My buddy tells me about this great deal on a dose of telekinesis. Unlicensed, but cheap. And quality. No shakes, no freezing, no brain blowouts. He tells me about this guy who had it done. It was like he had a dozen extra hands. Upped his output at the chip fab 300 percent. This guy made employee of the month and his boss gave him an all-expense paid trip to New Bermuda. They never knew a thing while this guy was sitting pretty on bleached-out sand, sipping mojitos out of a diamonique glass. I could use that kind of boost, and bad. Ever s ince they went to per-unit pay at the factory my check has been shrinking like a dick in ice water. One injection of serum will double, even triple my output. I'll make line supervisor by the end of the quarter.

So I go to the doc. His shop is wedged under a dry cleaners, in an alley. The door is unmarked—a simple steel job with a brick of bulletproof glass at eye level. I knock twice, wait, then knock again. The door opens. The doc is wrapped in a black rubber apron, purple latex gloves stretched over his hands, goggles perched on his forehead. He leans out of the doorway, eyes rolling like greased ball bearings, gliding up and down the alley in search of intruders. "Get in here," he says. "Last time a guy hung around for an invitation some thugs smashed his skull in. Not much I can do for that."

I follow him into a waiting room littered with old porn magazines and travel brochures. The place stinks like stale sweat and burnt coffee. He closes the door and starts flipping the locks. "So you wanna be a hotshot, huh? What'll it be? Superhuman strength? Wanna breathe fire?"

"No, not really."

He charges ahead. "Indestructible, that's it. You've got that look. Been hurt before, yeah. . . Maybe not. Maybe you want to read minds. Is that it?" He adjusts the goggles on his forehead, pulls a cigarette out of an apron pocket and fumbles with a lighter, purple gloves squeaking on its plastic case.

"I'm just here for a basic telekinesis job."

"That's what they all say. Next week you'll be back for a full empathic upgrade, the whole shebang." He gets the cigarette lit, blows smoke at the ceiling.

I'm a little irritated now. "Just put me down for the basic job. Let's get this over with quick." I reach into my pocket and pull out a wad of bills.

"Hey, sure. You're the boss. You say you wanna do the dishes without touching soap, no big deal. I can do that." He takes the cash and starts counting.

I look around the room. There are autographed pictures on the wall. Theresa Savage, mind-reading journalist, Guy Rupert, laser-eyed dermatologist to the stars, Franklin Dupont, water-breathing oceanographer. Now, after the crackdown, it's not about using your powers to do good or evil, it's about using your powers to get paid. "That your work?" I ask, pointing to Savage.

"Naw, I just collect autographs." He pockets the money and strides across the room to another door. "C'mon," he says. He flings it open and sails through like a lit firecracker, smoke ribboning off his cigarette into the stagnant air. I follow.

The lab is dusty, clogged with empty styrofoam containers and soda cans. It smells like a candy factory—burnt sugar, food coloring and spray lubricant swirled in a copper pot. There are no windows. Busted toasters, CD players, microwaves, blow driers, calculators, TVs—you name it—are stacked to the roof on wire racks. A tangle of glass tubes, wires and burners gurgles to itself on a workbench. "Is that where you make it?"

"Some of it, yeah. Most of it I make over there." He points to a pile of equipment on low counter along one wall. Some of it I recognize, a centrifuge, a microscope, a coffee maker. Most of it is foreign, a robot arm equipped with a long needle, an aluminum tube coiled around a glass tank—lots of white plastic and green glowing LCD displays.

"Right this way." He takes me to an old dentist's chair with leather arm straps and a perm helmet. It's surrounded by computer monitors and IV stands. He points at the chair. "Sit," he says.

"Hold this." I take my jacket off and hand it to him. He tosses it onto a jumble of gutted household appliances. "Thanks," I say.

“No problem.” He takes a few steps to a nightmare of a desk, shuffles through rotten newspapers, empty soda cans, broken pencils. He yanks a sheaf of yellow paper out of the chaos, shoves it in my direction. “The waiver,” he says.

“Waiver?”

“This is all unlicensed.” He sweeps his purple glove in an arch, encircling the lab, its dusty equipment, its junk. “Your friend told you, right? No license for this joint, no license for the serum. Once the needle touches your skin, you’re on your own.”

“Right.” No suing this guy if my brain blows up.

“And if the cops bust me, I spill my guts, no hard feelings.”

Give up the unlicensed users, get a break on the time. Standard mod-shop waiver. “Got it,” I say. “Give it here.” I scrawl my signature across the bottom, push my thumb into the pressure pad on the corner.

“Thanks,” he says. “Just business, you know? Keeps my door open, let me give guys like you the juice.”

“Uh huh.”

There’s an awkward silence as he checks my penmanship. Then he nods to himself and tosses the waiver on the desk. “Good . . . good,” he says. “He waves at the dentist chair. “Have a seat.”

I slide in. The chair creaks under my weight. Its cushions cough up the sour smell of old sweat. He moves in, starts strapping my arms and legs down. "You really need to do that?" I ask.

"You really need to tell me how to do my job?" He tightens the straps and drops the helmet down over my head. "Relax. It's just a precaution. Hardly anybody seizures after a basic tele shot." He pulls a rolling instrument tray up to the chair, sweeps an empty Chinese food container off of it.

"Good to know." The straps dig into my arms. Warm air leaks out of the perm helmet and into my ears.

He shuffles over to a small fridge and pulls out a vial full of serum. The thick liquid glows orange, sputters and pops as he brings it over to the instrument tray. "That's it," he says. "That's your new life. Permanent, no expiration date. How does it look?"

"Lovely." I twist my arms against the straps and try to move my head. It bumps against the perm helmet. "You charging me extra for the hairdo?"

"Funny. Bite this." He snatches a strip of chewed leather off the tray and shoves it in my mouth. I bite down hard, think about all the extra cash I'm gonna pull down at the factory, all the new tricks I'll use in bed.

The syringe is the size of a shock absorber, needle like an ice pick. It's polished stainless and cleaner than anything in the lab. He pulls it out of a ziploc and loads it with the serum, pours the orange goo into the chamber. I watch him ease the plunger until a drop oozes from the needle. "Ready?" he says. I nod my head, knock it against the perm helmet a few times.

The needle slides through my skin and into a vein without much fuss. I grind the leather strap in my teeth . He pushes the plunger. The goo glows through my skin, lights up the vein like a neon tube. At first I don't feel a thing. Then the pain starts, creeps into my upper arm and chest. It holes up for just a second, gathers strength and explodes.

I'm blind with it, all I see is red. The serum pillages my body, ravaging flesh and cracking bones on its way to my brain. I strain against the straps, scream like a baby. It hits my head like a glacier, freezes everything. Then I'm out.

I wake up in a pool of my own sweat, strapped into the chair. The perm helmet is off. Everything's fuzzy and my head feels like the Hindenburg right before it blew. I glance over at the guy. He's crumpled in a chair, sweat beaded on his brow, eyes like two empty wells. "What's wrong?" I croak. My lips are thick and clumsy.
He stares out across the lab, pulls the goggles off his forehead. He's holding the empty vial in his right hand. "I picked the wrong one," he says.

"What?" The room spins counterclockwise for exactly two seconds. Then I notice the wispy black fur on my arms, the length and curve of my fingers, their yellow nails. My pants, too long and bunched around my ankles. My T-shirt, strained across a barrel chest. "What did you do to me?"

He stands up, lifts his latex-clad hands into the air. "Now, look, it's not that bad. Barely noticeable. . . you can shave the hair. . . nobody will even notice the hands. . ."

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" Rage clears the fog from my head like a stiff wind. The lab becomes startlingly clear. I smell things, the rotting burrito on a plate across the room, the congealed soda in the can on the floor next to me, the guy's bad aftershave, his sugary sweat, the cigarette smoke on his breath, the acrid smell of his fear. I'm still strapped in, even tighter now that my arms and legs have thickened. I strain against the straps. "GET ME OUT OF THIS."

"I can reverse it, calm down. It's no big deal." He backpedals across the room, stumbles over a broken toaster oven. "You'll be back to normal in no time, I swear!"

I pull against the straps. They're strong, but the chair is not. It creaks and groans under the strain. A weld pops somewhere under my right arm and the armrest loosens. I work it back and forth until another weld pops and my arm is free.
"Let's just talk about this. . ." I can hear him rummaging through piles of junk, tossing things on the floor. "We can work something out."

I grab the left armrest with my right hand and pull hard. It pops off in one go, spitting broken bolts and shreds of metal onto the floor. I sit up and undo the straps on my legs. My new fingers are strong, but clumsy. I fumble with the buckles. My heart is pounding now, beating a powerful rhythm against my ribcage. I stagger to my feet, stumble into one of the video monitors. My legs are like tree stumps rooted in clay.

He bursts from behind one of the shelves. He's got a pistol in his hands. "Listen," he says. "I can fix this, I can. . .I don't want to have to use this. . ." He raises the gun, cradles it in his gloved hands like a man holding a bomb.

I steady myself, push off the monitor and settle onto my new legs. I can feel them now, strong and stable under me. I take a step forward.

He pulls the trigger. The gun pops once, then hisses. I cringe, curl up behind my arms and wait for the pain. Nothing happens. The gun failed. I straighten up. He pulls the trigger a few more times. The pistol clicks, but doesn't fire.

I lunge, swat the gun out of his hand. He staggers back into one of the racks. Bits of wire and transistors rain down from the shelves above. I reach out, wrap my fingers around his neck and squeeze. He coughs and sputters, beats his fists against my arms, grabs at the armrests still strapped to them. Words dribble from his lips. "I . . . I . . . no. . . please . . ."

There is nothing but his face, red, swollen and sputtering. My teeth gnash like a vice, a growl erupts from my throat. Rage flows into my arms like water into a fire hose. I squeeze harder and he goes limp, hangs there in my paws like a deflated balloon. I look at my reflection in his goggles, flat apish features, bulbous maw filled with large crooked yellow teeth, thick overhanging brow ridges lined with fur. I never want to see that face again.

© 2008 Dustin Driver