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

  “I don’t think that’s the case here,” Geri said. “It’s not why I came to talk with you.” The curtain of plants swayed gently. His eyes were closed, maybe he was listening.

  “It’s difficult for the average person to understand.” He sat forward now, eyes open, and looked directly at her. “Technically, it’s not all that different from sex reassignment. Guy wants to be a chick, gal wants to be a guy.”

  “Sure,” Geri said. How could she explain that a sex change was unimportant to her? He wasn’t shocking her; his idea of epiphany was no epiphany.

  “At one level, it’s not even that different from wanting cosmetic surgery,” Williams said. “Nose job. Breast implants. Penis enlargement.” In his attempt to connect, he leaned forward further and the point of his paisley tie had flapped and now lay folded—an arrow sending her directions—onto the mahogany desk. “Liposuction,” he added.

  “But—”

  He clasped his hands. “No one is sure if those are even the correct models—this dysmorphia could be more like anorexia—a wrong-headed perception of one’s body—skeletal girls who still feel fat.” He swung sideways in the black leather chair, one knee crossed above the other.

  “It’s not like that,” Geri said.

  “Studies have been done. The least common site people long to have amputated is a finger or toe. The most common fantasy is above the knee.” He swiveled and faced her. “Four inches above the left knee to be exact,” he said. “They’ll do anything to get the amputation. If they can’t find a surgeon, they shove their ‘offending’ limb in a wood chipper, or blow their legs off with a shotgun.” He picked up a folder from a stack on his desk.

  “Well ...”

  He handed Gerri a blue flyer. At title at the top was “Amputation: DPWs—Devotees, Pretenders, and Wannabes.” Shit. The last time she checked, DPW stood for Department of Public Works. She stifled a giggle; the sound that erupted became a half snort.

  “There’s no shame involved.” His dark brown eyes widened. “I don’t make judgments. You can tell me anything you want.”

  For the sake of protocol, she glanced at the flyer, and then folded it in half and put it in her purse. He didn’t want the truth; he was more interested in trends. This latest trend would make his fame and fortune. He could publish articles in magazines, he could write monographs—maybe even a book.

  “Nothing you say will surprise me.”

  Geri had a feeling that wasn’t the case.

  “So.” He was leaning back again, his eyes closed so that the big revelation could be uttered by the patient more easily. “What happened?”

  Geri stood, pressing the heel of her right foot down, pushing up with her right knee and thigh, and using both arms for leverage. Her handbag was already on her shoulder.

  “I had bone cancer.”

  Geri was back in her apartment before three o’clock. The twice-weekly cleaning service had come and gone, and she could see the tracks the Oreck upright had left on the oyster carpets. All the rooms smelled faintly of lavender.

  She thought about making a drink, but steered toward the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. She had gone to the shrink because she was trying to understand where she had gone wrong, and where someone like Missy had gone right.

  She had better find out soon, she thought, because today was the 26 and she didn’t have the rent money for this place or her real home where her son lived. Cleaning services and fresh flowers and scented linens were going to be a thing of the past pretty soon if she didn’t do something. Taking care of Robert the way she wanted to take care of him was going to be an even bigger problem.

  But how could Missy and all those other whores—and straights—want an amputation? Geri had been twelve when the cancer was diagnosed. She had been terrified and depressed for years—was maybe still depressed—after they’d taken her leg. Crying herself to sleep at night because kids made fun of her at school, on field trips, at the beach, in gym class. She could get away with skirts, but there were all the years of not wearing shorts because the black or gray tights she wore to hide the ugly, jointed prosthesis looked stupid with shorts. There were all those years adding up to right now, when she was thirty-eight, that her left shoe never had a crease in it. It always looked as if it had just come from the display shelf. She had seen the eyes of observant men and women staring. A dummy shoe for a dummy leg.

  She poured the tea into a thin cup, took a lemon from the refrigerator and cut a slice, laying it on the edge of the white china saucer. She got her handbag and took out the flyer, and then sat down at the wooden gate-leg table with her tea to read.

  If I can’t have my amputation right away, is thinking about it preventing me from doing the other things I need to do in my life?

  What obstacles (dangers of self-mutilation, finding a willing surgeon) prevent me from getting my amputation?

  How do I remove the obstacles to getting my amputation?

  That last wouldn’t be so hard, Geri thought. Anything—anything—could be bought on the black market. Missy and the others who were raking it in probably had no problem finding a backstreet medical student or two.

  She skimmed down to the bottom, to a quote set off in curlicue brackets that seemed to be a reminder that beauty was in the eye of the beholder:

  “Since the late 1800s the medical literature has described men and women who are sexually attracted to amputees, those who limp, or use crutches, braces, and wheelchairs, as well as individuals who pretend to be or who actually want to become disabled.”

  Richard L. Bruno, Ph.D.

  Geri picked up the phone. What’s Your Fetish and What’s Your Pleasure weren’t the only specialty whorehouses in town that commanded top dollar. She spent a long time scrolling through the huge list of contacts, some of them coded. Finally she dialed the number for a place called Kinkettes. It took a few minutes to get past the receptionist and on to the madam.

  “I’m working with Maive—for the most part,” Gerri said.

  “Yeah?”

  “And here’s my question ...”

  “Shoot.”

  “What are the johns paying—the ones who want an amputee—what are they paying for a girl,” she said, “a girl with both legs gone above the knee?”

  INDEPENDENCE DAY

  BY P. I. BARRINGTON

  Barneby Cottrich inspected his visage with approval. The long-desired transformation was complete. The hands he once considered too effeminate had been replaced by a stranger’s hands, rough and hard, and the legs he thought too weak, thin, and spindly from a hated illness had been replaced by another stranger’s. His face, eyes, ears, nose, and mouth had also been replaced by even more strangers’ appendages and features. The scars healed instantly, miraculously, as if by magic, just as with every time he went into the laudanum-laced dreams during the mysterious procedures.

  Now, the last and most important piece of flesh transferred onto him would give him a new lease on the world, a new lease on life, and fulfill his deepest wish to buy even perfection itself! Only a little while now and he’d be perfect, the way he wanted to be, not as he was. Everything would change now that the process had been completed; he only had to heal from the last ministrations. Over the past year, he’d undergone many surgical and seemingly mystical transformations, determined to recreate himself with the help of a strange yet effective physician who promised the world for a price—and who had not disappointed him so far.

  In 1898, the type of surgery Cottrich required and sought was unimaginable. He prided himself on the fact that he was both rich and daring enough to undertake such risky medical procedures. Yet, every physician and surgeon he’d approached scoffed at his intention, thinking it impossible, regardless of his money.

  A year ago, when he’d opened the door of The Dr. Animus Shoppe of Commodities, heard the enchanting tinkle of chimes, and saw the apothecary drawers of every size imaginable, he had been both intrigued and inspired. Rumors surrounded the doctor, that he c
ould perform medical miracles, so skilled was he with the scalpel. Some even said he possessed skills beyond man’s limited knowledge, possibly even acquired by dark arts. Cottrich cared not for such wives’ tales and lunacies. His only concern was his quest for perfection.

  “Hello,” Cottrich said in a bright tone when the doctor made his appearance from behind thick, cream-colored denim curtains. The doctor wore a full suit, expensively cut, and a waistcoat with elaborate embroidery. His hair and beard were trimmed in the current style, and he exuded a genteel charm. “I presume you are the Doctor Animus of this Shoppe?”

  “That is correct, sir. What may I help you with today?” He smiled. He checked his gold pocket watch and nodded as if an expected appointment had arrived.

  “I’ve heard of your Shoppe and that you sell ... well ... perfection. Physical perfection, if you know what I mean.” He leaned over the counter with a conspiratorial expression and lifted his cane high enough to be seen. The doctor stared at it as if he’d never seen one before and, for a moment, hope hung suspended. Then the doctor smiled knowingly and turned to a roll-top desk, opening it to the letter slats. He took several sheets from within and turned back to Cottrich.

  “If you’ll just list all the areas you’d like to be perfected, my dear sir, we can get the procedures under way.” He handed the paperwork over with another smile, and then provided Cottrich with a quill pen and a small inkwell jar. “I’ll just be preparing my surgery while you do so.”

  “You mean to start this day?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I assumed you were anxious—”

  “Oh, not anxious at all, my good doctor! I did not think it could be done at such short notice.”

  “I can make preparations now, if you like.”

  “Please do.”

  Dr. Animus disappeared behind the curtains into a back room.

  When the doctor returned, he looked over the list of “improvements” and “perfections” listed and glanced up.

  “This is a rather extensive list, sir. The price is quite high for such a large ... purchase.”

  “No matter,” Cottrich said with a shrug. “I will pay any price.”

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  “Yes. Quite sure.”

  “Well, then, you must sign here at the bottom, sir.” The doctor pointed to a signature line at the bottom of the list, just below several paragraphs. The doctor looked up and smiled yet again. “Just an agreement—a formality, you understand—to ensure both parties get what they want”

  “Why, of course I understand!” Cottrich exclaimed. “I am a businessman myself, used to handling contracts and deals! That is how I come to afford this ‘purchase,’ as you call it.” He gave the contract a cursory read, ignoring some of the Latin and legalese that he didn’t understand. No matter. He grasped the pen again and bent over the papers to sign. A stiff, sharp prick from a barb on the quill feather drew a large, red bubble of blood, quivering on his fingertip, and he jerked, causing the drop to land at the line just at the edge of his name.

  “Damn it all, man!” he said, putting the finger to his mouth for a moment. “Be sure to nick that barb before the next person uses it!”

  The doctor apologized profusely, and then directed Cottrich through the curtain for the first “perfecting.”

  Cottrich no longer bothered with the walking stick he’d needed since the age of fourteen; he would never use it again. For the first time after his final surgical procedure, he walked out of the penthouse and exited through the palatial foyer of the New Dakota building, built twenty-nine years before and still the most impressive apartment building in all of New York. At last, he was worthy of living in such a striking place, a worthiness valued beyond any amount, regardless of the cost.

  As he walked, he made gentlemanly salutes to women, children, and other men passing by, tipping his hat to everyone. A few gave him odd looks, as if he perplexed them, and in some cases the women returned frightened glances at him, while their children stared at him with open curiosity. At first puzzled, he soon realized that they most likely didn’t recognize him, despite his clothing and voice.

  “Hello, my dears,” he said to everyone, using his familiar voice in his most jovial tones. “How are you today? Fine? That’s splendid, splendid!” Again, the strange looks, often from those he knew socially, if not personally. He wondered if his close friends might have the same reaction upon seeing his perfected body. He was newly transformed, he assured himself. In time, they would acclimate themselves to his new persona. By the time he’d walked home from the park, exhaustion set in—expected from this, his first extended physical exercise in seven weeks.

  As the days passed, his personal assistant assumed a pale and concerned expression, but said nothing of use to him. Cottrich grew tired of the worried silence that surrounded him.

  “I say, what is the problem? I’m recuperating, that’s all. There isn’t cause for concern.”

  “Um,” was all the man would say, apparently afraid to comment further.

  “Come out with it, man!”

  But his servant merely hung his head in silence.

  “Ugh, you’re a foolish manservant! Why, I can find a hundred—no, a thousand—more like you in a minute! Take care you do not upset me further!”

  Cottrich rarely berated his assistant, but the man’s lack of response was curious and near repugnant. He wondered at his own unusual attitude for a moment, and then shrugged. It did not matter in the least. In the morning, he would take himself out again for a Central Park promenade, this time introducing himself to people who did not yet recognize him. Yes, that was a plan all right, a perfect plan. He fell asleep dreaming of the world’s response to his new life.

  At first, he dismissed the problems as the quirks of new body parts becoming accustomed to his body and to each other. Dr. Animus warned that some adaptation and adjustment would be required. Minor setbacks, he assured Cottrich, nothing more.

  Cottrich was determined to continue with his plan of an afternoon stroll. He knew that most of the populace would take refuge from the sweltering New York City heat in the Park—older people on the wooden and iron benches, younger women and children sitting on quilts or playing under the trees for the relief of the shade. Against the protests of his manservant, he chose his best clothes and found himself struggling to tug them on, relying on the assistant to shrug on his waistcoat, knot his tie, and button up his boots, something he’d always found easy to do on his own. He walked down the street, smiling at the people passing who now stared at him agog, as if he were some alien thing. What the devil was this, he thought.

  As he stepped across the street toward the park, he tripped slightly over nothing—not a crack in the pavement or an uneven stone. He righted himself and tried to continue on his way. Several things happened at once. His legs jerked out from under him, each moving at right angles and knees bending oddly. His feet twisted nearly backward, making his gait freakish and his movements strangely mechanical. He struggled forward, determined to control himself—no one and nothing dared defy him, and his body would not either. He stumbled into the park, heading for a bench that vacated as soon as he veered toward it, the woman with the little girl rising to run away, hiding the child’s face in her skirt as she dragged her screaming youngster away from him.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” he tried to say. But his mouth was no longer his own.

  He approached the bench and reached out to grasp the iron arm to steady himself and lower his body into a sitting position, but the new hands that he prized now spread wide, the fingers curling and uncurling on their own. In frustration, he snapped the hands in the air to clear the spasms, their response a brief respite. He sighed in deep gratitude when he managed to sit, although his feet still faced the wrong way and his legs stuck out in even weirder angles, jerking and twisting. He now wished that he’d brought his manservant along with him. He cursed his dullness in silence. Silence! He would soon lose the ability to speak at all. The tho
ught both perplexed and angered him. Then, with a flash of insight, Cottrich knew what he had to do.

  He stood slowly, waiting for each movement and compensating as best he could, and began to walk. Young women, walking with parasols over their shoulders, stopped and squealed in fright as he walked by, and gallant young men seized the opportunity to shield and save the maidens from whatever they perceived him to be. Yet even those young men turned their faces from him, sickened by what they saw. He made his way to the one place that would solve it all, make it all go away for good.

  Like a half-blind man, he read the street signs through a glazed view, as if through the stained and leaded glass windows of his penthouse. Words that were normally easy to read were now blurred and slanted, impossible to decipher. At last, he came to the street block he sought and with slow, careful steps, he scuttled up the stairs like a crab, wishing for the discarded walking stick that now appraised priceless in his estimation.

  Cottrich felt his way along the door, fumbling with the doorknob and forcing his hand to grasp and turn it through sheer will. The familiar tinkle of chimes now grated in his ear. He clambered to the counter, slapping his hand uselessly on its top.

  “Doctor! I must see you immediately! Doctor! Doc-tor!”

  The doctor reappeared through the heavy curtains and gazed at him blankly.

  “What is your complaint, sir?” he asked.

  “What ... what is my com—plaint?” Cottrich screeched at the man. “Loo—look at me! I cannot control this new body that you have given me! My legs bend out sideways ... my feet turn backward and my fingers twist this way and that as they please!” He stopped speaking for a moment, trying to regain control of his mouth and tongue. “It is as if they are acting independently of one another! In fact, I believe my ... manhood ... my organ ... may have a mind of its own as well!”