Page 12

Paul Stephan Andrechuk held the conference swag bag containing Adelaide’s purse under his arm in a sweaty grasp. It had been impossible to pass up the opportunity when the handbag had bounced just past his feet. His flight instinct wanted only his hotel room but he’d been forced in the opposite direction toward the Front Desk and “help” for Adelaide. However, after pointing a clerk in the right direction, the parking elevators adjacent to the desk were quite convenient. His posture was slightly bent and he glanced about furtively with a protective stance for his guilty prize. Would the damn elevator ever arrive? He desperately needed a smoke. BING. Finally. He lumbered his considerable bulk into the compartment without even waiting for the current occupants to exit. He was oblivious to their contemptuous looks. Impatiently, his sausage-like finger jabbed the P3 button after they left. The doors closed and the car jerked to start its journey downward once again.

What good fortune for him! He knew he never had a chance with the uppity tart. It would be a genuine shame if she didn’t recover but surely, with so many doctors, her chances were better than average, weren’t they? It would certainly make his theft far more rewarding to think she would be up and about again soon. He closed his eyes and instantly could see those swaying hips propelling those shapely BING. P2? What the fuck? The doors opened and an elderly man looked in hesitantly: “Going up?”. “Uh, no”. You stupid, old, fuck! Doors closed and agitated, he swiped the numerous beads of perspiration from his ever-expanding forehead area.

Unconsciously, he fumbled for his pack of Players “Light” cigarettes. He carefully extracted one from the pack so as not to get any drops of sweat on it and placed it between his lips while he kept his head tilted upward. As the doors opened, he was raising the lighter towards the end when he saw the sign bearing a no-smoking symbol. “Jesus fucking Christ, Fuck THAT”, as he lit up anyway and began to shamble towards his car.

The rusting, formerly bright forest green 1993 Escort was exactly as he left it. He unlocked the driver door and using his left hand to brace himself on the door frame, lowered himself in as the suspension moaned. He rolled down the window before closing the door with a tinny epitaph. Ah. At last, a bit of peace. Aaackswhoom. He hacked up some phlegm from deep within his lungs and with practised ease, spat it out into the parking lot.

After a careful look around, he looked into his bag resting between his gut and the steering wheel. He didn’t remove it from the conference bag just yet; there would be plenty of time to savour its exterior later. Still, he couldn’t contain his curiosity a moment longer. It wasn’t a large bag and the insignias it bore probably meant it was some designer knock-off. Opening the cover flap, the wallet was the most prominent item, taking up more than half the space. Another nervous scan of the parking lot before he unzipped the first compartment. Two twenties and a five. Sheesh, good thing robbery wasn’t the main motive for this snatch. Next compartment, a large pile of change but probably no more than another 5 dollars. ID section had no driver’s license, credit cards nor … wait, some business cards. They just had “Adelaide” in a flowery script with a phone number. Score! Oh yes, this had long term potential. It should be simple enough to get her address now, maybe a little clandestine peeping or even an “accidental” meeting near by. Oh yes.

A long spent ash from his still burning cigarette dropped in. “Shit shit”, carefully, he brushed it aside, then blew the remaining flakes off his prize. He took one more long haul before tossing the butt. Now, what other treasures? Usual cosmetics: lipstick (Aubergine Divine? who comes up with this crap?); eye liner, etc. Hairbrush, loose change, tissues, feminine hygiene, ……Oh, perfume – nice, but caution would be required. It wouldn’t do to poke the bear also known as his wife nor even put his two spoiled brat kids on alert. But, he drank in some of the scent as he moved the rest of the package down to rub against his crotch, its occupant already fully alert and responsive. He’d have to take extra care to safely hide this new toy so that it could be enjoyed fully, often, and without any layers in between. Greedily, he considered doing that right now or going back. A cover story might be needed….. “Screw it”, he huffed as he reached under his stomach roll for his belt buckle.

Page 11

York entered his apartment carrying the still unconscious Adelaide. He gingerly laid her on his bed and returned Bob to the tank. Good lord, he had to pee. He had to pee so bad it felt like Niagara Falls had been poured into a sausage casing. He rushed to the bathroom, emptied said sausage casing, stood on the Fisher Price stool in front of the sink and neurotically washed his hands several times. He studied his reflection in the mirror above the sink.

"Perfect", he said aloud, "And now it's time to awaken our slumbering guest".

He emerged from the loo and was greeted by the sight of Adelaide, naked and sprawled on the wet hardwood floor near the tank, legs spread in a "V" with toes pointed daintily towards the ceiling. Bob was on top of her, his tentacles everywhere - - fondling both of Adelaide's breasts, more running up and down the inside of her thighs, her tongue wrestling with another, one around her neck and gentling nuzzling an earlobe. They were underneath her, behind her, and on the floor all around her, propelling his purple and yellow spotted body up and down and up and down as he humped her mercilessly, penetrating her with yet another tentacle. Judging by her look of unparalleled ecstasy, Adelaide was not at all opposed to any of this.

York fetched his handgun, blew Adelaide's head clean off, fired thirteen shots into Bob and his betraying tentacles, put the gun in his own mouth and pulled the trigger.

And then Adelaide woke up. She was in a bedroom with the same layout as her own, yet with different furniture. Where was she? And what a strange dream she'd just had.

Page 10

A persistent tapping on the glass roused Prometheus from his intent study. When vocal lessons weren’t paying the bills, every free moment was spent on trying to learn more about his new best friend. To say his life had changed since that fly fishing trip in a remote stream in northern Quebec could not be more of an understatement. A fresh rainbow trout dinner was all he had been after with his collection of woolly buggers and other assorted flies. Upon realizing that what had wrapped around his hip-waders was more than weeds, his curiousity had overcome his fear. Having been judged on his appearance by most of humanity, he was not quick to do the same. Plus, he had swiftly ascertained that he was a physical match of the creature and/or it intended him no harm. A sensation he could not quite describe enveloped him when it made contact with his skin. He still mulled the irony of a man that earned a living thru voice would develop an obsessive attachment to a being that communicated without.

It was his personal experience with scientific authorities and perhaps a mutual agreement with Bob (he had to call it something) that prevented him from sharing his discovery with anyone. He still felt very sure that it was Bob’s wish to accompany him home. So far, he couldn’t say with certainty if Bob even originated on this planet. Without a "host", Bob didn’t fair well when out of a fresh-water environment for very long. An omnivore of aquatic life, keeping Bob fed was as easy as a trip to a pet store or fish market. York had pursued investigative avenues along possible relations to jellyfish, squid, etc. but the differences outweighed the similarities. And of course, there was the intelligence factor to consider.

The tapping was more intense than usual. Even if it hadn’t been, Bob was difficult to resist. The tank afforded some respite, allowing more comfortable sleep and personal maintenance. But the feeling while they were bonded had become an addiction. York shed his shirt as he moved towards the tank. Anxious tentacles rose to greet him and seconds later they merged. Both entities froze for a few moments to bask in the feeling. Then pressure (hurry). Apparently Bob was in a hurry, which was a first. After donning an oversized shirt and cloak, York retrieved two litre bottles of water from the fridge and threw them in a shoulder bag. Staying hydrated was mandatory since Bob would be drawing liquid from his body.

Previously, Bob had only shown an interest in guiding York towards things that provided high levels of stimulation. Bob loved roller coasters. But now there was more of a feeling of desperation. Their evolving guidance system primarily consisted of applied pressure: left, right, etc. but there was an even stronger intangible element to it. York found themselves outside the entrance to a large hotel, part of a major chain. Inside the lobby, a welcome sign read "Swedish Association of Proctologists". Yikes. Satisfying Bob’s whims generally was rewarding but there was a line.

Pressure again, nearly to the point of pain. York was intrigued so using his small stature to advantage, he slipped onto the convention floor. Instantly, his eyes were drawn to a cluster of people gathered around someone on the floor. (THERE!). He sprinted over. He recognized the compelling woman he had literally ran into earlier, lying on the floor, clutching at her throat. One of her sinuous arms was considerably swollen. A man was kneeling beside her, in obvious distress. "Did someone call for an ambulance yet?" his clipped British accent railed. There wouldn’t be time. Examining her arm, York could see the stinger left behind by a bee, it’s tiny poison sack having pulsated its payload of venom with devastating results. "Does she have a handbag that may contain an epi-pen?" he barked at the man. "Uh, uh, I just met her here at the convention, I don’t recall a bag". Fucking idiots! "I suppose she’d have to have been stung up the ass for your skills to be of use". The man went crimson. Gently brushing the hair back, he held her puffy face in his hands. An undetected tentacle slid into her mouth. Within moments, a gurgle sounded and wide desperate eyes slammed open. She grasped York’s thick arms. It’s work done, the tentacle retracted. Feeling that and recognizing York appeared to be a bit of an overload. Her body slumped but her breathing was returning to normal. Even without help, he could easily carry the near waif. Bob’s assistance made it even more manageable. Gathering her up, he strode out through the gaping spectators.

Page 9

With a satisfied smile, Adelaide stepped onto the conference floor. It was a typical setting: the “Grand” Ballroom had high ceilings and cheap looking light fixtures resembling chandeliers. The carpeting was reasonably clean but had a beaten down appearance from the application of thousands of feet and hundreds of vacuumings.

Getting in had been a breeze. Paul, the rotund reporter had obtained a guest pass for her but likely would have fallen on a grenade if her sultry voice had requested it. But, he could not be her quarry on a reporter’s salary and just as well – yuck. Now, the good doctor on the other hand, would do very nicely. Her newfound companions had also lapped up her cover story of being a mature student interested in pursuing a medical specialty. “Not nearly enough beautiful women in the profession” Paul had loudly proclaimed. Dr. Crispin-Smith seemed slightly embarrassed for his acquaintance using such a flagrant attempt to gain her favour.

Now, as they wandered about the various booths, she would continue to expertly play off one against the other while they competed for her attention. The doctor was sure to feel quite chuffed when she eventually let him win. To the point of being very gracious, if things went to plan. The doctor was currently deploying an “I’m smarter” strategy as he guided them to a display of a colonoscope. “Does this employ the new series 3 polyp laser?” he asked the vendor. Receiving a negative reply, “too bad, it is a very promising technology” and went on to a lengthy explanation of its benefits. Adelaide appeared to listen intently until Paul interrupted “Christ Smith, you’re going to bore her into a plastic surgery career”. Adelaide laughed as she placed a hand on Paul’s fleshy forearm. Crispin’s facial expression went from hurt to devastated. She waited a few moments though, before giving the small of his back a reassuring rub. “No really, that was very informative. Thank you Crispin”.

The end of each aisle was decorated with bright looking floral displays. “Maybe the facilitators felt they may need to compensate for the foul odours they associate with this branch of medicine” Paul quipped, stooping to muck raking as a change in tact. “Reporting on it is far nobler, I’m sure” came Crispin’s sarcastic retort. “More likely they are attempting to draw a higher standard of attendees” as he smiled in Adelaide’s direction. “Quite stunning” he softly added as he dropped his eyes. You’re a fool, he told himself. She’s not only out of your league, she may be in a different sport entirely. Still, as long as she was doling out attention, he was powerless not to respond. “The arrangements are lovely” observed Adelaide as she stooped in to take in the scents. She sensed the buzzing in the air even before she felt something on her arm. “Oh fuck!” she thought….

Page 8

He sat in front of the screen, its light casting an eerie glow in the otherwise dim surrounding. Although trying to focus on the task at hand, he couldn’t stop the events of earlier in the day from replaying in his mind.

His last client had been an elderly woman. The wrinkled, rather large, naked form on his massage table would have repulsed many but to Torsten, it was merely flesh, muscles wrapped in skin. One of a select few clients, she had responded to hints he had dropped about other services that might be provided. Depending on the request, he usually insisted on complete darkness to avoid discovery of his infirmity. The fear of his required adaptations for these encounters being exposed generated enough stress to remove any chance of experiencing pleasure. However, the monetary gain allowed him higher-grade comforts such as the mesh executive chair in which he was currently seated with its plethora of available comfort settings.

Upon leaving the spa area, he had encountered a rather crowded hallway. Men in matching t-shirts milling about their ring-leader: “AND THEN SHE SAID: ‘WHAT’S THAT SMELL?’” The eruption of laughter hit Torsten like a shockwave. He didn’t need to see the “Ass Army” lettering on the shirts to know what these men were. The backslapping by hands that seemed abnormally large to him, appearing to pulse as though the monsters could inflate them at will. Debilitating nausea engulfed him. Sliding along the wall, he barely made it to an exit before retching into a planter. Thankfully, citizens in this fair country were too polite to stare.

Could anyone abide the presence of these conventioneers? No, like kneading a pesky knot from a muscle, he would help relieve pain here as well. In the past, he’d had the luxury of face-to-face killings, revelling in the look of excruciating pain and certainty of death in the victim’s faces. Ah, memories. They had paid the price for his pain. The abject humiliation of countless time spend face down, bum in the air; lost childhood; the simple act of walking without feeling like a porcupine was in his rectum.

The Internet afforded such detail on so many subjects. Perhaps some highly toxic gases for those asses? He barked an insidious laugh at his own juvenile humour.

Page 7

York swiped his magnetic card through the slot near the door, consulted the slip of paper from his security company, punched in the 6-digit code, and turned the key in the deadbolt. A soft chime announced that he was now free to enter, but he stepped back from the door and watched it expectantly. Five seconds later, there was a single beep. The little green light over the card slot turned red, and he heard the deadbolt rotate back into the locked position. He grinned and went through the process again, this time opening the door and stepping through. He absent-mindedly crushed the slip of paper in his hand and popped it into his mouth, humming as he chewed. The door swung closed and locked itself behind him. York set his cane against the door and made his way quickly to the bathroom.

His apartment consisted of a large rectangular room with low ceilings. There were four windows set flush against the ceiling looking out onto the weed-choked back yard. York had replaced the plain glass with frosted, tempered security glass, reinforced with iron bars. The blinds were open, letting the diffuse light of the late afternoon seep into the basement apartment.

A plain, folding screen created a separate sleeping area. Behind the bed, a wall of glass brick enclosed a spacious bathroom, complete with an elaborate six-nozzle shower enclosure and a salt-water aquarium larger than most bathtubs. The aquarium had been stocked with a percula clown and a lemonpeel angelfish, as though the installer couldn't bear to leave a functioning aquarium standing empty. York snorted and reached into the tank, soaking the sleeve of his coat up to the armpit. He expertly caught both fish in one hand, then tossed them into the toilet.

He fiddled with the controls under the aquarium, set the heat to a few degrees below body temperature. He undressed slowly, watching himself in the full-length mirror as he carefully pulled his coat off his hump and let it drop to the floor. He took care with his tie, loosening the knot and slowly pulling it from his neck before draping it over a clothes hook. Shoes, socks, pants and underwear were shrugged off as nuisances and kicked to the side.

Standing in just his tailored white shirt, York twisted in front of the mirror, attempting to examine his hump from every angle. With a snort of disgust, he noticed a small tear where the shoulder met the customized rondure. He fingered the hole for a second, hoping that he wouldn't have to take it to a tailor. Courteous tailors were surprisingly hard to find - he had paid to have the fingers of one particularly ill-mannered tailor crushed in a vise, after the brute had called the rondure a "hump sack".

Satisfied that he could repair the tear himself, he unbuttoned his shirt and gently lifted it off his hump.

The head of the mottled purplish gray creature quivered when the shirt was removed, but quickly stilled. In some ways it resembled a species of octopus, with five tentacles wrapped twice around York's thick torso. Or it could have been a ray, with its flat body completely covering York's back and shoulders. But the feature that York thought of as its head resembled nothing so much as a slightly deflated toadstool. It was between ten and thirteen inches high, depending on the temperature, and usually about eight inches in diameter. Dark, muted colours swam across its featureless head. They briefly resolved themselves into the semblance of a smiling face before swirling into meaninglessness.

York stepped into the steaming shower and stood with arms spread, letting the soft water play over himself and his companion. The water eventually loosened the glue-like gel that the creature exuded. Gently, tentacle by tentacle, York pulled the creature from his body. He groaned as each tentacle came free, as though he was pulling spikes from his body. It took almost thirty minutes.

The creature was lighter than its size suggested, seemingly too thin and insubstantial to be alive. York held it under the warm water, a mush-filled balloon with five tentacles curling on the shower floor, feebly brushing against his feet. "There, there," he crooned. "It's OK." Carefully, he stepped from the shower and let the creature slide into the large aquarium. Its demeanor changed instantly. It surged from one end of the tank to the other, tentacles exploring every corner and crevice with a speed that was unearthly. The tip of one tentacle shot up and out of the water, only to suddenly deflate in the open air and fall back into the warm brine.

York smiled, watching the creature through the glass walls. "Welcome to your new home," he said under his breath. He quickly stepped back into the shower, humming. He scrubbed himself with an exfoliating soap and loofa until his skin was a bright pink, occasionally laughing to himself.

Page 6

Adelaide spotted him immediately. She could read men like blind people read those bumps on paper, it’s all about the protrusions. He was attempting, without much success, to hide what was a physical representation of her effect on him. How wonderful that she had uncovered her first mark within minutes of her arrival. But was he with the convention? He didn’t look a bit Swedish.

She expertly arranged her long, blonde mane of fake hair. Damn, she hated wearing wigs in this weather. July Canadian heat was hotter than Brad Pitt when he took off his shirt, boinked Thelma (or what it Louise?) and then stole all her money. Adelaide had wondered on her way to the hotel if perhaps long and blonde was the wrong choice for the Swedes, perhaps she should have gone with something less stereotypic, but her gut instinct told her that today blonde was the way to go.

She tried to set her sights firmly on the man with the protrusion as she sashayed her way across the patio, her hips swaying like those soap-covered plastic things that hang down in a drive-through car wash and go back and forth across your windshield, but she found herself uncharacteristically distracted. She was typically so single-minded when it came to her marks, but her thoughts kept wandering back to the strangely sexy freak she'd met earlier. She couldn’t quite seem to put him out of her mind. His voice was locked in her head the way an awful Britney Spears song will go “Oops, I did it again” in your brain until it drives you crazy because it’s the only lyric you know and it repeats itself over and over and over.

No! She had to focus. She had to concentrate on the task at hand. This month's rent depended on it.

The man looked like he needed to be saved. He was obviously just barely enduring the company of the fat man sitting across from him, so evidently trying to be polite. Perhaps he was British? He was attractive in a decidedly non-Swedish kind of way, all dark hair, brown eyes and olive complexion. If she could only get York out of her thoughts, this might be a job she’d really enjoy.

She reached the table and the eyes of both men scanned her from top to bottom. Something she was completely accustomed to.

In her practiced, sultry voice she purred “Are you boys with the convention?”