Zippered Flesh 2: More Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad (11 page)

“I really miss the old Lu. The old Lu cared about people. The old Lu loved her parents and honored their wishes,” Charlie said. “You’re not her—not anymore.”

“Oh, sure I am, Charlie. Please stay a while and talk. I get so lonely.”

“How could you possibly be lonely, Lu? What happened? Your mirror break?” With that, her former knight in red sneakers shook his head and took his leave.

“How could he treat me like that? After all I did for him! Who the hell does he think he is to say things like that to me? Me! Well, if that’s the way he feels, good riddance, I say.” Unconsciously, she reached for her hand mirror.

After a few weeks of weighing financial options, Lucinda finally came up with a foolproof way to cover her surgery costs and get back at Charlie and his attitude at the same time.

Once she was fully recovered, one Monday morning she walked to the end of the lane where the mailboxes were and waited in the tall grass.

It wasn’t long before she heard Mr. Foley’s pickup truck roaring down the narrow road. The final turn out of the lane was blind, so Lucinda stepped out into the road just before Mr. Foley rounded the corner.

When he appeared, she looked fearful and stepped slightly off to the left. The fender clipped her just where she had planned for it to—the right hip. She also didn’t see any harm if some of her previous stitches pulled out and added a little more blood to the mix.

She never expected a broken hip to hurt quite as much as it did, but as her father used to say, “You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”

Police and an ambulance were summoned and Lucinda played the incident for all it was worth.

And to make matters worse for poor Mr. Foley, he had whiskey on his breath. He had downed a shot that morning to treat a heavy cold. Back home, in Ireland, that was how it was done, and had always worked well for him.

This time, it worked well for Lucinda. She sued him for everything he had, and by the time the case was settled, she owned his joint bank account, his truck, his wife’s car, and their house and everything in it. Oh, also Charlie’s savings that he planned to use for college.

When she was being wheeled out of court that day, Charlie Foley walked up to her and spit on the ground at her feet.

But she’d won, and soon she’d have plenty of cash to get that final procedure done, once the Foley assets were liquidated, and that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

By the time she’d recovered from her “accident” and sold off everything the Foleys had, there was more than enough money to cover the next procedure.

“You want a colostomy? Why?”

“I have a predisposition for colon cancer. It runs in my family. So, no colon, no colon cancer. It’s one less thing to worry about.”

“Are you aware that you’ll have to wear a colostomy bag for the rest of your life?”

Lucinda flashed her perfect white teeth at the man. “I understand. I still want it done. Will you do it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

This time, it took months before she found a willing doctor. He seemed a little sketchy and his credentials weren’t the best, but he was ready to operate the next day, so the deal was sealed.

This surgery took everything she had to pay for—or, rather, everything the Foleys had had. Lucinda heard that they were living in a shelter downtown, and that Charlie’s job at the grocery store was all that was feeding and clothing them. But, Lucinda reasoned, they had a roof, a bed, and food, so what more could they ask for?  She thought about them less and less as time passed.  A new kid, Justin now delivered her groceries.  Harkins must have given Charlie a new route for some reason.

Lucinda was finally happy, finally satisfied. She had eliminated all the cancer risks that ran in her family and threatened her to take her life and, therefore her beauty, away from her. She stared into the mirror for hours on end, secure in the knowledge that, with regular surgical maintenance, she would be looking this way for a long, long time to come.

The food stamps, social security, and disability checks she was now collecting from the government covered food, her new mortgage, and miscellaneous other bills.

She never left the house.

Why should she? Who out there would appreciate her beauty as much as she did? Better to stay home.

Things were wonderful for many months—until the phone call.

Her father’s last remaining brother had died.

Lucinda panicked.

She had no more money left.

The 911 call came in later that afternoon from Justin, who had come by to collect for the week.  He’d received no answer to his knock, and seeing her car in the driveway and finding the door unlocked, had gone looking for her thinking she might need help.

The police found her on her bathroom floor in a pool of her own blood.

“She peeled off her skin. Got as far as her waist before she died of shock and blood loss,” the M.E. said. “But she didn’t touch her face or her neck. She’ll be a good-looking corpse once she’s dressed.”

“Damnedest suicide I ever saw in my whole life,” Officer Donnelly said to the M.E. “Was there a note or anything?”

“Yeah. She’s looking right at it. It’s a weird one. All I can figure is that it was supposed to remind her about something while she was ... doing this.” The M.E., who had seen more horror in his professional life than he cared to talk about, shuddered over this latest one.

Donnelly followed the body’s vacant gaze. Indeed, there was a note, of sorts, that she’d taped up to the tiles directly opposite her line of sight. She must have been looking at it right until the moment she died.

ONE LESS THING TO WORRY ABOUT!

THE SUN-SNAKE

BY CHRISTINE MORGAN

In Kukmatlan, the Great City, the Festival of the Sun-Snake neared its culmination.

For thirteen days, the People had celebrated with banquets and sacrifices, dancing and games. Trade goods and tribute came from every province, from the small coastal villages to the remote settlements in the cloud-forests. The marketplace bustled with activity. Artisans demonstrated their crafts, displayed and sold their wares. Poets, speech-givers, and riddle-makers entertained the crowds.

For thirteen days, travelers had come to the Temple of Kuk, which climbed skyward in a stepped pyramid to a high platform where rayed- and serpentine-engraved stelae marked the calendrical and astrological positions of the sun.

For thirteen days, ritual bloodletting was done, stingray spines or threads-of-thorns piercing lips, ears, cheeks, and tongues, the heels of new infants, the foreskins of boys becoming men, the labia of girls becoming women. The scarlet drops fell upon corn paper, which was then burned to let the wafting smoke carry these offerings of nourishment and devotion to the gods.

For thirteen days, the Hom, the sacred ball court with its high walls and stone rings, had resounded with the whack and thud of pokatok. Just as each province sent its tribute, each province sent its team, made up of their best young athletes and warriors. When one team emerged victorious, its individual players competed against each other in contests of speed, strength, sport, and skill.

Now, only two remained standing.

They were not brothers, but could have been, both of an age and of a height, straight black hair cropped to equal length, muscular brown bodies gleaming with sweat. Barefoot, unadorned by jewelry, they wore only white loincloths bordered in embroidery of red and yellow.

Makchel and Tlinoc exchanged proud, anxious smiles.

Whichever of them won this final challenge, they knew they had already brought great honor to their families and their village.

Spectators looked on from the seating areas above the walls. These were the nobles of Kukmatlan and the wealthiest provinces, richly dressed, stylishly tattooed, teeth glittering with inlaid disks of crystal and precious stones.

The God-King himself was there, ancient and wizened in a jaguar-skin mantle, his face seamed like the shell of a nut but his wise eyes keenly alert beneath his quetzal-feathered headdress. His wives, sons, daughters, and grandchildren sat with him, flanked by slaves holding woven shades on poles.

There, too, aloof and untouchable, were the Corn Maidens.

Only the most beautiful of noble-born girls, whose heads swept up and back in flawless elegant lines from skull-binding since infancy, whose eyes crossed the most appealingly from having strung baubles suspended between them, only they would be selected.

Their garments were long, loose huipils of gold-beaded strands hung from collars of stiff green maize leaves. More gold hung in bangled clusters at their earlobes, around their necks, and at their wrists and ankles. In their hair were ornaments of gold, jade, and feathers of green and yellow.

A temple priest approached the young men. He carried a turquoise-decorated wooden box containing the ceremonial atl-atl and javelins. The target, a painted deer hide stretched over stacks of bundled grass, had been set up at one end of the ball court.

Tlinoc threw first. It was a good throw, good form, good distance and aim. The javelin’s gilded tip struck the edge of the second sun-circle. The onlookers murmured their approval.

Makchel threw next, with three short running strides and a powerful heft of his arm. The javelin traced a smooth arc and lodged just within the boundaries of the innermost sun-circle.

Amid cheers, Makchel and Tlinoc fell together in a hearty embrace of congratulatory back-slapping. Women tossed flower petals. Men scattered fistfuls of dried tobacco. A few daring children scrambled down the walls, rushing to try and touch them for luck.

More priests emerged to lead the young men out of the Hom. The nobles, God-King’s family, and Corn Maidens followed. Warriors armed with spears and fringed shields cleared a path through the immense and busy Sun Plaza. The procession grew as others joined in, forming an excited throng.

A steep flight of shallow steps climbed from the temple pyramid’s base to its height. At the top, awaiting them, stood Yaxcoatl ... the High Priest of Kuk, the Guardian of the Sun-Snake.

Though short of stature and squat of build, round of face and of belly, bowlegged, Yaxcoatl nonetheless presented an imposing figure, resplendant in his mantle embroidered with patterns of interlocking red and yellow winged snakes. The fiery gold of his headdress blazed in the brilliance of the summer sun nearing its zenith.

A living sun-snake, scales shining, draped in sinuous loops and coils around the High Priest’s neck. Its slim, forked tongue flicked at the air. A feathery frill surrounded its head, and more feathers made winglike ridges in twin lines to either side of its body.

Makchel glanced back down, dizzied by the view. The steps plunged away at a severe angle toward the crowded plaza below. All around him were the buildings of Kukmatlan—the God-King’s palace, temples to the other gods, the Law Court, the houses and monuments, the walls and stelae covered in glyphs that told the grand history of the People.

He could not recognize any friends from their own village in the mass of upturned faces and colorful clothing, but knew that they would be there. They had come bearing tribute, and they would go home bearing word of this glorious honor.

One of the priests guided him to a spot between two tall sculptures, winged snakes that faced inward with chunks of rough crystal gripped in their fanged jaws. The crystals flashed in the strong noon sunlight. Makchel stood feeling the sun’s strong rays on his bare shoulders.

Tlinoc went to the altar and lay down upon it. He turned his head once to grin with delight at Makchel, then lifted his chin to the sky. A deep breath of pride swelled his chest.

Yaxcoatl’s powerful voice rang out in prayer. His teeth, the incisors filed to points and studded with disks of crystal, sparkled. The sun-snake at his neck writhed and slid. Four strong temple priests took hold of each of Tlinoc’s limbs, while a fifth held a basin at the ready. The Corn Maidens chanted a song of praise.

Obsidian glinted glass-black. The knife parted Tlinoc’s flesh. A single cut, sure and swift, opened from breastbone to armpit. The blood had barely begun to gush when Yaxcoatl plunged his hands into the gap of the ribs.

A choked gasp erupted from Tlinoc’s throat. His eyes bulged. His back arched. His legs tried to kick but the priests held his ankles.

With a wet sound like the ripping of sodden, heavy cloth, Yaxcoatl wrenched a pulsating knot of muscle, gristle, and spurting veins from the ribcage. He thrust it aloft toward the sun, shouting to Kuk.

The heart throbbed wildly in the High Priest’s grasp. Red blood ran down his arm and rained in thick splatters over Tlinoc’s shocked face and aware eyes. The sun-snake, with another quick flick of its tongue, sampled the offering and found it acceptable.

More blood gushed up from the gaping hole in Tlinoc’s chest, coursing over the carved stone sides of the altar, trickling along channels in the platform’s floor. His head rolled to the side again. His gaze found Makchal, his expression a mix of exaltation and bewilderment.