck and shoulders as he sat in his desk chair staring out the huge window onto the lake, light by the light of the full moon and Richard's face. Inga was gently rubbing his feet.

      "It's time to relax." He stretched. "What would you two like to do?" Inga looked up at him with a sultry smile and began rubbing higher up his leg. Colleen's hands moved so that she could hug him from the back and then she began unbuttoning his shirt.

      "Well, that's always fun. Shall we move to the bed or do one of you have a better idea?"

      Inga delicately placed her finger in her mouth and sucked it. "We could do it in the lake Master." Suddenly the three of them were standing naked but for their shoes on a sandy beach at the edge of the lake. Inga clasped her hands in front of her and jumped up and down in glee. Then she kicked off her heels and ran the last few feet to the water and charged in about three steps before turning and back running out.

      "Oooh. That's cold. Would our Lord and Master consider warming it up a bit?" She danced from foot to foot while Colleen giggled.

      "We could do that, but I've got a better idea." Richard laughed. Richard stared at Inga and she found herself falling, limbs askew, onto her buttocks. Colleen's giggles became guffaws until she too found herself sprawled on the sand. They sat there unable to rise staring questioningly up at Richard.

      "Look to yourselves." He intoned with a smile.

      The skin on their legs had turned bluish green and shiny. Rainbow colors scampered over them even in the dim glow of Richard's moon. Colleen glanced over to see the same thing happening to Inga who stared uncomprehendingly back. Their attentions snapped back to their lower torsos as they found their legs moving gently together first at the knees and then at the ankles. Only the feet remained separated. The feet and toes began to elongate and thin. The separation between the legs disappeared as it slowly fused from the crotch down.

      "Oooh Master, you're making us into mermaids." They cooed in unison. Colleen wiggled her flippers and posed, hair flowing around her breasts as Inga tentatively touched her new tail.

      "There are tiny scales."

      "Now try the water temperature."

      "Yes Master." They scooted to the edge of the lake and in. In seconds they were fifty feet out, giggling and laughing as they playfully chased and ducked each other.

      "Come on in Master, the water's wonderful."

      "Hello. Police? My name is Dolores Schrader and I'd like to report a missing person." The short slightly chunky woman paced back and forth in her kitchen nervously tugging at the telephone cord.

      "His name? Eric Schrader. He's President of Clarke College."

      "How long? He was due back home at 5:15 tonight. He called from the office at 4:15 tonight saying he had one on campus stop and that he would then be coming straight home."

      "What do you mean you can't process my report? He's never been late in twenty nine years of marriage. Now he's at least five hours late."

      "He walks from the college. He can't be caught up in traffic."

      "If he was admitted to a hospital it would be at the college. They know him and would have called me."

      "His secretary confirmed that he left on time."

      "If he were going to have an affair why would he first tell me he was coming home?"

      "I know people are out staring at the changes in the moon, but he could have done that here at home."

      "Rioting? I haven't heard about any rioting." She reached to the portable television on the counter nearby and turned it on but left the sound off. The very first channel had pictures of rioting."

      "Oh, my god." The telephone fell from her hand a she slumped to a chair.

      "Let's review. What do we know so far?"

      "More than we ever wanted to know about Richard's childhood." Josef slumped back onto the couch and rubbed her tired eyes.

      "Be serious. We've learned that Richard believes that there is no such thing as reality, that what we perceive as reality is nothing more than a shared delusion." Josef watched the immaculately trimmed french poodle lecturing him and burst into giggles.

      "Grrr. Now what's wrong?"

      "I...I'm sorry." The giggles were slowly brought under control although they weren't completely gone if the smile was any indication. "I couldn't help myself. You've got to realize that being lectured by a big white poodle with pink ribbons is at least a little bit funny." Dean just stared back.

      "Or maybe not...I apologize if I've insulted you. Please continue.

      "Harumph. Where was I. Oh, yes, 'shared delusion.' He further postulates that it is the body of these shared delusions that creates the world we know." Dean's eyes unfocused for a moment. "If that's true, disagreements regarding what is true or real are merely the result of inconsistencies in the shared delusion. A classic example of this could be the psychiatric condition called 'folie a deux.'"

      "You mean communicated insanity where if one of two people living together for long time is insane the other will tend to develop similar characteristics and seem insane also?"

      "Yes, exactly." Josef barely stifled a giggle as she watched the dog's head bobbing up and down in agreement.

      "Now what's wrong?" Josef swallowed hard before responding.

      "I don't know. I can't seem to stop giggling. I wonder if it's one of the side effects of Richard's curse?"

      "Could be. All the more reason to hurry, isn't it." Josef gulped and nodded. She tucked her legs under her and attempted with moderate success to be serious and attentive.

      "Anyway, bizarre as it seems, there could be some merit to this. The real trick seems to be to impact on the 'fictons.'"

      "Huh?"

      "Fictons are what Richard calls the basic building blocks of reality, like atoms are supposed to be the basic building blocks of matter. To continue the analogy, where the application of energy is what changes atomic matter, the application of thought, most specifically belief, is what changes fictons."

      "You mean something is because I believe it is?" Josef excitedly closed her eyes and clapped her hands. "I'm a man. I'm a man. I'm a man."

      "Are you done?"

      "Sure, now that I'm back to ... I'm not back to normal am I?" Dean shook his head.

      "Why not? What did I do wrong?" Josef pouted.

      "Maybe you should let me finish. As I said, the primary factor is belief. You need to be able to completely believe without doubt and without reference to anything of reality."

      "So what references can you use?"

      "You look so pretty when you crinkle your nose." Dean laughed.

      "Doggy mirth is not a pretty thing." Josef tried to look stern and angry but her laughter spoiled the effect.

      "That's O.K. There's a dearth of mirth on the earth."

      "I'll bet you can't say that three times fast without drooling, doggy breath." It took a while for the laughter to trail off.

      "I think we're getting slap happy. That was not an exchange worth laughing at."

      "I'm forced to agree with you, Josef. To continue then, reference is the next issue. Richard seems to believe that the only stable immutable reference can be yourself."

      "You mean I have to be an egomaniac?"

      "Basically, yes, but more so. An egomaniac feels he is the center of the universe. You must feel that you are the universe."

      "Fine. What else?" Josef yawned.

      "Only one more thing, belief. You must be able to extend your belief into the world around you." Josef didn't bother to prompt the poodle. Instead she waited patiently for Dean to continue.

      "Much like the kind of salesman Dale Carnegie proposes in 'How to Win Friends and Influence People,' you must convince the world that you are right."

      "How do I do that?"

      "That's where this manuscript gets really esoteric. I'm still not sure, but it seems that it is a matter of 'force of will,' whatever that means." Josef scratched her head and thought a moment.

      "So, if I understand correctly, I have to be able to do three things: I have to believe something is true, I have to believe that I am the only real thing that exists, and I have to somehow proselytize so that everything else believes me." Dean sat back on his haunches and licked his chops.

      "That seems to be it. Only one more problem, the obvious and unfortunate implication of being the only real thing in the universe is that you can't change yourself."

 
End -- Part 2 of 4

      "Good morning, Master." Colleen was lying in the huge heart-shaped bed next to Richard, gently massaging him awake while Inga stood beside the bed holding a tray with steaming coffee and pastries. Richard stretched and glanced toward the window wall to see sunlight streaming in. Ignoring his servants for a moment, he watched the dust motes lazily dance in the beams of light. Satisfied that there was still randomness to their movements, he sat up. Colleen immediately propped several pillows behind him and Inga gracefully slid onto the bed beside him. Colleen returned to her gentle rubbing while Inga carefully fed the Lord and Master of Creation, Richard Boatman, God.

      "Concentrate, damn it. I don't want to spend the rest of my life as a dog." It had been a late night and an early morning. They had been attempting to replicate Richard's findings for more than four hours now.

      "I am. I am. It just isn't working." Jose groaned and rubbed his aching head. "I just can't seem to do anything. Can we take a break?"

      "No. We need to do this and do it now. We have no idea how long Richard is going to leave us alone."

      "Alright." Jose sighed. "But we've got to try something different."

      "Any ideas?"

      "Just one. Let's try hypnosis."

      "Fine. Sit back on the couch and I'll hypnotize you. Then, we'll try again." Josef started to get comfortable.

      "Wait a minute here." She sat bolt upright. "Why aren't I hypnotizing you?"

      "Do you have any idea how to hypnotize a dog?"

      "No. I guess not." Hesitantly Jose continued. "Oh alright, I guess we should do this." She sat back and got comfortable. In the meantime Dean was quietly growling in frustration as he struggled to wrap a watch chain around one paw.

      "Could you help me here." He finally gave up in frustration. Jose went to her desk and brought back some transparent tape. Dan jumped onto the coffee table and sat up while Jose knelt beside the frustrated dog and taped the watch to his paw before getting comfortable again.

      "Thank you." Dean raised his paw and started the dangling watch swaying from side to side. "I want you to look at the watch. Watch the watch. See it swaying back and forth, back and forth..." The dog continued speaking in a soft, soothing, relaxing voice for several minutes as she watched Josef's eyes slowly droop and eventually close.

      "Now, Josef. Open your eyes." Josef's eyes opened.

      "Very good. You can hear only me. Nod if you understand me, Josef." Josef nodded. Dean sat panting quietly on the coffee table as he thought for several minutes.

      "Josef listen very carefully. First, no matter how I appear you will always recognize me. No matter how I sound, you will always recognize me. No matter how I communicate with you, you will always understand me. Do you understand?" A nod.

      "In a few moments I'll say the phrase 'Heinlein's Hinny' and you'll wake up. If I communicate that phrase to you in any way at any time in the future you'll immediately fall asleep again. Do you understand?" Another nod.

      "When I wake you up you are going to believe several things with absolute confidence. You will believe these things with every fiber of your being. Is that understood?" Another nod.

      "First, you will believe that there is no such thing as reality. What you have always thought was reality is just a shared delusion. Do you understand?" Josef nodded again.

      "Second, you will believe that what is perceived as reality is really a continuously changing collection of fictons, basic building blocks of everything around you, that are modified by your thoughts. Do you understand?" Yet another nod.

      "Thirdly, you will believe that you are the universe. Everything that was, is, or will be is due to your will. Do you understand?" Josef nodded.

      "Finally, because you are the universe and you are able to shape and form it as you wish. Your thoughts are like law. They must happen and all that surrounds you, that is you, recognizes and accepts your wishes. Your wishes are those of all around you. Do you understand?" A nod.

      Oh yes, one last thing. You will always allow me to exist and retain my memories of who and what I am, and you will remember me as a human being again rather than as a dog. Heinlein's Hinny!"

      The throne room was full again. Scantily clad, beautiful women with long spears lined the way from the massive doors to the throne. A large group was being escorted forward, nine men and four women. Unlike all the people before them, this group immediately knelt and bowed before Richard.

      "Welcome. You may speak." A distinguished, silver haired man looked up without rising.

      "Greetings. My name..."

      "You are George Kingman Smith, Chairman of the Board of Directors of Clarke University, and these," he gestured to the others, "are the rest of the Board."

      "Why, yes." Only the slight widening of his eyes revealed the surprise he felt. "We are here..."

      "You are here to honor me for my unique and brilliant research."

      "Right again." This time even the eyes gave back nothing. "We..."

      "Also want me to continue my research here at Clarke University with full funding." This time George said nothing, waiting.

      "And you want the results of my research for yourselves." The eyes glanced downward for but an instant before once again coolly staring back at Richard.

      "And of course, you want all this for the betterment of mankind." Richard sneered and clapped his hands once. Instantly the guards surrounded the group, spears shining in the light as they pointed at the hearts of the Board members from just inches away.

      "So transparent." He tsked. "Not one of you cares about helping the great unwashed masses. Each of you has dreams of avarice and control." He pointed to one.

      "You, Dr. Bischoff, you would rid the world of disease. How noble. Isn't it a shame you plan to offer it only to those rich enough to afford the exorbitant prices you plan to charge."

      "You, Mrs. Wellman." He pointed to a thin, immaculately coiffured woman of about fifty. Yours is a much more humanitarian goal. You wish to use the power I've discovered to become young again." He smiled briefly, a cold, distant smile. "But you to have no interest in sharing with others. You expect to live forever un-aging and amassing a fortune beyond that imagined by even the greediest of fools."

      "Ah, here we are." He pointed to a tall, muscular, balding man with bronze skin. "You are the most humanitarian of the lot. You wish to use my power to make your son President of the United States." The smile was back. "You will then control him to make your company the biggest, most powerful in the world."

      "All but two of you are money grubbers, Whores of Babylon. Only you two." He pointed to a man and a woman standing at the back of the group. "Only the two of you have no ambitions. You." He jabbed a finger at the man, short, with a widow's peak of white hair. I've never met someone so enamored by the bureaucratic process. Your only ambition is to complete paperwork correctly. The phrase 'stuffed shirt' was made for one such as you. You have no conscience. You would as soon condemn someone to death as give them the moon so long as the paperwork is correct, but woe unto the person who does it wrong. It amazes me that any human being can be so inflexible."

      "And you." He pointed to a woman of about forty who would have been considered beautiful were she not surrounded by a bevy of perfect specimens of femininity. "You have thoughts only for your appearance. You are a stupid jackass with no opinions but those given you by others. You are only here because the others came and you were afraid to object. You are only on the Board because your family is so wealthy."

      Richard looked to the crowd. "It's time women. Shall we?" The crowd roared and Richard turned back to the Board members.

      "You have been judged, so be it." Richard waved his hands dismissively and sat back in the throne while everyone waited expectantly.

      "It is more fun when it happens slowly so it can be savored." Inga and Colleen enthusiastically agreed with his aside.

      On the floor below the Board members cautiously milled about watching each other. "Hey, where's his jacket?"

      "Hey, She's got hair on her hands."

      "What's happening to my ears?"

      For all but two the changes were the same. Hair grew, even where there had been none before. Nails grew and turned bright red. Lips became plumper and also bright red. Clothes flowed and molded themselves to new body forms. When it was over there were ten more women, all in varying forms of undress more than dress and all looking for the proverbial street lamp to stand under. Only the spear points prevented the new women from physically attacking the only man left in the room, but even the spears did not prevent their catcalls, taunts, and propositions.

      For the other two it was different. The woman Richard had called dumb stared at her fingernails as they slowly grew until the fingers were gone and only hooves were left. Coarse hair grew everywhere as the ears elongated. Teeth flattened and grew while the nose and mouth began to elongate also. Falling to all fours, clothing ripped as her torso began to grow and a tail formed. Soon there was a full sized mule standing amongst the milling ladies of the evening.

      For the last of the group the changes were even more peculiar. First his suit coat and pants disappeared followed immediately by his underpants. Blushing he quickly crouched and covered his genitals with his hands failing to notice that he was shrinking closer to the floor as his legs shortened. Suddenly things became two dimensional as the remainder of his body melted and flowed to form around his white shirt. Eyes, nose, ears, and mouth became buttons and flesh tones faded to white. When it was done a neatly pressed white shirt stood upright, as if on an invisible body form, until the mule accidentally kicked it over.

      As the transformations ended, Richard laughed maniacally and the crowd again roared its approval.

      "Have you done it yet? Have you hypnotized me?" Josef blinked and rubbed her eyes.

      "Yes Josef. Shall we test out your new powers? I'd like to be human again." Dean's tail wagged furiously as he jumped from the coffee table to the couch by Josef and raised his paw for Josef to remove the taped on watch. Josef reached for it but stopped short just before touching it.

      "Let's start small." She put her hand back in her lap and stared fiercely at the watch.

      "Nothing seems to be happening." Dean jiggled it.

      "Let me try again." This time Josef closed her eyes. With a furrowed brow and pursed lips she concentrated again. Dean jiggled it again impatiently and it fell off. Dean's mouth fell open as he watched it fall to the couch cushion. The chain wriggled like a snake and was sucked into the watch, which stretched and bulged a bit at each end. The silver metal lost its sheen and roughened, becoming a dull tan. The words "Doggy Treats" formed and a dog biscuit lay on the couch where the pocket watch had been.

      "Ahhh, you can open your eyes now." Dean gulped and stared at Josef with a fearful look in his eyes as he slowly lowered his paw. Josef opened her eyes and looked first at Dean inquiringly. Then, as her eyes slid down to the cushion and the biscuit on it, the expression change to shock, fear, and then triumph.

      "I did it. I did it." She clapped her hands and bounced up and down in her joy.

      "So it would seem, and while I appreciate the gift, I'd really prefer to be human again." Dean waited expectantly.

      "Would you like to eat first?" Josef giggled.

      "Thank you, no."

      "Oh, very well." Josef shrugged her shoulders and braced herself before closing her eyes and concentrating. After several minutes she slumped back onto the soft cushions and took in several ragged breaths. She spoke without daring to open her eyes.

      "Did it work?" Silence. The silence continued for several seconds while an exhausted Josef continued to breath hard. Just as she was about to open her eyes to see for herself a soft mellifluous voice spoke out.

      "Sort of."

      Tentatively Josef opened one eye and then both popped wide open. Sitting before her was an outrageously beautiful woman. A woman dressed exactly like she was and looking exactly like her sat where Dean had been.

 
Chapter Seven: Unveilings

 
      I'm bored."

      "What may we do to please you Lord?" Richard was standing by the picture window of his office staring petulantly at the panorama before him while Colleen gently kneaded his neck and shoulders.

      "I haven't decided. No. I have decided." He smiled beatifically. "It's time for the people of the world to bow before me and show their respect."

      "How shall we allow them to display their veneration, Master?"

      "I shall go out among them so that they may prostrate themselves before me."

      "May we permit the media to record your beneficence for posterity?"

      "Sure."

      Colleen ran back to the desk to arrange news coverage.

      "How will you present yourself to the masses, Master?"

      "An excellent question. We need to do something of biblical proportions, something that will impress, that will allow my flock memories worthy of a god, that will permit them a mythology with which to revere me." Inga looked on adoringly while Colleen finished on the telephone and returned.

      "I know." They were outside by the lake again.

      "What is your desire, Master?"

      "Stand apart and watch each other." They quickly moved about ten feet apart and watched each other, wondering what would happen.

      There was tingling from the waist down. Their bikini bottoms disappeared and the skin on their legs began to turn brown. A coarse coating of hair formed. They glanced quizzically at Richard but their eyes quickly returned to each other when the tingling restarted and increased to an uncomfortable tickle. Inga reached back to scratch at the itch behind her and found a lump growing out of her buttocks. Looking back at Colleen she saw what must have been a similar brown lump forming just above her buttocks. The lump elongated and became a tail. Then the tail began stretching backward and small lumps formed underneath. Quickly expanding, another set of brown hair covered legs formed. Once the hind legs touched the ground the entire lower portions of their bodies began to swell and grow. When the tingling finally stopped they were each about a foot and a half taller and from the lower waist down were equines. Richard had even thoughtfully shoed their hooves.

      "Take a few moments to acclimate to your new bodies and we'll be off.

      "Why am I a clone of you?" Dean, now Deanna, was outraged. "You were supposed to make me like I was, a man."

      Josef blinked and rubbed his eyes trying to relieve the dull headache that had just appeared.

      "I said what happened? I was supposed to become a man again."

      "I, uh...I...don't know." Josef stopped rubbing. "But I need something for this headache." He got up and headed for the bathroom off the bedroom and the medicine cabinet therein.

      "Stop." Not quite to the bedroom door Josef turned.

      "What's the matter?"

      "Josef, you are a Godling." Josef looked blankly at Dean. "Make the damn headache disappear." She waited, arms crossed and frowning. Josef nodded and closed her eyes so she could concentrate better. A few seconds later she opened her eyes, smiled and returned to the couch.

      "Headache gone?" Josef nodded.

      "Good. Then how about turning me back into myself? I don't feel comfortable like this."

      "I...can't." Josef was trembling.

      "Stop trembling." Dean's hand went out to Josef's and gently held it. "Why can't you?"

      "Because...I'm afraid." Tears were dripping down Josef's face. "If I turn you back into a man I'm going to turn into a bimbo again."

      "It's all right. Try. I promise I'll make you turn me back into a woman if necessary. Remember, I can always hypnotize you again if need be. Now please give it a try." Dean pleaded, a tear welling up in his eye. "I'm not used to being a woman."

      Josef looked deeply into Richard's eyes before permitting his answer to grudgingly seep out. "I guess." A deep sigh and then Josef closed his eyes frowning, head down, shoulders stooped dejectedly. He began concentrating.

      President Arnold was presiding over the second joint meeting of the National Security Council and the National Science Council. The first time was when the United States was considering the possibility of dropping atomic weapons on Japan.

      "I'd like an explanation and a course of action gentleman, and I'd like one now." President Arnold was not happy.

      "We know that something has happened to dramatically change the surface of the moon. We know that it resembles the face of a white Caucasian male." Professor Sidney Shankar, Nobel Laureate in Physics, hesitantly raised his hand. His parents had wanted him to have an anglicized name but still wanted to honor the memory of their maternal grandfather, thus Siddartha had become Sidney Arthur.

      "We've contacted the various observatories and there was no indication of unusual astronomical activity of any type. Similarly, there is no evidence of a sudden commencement of volcanic activity. There is no known scientific explanation for what has happened."

      "Thank you, Professor. I suppose ruling out options is better than nothing, but I had hope for more."

      He slumped back in his seat, taking a moment to scratch the ears of his ever-present Wire Hair Terrier, Frisky, before continuing. "Does anyone have anything positive to offer?"

      C. Konrad Erlich, National Security Advisor, spoke up. "Expanding upon Dr. Shankar's comments, Sir," He wiped his brow and nervously straightened out his tie as he spoke. "That rules out both natural causes and the possibility that this was the action of a foreign power, earthly or otherwise. Using Occam's Razor we might want to consider the Vatican's position. The only thing that seems to be left is a supernatural cause."

      "What is the Vatican's position?"

      "Our sources say that the College of Cardinals will recommend to the Pope that this be considered a miracle."

      "Is that what our position should be?"

      "Sir," Paula Roberson, Chief of Staff spoke up, "Ah think it would be a good idea to be sure that any position taken be reassurin'. Afta the latest round of natural disasters and the Canadian grain embargo we cain't afford to do anythin' that would upset people. You'all are too close to re election."

      "Are you saying we can't afford a miracle?"

      "Ah'm afraid so, Sir. Theah's already been riotin'. Confirmin' that somethin's happenin' that's beyond ouah control could risk even moah civil unrest."

      "Great." The President sighed. "Gentlemen, thank you for your input. I guess I need some time to make a decision."

      "Oh Eric, thank god you're all right. I was so worried. There was rioting. I called the police." The words rushed out between sobs as Dolores Schrader ran to her husband, hugging him and crying in her joy.

      "It's all right my dear. It's all right. I'm fine. I was just delayed and couldn't get to a telephone. I'm sorry I worried you. Please calm down." Eric cooed as he held her and stroked her hair lovingly. The sobbing had almost disappeared. Eric gently held her face with both hands, looking up into her eyes. "Please stop. I'll get that cellular phone you've been begging me to get. Then this will never happen again."

      She nodded.

      "Thank you, my dear." Eric lovingly patted Dolores on the fanny. "Please let me get out of these work clothes and get me a martini dear. Once I change I'll be happy to fill you in on the day's happenings." Reluctantly, Dolores released her husband and allowed him to slip off to the bedroom to change. Moving to the bar she poured two martinis from the pitcher she had been drinking from for the past two hours.

      In the bedroom, after a quick face and hand washing, Eric walked over to the dresser for a change of clothing. Eric's gaze was momentarily diverted to the framed photograph of the two of them from their wedding. Memories of that wonderful day, both of them in white, a church full of friends, and that glorious evening in San Francisco flitted across Eric's mind. "I'll have to do something special to atone for what I must have just put her through."

      A change of clothing in hand, Eric turned to the full-length mirror. Quickly stripping off her red bikini Eric replaced it with a more relaxing, blue and white polka dot one. She checked her makeup, fluffed her hair and changed heels to match the new attire and returned to Dolores to elaborate on her day. A much more interesting day then it would have been if she had still been a garbage man like she'd started off the day.

      "Oh, forget it. We'll do this the easy way. Heinlein's Hinny." The damn fool was too scared to return Dean's manhood and Dean was tired of trying to persuade Josef with rationality. No matter how hard he concentrated he didn't really believe it and so it couldn't become reality.

      "Thank god for the careful planning that resulted in my including this post hypnotic suggestion. Now, how do I word this? I've got to make sure he wants to do it or even the hypnotic state won't be enough." Dean stood up to pace while he thought unconsciously straightening his hem and checking his makeup with a glance in the mirror.

      "A reason. I need a reason to give Josef so he'll want to do it and it's got to be a good reason, after all she's right. If I'm male she's going to fawn all over me and make it even easier for me to control her. She'll be the god, but I'll have the power. I know." The pacing stopped. "I'll make her love me. She'll want to please me without concern for her own needs. Yes! I like it!"

      Walking back to the couch, heels clicking on the polished wood floor, Dean carefully smoothed the back of her miniskirt as she sat facing Josef. "Josef, open your eyes and look at me."

      Josef's eyes opened.

      "Listen carefully Josef. You love me. You are madly in love with me. You would do anything to please me, anything at all. Do you understand me Josef?" Josef nodded.

      "Speak to me Josef. Do you understand me?"

      "Yes, Dean. I love you with all of my heart. I would do anything to make you happy."

      "Good. Tell me how much you love me, Josef. Would you do anything I ask of you?"

      "Yes, Dean. Anything."

      "Would you do something that might hurt you for me?"

      "Yes, Dean. I would gladly do anything for you."

      "Would you put my needs ahead of yours?"

      "Yes, Dean. Your needs come first."

      "Good. Now I need you to understand that I am very unhappy. I don't like this body. I want to be happy with my body. You want me to be happy with my body, don't you?"

      "Yes, Dean, I want you to be happy with your body."

      "I want my old life back Josef. I want to be who I was Josef. Make me who I was Josef. Make me a man again. Do you understand?"

      "Yes Josef."

      "Good. Do it now Josef." Dean waited while Josef concentrated. Her brow furrowed and her clenched hands trembled with the effort but nothing happened.

      "Oh, forget it Josef, enough." Dean hit her thigh with her hand in her anger. "It's not working. I'll bet you can't do it while you're hypnotized. After all, you can't be a megalomaniac and still be subservient to my will, can you?" Dean brushed an errant strand of hair from her face and continued.

      "Josef, I'm going to wake you in a moment. When I do you will be madly in love with me. You will want to do anything you can to make me happy. Do you understand?"

      "Yes, Dean."

      "Good. 'Heinlein's Hinny.'" Josef blinked.

      "Did I doze off?"

      "You must have been daydreaming." Dean gently took Josef's hand in hers and Josef glowed with the pleasure of Dean's attention. "We need to talk."

      "Certainly, Dean?"

      "I want you to make me a man again." Josef's glow slowly faded into a frown as Dean spoke. "I'm not happy being a woman. You want me to be happy don't you?"

      "With all my heart, Dean. I love you. I'd do anything for you." Tears flowed freely on both their faces.

      "Good, then please make me happy. Please change me. I want to be a man again." He waited. Josef closed his eyes and furrowed his brow thinking furiously for several long seconds while Dean waited impatiently. Finally Josef's eyes opened and he smiled. "How do you feel now?"

      Dean thought for a moment and smiled too hugging Josef. "Oh thank you, Josie. Thank you so much. Those silly ideas are gone. I'm so happy. I love being me again. I love being a woman." Deanna stretched luxuriously and went back to hugging her dearest friend and twin sister, Josette.

 
Chapter Eight: Out on the Town

 
      "Let's party." Deanna jumped up from the couch and turned on the radio. Returning to the couch she grabbed Josef's hands and tried to drag her up off the couch to dance.

      "We've got to find Richard." Josef refused to get up. "He's the cause of all this. We need to either convince him to change things back to normal or find some way to stop him before he totally destroys the world."

      "Then, let's eat." Deanna dropped Josef's hands and continued dancing on her own. "I'm starved and you don’t want to take on Richard with an empty stomach, do you?"

      "If I feed you will you let me think?"

      "No," Deanna giggled, "But I won't keep trying to make you dance."

      "Alright already." Josef sighed. "What do you want to eat?"

      "What have we got?"

      "Nothing but this dog biscuit. You should know that. You've been through the refrigerator and the cupboards."

      Deanna thought a moment and then responded with a bright smile. "Shall we eat out or have someone deliver?"

      "Deanna, you know I can't be around men without trying to bed them." Josef was shocked. "Remember what happened the last time we had food delivered."

      "Yup. I had to growl at you and lock you in our bedroom."

      "Wait a minute. You remember being a Poodle?"

      "Sure."

      "Do you also remember being Dean of the School of Arts and Sciences?"

      "Sure. Why shouldn't I?" Josef ignored the question.

      "And you know that you're my twin now?"

      "Of course silly." Deanna giggled. "Why are you asking these silly questions and when are we going to eat?"

      "One last question. Do you remember wanting to be a man?"

      "Sure."

      "You do? And you don't want to be a man now?"

      "Hey, you said just one more question."

      "Please humor me."

      "Oh, okay," Deanna sighed. "It's a darn good thing I think you're special." The smile was back. "It's like the words of the song, 'I enjoy being a girl.'" She pouted briefly. "I also enjoy food. Can we please eat now?"

      Josef didn't answer.

      "Josie?" Still no answer. "Josie, sweetie." Silence. "JOSETTE RIMSKY. CALLING JOSETTE RIMSKY."

      "Huh." Josef blinked. "Oh. Sorry. I guess I wasn't paying attention. I guess Richard's theory really is correct. Anyway, what were you saying?"

      "I said FEED ME, before I get you a strange looking, singing, cannibalistic plant that's as hungry as me." Deanna broke out in giggles again, this time joined by Josef who reached over and hugged her girlfriend.

      "So. What do you want to eat?" Josef reached for the telephone book on the coffee table and began leafing through the restaurant section. "Armenian, Barbecue, Burgers, Cajun, Chinese, English, French, German, Greek, Homestyle, Indian, Italian, Japanese, Pizza, Ribs, Steaks ..." Deanna's hand stopped the further turning of pages.

      "Surprise me."

      "Great. My choice." Josef grumped as she closed the telephone book. "Then the second question is how do we do it without bedding someone?"

      "Oh Josef, you're being silly again."

      "Huh?"

      "You mean 'Duh.' Poof it up. Make it appear. Use your power." Deanna sat back smugly pretending to polish her nails against her blouse.

      "Enough prancing about ladies. It's time to meet our public." The two centauresses quickly trotted back to stand staring raptly down at Richard.

      "Where shall we go master?" They spoke in unison.

      "Well, I considered Washington D.C., but decided against there; it's too provincial. Then I considered the United Nations complex, but that's in New York City and the people there are so blasé they would probably ignore even us." His hand gestured to include the two centauresses and himself.

      “I similarly ruled out Los Angeles as they'd just think it was a movie publicity stunt, Paris where the people would be too busy arguing about what they were seeing to honor us, Berlin where people would deny what they saw, Moscow where people would be too afraid of the KGB or whatever it's now called to admit what they saw, Calcutta where they'd worship the two of you instead of me, and London where they'd never see us in the fog."

      "Yes, Master. Of course."

      "Italy is supposed to be lovely this time of year. If anyone will recognize the miracle we represent it should be the Pope. We're going to visit the Vatican City." The two centauresses squealed in joy.

      The Pope was at his balcony overlooking Vatican Square offering Mass to the crowd of faithful below when the trio appeared at the far end of the Square. It was a tribute to the intensity of the worshipers about them that they were not initially noticed. Inga led the way parting the crowd and tossing flower petals as she paced toward the Pope. Colleen followed with Richard riding on her back and waving regally to the shocked and rapidly parting crowd.

      About a third of the way to the balcony the Pope's litany stopped mid word and the only sound was of breathing and approaching hoof beats echoing against the surrounding walls. Two-thirds of the way to the balcony even the sound of hoof beats disappeared as the centauresses began to climb through the air on a gentle slope. The flower petals continued falling and were soon fluttering down onto the heads of the gawkers below. They stopped; apparently standing on nothing, with Richard head-to-head with the Pope and less than five feet way.

      "Greetings Your Eminence." Several of the Swiss Guard assigned to protect the Vatican and its occupants tried to move between Richard and the Pope without success. It was as if an unseen wall had been placed between them and the Holy See. "How do you like the show?"

      "Quite impressive, my son. Your companions are remarkably lifelike."

      "That's because they're real. Would you like to be one?"

      "Your generous offer is appreciated, my son, however the duties of my position are such that I must decline at this time. Perhaps I can instead impose upon you to assist those more needy than I?"

      "Sure, why not. They always say charity begins at the home dimension. What would you like me to do?"

      "The world is plagued by demons such as famine, pestilence, and poverty. Anything that can be done to lessen that burden of pain would be most charitable."

      "Fine. Consider it done."

      "Excuse me my son?"

      Richard laughed. "I said it's done. I've done as you asked and eliminated hunger and disease. Poverty is a relative concept and I've provided a one shot resolution. At this moment everyone in the world has enough dollars, rupees, yen, or whatever for a standard of living equal to or greater than that of lower middle class in the United States of America. What they do with their money is their problem." They both turned at a tapping noise from within as a Monsignor approached the Pope walking past the Guards without striking the obstacle still preventing the guards from reaching His Eminence. The Monsignor whispered in the Pope's ear briefly before the Pope turned back to Richard.

      "I have just received a report that everyone in the area seems to have received a large sum of..." Before he could finish he was drowned out by a murmur from the crowd that rapidly grew to a roar. People were dancing about pounding each other on the back. A couple of people were waving their crutches over their heads and another group was pushing a now empty wheelchair back and forth amongst them in a bizarre variation on the game of circle toss.

      "You will similarly find that the recent harvest has been so successful that the Food Pantries of the world will soon be filled to overflowing." Richard smiled at the shocked expression on the Monsignor's face. "And yes, I can hear you whisper."

      "This is a truly amazing feat my son. How, may I ask, have you accomplished it?"

      "Certainly, your Eminence. It was a miracle." Richard was disappointed at the lack of surprise on the Pope's face. "When you've confirmed it I'll be back. Prepare to worship me." Richard and the centauresses disappeared in a rather theatric puff of smoke.

      "We've got to get out of here. I'm going stir crazy." Deanna flounced over to the lime green quilted bed and propped herself up by her elbows. She was wearing nothing more than a bra and panties. Clothes were strewn everywhere.

      "We haven't even figured out what to wear. We can't even leave this apartment until we figure out how to go anywhere without becoming sex crazed bimbos." An exasperated Josef, also in only bra and panties, sat backwards with legs akimbo on the chair by the makeup table. Head down resting on her arms, her wavy golden blonde hair hid her face as it cascaded over the back of the chair. Still frustrated, Josef rose flipping her hair back, and began to pace.

      "We need to find a safe way to get to Richard."

      "No, we need to get dressed."

      "Damn it we need to get to Richard!"

      "No, Josette Rimsky. We need to get dressed. If we don't get dressed we'll be raped by the first man we see whether we want to be raped or not." Deanna smiled knowingly and Josef growled and blinked.

      "Fine. We're dressed. Now can we move on to the problem of reaching Richard?" Josef's pacing found her back by the makeup chair.

      "No."

      "What?" Deanna sighed and dropped down onto the chair again. "Now what?"

      "Ignoring the fact that we need to accessorize, we can't go anywhere without makeup." Deanna stood and walked over to the makeup table. "Oh, and some matching white pumps would go well with the dress. She swirled the lacy white outer material and silken under fabric of the dress' not quite knee length skirt as she examined it. Stepping carefully to avoid scattered articles of clothing Deanna moved back to the full-length mirror by the closet and carefully adjusted the high back collar and plunge neckline. Suddenly she was three and a half inches taller as the requested heels appeared. She quickly reached out to the wall to stabilize herself before falling.

      "And now some makeup. Tasteful please. Just a light touch of blush, mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick." Another self examination. "I think a touch of pale blue eye shadow would complete the makeup nicely."

      "Now can we move on?"

      "A watch, preferably silver ... gold is so splashy, would be nice. And a matching pendant necklace and bracelet." Deanna thought a moment. "You know, a thin ankle bracelet would also be nice."

      Josef blinked. "There. It's done. Now I don't want to hear another word about clothes, makeup, accessories, or anything else. I need your help figuring out how to get to Richard."

      "Okay, but it would be a good idea if you were dressed also." Josef growled and blinked. He was dressed identically to Deanna who immediately began to pout.

      "But we're wearing the identical dress. We can't do that. It's ..." Suddenly no sound was coming from her mouth although her lips continued to move.

      "There will be NO...MORE...DISCUSSION...OF...CLOTHES." Josef spoke through clenched teeth as she stood and walked over to Deanna. Taking her hand Josef led the now compliant Deanna to the living room couch.

      "Sit."

      Deanna sat.

      "Think."

      Deanna thought.

      "How do we safely get to Richard?" In the silence Josef began pacing again. After several moments, Deanna tapped on the coffee table to get Josef's attention and when he turned pointed pleadingly at her mouth.

      "Oh, of course. Do you have any ideas?"

      Deanna sighed, then, with a thankful glance at Josef, she tentatively touched her mouth. "I can speak again. Oh that feels good. Thank you. Thank you."

      "Answer the question," Josef growled, "or you'll have thanked me for nothing." Josef collapsed heavily onto the couch beside Deanna.

      "Yes Josie. Right away." Standing, Deanna attempted to assume the intense domineering stance she had used when lecturing first year students but failed miserably as evidenced by Josef's barely stifled giggle. With an annoyed look she continued.

      "To state the assumptions, we have agreed that we must get to Richard, but that we must do so without being in proximity of any men or you, and possibly we, will be side tracked by an overriding desire for sexual gratification." Josef nodded tiredly.

      "The answer is obvious. First, you must use your abilities to determine where Richard is. Assuming Richard will not come to us we will have to go to Richard. Before going to him however you must determine if there are any other males around. Then you must remove all the men from Richard's presence. You can make them anything but men, I'd prefer no Poodles if I have any say in this, or you can transport them to some other place, I hear the Virgin Islands are especially nice this time of year." Deanna bowed her head as if accepting the accolades of a nonexistent crowd and sauntered back over to the couch and sat, back straight, legs crossed, appearing as dignified as she could. Thunder-struck Josef sat, mouth open, gaping at Deanna, who merely smiled. Finally moving, Josef slapped his head in disgust.

      "I must be an idiot."

      "No." Deanna's hand reached out to comfort her twin. "No. Not an idiot, merely too close to the problem. It's hard to think when you're quaking in fear of seeing a man and having conjugal relations with him."

      "Enough waiting, let's get Richard." Josef sprang to his feet only to be pulled back to the couch by Deanna who had not released her hand.

      "Before we go, may I suggest, considering what we'll do when we reach Richard?"

      "Good point." Josef dejectedly slumped back on the couch, head back, eyes closed.

      "Thank you, and may I also suggest a silver chain link formal purse with shoulder strap." Josef's head shot back up in surprise as Deanna giggled.

 
      "The first part of the plan is working. I can tell at all times exactly where he is and I can tell if he has any males around him."

      "That's nice. Stop squirming." Deanna was polishing Josef's not quite one-inch long nails bright red to match the polish she'd finished putting on her own.

      "I haven't tried to approach him because he's been with large crowds and I would much prefer to speak to him alone."

      "You know, some earrings to match the pendants would look fabulous."

      "Whatever. Here. Do whatever you want." Josef reached his free hand out to touch Deanna's forehead. Deanna jerked back from the mild shock.

      "Hey. Warn a gal." Deanna pouted. "You almost make me mess up that nail." Josef ignored the comment, instead concentrating on keeping track of Richard, and shortly Deanna went back to work on Josef's last nail with the satisfied expression of a craftsman at work.

      After finishing the last nail Deanna glanced at Josef and then at the mirror. Matching earrings of silver with azure blue stones appeared on both their ears. Deanna gently felt the posts clamped behind her own ears and was impressed that it was so easy to have pierced ears.

      Next Deanna thought about their clothes and how they really shouldn't be identical even if Josie and her were. As she thought the upper portion of her own dress separated from the skirt and changed into a blue tube top while the lower portion shrunk to half again as long and became more form fitting. At the same time, Josie's dress changed so that the silken under fabric separated to leave the midriff covered only by the sheer lacy outer fabric. The skirt also changed into a wrap around with an angled hem, just above the knee on the left and bare inches below the crotch where it crossed over on the right. Finally, wide pale blue stripes, on an angle matching the hem appeared on the lacy portion of the entire dress.

      Deanna critically examined her efforts and silently pronounced them "Bitchin'." Crossing her legs and lounging back on the couch, she sighed to herself. "All dressed up and no where to show it off. Boy I wish Josie weren't such a prude and that some handsome hunks would come by right now to wine us, dine us, and make up feel ‘reeeeeally gooood.’"

      Josef continued to concentrate, unaware of the changes taking place in both of their attire. She was equally unaware of the sounds coming from the hallway beyond the apartment door, the joyous sounds of a pair of guys returning from a win on the fields of valor, or at least a scratch game of basketball at the college gym.

      Deanna smiled as strode, as silently as she could in her heels, to the front door. Josef's concentration was broken as she found herself licking her lips and gently stroking her nipples. Glancing about she saw Deanna at the open door with two guys in sweat stained shorts and tee shirts. In a panic she sucked in air to scream "NO!" but what came out was "Oh, Deanna. Who are your friends."

      Richard and the centauresses disappeared in a puff of smoke before the Pope and several thousand astounded onlookers, but instead of reappearing back at the office as Inga and Colleen expected they were in the acre square center plaza of the college.

      "What are we doing here Master?"

      "George Bernard Shaw once said, 'There is only one religion, though there are a hundred versions of it.' We are merely permitting our followers to gaze upon us in adoration and recognize that we are that one true version." With that he dismounted and strode towards a group of about twenty students lounging about the fountain and statue that graced the center of the plaza. Inga and Colleen glanced worriedly at each other and quickly trotted after him.

      "Greetings, my worshipers." Richard stood before the scattered groupings of students, hands on hips, chest puffed out, and legs spread apart; presenting for all intents and purposes a vision of a so so superman. Unsurprisingly, except for one or two indifferent glances, he was ignored.

      "I said 'GREETINGS, MY WORSHIPERS.'"

      Several more groups interrupted their conversations to look up questioningly. From off to one side someone asked loudly, "Who's the polyester pecan?" There was nervous laughter from a scattering of others.

      "POLYESTER PECAN?" Richard's voice was loud enough to reverberate off the surrounding buildings shattering several windows. "You mean psychiatric patient in a suit? Me? I think not." He was greeted by several more nervous titters, a "Get lost!" and an attempt by one couple to walk off. Inga and Colleen uncomfortably switched from hoof to hoof making loud clacking noises as their shoed feet tapped the marble pavement.

      "YOU MAY NOW WORSHIP ME AS YOUR GOD." Two more couples tried to walk off only to stop when they bumped into an invisible wall. Some of the next round of comments were markedly less polite. Those who had made comments suddenly began floating up into the air about three feet, limbs flailing as automatic responses to the fear of falling kicked in.

      "NOW, NOW, CHILDREN. PLAY NICE. NO CURSING." Richard chided which only served to double the vulgarities from the crowd. Additional bodies floated upward with each insult. Richard's face began to flush with anger, the blush growing to mottled purple as the insolence continued.

      "SO, YOU WOULD MOCK YOUR LORD AND MASTER WITH CHILDISH TAUNTS. SO BE IT. EACH ACT OF CONTEMPT SHALL BRING YOU CLOSER TO YOUR CHILD LIKE NATURE LOSE A YEAR FOR EACH TAUNT THAT LEAVES YOUR LIPS. EARN A YEAR FOR EACH ACT OF CONTRITION." With that Richard and the two centauresses disappeared. The floating students dropped to the ground crying and running to their Mommies and baby sitters. One lay crying in the swaddling that had been his clothes until a young woman went over and picked him up to cuddle and coo at him.

      "Ummm."

      "Waa?"

      "Ummm." Josef stretched languorously. One hand moved to shield her eyes from the sun's cheerful morning glow as her hand brushed across the covers of the bed it felt a lump. Suddenly her eyes snapped open as she rapidly sucked in a breath ready to scream. She poked the lump, this time harder.

      "Waa?" The voice trailed off into a mumble as it continued. "Lemme sleep. Five more minutes, Mommy." Josef slowly let the air out in a slow sigh as she heard the familiar female voice, then she remembered the preceding night. Sitting up she grabbed the covers and yanked them off the bed.

      "Deanna? How could you?"

      "How could I what?" Deanna rolled onto her back and rubbed her eyes.

      "How could you let those...those guys in?"

      "What's the problem? They were cute, they were available, they were clean, and they were verrry verrry good." Deanna purred contentedly as she finished rubbing her eyes and smoothed her shorty nightgown before sitting up, sliding her feet to the floor, and padding off to the bathroom while Josef watched her, mouth agape. The nightgown was so short it kept bouncing up to show her pantiless crotch.

      "No panties? That means..." The thought died stillborn as she reached down and felt a sticky dampness.

      Wiping toothpaste from her mouth with the back of her hand Deanna came running back into the bedroom when Josef screamed. Rushing to her sobbing friend, Deanna held her and hugged her and comforted her, eventually even crying with her as they shared the pain. Much later, still holding each other and still blubbering, Josef calmed enough to speak.

      "I...you...those men...we had."

      "Yes, Josie. I understand. It's okay."

      "No! No, it's not okay." Josef pulled away from Deanna and gasped out the words between sobs. "I had sex...as a girl...but I'm not a girl...I'm a guy...a guy."

      "Yes, I do understand. I was a guy too." Deanna gently pulled Josef back into her embrace. "You had sex. It was with a guy. It felt good and you can't bear to admit it." Josef tentatively nodded.
 
      "So what's wrong? You're still human, not a dog like I was for a while. You participated in a normal, natural, and very enjoyable activity. You aren't pregnant, you may not be able to change your own shape but you control everything around you including the presence or absence of 'little Willie's wigglers.'" Josef pulled back just enough to look Deanna in the eye as a smile slowly crept back onto Josef's face. Then she hugged Deanna hard enough to draw a surprised "oof" from her.

      "You're right, I may be female, but I can't be raped, I can’t get an STD, and I can't get pregnant–unless I want it. I may be female, but I have the same sexual benefits as a male–more if you consider the freedom from STDs.” She held Deanna away from her beaming before jumping up from the bed.

      "Race you to the shower." She giggled and ran to the bathroom leaving a bemused Deanna staring after her.

      Ablutions completed, Deanna and Josef were dressed and discussing the fine points of clothes and make up. "You know, I wish I could do this stuff myself. Don't take this wrong, I love having you around, but I really prefer being able to be independent in anything I do."

      "It's okay, Josie. I understand." Deanna smiled. "Why don't you try doing your makeup yourself?"

      "O.K." Josie plodded down at the makeup table. Unerringly she began applying blush, eye shadow, and mascara while Deanna silently watched in growing amazement.

      "Hey, you've been holding out on me. You knew this stuff all along, didn't you?"

      "What do you mean?" Josef looked back over her shoulder and then back at the mirror Deanna was pointing towards. The face in the mirror was beautifully made up. "But I don't..." Josef looked back into the reflection. "No, I guess I do know how to do this. I wonder how I could have learned. I didn't know how a few minutes ago." Turning back to Deanna with a confused look Josef continued.

      "That must be it. I can change the way I think." Jumping up she hugged Deanna before dancing her around the room. "I can change the way I think. I can change the way I think." She stopped dancing for a moment, but still held Deanna. "I need a guy."

      "You little slut," Deanna laughed. "After last night you want more already?"

      "No. I need to confirm that I no longer need to be a 'little slut' around a guy." Suddenly the two guys from last night were standing in the room by the bed. Laughing, Josef sashayed over and rubbed and hugged first one, then the other. Then, without a word, turned back to Deanna and began dancing again. When Josef had completed spinning Deanna enough that she could see the bed area again they guys were gone.

      "I'm not a slut any more."

      "Congratulations, Josie. Now what?" Deanna asked as they continued to spin, but she raised her hand to stop Josef before she could answer. "I know. You're going to Disney World?"

      "No silly,” Josef giggled, "I'm going to try to change my body." Deanna stood back to watch but nothing happened.

      "What's wrong? Won't it work?"

      "No." Josef sighed. "I guess I still stuck as a girl."
"Is that so bad? I like having a twin." Deanna hesitantly reached up to touch Josef, but stopped and returned her hand to her lap, satisfying herself with a sigh of her own as she watched her twin’s face contort in concentration. She quietly waited the long seconds for Josef's response.

      "No." Josef seemed almost surprised. "No. It's not bad." She continued as her words bubbled out in a rush. "It's not bad being a girl. It's not bad being a twin. It's actually pretty good. In fact, I think I like it. No. I know I like it. I actually LIKE being a girl."

      Once again they hugged, crying in their joy. Josef pulled away just enough to see Deanna's face and worriedly bit her lip. "Deanna, I need to ask you a favor. Would...would you call me Josie from now on?" Tears still streaming down her cheeks she warily waited for the response.

      "Josie, Josie, Josie. Of course I'll call you Josie. Josie, my dear, Josie." They hugged again.

      Fifteen minutes later it was finally time to face the rest of the world again. "We better fix our makeup again Josie." Josie smiled and it was instantly redone. Plopping back onto the bed and placing her hand behind her head to prop it up a bit more that what even the doubled up pillow provided, Deanna continued. "So what's next? Now do we go to Disney World?" Josie pulled Deanna gently to her feet, a determined look on her face. "No. Now we deal with Richard."

 
Chapter Ten: Crime and Punishment

 
      "I guess it's time." Regretfully Josie pulled away from Deanna who was still trying to hug her. "He's in his ‘office’ so we'll have relative privacy."

      "Are you sure I can't go with you?"

      "Deanna I love you too much to let you be put in the line of fire, especially when absolutely anything could happen. I couldn't live if anything happened to you and I couldn't feel free to do whatever I had to if I thought you might be at risk." Deanna's chin quivered, but she fought back the tears.

      "There's no other way?"

      "No." Jose sighed resignedly. "It's got to be face-to-face and every minute I wait just adds to the human carnage left in his wake." Josie stood up and smoothed out her flowing white gown, specially selected for her by Deanna to allow her to present a regal and pure demeanor for the meeting.

      "Wait!" Deanna jumped up, hand stretched out to stop Josie.

      "Please, Deanna. I’m nervous enough. If I delay I might not go." Josie's hand went up to wave Deanna back.

      "Heinlein's Hinny!" Josie's gesture stopped in mid wave. Deanna continued speaking to the now immobile Josie.

      "I love you too much to force you to take me, but I will not let you go without doing everything I can to help." Deanna paced around Josie as she thought furiously.

      "Josie Rimsky you have amazing strength of will. Anything you believe must be. It is not possible for anyone to overcome your will even though they may try." Josie returned to her original position.

      "Heinlein's Hinny." Josie finished her gesture and a grieving Deanna whispered, "Goodbye, my love. I'll wait for you forever, if need be."

      Josef, also known as Josie, also known as Josette, Rimsky disappeared and Deanna gratefully released the flood of pent up tears.

      "What is your will, my Lord?" Colleen and Inga were back in human form again. All three were unclothed and lazing about in the hot tub.

      "I think we've given the Pope enough time to proclaim my godhood. I guess it's time to force the issue."

      "How shall this be done, Master?" Richard jerked his leg backward before he could answer Colleen and glared at Inga who had been tickling the bottom of his foot.

      "My apologies, Lord. I meant but to serve you by rubbing your toes." Inga was chagrined.

      "Never mind," he gestured dismissively at Inga and turned to Colleen. "Back to your question." Colleen beamed with pride at Richard's attention taking only a moment to turn to Inga and stick out her tongue before returning her full attention to Richard.

      "Well I suppose he's just trying to be foxy and hedge his bets and he could be very useful so I don't really want to destroy him. I was thinking that he just needed a present and perpetual reminder."

      "Yes, Lord?"

      "I was thinking of giving His Eminence the gift of Ermine, then he could be ‘His Erminence.’" This was greeted by giggled from the two women.

      "Shall we?" They nodded.

      "Wait." Josie was standing at the foot of the tub. Inga and Colleen instinctively covered their breasts while Richard continued his languid kicks to keep himself floating.

      "Ah, mon petit, Josette…or would you still prefer Josef?"

      "Josette is fine, Richard."
 
      "And I see you've become a believer...and you've removed my little piece of conditioning regarding men. How wonderful." Richard clapped his hands and grinned joyfully, startling Inga and Colleen.

      "It's nice to see you, Josette, I've missed our debates." Richard floated himself out of the water. As his feet touched the ground beside Josette, a matching white gown surrounded him.

      "Shall we take a walk in the garden?" Richard gestured toward the office's glass wall and the greenery beyond. Josette nodded and they were by the beach.

      "Very nice, Richard. Isn't this about where the Administration Building used to be?"

      "Why yes, it seemed a much more functional use of the space. Don't you agree?"

      "Well I admit I often wished it had been bulldozed thinking that management of a parking lot might be more within the grasp of the managerial skills of the people working there, but this is an oh so much more beautiful suggestion." Josie beamed.

      "So let me look at you." Josie stepped back and did a brief moue as she pirouetted for Richard.

      "I'm impressed. When I originally transformed you I expected you to learn so you could get you're old body back, but you seem to have grown quite accustomed to your face.” Richard smiled and added a slight sing song to his voice as he spoke the last few words. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “And it’s a quite beautiful face.”

      "I am comfortable with both my inner and outer self,Richard. Can you say the same?"

      "How wonderful." Richard beamed with pleasure. "Than I shall take you as my wife and we shall rule together." He paced back and forth thinking aloud unmindful of the black cloud forming on Josie's face and the tapping of her foot.

      "We should have His Erminence perform the ceremony. Who would you like to have give you away?" He stopped seeing Josie's expression. "What?"

      "I didn't come here to get married."

      "And I didn't ask." Richard returned to his pacing. "Let's see, Tahiti is wonderful this time of year, we can honeymoon there."

      "Richard!"

      "You're interrupting me,” he noted irritably and stopped pacing again.

      "I'm here to stop you, Richard." The words were so spoken calmly and quietly, like one was asking about the weather, that at first they weren't processed. Josie stood, feet spread and arms crossed, as Richard gaped. Finally, he began to chuckle and then laugh. The laugh grew into a roar and he doubled over and collapsed in slow motion to the sandy beach while Josie stood unmoving and frowned.

      "Are you done yet?"

      "A...almost." He had settled down to a sporadic giggling as he rose to his feet. "You want to challenge me to a duel or something?"

      "If necessary."

      "Why?"

      "To stop you from destroying the world."

      "Destroy it? I'm improving it. Haven't I ended hunger, sickness, and indigence?"

      "And how many people's minds, bodies, and lives have you changed without their permission. How many more people will be subjugated because you feel like it."

      "As many as I wish," Richard was getting angry now. "After all, I am a god."

      "A petty one, if at all."

      "Fine. I accept your challenge. Anything goes. Last one standing is the winner."

      "I'm sorry, Richard. I'll miss you." The world blinked for a moment and when it returned to focus she was wearing a bikini and there were these new thoughts trying to settle themselves into her conscious and they were such wonderful, comforting thoughts. "I love Richard. Richard is my Lord and Master. I will do anything for Richard, anything he asks me to do."

      "Hello, Josette. Welcome to our happy family." Inga and Colleen stood by her hugging her with tears of joy in their eyes.

      "I hope you don't mind, but I chose to eschew the usual cartoon pratfalls one would usually expect in such a situation. Richard smiled beneficently down on Josette.

      Josette shook her head to clear the cobwebs that suddenly seemed to be there before smiling brightly at the two women and hugging them back. Turning back to Richard they all prostrated themselves to show their respect. Josette felt joyously happy except she couldn't shake the feeling she was forgetting something. As Richard and the women headed back to the hot tub to relax Josette was trying so hard to remember whatever she had forgotten that she tripped and fell in.

      Sopping wet, Josette cursed, but before one of the others could reach her to make sure she was alright Josette remembered. She remembered Deanna. She remembered all the people who had been injured by Richard's selfish rampage. She remembered the battle. She concentrated. There was a bright flash and she was in another place. Everything was a light grey and glowed dully except Richard and Josette who were still wearing their royal blue bathing suits. As Richard gazed about in confusion, Josette took two quick steps on the spongy grey ground to stand in front of him as he began to concentrate. Sweat began to bead on his forehead from the strain while Josette watched apparently unconcerned. In frustration he grabbed at Josette only to have his hands pass harmlessly through her body.

      "It's over, Richard. Welcome to your new home." Josette shook her head sadly.

      "What the hell are you talking about? Where are we?" Why can't I leave?" Richard raged in his anger.

      "This is your new home. Make of it what you will. And to show that I'm not a heartless bitch as you might think, here is a mirror," a larger than usual, ornately engraved full length mirror appeared beside Josette, "onto the world you've just left. While you'll never be able to return there, this will allow you to see anywhere in that world, to watch it thrive or wither as it will now do on it's own, without either of us helping it along."

      Josette began to fade away. Richard gave a roar of frustrated rage and lunged at her, once again passing through her rapidly dissipating body. When he had rolled over and turned back she was gone.

      At the creak of the chair beside the couch were she was sprawled out crying, Deanna looked up in amazement to see Josette sitting there with a big smile on her face.

      "It's over." Josette's voice sounded ragged.

      Deanna lunged out of the chair to hug Josette and both were surprised when the force of her lunge knocked the chair over backwards, spilling them both to the floor with Josette on the bottom. After catching her breath, Josette began laughing and was soon joined by Deanna.

      "What happened? Tell me. Tell me," Deanna pleaded.

      "Well...I'm not sure your strong enough to handle it," Josette said with a sly smile.

      "Oh, you tease." Deanna playfully slapped Josette on the arm. "Tell me."

      "Oh, alright." Josette's smile was even bigger. "May I get up first?"

      "No way. I'm not letting you move until I hear everything."

      "Even if I need to go to the bathroom?"

      "Even if," Deanna giggled.

      "Actually, it was sort of anticlimactic. I got to Richard's office, it had grown a bit, and after a bit of polite banter her turned me into one of his bimbos."

      "I thought you'd gained a bra size." Deanna gently pinched her breast through the bikini.

      “I'm jealous. How can I be your twin if we're not the same?" Deanna gently brushed at a loose strand of Josette's hair.

      Josette gave Deanna a quick hug before continuing in a more somber tone. "If it weren't for you, Richard would have won."

      "What do you mean?"

      "I mean that the thought of losing you was what helped me fight off Richard's control. Without you, he would have won." Deanna was beatific as she listened to Josette speak.

      "You gave me the will to win. So now Richard is alone in a formless void with only a mirror I gave him to let him look into this world."

      "You mean he might be looking at us right now?" Deanna shuddered.

      "Possibly."

      "But he can never come back?"

      "Nope. If my concentration wavers and he tries to contact someone who really wants to talk to him he might, I repeat might, be able to sneak a little piece of himself like a thought or an image, back to them. But that's about it."

      "And if I don't want to have anything to do with him?" Deanna shuddered again.

      "He might as well be trying to break down a stone wall with a feather." Deanna sighed in relief.

      "How much more can you do if most of your time you're concentrating on keeping Richard bottled up.?"

      "Not much."

      "So what happens now?"

      "Not much. You go back to your job as Dean of the School of Arts and Sciences. I go back to my job as full professor in the Department of Psychology. I hope you don't mind, but I gave myself a small promotion. As for Richard, I guess I'll let him have any like minded people join him after they leave this world so he's not all alone for eternity."

      "And that's it, back to the grind of life as usual?"

      "Pretty much," Josette nodded.

      "No magic?"

      "Not really."

      "Not even a little?" Deanna wheedled.

      "Well, maybe a little, twin," Josette smiled slyly. The smile turned into a laugh as Deanna reached down to adjust her bra as it suddenly felt tight.

      Richard lay on the ground were he had fallen, head turned so that he could watch the touching reunion between Josette and her bitch twin. Growling in disgust he sat up and examined his surroundings.

      "This will never do." He muttered, of necessity to himself. Slowly the ground became solid and jagged rock began to protrude. Off in the distance, mountains formed. There was still no sky, just the formless grey, but a reddish glow came form the molten cores of the newly created mountains and glowing red lava dripped down the mountainsides. Immediately before Richard a huge jagged pit opened up. Without counting Richard knew there were now seven distinct levels to the pit and a wide river of dirty brown water moved sluggishly through most of the pit.

      Richard smiled in satisfaction. "I think I'm ready for business. Even if I can't get back to the Earth at the moment I'm still going to have one hell of a time." The smile grew into a deep, humorless laugh as he patiently waited.

SENIOR AUTHOR’S NOTE: The following narrative is the result of several years of painstaking analysis of documents and witness statements from a variety of sources by a team of researchers. It is believed that this is the most comprehensive and accurate narration of the facts surrounding the discovery and initial dissemination of the pharmaceutical currently called “Q.” Some materials not directly related to this study are included as the team felt the material shed light on the thoughts and intentions of the various protagonists. As with any historical event, there has been some speculation required in order to complete the full story. Although, every effort is made to minimize speculation, this material has been presented in a narrative, or story, format to make it easier to read and appreciate the emotional as well as factual aspects of the events herein.

FROM THE UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPT “THE USE OF GENE SPLICING TO PRODUCE A MEDIUM FOR DNA REALIGNMENT OF DONOR ORGANS FOR TRANSPLANT” BY MAXIMILIAN STERNLICHT, MD, PH.D.

...injection of the modified viral medium with the genetically neutral valent-charged filler strands into the organ results in rapid replacement of the existing genetic material with that of the medium while retaining those portions of the organ’s genetic structure needed to maintain its function. The filler strands suffuse the entire organ; rejecting those components of the existing DNA structure that control rejection in favor of any externally supplied genetic structure. Thus, through genetic manipulation we have created a medium for assuring that any donor organ will be universally accepted.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 9:00 A.M., BIOMEDICAL SCIENCES BUILDING, NEW YORK UNIVERSITY

“Herbert, the research is progressing apace as you are well aware. The funding plan is quite beneficial to the university. All work is being done under the strictest biohazard safety conditions. I’m even employing your wayward daughter. What possible concern might you have?”

Dr. Maximilian Sternlicht, impeccably dressed, each shining black hair standing rigidly in line like a soldier at attention, paced back and forth behind the softly padded arm chair normally used by visitors, eyes deliberately avoiding the pleasantly smiling face of his supervisor, Dr. Herbert Harriman. Dr. Harriman, the Chairman of the University’s Department of Biomedical Research, was gently rocking in a thickly padded, high backed, black leather chair behind his uncluttered desk. Behind him were bookcases, haphazardly filled to overflowing with books, while the required wall of diplomas and awards adorned the opposite wall.

“Now Max, you know my concern. It is the source of your funding, not your skill as a researcher that I question.”

“Come, come Herbert. Are you telling me the University is no longer willing to accept money from the federal government? We both know better.” Dr. Sternlicht stopped pacing long enough to sweep his right hand through his hair. Amazingly, it didn’t cause the slightest bit of disarray to his impeccable grooming. He stopped to glare briefly down at the plump department chairman before resuming his pacing.

“True, the federal government is, of course, a major source of grant money, but I continue to be bemused by the idea of the Department of Defense funding an apparently humanitarian study. Max, I cannot help but contemplate the possibility of ulterior motives and we both know that your research, even more than most, could easily be misused.”

“Herbert, you waste my time, and yours. All you have are vague concerns, the same concerns we have discussed repeatedly in the past. Do you have something more to discuss? No? Then you will excuse me.” With that, Dr. Sternlicht strode haughtily out of the office, closing the door behind himself with a firm, but not hurried, movement. Passing Mrs. MacInerney, the department secretary, he nodded curtly and continued on to his office, ignoring the occasional groups of students milling about the hallways of the Harriman BioSciences Building.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 9:15 A.M., BIOMEDICAL SCIENCES BUILDING, NEW YORK UNIVERSITY

Dr. Sternlicht was comfortably ensconced in the plush leather executive chair of his own, austere looking office, with its neatly filled wall-to-wall bookcases and single framed painting. Leaning back with his eyes closed, telephone to his ear, he spoke with markedly little warmth in his voice.

“The small amount of gratitude I have earned us by employing his giddy, party girl daughter will not blind him much longer. No, neither she nor Abbot will be a problem. She is barely around and I have him so overworked he could not determine what is happening if it were explained to him. They are not at issue.”

“Captain, it is time you met the stipulations of our employment agreement. Herbert is uncomfortably close and continues to probe. If he is not distracted immediately, he will discover our little pretense and then there will be nothing that can be produced but those humanitarian motives he questions.” Dr. Sternlicht listened briefly.

“Stop! Do not bother me with the specifics of your scheming. I have no interest. Succeed! That is all that matters.” Dr. Sternlicht cut off additional discussion as he carefully replaced the phone in its cradle, punched the intercom button and spoke to his secretary.

“Ms. Branca, please have Mr. Abbot come here immediately. Also, please prepare the standard letter of recommendation for these three individuals: George Paulson, Yu Kim Lee and Jackson R. Brown. You may imprint them with my signature stamp but do not give them out until they have submitted my usual ten dollar cash fee.” As he finished speaking Lyle Abbot entered the office and stood uncomfortably facing Dr. Sternlicht, slowly shuffling his weight from one foot to the other. He clicked off before she could pop her gum again or respond with “Kay,” her usual, aberrant bastardization of the English language.

“Good morning Mr. Abbot. Enlighten me regarding your progress with respect to series BC-1109.” Dr. Sternlicht released the intercom control and glared at Lyle.

“G...good morning Dr. Sternlicht. How are you today?” Lyle began to sit down in the single, stiff backed, armless wood chair opposite Dr. Sternlicht’s desk.

“No, don’t bother to sit. I asked you to enlighten me regarding your progress with respect to series BC-1109.”

“Well, I have the data here. It shows no tissue rejection in any of the test cases.”

“Don’t waste my time Mr. Abbot. Are the test tissue grafts maintaining their original genetic structure or not?” Lyle’s shuffling increased in speed.

“W...Well, there doesn’t seem to be a problem with the nucleonic acid, but something does seem to be happening to the rats in the experimental group. They seem to be changing somehow.”

“Specificity, please Mr. Abbot. Changing how? ...And stop shuffling about.”

Lyle grabbed the back of the chair in an effort to remain still. “I’m not sure, sir. They just look different somehow. Several seem to act a bit differently...and number fifteen seems to have changed the coloration pattern on her feet.”

“Mr. Abbot, you know better than to come to me without clear information. Can you explain yourself objectively? No? Then it is obvious that you need to redo the tests on this series.”

“But Dr. Sternlicht, we were supposed to finalize the first three chapters of my dissertation today. I’ve only got two more weeks to submit before I have to wait another semester.”

“Mr. Abbot,” Sternlicht almost glared, “You have done sloppy work or else you would have presented me with clean results. Redo the tests. Now! You know I have no tolerance for such incompetence. I decline to discuss issues of secondary importance until you have properly completed your primary tasks. Now go.”

Lyle left, head hanging. As he closed the door to Dr. Sternlicht’s office, Eunice Branca, Dr. Sternlicht’s secretary, briefly interrupted him. “You didn’t really mess up did you?”

She was looking directly at him. “Ulpp!”

“I’m talking to you. Kay? I said, ‘You didn’t really mess up did you?’”

“N...no. I...I did it right, but there is something wrong with the results.” Lyle mumbled head averted as he scuttled out of the office. “Hey, how did you know about that?” He turned back and, forgetting himself, he looked her in the face before quickly casting his eyes downward again.

Eunice popped her gum, smiled and pointed at the intercom. “It works both ways, and the ‘IN USE’ light on his intercom doesn’t work. I turn it on whenever I think something interesting might be about to happen.”

SATURDAY SEPTEMBER 2, 11:05 P.M., FROM THE DIARY OF LYLE T. ABBOT, 1212 WEST 155TH STREET, APARTMENT 6E, NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

It all started with an “Oops!” Well...actually an “Oops!” and two “Ouches!” But this is clear as mud. Let me start at the beginning of the day.

I woke up late, bleary-eyed, headachy, with a tongue the size of an elephant and feeling at least as heavy. Yes, I was hung over...and it was all the fault of that pathetic excuse for a human being that I lovingly call Dr. Sternlicht. Damn, am I tired of listening to him belittle people–and am I ever tired of his impossible demands. Yesterday was a classic. The first day off from working on his beloved research that I’ve taken in months and what does he do, but drag me back to redo the tests for series BC-1109?

I don’t think one thing went right yesterday. The coffee was burnt. The subway was late–I know what else is new in a city like New York. I didn’t even get the new cultures done. Eunice, his secretary, was running to get something. I don’t even think she knew what Sternlicht had her searching for. Oops, bad grammar. We bumped into each other as I was transferring one of the cultures, number seventeen–not that it matters. Eunice dropped her papers. I dropped the culture, it broke and we both cut ourselves as we rushed to clean up the mess before HE found out about it.

I know it was foolish, especially in this day of HIV and other blood born pathogen horrors, but it was fun, almost like we were boyfriend and girlfriend, when Eunice got that whimsical look in her eyes and rubbed our cuts together like we were taking a blood brother oath. I guess we both just needed to do something stupid to break the tension. I wonder what Sternlicht’s hold on Eunice can be. She’s pretty–maybe even beautiful–with blonde hair, blue eyes, about five foot seven, and VERY well proportioned as they once called it. She’s young, a whole two years younger than me. Oh, god, I dread thinking about what type of bizarre gift I’m going to get from my mother next week for my twenty-third birthday.

But back to Eunice...she’s smart; after all, she’s not a graduate student–read serf with less control of my life than the lab rats on which I experiment–like me. Come to think of it, I sometimes wonder why I don’t have a hunched back and a name like Igor. Unlike me, she doesn’t need someone like Sternlicht to approve a dissertation topic or wrangle a Dissertation Committee to finally get a degree. She’s popular, she’s vivacious and she can talk to people. I often think it’s amazing that she even talks to me, “Mister Average,” with my brown eyes and already receding brown hair. At least I don’t have a pot-belly–yet.

Anyway, trying to redo the cultures made me even later getting home. I finally gave up and called it a night around 8 P.M. Unfortunately, living next to Omega Pi Omicron’s frat house on a Friday evening has a few drawbacks. No lunch, some snack foods from the vending machines for dinner and then I had too many drinks to drown out the sounds of partying next door. At all costs, I must remember to avoid “boilermakers” in the future; the hangover is absolutely horrible.

Let Sternlicht growl. I’m going back to bed and staying there today–if he’ll let me. At least Sunday should be sacrosanct.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 3:00 A.M., FROM THE DIARY OF EUNICE HARRISON, EAST 55TH STREET, APARTMENT 1617, NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

Damn, I love New York City.

Where else could I get paid to meet bright, interesting, fun loving, sexy looking, young men? And Dr. Sternlicht is a pussycat as long as I let him yell once in a while; then I just pout a bit, like I’m going to cry. Of course, it helps that Daddy is Chairman of the Department. I still wonder what Sternlicht thinks he gains over Daddy by hiring me? It’s not like I am the kind of secretary he is used to having.

It was a close thing yesterday. About six, I stopped by the lab to get my black strap-back heels from my locker for the frat party later that evening when I saw the lights were still on in the lab. The party was “outta sight,” but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I was rushing, and Sternlicht’s poor lab assistant and “all-around-slave,” Abbot, was there. When I bumped into him, my purse dropped to the floor and my wallet flopped open to my ID card right in front of him. I did my best to keep his attention on me rather than the ID short of grabbing his head and shoving it into my breasts, which I was NOT going to do. The blood brother thing when we cut our hands trying to clean up whatever he dropped was brilliant, although I’m really going to be upset if I find out I got AIDS or one of those other diseases from something so mundane and not sensual. Anyway, I think it worked.

You should have seen Abbot’s face light up, and it was nice to discover that he actually has a sense of humor. He looks kind of cute when he’s not letting Sternlicht browbeat him and he’s not so shy that he’s mumbling. I almost reconsidered the idea of his head and my breasts.

One of these days, someone’s going to check my ID and I’m going to get caught using Aunt Staci’s last name instead of my own. Branca is rather more plebeian than Harriman, but college boys get so unbearably formal and boring when they think Daddy might wreck their entire future if they get even a little bit fresh. As if, Daddy, that paragon of virtue, would even dream of such a thing.

Can’t forget the party. The frat house was packed and the guys were in togas which certainly helped show off their “bods.” The requirement for no underwear also made things interesting. It was kind of cute to be able to see the reactions from their lower brains so clearly and quickly although I must have gotten some bad clams or something at the party. I’ve been feeling really terrible all day today.

It’s 3 A.M., Sunday morning, and time to get back into bed after a real pig-out snack. Friday evening, before the party, I had already called in sick for Monday, so there’s nothing to do but stretch out and snooze.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 3:15 P.M., FROM THE DIARY OF LYLE T. ABBOT, 1212 WEST 155TH STREET, APARTMENT 6E, NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

I feel even worse today. I must have a fever because I seem to be sweating from every pore of my body. On top of that, I ache all over, except my crotch and chest which are itching unbearably. I seem to wake up only long enough to eat a horse or two, and then it’s back to bed. I’ve eaten most of a week’s worth of groceries in the last two days. Almost sixteen hours of sleep today should have helped, especially after also sleeping most of yesterday. Of course it would have been even more sleep if Sternlicht had not called about 9:30 this morning, polite and cheerful as usual. I crawled out of bed and began searching through the piles of dirty laundry, trying unsuccessfully to find the telephone, just in time to hear him yelling from my answering machine.

“Abbot, you cretinous incompetent! Why are you at home when you know duty requires your presence at the laboratory? You have assignments uncompleted. Get over here and complete your duties before I terminate your assistantship.”

He does have a way with words; notice how they bring cheer into everyone’s life. I hope he wasn’t as harsh with Eunice. On Saturday, she said she was planning to call in Monday after the frat party. I also hope she’s feeling better than me. If I don’t feel any better tomorrow, I guess I should drag myself over to the university’s Student Health Clinic. I look forward to that almost as much as listening to Sternlicht when I finally get back to work.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 9:10 A.M., FROM THE DIARY OF EUNICE HARRISON, EAST 55TH STREET, APARTMENT 1617, NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

Whoa! What a hangover. Never have I had one last three full days before. I hurt in places I didn’t know I had places as the old joke goes–and I can’t stop eating. If this keeps up, I’m going to have to put myself on a permanent diet. Ugh! But the up side is another day without going to work and my secret identity is still safe. When I spoke to Lyle today, it was clear that the only thing he cared about was getting better. I guess Eunice Branca lives to party another day–if she lives that long. This flu is a killer. It’s time to sleep again.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 8:20 P.M., FROM THE DIARY OF LYLE T. ABBOT, 1212 WEST 155TH STREET, APARTMENT 6E, NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

It’s strange. I’m eating like a pig and sleeping most of the day, but I seem to be losing weight. Even my voice sounds different, but my ears don’t feel plugged up or anything. Every part of my body aches and when I’m awake, I keep vacillating between feeling like everything is great and bursting into tears. Until these last few days, I thought I was the proverbial stoic Englishman, assuming Mom’s discussions about our lineage were correct–but, all of a sudden, this afternoon I was crying tears–real tears! And for no reason at all.

This is one strange flu virus.

I’d go to the Clinic, but then I’d have to risk having Sternlicht finding out that I was still alive. Given today’s telephone call–yesterday’s wasn’t enough–I better bring in my obituary to prove I was sick.

Eunice is still sick too. I amazed myself and called her after Sternlicht called me today. He was complaining that we had both deserted him. The interesting thing is that when we compare symptoms, Eunice seems to have the same virus as me, except that she’s gaining weight. And she’s been sick since Sunday like me.

Apparently, Sternlicht has been threatening her too. I wonder if she would ever consider going out on a date with me. Assuming, I could stop mumbling long enough to ask. Better yet, I wonder if I’ll ever have the courage to ask her. I can almost imagine the whole thing: walking together, witty conversation over dinner, dancing with her at some nice nightspot.

Damn! It’s hard to stay awake. I must be spiking a fever. My whole body feels like Jell-O. I guess...

SENIOR AUTHOR’S NOTE: Most of the material from this point on comes from investigator’s debriefings of the individuals involved rather than diaries and other written evidence. Reliance on memories that can shift over time would normally lead to the expectation of an overall reduction in accuracy. In fact, given the high levels of stress still evident in the dispositions of these individuals, it is quite likely that they are NOT revealing the full truth regarding their emotional states. As a result, while maintaining the timelines, most of the remainder of this manuscript will be in third person.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 7:33 A.M., 1212 WEST 155TH STREET, APARTMENT 6E, NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

Lyle awoke and groggily took inventory–and the negatives won. He was weak, but with no pain, no fever, no chills, no nausea, no vomiting, no diarrhea, and no clammy skin. Still trying to clear his throat so his voice would sound normal again, he got up and cautiously shambled around the various magazines, journals and textbooks scattered about the floor. Grabbing a half-read mystery novel off the nightstand, he rubbed his bleary, grain-filled eyes as he moved, more by habit and instinct than through conscious thought, out the door to his bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom he shared with his three roommates.

Lyle sleepily dropped his pajama bottoms, and then tried to open his eyes enough to read the mystery novel he’d begin before his strange illness. The eyes creaked open, but refused to focus. He felt vaguely disoriented and light-headed, which was easily enough explained by his recent illness. As if on autopilot, his left hand slid down between his legs to guide the stream of urine about to be released…

Suddenly an electric current of terror tore through him! His muscles locked, his stupor vanished and, in the blink of an eye, all of his wake-up rituals were utterly forgotten. With exquisite care, he placed the book gently on the floor, face frozen in shock. Then he stood up slowly and looked himself over. Things had changed! The pubic hair was still there, but the penis and testes were gone. His male genitalia were gone, replaced by what appeared to be female genitalia. Grabbing his chest through the pajama tops, he confirmed that he now had breasts too. With great deliberation, he unbuttoned and removed the last of his clothing, his sense of unease and disorientation growing by the second.

He was clearly no longer male. He briefly wondered if he was dreaming, or more likely hallucinating. Could one of his roommates have dropped some bad acid on him or something? Somehow, he was now a she. The scar on his left pinky finger from when he had gotten it caught in the runner of a fold-up metal protective gate at age five was still there; so was the slightly larger pair of scars on the back of his right thigh from when he had been bitten by a dog in tenth grade, but the small birth mark on his chest was gone. Lyle slowly sat down on the toilet and stared at nothing.

There was some knocking at the bathroom door, but then it stopped. Eventually he felt the need to eliminate and did so.

A long time later Lyle blinked, shivered once, and muttered “scientific method,” as if it were the Holy Grail and would solve all his problems. He cleaned up, took a shower, dried off and stood on the scale.

“One hundred and seven pounds...a loss of fifty three pounds,” he muttered as he worked to keep the panic lurking just under the surface of his thoughts from breaking through. Moving back to his bedroom after carefully checking to see that none of his roommates were around to see him in his present state, he continued his self-examination, still unaware he was even vocalizing.

“Light brown hair, over the ears and about an inch up from the shoulder. Color and length seemed about the same as before although the roots seem a bit lighter…”

Then Lyle looked in the mirror, and noticed something that had changed. “My eyes are blue,” he continued muttering worriedly.

“Eyes of blue,” he began singing nervously. Abruptly, he stopped, glancing worriedly about, as if to see if anyone had observed his brief journey into madness. Continuing in a tightly controlled voice, he added, “A change from brown.”

Grabbing a pencil and a note pad, he began scribbling but just as suddenly stopped. Putting the pad on his head, he stood against the wall and marked his height. Moving quickly to his desk, he grabbed up a ruler and measured.

“Five foot eight inches...no change. Look at the body.”

Lyle moved over to the mirror attached to the back of his bedroom door, a leftover from an unknown former occupant, and turned from side to side.

“Well muscled, a little more fat...”

Taking a towel, he wrapped the long edge of it around his chest and marked a measurement. Bringing the towel over to the desk he again picked up the ruler and measure the diameter marked.

“Thirty seven and a half.” Repeating the process for his waist and hips, he jotted down twenty-four and thirty-six.

Lyle stared at the data for several long minutes before sighing in acceptance. As a research assistant, he had long ago learned that data did not lie; just the people who manipulated it. He was going to have to accept the obvious. For the first time he spoke out loud. “Okay, I’m now female, estimated age twenty to twenty-five, blue eyes, light brown hair, five-foot eight-inches and a hundred and seven pounds. I was male, approximately the same age, brown eyes, same hair color, same hair length and same height, but fifty-three pounds heavier.”

It was at this point that Lyle finally noted that his voice had changed too. Somewhat anticlimactically, he sang a scale and decided it was now a rather light and melodious soprano. He added it to the list of changes.

“How?

“No, set that aside for now. The question isn’t how but, what. What to do now?” He grabbed the note pad again and began making a list. Lists were good. They helped Lyle decide what was important and had to be done immediately and what could wait.

“One, get dressed. Two, eat. Three...no, eat first, figure out what to wear, then get dressed.” He stopped short.

“Did I really say that? “ Giggling, he continued, “Then...then I work on ‘What then.’”

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 8:45 A.M., EAST 55TH STREET, APARTMENT 1617, NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

Eunice groaned, stretched and rolled over to turn off the alarm clock on the nightstand beside her. “I thought I had that thing turned off,” she grumbled.

What a shame, it had been such an interesting dream. She had dreamt of being a boy chasing a girl instead of being chased. With a wry grin at the ludicrousness of the idea, Eunice thought, “I’d think I was gay or something if I didn’t know better.”

With a leisurely stretch against the satin sheets, she quickly took stock. No fever, no chills, no pain.

“Well,” she thought, “now that I’m up and I am apparently healthy again, I may as well go to work...or not.”

She stared at the bed covers, where a large stiff object was pushing upward. She reached her hand out over the sheet and gently poked at the strange intruder. It felt very odd when she touched it. She jerked as she realized it was attached.

Throwing off the covers, she jumped out of bed and onto the soft pink plush carpet, yanked off her nightgown and stared at herself in the full-length mirror on back of her bedroom door. Her hands went to her mouth and just barely muffled the scream that came out.

Surprisingly, the shock was short lived. “I’m a man. This doesn’t just happen. I’ve got to be dreaming.” She pinched her arm.

“Ouch! This ain’t no dream. What the hell is going on?” She spun about looking at her new body. “Not bad I guess. Same hair. Same height. A bit on the thin side. I wonder how this could happen.”

Suddenly Eunice stood rigidly still.

“I wonder. Could it? I’ll bet...It’s got to have something to do with the university; maybe that silly accident with Abbot? I’d better find him and fast.”

A quick check in the telephone directory produced a telephone number.

“Ring.”

“Ring.”

“Ring.”

“Ring.”

“Click. As usual, I’m not here now. If you really want me, try the lab; otherwise leave a message at the beep. Click. Click. Beeeep.”

“Abbot, this is Eunice–Eunice Branca from the university. Abbot, something’s happened and I think we need to talk...”

“Hello Eunice. Is that really you? It doesn’t sound like you. Wait a second and I’ll turn off this answering machine.” There was another click on the phone line.

“I understand. Something strange has happened to me. I was wondering if we might talk.”

“You too? You’re right. We do need to talk. Has your...Uh...Has something changed?”

“Yes, but what seems to have happened is kind of impossible.”

“How about if I start, Eunice?” Lyle took a deep breath. “Something absolutely amazing has happened. I think it must have happened to both of us. I also think it must be related in some way to the accident in the lab. This is hard to say. It would probably be easier if we were face to face, but here goes...have you changed sex?”

“Yes. You too?”

“Me too. We better meet somewhere...and soon. Do you want to come to me or should I come to you?”

“This is going to sound silly Lyle, but what are you going to wear?” Eunice continued after a brief silence, “Exactly. I have a much more extensive wardrobe and the credit cards to fill in any gaps. In fact, give me some basic measurements and your skin, hair and eye color, and I’ll bring some clothes for you. I have your address from the phone book and I can be there in about one hour.”

Eunice was right. The selection of clothes was more difficult. She placed them on the bed for better evaluation.

For Lyle she chose a variety of dresses, casual, and intimate items that either stretched, fit various sizes, or provided layering. Looking at the pile, something was missing. She pursed her lips in consideration for a moment, and then added a variety of lipsticks, mascaras, powders, conditioners, assorted jewelry. Even two wigs were added and the whole pile placed into a large suitcase.

For herself, she chose a pair of baggy jeans, a white tee shirt and a flannel shirt, worn unbuttoned since the buttons were on the wrong side.

Underwear bottoms proved to be a problem. In the absence of anything more appropriate, Eunice chose a pair of boxer-style flannel pajama bottoms.

Looking at herself, Eunice then took her shoulder length hair, combed it straight and put it into a loose ponytail at the top of her head. After a moment’s examination, she repositioned it lower on the back of her head.

“Gee, I haven’t been out of the house without makeup since I was eleven,” Eunice giggled; only it came out as a deep, rumbling belly laugh.

Going to her purse, she pulled out all her money and credit cards and stuffed them into her pockets. Then re-opened the suitcase and stuffed a couple purses inside.

“Now, what do I do about the doorman?” Quickly, Eunice moved back to her desk, pulled out a piece of stationary and wrote two notes. The first, to the doorman, said...

Dear Malcolm:

Something important has occurred and I will be away for a while. I don’t know how long yet. I will be having some friends condo-sitting for me, but I’m not sure which ones at the moment. I’ll introduce them to you via letter using this same stationary.

If there are any questions, please leave a message at my work number. They will be able to reach me, although it might take a few days. I look forward to being home again soon.

Sincerely yours,
Eunice

The second letter said …

Dear Malcolm:

This is to introduce you to the couple that will be condo-sitting for me. Please treat them as well as you have always treated me. I’ll be back as soon as possible.

Thanks.

Sincerely yours,
Eunice

Sealing the letters, she placed them in separate envelopes and stuck the second one in the suitcase. Then, she lugged it all to the door and out.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 9:50 A.M., BIOMEDICAL SCIENCES BUILDING, NEW YORK UNIVERSITY

“Mrs. MacInerney. May I please have the addresses and telephone numbers of Ms. Branca and Mr. Abbot?”

Dr. Sternlicht stood rigidly before the secretary’s desk. As usual, he was staring at a spot about two-feet above the woman’s head, unwilling to acknowledge the social convention of eye contact.

“Certainly Dr. Sternlicht,” Mrs. MacInerney began flipping though a card file. “Is there anything wrong?”

“No, of course not. I merely wish to contact them so that I can acquire several documents I need for the paper I am currently preparing. They have each taken various portions of the material I require and, slackers that they are, have failed to arrive at work this morning as required.”
Mrs. MacInerney scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to Dr. Sternlicht. She started to ask if there was anything else that she could do, but Dr. Sternlicht had already turned and exited the office.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 9:57 A.M., UNDERGROUND RESEARCH FACILITY, LOCATION DELETED CONSISTENT WITH PROVISIONS OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY ACT

Captain “Hank” Schultz could already hear a dial tone as he hung up the telephone. Sitting quietly, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling above his desk didn’t help, but looking down at the unadorned dull green walls was no better. With a sigh and an unspoken curse for all the prig scientists in the world, he picked the telephone up again and buzzed his aid. “Jack, I need the Crisis Team in the conference room ASAP.”

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 10:12 A.M., UNDER-GROUND RESEARCH FACILITY, LOCATION DELETED CONSISTENT WITH PROVISIONS OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY ACT

The portable blackboard was clean. There were six men sitting on the folding chairs surrounding the too-small card table in the center of the room. At least the air conditioning was working today. Captain Schultz began.

“Gentlemen, we may have a problem. The project leader has just reported that two of his ancillary staff on Project Janus have failed to report to work as scheduled. They’ve been unavailable for the last three days. Furthermore, the project leader advises me that there was an accident in the lab on their last day of work. At least one vial of an experimental substance has been broken and a biohazard condition may have occurred.

“Our job is to locate and contain these two individuals taking full biohazard precautions. Additionally, this must be handled as a “class one” security issue.

“We’ll start with their last known locations and work from there. This, and all other available information, is in the briefing packets in front of you.”

“Lieutenant Jackson.”

“Yes sir.”

“You will take Group One. Locate and isolate this Lyle Abbot.”

“Lieutenant Roegler.”

“Yes sir.”

“You will take Group Two. Locate and isolate Eunice Harriman.”

“Master Sergeant Challer.”

“Yes sir.”

“You will organize communication. At this time, police and health agencies are NOT to be informed, except to be advised that we are engaged in an operation in their area. They are requested to stand down for now, but we may call upon them for assistance if necessary.”

“Questions?

“No?

"Then let’s go gentlemen. Double time. Please remain here a moment, Dr. Isaacs.” As the others left, Captain Schultz began to pace.

“I’d like a realistic risk assessment. Can this be contained?”

Dr. Isaacs looked up to the ceiling for several seconds while clasping and unclasping his hands.

“After speaking to Dr. Sternlicht and reviewing the specifications I would have to say ‘I don’t know.’ We are in totally new ground here. My guess is that the genetically modified virus will act in a manner similar to the original virus in terms of transfer capability. If that is so, it should require blood to blood contact and that should mean that only the standard blood born pathogen precautions should be required.

“This is also Dr. Sternlicht’s opinion, isn’t it Doctor?”

“Yes sir, it is. The problem is, we cannot assume. We must act as quickly as possible to contain the contagion. Furthermore, we must assume that this is a highly contagious, deadly, air and/or contact born virus and that means that every second these two individuals are loose they could be infecting everyone they meet, possibly hundreds to begin with and maybe eventually millions. The area of contagion could increase exponentially. Under those circumstances we could loose New York City or–again worse case–the entire continent.”

“You know our need for secrecy here. You know the plan.” Captain Schultz turned away again as he continued pacing. “Is there something more we need to do?”

“No. Not as long as our assumptions are correct.”

“Thank you Dr. Isaacs. One last question. It may be classified, but I think I now have a need to know. What does this damn virus do anyway?”

“Well, Captain. It’s not an issue of need to know so much as that I’m not sure yet. As you know, the publicly stated function of the virus is to eliminate the rejection problems inherent with most organ transplants. It does this by eliminating any portions of the genetic code that might individualize it. The virus fills those spaces in the helix initially, but it is unstable and as soon as replacement genetic material can be obtained, the virus absorbs it and begins replicating that new genetic structure in every cell. If the virus works as advertised, it should be possible to infect a target population and then hold them ransom with the threat of spreading a genetically modified disease specific to only that population. The potential for controlled biological warfare is tremendous.”

“And just what will the opportunities for misuse be I wonder?” Captain Schultz shook his head. “That will be all for now. Thank you Dr. Isaacs.”

Jaye Michael

PART ONE: EVOLUTION

Chapter Three: Elusion

A rose is a rose is a rose.
– Gertrude Stein
...unless it’s something else.
– [Editor’s Note]

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 11:50 A.M., EAST 55TH STREET, APARTMENT 1617, NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

The door slammed with a solid clang as Eunice snuck out the back stairway and into the basement garage. She had just dropped the doorman’s letter down the mail shoot.

Eunice got into to his red Mustang convertible and headed out onto the street. The garage doors opened as he moved up the ramp to street level and out before automatically closing behind him. The wind was gusty and the sky was gray and dull, but at least it wasn’t raining. There were several cars with flashing red lights at the entrance to his building and Eunice wondered what was going on, after all, this was considered a “good” neighborhood. Tempted as he was to go back and find out what was going on, it was a one-way street and he would have had to go around the block to come back; besides, he needed to get to Lyle’s place as quickly as possible. With a shrug, he turned away from the commotion and drove off.

Traffic was just beginning to lighten up to the point where one could move a whole block or two between lights. Slowly Eunice wound east one block to the park and then north past the University. As Eunice pulled onto the block where Lyle’s apartment was located, he was surprised to find several cars with flashing lights at the main entrance to that building too; or was it the frat house? Driving past the apartment, Eunice was even more surprised to note that several of the cars were Federal Pool cars.

Having a bad feeling, Eunice drove past rather than stopping. As she stopped at the light at the corner, she was disgusted by the sight of one of the growing horde of street people. This one wore raggedy jeans, a ratty old coat with a fur collar and had her face almost totally covered by a shocking green knit cap. He couldn’t tell her age, but Eunice suspected that the woman had a fairly good body under all those rags. He sighed. It was truly sad what some people made of their lives. The woman was pushing a shopping cart with a suitcase on top of what looked like musty old clothes.

Suddenly, the filthy creature left its cart. Waving frantically, she ran in front of his car. Eunice slammed on the brakes, stopping just short of hitting the woman. She jumped in and yelled in a loud, raspy, fear-filled voice, “Quick! Drive! They’re after us.” and turned back toward the apartment building just past.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get out of my car or I’ll call the cops; they’re just a couple of feet back the way I came. Kay?” Eunice pushed the intruder against the door trying to force her out of his car.

“Will you please wait for me until I can get my suitcase and get back in? We have big problems.” When Eunice nodded, she slowly turned and opened the door.

Eunice immediately pushed the vagabond out of the car and pressed hard on the gas pedal. Half way down the block a look in the rear view mirror made her stop. Whoever it was, she was sitting in the middle of the street, a New York City street at that; and she seemed to be crying.

Eunice stopped the car and stared. Then, with a shake of the head, a sigh and a mumbled, “I’m probably going to regret this,” he slowly backed up the car until it was directly beside the crying figure.

Getting out and standing over the pitiful wretch he asked, “Who are you?”

Between sobs, he heard her say, “Lyle. Lyle Abbot and I thought you were Eunice Branca. I recognized the car. You’re driving her car. Hey, if you’re not Eunice, who are you?”

“Yeah, I’m Eunice, or at least I used to be,” he said with a gesture highlighting his curves, or lack thereof. “And if you know me you must be Lyle, but lest make sure. If you’re really Lyle, show me some identification. Kay?” Eunice demanded in a voice that sounded far more authoritative than he felt.

The crying shape slowly reached into a back pocket and produced a wallet. Flipping it open, she produced a University picture ID card for Lyle T. Abbot.

“Oh. Lyle, I’m sorry...but I’m sure you can understand how surprised I was when some tattered stranger jumped into my car. I had this immediate vision of rape and murder.” As Eunice spoke, he got Lyle’s suitcase, threw it into the back of the car and helped the still crying Lyle in. Eunice then got in and continued crying as he drove quickly away.

“What are you doing here? I expected you to be in your apartment waiting for me.”

“Cops…everywhere.”

They drove without speaking further as Lyle slowly stopped sobbing. Finally, Lyle asked, “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know. I’m not headed anywhere specific.” Checking a couple of street signs, he continued. “We’re near the Cloisters. Why don’t I park there and we can try to figure out what’s going on? Kay?”

Lyle nodded her agreement and both silently contemplated their futures as Eunice drove the several blocks to the Cloisters and pulled into the first available parking space. Without thinking, both got out and walked over to a nearby picnic bench. About twenty feet beyond was a wrought iron fence. Beyond the fence was a drop off. Unseen from their bench, at least two hundred feet below, was the West Side Highway and the Hudson River. The view might have been romantic were in not for their circumstances.

“’Kay,” Eunice took the lead. “Let’s start with the basics. Do you know what happened to us?”

“Yes–at least I’m fairy certain I do. But there’s an even more basic issue. Did you see the cars all around my apartment? They were from the government and they broke into my apartment and only my apartment. It seems safe to assume who they were looking for and it was sheer luck that they didn’t get me.”

“So how did you get out?”

“I got bored waiting for you and began packing some of my clothes on the off chance that they would fit you. After lugging the suitcase down to the front door to meet you, I realized that I had forgotten my research notes. I left the suitcase in the laundry room and went back to my apartment. I had just returned to the laundry room and was stuffing the papers into my suitcase when I heard the noise from that invasion force. Peeking around the doorway to get a better view, I heard one of them say, ‘He’s in apartment four-twelve. Let the DeCon unit go in first.’”

“Anyway, I quickly slipped out of the laundry room, which can’t be locked, and into the storage room next door, dragging the suitcase after me. It was heavier than I expected it to be. A disguise was now my first order of business. Looking around in a panic, I saw the usual stuff one would expect in a storage room: a shopping cart, several piles of boxes, a couple of old bicycles and a rack of old clothes. Boy, was it dusty.

“There was this weird coat with some kind of fake fur and a ripped collar on the rack,” Lyle fingered the offending article of clothing as if the fur might up and bit him, “and the first box were some old winter clothes including this bright green ski hat. I grabbed the coat and ski hat and put them on hoping they would disguise me a bit. Then I put the suitcase into the shopping cart, with some other odds and ends from the boxes to cover it over, and started wheeling it out the back door to the apartment.”

“When I was almost to the back door this guy in a military uniform comes walking in on me. He asks me if I live in the apartment.”

“Anyway, I was afraid to talk so I grunted, and quickly pushed the cart into the door, but it wouldn’t open. I guess I lucked out, because he even held the door open for me.”

“The problem in all this is that four-twelve is my apartment and if a government decontamination unit charges up the stairs to my apartment, we’re both probably in big, big trouble. The only possible explanation I can come up with is that they think something dangerous escaped from the University lab and they think were infected. Considering what’s happened to us I’m afraid they’re right.”

“Great.” Eunice grumbled. “That was probably also them pulling up in front of my condo as I was leaving to come here. Kay. To sum it all up we’ve changed sex, the feds are looking for us and don’t seem to be all that concerned about our rights, and we may be carrying some deadly contagion. Is that about it, Lyle?”

“So it would seem. Although to be accurate, while we might be contagious, I doubt whatever we have would kill anyone.”

“I feel much better now. What do we do now...and, come to think of it, why should it be we? Huh?”

“Well, I need to have some quiet time–you know, with no interruptions–to figure out exactly what happened and what to do, or are you happy being a wanted, possibly contagious fugitive? I’d like to get back to the lab, but that doesn’t seem likely. For that matter, if the federal government wants us they can probably get us. They’ll have our ID photos, they’ll have our fingerprints, they’ll have our credit card numbers, they’ll be watching for any contacts with our friends and relatives. They’ll probably even have people looking for this car. Do you think we’ll be safer together or apart?”

“Lyle, that doesn’t leave a lot of choices, and we haven’t even begun to talk about my concerns. I can’t believe our government could possibly be as efficient as you just described.”

“Ten bucks says I’m right.”

“Well–never mind. Let’s think things through. You need to have uninterrupted time to figure out what happened and how to undo it, if that’s even possible. If it can be undone, I sure would like to know about it. For this to happen, we need to have the government off our backs. That means we need to find out who set them on our trail in the first place.”

“I think I can answer that last question. It must have been Dr. Sternlicht.”

“Great, what does that do for us now?” Eunice pulled out of the parking space.

“I don’t know. I’m not positive, but it seems likely.”

“Kay. Let’s go.” Eunice stood and strode purposefully to the car.

“Uh–where are you going?”

“To test your hypotheses. Kay? You’re the ABD. Does it mean ‘All But Dissertation’ or 'A Big Dummy’? You should understand what it means to test a hypothesis. Let’s find a public telephone.”

At the pay telephone near the University, Eunice dialed a number and then gave the receiver to Lyle. “Your voice sounds more like mine than mine does right now. When someone answers, nod your head and then say what I tell you.”
Lyle nodded.

“Hello, Aunt Staci...this is Eunice. I have a problem and I need to talk to you. Kay? But I need to get something at Dr. Sternlicht’s lab at the University first. I’ll be at the lab in about five minutes and then I’ll come directly to you. I should be at your house in Queens in about one hour, traffic permitting.”

Eunice gestured for Lyle to hang up.

“Now we go back to the University and watch. Kay? If you’re right, we’re in big trouble.”

Jaye Michael

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 2:05 P.M., BIOMEDICAL SCIENCES BUILDING, NEW YORK UNIVERSITY

They could see most of the stone and ivy structure of the Harriman Building with its red tile roof from their position double-parked at the edge of Washington Square, but it was possible to it. It was the home of the Department of Biomedical Research, and had been since the family had donated the funds to build it.

They waited in silence for five minutes, then ten and finally twenty minutes. Students and faculty walked by–some briskly as if with a firm goal in mind, others meandering with no apparent place to go. A police car passed without stopping, but nothing else seemed to be happening. There were no soldiers, no ambulances, no flashing lights and no suspicious people loitering about.

“Well, it sure looks like you overestimated our government’s abilities and interest in us. Where’s my ten bucks?”

“We’ll see.” Lyle began to get out of the car.

“Where do you think you’re going? Get back in here.” Eunice grabbed at the retreating figure, but missed.

“I want some of Dr. Sternlicht’s files. They should help me figure out what happened and what we can do about it,” Lyle called over her shoulder as she walked briskly towards the building entrance.

Suddenly, several lounging students looked at her and began getting up. A cop car suddenly appeared. Several people came out of the entrance to the Harriman Building and began trotting towards Lyle.

With a scream, Eunice gunned his car over the curb and through a broken section of the wrought iron fencing around the campus. Lyle ran back to meet him. She dove through the window of the still moving car as Eunice swerved to miss several people grabbing at Lyle’s feet; waving frantically out the car window. She sped away as Lyle scrambled the rest of the way into the car.

The police car stopped to let several of the people chasing Lyle get in before giving chase and Eunice took advantage of the delay. Horn blaring, she roared through a red light. A crashing sound and cursing were heard in her wake.

The cop car and another unmarked car followed, gradually moving closer. Ahead, traffic was slowing to a stop at a traffic light, so Eunice swerved onto the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians right and left as he increased the distance from their pursuers to almost a full block while the cop car slowed to avoid screaming bystanders.

Just after entering the intersection the cops were slowed even more as a truck partially blocked their path, allowing Eunice and Lyle a full two block lead. Amazingly, no other cars had joined the chase.

Several blocks latter, Eunice suddenly turned into a short drive and into a garage beneath a townhouse. “Quick, close the garage door, Lyle. Kay?” Lyle took a deep breath, unclenched her hands from the car upholstery and rushed to close the door.

Once again, they sat in silence waiting while the sounds of police sirens approached and then faded out into the distance.

“Where are we and how did you know this garage door would be open?” Lyle asked after she felt she could again breathe.

“We’re at my father’s house and I didn’t know it would be opened, but I hoped. My father is often less than careful. Kay? He seems to leave it open just about every third or fourth day. It’s amazing that he isn’t robbed blind here in the heart of New York City, but he must have a charmed life. He has lost the contents of the garage several times, but I guess the alarm on the door to the house itself is good enough that most criminals want to bother.”

“But if they tapped your aunt’s telephone they must know about this place,” Lyle interrupted, a note of fear in her voice. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Not so fast. If they were watching, we would have been picked up already. Kay? Look at how fast they got to the University. As long as we don’t use a telephone or set off the alarm, we should be all right and we need to slow down and think or they’ll catch us for sure.”