Zippered Flesh 2: More Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad (19 page)

“Mr. Gambone, please come in. I’m Miss Dare, Dr. Fleischman’s assistant.”

Mike wondered how she knew his name. He had an appointment, sure, but so did lots of people. Then again, maybe a doc like this didn’t see many patients.

“Follow me, please.” A platinum blonde, Miss Dare had that ethereal glow of a 1940’s Hollywood starlet. She walked ahead of him at a leisurely pace. Mike admired her tiny waist and the side-to-side sway of her heart-shaped backside. She led Mike down a wide hallway. The only light came from lamps high up in the ceiling. Tall shelves covered with plastic sheeting lined both sides of the aisle. Mike tried to see what was on the shelves, but the plastic was almost opaque. All he could see were indistinct shapes.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

Miss Dare turned, eyes narrowed, a tiny crease between her eyebrows. She gave him a sharp look. “You want to know if I look the way I do because of Dr. Fleischman?”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “That’s it.”

She smiled. “From top to bottom, inside and out. Face, ass, boobs, everything.”

Her breasts got Mike breathing hard. He was a breast man and hers were magnificent. A flume of blood rushed to his face. Mike nodded, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.

Miss Dare laughed. They started walking again and came to another door. Miss Dare used the tip of a red-lacquered nail to tap in a code. As they went through, her cell phone chimed.

“Excuse me, I need to take this. Have a seat, Mike. Relax, get comfortable. Dr. Fleischman will be ready for you shortly. He has a little emergency he needs to attend to.”

Miss Dare stepped out of the office and Mike sat on a divan upholstered in cream-colored leather. A desk, a chair, a floor lamp were the only other furnishings. Mike looked around for a magazine. Not a one. What kind of doctor’s office didn’t have magazines? He watched the second hand on the wall clock go around in circles and hoped she wouldn’t be long.

About ten minutes later, Miss Dare returned. “Just a little while longer, Mike. Can I get you something? Coffee? Perrier?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.” He didn’t feel good, though. Now that he was actually here, he had a case of nerves; his stomach felt like it might heave.

“Would you like to see my before and after pictures?”

“Yeah, sure,” Mike said.

Miss Dare unlocked a drawer in her desk and removed a thick album. She sat next to Mike, opened the album and flipped through the pages.

“Here I am.” She turned the album toward Mike.

Mike’s jaw dropped.

Miss Dare laughed softly. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

Mike looked again at Miss Dare’s before picture, then at her after picture, then at Miss Dare herself. Her before picture showed a chinless woman with stubby ears, invisible lips, and a flat, shapeless nose.

“That’s not possible. That’s ... but,” Mike was at a loss for words.

“That is the genius of Dr. Fleischman. He’s not just a cosmetic surgeon, he’s a flesh artist.”

“My friend Phil Demartini told me about him.”

“Oh yes, I remember Phil.” She flipped the pages of the album. “Here he is.”

There was the face Mike remembered. And next to it the face that now belonged to Phil Demartini. Mike felt a strange exhilaration. His heart felt like it was expanding in his chest, and he realized that what he was feeling was hope. Mike hadn’t felt hope in so long he’d almost forgotten the sensation.

“When can I pick out my new face?”

Miss Dare closed the album. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Dr. Fleischman will explain.”

Miss Dare’s phone chimed again. “Dr. Fleischman will see you now.”

Mike stood up. Miss Dare took him through a door behind her desk.

“Dr. Fleischman, this is Mike Gambone, Phil Demartini’s friend.”

Mike didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but the doc looked like a regular guy: curly salt-and-pepper hair, friendly smile, in good shape for an older guy. 

“Of course,” Dr. Fleischman said. “Sit down, Mr. Gambone.” The doctor waved Mike into a chair in front of his desk. “Thank you, Miss Dare.”

She nodded and left. The pocket door whispered shut behind her.

Mike looked around. Just as he thought, this guy hauled in the bucks. Thick oriental carpets covered the floor. The furniture was heavy, made of solid wood, real wood. One wall displayed Dr. Fleischman’s diplomas pressed between thick plates of glass, secured with gold screws. On another wall were photographs. One showed Dr. Fleischman surrounded by exotic fish, scuba diving near a coral reef. In another, the doctor, dressed in a tux, chatted with a famous actress at what Mike guessed must be a film premiere.

“You
know
her?” Mike asked.

“We’re acquainted.”

Holy shit
, Mike thought.
Who is this guy?

Could Angelina Jolie be one of Dr. Fleischman’s patients? Mike was going to ask when another set of pictures caught his eye. In one, a grinning Dr. Fleischman kneeled behind an enormous boar. Mike looked at Dr. Fleischman.

“Hogzilla,” Dr. Fleischman said.

In another, the doctor stood on a crate beside a monster shark. In the third photograph, Dr. Fleischman stood over a creature that looked like a giant dog with wings.

“Holy crap,” Mike said, “what the hell is that?”

Dr. Fleischman laughed. He looked pleased at Mike’s astonishment. “That is a Chupacabra.”

“No shit,” Mike said. “You killed those things?”

Dr. Fleischman chuckled. “Well, just between you and me, Mike, no, I didn’t kill them. Those pictures are ... for fun. A little amusement for me and my patients.”

Mike shook his head. “You had me going, doc. For a minute, I thought those things were real.”

Dr. Fleischman cleared his throat. “Well now, Mr. Gambone, tell me, how I can help you.”

“Are you serious?” A nugget of anger ignited in Mike’s gut. “I look like a fucking ape. People think I’m stupid. Women won’t come near me. They treat me like shit. I want women to beg to have sex with me, not look like they’re gonna puke when they see me coming. I want what you did for Phil and Miss Dare.”

Dr. Fleischman leaned across his desk. “Most people have no idea of their true form, their inner selves. I am very good at discerning the ‘real you’ and bringing that individual to the surface. That’s what I did for Mr. Demartini and Miss Dare. I strive for positive outcomes for both my clients and myself.”

“You fix me up like Phil and that’s my positive outcome, Doc.”

Dr. Fleischman leaned back in his chair, his steepled fingers pressed to his lips.

Sweaty and anxious, Mike hadn’t meant to get in the doc’s face. What if the doc decided to kick him to the curb? “Look,” Mike said, “I got no money for this, but—”

“Money isn’t an issue, Mr. Gambone. I have no end of clients who pay me very well for services they can’t get anywhere else.”

“You got my permission to use me like a lab rat. What else is there?”

“Not a thing, Mr. Gambone, not a thing,” Dr. Fleischman said, his dark eyes boring into Mike’s with laser precision. “Let us move along to your physical evaluation.”

“Now you’re talking,” Mike said.

In the white-tiled and stainless-steel room, the examination table was the only piece of equipment Mike recognized.

“Step behind the screen, Mr. Gambone, and remove your clothing, then get on the exam table and we’ll weigh you.”

Mike stepped behind the portable screen and undressed. “Hey, doc, there’s no gown?”

“No gown,” Dr. Fleischman replied. “I need access to your entire body.”

Mike shrugged. As far as his body was concerned, he had nothing to be ashamed of, at least in the muscle department. The hair was another matter. But, Dr. Fleischman would take care of that.

“Lie down, please, Mr. Gambone. We can’t weigh you standing up.”

Mike stretched out on the exam table. Pretty sophisticated stuff. The platform whirred and whispered as it did its job.

“Please excuse me, Mike,” Dr. Fleishmann said. “I’ve forgotten something. Just relax. I’ll be right back.”

Before Mike could reply, the pocket door shooshed open, then shut.

“Two hundred ninety-three pounds. All muscle. Not an ounce of fat.”

“What the─?” Mike sat up. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. A nurse stood at the end of the exam table. She was smiling, and when Mike realized what she was smiling at, blood rushed to his face.

“Sorry,” she said as she draped a sheet over Mike's legs and chest. “I've seen a lot of those, but yours is a showstopper.”

“Thanks,” Mike muttered.

When her mobile computer station beeped, she turned and Mike saw her in profile.

“Hey, I know you ... from Garibaldi’s. Star. You were with Phil Demartini.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You have a good eye, Mike. I’m called Stella here. Star is the other me.”

“The other you?”

“Star does all the things Stella would never dream of doing.”

“That sounds ...” Mike stopped. He didn’t want to insult her.

“Crazy?”

It was crazy. But Mike wasn’t going to say that.

“Star is the real me,” she said. “Stella just hasn’t caught up with her yet. It takes a while after all this.” She swept a hand over her face and body. “You’ll understand what I’m talking about after you’re done.”

“I get it,” Mike said, not sure he really did.

“I need to do a blood draw,” Stella said.             

Mike watched as she prepared a syringe, tube, tap, and six vials.

Jeez
, Mike thought,
Dr. Fleischman must have a thing for blondes
. Even in her scrubs, Stella looked like she should be on a fashion runway, not working in some below-the-radar doctor’s office doing preop exams.

Dr. Fleischman returned and Stella pulled her cart to the head of the table and out of Mike’s sight.

“Mr. Gambone, if you’re ready, we will begin.”

Mike looked at Dr. Fleischman and said with more confidence than he’d felt in a long time, “I’m ready, Doc. Do your worst.”

Stella, syringe in hand, moved to the side of the table, lifted Mike’s arm and examined it closely, tapping her fingers here and there along its length.

“What are you doing?” Mike asked.

“Looking for a vein,” Stella said. “Here we go.” She slid the needle in with such precision that Mike didn’t feel it.

“Wait,” Mike said, “what’s that? I thought you were going to draw blood.”

“I am,” Stella answered, “in just a minute.”

“Okay,” Mike said. “But, what’s that stuff?” Mike blinked. Did he just say something? He couldn’t remember. He could hear sounds, but he had a hard time recognizing them. He stared at the ceiling. His vision narrowed and blurred. He felt the room closing in on him. He tried to speak. His tongue lay in his mouth like a dead thing. He tried to move his arms, his legs. He was paralyzed. A great weight settled on his eyes; he couldn’t keep them open.

“He’s quite a specimen is he not, Stella?” With Mike heavily sedated, Dr. Fleischman could do an exhaustive examination and plan Mike’s transformation.

“I’ve never seen anything like him,” Stella said.

“He’s a throwback to an earlier age. Rare these days, very rare. Truthfully, I never thought I’d see one in my lifetime.”

“Poor guy,” Stella said. “Can you fix him?”

“Revealing his true nature is a challenge worthy of the effort. When I first saw him, I had a vision. One day there will be no concept of ugliness or deformity. We will not be bound by uncontrolled genetic hocus-pocus. One day there will only be perfection of the individual form. Mr. Demartini, Miss Dare, you, even Mr. Gambone, you are all the future of flesh.”

Dr. Fleischman pulled open a drawer and removed a pair of calipers. “Take this sheet away and record these measurements, please.” He moved around the table, measuring every inch of Mike’s body, calling out the numbers. Drawing out this man’s true form would demand every skill, every technique he’d developed, and some not yet in his repertoire. Dr. Fleischman smiled. He would need to consult a geneticist. Mike Gambone might prove to be his greatest work, perhaps even his crowning achievement.