Parasite World

by Trevor Williams

  She sat outside sipping her tea and enjoying an over sweet cupcake drenched in icing before making her way to the toilets. Indecision clutched at her. Which one? After hesitating for a split second, she went into the Ladies; much more comfortable. The umbrella safely stowed in a gap between the wall and a cubicle, Lucinda strolled out into the sunshine smiling at her ingenuity, knowing that she had completed her mission.

  ****

  The Archbishop of York, Georgio Semperimportante, looked briefly at his calf. Bloody insects, he thought, seeing a small red spot of blood. Turning away from the shop window, he nearly stumbled over a figure in rags sitting on the pavement.

  ‘Spare change your honour? Got any for a soul in need?’ the man said, stretching out a grimy hand.

  The archbishop recoiled slightly as he smelt the odour of poverty and ill health emanating from the beggar.

  ‘Dig deep oh Archbishop,’ muttered the homunculus in the cleric’s ear.

  The archbishop fumbled in the pockets of his robe finding a few coins. He deposited them in the beggar’s hand with a smile and strolled on.

  ‘Yeah, saith the Lord, thou shalt give all thy worldly goods to the poor,’ intoned the homunculus waving its arms, its wild eyes staring around at the passing crowds.

  ‘Cool it a little will you JC?’ admonished the archbishop. ‘I’m not carrying much money at the moment and it could get embarrassing.’

  ‘The Lord will provide. Is that it?’ asked the parasitic being on his shoulder. ‘Here is another poor person in need of your succour,’ it said, pointing its small hand at a scruffy woman with a little white dog and bowl of coins by her side.

  Semperimportante fished in his pockets for coins and found none.

  ‘I’m out of small change, I’m afraid,’ he said to the homunculus.

  ‘It’s alright dear,’ interjected the woman, ‘Me and Queenie, that’s my dog, we take credit and debit cards.’ She flashed a lopsided smile at the archbishop and slid a card reader out of her rucksack.

  ‘Go on my lord,’ said the homunculus. ‘You do have your cards with you, don’t you?’

  Semperimportante shrugged and pulled out a gold plated wallet. He flipped a card at the reader and stabbed a key on it to enter the amount.

  ‘Very generous, Archbishop,’ said JC.

  The woman smiled again, showing more of her yellow teeth. ‘Queenie, we’ll be having a burger and few drinks tonight.’

  The archbishop scowled at the homunculus and scuttled along the street, keeping his gaze fixed on the route ahead as he threaded his way through the dawdling shoppers. His leg was beginning to ache. The homunculus muttered in his ear and the man snarled back.

  ‘You are my advisor, not my keeper, my parasitic friend. Those money changers you keep going on about run the minster’s shop and all profits go to the upkeep of the building. It is all very virtuous. Now I must get back to do some work.’

  The homunculus folded its arms and tucked its hands inside the voluminous sleeves of the ornate robe that fell on to the archbishop’s shoulder. ‘Suit yourself,’ it said with a sneer. Then it pulled out its miniature e-pad and checked its messages.

  By the time he reached his office at York Minster, Semperimportante found himself hobbling with the pain in his leg. He sat down in his swivel chair, pulled up the robe and twisted his leg round. A small drop of blood marked the spot where he assumed that an insect had stung him. The area around it was red and slightly swollen. No wonder it hurts, he thought. He pulled open the top drawer in his desk in the hope that he might find some sort of cream or antiseptic to put on the affected area, knowing full well that he was unlikely to find anything of use. A small bottle rolled towards him from the back of the drawer: whisky, from a grateful parishioner. Now the archbishop felt grateful himself. He shuffled over to a cabinet and pulled out a small crystal tumbler, quickly pouring a generous shot into it. For medicinal purposes, he told himself. The throbbing in his leg subsided as the warming draught spread out from his stomach. He switched on his computer and opened the last document he had been working on: Eliminating the Scourge of Homosexuality in the Anglican Church.

  ****

  Three weeks later, the archbishop was feeling odd. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He and the homunculus returned his gaze. The parasite looked normal with the standard accoutrements of the JC model designed for senior clerics: small wiry arms, staring eyes, shaggy beard and shoulder length hair. The archbishop, on the other hand, could see that his own body was changing shape.

  ‘I’m growing breasts,’ he said, poking at his own chest. ‘That can’t be right.’

  ‘Verily, archbishop. I have felt quite unbalanced of late. It seemed to start after you had that insect bite. Perhaps you should see your medical practitioner,’ replied the homunculus.

  ‘I’m not going near that old dyke. I’ll look after myself.’

  Later that day, the archbishop decided to polish his article on ridding the church of homosexuals. This would be his message to the synod: they were going to be knocked over by the biblical logic of his argument. Gays are not part of church life in the Bible: man must couple with woman to produce children. It’s a basic fact, he thought. He scrolled through his carefully crafted text and read out the sections he wanted to emphasise, to his parasitic advisor.

  ‘It does seem a little strident,’ averred the homunculus. ‘Just a little too prurient.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Semperimportante. ‘It is the revealed truth of God. Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind. It is abomination: Leviticus 18:22,’ he said lowering his voice half an octave for effect.

  ‘In the modern context, you may be looked on as an extremist, Archbishop. Society accepts gays – homosexuals – as normal people, even in our church. It is seen as inherent in our teachings of tolerance.’

  ‘OK, I’ll tone it down a little.’ Semperimportante broke off from his writing to search the Internet for treatment for his loss of manhood. There were plenty of remedies for enlarging his shrivelling penis but nothing that would shrink his increasingly large breasts. As far as he could see, cosmetic surgeons were queuing up to chop lumps off breasts to make them smaller and it was all aimed at women. He’d have to make other arrangements.

  Dropping to his knees, he clasped his hands together. ‘Oh Lord. I seem to be turning into a woman. I pray that you will help me in this. Please make my chest revert to its original puny male profile and make my testicles their original beefy size.’

  Also clasping its tiny hands in prayer, the homunculus said, ‘Amen.’

  ****

  The archbishop’s wife, Mimosa, had always wanted a sister but not quite like this. Her husband had turned queer. She’d found him trying on her clothes. Why not stick to the robes, she thought, they’re as close to a dress as you can get anyway. He had been acting strangely of late with all that pro-gay clergy stuff. He’ll be advocating women bishops next. And about time too. She busied herself with her packing, waiting for him to get back from his Sunday sermonising. Not a note and a quiet exit, she’d decided. That’s not my style. He’s going to know why I’m leaving and feel my wrath.

  The front door clunked open. He never did fix those hinges. The archbishop came into the room, the homunculus whispering in his ear, as usual. Mimosa stood up leaving the suitcase open on the bed. His enquiring look was the trigger.

  ‘You may well look like that, Georgio. I have had enough. Your attitude towards women has grated on my nerves for years but at least you were good in bed. Not any more. It’s as if you’ve switched sides. Your tits are almost as big as mine and as for your … dangly bits … they’re getting smaller by the day. Whatever you’ve done to yourself, I don’t want to know. I’m leaving you to play your silly games on your own, you and that disgusting sanctimonious thing on your shoulder. Don’t look surprised! This is the last straw. I’m leaving and never coming back. Send my mail to mother’s!

  Mimosa snapped the suitcase shut, swung it of
f the bed and elbowed her husband out of her way as she left the room. Opening the front door, she shouted up the stairs. ‘There’s a Gay Pride march in town next week. You should join it!’

  ****

  Semperimportante had thought that he might seem out of place parading through the streets of York with hundreds of gays of both sexes. He wore his ceremonial robes and a large ornate gold cross on a chain that hung almost down to his waist. A group of muscular young men clad in swimming trunks hailed him as he strolled alongside a steel drum band.

  ‘Where’d you get the fancy dress? I’d like one of those,’ one of them shouted.

  Another voice chimed in. ‘He’s the real deal: that’s Archbishop Semperimportante.’

  The bodybuilders closed in around him shaking his hand and congratulating him for supporting their parade. For the rest of the march, they acted as his honour guard and protectors. It was the first time in his life that he’d felt that he was one of the lads.

  ‘Why are you doing this, Archbishop?’ asked his homunculus. ‘It is totally out of character and will make you the laughing stock of the Anglican establishment.’

  ‘You’re right. You mentioned how the physical changes to my body were affecting you. Well, it’s not just my body that’s changing: my whole psyche is evolving. I can feel a new enlightenment emerging inside me.’

  ****

  Lucinda watched the House of Lords channel. It fascinated her how a bunch of unelected plutocrats could distort the workings of parliament and despite that, often get it right. The people she watched particularly were the 26 Lords Spiritual, the senior clerics who automatically gained access to the house by virtue of their religious rank. There he was, Archbishop Semperimportante. He doesn’t look too bad, she thought. The camera zoomed in on the archbishop as he started to speak. She could see that his chin was almost hairless and that his robes were somewhat lush. They flowed around him in their opulence, almost like those of an African potentate intent on impressing the poor.

  The archbishop stood up and spoke. His homunculus looked like all of the others on the shoulders of the robed clerics. Lucinda had checked it on the Internet: it was a special JC version imbued with the ultimate in Christian morality and modelled on images in mediaeval paintings; hence the flowing hair, beard and piercing eyes.

  Semperimportante breathed in before starting his speech and looked at his advisor. The homunculus nodded sagely.

  ‘In the past, I have advocated that homosexuals – gays as they are known popularly – should not be allowed to take official positions in the Anglican Church. And I campaigned to have such people expelled from their positions. I hereby recant my original statements on this subject and declare that Christian humanitarian morality compels us to allow gay people to have the same rights as any other human beings both within the church and without.’

  Lucinda scanned the faces of the other clerics. They were looking at Semperimportante with raised eyebrows. Some tittered while others scowled. Well you might look, she thought. You are all on our list of targets.

  ****

  Lucinda tapped the contact number for her GUF controller on the screen of her e-pad for the tenth time that day. Once again, nothing. Something must have happened. He’d warned her that their campaign against the church hierarchy might bring the heavy brigade down upon them. Once that happens, expect your door to be smashed in, he’d said, and expect no mercy. They’re bastards. She didn’t know who the bastards were but assumed that he’d meant police or security people. So, it was crisis mode. First the laptop: she logged on and set off a low level format to wipe all data. She had back-ups of her personal stuff on a remote server in the cloud but all potentially incriminating data would disappear. Her commercial web design files were on another machine. There would be nothing to find there. The e-pad was the next problem. She had two: one for personal use and the other for her Gay United Front activities. That one had to go. She switched it off and whipped out the SIM and memory cards. Five minutes later they were curling up nicely in a pan of boiling water.

  A feeling of being watched prickled the back of her neck and crept down her spine. She looked around the room as if expecting to find an intruder. Two strides took her to the front window. The street was deserted save for a passing dirty green Land Rover. She peered after it as it continued on its way. Could be a false alarm, she thought as she went back to the boiled data cards and drained off the water. Back at the laptop, the format had finished and she switched it off and then on again. Blank screen of course, so she put the operating system disk in the drive and started the set-up program. Still nothing happening outside. Definitely a false alarm. She was doing all this stuff for nothing. Her personal e-pad chimed. She let it go to voice mail when she saw it was her mother. Another half hour diatribe about her not being married with a bevy of brats was not what she wanted right then.

  The doorbell rang. Looking out of the window she could see a tall man in shirtsleeves standing at the door. He didn’t look menacing in any way and there wasn’t a bunch of guys with guns, so she went to the door and opened it.

  ‘Ms Lucinda James?’ he asked brightly.

  ‘Yes. Who are you?’ Lucinda looked down. He was carrying an umbrella.

  ‘You can call me Smith. I believe that this is yours,’ he said. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Why would I need an umbrella in this weather?’ Lucinda parried, not moving.

  ‘You really should be more co-operative,’ replied Smith, staring her in the eye. ‘Now let me in or I’ll have to call for back-up. They’re not as nice as me. In fact they’re brutal buggers and break bones for fun.’

  Two days later, Lucinda was back home having spent the intervening time strapped down in a laboratory with her brain being scanned while being asked never ending questions about her contacts with the GUF. Had she met any other members or been to meetings? Who was her controller? They hadn’t beaten her but it just felt that way. Where the straps had bitten into her wrists and ankles, there were bruises and cuts. She hadn’t slept, eaten or had a drink in all that time. She could tell that her interrogators were disappointed: she knew nothing. All her contact with the GUF had been via e-pad, either via the Internet or voice and even that was synthetic. Their only clue was the umbrella and that had been delivered by courier. Lucinda didn’t know where it had come from. Smith had said it was a typical need to know terrorist operation. That was why they’d had let her go and dumped her at her front door. She was small fry and knew nothing.

  ****

  The archbishop picked up his cocktail. It looked like a fruit salad on steroids. The Gay Bug bar was intimate he’d been told. Cramped was his description with its tables packed together and very little space for the customers to get past. The lights were dim and windows small. He peered into the semi-darkness trying to see if his contact had arrived. The photograph sent by e-mail had been low res and Semperimportante doubted that he would recognise the man even if he fell over him. On other hand the archbishop knew he was unmistakeable with his homunculus on his shoulder. Even when not wearing his clerical gear, he knew he would be recognised easily. The jeans and leather jacket he saw himself wearing in the mirror behind the bar looked right in the company around him. On the other hand, the homunculus had insisted on wearing its usual robe and was a glaring anomaly in such a place. He noticed a lot of tattoos on exposed arms, most of them lewd. He could never see himself sporting a picture of female genitalia on his forearm.

  The early evening crowd was in good voice. To his ear, the transgender vocal signature resembled a set of choirboys on the verge of voice breakage. He took another sip of his fruit salad and was rewarded with a sudden rush of concentrated alcohol. It tasted like rum mixed with chocolate.

  A voice to his left lanced thought the sonic mush. ‘Glad you could make it Georgio.’

  Semperimportante turned towards the sound.

  His homunculus whispered in his ear. ‘This is an opportunity to spread the gospel among the disenfranch
ised, Archbishop. There could be any number of potential converts here.’

  The archbishop suddenly remembered how to switch off the homunculus and pressed a nerve centre in its neck. The parasite slumped into a sleeping pose, much to the archbishop’s relief. He greeted the figure at his side. The male voice belied the female appearance: long blonde hair, protruding chest and very short skirt were at variance with the resonant masculine voice. Semperimportante paused and looked at his companion.

  ‘You are John?’

  ‘Janine,’ the woman replied. ‘On my way to becoming her, anyway. Have a drink?’

  Janine waved at the barman and two fruit salads slid in front of them a few minutes later.

  ‘So Georgio, you’ve decided to change sex. Have you always felt you were in the wrong body?’

  ‘Not at all. I always felt totally at ease as a man. Until a couple of weeks ago that is. Now I don’t know what I am. Even my advisor, here,’ he said pointing to his shoulder, ‘has been affected.’

  ‘You didn’t go trans on purpose then?’

  ‘No. It seems to have started when I got stung by an insect.’

  ‘Now I’ve heard of some excuses. You were infected with the gay bug by an insect?’ Come on, there’s only one way to get it and that’s by injecting it yourself. It’s part of the transgender process.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here. I found the Gay Bug site on the web and all the symptoms fitted what was happening to me. I was hoping you could help.’