I tried to think of a way to apologize for being a douche coconut, but anything I could think to say would just make things worse. Honestly, I felt like I’d just asked an overweight woman when she was due. And, yes, I had done that before.
“Please list all of the race types and classifications that are a part of your genome.”
“Vampire, werewolf, djinn, wizard, mage, pixie, fae, uh…werebear, weresheep, wererabbit, weretiger—”
She glanced up. “Weretiger?”
“Correct.”
The pen went down again and she tilted her head at me.
“You’re sure?”
How could I not be sure?
“I’m sure,” I said without inflection.
“That would make you only one of three surviving weretigers in existence.”
“Partial weretiger,” I corrected, “and, yes, I’m aware of that fact.”
Weretigers had nearly gone extinct during the last major war in the Netherworld. This happened during a combined attack from the werewolves, fae, werebears, and pixies. The tigers hadn’t had a chance, meaning only a handful remained. Unfortunately, they never procreated to extend their line.
The remaining tigers were too busy reading books and playing around on social media sites, making it so they never had time to build relationships.
After a while, all but two of them died off.
One female and one male.
The male, a weretiger by the name of Mike, refused to mate with the remaining female, Bethany, because he preferred the company of gentlemen. Worse, he wouldn’t donate a sample of his baby batter because that would require him to touch himself, which disgusted him something fierce. The reason for this was because he was one of a very few supernaturals who could have discussions with his penis…much like I did with The Admiral. Well, his penis turned out to be female, and thus he found the prospect of doing anything sexual with her, even on the plane of self-pleasuring, distasteful. I didn’t quite understand this being that I’d smack The Admiral about if the need arose. I wasn’t gay, but maybe Mike hadn’t found a way to shut up his penis the way I had mine.
My first thought was that a nice bite or scratch would infect someone and turn them into a weretiger, and that was true. But unfortunately, the remaining tigers wouldn’t play that game for a few reasons. Bethany was extremely timid. If you were to say ‘boo!’ to her, she’d curl up in a ball and wait for the end to come. Even if she had managed to fight back, though, it wouldn’t have mattered because she’d had herself declawed many years ago. As for Mike, he had his nails done on a regular basis and he wouldn’t dare do anything to mess them up. Besides, the only thing he bit into on a regular basis were pillows. Suffice it to say that those two weren’t exactly the proud warriors that weretigers were once known to be.
“If you would be willing to rub one out in a cup,” she said seriously, “we could possibly restart the line of weretigers.”
Her use of the phrase “rub one out” only made it more challenging to believe she was a fae.
“Rub one out?” I said with a grimace, not asking for clarification but more to point out that the term was not becoming of a lady.
She clearly didn’t catch my intended meaning, though, and therefore began listing other terms for the act.
“Yeah,” she said. “You know what I’m talking about. Tug your tugboat, slap your salami, yank your crank, fondle the fella, burp the worm, feed the chickens, drain the dragon, hit the ham…” She took a deep breath. “Pull the pickle, play the organ, launch the hand shuttle, rub the unicorn horn, wax the weasel, date your palm, hug the turtle…” She paused and looked up. “That last one has been going around in the Netherworld recently.”
“Wonderful,” I said, feeling like I’d just bitten into a lemon.
“Let’s see, there’s also—”
“No, no,” I interrupted, waving my hands at her. “I get it.”
“So you’ll do it?” she asked excitedly. Then she raised an eyebrow at me. “I mean, you could also just fuck her, if she’s keen on that.”
There was no way this woman was a fae.
“No, thank you,” I replied, stone-faced. “Look, there’s an emergency situation happening topside at the moment and I really need to get through this process in order to return there. So can we please move this along?”
“That depends,” she said, staring at me. “Are you going to help the weretigers or not?”
I sighed. “Right.”
CHAPTER 8
I almost felt dirty as I sat in the next room waiting for round two. I was sure Rachel would be understanding regarding my agreement to donate to the weretiger cause, but it wasn’t exactly a conversation I wanted to have. And I definitely had zero desire to give the old handshake to The Admiral.
“Yeah,” he said, “I’m not really fond of that idea either. Maybe Rachel will do it for us?”
“Not now,” I replied.
“Well, no shit, dude. Getting a handy during reintegration is even too weird for me.”
“I meant that I don’t want to discuss this right now,” I clarified. “I have other things on my mind.”
The rest of my team had already moved along to the next phase before I’d gotten into this room. Of course, they’d all breezed through the paperwork part of the process, so they had a head start.
My biggest worry at the moment wasn’t reintegration, though. It was trying to figure out who the hell these new amalgamites were. It was still baffling to think that they even existed. Try to imagine believing you were the only person left in your family. For all your life, you knew it to be the case. There were no parents, grandparents, siblings, or even cousins. You were completely unique and alone in this world. Then all of a sudden you found out you’ve got four others who are just like you.
It was trippy.
A worker opened the second processing chamber door on the right. He was wearing a green outfit and white gloves. In his hand was a chart that sat on a standard clipboard.
“Mr. Dex?” he called out, though I was the only person in the room. “Mr. Ian Dex?”
“Yeah,” I sighed, getting up and heading over to him. “I’m right here.”
“Your tattoo, please?”
I turned over my arm and the guy scanned it. He then verified my name, occupation, date of birth, where I lived, and the car I currently owned.
Finally, he said, “Are you still an amalgamite?”
My head dropped to my chest.
“Yes,” I groaned in reply.
He checked a box on his form. “Please enter the chamber, remove all clothing and place it in the plastic bin on the right. Once you’ve completed that, have a seat on the chair and the computer will provide you with the next steps.”
“All right.”
He stepped out and I took off all my stuff, carefully folding it so I could tell if anyone messed with it while I was in the mind fuck machine. Yes, that’s what I called the damn thing.
Finally, I looked at the chair and let out a long breath.
The entire process of reintegration sucked, but the chair was the worst part. It was covered with fresh plastic for each person who sat on it…I hoped it was fresh, anyway. That plastic stuck to your skin and it was cold, but knowing what could happen during this step in the process, I completely understood why they employed its use.
On top of the chair was what looked like a hairdryer, and not the kind that smacked me in the nuts earlier, either. I’m talking about those types you see at the hair salon hanging over people’s heads. But this one was different in that it covered your eyes and everything. Okay, so maybe a motorcycle helmet was a better description. Regardless, the thing was clear and it had wires running from it to the ceiling.
That’s where the fun was housed.
I took a seat, adjusting myself until the plastic was as comfortable as could be expected. Then I put my hands on the arm rests and waited.
Straps came out and locked my arms and legs in place as the helmet low
ered onto my head. This was not a place you wanted to be if you were claustrophobic, let me tell ya.
Once the helmet was on, it turned from clear to pitch-black.
I couldn’t see or hear a thing.
“Mr. Dex,” said a computerized voice that was just above a whisper, “you are about to undergo the entrainment phase of reintegration.”
Here is where all the magic happened. It would feel like you weren’t being altered or anything, but something happened in this unit that caused your beliefs and base desires to get tinkered around. I didn’t understand how it worked, and I didn’t really care. I just wanted it to be over with so I could get back to the real world.
The computer continued.
“You will feel renewed and refreshed at the end of this cycle.” That was bullshit. “Everything that happens during this level of reintegration will be deemed confidential. Please note that you may become slightly disoriented. This is normal. However, if you find yourself agitated or wracked with a sudden desire to soil yourself, please let us know.” It was said with such a sweet voice, too. “We hope you enjoy your entrainment procedure.”
And that’s when the music started.
CHAPTER 9
T he music was classical, but there was a warbling sound that I could hear playing underneath it.
Based on the literature I was forced to read when I’d joined the PPD, the warbling happened at a particular frequency that synced with your brain. After a certain amount of time, the speed of the warble lowered, bringing your brain along with it. Supposedly, this made it so you would slowly fall into a meditative state.
It sounded dubious to me, but I’d be damned if I had ever remembered the last few minutes of the entrainment process.
In conjunction with the sounds, there was a light show. Blues, yellows, reds, and greens bounced around across my visual field. There was no flashing but rather just movement of light.
It was soothing.
Like the sounds, this was supposed to work to calm the mind, making it receptive to the suggestions that were to follow.
“Normals are your friends,” I heard the first whispering words. “You would never wish to harm a normal.”
Obviously, this thing hadn’t met a lot of normals.
I had to keep thoughts like that away, though. There was nothing in the literature about the entrainment system being able to read your thoughts, but I wasn’t going to risk it. I just wanted this to be over with so I could get back to saving my beloved city of Vegas.
Again, I really didn’t expect there to be an attack against the people there, seeing as I believed the mage in charge of this little assassination play would want to be certain that we were all dead first. But I wasn’t one hundred percent certain of that, either. For all I knew, there were four amalgamites ripping through the Strip as I sat here getting reprogrammed.
“You would not wish to bite a normal,” whispered the machine. “They taste sour and they carry disease.”
I could feel myself getting groggy already. I hated that, especially because it was out of my control.
It was like getting drunk. You start out thinking you’d just have a couple of drinks, but then your judgment becomes suspect and you end up facedown in the gutter, singing show tunes while some homeless guy steals your wallet.
Not that such a thing had ever happened to me, of course.
Anyway, the whispers now felt like someone was tickling my ears.
“You would find it disgusting to mark a tree in your neighborhood.”
At least the computer had moved on from focusing on the vampire part of my psyche to targeting the werewolf part, instead. That was progress anyway. It didn’t matter. I knew it would go back through them all over and over again during the next half hour.
“You should always clean up after yourself when you are in the park.”
My eyes were already closed, but they were threatening to roll up into my head now.
Just once, I wanted to make it through this entire ordeal fully conscious. I’d always wondered how it wrapped everything up at the end. What was it that it did to make people get violently ill, and why did it always happen to me? Maybe it happened to everyone?
“You are very handsome,” said the computer, “but you should strive to see the beauty in others as well.”
Fae.
I fell asleep for awhile, which I only knew because I jolted back awake and heard the computer say, “You may feel it’s important to call someone creative names, but remember that not everyone appreciates your use of vulgarity.”
So we’d moved on to the pixies.
That was…
I woke up again.
“Your wool is wonderful and has many uses that can benefit not only supernaturals, but normals as well.”
I found myself nodding. It was true. I could turn into a weresheep and make enough wool to…
The next time I awoke, it was to the sound of faster music. Light was coming back into the world, and there was a smell that indicated something disturbing had occurred.
“It is perfectly normal that you have soiled yourself,” the computer said in a relaxed voice. “The plastic will be changed before another person enters the chamber, and you may find cleaning resources directly ahead and to the left. Please be sure to bring your bin of clothing with you.”
Feeling like I’d just woken up from an all-night bender, I groaned as I looked down at what I’d done to that poor chair.
“Well, that’s embarrassing,” I said as I pushed myself up, cringing as the plastic pulled against my skin. “Where’s the fucking shower again?”
“Ahead and to your left.”
“Right, thanks.”
CHAPTER 10
By the time I was showered and off to the next station, my brain had come back to full awareness. Cold showers did that to you. Why they didn’t offer hot water, I couldn’t say, but it certainly added insult to injury.
“How do you think I feel?” grumbled The Admiral. “I’m the one who shrinks in cold water.”
I rolled my eyes and walked to the next station. This was the room of odd questions. That wasn’t what its technical name was, but that’s how I remembered it.
A stool sat in the middle of the room with a light shining directly down on it. Everything else was dark.
I took a seat.
A voice came across the speaker system. “Are you ready to begin?”
It wasn’t a computer, but I couldn’t see a face or anything. My guess was that the voice belonged to a magic-user since we didn’t have any empaths in the supernatural world. Or, if we did, they weren’t made public.
Regardless, this person wasn’t there to read my thoughts. They were there to dismantle my thoughts and activate deeper programming. Any time a person was allowed to go topside, they were programmed with certain triggers that kept them from doing bad things. Many people had learned ways to bypass those triggers over the years, but for the most part, they worked just fine.
“I’m ready,” I answered.
I tried to look through the dark to see if someone was actually in the room with me. I had excellent vision in dark situations, but the overhead light made it difficult to spot anyone. My guess was they were behind a one-way glass of some sort.
“Does the worm in the moon sense the water of direct sunlight?” she asked.
I blinked.
“What?”
“How many eggs are there in a field of daisies?”
“Uh…”
“If you were to administer a firm handshake to a square meter of dark matter, would the color green still manifest itself to the eye of a mountain range?”
“Are you smoking weed back there or something?” I asked, though I had to admit that my brain felt like it was tingling. “Wait…maybe you’re feeding some funny-weed smoke in here instead?”
“What is one plus seven multiplied by potato?”
“Thirty-six?” I attempted, though I don’t have any idea why. It did so
und right, though. “Yeah, thirty-six.”
“Who wrote the woodgrain of endlessness?”
“Your mom?”
Okay, that was probably not the correct answer, but it was the first thing that came to mind.
There was clearly something strange going on in this room. The questions being asked were nonsensical, but they were unlocking areas of my mind that felt like gaskets releasing. I couldn’t really sense any differences in my thought patterns, aside from being somewhat discombobulated, but I knew something was going on that was flipping my head around. By way of example, I never used words like ‘discombobulated.’
“Trouble comes in two forms,” she said, “but it is never discussed where the edge of volcanic activity starts and the mouse begins. Do you know why?”
That made me feel queazy.
“I’m not going to shit myself again, am I?” I asked.
“It’s been said that the whirlwind is naught but the ending of a sentient thought whereby subatomic particles interface with a cereal box. Is this true?”
“I haven’t a fucking clue, lady.”
The questions went on and on, each seemingly more baffling than the last. The me in my head was not the me I was used to having live in there. Okay, even I couldn’t understand what I’d just thought.
And that was the problem.
It was like my brain was being scrambled with all these weird questions. In fact, it had gotten so bad that I wasn’t even able to answer them any longer. I just sat there drooling as I leaned over and waited for it all to end.
Suddenly, she asked a reasonable question. “What is your favorite color?”
“Huh?” I said, wiping the drool from my mouth. “What?”
“What is your favorite color?” she repeated.
“Teal,” I answered, after a few moments.
“Who is your favorite person to have sexual relations with?”
“Your mom,” I said again.
It seemed like a more fitting response to that question than to the one about the endless woodgrain thing.
There was a pause, and then she repeated the question. “Who is your favorite person to have sexual relationships with?”
The Ian Dex Supernatural Thriller Series: Books 5 - 7 (Las Vegas Paranormal Police Department Box Sets Book 2) Page 29
