|The Story||The Authors|
|Poor Janice was too stoned on Pentathol to understand what was happening to her. She stared at the ceiling. Big lights. Round. Round and white. Like moons. Like cheese-wheels. Round, around. Cheese. Moon. Gick.|
|She saw a big monster in the moon. It was scary!|
|"How's tricks?" it winked.|
|But it came out like this:|
|1. dot dot dot dot / dash dash dash / dot dash dash / dot dash dash dash dash dot / dot dot dot|
|2. dash / dot dash dot / dot dot / dash dot dash dot / dash dot dash / dot dot dot / dot dot dash dash dot dot|
|Dr. Smack looked down at poor Janice and leered. He loved it when, helped along by the hypnosuggestibility of the pentatholated patient, he could make his voice come out in Morse. Perhaps he should give her such vocal faculties, as well -- to match the fingers -- but real. An electronic voice-box which translated her every utterance into purest Morse. She was so lovely already; oh, the wriggling stumps -- like the dance of maggots on rancid meat. He shivered. What could better compliment such loveliness than such a cybernetic adjunct to her six senses? He'd link her with the Coast Guard; she'd receive and transmit the frantic SOS's of ships lost at sea, the last skeletal taps of their operators as they went sinking down, down, down to Davy Jones's groaning swards, where feisty narwhals soon engaged them in a thumping bout of water-polo..."Yes," he told himself as he forced himself from his reverie; "it must be done. I will give you life!"|
Janice, for her part, lay Ophelia-like in an old rowboat, drifting with the gentle currents of the Sea of Tranquility, a languid hand trailing in the water, its digits (in her dream) nibbled at by a multitude of k'üm jhaa, those porcine lunar cousins of our own terrestial blow-fish, among the only creatures capable of thriving in those tepid saline waters. The sun was warm on her face, and as afternoon drew on, the blue eye of the earth began to rise at the edge of the horizon. She reclined in the boat like a narcotic odalesque, thinking nothing but the deep blue sky, the swooshing hishing grey waters, the kisses of the k'üm jhaa, nothing else. And so it came as a complete surprise to her when a strange song began to rise, as if of its own accord, in her throat; it tickled; she giggled; it chittered back at her in a series of oddly rhythmic beeps, some long, some short.|
"We-eeird," she giggled, and it dit-ditted back her. "Hey, shut up, chirpy," she slurred, already sleepy from the effort. "Pick on sum'uddy else to dit-dit."
But the dit-dah-dit-ditty appeared to be ignoring her.
Smack's next injection took effect; Janice and her boat rose up from the water and began to spin, flirting with the earth's gravitational pull to see if it could catch them; it did, ultimately, but it took awhile, and by that time both Janice and the boat were too tired to care. Even Smack -- looking down on all this from above with the studied Cheshire of a god surveying his work and finding it good -- was a tad weary from his labors. He pushed a button for the slop-crew to come with their mops and buckets and hoses and clean up the mess, and an orderly to wheel the patient to the Recovery Room. He was ready for a good stiff drink. He'd earned it.
|Fourteen hours later, Janice opened her eyes. The bluebirds were singing in the tree just outside her room at the renown Mike Tyson trauma centre. There at her bedside was Bitsy Bootleg was applying a coat of Cover Girl aerospace grade nail polish to her gleaming, golden hued titanium hands. "Hello there sugar," cooed Bitsy "how y’all feel’n sweetheart?" Janice put one hand down on the bed frame to lever herself up to reply to Bitsy. With a faintly hydraulic sound her nuclear powered titanium hand cut through the steel bed frame and safety rail with phenomenal speed. The bed immediately sagged in the middle, pushing Janice into an upright position. "Shit, will ya look at that!" marvelled Bitsy, "yo is gonna need a manicurist full time honey!!!" Janice looked down at her bright puce nails and uttered a dreamy, "Wow".|