Beast Machine (29 page)

“It must be at least seven
feet deep and four feet across,” said Hitbear. Of course, there was
no such requirement as Gora had told them to “build it deep enough”
so Dr. Borehole could not escape.

“
That’s, uh,” stuttered
Tubman, “fine. It’s fine. I’ve done more difficult things in my
human life than dig some silly hole.” She smiled faintly. “Wait,
how the hell can you remember the size of the hole we’re supposed
to dig but forget the damn shovels?”

Hitbear shrugged. “I have
hard time remembering certain things.”

The two scurried to the
open area and were closely positioned near one another. Tubman
situated herself in the most comfortable position for her body and
began to slowly paw at the ground. The dirt was soft where she was
digging, but wouldn’t reveal that fact to her larger companion.
She’d take any advantage she could get.

The hole she was slowly
digging was a foot and a half deep at best, and the width of the
hole was barely a foot. It was a paltry hole, but still impressive
for an animal her size.

Hitbear, on the other hand,
was violently thrashing at the ground, using his metal paw and
natural paw to move as much earth as he could. His metal claw would
often hit subterranean rocks and would send the rocks
flying.
Kuh-chink, Kuh-chink,
Kuh-chink
went his claw as it hit the
rocks. He was moving at such a furious pace that he was four feet
deep in mere minutes, not to mention that the hole was five feet
across as well. His pace was furious but tiring; he took a break to
find a nearby stream to quench the thirst he had worked
up.

Owlbert peered down at his
companions. “Time for ein nap,” said the bird beast. He saw no
visible threats along the tree line and couldn’t hear anything
discerning. He nestled his body up against the tree on a
healthy-sized branch and fell asleep.

-----

Gora had finally reached
the Bay Area, where Dr. Bridget Borehole worked. The building Dr.
Borehole worked in was in the city of San Rafael, a short drive
north of San Francisco. This building was not an opulent monument,
like Dr. Spotila’s arrogant building, but it still stood several
stories tall. It was flanked by several small deciduous trees and a
litany of posies, tulips and geraniums; the building was as
colorful as Dr. Spotila’s was expensive. Each window facing the
passing street was a different tint color: some were blue, a few
were lime green, others were amber colored, and more were
red.

A stone sign bearing Dr.
Borehole, and her colleagues’ unimportant names, stood in front of
the building’s entrance. Gora wondered if those colleagues had the
same opinions on climate change that Dr. Borehole held.

Gora had been driving a
dumpy, beat-up rental for the trip down to the Bay Area. It was the
only rental that had dark enough tinted windows and was an
automatic. She stepped out of the dumpy rental and stretched her
back, legs and neck.
Crack, crack,
craaaacckkk
went Gora’s body loudly. “That
was fantastic,” said Gora in quiet elation, followed by a lengthy
yawn. Then she remembered a necessary part of the plan she had
forgotten to complete.

She was supposed to talk to
Dr. Borehole over the phone to set up a meeting. Now she was at the
facility unannounced and Dr. Borehole might not even be
here.

“
Fuck,” said Gora. She slid
back into the car and began to frantically fix her hair, which was
already put in a ponytail. She removed the ponytail and shook her
fingers through her dark brown hair. “I need to make a good
impression, especially after that bitch spread those
lies!”

She put her hair in the
nicest bun she could and added a small amount of concealer to
blotchy parts of her face. Gora liked getting herself dolled up but
never was the best at it. “This would suffice,” she thought. She
already had extra hair falling out of her bun and the concealer was
painfully obviously covering acne as it was a different, darker
color than her skin tone.

It was the afternoon, so
most of Dr. Borehole’s colleagues were working or taking a late
lunch as the parking lot was half-filled. “She better not be at
lunch.” Gora took a final look in her overhead mirror and exited
her vehicle. She let out a nervous fart as she shut the door of the
rental car. “Ugh.”

She made her way to the
entrance of the colorful building and pulled open the glass door.
She was immediately in the lobby. Gora was greeted by a young male
secretary in a white dress shirt and green tie.

“
Hi, my name is Griff!”
said the young man cheerfully. “Welcome to Borehole Institute of
Meteorology Evaluators or BIOME for short. What can I help you
with?”

Gora was impressed by the
young man’s eagerness. “Hi, Griff,” said Gora. “I need to talk to
Doctor Bridget Borehole! The head of the, uh, institute. Institute
of biomes, erm, I mean, this institute. Which is called BIOME. ”
She stepped close to Griff’s desk and relaxed her hands atop the
desk, doing her best to disguise her anxiety. “Can I see
her?”

“
I’m sorry, but Doctor
Borehole is in meetings all day!” Griff smiled at Gora. He had
wonderfully bright, white teeth. They were nearly too bright. “Must
be fake teeth,” thought Gora. Griff laced his fingers together and
put them behind his head revealing a rather taut chest that could
be seen through the white dress shirt. Gora was entranced by his
green tie instead of his pectorals, however, which seemed to
radiate the same amount of friendliness that Griff’s teeth
did.

“
Could you tell her it’s an
emergency? I’m an old friend.” Gora tried to look as desperate as
possible. Her bun, almost on cue, started to unfurl to look
messier. She tried to cry but only made her face red in the
attempt. Her eyes began to twitch as well. Griff gave her a look of
befuddlement and sat up straight in his chair.

“
Hm,” said Griff. He
adjusted his tie and stroked back his medium length hair. “I’ll see
what I can do, just for
you
! Especially since your face is all
blotchy!” He winked charmingly at Gora, causing her to forget his
last comment. She smiled and kicked up her left foot. Griff picked
up his office phone and hit speed dial #1.

Gora kept her smile up as
long as she could but the smile faded into a look of uneasiness.
She wasn’t used to smiling for so long, especially during a
situation such as this. It was making her queasy. The person Griff
was calling answered the phone after four rings.

“
Hi there, Sheila,” said
Griff happily into the phone. “I’m here with, uh, what’s your name,
miss?” Griff turned toward Gora quickly, flashing his bright smile
once again.

“
Gora.”

“
Last name?”

“
Dr. Borehole will know who
I am.”

“
Um, okay.” Griff turned
back to the telephone quickly. “Well, Sheila, I’m here with a Gora
– she says Doctor Borehole will know who she is.” Griff nodded and
scratched the back of his head with his other hand. “She didn’t
give me a last name. Yeah, I told her that Doctor Borehole was busy
all day.” Gora looked around the waiting area in the lobby while
Griff talked to this Sheila person.

It had six differently
colored sofa chairs against a clean white wall with end tables
between each sofa chair. Portraits of Doctor Borehole and her
colleagues sat above the six sofa chairs, each painted by the same
artist it appeared.

Doctor Borehole was an
average sized, gorgeous woman with short brown hair and deep brown
eyes, but the portrait made her into a more voluptuous woman with
long curly hair down to her ass and the figure of supermodel. Her
real face was rounded and her cheekbones high, yet the portrait
gave her a strange angular look. It made her look like a Martian. A
sickly Martian with great curves. The only truthful parts of Dr.
Borehole’s portrait were the small reddish birthmark on her left
cheek, under her eye, and her peach colored skin. Her real life
beauty became distorted and weird in the portrait.

“
Miss Gora, hello, Miss
Gora?” called Griff. “Doctor Borehole will see you in ten minutes.
She seemed angry, per Sheila, but I bet that has more to do with
this busy workweek than anything!” Griff smiled and handed Gora a
nametag clip and a marker. “Write your name with this marker and
clip it on!”

“
Thanks,” said Gora
accepting the items.

“
Please just wait in one of
comfy sofa chairs and admire the marvelous portraits! A local
painter, Lem Winks, painted them! I’m getting mine done next week!”
Griff returned to his busywork.

“
Will do,” said Gora as she
walked away toward a chair. She sat under the Doctor Borehole
portrait. The portrait was a strange embellishment of Doctor
Borehole, yet Gora couldn’t help but be enamored by the portrait.
It spoke to her in a way: how even when women are truly physically
beautiful, people will still not be satisfied. Women had to be
altered, torn down and then built up again in unusual ways, and
shaped into how others wanted them to be. Women were merely the wet
clay that people had to mold to
their
liking.

The portrait felt alive to
Gora, but it felt like a horrible lie, and the portrait began to
taunt Gora. “Whore!” shouted the portrait of the Martian Doctor
Borehole. “You’re a whore that steals ideas! I know you fucked
Silva to get your name on his work! You thieving whore!”

It glared back at Gora, the
same glare that Gora had often seen at ASH meetings from Dr.
Borehole. The same glare that Dr. Borehole held as she spoke
disrespectfully of Gora whenever she had the chance. Gora was no
longer enamored with the portrait, rather, she become enraged by
it.

“
Die!” yelled Gora. She
then screamed gutturally and wildly.
WUUUHHH! WUUGGGH! WUHHHH!
Griff
covered his ears instinctively as Gora kept screaming.

She stood on top of the
sofa chair and ripped the portrait down, knocking the portrait next
to Doctor Bridget Borehole’s off as well. Collateral
damage.

“
No! What are you doing?!”
shouted Griff from behind his desk. His ears still covered, he
tried to quickly get past his desk, but was foiled by the side door
that automatically locked at unnecessary times. Griff had called
maintenance numerous times in the past six months about the faulty
lock, yet nothing had been done about it.

Gora took the portrait and
broke it over her knee; this action took several tries as the
portrait’s frame was made from a sturdy wood. She forced her
fingers through the eyes of the portrait; poking then scraping out
nonexistent eyeballs and brain matter with dirty fingernails. “I
want you gone!” She finally ripped the frame apart and tossed
pieces randomly throughout the lobby.

Spit shot from Gora’s mouth
like a water machine-gun as Gora turned her anger toward the
innocent sofa chairs and side-tables. The furniture didn’t stand a
chance against the rage of Gora.

“
Miss Gora, why?!” shrieked
Griff, still fiddling with the locked side door of his large desk.
Gora flipped over each sofa chair with ease, putting watermelon
sized holes in the walls. “Please, no! AGH!” Griff began to
senselessly kick at the side door. Tears streamed down Griff’s face
– for fear of losing his job and for fear of losing his life to the
maniac in the lobby. Gora ripped open the cushions for the sofa
chairs, releasing the stuffing across the room and all over her
clothes.

Gora began to grab each of
the remaining portraits and flung them throughout the lobby, then
returning to what was left of Doctor Bridget Borehole’s portrait
and stomping, spitting on it furiously.

THWOMP, THWOMP,
THWOMP
.

Griff wasn’t strong enough
to open the lock on the side door, despite his healthy chest. There
was no way he was strong enough to kick the side door down. He
became so panicked by Gora’s actions that he did not realize he
could leap over the gate.

THWOMP, THWOMP,
THWOMP.

“
Glad somebody finally took
that damned thing down,” said a deep, raspy voice. Griff and Gora
turned their heads promptly towards the voice. Gora stopped
thrashing around the lobby and wiped her mouth of any excess spit.
“I didn’t like that portrait of me. It exaggerated my looks too
much and made me look like an alien. I look quite beautiful enough
without the embellishments.” It was Bridget Borehole in the
flesh.

Chapter 28
Doctors Get Implants

“Yes,” said Doctor Silva.
“Will do, sir.”

Silva took a deep breath
and closed his flip cell phone, a cheap prepaid cell phone from a
local Tel-Mart Plus. Chairman Obelis instructed Silva to buy a
prepaid phone, known as a burner, every week or two. “Anyone could
be listening. I can’t give up any of my devices that block out
wandering ears, I have enough trouble keeping people out of my hair
as it is,” Chairman Obelis told Silva. It was a tedious part of the
job to buy a burner every week or so, but Silva made sure he had a
new one every week or so.

Silva was sitting in a
short white leather chair that accommodated his portly stature and
teeny-weeny fat legs. The chair felt like heaven to the fat man,
who was now in one of the most powerful positions in human history,
though very few knew his name and the power he held. His legacy, if
ever revealed, would be one of great magnificence. Or he could go
down in infamy as a mad scientist. “Either way, I’d be remembered,”
thought Silva.