The homunculus leant over and whispered in his ear. ‘No good reading that lefty nonsense, Davy. It’s pure bullshit: nobody in her right mind would believe any of that stuff about breaking large organisations into small autonomous entities. What any company needs is firm direct management from the top. That goes for government too. And all that sustainability propaganda is pure guff. Schumacher was just a troublemaker masquerading as an intellectual. He didn’t even go to an English public school!’
Cameroon’s head spun round. This was the first time the homunculus had spoken. It was dressed, at Melanie’s behest, in a blue blouse and short tailored jacket in a darker blue and a small leather handbag swung from its left arm. The eyes glittered and its new white teeth shone. He had been waiting for this moment: his advisor was dispensing wisdom as programmed. Beam, ever the enthusiast, had summarised the situation: two heads are better than one, old boy.
‘But he was a Rhodes Scholar. That made up for it, don’t you think?’ Cameroon responded.
‘He might have been clever as an academic but he got everything wrong as an economist. Chuck that book in the bin and study Keynes and Freedman,’ said the homunculus, its voice reaching foghorn volume.
Flinching, Cameroon held his hand over his ear. ‘No need to shout. Er …. what do I call you?’
‘Margaret of course. The late Lady Thatcher is my template. I am designed to carry on where she left off, just as you and your party should be doing. Let’s not be having any more of this wishy-washy pro-environment, humane economy stuff. Growth through entrepreneurship and consumption are the keys to success in this world,’ the homunculus said stridently with a jutting jaw.
****
‘Well, Margaret, has Davy been behaving himself?’ enquired Melanie over dinner that evening.
‘He needs a little education,’ the homunculus opined. ‘Despite his Old Etonian credentials, he is sadly lacking in common sense. He might have been born to rule but he appears to have missed out on some of the basics.’
‘Excuse me,’ interjected Cameroon. ‘I seem to have been left out of this conversation. You Margaret, are my advisor and not my form master or boss. And Melanie, kindly talk to me rather than this growth purporting to be a separate intelligence inhabiting my body. It is purely an adjunct. Now both of you please remember that.’
‘Sorry darling,’ said Melanie, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. ‘But it’s nice to have another woman to talk to, especially one whose views I admire,’ she added, flashing a smile at the homunculus.
‘It’s a programmed parasitic life form designed for a particular job, not a real person and certainly not one you should be admiring so much. The party has moved on since Thatcher. We are the New Conservatives: caring, humane and environmentally conscious.’
‘Yes darling. So you keep saying and one day people will believe it, I suppose.’
‘Well, I for one don’t,’ the homunculus butted in. ‘And while we are at it, I should like to emphasise that I am an autonomous intelligent being even though I am nourished by your body, Davy. I have an independent brain and mindset. That is why I am your advisor. I expect you to treat me with courtesy and respect.’
Cameroon turned his head and glared at the thing on his shoulder, eyeball to eyeball. He was beginning to regret his acceptance of this parasite. At least with slimming worms you could flush them out when you reached target weight. There seemed to be no way back from this infestation.
Later at bedtime, Cameroon was looking at himself in the bathroom mirror. The homunculus had its eyes closed, apparently sleeping. He could see subtle changes in his body apart from the thing growing out of his shoulder. His chest was different. What was it? He turned away from the mirror and caught a glimpse of his profile. Breasts. He was growing breasts! The homunculus was ostensibly female. Could female hormones be getting into his bloodstream? That wasn’t supposed to happen. According to the sales blurb, there was a barrier between him and the parasite to prevent rejection of the homunculus. Perhaps the barrier was permeable and could let hormones through. He glanced down at his penis. It seemed smaller than usual. My God, he thought. I’m turning into a woman and all because I have this advisor thing installed.
****
‘It’s like this doc,’ Cameroon said to the parasite specialist. I seem to be growing tits, to put it crudely, and I haven’t felt like having sex for weeks.’
‘What about your wife? Has she made any comments?’
‘Melanie has been very understanding. She tells me it’s probably stress and it’ll pass. My parliamentary work has been pretty tough of late.’
‘Have you noticed any other symptoms?’
‘Well, yes. I think my dick is shrinking. Just a thought: could female hormones be crossing over from my homunculus?’
‘He’s imagining things, doctor,’ interrupted the homunculus. ‘We’re totally separate, apart from his blood supplying me with nutrients.’
‘You keep out of this, Margaret. This is a private discussion between me and my doctor,’ said Cameroon grittily.
The homunculus pursed its lips and rolled its eyes.
‘We’ll do some tests; make sure there’s nothing wrong,’ said the doctor soothingly. ‘No need to panic. You look healthy enough. If there is some cross-communication hormonewise, we can give you a testosterone implant. That should spice up your love life.’
‘Can I have a private word, doc?’ asked Cameroon. ‘We can do it on a pad; write it down out of sight of this,’ he said pointing to the grimacing homunculus.
The doctor nodded and they continued their conversation in writing, hiding the pad from Margaret’s prying eyes.
Can I get rid of this homunculus? wrote Cameroon.
Not easily. It is a living part of your body.
But can it be done?
Surgical excision is possible but it might regrow.
So you can cut it off. And do it again if it grows back?
Yes.
Cameroon stepped back and held out his hand to the doctor. ‘Thanks doc. Let me know the results of the tests.’
He left the doctor’s room feeling more optimistic. The homunculus scowled every time he looked at it.
****
In his office, the following day, Cameroon was revising his speech about the Birmingham golf course project. His homunculus peered at the computer screen as he worked, pointing out minor typos and grammatical errors. Niggled at its constant pedantry, Cameroon asked it a question.
‘Why don’t you actually advise me, rather than just nitpicking?’
‘I have had to hold back on this issue because I cannot agree with your evaluation,’ said the homunculus, turning its gimlet eyes towards him.
‘You don’t agree that it would be a disaster?’
‘Not at all. Your calculations are far too simplistic. They don’t take into account the increased employment generated by the development. Not only would it bring lots of rich people into Birmingham, but it would also create many jobs related to road building, services for the golf course, and the relocation of the businesses displaced by the project would create more work too.’
‘Yes, that is the short term view and would take us up to the next election.’
‘Exactly my point,’ said the homunculus, whirling its diminutive handbag.
‘I take a broader view. I am certain that it would only be good for an elite few in the long term. That is why I won’t support it.’
‘Please yourself,’ said the homunculus, tossing its head and sniffing contemptuously.
Cameroon felt a sudden urge to take a break and get some strong coffee inside him before making the final touches to his address. He knew it was going to ruffle a few feathers but he had to hit the right buttons.
On his way to the Members’ Tea Room, Cameroon passed a mirror. The homunculus turned towards it, primped its hair and smoothed down its jacket with a satisfied smile. As he approached the cafeteria, he spotted Jim Beam bearing down upon him. Looking a
round for an exit route, he found none.
‘Hello Jim, ready for the debate on your Brummy golf course project?’
‘Yes, I think I’ll put a good case. Are you going to support me?’ replied Beam, looking him in the eye. ‘You’re against it aren’t you? You have that look again.’
Cameroon’s homunculus leant towards Beam’s parasitic advisor and whispered in its ear.
‘I have thought about it carefully Jim and I cannot support it, I’m afraid,’ said Cameroon, giving him a weak smile.
The homunculi continued their whispered exchange.
‘You’re worried about your precious micro-breweries, is that it? Look, I’ll put in a good word for them with the planning people. They’ll be OK, Davy.’
Realising that the conversation would get them nowhere, Cameroon cut it short. ‘Have to go Jim. Lot to do at the moment,’ he said, starting to move away.
His homunculus twisted round and looked round at him.
‘Hang on, I haven’t finished my conversation yet,’ it said in a shrill voice.
The two men stood face to face while the parasites whispered to one another for another five minutes. Then Cameroon made his escape up the corridor. As he strode away, he spoke to the homunculus.
‘What was all that whispering about? I’ve never seen two advisors in conference before.’
The homunculus grinned in its mirthless way and said nothing.
‘Come on, you are my advisor, not Beam’s. Nor are you his advisor’s advisor. So, what gives?’
Still silent, the homunculus raised an eyebrow and looked at him condescendingly.
****
In the House, the following day, Cameroon stood up to deliver his verdict on the Birmingham golf course development. Beam knew he wasn’t in favour and stared at him, pointing at the homunculus with a broad grin. Cameroon had a premonition that something was afoot following the incident when the two of them had met in the corridor.
‘Mr Speaker, it is with regret that I cannot endorse this project. Yes, it does look attractive with all that green space in the centre of a city but it would mean ripping out the heart from a successful commercial hub containing hundreds of small enterprises employing thousands of people. Also, from an infrastructure point of view it is untenable. Think of the amount of water needed just to keep the grass green, let alone the fuel needed to keep it mown to within an inch of its life, and the nitrogen run off from fertilizer. Then you have to think about the new road system needed to reach it and the roads that would have to be built for the newly shifted businesses on the outskirts. I have figures here …..’
‘He has figures, huh!’ interrupted his homunculus. Since when did he have a degree in maths? I can tell you he doesn’t. He can barely add up, let alone calculate the overall effect of the proposed project.’
Cameroon twisted his head round, whispering. ‘Shut up, you stupid growth. You are supposed to be my advisor, not my proxy. It is not your place to criticise me in front of my parliamentary colleagues. How dare you!’ he said clamping his hand over the parasite’s mouth.
Turning back to his audience from which a gale of laughter was swelling, he tried to carry on, looking for his electronic notepad. At the back of his mind he remembered its clatter as it skittered under the bench when he’d silenced the homunculus. He decided to wing it.
‘Mr Speaker, sorry for the delay. A minor technical hitch with my advisor. As I was about to explain ….’
The parasite bit the hand still clamped over its mouth. He jerked his hand away, blood dripping from the wounds.
‘Technical hitch?’ said the homunculus loudly. ‘Mental hitch more like.’
‘That’s enough, you useless bloodsucker!’ yelled Cameroon, grabbing the homunculus by the neck and crushing it with all his might.
The parasite responded by seizing Cameroon by the throat. Its strength was surprising and Cameroon was forced to let go while he tried to loosen the homunculus’s iron grip. He stared into its face his vision fading, unaware of the people crowding around him as they watched in horrified fascination.
Cameroon lay motionless between the benches as paramedics tried to revive him.
Margaret, the homunculus, crowed in delight. ‘He thought he could beat me, the fool. I knew he was going to try to have me removed, so I had to show him that he wasn’t as clever as he thought he was.’
The paramedics stood up and spread their hands. There was nothing they could do. Cameroon was no more.
Straining upwards from the prone body of its host, the homunculus scanned the faces of the onlookers. ‘Now if you will bear with me, I have a number of points I wish to make.’
With a wave of its arms, it beckoned them to come closer and, as if hypnotised by the spectacle, the clustering MPs shuffled forward and craned their necks in obedience.
The homunculus continued. ‘I am in favour of Mr Beam’s project for the following reasons ….’
The voice of the homunculus started to fade, and despite having no lungs, it appeared to gasp for air. Gradually, the light left its malevolent eyes until it too was dead.
****
Jim Beam chuckled as he looked at his advisor.
‘You appear to be amused,’ it said. ‘Have I said something funny?’
‘Oh no old chap,’ replied Beam. ‘It’s a private matter.’
He was sitting at the rear of a dimly lit hotel bar, drink in hand and waiting. His eyes constantly scanned the entrance. She would be here soon. His thoughts replayed the scene of Cameroon’s death in the House the previous week. What a sap that man had been. He’d fallen straight into the trap. Nearly went wrong though. He was going to get rid of the homunculus, but he’d waited for the test results from the clinic, and that was just long enough for her plan to work. Now she had the house and all that money too. Clever girl! He glanced over at the glass doors once more just as they slid open. Smiling at him with eyes aglow, Melanie floated across the room towards him.
Speed Dating the Alien
Pamela Kozynski checked the list of prospective speed daters and then looked up, trying to put names to faces. That was always the fun bit of the evening. She scanned the men’s faces. Asian names were a giveaway or Chinese, of course, but the serried ranks of Joneses or Smiths gave no clue whatever. One name stood out and was easy to match: Lzortm Ekjorb. She turned to her friend, Bernice.
‘What do you think of that lot then?’
Bernice rolled her eyes and sighed. ‘Pam, why the hell do you come to these things? You usually end up with some sweaty groper who thinks a Big Mac is enough to get him into your knickers. Have you met anyone worthwhile on these gigs?’
‘There was one but he already had a small harem, so I kicked him into touch ASAP.’
‘Exactly. Go on, which one do you fancy this time?’
‘No need to be so cynical. Just because you mix with the right kind of men at work doesn’t mean that the rest of us are so lucky. I don’t get the chance to meet consultant surgeons and medics every day like you.’
‘OK, which one though?’
‘The alien. His name’s Lzortm Ekjorb.’
‘Can’t even pronounce his name: not that I’ve ever fancied one of them anyway. Why him?’
‘He’s tall, well muscled, nice golden eyes and look at the way he moves. He’s so elegant.’
‘Is he, you know, in season?’
‘Oh yes. It’s Spring, so he has to be. I can tell anyway.’
‘How? He just looks like an alien to me.’
‘The ruff around his neck is how you can tell. See its colour? It’s a pinky orange with a lower purple edge.’
‘They all look like that.’
‘Not at this time of year. The purple section is broader and slightly redder. He’s ready for it alright.’
‘And you’re going to have sex with an alien? Have you been with one before?’
‘No, but plenty of people have: they are very gentle and considerate lovers by all accounts.’
> The starting bell rang and Bernice retired to the bar while Pamela sat at her designated table awaiting the parade of suitors. Each one had four minutes to persuade a woman to take the encounter further. Pamela made vaguely encouraging noises as each one sat down opposite and set out his stall. She knew she was attractive: her blonde hair fell to her shoulders, parasitic worms maintained her slim outline and customised apocrine bacteria exuded pheromones that switched the male sex drive to the max.
The parade of men blurred into a boring stream of blather and male narcissism, until the alien arrived. He sat down with a fluid movement and faced her but said nothing. His eyes bored into hers and she gazed back as if hypnotised. Up close, his iridescent skin looked scaly but at the same time much smoother than that of a human. He was totally hairless as far as she could tell. She smiled encouragingly, waiting for his pitch. His voice emanated as if from a deep mineshaft.
‘I can see from your eyes that you are wondering why I am seeking a human female,’ he rumbled.
‘Not really,’ replied Pamela. ‘You have a one-sided sex ratio in favour of men. It’s not that unusual.’
The four minutes passed in a flash and he moved to the next table. Pamela could overhear him giving the same spiel to his next prospect. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the woman shrinking back in her seat, in contrast to her own reaction, which had been to sit forward in anticipation and give him a view of her cleavage. She tried not to ignore the current sales pitch but found it hard to concentrate on his infantile remarks about her beautiful blue eyes and his penile enhancement.
At the end of the session, Pamela used the embedded touch screen to mark her choices and then went to the bar and joined Bernice. In the other room, she could see the alien checking his e-pad to see if he’d scored any hits. He raised his head and scanned the bar. Their eyes locked and he bowed to her, a slight smile on his lips.
****
Parasite World Page 3
