Alternate Gerrolds (10 page)

He dressed quickly, efficiently. He put on a shiny black suit. He selected
a matching black tie. He buttoned his dark red vest meticulously. He wound his watch and tucked it into his vest. He opened the top drawer and selected his two best handkerchiefs; then, after a moment’s consideration, he selected a third one as well—his
silk
handkerchief, the one he only used for special occasions.

He pulled on his heavy wool overcoat. He grabbed his carpet bag from the closet, already packed. He was ready to go.

As he walked, he considered. Fifteen minutes to the train station. Five minutes to buy a ticket. Twenty minutes to spare before the train arrived. Yes. He could purchase a newspaper and have a coffee and a croissant in the cafe while he waited. Good.

He could feel the power in his step. He was ready for battle. His mind was clear. This time, he would confront the arch-fiend PsycheMan in his lair. Yes! The enemy would know the taste of ashes and despair before
this
day was through.

In his ordinary life, he pretended to be just another faceless dark slug—sweaty, confused, trapped by circumstance. He moved through the maze of twisty gray streets, almost unnoticed. If by chance he did attract the attention of another being, they would see him only as a squat dark shape, brooding, uncommunicative.

In his ordinary life, he pretended to be a writer of grotesque fantasies, a mordant storyteller of obscure, deranged, and unpublishable dreads. His visions were tumbled and stifling—almost repulsive in their queerness. People avoided the possibility of close contact, which was exactly what he wanted and needed—

—Because in his
extra
ordinary life, he was Bug-Man!
The human insect!

Transformed by a bizarre experiment in Marie Curie’s laboratory—accidentally exposed to the life-altering rays of the mysterious element
radium
—he had become a
whole new kind of being.
A strange burst of power had expanded throughout his entire body, shredding the very cells of his flesh.

For a single bright instant, he comprised the entire universe, he knew
everything,
understood
everything.
His skin glowed white as the very essence of life itself infused his whole being. For just that single instant, he became a creature of
pure energy!
And then the transforming bath of radioactive power ebbed and the entire cosmos collapsed again, down into a single dark node at the bottom of his soul. When his vision
cleared, he realized that the insect specimen he had been holding had vanished completely, its essence subsumed throughout his flesh.

That night, under the intoxicating rays of the full moon, he discovered a new plasticity to his flesh. His bones had become malleable. His muscles could be used to pull his body into a shape that was at first painful and frightening, then curious, and finally invigorating and powerful. His skin toughened like armor. He turned and saw himself in the mirror as something strange and beautiful. A shining black carapace. Glistening faceted eyes. Trembling antennae. He could taste symphonies in the air that he had never known before. He could hear colors previously undreamt. The strength in his limbs was alarming! Thrilling! He had become a master of
metamorphosis.
Franz Kafka, superhero!

In the days that followed, he learned to control his new powers, leaping from buildings, tunneling, biting, scrabbling through the earth in the dead of night. The cost of his ability to metamorphosize was a ferocious hunger. He satisfied it by preying on the predators of society. He became a force to be reckoned with, seeking out those who preyed on the weak, snapping them in two and feeding on their flesh. Soon, the dark underworld elements of Austria learned the fury of his appetites. The word spread.
The night belonged to Bug-Man.

Soon he became an ally to the great governments of Europe, battling arch-fiends all over the continent. His exploits became world-famous. His twilight battles were the stuff of legend. Where evil spread its nefarious claws, the cry would soon go up: “This is a job for Bug-Man!”

Now, he hurried to Vienna, eager for the final confrontation with the greatest monster of them all: the terrible master of confusion, Sigmund Freud—more commonly known to the League Of United Superheroes Everywhere as
PsycheMan!

The evil doctor Freud terrorized his victims by summoning up the monsters of the id. He used their own fears against them, plundering their treasures and leaving them feeble and empty. Freud’s victims babbled in languages of their own, meaningless chatter. They capered like monkeys, simpered like idiots, grinning and drooling; he filled the asylums with his victims. Franz Kafka could not wait to catch this monster on his own overstuffed couch. He dabbed at his chin with his handkerchief, lest someone observe him drooling in anticipation.

The train lurched and rattled and crawled across the Austrian countryside. By the time it finally clattered into the Vienna station, it was
nearly four in the afternoon. Dusk would be falling soon, and with it would come his terrible hunger. No matter, tonight he intended to feed well. He would soon suck the marrow from the bones of Dr. Freud. He could hardly wait to sink his gleaming pincers into the soft white flesh of the little Viennese Jew, injecting him with his venom, then tasting the liquefied flesh, inhaling its aroma, taking it hungrily into his metamorphosed self, refreshing himself, invigorating his energies. He would turn the monster’s very flesh into fuel for his own divine crusade against evil!

Wiping his mouth again, covering his excitement with his now-sodden handkerchief, Kafka hurried to the post office window and asked if a letter had been left for him. The squint-eyed clerk handed it across without comment. Kafka shoved it into his coat pocket without looking at it and scuttled away out of the glare of the bright lights overhead. At last he flattened himself into a dark comer and opened the envelope quickly. Inside was a small square of paper with an address neatly typed on it. Kafka repeated the address to himself three times, memorizing it, then wadded up the paper and shoved it into his mouth, chewing frantically. It was several moments before he was able to swallow the wad, and during the entire time his little dark eyes flicked back and forth, watching for suspicious strangers. But no, nobody had noticed the dark little creature in the corner.

Kafka swallowed the last of the paper and left the station, relieved to be away from the screech of the trains and the crush of so many people. He headed north, walking briskly, but not so fast as to call attention to himself. He headed directly for the address on the paper. He had to see the house before the sun set. The narrow cobbled streets of Vienna echoed with his footsteps.

All the buildings were clustered like newborn wedding cakes, close and ornate. The streets and alleys between them were already sunk in romantic gloom, and the first smells of the evening meal were already filling the streets. He passed open shop doors and restaurants. His heightened senses told him of the spices in the sausages, the honey in the pastries, the butterfat in the cream. A horse-drawn wagon clattered by, dragging with it the animal scent of manure and sweat. Smoke from the chimneys climbed up into the oppressive sky. The heavy flavor of coal pervaded everything.

Kafka found the street he was looking for and turned left into it as
if he was a long-familiar resident. He slowed his pace and studied the houses on the opposite side of the avenue, one at a time, examining each as if none of them held any specific interest for him. They were tall, narrow structures, each hiding behind a wrought-iron fence. The high peaked roofs offered multiple opportunities to hide and possible easy access through the gabled windows; but Kafka ignored them. He let his attention wander to the cobbled street itself, the sewers and the drains. If he was satisfied with what he saw, he gave no sign. He continued on down the street toward the end.

At the end of the block, he turned right, crossed the street and headed up toward the next block. He turned right and headed up the row of houses looking thoughtfully at each one. As luck would have it, the building directly behind Dr. Freud’s suspected lair was a small hotel for retired gentlemen.

He climbed up the front steps, entered and rang the bell at the registration desk. Shortly, a wizened old clerk appeared and Kafka inquired politely if there were a quiet room available in the back of the inn. There was, and he immediately secured it for two days. He would need a private place in which to accomplish his metamorphosis, and time to recover afterward. He considered himself extremely fortunate to be so close to his quarry.

Wiping his chin, he let himself into the room, put down his carpet bag just inside the door, turned and locked the door behind him. At last! He was so close to his arch-enemy he could almost taste his blood! He crossed to the window and parted the curtains. Across a narrow garden, he could see the shuttered rear windows of Dr. Freud’s house. He wondered what nefarious deeds were going on behind those walls.

He’d know soon enough; the moon was already visible above the rooftops. He pulled the curtains aside and opened the window, the better to admit the healing rays of moonlight. He began pulling off his clothes, almost clawing his way out of them, exposing his pallid flesh to the intoxicating luminance.

He opened the carpet bag and began laying out the equipment that he would need. A large rubber sheet—he spread it across the floor. A large block of wood—battered, chipped and scarred; he placed that carefully on the sheet.

The transformation began slowly. He felt the first twinges in his shoulders and in his knees. He began to twitch. The long hours cooped
up in the train had left him stiff and uncomfortable; this metamorphosis would be a painful one. Good! A flurry of little shudders shook his body; he grabbed hold of a chair for support until the seizure eased. He knew he had to be careful, he knew he didn’t dare risk losing consciousness; he had to stay awake and deliberately shape himself for the battle ahead.

His head. Most important. His mandibles—

His teeth began to lengthen in his mouth, pushing his jaw painfully out of its sockets. He shoved his fingers into his mouth and started pulling his teeth painfully forward, shaping them into the digging and grinding tools that he would shortly need.

Next, his skull. He put his right hand under his chin and his left hand on top of his head and pressed them toward each other as hard as he could. The bones of his skull creaked and gave. His head began to flatten. His chin spread, his eyes bulged sideways, his jaw widened out, his teeth splayed forward, his eyebrows sprang out like antennae—blood began to pour from his nose. He pressed harder and harder, until the pain became unbearable, but still he pressed until he no longer had the strength in his arms or the leverage with which to press.

Already his spine was softening, could no longer support his weight. He dropped to the floor, grunting as the air was forced from his lungs. His arms flopped wildly. He pulled his knees up and grabbed hold of his feet as hard as he could. As he straightened his legs again, his arms began to lengthen. His elbows popped, the bones pulling out of their sockets—he screamed with pain, rolled over and grabbed the block of wood in his mouth, bit it as hard as he could. He did this again and again, stretching his arms into long, black, hairy appendages.

Yes, the hair! It was sprouting all over his arms and legs. His legs were softening now. He pulled his knees up to his chest, and now, grabbing them again with his hardening arms, he pulled at his knees until the sockets popped and now his legs could lengthen naturally. He clutched his feet, working them into clawlike shapes, stretching his toes, pulling at them mercilessly, grunting with the pain, and still continuing to pull. And yes, now the side appendages were large enough to grab, to pull, to stretch. He worked his muscles savagely, massaging them into shape, strengthening them. Yes, this was going to be one of the best! The more pain he experienced, the better the transformation!

He rolled around on the floor, rubbing his back and sides against
the rubber sheet, hardening his carapace. He wiped at his multifaceted eyes with his front legs, cleaning them of bloody residue. His antennae twitched. He was almost done. Almost there—and yes, in a final spasm of completion, he
ejaculated!
Spurt after spurt after spurt of sickly yellow-looking ichor. The shaft of his metallic-looking penis retreated again inside his chitiny shell, and Bug-Man raised himself aloft on his six exquisite legs, chittering with satisfaction and joy!

Bug-Man was a simple being. He had no knowledge of anything but the blood of his enemy. He cared nothing for Franz Kafka or the League Of United Superheroes Everywhere. He knew little of trains and croissants and newspapers. Bug-Man was a creature of hunger and rage. He knew only the ferocious desire for vengeance. He lived for the hot red fulfillment of delicious gluttony. His mandibles clattered in soft anticipation. He drooled with excitement. He wanted one thing only—the flesh of PsycheMan! He could not rest until he’d crunched the skull of Sigmund Freud between his diamond-hard teeth!

He leapt to the window, flinging it open, pulling himself out onto the balustrade, poising himself, stretching himself up into the darkness and the holy glow of the full moon above. Across the way, he heard a gasp, and then the sound of a window slamming. A light vanished. He heard the sounds of running footsteps. He ignored them all. He leapt.

He landed lightly on the soft black earth of the garden below. Instantly, he began digging, down and down into the deep delicious soil, his six legs working frantically, flinging the dirt backward and upward, scattering it in every direction. His mandibles chewed and cut. In moments, he was gone, sliding into the cool dark space beneath the lawn, tunneling his way toward the house of Sigmund Freud, the monster.

The night fell silent. The moon rose higher and higher until it was directly overhead, casting its lambent radiance down across the gabled old houses of sleeping Vienna. And then a noise ...