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.