The Magic of Genetics
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The Incident Involving Genetics free porn video
This story is appalling. It story goes out to the Chemical
Brothers and Social Distortion, without whom... um, I'd've
probably listened to something else while I was writing it.
Also, Operation Ivy for editing music.
Also, more seriously, to rebecca7.
the incident involving genetics
Copyright 2002 melissa virus
Caroline sat down for a second in the violently lit
dressing room. She'd spent the morning trying on dress
after dress after dress, and it was growing tiresome, but
she wasn't going to settle until she found the perfect
thing for this evening: something flirty, sexy, short,
tight, maybe a tad degrading, but still businesslike -
still okay for conservative company.
Except, Caroline wasn't Caroline. Caroline was Mike, except
that Mike's wife, Caroline, had done something, somehow -
she would've balked at calling it magic, because that would
seem crude - to turn Mike into a copy of herself.
See, Mike was a scientist. A great scientist, although not
a famous one, because at his company, with the work they
did, it was best to get as little attention as possible.
They worked with genetics, with modeling, with post-
Heidegger molecular reductionism, that sort of thing. The
type of projects that don't make a lot of sense to laymen,
but which activists have no problem protesting anyway, even
though they don't understand them.
Or at least, that was Mike's understanding. He didn't
really deal with the political side of things; he dealt
with the test tube side.
Tonight there was a fundraiser dinner; a big one. An
important one. It was a formal event, and everything had to
be entirely in order, so the only hurdle was his wife.
In Mike's field, you had to play the game. You had to be
willing to dress up, play the role of the wholesome all-
American family, the conservative good people. Mike didn't
have a problem with that - that described him pretty well,
actually - but his wife did. She was all into that earth
hippie shit, smoking weed, growing plants, meditating,
yoga, jogging, anything. She protested things, for fuck's
sake - twenty-eight years and still attending Nike
protests. When do you outgrow that?
He'd told her about the banquet at the beginning of the
week, told her to get herself a dress, jewelry, get done up
at the salon. She'd said okay, okay, and hadn't done
anything, and this morning he'd asked her if she'd gotten
anything, and she told him she'd just wear something she
already had.
"You know I'm not really that big on shopping," she'd said.
"Yeah, the materialism of it all," he'd mocked.
"No," she'd said, "well, sort of. I just don't like the
idea of buying a two hundred, three hundred dollar dress
that I'll only wear once. Seems pointless - especially
since I've got three or four in my closet that I've already
only worn once."
"But people have seen you in those already! That's not
professional! I don't think you understand the way things
go at my company."
"I don't want to know, Mike," she'd said. "I've been trying
to keep my eyes closed to whatever it is you do there,
because it doesn't feel kosher."
He didn't want to get into this argument now. "Look," he
said, "I don't want to argue. I just need you to go buy a
dress, okay? Some shoes? God, why can't you be like a
normal woman - most women would be glad for their husbands
to throw money at them, tell them to go clothes shopping.
Jonathan Naomi's wife lives for that shit!"
"Mike," she said, her eyes all but turning red, "Marisa
Naomi is a rare fuckup case! She's living in the fifties,
with her Valium and her poodle, her 2.5 children! You're
stuck in the fifties! I don't know why you buy so hard into
these archaic gender roles! I'm a person before I'm a
woman. I don't need this."
It was never a good idea to piss Caroline off, and Mike
could already see where this was going, but he couldn't
stop himself.
"What the fuck!" he yelled at her. "I'm just asking you to
do one thing, go buy something! Jesus, just a fucking new
dress."
"Yeah?" she asked. Now her eyes were red. "It's no big
thing, to go buy a dress, right? So you go fucking buy the
dress."
See, Caroline was into some extreme radical feminist
Buddhist something or other, some kind of sect, and she
sort of... well, she'd say that to call her a witch was
vulgar. She wasn't a witch. She was just so in touch with
reality, had such an understanding of it, that it wasn't
hard for her to alter it. So after she told him to buy the
dress, he found himself standing in the doorway of their
bedroom, a foot shorter, a hundred pounds lighter.
"Get dressed, hon," Caroline said, "You're going dress
shopping. But don't worry! You're a woman, so it'll be
fun."
"Jesus, Car," he said in her voice. She'd done this to him
before. It was disorienting to go back and forth in the
same voice, like sliding on audio ice. She wasn't going to
change him back, though. You do not get Caroline pissed.
"Well, get dressed," she said. He did, jeans and a sweater.
"You know, Mike, if you're going to be in changing rooms,
taking off your clothes and putting them back on, you might
want to wear a dress, no buttons and no zipper, to make
your life easier."
"I'm going in, I'm buying the first dress I try on, and I'm
coming home," he'd said, "so forget it." He grabbed her
purse, with her driver's license and her credit cards, and
drove to the mall.
On the way to the mall, though, he'd had the idea of buying
her a dress she'd hate, to get her back. Something short -
she hated to feel so exposed. Something flirty, with a wide
skirt, because she hated to feel like she didn't look
serious. Oh, and definitely something pink. Now he was
grinning, with her face. And thigh-highs.
And that's how he got to be resting - resting, tired from
trying on dresses - at two in the afternoon, in this
women's dressing room, harsh light making her face look
like a two day old corpse. He'd been through Macy's, Sears,
Stern's, Lord & Taylor, New York & Co., the Limited, even
the teenage girl stores, Delia's, that sort of thing. He
hadn't found anything he liked... He looked at himself in
the mirror, in his wife's body, yellow panties and bra, and
realized he was angry. What the fuck kind of life was this?
But it was futile to argue. This was his life, he figured.
And pulled on her jeans.
He was going to go down and have a coffee in the food
court, sit down a little while, when he passed a store he
hadn't considered. It wasn't a chain store, it was just a
little mom & pop (if it was possible to be a mom & pop
store in a mini-mall) place, and they looked like they just
sold prom dresses. Prom dresses! Man, would that get her.
There was nothing so obviously, classically feminine,
nothing that would... put her in her place, as a silly prom
dress. It was a thin line, whether anything here would work
at tonight's banquet, but he'd have a look.
So he walked in.
"Hello, miss," the young clerk said. He was small and
dressed in one of those suits that look really sharp; Mike
could never get a suit to look like that on him.
"Hi," he said.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm just looking for a dress to wear to an event tonight,"
he said, cringing. It was weird enough to be dress shopping
- he felt all vertigo-ey, putting it into words.
"Well, let me know if I can help," the clerk said, but Mike
barely heard him. He'd already spotted a dress, the one he
knew his wife would be wearing tonight. Hung on a rack near
the ceiling, way up high, it was pink, but a shimmery, dark
pink, it changed to a purple where the light hit it. Which
was all over the flared skirt - it wasn't flared too
strongly, it didn't stick out too far, but the fabric -
silk and something synthetic? - went up and down in waves.
The top had two straps on each shoulder.
"Can I try on that dress, please? Size eight?"
"Sure! Hold on," the clerk said, taking it off the rack
with along metal pole. He brought it down and handed Mike
the hanger.
"Thanks," he said, almost skipping to the dressing room.
He looked at himself ? Caroline - in the mirror again. He
took off her sweater, then pulled down her jeans, and he
looked up at himself, bent over: cleavage. Caroline really
was hot, when she wasn't being a bitch. Then he slipped the
dress over his head, settled it down on his shoulders, and
it was definitely the one for her. It fit perfectly, made
her waist look tiny, it showed cleavage, and... he spun
around, not too fast, and he saw a flash of yellow. She'd
have to be very careful not to embarrass herself.
He posed for a minute, one arm up in the air, leaning
forward, leaning back with one hop forward. Then the
attendant called, "Well, can I see it?"
He stepped out of the dressing room and the attendant
gasped. "It's perfect," he said.
Mike went back in, changed back into his wife's clothes,
bought the dress, then went into Lord & Taylor's and bought
stockings - he contemplated fishnets for a second, then
thought better of it. He bought nail polish that matched
the new dress and drove home.
He opened the door, threw his bags on the kitchen table,
and walked into the TV room, where he - in his own body, in
his tuxedo - was watching some movie about cats.
"Hurry up, honey!" his wife said in his own voice. "We're
almost late."
"No," he said. Inflectionless. "No. Come on, you're not
going to make me do this."
"Yes," she said, "I am. Do you want to know why? One,
because I know you, and I know that there's some
humiliating pink scrap of satin in that box over there,
that I don't want to wear. And two, because I know that
this is a public banquet - the kind where, to play you, I
don't need to know anything about your real research. I can
just talk up a big game about the company line - which,
actually, I read up on, at your company's web site. These
are regular rich people making an investment! They don't
want to hear the specifics about projects to super-engineer
DNA, about life extension programs, about chemicals to make
plants bear twice as much fruit, but which make that shit
poisonous. I know about all that, Mike, but I'm not even
going to have to bring it up. I can just talk about 'making
a better life for everybody', like the web site says."
Fuck, Mike thought.
"Well?" his wife said, in his voice. She still talked like
herself, same speech patterns, so it sounded bizarre in his
voice. "Go! Shower! Shave those legs and those armpits. Get
ready! We're leaving in an hour and a half."
He spent the car ride to the banquet - in the passenger
seat, staring at his wife's naked legs - thinking about
their marriage. They really weren't right for each other -
this had been apparent for a long time. They were mainly
still together because he spent so much time away from
their house, at work and on trips for work. She was still
around because he mainly left her alone, and he didn't
leave her because it would not be okay for a scientist with
his job to be a bachelor. Maybe he really was living in the
fifties, he thought, and then he looked down at his shoes.
They were heels with a two inch platforms, to give him a
little height, because he'd forgotten to buy new shoes at
the mall, and because that was what she'd told him to wear.
They'd gotten together in college - she'd been interested
in science, he'd been interested in her. Everybody told
them they were wrong for each other, it would never work,
and so they'd prove it to everybody that it could work! And
they made it okay, for awhile, through sheer will. But will
wore off after a couple years, and now... now he was
sitting in her dress, in her underwear, with her hair
slicked down against her head, with two metal barrettes at
the front... Now this. It felt like a turning point in
their relationship. Definitely.
Caroline parked the Navigator and they walked in. She
swatted his hand for trying to pull his skirt down in the
back - you're fine, stop it - and put an arm around his
waist. The thing about dresses, he thought idly, is that
they really are made of fabrics you'd never put on, if
you're a guy. They're all slippery, all smooth, all...
sexy. And that felt gross. He kept his mind away from
thinking about sex stuff this way.
Then they were inside. His wife let go of his hand; she
went in one direction to find the bar, and he found himself
claimed by Marisa Naomi, one of his fellow scientists'
wives.
"I love your dress, Caroline! I just knew that you'd be
gorgeous once you gave up on that man-hating feminism
nonsense. You know I had a phase in college where I..." and
she went on like this. Endlessly.
Mike tried to keep up with her blather, about make-up and
about some soap opera, about Oprah and Agatha Christie and
her kids in school and there was this teacher and hey, you
and Mike should have kids! And on and on, from the
entranceway to the building, to the banquet hall, to the
bathroom, until Mike was ready to push her into a stall and
run away. This dress felt like a straightjacket. This event
felt like the air was made of glue; his arms, his wife's
arms, they felt like they were shot through with ice. He
wanted to be out, and he didn't even know where Caroline
was. He looked at her little tiny watch on her little tiny
wrist - they'd only been there a half hour. He excused
himself and walked over to the bar.
He felt conspicuous walking over, a beautiful woman in a
flattering dress; people were sitting down for dinner,
which would be served in fifteen minutes or so, so he
wasn't surrounded by people. He wanted to put his arms up
to cover his breasts, to pull his skirt down in the back,
but he knew that to do this was to attract attention to
himself, to his attributes. So he just took it, figuring he
was turning red.
You never showed this much skin, when you were a guy.
At the little open bar, he asked for a scotch. Triple. He
figured that'd help him get a little more comfortable, even
though his wife never really drank. He had an image in his
mind of himself as his wife, drunk and stripping on a
tabletop, but he pushed it away. That wouldn't happen. And
man, did the bite of the expensive scotch hit the spot.
He took his post at the table next to his wife, who was
having a great time, shooting the shit with Jonathan Naomi,
smoking big fat cigars.
"Honey!" His wife called to him. He walked over - felt like
he was strutting, because you can't walk right in heels -
looked around. Everybody was sitting down, now, and the
food was on its way out.
"Since when do you drink scotch?" she asked him.
"I don't know. I thought it'd make me seem sophisticated,"
he said, and it was awkward and a little disturbing how
cute that sounded in her voice.
"Well, whatever makes my darling smile," she said, giving
Jonathan a "pssh - women" look. Then one of the waiters
yelled something and the service crew, in their white coats
and their stupid hats, flipped their food carts over. And
they all pulled out really, really big guns, from
somewhere.
Somebody screamed something about death to an evil
corporation, and Mike saw Caroline's eyes - his eyes -
glint. She was excited! This was her thing, extremist
activism, although she probably wasn't involved in this.
Right?
Please don't let her pull some kind of anti-American
bullshit here, Mike thought.
A short guy with long limp hair took the stage, stood at
the podium.
"Bioscimetro Corporation, you will not be allowed to play
God any longer. Your research is anti-human, anti-Earth,
it's unethical, it's unacceptable."
Before he could go on, Caroline jumped up and said, "Yeah!"
The short guy smirked. "Michael Androssa - we know you. You
agree with us?"
"I do," she said. "the chemical alteration of plants, the
bioextendability experiments - it's completely unethical!"
"Mr. Androssa, we are all very aware of the role you play
in this company. You're a bioengineering genius without a
conscience, and we sentence you to death."
Then he put a bullet through Caroline's head - Mike's face
- and she slumped straight down, dead.
"Does anyone doubt our seriousness?"
Then Mike was Caroline. She was dead, she would never turn
him back to himself. Now he was her. Get used to it. In her
newly permanent body, she fell onto her husband's corpse,
burst into tears, and then things got weird. No, no, she
was screaming, oblivious to all the other screaming that
was going on, gunshots firing, glass smashing, glasses
shattering, chandeliers probably falling, meat ripping - it
was the fact that she could hear meat ripping that made
Caroline look up. That's supposed to be a quiet sound -
you're not even supposed to hear meat rip.
Across the room some kind of monster. An eight foot tall
brown monstrosity, all muscle, arms thick as trees, legs
like telephone poles. Hands like rakes.
Its name was Buddy.
See, you have to test drugs designed to create super-
longevity on something, right? So why not monkeys? The
animal rights activists would be furious if they found out,
but they wouldn't find out. How could they? So one of the
earliest attempts to make a super-longevity drug had
basically turned a little monkey named Buddy into this...
monstrosity. Caroline had Mike's scientific mind, put two
and two together, and came up with this: somebody had
thought it would be humane to let Buddy live, so they'd
locked him away somewhere for the last six months, where
he'd gotten bigger and crazier. And now these protester
loonies had seen fit to free whatever was in the cages in
that wing of the building. The good news was that Buddy had
probably killed any of the other mutant animals that could
have gotten out, and probably a bunch of these extremists,
too; the bad news was, Buddy was not going to be easy to
get away from. He was killing his way through the room.
Chaos had ensued; security systems had kicked in, doors had
locked. Metal blinds dropped down windows. Caroline was
looking around at her new immediate reality, stunned by the
violence Buddy was perpetrating - he moved fast, like...
Like sometimes, on TV football game, the football is going
too fast for your eyes to focus on, but since it's a TV
camera, it remains in perfect focus, and it's disorienting,
how fast and intelligibly it's moving. Caroline was
hypnotized by the monster when Jonathan Naomi grabbed her
wrist, pulled her to her feet and half dragged, half ran
her out of the room. She felt her skirt flip up as she spun
around.
Then: running. Through hallways, through these sterile
labs, through a little room with a little cot - sometimes
they slept there, when they were working all night.
"Caroline," Jonathan said, "look. We are basically fucked.
That thing - it's called Buddy, it's a monster. It was my
project - well, your husband's and mine, even though he
sort of lost interest, and changed to a different project,
so I've been keeping up on him - they're not going to stop
him. He's going to kill us all. Do you want to... Jesus,
Caroline, do you want to have sex, one last time? Before we
die?"
That's how Caroline found out that, when she'd been Mike,
her wife had been cheating on her. And she slapped
Jonathan.
"No! I am not interested in anything like that! I can't
believe you're thinking about sex now..."
And then for a second she wanted, really badly, to have sex
with him. Then that passed, she made it pass, and she was
trying to figure out how to get away, how to get out.
"Mike said that there was an air ventilation system here,"
she said. "Might that lead outside?"
"Well we can't leave out the doors, they're locked - hey,
how'd you know that already? You're a step ahead of me.
Yeah, I'll push you up into the air vent system, maybe we
can hide out there, or find a way out... I don't know."
So that's what they did: he got on a chair, knocked the
vent out, and let her climb up. She jumped up and grabbed
the ledge, but there was no doing chin-ups, she just wasn't
strong enough, so Jonathan helped her. By putting his hands
on her ass - not through her skirt, up her skirt, on her
panties, and pushing her up that way. Then he climbed up,
and she realized that she was in the front, crawling
through this air vent, and that in this short dress, he'd
be staring at her panties until they left the air vent.
Great.
Once she started crawling, on her hands and knees, him
behind her, she realized she didn't know where these vents
went. They were just hiding out; they were blinding
themselves and chickening out.
"Listen," she said, after they'd been crawling for a few
minutes, her ass in the air, "I'm feeling a little exposed
here. Do you think you could get in front of me?"
"I love looking at your ass," he said. "Come on, you don't
mind?" And then with a noise like a car crash, he fell
through the vent.
"Jonathan?" She asked. Then again, louder, and she could
hear the panic entering her voice, and then again, and she
was screaming, screeching, and then she fell through the
vent, too. Thirty feet or so to the floor, and she was
crippled, crunchy bones.
And was in the front entranceway of the building,
surrounded by halved corpses. The whole room looked like
the interior of a package of hamburger, meat and blood
everywhere. Limbs with bones sticking out, torsos. Buddy
wasn't killing to eat, he was just killing to kill, and
Caroline wondered, broken and waiting to die, whether she'd
be male or female in heaven.
Jonathan was next to her - well, his head was. Buddy was
still playing with the rest of him. Then, done, he threw
Jonathan's meat corpse across the room. It thudded into the
metal protective screen covering a door, fifty feet away,
and Buddy leaned in toward Caroline. Looking into that
mouth, that maw - which had been a normal monkey mouth a
year ago, before Jonathan and Mike had gotten to it -
Caroline had to amend her question: she wondered whether
she'd be male or female in hell.
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