What could I say? I just kinda gulped, ya know, and felt like the walls of Blue Moon were closin’ in on me. Like with that security guard at the mall. I got it in my head that she knew what I had planned for her, and she just stood there with that flimsy shirt drying cool on her back, waiting for me to either confirm or stammer out some half-baked denial. I wanted to say somethin’, believe you me, but I was like Ocean when she saw all that food, ya know? There just weren’t any words.
So there I am, feeling like a little boy who’d just been caught peekin’ into the girl’s shower room. But Clarice fuckin’ Hudson, man? What’s she do? She just leans forward, smiles, and puts her hand on my thigh.
“I’ve been watchin’ you, too,” she says. “How about you buy me a drink and we get to know each other a little better?”
I couldn’t help it. I jerked my leg away from her touch so fast you’d have thought she’d just poked me with a hot needle. It was only a second of contact, but I felt like I needed a shower, dig? I wanted to scrub my skin in scalding water ‘til it fuckin’ bled, man, and this single word keeps repeating in my mind like a Buddhist mantra—contamination, contamination, contamination…
She musta seen somethin’ in my eyes, or maybe it was just the way I recoiled so quick, ya know? Because she snatches her hand back and this real stern look comes over her face.
“What?” she demands. “You think I’ve got cooties or somethin’?”
Me? I still don’t know what to say. It’s like the words just got stuck somewhere in my throat, dig? And I can feel ‘em in there, all hard and edgy like I’d tried to swallow a rock that was too big to pass through my pipes. She’s lookin’ as disgusted as I feel, and kinda glances around the room as if to say can you believe this guy? Then she leans in so close that the alcohol from her breath stings my nose, I can feel the heat just rollin’ off her body and she’s right there with all her fuckin’ mutagens streamin’ outta her pores, and she half-whispers to me.
“Let me spell it out for ya, lover boy. You buy me a drink and you’re gettin’ laid. I’ll ride you until the sun comes up and leave you beggin’ for more. So what’s it gonna be? You gettin’ lucky tonight or what?”
You know how many nights I’ve dreamed about some chick saying that kinda shit to me, man? How many dead soldiers were tossed into the toilet in little wads of Kleenex? And it has to be a fuckin’ carrier, ya know? Hell, I wouldn’t have touched that dollymop if my prick were made of latex…
There’s only two letters that change condom into condemn—n and e. As in, I ain’t havin’ n-e of that shit, man.
Clarice fuckin’ Hudson is just standin’ there with her hand on her hip, waiting none too patiently for some kinda reply. So I mumble something about how she ain’t my type, ya know? And it was like I’d just slapped her in the face and called her a cunt or something.
“Look, asshole, a sure thing is everyone’s type,” she says.
So I’m feelin’ like a mouse that’s been backed into a corner by the big, scary cat, right? People are startin’ to stare and the last fuckin’ thing I want is for someone to put my face and this chick together, ya know? My synapses are firin’ like photons on The Enterprise, man, and before I know it the words just come gushin’ outta my mouth. I didn’t think about what I was gonna say or nothin’. I just opened my mouth and there they were.
Two little words. I’m gay.
I don’t know. Maybe part of me thought that would diffuse the whole fuckin’ situation. Instead, she just gets this hard, mean stare in her eyes. It was like she was picturin’ me splayed out on one of those little wax slabs you dissect frogs and shit on. Her jaw’s all tight and I can see this little vein throbbing on her temple. I swear to God, I thought this bitch was seconds away from deckin’ me, right?
Instead, she just kinda clears her throat and next thing I know there’s this glob of concentrated infection splashin’ down into my brew. Who the fuck does that, man? Spit in a dude’s drink cause he turned ya down?
Well, I practically jump off my bar stool ‘cause I got the image in my head of that tainted beer splashin’ all up in my eyes, my nose, my fuckin’ mouth. She just glares at me, says fuckin’ faggot and storms off.
Well… yeah, man. Fuckin’ listen to me for once, why don’t ya? Of course that ain’t the Clarice Hudson all her friends and co-workers described. I’m sure she used to be a nice lady. Probably saved a baby seal for Jesus or some shit. But that’s what this virus does, dig? It changes people, and not just on a molecular level either. I’m talkin’ like split personality shit. They say things they wouldn’t normally say, do things they never would have dreamed about doin’ in a million years. ‘Cause it’s controlling them, man. It’s makin’ them do what it wants them to do.
No, that is not a load of bullshit, man. Ophiocordyceps unilateralis. September 2009 edition of American fuckin’ Naturalist. Look it up, if you don’t believe me. There’s this fungus in Thailand, right? It likes to call the underside of leaves on the forest floor home. It’s picky, though, dig? It only likes the northwest side of plants. So it infects these carpenter ants that live way up in the trees, see, takes control of their brains—scientists don’t know how—and makes them go down to the ground and latch onto these leaves. Through the whole journey this fungus is killin’ the ants, ya know. But, once the bastard is dead, it keeps right on growin’ inside its body, only it leaves the muscles that control the mandibles alone. That way the ant is still there, clingin’ to just the right spot on this damn leaf. Don’t take my word for it, man. Look that shit up. Get a little education.
Anyways, this virus is doin’ somethin’ like that to Clarice fuckin’ Hudson, man. It’s manipulating her into situations where it’s exactly where it needs to be to thrive and grow… and there’s nothin’ that poor girl can do about it.
I mean, I’ve just confirmed three and a half of the signs, man, that’s half the fuckin’ checklist. I’m more certain than ever that… yeah, I said three and a half. Because three doesn’t divide evenly into seven, Einstein. Okay then, let me spell it out. Again.
One: you got all that sweating, right? Two: outrageous fuckin’ appetite. The third sign was the alcohol, man… remember how I said she slammed those shots but wasn’t even wobblin’ when she came up to me? That was important… that’s what you shoulda wrote down in that little book of yours. God is in the details, ya know.
The way I figure it, her stomach musta been colonized with those little bastards. The invaders break down the alcohol into acids see, and then feed off that to fuel the transformation.
So she can down all this liquor, right, but instead of gettin’ corned outta her head, sobriety just keeps plaguin’ this chick. And, of course, they want her to drink, man. They need those perfect conditions for incubation.
So that gives us three, right? Which means we still have that half to account for.
Pop quiz, assholes… what’s the primary objective for any life form? Give up? It’s to ensure the survival of its species, man. Divide, multiply, and conquer. That’s why all these people in piss poor countries still keep churnin’ out babies even though they barely got enough to feed the ones they already got. It’s why the Catholic church really doesn’t believe in birth control. There really is strength in numbers, dig? The more of you that exist, then the greater chance there is of passin’ things on, whether it be genes or ideology.
Now, I want you to do me a favor, okay? Look at me. I mean, really look at me. What do ya see, man? Kind of a scruffy lookin’ guy with bloodshot eyes and this beard that would make a moonshiner say now, that’s a fuckin’ beard! Wrinkled clothes… shit, I probably got a pretty strong cloud of B.O. that I’ve just kinda gotten used to. Sometimes, I forget the little things, ya know, like combing my hair, brushin’ my teeth, bathin’ and shit.
I know I ain’t grotesque. I ain’t like that Corduroy dude. But I’m no prize winner either, dig? Kinda chicks who are into me are the ones who are so fuckin’ blitzed outta their minds that they think they’re givin’ head on ZZ Top’s tour bus.
Clarice fuckin’ Hudson? She was a looker, man. She coulda done so much better than me. Any man in that bar woulda gave his right nut just to finger-fuck her shadow; I just happened to be the first dude she passed. Didn’t matter if I was Brad Pitt or some pensioner wonderin’ how his teeth got in the bottom of his brew. To her—or more aptly, the things controlling her—I was just an incubator.
Sex appeal’s got nothin’ to do with contagion.
‘Course this is all just theory and conjecture, mind you. I don’t know for certain that it is a virus, ya know? It could be a bacteria or some shit. I mean, I’m just an armchair scientist, right, and I’ve been thinkin’ lately that maybe the virus, or whatever it is, isn’t working alone. I’m sure I’m right about all the molecular construction going down… that part just makes sense. But what if this is something that’s always been there, man? Some little strand of latent DNA, some sleeping chromosome that just needed a kick in the pants to get in gear. See, that would explain how quickly this shit goes down.
I’m kinda babbling here, aren’t I? My original point was promiscuity, that drive to just fuck anything that moves. That’s the fourth sign, but I was only countin’ it as half because there was this slight chance, this little sliver of probability, that the bitch actually coulda been attracted to me for some strange reason. I don’t know, maybe she had a fetish for dudes who looked like they were one step away from shopping carts and soup kitchens.
‘Course, I also knew this put a major fuckin’ kink in this plan of mine. She’d seen my face, man. Worse yet, I’d pissed the bitch off. A woman can forget casual encounters like a guy can forget anniversaries, but she don’t ever forget the cat who insulted her, ya know?
So, somehow I gotta figure out how I’m gonna verify these other signs, dig? I gotta stalk this lady and she fuckin’ knows me now. Talk about a sticky wicket.
How the hell do you kill someone who just might see it coming?