《Cornell》 Chapter 1 One of Cornell¡¯s first acts since waking up as an alligator was to drop out of high school. It seemed the natural thing to do, now that raw meat was more interesting than book learning. He couldn¡¯t go himself, of course, so his father drove his old blue pickup down to Sidney High School. ¡°What did they say?¡± said Cornell when his father, Robert, Sr., returned from the school. ¡°They wanted to know why you were quitting.¡± ¡°What did you tell them?¡± ¡°They had a spot on the form for the reason.¡± ¡°And?¡± ¡°I think everybody knows you¡¯re an alligator, Cornell.¡± ¡°So you told them,¡± said Cornell. ¡°My reason for dropping out of school is becoming an alligator.¡± He shook his wide head back and forth. ¡°No,¡± said his father, ¡°I didn¡¯t put nothing down.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t tell them nothing.¡± He had never been able to talk to his father. So much had changed for him, it was comforting to find something that hadn¡¯t changed at all.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. A simple man, Cornell¡¯s father rarely spoke, but he was a hard worker. He owned a dump truck which he contracted out to construction companies. He lived for Sidney¡¯s annual rodeo¡ªSidney, Iowa¡ªarguably one of the best small town rodeos anywhere. For several days Cornell had walked around the town, trying to avoid Main Street because he didn¡¯t want to scare people more than necessary. Initially people would shrink back and run away. Some screamed. Now they were getting used to him, which settled his stomach considerably. It helped when they learned he could still talk. ¡°I¡¯m still Cornell,¡± he would say to their puzzled faces and open jaws. He didn¡¯t like causing fear in the people of Sidney, but what he liked less was being slighted. Some of the kids had taken to calling him Fat Alligator, which hurt. He hadn¡¯t asked for this to happen to him. On one of his walks, he went to the house of Kaitlyn, his girlfriend. He called from the street, and eventually her father, Edwin Johnson, normally a sensible person, came to the front door. ¡°Good afternoon, Cornell. I heard about¡­¡± ¡°Hello, sir,¡± said Cornell, hoping he didn¡¯t look too threatening. ¡°Is Kaitlyn home?¡± ¡°Yes, she is, but she doesn¡¯t want to see you. I¡¯m sorry, Cornell, but she says it¡¯s over. I¡¯m sure you can understand.¡± Cornell did indeed understand, but it didn¡¯t hurt any less. He saw movement, and there appeared Tiffany, Kaitlyn¡¯s kid sister, beside Edwin. She had hated Cornell since she caught him kissing their mother in the kitchen with the lights off. He had explained later that he was drunk and thought it was Kaitlyn, but she didn¡¯t believe it. They both used the same mouthwash, so how was he supposed to know? Cornell¡¯s memory of the event was weak, thanks to the beer, but he remembered that Mrs. Johnson hadn¡¯t protested. In fact¡ªwell, that didn¡¯t matter now. ¡°Fuck you, monster!¡± said little Tiffany, hiding behind her father¡¯s legs. ¡°Tiff, you watch your language,¡± said Edwin. ¡°Well, he is.¡± ¡°Maybe, but we still don¡¯t curse.¡± Cornell turned and walked away, furious with the brat, and not all that pleased with Kaitlyn, either. Edwin was alright. Chapter 2 The porch was the easiest place to relax, so Cornell made that his roost on most days. His dad modified one of the lawn chairs, cutting a large hole in the back through which he could slide his tail. It wasn¡¯t perfect, but it was rather good. From the chair he would look out on the street. He considered it living theater, even though there was no singing and dancing and nobody shouted their lines, except Old Man Art, who was hard of hearing and who Cornell suspected could hear just fine and was using the whole hearing thing as an excuse to shout at everybody, even babies and dogs. Cornell, relaxing on the porch in his special chair, smelled something familiar. It was something delicious. He pulled himself free of the chair and walked into the house. Following his long nose, he poked his head into Robert, Jr.¡¯s bedroom where he and his friend Red were sitting on the floor. Robert¡¯s small glass bong sat between them. It was the ornate one Robert had inherited from uncle Clem. ¡°What¡¯re you guys doing?¡± said Cornell. ¡°What does it look like we¡¯re doing?¡± said Robert. ¡°Take it, Bobby,¡± said Red as he started coughing. ¡°Can I have some?¡± said Cornell. He hadn¡¯t tried any pot since the change, and he wanted to see how it was.Stolen novel; please report. ¡°I guess so,¡± said Robert. Cornell came further in, but he was so large that his tail stuck out into the hallway. He eagerly crawled up to the bong. He picked up the lighter in his left claw and was overjoyed to find that he could flick the wheel. He put the flame on the herb in the bowl while trying to get his long snout onto the mouthpiece at the top of the smoke chamber, but had trouble making a seal. Without a good seal, he wouldn¡¯t be able to draw smoke into the chamber. He struggled to get a better position on the mouthpiece, but couldn¡¯t manage it. His reptilian brain registered that nobody offered to help, either. Just as he was thinking of giving up and seeing if any edibles were around, the glass shattered. Cornell jumped back and shook glass shards out of his mouth. ¡°Get the fuck out of here!¡± screamed Robert. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± said Cornell. He knew how much that bong meant to his brother. It was the only reminder they had of uncle Clem, who had drown two years earlier while hopping naked (and uninvited) into a neighbor¡¯s whirlpool. He had been drunk as Cooter Brown at the time, which Sheriff Martin said was a contributing factor in his demise. Cornell thought it strange that everyone in the family hated Clem until he died, and now he was all but revered. It was kind of cool that uncle Clem¡¯s death certificate said Death By Misadventure, but that was all. ¡°Let¡¯s drink some beer,¡± Cornell offered. ¡°I think we have some Easy Living.¡± Robert, Jr.¡¯s angry stare and Red¡¯s refusal to meet his eyes were answer enough. He slowly backed out of the room and walked back to the front porch. Chapter 3 Cornell had taken to sleeping in the backyard, not because he wanted to, but because it was necessary. The very first thing that had happened on that fateful morning was to splinter his bed. He had no idea how much he weighed as an alligator, but it was a lot. The bed had been crushed. The loss of the HUD was terrible. If his implant was still there, connected to the reptilian optic nerve, it wasn¡¯t working. To be cut off from the grid was to be cut off from life. His social media accounts were stagnating. At first he thought the loss might crush his spirit, but, as it turns out, a reptilian spirit is a tough motherfucker, so he persevered. Unable to enjoy the fruits of the grid, he started taking long walks around the countryside. Sidney was in a beautiful part of Iowa, in a large, fertile valley carved out by the Missouri River a fuckall long time ago. He would walk the five miles to the river to watch boaters and any wildlife that might be around. He tried for a heron, but it had beat its wings hard and escaped. Lucky bastard. On one of the return trips to town, he had sat beside a barbed wire fence and watched several cows in the distance, some black with white, and some brown with white. He was nearly overcome with desire. Hamburger that made a run for it had to taste better than hamburger that didn¡¯t. Of that he felt sure. How fast could he close the gap? He had never tried running, but believed he was quite fast¡ªfaster than he appeared, anyway. Staring wistfully at the livestock, he realized he was near to the house of Old Man Art, the crank who got teased by the kids. Cornell had done his share of the teasing, but things were different now, so perhaps Art would forgive and forget. If not, he could always be bitten on the ass. En route to Art¡¯s, he went down a dirt road about a half mile, then stopped as he spied two horses grazing in a field. He spent untold minutes watching them longingly. He was so taken with them that he didn¡¯t notice a pickup truck coming down the road until it had stopped beside him. He turned to see a man look down at him from the open window of the truck. Two children made faces from the backseat. Cornell had the distinct feeling that the man was taking video with his HUD. He would rather not be on social media, not in his present condition. ¡°Can we shoot him, dad?¡± said the little boy with a gleam in his eye. ¡°Only if he eats our animals,¡± said the man. With a whirring of electric motors the truck moved on down the road. Cornell watched until it was out of sight. Looking back at the horses, he found that he had lost his appetite. He also found that he was incapable of frowning. He had lost so much, even some of the little things. He walked a few hundred meters farther down the dirt road and then turned onto a rough track, more of a fire trail. Soon he stood before Old Man Art¡¯s small shack. ¡°Anybody home?¡± Cornell called through the open doorway. ¡°Of course I¡¯m home, where else would I be?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t see you,¡± said Cornell. A noise of large, empty metal cans falling from a height came to Cornell¡¯s surprisingly good ears, followed by some muffled cursing, and then Art himself appeared from a back room. He hadn¡¯t known the ratty little shack had a back room. Wonders never cease. Then, to his amazement, the old man clutched his chest, muttered something unintelligible, and collapsed to the ground. Without a HUD and grid connection, Cornell was unable to summon paramedics, but it didn¡¯t really matter, because poor old Art was stone dead. For a fleeting moment he thought he should feel bad or something. He was almost relieved to feel nothing at all, except for a small curiousness¡ªdeath was rare these days, with all the medical advances and whatnot. He waved his snout over the body and nearly lost control, but mounted a successful mental resistance, and backed away. He decided it wouldn¡¯t hurt anything to nose around a bit before heading home. He was disappointed to see that Art owned useless trash, and little else. He climbed up onto a dusty couch and looked at framed photos on the wall. They were all black and white, and everyone looked somber, the men with large gray-black beards and lifeless eyes, the women looking like unhappy statues over which black dresses had been slung. He climbed down and continued rummaging. He spotted a dusty old blanket flopped over something squarish. He pulled the blanket off with his teeth, and made an interesting discovery. It was a stack of books, real paper ones. He had never seen one, and was quite curious. He used his snout to push the stack onto the ground and spread it around so he could see all the titles. Most of them looked incredibly dull, but a few seemed alright, and they gave him an idea. With the loss of the grid and his HUD, he should try reading. That might curb the boredom. He chose The Complete Works Of Franz Kafka, which looked dry, and Meat Juice Girl and Burrito Boy, apparently some kind of light action novella, and Jimmy Ray Meets the Royal Whores of Sumer. Anything with whores was probably worth a shot. Having no suitable appendages with which to carry books, he held them in his mouth. When he made it home to the porch, he discovered that the meat juice book and the one about the whores had been swallowed. That was disappointing. He had especially been looking forward to reading the meat juice one. The sole survivor was the book by Kafka, and it looked dull as shit. A cooler full of ice and beer was waiting for him on the porch, which made him feel good. His dad had been doing that lately, bringing him beer. His family knew he had nothing to do, so they were helping as well as they could. ¡°You look funny when you read,¡± said Robert, Jr. Cornell hadn¡¯t thought about how he looked, sprawled out on the porch beside the lawn chairs and training one eye on the pages of the Kafka book (it was difficult to focus both eyes at something so close).Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°You look funny when you¡¯re fucking Callie,¡± retorted Cornell, keeping his reading eye fixed on the page. ¡°Have you been spying on me?¡± ¡°I¡¯m in your closet most nights,¡± said Cornell. ¡°I should¡­¡± ¡°You should what? Beat up an alligator? I¡¯d like to see that.¡± Cornell had always gotten into fights, including with his older brother Robert, but now that he was an alligator with the whole snout and teeth thing, nobody would put up fists. Besides, he never spent a night in his brother¡¯s closet. He could never fit in such a small space. He was just goading him, like they always did to each other. Robert stomped away. Cornell chuckled, which was more of a hiss and gurgle now that he was an alligator. After his rude brother was gone, he returned to The Metamorphosis, which he was almost half way through. He found it mind-numbingly boring. In some ways he could relate to the story, which helped, but there wasn¡¯t enough violence. That must have been an oversight of Kafka¡¯s. Despite his limited experience with books, he understood that they were like slow, dull movies: chit-chatty dramas were boring, and violence was exciting. The more he read of The Metamorphosis, the more he thought about writing his own story. He¡¯d never written anything before, but he knew he could do something more interesting than a big cockroach lying around all day feeling sorry for itself and acting the baby. That¡¯s not how it would be. His reading was interrupted again, this time by his dad returning from work. ¡°What is that?¡± said Robert, Sr. ¡°Why hello, Robert,¡± said Cornell. Quaint terms like ¡°dad¡± and ¡°mom¡± seemed ridiculous after his transf¡­ Metamorphosis. Yes, it had been a metamorphosis, after all. Kafka wasn¡¯t totally useless. Terrible writer, perhaps, but not a complete fool. ¡°That¡¯s a book, isn¡¯t it? I haven¡¯t seen one of those since I was a kid. Where did it come from?¡± ¡°I found it,¡± said Cornell, not willing to say where it had come from. He had done nothing wrong, but it might be difficult to explain about Old Man Art. Since becoming an alligator, he hadn¡¯t felt so much as a mild twinge of fear, but if everybody ganged up on him, he wouldn¡¯t come out on top. Back when things like news feeds were available to him, he would see stories out of Florida where an entire town would go after a troublesome alligator. There would be pictures of the alligator hanging dead from a tree with the hunters on either side. Those hunters were always smiling, like they were proud of what they¡¯d done. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± said Robert. ¡°What¡¯s what?¡± said Cornell. ¡°Whatever you¡¯re pushing under your belly.¡± ¡°This? Nothing.¡± He showed his father a notebook and a pencil. ¡°Doing some writing?¡± ¡°Thought I might try my hand.¡± ¡°You mean claw?¡± His father chuckled after he said the words. Cornell didn¡¯t find it funny. ¡°Well, anyway, do you want some more beer?¡± He did what he always did when offered beer. He quickly stalked around the porch, wagging his tail in joyful affirmation, which Robert hopped over (soon after the change, he was knocking people down, without meaning to, and they had all learned to watch the tail). As much as he wanted beer, he loathed himself for behaving that way. He was like a puppy about to be taken for a walk, and that was undignified, and he felt strongly that an alligator should maintain its dignity. Robert, Sr. returned with a cold six-pack of Easy Living beer, the cheapest brand at Sidney¡¯s liquor store. He would rather have uppity craft beer, but he was dependent on these people, so he would accept whatever they offered. He drank the first couple of cans in the company of a silent Robert, Sr., who seemed to be eying the Kafka book. ¡°You want to read it?¡± said Cornell. ¡°What? Me? No. I can hardly read.¡± Then he smiled at Cornell. ¡°You went farther in school than me, son. I¡¯m proud of you.¡± In time Cornell dozed off with the sun still in the sky. When he awoke, Robert was gone, but there was a fresh six-pack of Easy Living beside him. He picked up a can in one of his front claws, a tricky operation, then used one of his many teeth to gingerly pop open the top, and poured it into his open maw. For the next one, he decided to try something different, seeing as it was so hard popping the top. He tossed the entire can into his mouth, bit down, and let the beer drain onto his tongue and flow toward the back of his throat. ¡°Fuck you you fucking freak!¡± Cornell nearly choked on the Easy Living. He shook out the crushed can and coughed up the stray brew, which was a cumbersome and undignified procedure for an alligator. When he regained his composure, he looked out past the porch¡¯s railing to see several of the neighborhood kids, mostly the younger brothers and sisters of the kids he used to attend school with. ¡°Fat Alligator!¡± came a familiar voice. He scanned the group and saw Tiffany. Most people seemed cool with him being an alligator, but as Robert, Sr. had once explained to him, kids can be cruel. ¡°Are you deaf, you piece of fucking shit-for-brains?¡± Piece of ... ? That didn¡¯t even make sense. Kids these days, thought Cornell. He was sure he could run them down if he charged at top speed. He had never tried running as an alligator, but he just knew he could surprise the neighborhood kids. Feeling powerful and well buzzed from the Easy Living, he decided to let them live. Then he chuckled. Let them live! Like he would ever chase down children and bite them or anything. He was awoken after dark by Robert, Jr. saying his dinner was ready. Not dinner, he noted, but his dinner. He stood up to find himself dizzy from the beer. And here was an advantage he had found as an alligator¡ªstanding was quick and stable, having four short legs instead of two tall ones. He could walk just fine while drunk, better than the humans. Score one, Cornell, humans, zero. He walked through the house to the back porch. Everyone was eating pork chops at the dining room table, judging from the wonderful smells wafting down from up there. For reasons relating to Cornell¡¯s size and perhaps their fear, he couldn¡¯t eat with them. His brother, Robert, Jr., and his dad, Robert, Sr., and Robert¡¯s asshole friend, Red, all stopped eating as Cornell walked past. When he was on the back porch and had used his tail to whack shut the door, he heard their meal sounds resume. Eileen, his mom, still wasn¡¯t taking her meals with the family. She had gotten sick around the time of the transformation¡ªmetamorphosis, thank you K¡ªand mostly stayed in the back bedroom. Nobody seemed to know precisely what the ailment was. It didn¡¯t seem to be physical, although it could be women¡¯s troubles. Cornell didn¡¯t know, and he didn¡¯t want to know. He wanted her to recover, and if she couldn¡¯t, then to not get any worse, that was all. To be a reptile was to have muted emotions, and that wasn¡¯t such a bad thing. The smell of raw hamburger on the back porch was strong and delicious. He insisted that Robert, Sr. buy the high-fat kind. He waved his wide snout back and forth over the enormous pile of reddish-white flesh, inhaling the wonderful smell, before diving in. He rolled and thrashed and tossed large gobs of the meat into the air and caught them in his mouth on the way down. He put his head back and chomped again and again, voraciously, even though the flesh was soft. Every so often he let some of it slide down his throat to oblivion. Jesus it was good to be an alligator. He had devoured 50 pounds of hamburger in about five minutes. The back porch looked like a killing field. Hamburger was stuck to the walls, and some was even sticking to the ceiling. Cornell looked up at the red splotches, hoping some would fall down into his open mouth, but none did. As satisfying as the meat was, it would be better if it tried to get away. His basic hunger was satisfied, but there were other hungers that needed tending. Chapter 4 Sleeping on the porch, Cornell felt himself being kicked. Instinctively he was wide awake and lunged. ¡°Fucking take it easy,¡± said Robert, Jr. ¡°You don¡¯t want to be kicking a sleeping alligator,¡± said Cornell. It wasn¡¯t a threat, it was just that he had certain instincts now that he didn¡¯t feel he should have to answer for. He looked at Robert, Jr. carefully, and it was there, on the front porch, that he knew, he just knew, that he could kill and eat his older brother. That was the real moment of change. ¡°People are mad,¡± said Robert, Jr. ¡°People are always mad,¡± said Cornell. ¡°What do I care?¡± ¡°They''re saying things about dogs.¡± Cornell smiled, knowing it appeared to the humans as a mere opening of his jaws a few inches. Nevertheless, it was a smile.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°Well?¡± said Robert. ¡°What does this have to do with me?¡± ¡°Where could the dogs have gone, Cornell?¡± ¡°Make the accusation, if that¡¯s what this is.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t accuse anyone. I¡¯m just relaying what people are saying.¡± ¡°What are they saying, exactly?¡± ¡°That you¡¯re eating dogs in the neighborhood.¡± Cornell stopped smiling and eased his mouth closed. True, he had developed something of an appetite for things that ran away from him, but he had been careful to never eat anything on this side of Sidney. That seemed prudent. And besides, he was mostly eating cats. They disappeared all the time, and nobody seemed to care. They tasted terrible, though, all tough and chewy. Even the lifeless hamburger was better. He had tried a dog on a whim when he returned from his last foray into the countryside, and holy fucking shit it was excellent. He had only eaten the one, and not, as the uppity humans were claiming, in this neighborhood. ¡°I don¡¯t know anything about it,¡± Cornell said. ¡°Can you get me some more beer? Cold ones this time?¡± Cornell watched Robert look down and exhale slowly, then look at him again. ¡°I¡¯ll speak to dad,¡± he said in a tone that suggested he didn¡¯t want to help. Just as he was leaving, he stopped and turned momentarily. ¡°You¡¯re a piece of shit, Cornell.¡± Well lah di dah. Look who¡¯s Mr. High and Mighty all of a sudden. CHapter 5 The words ¡®no offense¡¯ often preceded something offensive, Cornell had learned since the M. This time it was none other than Sheriff Martin, a well respected older man known to kids as a grandpa figure. He was always helping organize parades and shit like that. Right now Cornell didn¡¯t look on the Sheriff as a grandpa, he looked on him as an enemy. ¡°I¡¯m denying any involvement,¡± said Cornell in a tone that he hoped was final. Words came out with odd tones sometimes, so he¡¯d have to see if the finality thing was successful. It was not. ¡°Sixteen cats and seven dogs have gone missing in Sidney,¡± said the Sheriff, ¡°and more out in the countryside. There¡¯s missing dogs, cats, chickens, and a cow was found half eaten.¡± Sixteen cats was excessive, in Cornell¡¯s view¡ªno town needed that many. ¡°We¡¯re getting reports from here to¡­¡± ¡°To where?¡± said Cornell. ¡°Half way to Des Moines. This is a big problem.¡± A problem for whom? thought Cornell. He only shrugged, but he wasn¡¯t sure how that looked, coming from an alligator. He made a mental note to spend time in front of a mirror to see how shrugs look. ¡°Now listen to me,¡± said Sheriff Martin, putting his hat back on his head, ¡°and I mean no offense¡ª¡± Again with the no offense. He looked through the Sheriff¡¯s legs and spotted a deputy standing out by his cruiser. He must have been new, for Cornell had never seen him before. The guy had an ample gut. ¡°For your safety and mine,¡± said the Sheriff, ¡°I¡¯m going to have to take you in for a 72-hour hold while we investigate these missing animals.¡± That didn¡¯t take long. He had been an alligator less than six months and the town had turned on him. Every little problem was his fault. He had done nothing to deserve this kind of animosity. Sure, his appetite was growing, and a few little animals had found their way into his belly, but there could be half a dozen reasons for their disappearance. These humans had thought of him first, and Cornell found that offensive. Sheriff Martin reached down with his handcuffs. Cornell backed up a couple of feet, and when his tail stopped him at the porch¡¯s railing, he opened his mouth wide. The Sheriff backpedaled. ¡°You really arresting me, Sheriff?¡± said Cornell. ¡°I played baseball with Tom.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t make this any harder than it needs to be, son.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not going,¡± said Cornell, trying for finality again. ¡°I¡¯m warning you.¡± ¡°Now that sounds like a threat,¡± said the Sheriff, reaching for his pistol. Cornell didn¡¯t move. If the Sheriff wanted him behind bars that bad, he¡¯d have to shoot. ¡°Dammit,¡± said the Sheriff as he re-holstered his gun. ¡°This isn¡¯t over.¡±Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. With those last words, the Sheriff walked down the steps to the front yard and out to his cruiser, which still had the lights going, like a disco ball of doom. Electric motors whined, wheels spun, and the Sheriff and his fat deputy were gone. The following day Robert, Sr. came running up the driveway and onto the porch. Cornell was moderately sober, only having had eight cans of Easy Living. ¡°They¡¯re coming for you, son!¡± ¡°Who¡¯s coming?¡± said Cornell. ¡°The Sheriff is mad as hell. All of Sidney is talking about you.¡± ¡°They¡¯re coming now?¡± said Cornell. ¡°No, not yet. I think they¡¯re waiting for reinforcements.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t do whatever they said I did.¡± ¡°Cornell,¡± said Robert in a low tone, ¡°a child is missing.¡± ¡°And you think¡­? How could you think I had something to do with that?¡± ¡°It¡¯s the younger sister of Kaitlyn.¡± Cornell felt the heat rising in his cheeks, but he didn¡¯t care. He had already checked a mirror to see if that showed, and it didn¡¯t. As Robert, Sr. moved to enter the house, Cornell asked if he could bring some more Easy Livings. Sure, no problem. When he returned with said beer, Cornell asked if he had seen the Kafka book, which had gone missing. No, his dad hadn¡¯t seen it. He could barely read, remember? That night Cornell slept on the porch to keep watch. All night long silent hovercars glided through the sky above Sidney with bright spotlights shining down. Cornell assumed these were the reinforcements, probably from Des Moines. The local authorities didn¡¯t have anything as cool as hovercars. He missed his HUD now more than ever. It would be good to see what was happening in the news and on social media. He wanted to know what people were saying. The next day Cornell started early with the beer. He couldn¡¯t think of a reason not to, so it was down the hatch, and it was a very big hatch indeed. He used the new technique of biting the can and letting the beer drain into his mouth, then shaking the empty can onto the floor. The operation took only a few seconds. It didn¡¯t take long for him to pass out. Some time later he awoke to the sound of talking from inside the house. ¡°I don¡¯t have any more credit,¡± he heard Robert, Sr. say. ¡°I¡¯m maxed out. Samsa¡¯s drinking us out of house and home.¡± ¡°He¡¯s eating less, ain¡¯t he?¡± said Robert, Jr. ¡°We¡¯re saving money in meat, but it don¡¯t matter, cuz he¡¯s drinking more and more beer.¡± ¡°You have to keep the beer coming, dad,¡± he heard Robert, Jr. say. ¡°We can¡¯t control Samsa when he¡¯s sober." There was a pause, then, "We should shoot him. Nobody¡¯s gonna care.¡± ¡°No,¡± said Robert, Sr. ¡°We¡¯ll keep him drunk. I can pawn my tools.¡± ¡°I hope they come for him soon. It''s been days since we asked them to take him away.¡± A fire grew in Cornell¡¯s reptilian belly and spread warmly through his entire body, even the long tail. Extreme violence in the guise of survival had been etched into his ancestral DNA millions of years ago, and it welled up now, strong and sure. Quietly he crept into the living room, spotted Robert, Jr., and charged. He crossed the room in the time it took his quarry to raise his eyebrows in terror. He clamped down on this hateful human¡¯s leg with a sound of snapping and breaking, followed by a shrieking that didn¡¯t sound human. He rolled on the floor, around and around, detaching the human¡¯s leg at the knee. It came off as easily as meat came off the bone of a well-cooked buffalo wing smothered in that delicious sauce. The one-legged human dragged itself by its hands and arms. Cornell followed slowly to savor the iron smell of the blood trail. Ignoring the other human in the room, he followed the trail into the kitchen, where the human foolishly sought refuge. He bit the remaining leg and began his roll. The smell of blood was more intoxicating than the Easy Living, and the rolling and thumping and thrashing was a better high than any joint he had smoked, and he had smoked plenty before the metamorphosis. Breathing heavily, Cornell looked around in satisfaction at the blood on the floor, on the walls, on the cabinets and cupboards, on the small table and chair, and, best of all, on the ceiling. Returning to the living room, Cornell saw the other human flee out the front door. An echo of memory flared up momentarily in his reptilian mind, then faded just as fast. Father? He arrived as a fugitive on the banks of the Missouri, into whose warm embrace he slithered. Let the hunters come.