this lovely lad, a
friend of hers called Knuckles, who sold me a cut-down pirated hacked model for
a tenth of the price. Cheap as chips. A bargain!”
“That’s even worse,” groaned
Franco, rubbing at his thumping cranium. What next? A head transplant? “Listen.”
He breathed deep, exaggerated breaths designed to halt impending palpitation. “At
least, now, cheer me up here girl, and tell me you haven’t taken them, it? Yet.”
He waited. There came another,
louder, thump. And a strange stretching sound.
Franco’s head snapped left.
There, on the worktop, was a tiny vial. On it, neat lettering read BIOMOD
0.2mg . He picked it up. Stared at it. Sniffed it. Frowned at it. Was it
empty? What was he looking for? It looked empty. Shit and holy damn buggery, it
bloody damn well looked bloody damn well empty! Franco spied the leaflet. His
eyes raked the NanoTek instructions, expensive text on extensive vellum, the
usual extravagant NanoTek way:
Patient Information
Leaflet
BIOMOD CAPSULES 0.2
mg
©NanoTek Corporation
KEEP ALL BIOMODS OUT
OF THE
REACH OF CHILDREN.
REMEMBER: Only a
doctor or Biomod
Sales Representative
can prescribe this
biomod medicine/
human/alien upgrade. It
should never be given
to anyone except the
person it has been
prescribed for. It may
harm them in a
grotesque and horrific way.
Franco stared at that last bit. It
may harm them in a grotesque and horrific way. His scowl was crooked on his
face, like a painting hanging not-quite-right on the wall. “Melanie?” he
shouted again, still holding the single coffee cup. “Did you take the goddamned
damn bastard bio-mod, or what?”
There came a roar so deep and
monstrous and terrifying it shook the windows in the frames of the apartment.
The bathroom door flexed and wobbled like a tree in a twister. On the floor
below, and in the surrounding apartments, burglar alarms started to shrill,
their high-pitched squeals piercing the relative silence.
Franco clutched his already
throbbing head.
He glanced down at the coffee.
Glanced back up at the bathroom
door.
And watched, mouth agape, as a
fist the size of a plate smashed a hole through the heavy anti-intruder
panelling and flexed long claws that belonged nowhere near a human hand.
The second coffee cup smashed on
the tiles, sending another stream of dark brown soaking into Franco’s comedy
rabbit slippers. His head lifted. Oh my God, he thought. There’s a monster in
there! In there with Mel!
He sprinted for the living room,
rolled across the coffee table like a true action hero, grabbed his D5 shotgun
and pumped it viciously. He stampeded back into the corridor, and was just in
time to see two of the long, armoured hands wrench the door from its quivering
frame and launch it down the corridor. With a yelp Franco ducked, and the door hummed
over his head and became half-buried in the wall above the front door. It
quivered, like a large rectangular arrow.
The creature stepped into the
corridor, stooping crookedly. It was eight feet tall.
Franco gawped, shotgun forgotten.
The creature was slim and wiry, skin a dark mottled brown, spotted, corrugated,
and slick with grease. The torso was a mockery of a human female body, with
long, quivering, dangling breasts reaching almost to the monster’s waist, and
with nipples like plums oozing grey pus. The neck was long, curved, the head
small and round and hairless, the lower jaw staggered out from a horrific face
in a staccato jump, the nose two pin-pricks, the ears flaps of puckering anal
flesh against more pus-oozing orifices. The neck crackled with plates of armour
as the monster moved its head, rapping its skull against the ceiling. Fingers
flexed like a newborn babe’s. Franco’s eyes dropped... to the long legs, and
the pink quivering vagina, slick with gore and grey slime. It was distended,
wobbling, and nearly made Franco throw up. It was probably the worst thing
friend of hers called Knuckles, who sold me a cut-down pirated hacked model for
a tenth of the price. Cheap as chips. A bargain!”
“That’s even worse,” groaned
Franco, rubbing at his thumping cranium. What next? A head transplant? “Listen.”
He breathed deep, exaggerated breaths designed to halt impending palpitation. “At
least, now, cheer me up here girl, and tell me you haven’t taken them, it? Yet.”
He waited. There came another,
louder, thump. And a strange stretching sound.
Franco’s head snapped left.
There, on the worktop, was a tiny vial. On it, neat lettering read BIOMOD
0.2mg . He picked it up. Stared at it. Sniffed it. Frowned at it. Was it
empty? What was he looking for? It looked empty. Shit and holy damn buggery, it
bloody damn well looked bloody damn well empty! Franco spied the leaflet. His
eyes raked the NanoTek instructions, expensive text on extensive vellum, the
usual extravagant NanoTek way:
Patient Information
Leaflet
BIOMOD CAPSULES 0.2
mg
©NanoTek Corporation
KEEP ALL BIOMODS OUT
OF THE
REACH OF CHILDREN.
REMEMBER: Only a
doctor or Biomod
Sales Representative
can prescribe this
biomod medicine/
human/alien upgrade. It
should never be given
to anyone except the
person it has been
prescribed for. It may
harm them in a
grotesque and horrific way.
Franco stared at that last bit. It
may harm them in a grotesque and horrific way. His scowl was crooked on his
face, like a painting hanging not-quite-right on the wall. “Melanie?” he
shouted again, still holding the single coffee cup. “Did you take the goddamned
damn bastard bio-mod, or what?”
There came a roar so deep and
monstrous and terrifying it shook the windows in the frames of the apartment.
The bathroom door flexed and wobbled like a tree in a twister. On the floor
below, and in the surrounding apartments, burglar alarms started to shrill,
their high-pitched squeals piercing the relative silence.
Franco clutched his already
throbbing head.
He glanced down at the coffee.
Glanced back up at the bathroom
door.
And watched, mouth agape, as a
fist the size of a plate smashed a hole through the heavy anti-intruder
panelling and flexed long claws that belonged nowhere near a human hand.
The second coffee cup smashed on
the tiles, sending another stream of dark brown soaking into Franco’s comedy
rabbit slippers. His head lifted. Oh my God, he thought. There’s a monster in
there! In there with Mel!
He sprinted for the living room,
rolled across the coffee table like a true action hero, grabbed his D5 shotgun
and pumped it viciously. He stampeded back into the corridor, and was just in
time to see two of the long, armoured hands wrench the door from its quivering
frame and launch it down the corridor. With a yelp Franco ducked, and the door hummed
over his head and became half-buried in the wall above the front door. It
quivered, like a large rectangular arrow.
The creature stepped into the
corridor, stooping crookedly. It was eight feet tall.
Franco gawped, shotgun forgotten.
The creature was slim and wiry, skin a dark mottled brown, spotted, corrugated,
and slick with grease. The torso was a mockery of a human female body, with
long, quivering, dangling breasts reaching almost to the monster’s waist, and
with nipples like plums oozing grey pus. The neck was long, curved, the head
small and round and hairless, the lower jaw staggered out from a horrific face
in a staccato jump, the nose two pin-pricks, the ears flaps of puckering anal
flesh against more pus-oozing orifices. The neck crackled with plates of armour
as the monster moved its head, rapping its skull against the ceiling. Fingers
flexed like a newborn babe’s. Franco’s eyes dropped... to the long legs, and
the pink quivering vagina, slick with gore and grey slime. It was distended,
wobbling, and nearly made Franco throw up. It was probably the worst thing
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