Zippered Flesh 2: More Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad (31 page)

“What are you doing here?” she asked after a moment, then tugged the ticket free and slid it beneath the Plexiglas window.

“I wanted to see you.”

“Oh yeah, for what?”

“To apologize.”

“Apology accepted,” she said testily and glared at him. “That’ll be two dollars.”

He smiled, said, “You look amazing,” and passed over the money.

And she did. The scars were gone, with only the faintest sign that they’d ever been there. Perhaps the skin on her right cheek was just a little darker than it should have been, a little tighter than normal, but that could be blamed on makeup. Without the scar, she was stunning, but then, through all his nights of suffering and the endless days of rage, he’d come to realize that even
with
them, she’d been beautiful. It was he who’d been the ugly one, ugly on the inside.

She stopped and stared at him, the look he remembered, the look that had haunted him—but then it was gone, exasperation replacing it.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

He put a hand to his chin, to the hard pink ridges of skin there and shrugged. “I had to let it out.”

He expected her to ask the question so many people had put to him ever since the day his father had kicked in the bathroom door and found him lying bleeding on the floor, his face in ruins, his mother’s carving knife clutched in one trembling hand, but she didn’t. She simply shook her head.

“You destroyed yourself.”

He nodded. “For you.”

Her laugh was so unexpected he staggered back a step, the scars on his face rearranging themselves into a map of confusion.

Someone honked a horn at the screen. A chorus of voices echoed from the speakers.

Stephanie looked ugly again. “You almost killed him, you know.”

“Who?”

“Freddy.”

“I know. He deserved it.”

“No, he didn’t.”

He watched her carefully, watched her features harden and a cold lance of fear shot through him.

“What do you mean? After what he did—”

She frowned, as if he had missed the simplest answer of all. “I
asked
him to do it.”

On the screen, someone screamed. For a moment, Dean wasn’t sure it hadn’t been himself.

“You used to see Freddy hanging around all those cheerleaders and blonde bimbos at school, right?”

He nodded, dumbly, his throat filled with dust.

“Did you ever actually see him out with any of them?”

He didn’t answer.

Ominous music from the speakers; footsteps; a door creaking loudly enough to silence the crickets.

“He had an image to maintain, Dean. He had to fit the role of the high school stereotype. He was a jock and that meant he should be seen with a certain type of girl. But that’s not the kind of girl he
liked
.” She smiled, and it was colder than the night. “He liked his girls damaged, as if they’d been through Hell and returned with tales to tell, as if they had scars to prove they were tough and ready for anything. The Barbie doll type made him sick.”

Dean shuddered, jammed his hands into the pockets of his coat; wished he’d brought the knife.

“I was his girl,” she said, a truth that wrenched his guts surer than any blade. “No one knew because he still had his pride. Why do you think he hit Greer for trying to fuck me? That was going one step too far. ‘Course that dumbass Greer knew nothing about it and still doesn’t.”

Dean stared, his body trembling, his hands clenched so tight the scars on his arms must surely rip open and bleed anew.

A joke. It was all a joke
.

“We didn’t think you’d freak out like you did and beat seven shades of shit out of Freddy. Christ. You nearly killed him, you asshole.”

But Dean didn’t hear her. An evil laugh filtered through the speakers, followed by a hellish voice that asked: “Where’s my pretty little girl?” And then a scream to make Fay Wray proud.

Where’s my pretty little girl?

“How ...” Dean began, before pausing to clear his throat. “How did you ...?” He indicated his own mangled face with a trembling forefinger.

“Surgery,” she said airily. “It’s why I’m still working in this fucking dump. My mother refuses to help me pay for it. Too busy buying shit she doesn’t need on the Shopping Channel. Of course, when I lost the scars, I lost Freddy, too. I was tired of him anyway.”

The sound of unpleasant death, of skin rending, gurgling screams, and bones snapping, filled the air.

“Hey,” Stephanie said with a shrug, “it’s all in the past, right? No hard feelings?”

Look at you now, shithead
.

Dean nodded, licked his lips. “Yeah. Right, no hard feelings.”

Stephanie nodded her satisfaction. “Good, so are you going to watch your movie, or what?”

Look at you now
.

THE PERFECT SIZE

BY A.P. SESSLER

The vinyl flaps lifted as suitcases of all sizes emerged through the wall on the conveyor belt and rolled into hands of every ethnicity. A coffee-colored hand lifted a green canvas suitcase; next a lemon palm swept up one in burgundy leather, then peachy fingers gripped a tartan of red.

A female voice boomed over the loudspeaker system in one language after the other, directing all new arrivals to their desired stations at Changi International Airport.

Frank stood at the curve of a U-shaped baggage carousel awaiting his luggage. A Caucasian businessman from America, he stood roughly six feet tall and wore a dark-blue suit and dark-gray fedora. He was so anxious to leave, he flinched when he saw his suitcase come through the opening, but the crowd gathered around the carousel made it impossible to retrieve without knocking them down or climbing onto the conveyor itself to do so.

He restrained the impulse and waited until the brown leather bag bearing his initials came to greet him. After catching it by a corner he unzipped the suitcase to ensure the entirety of its inventory was secure and intact.

He zipped the suitcase closed and made his way to the airport exit to hail a taxi. He was fortunate to gain the attention of a nearby driver, who looked up from the newspaper he was reading and waved for Frank to approach.

The man was in his forties. He wore a red short-sleeve T-shirt with faded, illegible print on its front. His small eyes were canopied by his thick, wiry eyebrows. He quickly folded his newspaper as Frank approached the cab.

“Where to?” asked the driver as Frank opened the back door and put his suitcase inside.

“The Tiger Lotus Hotel,” answered Frank after sitting down and closing the door. He removed his hat and held out his hand with a folded fifty-dollar bill between his fingers for the driver to take. “I would appreciate it if we got there fast.”

“No pay now,” said the driver. “Pay later.”

Frank shrugged it off and put the bill in his breast pocket.

The driver turned his head forward and started the meter. The back of his head looked like a ball of slick, dark yarn down to its last strands. “We get there real quick,” he said just before putting the pedal to the floor.

Frank fell back into the seat and put his hand on the door handle, first to brace himself, then to ensure it was locked.

The taxi weaved in and out of traffic as the cars falling behind became a blur. Frank squirmed in his seat and waved his cell phone around as he tried to pick up a signal. The taxi exited the East Coast Parkway and headed into the city, away from the Singapore Strait.

Frank pressed the CALL button on his phone again. A moment later a graphic indicating the signal had been received appeared on the phone’s LCD. After a few rings, a female voice answered.

“Hello, husband,” she said.

“Hello, Xiulan,” he replied.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I’m on my way to the hotel. I landed about forty-five minutes ago.”

“How was your trip?”

“It was fine, but we’ll talk about that later. How are you doing?”

“I am well. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed
you
,” he echoed. “I’ve been thinking about you the whole time. Actually, it was really difficult to keep my mind on business.”

“I hope your thoughts of me didn’t interfere with your success,” she said gingerly.

“No, they didn’t. But even if they had, the thought that I would soon be with my beautiful little wife would be more than enough.”

There was an extended pause before she spoke. “I have a confession to make.”

“Yes?” he swallowed as his concern became audible. “What is it, dear?”

“I am not as ‘little’ as I was on our honeymoon.”

“You mean,” he asked excitedly, “you’re pregnant?”

There was another pause. “No. I’m not.”

“I don’t understand. If you’re not pregnant, how could you be any bigger?”

“Though I am not pregnant, I have been eating enough for two,” she said in an attempt at the western humor he often used.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “You could eat four times as much as you do and not gain a pound.”

“I respectfully disagree,” she said. “I have put on considerable weight since we’ve last been together, and for that I sincerely apologize.”

“Xiulan, you couldn’t gain enough weight for there to be cause for apologies.”

“Again, I respectfully disagree, husband. I do hope you are not disappointed with me.”

“You couldn’t disappoint me. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. And I can’t wait to see you again and make love to you no matter what size or shape you are.
You
are what matters, not what you look like.”

Again there was a pause, then soft sobbing.

“Oh, Xiulan,” he said. “Don’t cry. I love you.”

“I love you, too. But I know you’re attracted to me because of my culture and my size. You know we encourage women to remain demure, and I regretfully confess that I have lost that which you were attracted to.”

“That’s enough of that talk. Don’t you worry about your appearance,” he insisted. “It’s not for your sake that you’re beautiful, it’s for mine. And no amount of weight could take your beauty away. I want you to put on the slinkiest, sexiest thing you can find and I want you to be ready for me, because I’m going to make love to you the moment I lay my eyes on you.”

“Yes,” she said. “I will do as you say.”

After they said their goodbyes, he hung up the phone. He looked up to see that in the rearview mirror the driver’s eyes were fixed on him, and Frank suspected they had been for the duration of his now less-than-intimate conversation. When their eyes locked, the driver quickly looked away.

The taxi pulled to the curb in front of the Tiger Lotus Hotel and came to a stop. Frank ducked his head as he exited the taxi, then removed his suitcase and hat. He put the hat on to shield his eyes from the bright noon sun, then removed the fifty-dollar bill from his breast pocket and handed it to the driver.

“One moment. I get change,” said the driver as he opened a small cash box and reached inside.

“No change,” said Frank.

“You give too much,” said the driver.

“No, no. That’s yours,” affirmed Frank.

The driver looked ashamed for having eavesdropped.

“In case you didn’t get the gist of that phone call, this will be the first time I’ve seen my wife since our honeymoon,” said Frank as he winked at the driver.

“Oh,” said the driver, as his less-than-perfect teeth showed through his wide smile. “Many blessings and congratulations!”

“Thank you,” said Frank, smiling back. “Good day.”

“Thank
you
, sir!” said the driver as he waved good-bye with the bill clenched in his fist.

A steady wind blew through the valley of concrete and steel surrounding the busy street. Frank steadied his hat with one hand as he walked up the wide marble steps to the large glass double doors, one held open by the hotel doorman. He thanked the man in Malay and entered the hotel’s atrium.

He walked past the stonewall pond filled with every breed of the hotel’s namesake, then through two large columns to the hotel’s main desk. The attendant was sandwiched between the wall and the semicircular desk, which had gates on both ends to allow him to exit in either direction.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the attendant in a voice that creaked like an old door. “May I have your name, please?”

“Franklin Lawrence,” Frank answered.

“Greetings, Mr. Lawrence,” said the attendant. He looked through the guest book to locate Frank’s room number. The thin man was in his fifties, and tall enough to see Frank eye to eye when he stood up straight. He was also Frank’s equal in fashion, with his fine suit and manicured nails. “I see your last stay was nearly a month ago. How was your trip, Mr. Lawrence?” he asked.

“It went very well, Mister—” said Frank as he scanned for a name tag to return the favor of familiarity. He couldn’t find one on the man’s suit but did find it on the desk. “Xiang,” Frank said, hardly missing a beat.

“You are welcome,” said Mr. Xiang. He then addressed the attentive bellhop who stood nearby. “Take Mr. Lawrence’s luggage to room 731.”

The bellhop took the suitcase from Frank’s hand and put it on a strolling carrier.

“Just a moment,” said Frank as he held out a hundred-dollar bill for the bellhop. “Can you stop by the gift shop and get me a bouquet of your finest flowers?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be right back,” answered the enthusiastic young man as he carefully took the bill from Frank’s hand and bowed his head graciously.

“Just one more moment,” said Frank as the bellhop was about to walk off. “Leave them at the door with my luggage. I’ll take them inside.”

“What about your change?” asked the bellhop.

“Keep it. If it’s less than thirty percent, charge it to my bill,” Frank answered.

The bellhop eagerly walked off to the left of the counter and disappeared around a corner.

Mr. Xiang adjusted his glasses as he ran his finger along the rows and columns of slots on the key card box to find Frank’s room key. “Here is your key, Mr. Lawrence.”

“Thank you,” said Frank as he took the card and turned to walk away.