by Phil Edwards
Bingo.
You aren’t certain what any of that means, but the glowing seems like a good sign, and the warnings next to the machine indicate that it must be important.
By skimming the manual, making some exciting and plausible-sounding guesses, and eating a few of the doggie treats you were supposed to give to the poodles, you realize exactly what this machine does: by mixing the DNA of two different animal species, it can create a third one! It’s a fantastical scenario in which you are able to instantly crossbreed species! More importantly, it could be your chance to change the course of life on Earth, or at least kill a couple of hours.
Fortunately, handy sets of buttons make the process even easier to complete. Selecting which animals to crossbreed is as easy as punching a few keys and pulling a lever. The only question is which animals you’ll mix.
To cross a tiger with a tiger, tap here.
To cross a lion with a lamb, tap here.
To cross a kangaroo with a bird, tap here.
Who knew science would involve so much chasing people? If you’d known that, you might have worn a slightly less tight lab coat.
You follow the bespectacled scientist through the laboratory to see where he’s going—and wherever it is, he’s going there fast. You try to conceal yourself by walking quietly, and you decide that if he turns to look at you, you’ll stand very still and pretend you’re a mannequin.
He goes into a room with a window, so you press your ear against the glass. It’s possible to hear the murmurs inside.
“I don’t care if you’re running out. Just get more baking soda and fill it up! Now!”
Baking soda? You can’t help but wonder if Cothree is inside that lab, coordinating their efforts. You have no choice but to burst into the room while waving your arms wildly.
“Stop it right now! Cothree is mine!”
Your hands are raised for combat, or to catch any candy they might throw at you. Now you have to decide your strategy.
To take a short nap, put the book down for an hour or so and shut your eyes. Maybe try warm milk?
To continue your quest, tap here.
You prowl the lab with the grace of a jungle tiger and the intelligence of a laboratory tiger. There has to be a clue about Cothree somewhere around here. Then, you see it.
A bottle labeled Do Not Drink is sitting open on a lab table. Why would they write Do Not Drink when it looks so drinkable and is filled with so much liquid? It doesn’t make any sense.
You smell the bottle and it seems fine once you recover from fainting. A little sip couldn’t hurt, could it? And if it could, you have time to kill.
You take a big swig from the bottle and, suddenly, colors are everywhere. Beatram is with you again, and you’re in a field, cleaning unicorn horns with baking soda.
The lab mortician says your organs look like a forgotten pot roast.
THE END
Something about testing a possibly explosive poison on humans just seems right. It turns out the lab has a well-stocked room filled with test subjects who are eager to help, or had wardens who released them for the day. You’re glad to work at a lab that doesn’t bother with bureaucracy like unnecessary paperwork and laws. It turns out your lab badge gives you authorization to do pretty much anything you want (which makes you wish you’d gotten Beatram a badge before they took him away).
The human testing area looks pleasant enough and reminds you of a dental waiting room area. There are seventeen copies of Time magazine, all from April 6th, 1992, a couple of empty tissue boxes, and three chairs, which the dozen people in the room take turns sharing. When you enter, they seem instantly impressed by your clipboard.
“Pick me!” each one of them shouts. “Just get me out of here.”
“I had a feeling you might say that. I’m testing a liquid that might be explosive and poisonous.”
None of the hands fall.
It’s going to be difficult to choose from these candidates, since they all seem so qualified to drink things, except for a baby who’s had his lips locked onto a bottle the entire time. You shake your head.
“Can you handle a flask, baby?”
Your instincts were right about the baby because, rudely, he says nothing at all. You quickly learn that you’ve become drunk with power (or, possibly, the lab’s supply of rubbing alcohol, which you pocketed on the way out).
“Who do you think you are?” you say to the baby, your voice calm and dark. “You’ve come to one of the top labs in this suburb, and you’re speaking to one of the top flask-cleaners-turned-beaker-cleaners-turned-explosive-poison-testers in the world!”
The baby speaks in some incomprehensible language and wanders into the hallway.
At least the other candidates are a little more presentable. Though a couple of them are shirtless, and at least one is pantsless, you have a few candidates who should make great subjects. You try selecting them using the Scientific Method, but you can’t remember all the words to eeny-meeny-miney-moe. That means you have to choose.
To choose the elderly woman, tap here.
To choose the strapping young fellow, tap here.
To choose the man whose eyes are as dark as a raven’s feathers and whose smile is as cruel as a serpent’s, tap here.
Animal testing seems like a great opportunity to add some levity to your job, and you love caring for animals.
It turns out that the lab has hundreds of animals, born, raised, and buried for this explicit purpose. Still, it’s difficult to know which animal to test the chemicals on: do you want a smart one that will be able to convey they’ve been poisoned? Or do you want a dumber one that might be willing to explode?
You make your way past some of the other rooms in the lab, with the large container of the possibly explosive, possibly poisonous chemical sloshing in your arms. Was this how Socrates felt when he discovered hemlock? Was this the excitement Bohr tasted when he built the first atom? You’re so eager to begin that you barely notice when a drop of chemical drops on your shoe and dissolves the heel. It’s fine—walking with a limp makes you look distinguished!
When you reach the animal testing room, you’re surprised to find that the animals aren’t locked in separate cages, pressed together in small quarters. In fact, the door opens to a small field, where birds chirp on trees and bunny rabbits frolic amidst daisies. An attendant with a chipmunk perched on her shoulder smiles at you.
“Here to get a test subject?”
“Yep!” you shout. “I’ve got a lot of stuff in this flask.”
“Fantastic. Just go ahead and pick one up. They’ll jump right in your arms, trusting you completely.”
“Really? I’m surprised that they aren’t in cages.”
She nods knowingly as the chipmunk feasts upon a nut.
“We found that a lot of the animals lost their will to live in cages, and that made it too easy to kill them. But now they know just how much they have to lose!”
“That’s amazing.” You nuzzle the chipmunk. “Of course, it’s for the best this way. I mean, we develop so many great drugs.”
She shakes her head.
“We don’t really do that in this lab. We usually test nail polish remover remover. You see, sometimes people spill nail polish remover and they need to remove it. So we just see if it’s harmful or not. And it definitely is!”
“Well, I’ve got some explosive poison that I’m supposed to test. We’re wondering if it’s good for them or not.”
“That sounds so important! Well, go ahead. Our animals live mostly on nectar and dew, so they’ll drink anything right up!”
You’re excited—but it’s going to be hard to find the perfect animal to test.
To choose a chipmunk, tap here.
To choose a tiger, tap here.
To choose a sheep, tap here.
The lawyer and napkin-bandana guy stay behind. It’s your turn to have an exclusive tour of the Cretaceous Amusement Facility, and you can’t wait. Lugging the femur yoursel
f, Hammond leads you through a bunch of ferns.
“We spent so much money on ferns. They just add a certain je ne sais quoi.”
“Is je ne sais quoi a species of fern?”
“You’re quite funny.”
You try to summon a droll reply.
“I like beakers!”
After a few hundred more ferns, you reach a clearing and see a dinosaur’s neck peeking up. It looks like a classic brontosaurus, or whatever they’re calling it now. You can’t believe your eyes and you race up the hill to see it.
“That’s why we need the femur,” Hammond says.
The brontosaurus sits limply on the hill, his body slumped on shapeless legs. Around him, other dinosaurs flop around in the grass like fish out of water. Hammond frowns.
“You see, we’re trying to get all the bones.”
“What do you need them for though? You’ve cloned all these dinosaurs. Isn’t that enough?”
“Well, as you can see, we’ve had a lot of success cloning the skin. Really great. I mean, if you look at it, it’s totally real. It doesn’t look computer generated at all, unlike a certain movie that I won’t mention.”
He strokes his beard.
“The bones, however, were slightly more difficult. You see, we had the DNA to make a whole dinosaur, but then Wayne Knight stole some of the bone DNA before he was killed by an acid-spitting dinosaur.”
“Wait. Wayne Knight?”
“Yes, he played Newman on Seinfeld and was in the movie that shall not be named.”
“He worked in the lab?”
Hammond pushes his glasses up and pats the brontosaurus on its limp, spineless back.
“You see, I tried to hire Laura Dern, but she wasn’t interested in revisiting the role. And forget about Goldblum. So I hired Wayne to do some stuff, but then he tried to smuggle our data for profit. As a result, we were able to clone the dinosaurs, but we’re missing most of the bones. Which is why I’m so happy you brought this.”
He raps his hand on the femur. You think you understand.
“I get it. You’re going to hit Wayne Knight with the femur.”
“No, he’s dead. Remember the acid thing? But what we can do is implant the bones in the dinosaurs, one by one, until they’re completely normal.”
“You’re going to give the dinosaurs fossil bones?”
“Yes!” He raises his arms triumphantly. “Finally, we’ll have a use for fossils. I never did understand why we kept around a bunch of old bones.”
You both laugh and take a seat on the soft, gelatin-like back of the dinosaur. Next to you, a triceratops tries to stand and falls onto its back.
“But they seem to have skulls. And that triceratops has horns.”
Hammond nods.
“Wayne only stole part of the DNA. But he stole enough that we’ve had to go around the world collecting bones. We tried using metal or plastic, but the dinosaurs rejected them instantly. Somehow, they knew it wasn’t the real thing.”
“Then where will this femur go?”
“That, my friend, is up to you. I don’t know enough about dinosaurs to know which type it comes from.”
“Books are hard!”
“Exactly. So I’m leaving it to you. We have two incredible creatures that are almost complete. And I’ll let you choose which we finish.”
“What are they?”
He grins.
“The Tyrannosaurus rex and the stegosaurus. Each is one femur away from becoming a reality.”
You just have to decide which. You’ve never felt more pressure about a femur decision in your life.
To give the femur to the T-rex, tap here.
To give the femur to the stegosaurus, tap here.
“My God, it’s beautiful,” you exclaim. They promised you’d see the future of the facility, and they certainly delivered.
It’s the most beautiful gift shop you’ve ever seen. Hammond smiles and strokes his beard as he waves toward the stacked displays of plush dolls and other toys.
“I bet you’re glad you got earth science confused with paleontology, aren’t you?”
“Am I ever!” you shout, pressing a cute plush velociraptor against your naked cheek.
They’ve made everything in the park into a toy, and it’s hard to imagine the prices could be any higher. Hammond glows with paternal pride.
“It’s incredible, isn’t it? Could you imagine grander ancillary revenue opportunities?”
“No way. And not just because I don’t know what ancillary means.”
“This room houses the most advanced technology that the Fake Science Lab possesses.”
“After the dinosaurs, you mean.”
“Oh no. What we have here gets more resources. After all, this is where we make the money.”
You stop listening to him after a while because he starts going on about what makes Jeff Goldblum so unique. As your attention drifts, you spot something even more important.
“Is that a dinosaur over there?”
“I’m sorry,” Hammond says, “but I’d really like to share my thoughts on Goldblum’s work in Nine Months.”
“But what is that dinosaur over there?”
“That, my friend, is Chompy.”
Chompy is a velociraptor, and he’s set up in an elaborate and well-lit studio where all the cameras are pointed at him. Chains hold down his limp body and his mouth is held open with rope, like a puppet on strings.
“Dr. Hammond, why does Chompy look so limp?”
“We have some mild cloning issues concerning bone integrity. But don’t trouble yourself with that. See Chompy’s little teeth? They’re actually soft, polystyrene foam replicas.”
“Why?”
“Because, that way we can safely charge you $199 to take a picture with your head in Chompy’s mouth!”
It sounds amazing—you’ve always wanted the opportunity to take a picture with your head inside the mouth of a small, sedated, boneless dinosaur imprisoned in a gift shop.
But there’s a part of you that wants to help out the little guy, even though he can barely wiggle his neck to look at you. It’s difficult to decide: do you impress your friends and family with an awesome photograph of your neck being dinosaur-tongued? Or should you mentor Chompy and help him live a slightly less-pitiful boneless life?
To take an awesome picture with Chompy, tap here.
To become Chompy’s trainer, tap here.
You have to know what’s happening, and there’s no time to waste. Without asking anybody’s permission, you dive inside the hole.
It’s a swirl of bubbles and colors, and then everything goes black. The next thing you know, it’s incredibly hot. The taste of baking soda and vinegar is thick on your tongue, and even thicker than that one night in Ibiza. You hear an explosion and pass out.
When you come to, you find yourself on a deserted island, underneath a mountain—and it all makes sense. A volcano is above you—that’s why there were pouring baking soda in the hole! The laboratory has been fueling the world’s volcanic activity all this time!
But you don’t have time to think, because you see something bursting from the volcano.
It’s Beatram! They must have thrown him after you. You rush to retrieve him and are happy to find that other than a baking soda and vinegar smell from the volcano, he’s completely unharmed.
Things worked out after all!
You and Beatram build a tiki hut and open a simple beaker cleaning shack for the locals. It’s a peaceful life, but a good one. You die forty years later, and the island mortician says he never saw one person who’d snorted so much baking soda.
THE END
“Nice try!” one of the scientists shouts as he grabs you. His grip is too strong to escape.
“We’re going to teach you a lesson, my friend.”
They all laugh, so you start laughing too.
“Stop that,” the scientist shouts. You stop laughing.
“Sorry, I thought we were all laughing.�
��
“No,” another scientist chimes in, finally putting down the barrel of baking soda. “You see, it was an evil laugh. We were laughing at your expense, because we’re going to teach you a lesson.”
You start laughing again.
“I’m sorry, but it’s really funny. You guys have a great sense of humor and I love learning too, so I can’t wait to get this lesson.”
The bespectacled one hits the barrel with his fist.
“No, it’s a bad lesson. You’ll hate it. You’re in trouble for sneaking into the room.”
Now that he’s cleared it up, things aren’t looking good. You wonder how they’ll punish you, and it’s easy to imagine all the things they might do, because they don’t look like reasonable people. At first, you think their faces look funny because they’ve accidentally eaten some of the baking soda, but then you realize it’s because they’re using their evil faces.
“First,” the leader says, “we’re demoting you. You will no longer be a scientist. Instead, you’re going to be a beaker cleaner!”
They all laugh, and it takes every part of you not to laugh with them, since they’re probably being evil.
“Second,” the leader says, his lips curled, “you’re going to do it with this used beaker sponge that our colleague confiscated from an employee! And the employee was the stupidest one she’d ever met!”
Your hands begin to shake, and you can’t believe it’s true. But it is—you’d recognize Beatram anywhere, and the scientist hands him to you. You take in a deep breath of his sweet, sterile musk. Moments pass and the scientists stop looking evil.
“Did you just smell that sponge? Then French kiss it? Then tell it you’re ready for children?”
You feel tears coming to your eyes, though it might be from all of the chemicals.
Within an hour, you and Beatram are back cleaning beakers again. There’s no baking soda, and you never do discover a massive conspiracy that could change the course of human history, but otherwise things are good.
