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Chapter 3: Peels Like Rubber

"Their names are called, they raise a paw: the bat..."

~They Might Be Giants, "Mammal"

I lay paralyzed, straddling the line between sleep and wakefulness. I can never remember what I see during these moments, only that I cannot move and I must regain motor control immediately. Maybe I'm drowning in gasoline. Maybe brown, scaly claws are tugging at my bed sheets. Maybe a demon has come into my room, and he's walking over to peel my skin off. In any case, I groaned. I cursed. I called for help, only realizing how loud I had cried out after I was fully awake, and the outline of a quarterback stood in the doorway.

Dad, after flicking the light on, stepped in and closed the door behind him.

"What's going on?"

I rubbed my eyes, but didn't take my hands away. "What's with the overhead light? I've got a lamp, you know."

I switched on said lamp, one with gargoyles writhing around it. Dad got the message.

"Sorry." He flicked the light off and took a seat at the foot of my bed. "Hey, um, I know things can't be too easy for you, Mrs. Woods forgetting to pick you up and all, but that's no reason to start yelling in the middle of the night."

He caressed my leg under the sheets. Cut the small talk and get to the guilt trip, I wanted to say. But no way was Dad going to learn I was a werewolf. I wasn't sure what brought out my inner "beast," but honesty seemed to be part of it.

"I guess things aren't easy for you either," I grumbled. "I don't think I can control the yelling. I'm doing it in my sleep."

That got him to stop the thigh stroke. "We'll talk about it over lunch tomorrow."

Meaning, no doubt, that_he_ was going to do the talking, and at some skid row fast food place. Sure enough, the next day at lunch, I got a bit of a surprise. I thought that he'd take me to a chain restaurant where, greasy food or no, at least I knew what I was in for. No, today, he was feeling supportive of his fellow home school parent, and he took me to a place called "The Cow Patty." Guess which U.S. region I live in.

Needless to say, one look at the sign and I lost my appetite. It depicted a poorly drawn cow holding open a cheeseburger and showing off its patty, and by "patty" I mean big grey cluster of worms huddled together in a defensive hug. They didn't have anything to worry about. They weren't appetizing enough for the cow. Worse still, I actually knew the guy who designed that sign. I'd rather not say his name. He's doing graphic design now for some computer company I would have otherwise never heard of. My prayers go out to that man.

Mr. Fellow Home school Dad (I'm not naming him either) wasn't any better at naming his menu items. "Pancake Burger," for example, was not a breakfast item. The "Shout for Jesus Salad" should have gotten him excommunicated, as should have "The Trinity Tenderloins." Dad ordered the most innocent sounding thing up there, "The Sinai Sandwich Deluxe." And he wasn't happy about it. I opted to skip the meal due to a "monthly fast," but he forced the issue and I settled for "Fries and Brimstone."

After we ordered our food, Dad lectured me on the importance of eating regularly. That man likely thought I was an aspiring anorexic. I can't imagine that, a bespeckled, hobbit-haired, cheekbone-accentuatingly thin smartass, I met his vision of the perfect son. If I'd had the audacity, I would have just outright said, "Well, excuse me for not being an exact replica of Thomas. You should have just aborted me and cloned him if you wanted another athlete-mix-business professional-mix-model of white male perfection." The emotional climate of our relationship was all wrong for that, however. As all-wrong as the topic he raised next.

"I've got to say, it's nice to have somebody who cares about you so much. Somebody you can talk to, open up to, share what you've been doing with."

"It sure is." If he was trying to pry, it wouldn't work. I'd prefer Dad didn't know anything about my personal life. But he wasn't talking about the two of us.

"That's true. We never talk, but you and Simon do."

"Or, I talk and he flings back some preachy cliché and a typeface wink."

He frowned. "That's not funny. He said you were going to do something with a knife?"

My stomach began to feel like quicksand. I'd tried so hard to keep my personal feelings hidden from my parents. And Simon, my confidante, was _my_territory, dammit. I'd only threatened to toy with the knife to knock that encouragement shit out of his head and make him take me seriously.

"I'm not doing anything with a knife. I was just... angry."

"Get your anger under control," Dad reached across the table and took hold of my wrist. "I will not allow you to share anything with a married preacher you wouldn't share with me or Esma. Do you understand how inappropriate that is?"

"Yes." No, but I wanted his hand off my wrist as soon as possible.

"Do you? Because if you don't, I've got to explain it to do."

"I do, Dad. I won't talk to Simon without talking to you first."

"Because he's not your dad. I'm your dad. He has his own family. I have mine. I take care of my family, not Simon." He patted my wrist. Maybe I would get out the pocket knife and cut off that part of my skin. "I'm glad you understand. Now. I don't want you worrying about this anymore. I don't want you upset, because I've got you a job down at the plant."

He spent the rest of the meal heralding the professional merits of teen labor. Talk about egocentrism. I was glad the prying session was over, but really, Dad? You find out I might be suicidal, and your instinct is to come lecture me about confiding in the wrong person? I wasn't letting Simon off the hook so easily, either. The whole point of our friendship was to escape from my family every once in a while, and Simon rats me out.

As we left the Cow Patty, I took one last look at the cow. So your human skin fell right off, huh? I thought. Should've used crazy glue. Then my angry, smoldering attention went right back to Simon's betrayal. I would write him an e-mail the moment I got home. I would accuse him of tattling. I'd call him a self-righteous swine. I'd order him to stop talking down to me like I was his goddamned disciple and to wake up to the fact that other peoples' feelings aren't fucking thermostats.

Only, no. I didn't do that at all. I typed up an angry letter, containing all the power of the previous paragraph, and then I failed to hit "send." No doubt this would go straight to my Dad if Simon ever read it. I deleted the e-mail. Coward that I am, I could not bring myself to tell someone how much he hurt me. I knew that, unless I buried this grievance along with all the other ones, a crouching deity would paddle me at the end of my life, or transform me into a sheep for the rest of eternity.

A Relient K song once mourned a romance by placing all the blame on his ex. That's something else imprinted in my mind; if a relationship ends, then it's your fault for not exercising forgiveness. I used to listen to Simon's sermons on relationships, and one thing I noticed was, although he did encourage approaching your transgressor, he never said what to do if they never apologize. The guy in the song didn't apologize, he just cast blame with the justification of holding on to love. Well, I was never Simon's girlfriend, but I knew he wasn't the type to apologize.

To hell with it all. I put him on my block list. So what if God wanted to whoop my ass? Let him do it. Nothing's more painful than living a lie. If all I am to Simon is proselytize practice, then bye-bye, Simon. Get yourself another flock, you're not beating this sheep... this clawed, pointy-eared, snaggle-fanged sheep... over the head with your crook anymore.

And so it was; one relationship ended, and a new one began.

*

My main duty at the recycling plant was to pull junk off a conveyor belt and throw it in a recycle dumpster. I was responsible for plastic bottles; everything else I ignored, including perishable goods like banana peels or dead insects.

"A lot of people don't make it easy on ya," said my supervisor, a well-toned black guy by the name of Stan Webster. "Occasionally, you'll find a mixed bag; cans, bottles, paper wads, but all you want on your station is plastic, and that includes the bag you find it in."

"There aren't any trash cans around here," I observed. "What do I do if I see a snotty tissue or something dangerous like a gun?"

"Let the tissue slide. Give the gun to me, I collect them." He winked. Had that come in the form of a typeface, I might have poked the open eye.

"Will do," I said.

He frowned, as if addressing someone who didn't comprehend his idea of a very hilarious joke. "Seriously, though. If anyone drops a weapon in here, we need to report it. I've never seen anything like that myself, but you never know what nut will mistake a recycle bin for a garbage dumpster."

The work itself was boring, boring, boring. Stan stuck around to make small talk and make sure I knew the difference between plastic and Styrofoam. While the latter was somewhat annoying, I have to admit, I like attention from big guys. Horizontally big, I mean. Stan was about four inches shorter than I was, but outside of his job, he was a weight-lifter. He spoke of dragging a wagon full of lawn displays around his yard and doing pull ups while children hung onto his legs.

"You have kids?" I said.

"Nah, not yet. Courtney and I have only been married six months. It's just kids from around the neighborhood."

I pictured him climbing a wall with only the use of his arms, carrying two women from one floor to the next on his legs. Stan Webster, the human elevator, with streaks of light flashing across his bare quadriceps. I could only imagine the reason he'd never let adults on the chin-up ride was that his calves were too short. He said it was something of a trust-building exercise for the kids; He'd trust them not to spank or pinch him, and they'd trust him not to drop them.

Trust, huh? That's what I need more of in my life.

I scooped up an armful of plastic bottles, but Simon stopped me from carrying them over. "Don't carry them, toss 'em. It'll save you time. So, you got a girlfriend?" He asked this so abruptly that I doubt he was really interested. If anything, this was to keep me from going near the bin.

"I almost did."

"Hey, don't sweat it. I went through six women when I was a teenager before I got to Courtney. Um, don't tell her I said that."

"Funny thing was, I think I almost did. I mean, we both seemed to notice things about each other that we thought was really strange..." I grabbed a tied-up Wal-Mart. "I think we might have started to repel one another."

"That's the way it usually works. Open it up first; there may be some metal in there."

Sure enough, the bag was full of tin cans. Unwashed tin cans, and one My Little Pony action figure. "I mean, we noticed really strange things." I began to rub it clean with my shirt. "Like, hair growing out in strange..."

"You don't have to do that." He picked up an empty ball point pen and tossed it. He did the same to other plastic pieces he'd found; a ruler, a Tupperware bowl, and an empty disc case. "Wanna have a ski-ball tournament?" He waved an Ajax bottle to entice me.

"Sure, why not?"

He listed a bunch of arbitrary rules on what item counted for how many points, then ended with "keep track of your own score, now." And the next ten minutes were spent picking off plastic and throwing them. Stan was ruthless in this area of work. It almost caused me to grab non-plastics. I would have thrown a matchbox in there if he hadn't caught me.

"Give me a break," I said. "I've got to tell my dad that I'm doing something important."

"Gotta keep up, man."

Well, it was better than "gotta keep up, kid." Anyway, the game was over when items of any material ceased to come our way. Stan scored about four times more than I did, and he lorded it over me like this was some kind of NFL victory, doing this "in-yo-face" jig on the conveyer belt.

"Very funny," I said. "Just wait until I don't have some muscle-bound numbskull distracting me from my work."

I don't know what he expected, but he seemed disappointed with my reaction. "Right," he climbed down. "By the way, don't ever do what I just did. Safety violation." Boy, for somebody who really believed in trust, this guy kept a lot of secrets. "About that girlfriend of yours..."

"Oh, she was never my girlfriend. We don't have the kinds of parents who let us go out on dates."

This lifted his eyebrow. "Never go on dates? How would you marry?"

"Incessantly ask permission. They're bound to say yes eventually."

Again, I'm pretty sure this was a suck up question, the kind to distract me from whatever he didn't want me tattling on him for. He didn't have to worry. Sorting plastics with a big cheery black guy wasn't the sort of thing that made zappy conversation in my family, and I hated tattling (and those who do it).

*

Was I walled off from the world, or was the world just deserted? Deserted of anyone willing to understand, that is. Obviously, other people shared the planet with me, but those who did were clueless as to what I needed. My dad thought I needed to be exorcised of my emotional suffering, Simon was too busy ascending into sainthood to address anything real, and now Stan had his own minefield of taboo subjects for me to navigate around. I had only one friend at this point, and it seemed to understand loneliness, too.

The scenes that I found most arousing took place in private; Barney Bear has his sleep interrupted in only the company of a squirrel, who isn't even watching. Goofy, right before getting his pants flooded, hunts down Gloria in a circus that appears to be vacant. Templeton gorges himself on carnival food without any sort of audience. I attributed it to the fact that public growth would be embarrassing, and embarrassment was something I'd had enough of lately.

There had to be some parallel to my own transformation. I myself couldn't do it without the presence of another individual, one who'd just made me angry or whom I'd just said something stupid to. I kept a text journal of all the times I'd transformed, what occurred immediately beforehand, and what happened immediately afterward. I didn't know whether I ought to avoid the stimuli so no one would ever be offended by it or embrace the stimuli so that I could get help curing it. The whole quandary was making my head spin. I took a break and resumed my YouTube perusal.

One particularly bothersome characteristic I found was that, oftentimes, I felt like the wrong character ended up inflated. Case in point, this Dragon Ball Z clip of a frog attempting to sumo shove some rhino dragon out of the arena. This frog stretched to the size of the moon, and I remember thinking two things. The first one was that I'd much rather see that muscle-bound rhino suck up lunar levels of air. The second was that this was the wrong frog. I wanted to see another frog blow up. I mean, the one I'd been so patiently waiting for was in a Disney cartoon, for crying out loud. Why was it so hard to find? Screw YouTube, I thought_. Maybe I can find it on Google images._

And so, I started a fruitless quest that ended only when my computer shut off unexpectedly. I suppose I caught a virus, I'd looked at well over a hundred websites, many of them pornographic in nature.

The words of the Canondrew sisters began to haunt me. They followed me into my dreams, where they told me that Satan had taken the form of a beautiful woman. I responded that he looked more like a pair of so-so looking sisters. Preachy so-so looking sisters. They then told me he'd become manifest in my bedroom, where he'd drag me to hell by my feet. I figured I'd let him have the bed to himself, if that were the case. I came back from the bathroom to find an empty bed. I'd carried my expectations from my sleep into reality.

I was about to turn off my lamp and go back to sleep. I put my hands on the knob, then looked at the gargoyles clutching the base. Wouldn't a celestial freak-out be just the sort of thing the Canondrew sisters needed? And wouldn't something remotely demonic be just the thing to invoke said freak-out? This was a bit of a letdown, I had to admit. Going back to hate comics was the only way to deal with it.

I began digging under my bed for a box of scrap paper. I kept a lot of junk under there; clothes I didn't want Mom to throw away, toys I didn't want Dez touching, that kind of thing. It made me feel secure; although the downside was that I couldn't find the damned paper, so I took a journey to the center of my bed and found a patch of missing carpet.

In the year and a half we'd been living there, I never once explored the underside of my bed. I suppose the moving men assumed I wouldn't want to look at the tainted carpet, although I can't even remember whether or not I'd noticed that patch when we first explored the house. If it had been always been there, I suppose that I was just too bummed out over leaving Ruston to care. At any rate, it was starting to annoy me, so I peeled at it.

"Wouldn't that just make it bigger and therefore more annoying?" says my invisible editor. Yes, it would. I wasn't peeling to solve the problem, I was peeling to punish it. It gave in more easily than I could have anticipated. Before I knew it, I'd uncovered some sort of trap door that opened the wrong way. It was held shut by a spring, but if I put my weight on it, it would adduct into another room.

I began to feel uneasy. I wondered if I would awaken a second time and have to face the disappointment of a grand adventure. On the other hand, this could possibly lead to some sort of thief. If my paper disappeared, and this was the only way to explain it, then someone had been living in a secret room under my bed. The door's possible non-existence would be bittersweet at best. I could then blame Dez for stealing my paper, and I'd go back to keeping secrets for the rest of my life.

I couldn't allow it. If I really was dreaming, then passing through this door would not be any kind of risk. It would be inspirational. If I really was dreaming, then I'd better make the most of it before I woke up. I pushed through the door, knowing full well that, though the gargoyle invocation was certainly spoken in my sleep, the adventure I was about to have was not.

I stuck my leg in first, hoping to get a hold of a ladder. I might have found a step stool if I gave myself enough slack. I gave myself a little too much slack, slid down the doorway and tumbled into a dimly lit room while the door closed behind me. It took me a moment to recover from my dizziness and realize that gravity must have flipped on me.

As my eyes adjusted to the room, I saw marble pillars holding sconces. That was the only source of light. The floor felt like it could be marble as well. I stood, and thought I heard a river trickling in the distance. Between the pillars were glass cases. I took a look and saw what looked like a remote control car with several wires exposed, a binder with the words "Soft and Aloft: Manuscript" written on it, a floppy disk, and an ant farm. The ants were thriving as ever, but their estate seemed out of place, even with the lack of theme in this museum.

Some glass cases were completely full. Those that weren't had some kind of tiny waterfall behind them, carrying knick-knacks into the cases without getting them wet. I saw it trickle out the case into a storm drain, so I stuck my finger under it to see if I got wet. Yup, it got wet all right. What kind of water only gets your skin wet?

I couldn't come up with a snide remark before I heard a bell ring. Not an alarm bell, but a dinner bell. I looked around, thinking I should make a break for it. Alarm bell or no, I was sure that I'd triggered it. I couldn't find the trapdoor; that was located beyond the reach of the light. All I could do was crouch down in a dark spot, hoping that security wouldn't see me. I heard clicking noises. Whoever he was probably had night vision. I waited.

The little light from the sconces revealed something pale and thin with a swaying tale. My foremost thought was that I was viewing something naked, something that would surely knock anyone from the home school group into a morality-protecting coma. I myself was a little reluctant to watch, even after braving random porn sites all night. This must have been some kind of locker room for the residents of the nether realm. Sure enough, my new friend opened a cabinet and began digging around until he was startled by a burst of stardust.

"Good grief, Diablo, it's like a thunderclap when you do that."

"Forgive me, but I've been asking around, and I fear that nobody has seen, knitted, tangled, unraveled or even chewed your yarn."

Diablo's lemony, luminescent eyes illuminated whom I could only call a peppermint dragon, and my, was he ever skinny. Much too skinny for my taste. I liked 'em big and boulderous. This unclothed chum looked about as filling as the flavor his coloration represented. I thought of how awful it might be to find nothing but York peppermint patties in your Christmas stocking while the drama unfolded before me.

"Nobody has seen it?" Dragomint over there slammed the door. "Fish sticks. And that ball of yarn was all I had left of my former feline life."

"Oh, why dwell on it with so much to explore before you?"

"Diab, I am never going to see Luminta again. Can't you sympathize with that? Wasn't there anybody you ever left behind?"

This caused a lull in the conversation. I couldn't piece together any theories behind it. Former feline life? Did mint dragons grow out of cats like a werewolf was growing out of me? I'd better warn my neighbors if I ever got back. They owned cats and mint was a very boring flavor. There was hope, though. Maybe the guy was more vanilla-strawberry than I had assumed.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be such a pity partier. It's just that memories from my life as a cat pop up now and then. People I never said goodbye to, people I never apologized to..."

"Ahm, no apology to me needed. You're certain this yarn of yours was itself an unfinished project?"

"Nobody ever knitted mittens out of it."

"Well then, let's explore a little more, shall we? These cabinets are sure to hold caverns of adventurous objects. Fear not, Rinzo. Luminta remembers you yet."

Another burst of glittery dust particles and Diablo was gone, leaving the sconces as the only form of light. Get back to staring at your partner, I thought. I want a better look at his face.

"Is there any way you could brighten the room? I no longer have night vision."

"Ah, I shall enlist the aid of Fortitudo."

I neither had night vision nor any idea on what was going on, so I didn't have time to hide before the sconces went out, replaced by stars and galaxies above the ceiling, giving all three of us a clear look at one another.

The peppermint dragon, Rinzo, had a striped body to match his head. Spikes ran along his back. If there was any anatomical evidence that he was once a cat, I couldn't see it. Diablo looked a little more like the kind of thing the Canondrew sisters would try to exorcise; horn-shaped ears, slittted yellow eyes. villainous pencil moustache, quills tied up into dreadlocks (dreadlocks were the hairstyle of witch doctors, you see); overall, he looked something like a porcupine from hell.

"Why, Rinzo, look, an Earth-dweller." He helped me to my feet while Rinzo turned around. "The hall of unfinished projects rarely gets visitors. Are you here to finish something you left incomplete? A recipe? A novel? A quarrel?"

Up close, he looked a little less exorcisable. He wore some combination of a suit and a kimono with the sleeves burned off, showing a star tattoo on his left shoulder. Short black fur on his limbs tapered off into scales around his hands and feet. I was struck by the idea that this might be the kind of creature occasionally trying to escape my skin. If that were the case, then showing up in front of Rhonda and Cynthia would be revenge in and of itself.

"I actually had a question. Uh... were you ever a different species? Something that looked like me, for instance?"

Rinzo started getting curious.

"Well," Diablo tapped his cheek with a fountain pen. "Not that I know of. I have been a demon all my life. Rinzo, on the other hand, if it's not to personal a revelation, ahm..."

"I used to be a cat."

"So I've heard," I said. "All right, so I've been caught red-handed. I don't have any unfinished business down here." Not counting all the drawings that never became masterpieces. I wonder what qualified as an unfinished project. "I just found some secret door under my bed and... well, here I am."

"Then," said Rinzo, "maybe you could help me find a ball of yarn?"

"Sounds like a capital idea!" Diablo held his pen to the sky like Vulcan held his torch. "Meanwhile, I can explore your nick of the woods. Rinzo would have the doubled efforts he needs, and my sense of adventure will be fulfilled."

"Oh no. Trust me, show up in my town looking like that and you'd walk straight into a lynch mob. No Starkville for Diab."

His glowing eyes lost a little luster. "What's wrong with the way I look?"

"Well... hate to sound prejudiced, but you said you were a demon, right?"

He heaved a sigh. "I don't have to go in this form. I'm certain none would be the wiser if I went wearing your skin."

That caught me off guard. Who was this guy, Jack the Ripper?

"Joking, joking." He waved away the idea and chuckled. "I _could,_however, take a look around in my own mask. Your town name is Starkville, is it? I can tell by your accent that you are American."

A cost-benefit analysis occurred to me. I'd been entertaining the notion of getting even with Rhonda and Cynthia for calling me a porn addict, and scaring the bejeezus out of them with my new friend here seemed just the way to do it. I only told Diablo to stay put for his own sake, something that probably wouldn't matter given his powers of teleportation.

I wasn't sure if I could trust him, however. Growing up in church, I'd heard horror stories of demonic possession, and how scrawny kids had had seizures that could overpower multiple adults. Would this guy really be all that dangerous if he admitted to his demonic roots? His name was Diablo, he admitted to that much. And no doubt somebody is reading this and thinking, "Run, you idiot, while you still have control of your own body!"

"It's been nice knowing you guys, but... I've got to make tracks."

I darted towards the door, threw it open, and met the prankish shout of Dez before I flicked her on the nose. Reflexively, you understand.

*

Stan wasn't around to supervise me at work the following day. The official reason was that, given that all I would be doing was sorting plastic, I didn't really need his assistance, and he had important work elsewhere. Unofficially, I think I scared him away. He left me an uncertainty bin for material I wasn't sure of. I needed a psychological version of that. An uncertainty bin for words and actions I couldn't classify as freaky or unfreaky.

And so it was I didn't have anything professional to share with Rump or Auria when they came over for a visit. Four hours after dinner and two hours after Mom and Dad put Dez to bed so that they themselves could retire, Rump was all up in arms over this quest student he'd tried to train. He'd routinely drop boxes of expensive equipment, much to the ire of some guy named Hank. "He wasn't even grateful at the farewell party. All he could say when we asked him what he learned was, 'I learned how to handle annoying buzz kills like Hank.' What he clearly did not learn was how to talk to professionals. I told him so."

Auria intercepted whatever cautionary tale this was turning into (God bless that woman) to lament how everybody in her math class hated each others' guts. Some woman made a perfect score on her first test, and then fell to pieces when the next test didn't show the same results. I don't like to spread gossip, but listening to it is sure a blast. That's one of the reasons I didn't share my demon dream quite readily. Those people might have actually existed.

"What you need to do is look out for yourself," he told her. "A lot of people like to compare grades, and then, when they get the highest score in the class, they'll ask for a letter of recommendation, then show that off. I never shared my grades with anyone on the same level as me. I like for the power brokers to know my achievements. They're the ones who can use them."

I cackled. "I'm sure a straight-A report card makes a great hankie, no matter who uses it."

"Our grades are all online. We don't have report cards." Rump knuckled me on the forehead. "If you're going to be a toot, you can go to bed."

"Go to bed, bed, bed, bed!" Dez came down the hall, banging a toy drum. I knew it was only a matter of time before our parents got up to settle the commotion. I had the same views on family spats as I did gossip; loved watching it, hated participating in it. I mumbled, "You're right, bedtime for me." I slipped away into Dez's bedroom where I could listen in without getting caught. Dad was up all right, ready to drag Dez back to bed. I ran for the closet and braced myself for whatever style of parenting Dad was in the mood to inflict.

As it happened, the only thing he had the energy to lay on her was an empty threat. I was happy I didn't have to hear any belt-whipping, but how was I supposed to sneak back to my bedroom? Mom had already scolded me for the flick on the nose I'd given her. She'd likely think I'd purposefully spied on Dad punishing her. I mean, it would be nice to show her what it's like to be scared. It might even be fundamental to her personal growth as a non-hellion. What's the opposite of a hellion? A heavenion? A heavy onion?

Food for thought, food for sleep. I tucked in for a cramped night in the closet, imagining it as the kind of thing Diablo would call "adventuresome." Speaking of which, I never found the paper I was looking for. I could always ask Dad to bring home more from work, but I wondered if it counted as an unfinished project. Technically, nothing I ever drew went beyond the sketch phase, and nothing ever ended up there before. Who were these people collecting unfinished projects? Also, I was almost sure that he'd told me that unfinished quarrels ended up down there too. What did those look like? Did they take physical form? And was there a guild of people around to complete them?

I'd stumbled upon somebody else's narrative in my sleep. That somebody wanted to follow me to Starkville. I'd already carried my expectation from my sleep into reality, and next time, it might become corporeal.

*

Pink neon letters flashed over the doorway: "Roulette Boutique." Or maybe they were Freon. Radon? I wasn't sure which Nobel gas looked pink. Nor was I sure how I got to this Los Vegas-looking tailor. I was only sure that, between exposing the change to Dez and opening the door to the nether realm, the latter was the safer option. At least, that's what I thought before I opened the door.

The bell gave a little ding, but far be that to interrupt the couple of people chatting on the other side of the room. Mannequins of various sizes crowded the store, all with latex skin covering the exposed parts of their bodies. Few, if any, of these had normal-shaped heads. Everyone I could see had a muzzle and pointy ears deforming the clearly human masks. They looked like gelflings, which had always struck me as eerie. It looked like God couldn't make up his mind whether to make a person or an animal, so he compromised and, when he was all done, said, "Screw this, I'm dumping it in some alternate universe."

Also, the things had tails. These were not covered in latex skin; instead, they were rolled up and tucked into the individual pants or skirts, giving the impression of a badly done butt implant. I gave it a light pat, expecting to feel plastic underneath. Whatever it was instead was soft. It made a crinkly noise when I pushed it. I pulled the pants loose by the belt loop and peeked inside. It looked like some kind of cellophane.

"Looking for anything special?"

I whirled around, startling her in like fashion.

"Ah... um, I'm not some kind of pervert, I--wait, Mrs. Bambi?"

"Oh, um... I don't know if you mean, am I his mother or am I his wife, but I'm neither. And no worries about the peeking. The dummies don't mind. Just so long as it's only the dummies."

I'd just been caught molesting a dummy by a talking doe.

"Sure, sure... I can't imagine anyone here would want their underpants invaded."

"You'd be surprised what some people do and do not want."

Behind me was a long blue dragon. My instinct was to call him Ord and compliment him on his weight loss, but first of all, he didn't really look like Ord. He had too much hair, too many ears (two), and the kind of mustache you see on catfish. Secondly, I wasn't sure if "Wow, you've lost weight," was really a compliment in dragon culture. Didn't people prefer their dragons fat? Maybe that was only a Western thing. This guy was clearly of Eastern persuasion.

"Welcome to the costume community, friend. Take a look around. I'm certain you'll find something you'd like to wear."

"Uh, not to be a peeper, but you don't seem to be wearing anything at all."

He folded his arms and looked down on me. "You, on the other hand, seem to wearing far too much, especially around your hands and facial area."

"Oh my god," I backed away, sensing his apparent urge to flay me where I stood.

"Hey, take it easy, Draco," said the doe. "He's obviously a newcomer. But my guess is you'll eventually agree. Otherwise, you wouldn't have found your way here. Maybe you'd find the digimon section a little more familiar."

"Yeah. As I was just asking, I've been eager to get into a Guilmon suit." He addressed the doe. "Meadow, do you have anything in my size?"

"Absolutely! Everything in here conforms to your size while concealing natural furry and scalie features, even micros and macros can wear them."

"Sheesh," I said. "Now I know how my parents feel when I talk about video games."

Draco smirked. "Digimon stands for 'digital monsters,' you see. And Guilmon is a digimon."

I had no comebacks for that. I followed them out of the Hannibal Lecter department.

"I don't really understand half of what's been said," I whispered to Meadow, "but you seem to be the only normal person I've met so far. That's not the first time somebody 'offered' to skin me."

"Trust me, nobody's going to skin you. Draco and I are a part of the costume community. I think you'd fit in, if you gave us all a chance."

"A chance to peel my skin off?"

"You're silly."

She led me to the second floor, where, rather than elastic human suits, the skin of various anime and video game characters. Neon signs advertised which franchise were available. The Mario section had the usual characters you'd expect; Bowser, Yoshi, Birdo, and for some reason, Mallow; These, however, were translucent, as was everything on the Pokémon rack.

Draco perused the Guilmon suits. I knew who Guilmon was, but these had odd variations on them. Some had extra markings around his face and tail, some had horns and forked tongues, some had mohawks, some had wings, and some had extra-large muscles. All of them had a tag that read, "super power not included." Bummer.

"So, I take it you guys want to see what I look like without my human skin," I said.

Draco lightly tapped my nose. "Everyone has a furry equivalent or two."

"Yeah... sounds great and all, but I don't think I'm ready to give up my skin at the moment. I'm not sure how much my parents paid for it and..."

Was that a new patch of fur I felt emerging from my face?

"What are you talking about?" said Draco. "Nobody's asking you to give up anything. Can't you act a little more friendly and a little less paranoid?"

Meadow clapped her hands. "No fighting here. Let's concentrate on the thing we know we all have in common: costumes."

I still didn't know where I was or what was going on. I desperately wanted to keep my skin condition under control, but I couldn't figure out why. I felt the way I normally feel when I get into an argument with someone, like I've woken up in a foreign country where my very presence is a violation of local law.

Speaking of unwelcome presences, the was a voice downstairs that demanded my immediate attention: Dez! I couldn't let her know about this place. I may not understand it, but it was my personal escapade, dammit! I ran down stairs, knocking over mannequins all the way to the front door. She was on the other side of the glass, but she was loud enough that I could hear through it. She was unable to open it, but I didn't bother to find out why. I opened it myself, pushed her through, and woke up on the floor of her bedroom, with the wailing little scorpion beneath me, kicking my balls numb. So that's what all that "soccer practice" was for.

*

"Look, drop the lecturing, will you? She got even. I'm now eligible for the castrati choir. Lay off."

"That doesn't explain what you were doing in the closet in the first place."

Rump watched me sweep up the plaster I'd peeled off to find the meta-closet, which was now obstructed by boxes of toddler-sized Legos.

"Trying to mind my own business. I wasn't the one going all Ringo Starr while Mom and Dad were asleep, remember? I was just trying to avoid the family lecture."

"See, that's weasely. No, you weren't banging the drums, but you _were_up late, talking. You're in high school. A good night's sleep is essential for your mental growth."

"And a good morning's shut-up is essential to your not-getting-a-pants-full-of-plaster growth."

We carried on like Robert and Raymond until I disposed the last few shards. "Besides," he concluded, "anyone with common sense would have known to use a vacuum cleaner. No noise excuses, you can always use ear plugs."

When what we really need are mouth plugs. I didn't have the energy to keep arguing. The important thing was that I'd kept Dez from discovering my secret world. I'd kept T-Rump from penetrating my walls of defense. Sooner or later, I'd find a new door to it all. I just had to find it in a place I wouldn't get caught.

The door under my bed was gone, and the carpet was sewn up. Assuming I hadn't dreamt it all, I guess Diablo was so offended by my retreat that he didn't want me digging around his lair. That made this whole ordeal an unfinished project. I never finished understanding what it all meant. Too much clothes? Macro and micro? Superpowers not included? I was a young fledgling were-what's-it. So was Cecilia. If property damage opened the gate to this world, I might have to go and vandalize her bedroom before it was all over; that is, if she hadn't done so and blown her chance already.

That evening, after I'd invested the appropriate amount of family time in fun and games, I stayed up to do a little research. As far as my slow as snails virus-infested computer would allow, I discovered by guidance of a YouTube comment that there might be an "inflation crowd" neighboring the costume community, with the transformation nation sitting between the two. Thus, I found the inflatioNation, where everything from YouTube had been uploaded alongside a list of cartoon episodes where someone blew up for my viewing pleasure.

They didn't have the one clip I was looking for; I know now, in my post-college late 20's, that my quest would not have ended there, that it would not have satiated my sexual appetite for the rest of my life. At the time, it was a fairly active site, and I promised myself that, once the clip I had in mind showed up, I would be done. Done with YouTube, done with inflation, done with anything related to sexual pleasure. I'd show those Canondrews. I didn't need them dictating my moral values.

In the absence of Aesop's animated scare-'em-straight fable, I helped myself to a look around the site. I didn't expect to get much enjoyment out of the comics section, chiefly because I thought that the pleasure was all in the motion, but a few minutes admiring the work of a paunchy tan lion by the name of Captain Furry, and I was certain that official cartoons had the potency of burst appendixes.

The power was in the privacy. Apart from occasionally adding his latest victim to his blimpified prisoners, he pulled off his tricks without any witnesses. Here was a Doberman detective, getting a fire hose up the muzzle for carrying a concealed weapon. Here was a lupine Christmas caroler, falling prey to an overgrown Captain before taking the shape of a taut hot dog. And here was a kangaroo, unwittingly fattened beyond measure by Furry's sinister-motivated cooking. A second kangaroo came along to scoff, but one sip of trick cola and he joined his brother in size and shape. Boy, what I wouldn't have given to be the one lounging on that magnificent belly mattress. My skin, that's what.

If there was a costume land, then there sure as heck had to be an bike pump land, or a fire hose land, or an all-you-can-eat-until-you-can't land. But there was an ethical issue involved here, wasn't there? I sure didn't want to be the butt of an April fool's prank tank, and neither, it seemed, did any of these poor buffoons. The captain himself nearly had a nervous breakdown if faced with the threat of growing horizontally, or became very angry when that threat was realized.

Like I said, the power was in the privacy. Nobody knew what I was looking at. Nobody had to know. If Cecilia had a secret doorway in her bedroom, then she'd probably do a better job of guarding it.

Hey wait, didn't I glimpse Auria change that one time, too?

*

I wouldn't be paying a visit to Auria's dorm in Chicago until Christmas break. I imagine that I'd gone on an adventure meant for Dez and blown it for her by making a bad first impression on the people therein and blocking closet access to the Roulette Boutique. That's what she gets for all the dick-kicks, anyway. My ideas about ever going back were hare-brained at best and illegal at worst. The solution seemed to be to find someone who could barely keep their human morphology under control, then tear his walls and floors up. Although I hadn't noticed any morphological alterations in Dez yet, I figured it was only a matter of time.

The next plastic sorting session was a much needed break. Stan wasn't around, but Rump wasn't either. I didn't need Dad Jr. telling me the importance of menial labor. I was just glad to be alone with my thoughts.

I noticed at the bottom of the bin a corner of gift-wrap paper. I heaved myself over the wall to pull it out, but it ripped. Someone must have glued it to the bottom as a joke. I couldn't leave it there, it was too tacky. I tried scraping it off with my bare fingernails, rushing to finish the job before someone came along and fired me.

Before I describe the rest of the scenario, it's worth pointing out that my first two ventures into the alternate universe took place early in the morning while everyone was asleep. I hadn't completely abandoned the possibility that it had all been a dream, and that I'd simply damaged Dez's wall in my sleep. This incident took place in broad daylight, while I was wide awake and, instead of in my bedroom where I could completely shut everyone else out, inside of a large dumpster where anyone could peak in from above. Whatever was going on that made me experience this, sleep was not a possibility.

The wrapping paper, it turned out, was the floor. I tumbled down a tunnel, expecting to find some infernal cavern at the end of it all when I hit my head on a wooden bench. I could still move my arms and legs, so clearly, my neck wasn't broken. I stood, using the bench to pull myself up. There was a cushion where I'd expect a mere row of boards to be. It wasn't a bench, it was a pew. Dizzy as I was, I could see a row of pews stretching out to a vacant podium. Outer light revealed stained glass windows of a humanoid lion coddling lamb children and fending off a tall, thin black dragon.

I was in the church of talking animals. Oh boy...

I had two expectations in mind; one, either they'd share the very gospel I was used to and therefore condemn some imaginary struggle of mine, or they'd share a new message that, by fault of not being the worldview I grew up with, would be wrong. I wasn't really looking for spiritual feedback at the moment, because, my god, what a whammy I deserved for talking with a self-professed demon.

I'd had enough of church in the real world. I didn't want it following me into my private Narnian adventure, so I made for the exit.

"You're not leaving because you feel unwelcome, do you? This is a place where everyone is welcome."

My determination to leave caused me to miss a lone wolf with visible electricity running through his azure fur. He sat in a front row pew with a clipboard and a stack of brochures. A cross hung from his necklace. I wondered if he was the local deacon. Everyone is welcome, huh? Like I've never heard that one before. Before I opened my mouth, though, I thought I'd investigate a little more.

"I honestly don't know what I'm supposed to feel. I scare all my friends away, my family is trying to perfect me, and I only feel safe when I'm all alone, browsing the internet."

He beckoned me over by patting the space next to him.

"Sometimes I feel that way, too. My name is Volt."

I can only imagine that stood for "Voltage," so I was a bit reluctant to shake his hand. Shake his paw, I mean. But there was no shock, only the coarse fur and padding of a normal canid paw in the shape of a human hand.

He looked at a coffee stain on the ceiling. "Hey, Anomani, come on out, don't be shy." The stain undried itself and drizzled onto the pew, forming a soot-covered gargoyle with an eagle's beak. He looked dressed for combat, anyway, with a shark-finned, ram-horned helmet. It could have been used for breaking through walls, or clearing beaches of their tourists, but I didn't have the nerve to ask.

"Wow," I said. "Just when everything was starting to look normal."

"Aw, come on," Anomani put his hand on my shoulder. "There's no such thing as a normal alien goofer. In fact, I'd go so far as to say there's no such thing as normal, period."

"Yeah, I'd say so too." Volt turned to me. "Are you okay? You seem a little ill at ease."

"I don't even know where to begin. Don't I..."

There it was again, the claws emerging from my fingers, but unable to penetrate the skin. The fur sprouting from my face and wrists, but not enough to cover my skin. If I didn't let it loose now, I might never find out what was happening.

"Don't I strike you as kind of strange? There aren't any humans in this universe, including me. Don't you see what's happening to my body?"

"I wouldn't say there are no humans," said Anomani. "I can take the form of a human if I want to."

"Well..." Volt looked between the two of us. "I guess that would depend on what you mean by 'human,' but no, I don't find you particularly strange; even so, I'm not the kind of person to point out others' quirks and uniqueness."

"I'll say." Anomani melted through the pew and reformed on the other side of me. As a completely different species. He was a six foot flamingo now, complete with pink feathers and a banana-shaped bill. "You're new to the fandom, I'll bet. Everything looks weird to outsiders."

"And you're not helping," I murmured.

He split into two rhinos and surrounded me and Volt. "Things can get a bit intimidating when you join a new group and you don't know the lingo or anybody inside."

I started sweating. Volt snickered as both rhinos burst into a swarm of butterflies who circled around the roof as they announced, "But surely as I can adopt a different guise, You'll eventually take off your skin to acquaint us all with the furry within."

It was too much. I got up and ran. All I would need to do was find a door and I'd be back on Earth. I'd had enough of the "furry within." I had to get a razor and shave it off while it was still in sight.

I flung open the door, and there, standing in front of me was a yellow-eyed hedgehog, dressed a bit more formally than when I'd seen him last.

"Pardon me, but you seem a little distressed. I thought if you saw someone familiar..."

"This is a church." I started trembling. "You shouldn't be able to come in here."

Diablo's eyes dimmed a little. "Is that your way of expressing gratitude? I came here to comfort you."

"What's going on?" Volt came over, then halted at the sight of Diablo.

"Yeah, doesn't look like everybody's welcome after all," I said. I could feel my ears and nose prickling. Something was about to escape, something much more powerful than a caustic remark.

"Calm down," he began fingering his cross. "I didn't mean..."

"You didn't mean what?" I said. "Don't tell me everyone's welcome and then..."

"Leave him alone!" Diablo withdrew his fountain pen. "You're the one who flatly dismissed me. Your prejudice does not escape me."

"Some people deserve prejudice!"

With each outburst, my human form became a little less a part of me, but I'd felt as though it had reached its limits; Diablo's eyes streamed pale tears as he ground his teeth. I would not fully become beast without physical violence. I was ready for it. I curled my fist and prepared to strike.

"This is getting too heated," Volt gripped his cross and inhaled.

"Don't blame me, I'm only damn human!" I wound up.

"I don't know what you've been through or what your deal is," Diablo flicked his pen, "But I do know that someone who believes that prejudice is deserved has no right to call himself human. Saying that some deserve prejudice; that's as inhuman as anyone can be. Now look at the floor."

No punch would be forthcoming, because I looked at my fist and saw a furry blue claw in its place. I opened it, and soft scaly webs linked the fingers. I looked at the floor as I was told, and there lay shards of Caucasian latex rubber with mops of curly brown hair growing out of it. I rubbed my face. My nose had become a full muzzle, ending in a flat snotty spade. The tip of it added a new blind spot like a distant but looming tower. My ears had moved nearer to the top of my head, and touching them caused a sharp ringing.

Even my clothes had changed. The jeans and polo I'd had on lay shredded around my former skin. Instead, I wore a vest and bowtie, the kind that drooped like a ribbon on a Christmas package. My shoes, which were once new balance sneakers, were replaced with some kind of closed-toed sandals. I staggered around for a moment. Volt helped me onto a pew, then realized I had a tail to top it all off.

"Welcome to the club." Diablo used his pen to vaporize my former clothing and shed skin, except for what had been my foot. "You may insert that into your mouth." He stormed out of the room.