Zippered Flesh 2: More Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad
Read Zippered Flesh 2: More Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad Online
Authors: Bryan Hall,Michael Bailey,Shaun Jeffrey,Charles Colyott,Lisa Mannetti,Kealan Patrick Burke,Shaun Meeks,L.L. Soares,Christian A. Larsen
Praise for the first
ZIPPERED FLESH anthology
“If director David Cronenberg edited an anthology, this would be that book.”
—HORROR WORLD
“Hardcore studies of shocking monstrosities that will enthrall and entice even the most hardened horror fan.” —FANGORIA
“I
loved
this anthology. Reading it was like riding a rollercoaster in a haunted house.”
—READER’S DEN
“There are some real high points in this collection, and the authors have all attempted to approach the subject matter from very different and interesting angles.”
—THIS IS HORROR
“This anthology will not let you down!”
—Blaze McRob’s TALES OF HORROR
ZIPPERED FLESH 2
More Tales of Body Enhancements
Gone Bad!
Edited by Weldon Burge
Smart Rhino Publications
These are works of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in these stories are either products of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales is purely coincidental.
First Edition
Zippered Flesh 2: More Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad.
Copyright © 2013 by Smart Rhino Publications LLC. All rights reserved. Individual stories copyright by individual authors. Printed in the United States.
Excerpts from
FAHRENHEIT 451
are reprinted y permission of Don Congdon Associates, Inc. © 1953, renewed 1981 by Ray Bradbury.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9847876-5-4
ISBN-10: 0984787658
DEDICATION
For the editors and fellow writers who provided support and encouragement to make Smart Rhino Publications possible.
CONTENTS
BRYAN HALL
SHAUN MEEKS
LISA MANNETTI
CARSON BUCKINGHAM
CHRISTINE MORGAN
KATE MONROE
DANIEL I. RUSSELL
M.L. ROOS
RICK HUDSONS
JM REINBOLD
E.A. BLACK
L.L. SOARES
DOUG BLAKESLEE
KEALAN PATRICK BURKE
A.P. SESSLER
DAVID BENTON & W.D. GAGLIANI
JONATHAN TEMPLAR
CHRISTIAN A. LARSEN
SHAUN JEFFREY
JEZZY WOLFE
CHARLES COLYOTT
MICHAEL BAILEY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks go to Shelley Everett Bergen for her amazing cover illustration, to Scott Medina for designing the cover, and to Terri Gillespie for her excellent proofreading skills.
I must also point out that, although most of the stories are original to this volume, a number are reprints. Carson Buckingham’s story,
“Skin Deep,”
was originally published in
the
Masters of Horror
anthology (published by Triskaideka Books, 2010).
Kealan Patrick Burke’s “Underneath” first appeared in
Shivers III
, edited by Richard Chizmar, Cemetery Dance Publications, 2004. “Clockwork” by Shaun Jeffrey was originally published in
Wicked Karnival #7
, 2006.
THE MODERN ADONIS
BY BRYAN HALL
Firm.
Firm, but not rock hard. Not the kind of muscle a real man should have. The kid had a long way to go, but even I had to admit he was off to a good start.
He was standing in the back corner of the gym, over past the free weights, flexing and taking a good long look at himself in the wall-to-wall mirror back there.
Doubts. If you’ve got that need to check yourself out in public, it means even you know you’ve got a lot of work to do. I know. I was there once, just starting to fill out and excited as hell at what I was achieving.
I thought about going over and letting the kid know that he’d hit a plateau. That no matter how hard he worked, he’d hit the point where the body simply can’t convert anything else to muscle. It’s a weight ratio thing. Your body is only designed for a certain amount of muscle mass; anything beyond it is impossible.
Fuck impossible. There are ways. People don’t wanna talk about them. Don’t wanna admit to them. But the simple fact is that there’s a limit to what the body can produce, and once you hit it there’s no damn way to go any higher on your own.
On your own
being the key phrase there.
I didn’t bother telling the kid. He’d find out on his own eventually, if he stuck with his regimen. Then he’d have to make a decision.
Me, I had my own worries. My own decision.
Seems there’s a natural plateau, and there’s one designed all on its own, one that you can’t eclipse no matter what. It’s frustration is what it is. A real synthetic son of a bitch. You push and you shoot and you lift and you work and you just don’t get any more gain.
I’d spent two months languishing at that ceiling, trying everything I could. Talking to everyone I knew. They all said the same thing.
“Sorry, Al. You’ve hit it, man. No way to get bigger.”
“Christ buddy, look at you. You’re a fucking specimen. What else do you want?”
More.
That’s all. Not too much to ask. But I’d hit the point where I realized me and that kid had something in common.
I watched him flex and smile and posture and go try to strike up a conversation with a pair of blondes on the treadmills. I chuckled to myself and left.
Home was a little house in an upscale neighborhood outside Atlanta. Away from the junkies and the thugs and the drunks. Tucked in a nice pine grove, not a skyscraper in sight.
Upchuck was at the door, same as every day, little nub of a tail wagging like crazy. They say a man’s dog is a reflection of himself, and we were proof of that. He was a boxer-pit mix—a mongrel, just like me. Shorter than a boxer but with that square chest and shoulders that a badass pit bull has. Pure muscle—not an ounce of fat on his seventy- pound body. Part of it was his own genetics, but he owed a little to me, too. I mixed in a few supplements with his dinner, and made sure to buy only the best dog food. No soy. No fillers. Red meat three days a week.
If you’re gonna have a pet, you treat it like you would want to be treated. And I treat myself well.
Upchuck followed me through the house to the weight room. I dropped my gym bag in the corner and went to the shelf in the center of the far wall, took the metal toolbox off it. The combination to the padlock was 265—my own season weight goal. Pro bodybuilders separate their weight from their off-season and on-season numbers. Off-season, you’re usually heavier since you start training harder during competition time. You gain a little when you’re not pressing yourself as hard, or at least most do.
Not me. I’ve always stayed right at two hundred forty-five, or within a couple pounds of it. I don’t gain fat. I gain muscle, or I don’t gain at all. If you treat every day like you’re in competition, you’ll stay hard.
Built.
Ripped.
Toned.
Two hundred sixty-five was a good number to shoot for. Realistic, achievable. Until my body decided to impose that goddamn two- hundred-forty-eight ceiling. I couldn’t climb above it. No matter what. I guess I could stop working out, start eating processed shit and drinking milk shakes until I turned into a chubby blob. That would put me up to two hundred sixty-five. Past it, really.
But I wanted two hundred sixty-five in muscle. Pure muscle. Sure, my bones and organs and skin would all help add to that weight, but most of it?
Muscle. Just the way it should be.
I unlocked the case and slipped out the bottle, the vial, and a fresh syringe. Drew out a dose of testosterone cypionate first. After a while you don’t even feel the needle’s little prick. After a while, your muscles are so tight you don’t even bleed.
After that was the Winstrol. Little pill with a big punch. Took two of them dry, then put everything back into the box and put it back where it went. Upchuck watched me like he had a thousand times before. He never got his own shot, but I swear sometimes his eyes were begging me to give him one.
I went to the study, Upchuck padding along behind me. One wall was lined with trophies, photos of me at different competitions, newspaper clippings. Stuff like that. Rhonda had taken most of the pictures, back before she said the bodybuilding was getting in the way of our relationship. We never married, so she couldn’t take any of my money. But I missed her. After nine years of being with someone, you can’t help but miss them.
I dialed Ricky’s number and waited. I needed something else. Something better. I’d doubled the doses on both of the chems, but nothing had happened in the last two months. Not a single pound of change in my weight. Normally I stacked, running through the cycle the way you were supposed to. But two months with no change at all called for doubling up. Ricky yelled at me the last time I talked to him and told him I was gonna do it. He’s an asshole, but he can get what you need.
“I’ll be damned, Al. I expected you to call me from a hospital,” he said as he answered the phone. His nasal voice sounded happy that he’d been wrong.
“I told you I’d be okay.”
“Small miracles, man. Small miracles.”
“Listen ... I need something else.”
The line was silent for a long time. When he spoke again, all joy was gone from his voice. “I can’t do that, man.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve sold you too much. You’re stacking and cycling like a madman, Al. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. And besides, I’ve gotta cover my own ass. You kill your damn fool self with all this juice and it gets traced back to me somehow ...”