Zippered Flesh: Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad!

by Nicholson, Scott; Shirley, John; Jones, Adrienne; Mannetti, Lisa; Masterton, Graham; Laimo, Michael; Rosamilia, Armand; Colyott, Charles; Bailey, Michael

  Ryn continued with his carving, fascinated by how the meat yielded as easily as wood. And he didn’t have to worry about cutting against the grain or fighting burls and knots, or discovering a flawed grain as one might encounter in granite. He lifted his pickax and worked it against his abdomen to free his burgeoning bowels. He dropped the pickax to the floor and it bounced away with a dull metallic clatter.

  There was no more Medi, no thoughts. Only pain, sacrifice, and art. Only the shaping. He picked up the bull point and placed the blunt chisel against his chest. He raised his hickory mallet with effort, the handle slippery with blood. He was about to summon his strength for a final revealing blow when he saw movement on the dimming edge of his awareness.

  The Critics were standing.

  Would they take him as a boy, or love him as a man?

  Ryn swayed, glaring into those gray wizened faces and dark marble eyes, waiting for them to raise their arms and tilt their thumbs toward the stone floor, waiting for them to signal the merciful vaporizer.

  But they didn’t. They brought their wrinkled hands together, woodenly at first, then faster. They were applauding.

  And smiles creased their faces, unheard-of smiles!

  The pain ripped through Ryn’s velvet curtain of rhapsody as he sagged against the table and looked gratefully at the Critics. Thin hot fluid streaked down his face and he thought it was only more blood. But the fluid made his ruined cheeks sting as it rolled across the ditches in his face.

  Tears of joy.

  He was selected.

  The sculpted Ryn would live eternal.

  SOMETHING BORROWED

  BY J. GREGORY SMITH

  Malibu, California: Unlimited Potential Retreat Clinic

  “Needles? Goodness no, they don’t bother me.” Maud Spitfire drew her full lips into a perfect smile. Her Wedgwood-white teeth should have had their own wattage rating. “You leave that right there, but I don’t think you need to worry about bees here, Mr. Getty.”

  Getty put the auto-injector on the glass table top. “It’s a serious allergy. But this can get uncomfortable in my pocket.”

  “I get that reaction from men all the time. And they’re not all carrying hypos, if you get my drift.”

  How could he miss it? Might even be true, despite her age—old enough to be his mother. “Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice.”

  Almost as short as her skirt. She’d never see fifty again, but looked frozen in time at thirty-two—and ten times better looking than most ladies on the best day of their lives. Her platinum hair could have been the real thing and, if he hadn’t known to look, he couldn’t tell which eye had been replaced.

  “Anything for Invincible Studios. I’ve been dying to work with them ever since Herm took over.” She touched his thigh under the table.

  Considering she hadn’t worked for years, he wasn’t surprised. Fan conventions may have helped float the fantasy, but she was hungry for a new shot. He felt her fingers tremble on his leg. “Mr. Blankwater regrets he couldn’t be here himself, but he’s personally supervising the wrap on a project in Israel.”

  She pulled back her hand and gave a dismissive wave. “It’s that personal attention he gives any project that makes me want to work with him.”

  That and your career in the toilet. At least she didn’t sound like she’d want to get him on the phone. Getty had some dummy lines set up, but better not to have to use them. She was sharper than she let on. “I think you’ll love the part he has in mind for you.”

  She flashed another gleaming smile. “This is so sudden. He seems like he forgot about my body of work.”

  “Who doesn’t know the Quasar series? Your ‘Zora’ is a household name. The final episode was the best.”

  “I know.” She’d winced at the word “final,” but puffed up at the compliments.

  “Mr. Blankwater said to tell you he appreciates starting off here with a face to face.” Getty feigned an awkward pause. “Well, with me as his surrogate. He needs to know first if you are interested.”

  “Tell me more.” She patted his arm, perhaps pretending it was meant for this Blankwater character. Getty needed to steer this back to her before he ran out of background research.

  Getty looked around to confirm they were alone. He needn’t have worried. A decade of five-star seclusion, where stars recovered from various surgeries, made hiding here second nature, Getty figured. They sat on a balcony overlooking the Pacific.

  “Off the record, Mr. Blankwater has acquired the rights to produce all-new features based on the Quasar franchise.”

  She sucked in her breath like he told her she just won the lottery. Wait, she’s already rich. This was her lottery.

  He nodded and put a finger to his lips. “Of course, you are one of the first people he mentioned, but he’s understandably concerned the news will leak.”

  “Of course. We can work out the business end. That’s what I have people for.”

  Not lately.

  “Certainly. Now you understand why we needed to see you in person. When we heard you were here, we were worried.”

  “Oh that. As you can see, I’m fit and firm. I was only out here for the spa experience and hair. They’re quite full-service, and so discreet.”

  If she knew the size of the hole in their security a few grand could buy, it’d wrinkle her botoxed forehead.

  “Very good. Now in this sequel, Zora is going to be headlined. She’s become Queen of the Quasar Confederation,” Getty saw her sit up ramrod-straight. Getting into character, no doubt.

  “Yes?”

  “And, despite most of her subjects’ adoration, one planet has become suffused with epidemic callousness that threatens to subvert the entire Quasar System.”

  “How so?”

  That faraway look in her eye told Getty he was speaking directly to Queen Zora herself.

  Time for a royal wake-up. He tried to remember the script they gave him. “The population of Surgican, that’s the planet, has divided into Master and Slave. Really, the Haves and the Won’t Have for Long.”

  Confusion pulled “Zora” a little closer to Earth. “I don’t follow.”

  “See, the slaves are used as spare parts to maintain the rulers. They mean to live forever by harvesting whatever organs they need, right from the Haves. Sick, huh?”

  Outrage boiled out of her face, exaggerating its effect on parts not paralyzed with Botox. Her nose twitched like a rabbit and her hands shook like they were palsied.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Think of me as kind of a repo man.”

  “What?”

  “How about, I’m a friend of your sister?” He watched her eyes for a reaction. Her head snapped back.

  “Rena is dead!”

  She was a better actress than he’d thought. They said she would lie, but he was impressed by her intensity. “Then she’s a high-paying ghost.”

  “She died in an accident soon after she donated her kidney to me. Mother said—” She stood up and anger tinged her cheeks scarlet. “Why I am telling you this? Get out of here right now, you sick—”

  “Donated?” He’d expected her to put up a fight. She was getting too loud for his comfort. “And the eye?”

  She shook her head. “That was from the eye bank. Wait. How do you know these things?”

  Her body language told Getty she was close to panic. Her gaze darted for a way past him. Not a chance. She inhaled for a theater-worthy scream.

  Getty uncapped the auto-injector and plunged it into her thigh. He covered her mouth with his other hand and ignored the pain when she bit down on the meat of his palm.

  Her body began to relax, but her eyes remained open.

  Getty eased her into her chair. She sat like a warm stature. He lifted one arm and it stayed when he released it. “You’re kind of like a posable Barbie.”

  He retrieved a wheelchair from the bedroom and half expected it to have her name on the back.

  He
punched a number into his phone. “Oh, sorry, I must have misdialed. These gadgets get smaller all the time, don’t they?” He hung up and gave the guard time to clear his way. Shouldn’t take long to get those cameras to blink.

  Getty loaded her onto the wheelchair and arranged her limbs. He pulled her lips into a smile, but it looked like a fleshy clown grin. He pushed her cheeks back more or less to where they were. “You get to keep the eye. I probably wouldn’t be so generous.”

  Getty hoped the hour traffic jam on the Pacific Coast Highway wouldn’t hurt his plans. All he’d been told was that the drug would give him “plenty of time,” which grated on his craving for meticulous detail on a job.

  The doctor’s condescension had raised his blood pressure enough for him to skip it.

  Not the money?

  That, too.

  He brought duct tape in case Maud came around, but he’d have to stuff her in the trunk and avoid HOV lanes if that happened.

  As it was, she reclined in the front seat next to him in a posture of slumber. He wanted to see her in case she moved. It wouldn’t do to get attacked while he was watching Elephant seals mating on the beach or whatever.

  He pulled into San Diego just before midnight. Maud hadn’t moved, but the only reason her eyes were closed was because he pulled the lids down himself. That was one detail the doctors (if that’s what they really were) shared with him. Otherwise he’d need to put drops in her eyes every fifteen minutes. Getty made the assumption Maud wasn’t unconscious and could hear, so he stuck to whistling.

  The metal gate rolled up when he approached, and he drove in. At least he knew he had the right place.

  He didn’t like it when the door came back down, cutting off his escape. Then again, he didn’t need prying eyes watching him offload his cargo, either.

  One of life’s little risks, that’s all. He had fifteen rounds in his nine and a vest on to discourage last-minute renegotiations.

  Three figures stepped into view. They were dressed like doctors, in scrubs and everything. He recognized the short one. He called himself Garcia.

  “You’re late.” Garcia tapped his wrist like Getty didn’t speak English.

  “Sunset traffic on the PCH. She hasn’t moved a muscle other than to breathe. What was that stuff?”

  “It’ll wear off soon.” Garcia motioned to the other two. One rolled up a wheelchair and the other opened the car door. “She put up a fight?”

  “Not really.” His palm had turned purple where she bit him.

  Garcia looked worried. “Did you hit her in the body? Near the liver or the kidneys?”

  “Not even in the haggis. You’re paying for a pro. She’s fine as long that stuff isn’t harmful.”

  “Then your bonus is safe.” Garcia looked relieved, but Getty felt a flush creep up his neck. Clients didn’t usually get under his skin like this. He held out his hand. “Let’s see it.”

  If they were going to pull anything, this was the time. He listened for any threatening sounds.

  Garcia walked to the back of a car and opened the trunk.

  Getty hated how exposed he was in the middle of this garage. No choice right now. He rested his right hand on his hip and hooked his thumb under his shirt so he’d be able to make a clean draw.

  Garcia stepped back around with a briefcase. Getty watched the other hand, empty. His gaze flicked to the other two men, who watched him but remained with Maud, whose only response was marked by a single tear’s march down her flawless cheek.

  Garcia handed the case over and Getty crouched on the floor to open it up. No explosions. Good. He saw the right number of stacked hundreds. Better.

  He looked up at the men in green scrubs like a lion guarding a kill. They stood by with placid expressions.

  Getty lifted the cash and saw the glint of the twenty gold bars. He took one out and relished the heft. He took a piece of ceramic from his pocket and rubbed it on the bar.

  Real.

  “So we’re done, yes? Good job and good luck.” Garcia strode toward the red button to let Getty out.

  This was the part where he got into the car and put a couple thousand miles between him and them.

  But his skin was crawling. The day he stopped listening to his instincts was the day he retired (or got killed.)

  “Hang on.” All three turned to him.

  He lowered his voice so Maud wouldn’t be able to hear him even if she was conscious. “What are you going to do with her?”

  Garcia’s face reddened like he’d been slapped. “We’ve discussed this already.”

  “You told me her sister is alive. That Maud and her mother went batshit crazy and allowed doctors that Mom brought from Mexico to take parts out of Rena to give to Maud, just so she could prosper and become a big star.”

  “Your memory is excellent. Now—”

  “Not yet. I’m no doctor, but you said Rena was sick. Needed a kidney and wants her old one back?”

  “That’s right.” Garcia folded his arms across his chest.

  “Fair enough. I know Maud can live with dialysis, but you said something else.”

  “Did I?”

  Getty pointed to his own head. “Memory? You mentioned the liver. Rena needs one of those too?”

  “Not your concern.” The condescension was back.

  Walk away.

  “Beg to differ. I need to know which shoulder to look over when this is done, since I’m an accessory. You can’t live without a liver, I know that much.”

  Garcia closed his eyes. Getty stared at the man’s face and wondered if the cheesy mustache was glued on. Garcia opened his eyes and smiled. “One moment.” He scurried over to the other two.

  Getty half expected them to break their huddle with guns blazing. But they didn’t look like shooters, and he’d make them sorry if they tried.

  Garcia approached Getty with his hands out.

  “Since these are unusual circumstances, we’ll share more than we thought initially prudent.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We work for a group of physicians who operate, shall we say, outside of the conventional framework.”

  “No shit.”

  “Unlike our less-ethical colleagues, such as the ones who abused our client, we seek to rectify the mistakes while exploring opportunities to expand mankind’s knowledge.”

  Head this off before it becomes a lecture.

  “For a price. But I’ll skip the slippery slope arguments.”

  “And we shall dispense with those about glass houses.”

  “Touché.”

  Garcia touched his mustache. “Miss Rena has suffered her entire life. We’ve only recently been able to recover her from the virtual prison her late mother imposed. She’s an identical twin in name only, due in part to the accident that paralyzed her, not to mention the appalling lack of nutrition during her formative years.”

  “Look, you don’t need to cue the string music. Things are tough all over. I need to know if I’m part of a murder rap. That’s outside the scope of work.”

  “Ms. Maud will be quite fine.”

  “Fine with no liver?”

  “We aren’t going to take her liver.”

  “Tell me, are you certain Maud knew what her mother was doing? And that Rena is alive? She sounded convincing.” Getty had to rely on Garcia’s word that there was a Rena who was footing his bill. As long as the money was good.

  “Mr. Getty, what do you care? I should think a conscience would qualify as a hazard in your line of work.”

  Getty had to give him that one. Maybe it was time to retire.

  Getty picked up the case and entered the car. The two men with Maud rolled her out of sight. “Now we’re done.” He slammed the car door and leaned out the window. “But I’m going to be watching. If Maud disappears, you’re going to pay the price for putting heat on me. Are we clear?”

  “If you want proof, we’ll see you get all you need.”

  Whatever that meant.

 
Nine Months Later—Outside the Peacock Auditorium, Los Angeles

  Getty checked his watch and skimmed the Daily Variety review.

  Comeback of the Year?

  by Myron Byron

  Maud Spitfire, known to most as “Zora” in the timeless Quasar films, has managed to resurrect her fading career following a freak accident that robbed her of the use of her legs.

  Undaunted, she emerged determined to reinvent herself, and has completed the transformation from sci-fi sexpot to the most refreshing comedy act in a generation. In We’re not Zora, Spitfire’s one-woman act comes across as something dreamt by Walt Disney’s twisted clone. Not since the Smothers Brothers has an act worked in the “Mom liked you best” theme so effectively.

  While we must admit a degree of disappointment at the veil of secrecy with which Spitfire now enshrouds her life, we concede she’s earned the right to be as diva as she wants with this fearless tour de force.

  Getty tossed the paper aside and crossed the street. The line had started to move and he didn’t want to miss the beginning. The “anonymous” card and envelope with ticket left on his windshield had warned him not to be late.

  Getty sat in the front row and stared at the pitch-black stage. The music built around the audience; it made him think of a funeral dirge sped up to sound more like calliope music.

  You’re too close. This could be a trap. He’d already been too careless, but he might as well see this through. Besides, his eyes weren’t what they used to be and he wanted to be sure.

  He didn’t think they’d come at him directly, so he wasn’t carrying any weapons or other suspicious items. If they thought of setting him up with the cops, they were in for a surprise. And it wouldn’t be the last. He’d find every one of them later.