like her hair. Her nose and mouth started to merge into a conical snout that pushed out from her face, while tufted ears eased out from between locks of teased hair. Her hands, still clutching at the wall, compressed in on themselves. The black lacy fingerless gloves she wore pulled apart at the seams, then ripped as blond-furred paws replaced her hands.
Face, hands . . . That was it, no more.
Holy fuck, but what was this stuff?
When she started to rise from the floor, still on two good feminine legs, delicate ankles and spiked pumps, Tony decided he had seen quite enough. He turned tail and vacated the room as fast as he could. Slammed the iron door as if he were closing a prison cell.
And in essence, that was precisely what it was. No inside handle, just a small opening at head level for peep-checks. Installed a couple years ago for situations where somebody might need a bit of isolation. Reevaluate some priorities, maybe.
He had no idea it would ever double as a zoo.
But such was the case, and as what looked like some blue-eyed, blond-pelted Nordic she-wolf hit the door from the other side, he wondered what to do next. Go out, bring Lupo and his beloved MAC-10 along, and blow her apart? Terminate the experiment right now?
No. No. There were still a few unanswered questions. Give it time. After all, Trent hadn’t been found wearing the head of a jaguar. He had come down; so would she.
A few moments later, Tony had to wonder if perhaps gold didn’t come in shades of green, as well.
Justin, drifting somewhere in the vicinity of the threshold of sleep, thought that Erik could stand a more comfortable couch.
He’d come home a few hours ago, fresh from the truncated evening with April, and taken Erik by surprise by doing a Fred Astaire through the doorway and whistling happy tunes. It felt delightfully spontaneous. Such was probably the biggest difference between them. Erik could turn anything into a game, no advance notice required; Justin felt as if he’d been slave-bound to deliberation, even in the dumber things attempted. Erik applauded, needing no further cues that the all-important Real Date Number One had gone well. Justin Gray’s life really was returning back to the upswing. Minor celebration was in order.
They split a six-pack and let the VCR assume the responsibility of entertainment. Erik had a sizable collection of videocassettes. Legitimate, self-dubbed bootlegs, films taped off cable TV—somewhere around five hundred titles. They watched a couple, and Erik bowed out to go to bed.
Justin, meanwhile, stayed the course.
Back in St. Louis, insomnia had become a way of life. He didn’t know why. Stress, maybe. Or perhaps residuals from various self-prescribed chemicals still chugging through his bloodstream, thwarting sleep in hopes of invitation to another party. He was every bit the videophile Erik was, and back in the days when all his material acquisitions were still intact, he consumed three, four, sometimes five films a night. He used to lie with Paula until she fell asleep, then grimly retire to the living room as an alternative to the slow torture of waiting for sleep that never came. After there was no Paula, there was no need of going to bed at all.
And after Erik had bid him goodnight, well, old habits die hard.
Crocodile Dundee ended happily, lovers affirmed, and credits rolled. End of film, but not end of tape. Gentle white static pulsed as it wound itself out, and Justin lingered pleasantly on that brink that was neither sleep nor wakefulness. When strange trapdoors spring open in the imagination and shortcuts develop between previously unrelated thoughts. When the self-censorship of rationality is repealed as unconstitutional.
When, if you were lucky, entire worlds could be unlocked.
Just like the poster on the wall near Erik’s bookshelf. A shirtless Jim Morrison, before his own obsessions did him in. With his springboard William Blake quotation printed beside him: When the
Face, hands . . . That was it, no more.
Holy fuck, but what was this stuff?
When she started to rise from the floor, still on two good feminine legs, delicate ankles and spiked pumps, Tony decided he had seen quite enough. He turned tail and vacated the room as fast as he could. Slammed the iron door as if he were closing a prison cell.
And in essence, that was precisely what it was. No inside handle, just a small opening at head level for peep-checks. Installed a couple years ago for situations where somebody might need a bit of isolation. Reevaluate some priorities, maybe.
He had no idea it would ever double as a zoo.
But such was the case, and as what looked like some blue-eyed, blond-pelted Nordic she-wolf hit the door from the other side, he wondered what to do next. Go out, bring Lupo and his beloved MAC-10 along, and blow her apart? Terminate the experiment right now?
No. No. There were still a few unanswered questions. Give it time. After all, Trent hadn’t been found wearing the head of a jaguar. He had come down; so would she.
A few moments later, Tony had to wonder if perhaps gold didn’t come in shades of green, as well.
Justin, drifting somewhere in the vicinity of the threshold of sleep, thought that Erik could stand a more comfortable couch.
He’d come home a few hours ago, fresh from the truncated evening with April, and taken Erik by surprise by doing a Fred Astaire through the doorway and whistling happy tunes. It felt delightfully spontaneous. Such was probably the biggest difference between them. Erik could turn anything into a game, no advance notice required; Justin felt as if he’d been slave-bound to deliberation, even in the dumber things attempted. Erik applauded, needing no further cues that the all-important Real Date Number One had gone well. Justin Gray’s life really was returning back to the upswing. Minor celebration was in order.
They split a six-pack and let the VCR assume the responsibility of entertainment. Erik had a sizable collection of videocassettes. Legitimate, self-dubbed bootlegs, films taped off cable TV—somewhere around five hundred titles. They watched a couple, and Erik bowed out to go to bed.
Justin, meanwhile, stayed the course.
Back in St. Louis, insomnia had become a way of life. He didn’t know why. Stress, maybe. Or perhaps residuals from various self-prescribed chemicals still chugging through his bloodstream, thwarting sleep in hopes of invitation to another party. He was every bit the videophile Erik was, and back in the days when all his material acquisitions were still intact, he consumed three, four, sometimes five films a night. He used to lie with Paula until she fell asleep, then grimly retire to the living room as an alternative to the slow torture of waiting for sleep that never came. After there was no Paula, there was no need of going to bed at all.
And after Erik had bid him goodnight, well, old habits die hard.
Crocodile Dundee ended happily, lovers affirmed, and credits rolled. End of film, but not end of tape. Gentle white static pulsed as it wound itself out, and Justin lingered pleasantly on that brink that was neither sleep nor wakefulness. When strange trapdoors spring open in the imagination and shortcuts develop between previously unrelated thoughts. When the self-censorship of rationality is repealed as unconstitutional.
When, if you were lucky, entire worlds could be unlocked.
Just like the poster on the wall near Erik’s bookshelf. A shirtless Jim Morrison, before his own obsessions did him in. With his springboard William Blake quotation printed beside him: When the
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