SR laughed as the memory of that night returned to him. He stopped to look down at his vulpine paws. They were very similar to the mustelid ones his friend had given him that evening, except that the fur was somewhat coarser. He opened an closed them, considering the biological wonders such appendages were. Because of SCABS, evolution had had little to do with how they were now formed, yet SR was still able to do almost everything he had been able to do with human hands. Yes, he had been lucky he didn't end up a chair or a slug or some horrible thing that goes 'bump' in the night. Sighing, SR leaned up to look at the concrete corridors that the surrounding buildings made. In the frosty air, his breath made two plumes of condensation as it exited his nose. It was quiet, and except for SR, only the occasional homeless person occupied the streets. SR was within a few blocks of home now. He frowned, picking up his feet again. SR never really expected to keep his birthday experience a secret from his family forever, but he was surprised at how soon he was made to pay the piper.... SR was chuckling to himself and humming "Zippedy-Do-Dah" as he climbed the stairwell to his dorm room. He had decided that he'd definitely need to convince Terry to do this again. Due to the bushy tail still extending from his backside, he was still wearing Terry's sweat pants. He had just turned the key half-way in the lock on the door when he heard two syllables that made his blood freeze. "SR?" Two words shot through his mind: OH SHIT! He turned to face the person down the hall who had addressed him. "Oh! Ahem Hi, Margie." Margie Winters stood, bracing herself on a nearby door, eyes much wider than SR cared to see. "Good Lord Almighty, SR! What the hell happened to you!?" SR's knees and hips were literally shaking beyond control: Margie was the sort of person who goes out of her way to right the wrongs she perceives in the world. What's more, SR knew that she knew his father's phone number. "Um... A couple of my friends decided to throw a birthday party for me, and things got a little carried away." "You let a polymorph change you into... into a skunk SCAB? Good Lord Almighty! What were you thinking?" "Um... I guess I wasn't, at the time." "Boy, you can say that about a million times again! Did you even consider what your father will do when he finds out?" SR had his door half-way open and was talking while leaning out of it. "Margie, I was kind of hoping you'd keep this under your hat." Her eyes narrowed and an her usual look of disdain replaced the shocked expression that had momentarily taken hold of her pudgy face. "You mean, let you just keep on making your way to hell without any help from church authorities? For your own good, SR, I wouldn't dream of it!" She seemed to enjoy watching SR nearly go into a seizure at that. "But I suppose that since I am your friend I can be discrete. Don't worry, SR. Your father won't hear about this from me!" She smiled evilly. SR was far too knowledgeable in matters of the church to believe that she would keep this secret. No-- she'd probably call one of her friends and have that person contact SR's father. Still, SR knew there was no way out of this, so he did his best to look relieved, then said. "Thanks, Margie. I know I can trust you. Um... If you'll excuse me-- it's after midnight, and I'd like to get some sleep." "Just a second, SR! I didn't wait three hours for you to get home to have you run away before I could wish you a happy birthday. So, here you go: Happy Birthday!" She held out an enveloped card in one hand. SR gingerly took it in one black-furred paw. She seemed to jump away from his touch in fright. With that, SR quickly closed and locked the door. He tossed the card in the general direction of the trash can and sat down on his bed. This was not good: Dr. Pastor George Foxley would more than likely know in a matter of hours just what his son had spent his birthday doing. SR leaned back, trying to begin to think of what he'd say to his father. He glanced at his mother, hanging delicately on the wall, the woman in the yellow dress still battling the waves of the frozen ocean. "Oh man, what am I going to do now?" She either could not or would not respond. He turned on the radio, hoping the music he loved would help calm his nerves. He switched it off a moment later when Pink Floyd's "One Slip" came on. And like the song predicted, there was no sleeping in SR's dorm room that night. The next morning, SR groggily awoke to the sound of his phone ringing. He glanced at the clock: 10:23. That meant that he had gotten about an hour and a half of sleep. Throughout the night of worried brainstorming, he had been unable to come up with any excuse, let alone a feasible story that his father would accept. He switched the phone to voice-only mode and answered: "Hello?" His father's voice greeted him. "Good morning, SR! It's Dad. How are you doing this morning?" "Oh... um... not too bad. I was just um... sleeping in, since I don't have any finals today." "Oh, then you're doing well? Good. I'd like you to come home today." There was marked tension in his voice. SR sat up in bed, looking at his still very-mustelid reflection in his mirror. "Oh gee, Dad. I was kind of hoping to celebrate with a couple of people from the congregation tonight. Couldn't I come home tomorrow?" There was a long pause on the other end of the line. At last, George's barely-controlled voice could be heard. "SR, I want to see you in my office in no less than six hours." With that, George hung up. SR slowly reached out with one paw and pressed the 'off' button on the phone. Six hours. He wouldn't even begin to change back to a pure human for another eight. But that didn't matter: George knew about last night, and just wanted to verify what he had heard. Not that SR would have lied to him; but there is something to be said for seeing it oneself. Quickly throwing some clothes in a bag along with some other supplies he'd need for the winter holiday, SR pulled on Terry's sweat pants and headed for his Jeep. He made the entire three-hundred mile trip nonstop and in silence. As he expected, the door was unlocked when he arrived, and his mother and brother were not to be seen. The black-and-white striped, furred creature that was SR headed straight for his father's office. Of course George was already there, hands clasped and resting on his desk, fiery grey eyes burning in his head. SR walked in without looking up and took his usual seat in the warm velvet box. They sat that way for nearly ten minutes, George's stare wanting to burn the fur from SR's body, and SR distantly gazing into the mysterious depths of the thick green carpeting on the floor. At last George cleared his throat and spoke. "If you're wondering about the group of SCABS you used to spend time with, don't worry: I've made several phone calls to some old acquaintances I have who work in the administration department of the State University. They won't be bothering you again." Anger flashed into SR's mind. He looked up, matching his father's hateful stare. "What did you do?" George was unflinching. "I made sure they won't try to corrupt my son's life again. You should be grateful: I could have informed the local Human Firsters about who doused two of their party members last night." He shook his head. "SR, did you realize that Randy Jacobsen is the son of your congregation's pastor? Do you know how hard it was for me to resist the urge to tell him the names of the rest of his son's assailants when he called me up this morning to inform me that my son had-- as a SCAB-- assaulted his son on campus the previous night? Can you imagine my embarrassment?" SR was surprised to hear himself growl. "This wasn't their fault! I asked them to do this!" he said, gesturing to his own body. "You'll knock off that offensive noise right now! Or are you planning on spraying me as well?" SR actually considered it for a moment, then dismissed the idea as foolishness: He was already in for the worst of George's wrath anyway. There was no sense in adding more fuel to the fire. He stopped growling, then lowered his eyes to the carpeting. "No." George stared for a moment longer, then lowered his eyes to his desk. "I assume this is temporary?" "I'll start changing back in another couple of hours. Tomorrow morning I'll be completely normal." George exhaled the breath he had been holding, visibly becoming more relaxed. "Thank God for that!" The pair sat in uncomfortable silence for a few more minutes. In the mean time, George's countenance went from anger to sorrow. "SR, the last time we spoke, I thought we had come to an understanding. I thought you were going to tell those SCABS not to bother you anymore...." SR felt his throat constrict at the knowledge of his own guilt. He quickly shifted his gaze from the floor to the window. "I shared some of my most tender feelings with you-- and you trampelled on them! This isn't like you at all, SR...." Oh no, SR thought, here it comes. "Instead of doing what you said you would do, you did the exact opposite, and encouraged your friends to lead you away..." Oh God! Please don't make me do this! "I love you, SR. I've always loved you. You're easy to love. And no matter what happens, I will always love you...." Please, no! I'm not ready to do this! "But there's one thing I can't understand: Why? Why did you do it, SR?..." SR's eyes were closed and watering, and he was literally shaking in an effort to control his emotions. Oh please, oh please, no! "Why did you commit an act that denies your faith? Why did you throw away everything you were taught and that you believed?" SR was a trembling leaf, waiting to be blown away. No! George was having trouble controlling his own voice, now. "Why, SR? Why... did you deny our love?" SR's facial fur was wet with tears. OK. OK-- you win. Pucker up, Mary: Here it comes. He drew in a great, shuddering breath and forced his eyes open, staring into the unfathomable depths of his father's. "Because," he croaked, "...because, for as long as I can remember, I've always wanted to be a SCAB." George's jaw dropped to the floor and his eyes glazed over. He leaned back into his large leather chair, exhaling long through open mouth. SR could barely see his father through his bleary vision. "Don't ask why, because I don't know. All I know is that the desire is there, and has always been there. I've never told you because I've always been scared shitless at what you'd do about it when you found out." George had both eyes closed and he was slowly shaking his head back and forth, not wanting to hear. To his credit, he at least didn't cover his ears. SR spoke in a panic, trying desperately to control his own sobbing so that he could express what he felt. "Last night, for the first time in my life, my best friends gave me the chance to finally wear my inside out. I was unable to resist. And how could I be expected to? Damnit, Dad! What the hell is wrong with SCABS? I love you too. But this is what I am! I'm sick and tired of pretending I'm something I'm not!" He was no longer able to speak, being overcome by the need to cry. George was shaking as well, now. "Jesus help you, SR!" he whispered. And SR was afraid, because his father didn't take the name of the Lord in vain. "Uh... I think I need to be alone for a while." SR rose on trembling hips and knees and staggered his way out the door and upstairs to his room. He lay on the bed, sobbing uncontrollably. On the radio, David Gilmour was singing Pink Floyd's "On the turning away." SR tripped on a curb. He was apparently too preoccupied with his thoughts to pay very much attention to his surroundings. Oh damn! he thought. I thought I'd put that behind me. He arose to his feet, dusting himself off. Home was only a block away, now, but SR still didn't want to go back. He walked to a nearby store window and attempted to distract himself with the wares for sale there. Of course, that night in his father's office was definitely not the worst.... They didn't speak for nearly a week after that. And then it happened: On the following Christmas Eve, almost a week later, SR woke up in a darkened hospital room. He was disoriented, and felt terrible, but something was perfectly clear: He had finally gotten the Martian Flu. A darkened figure in a chair in the corner cleared his throat, the spoke. SR recognized his father's voice. "You've been unconscious for nearly a day now. The doctors say it's... it's..." He trailed off. George drew in a sharp breath. "They say it's too early to tell yet whether you'll... uh..." SR grunted and nodded to signify that he understood: Signs of transformation didn't occur until the symptoms of the Flu had disappeared, and it was still too early to tell if SR would get SCABS. George nodded. "There've been some advances in diagnosing this disease. They say they should know by tomorrow." In an adjacent room, someone was playing a recording of "Oh, Holy Night." Father and son sat in silence for the next few minutes, listening to the music. SR had nearly fallen asleep by the time George spoke again. "The whole congregation is praying for you. William and Janice are holding a vigil in the church." SR was too weak to react. "SR, you're at a point in your life that is like a hinge on a great door. You don't have to swing it far to make changes that will affect the rest of your life." He paused before continuing. "I was going to prepare something from the scriptures to read to you, but since you've said those words mean nothing to you, I've chosen something else." He unfolded a piece of paper. "This is from a twentieth-century group that you said you liked:" You can have anything you want You can drift, you can dream, even walk on water Anything you want You can own everything you see Sell your soul for complete control Is that really what you need? You can lose yourself this night See inside there is nothing to hide Turn and face the light SR closed his eyes as the notes to Pink Floyd's "What do you want from me" echoed in his mind. After a moment's pause, George continued. "SR, Satan is very powerful. He can give you almost anything you want for the price of your eternal salvation." George sounded very distant. "I love you, SR. And no matter what happens, I'll always love you. But know this: If you come home from this hospital as anything other than the pink-skinned boy I've loved these many years, I'll throw you out on the street without so much as a word." George rose to his feet. "I pray that you'll make the right choice. But the choice is yours." With that, he turned and walked out the door. In the background, "Oh, Holy Night" continued to play in some nearby room. SR slammed a fist into the wall next to the window of the shop he was standing at. Oh, how can people be so blind? But what was most disturbing was that this blindness was contagious. A week later, SR returned home-- as the twenty-two year old caucasian male he'd grown up to be-- and more confused than ever. His father insisted that he remain home and go to counselling for the next semester. At first, SR refused even to go to church with his family. Then, gradually, he began to give in. One afternoon in the middle of March, his mother walked into the room where he was reading from the Bible, and handed him a portable phone. "Someone named Jason is on a voice-only line for you." SR thanked her, watched her leave, then shut the door before pressing the 'talk' button on the phone. "Hello?" "SR? God, SR! Where've you been, man? Geez! You won't believe what's happened here! Half of the members of TIC have been thrown out of school because some half-assed administrator claimed they forged documents to allow them to get into some upper-level classes. And then a bunch of Human Firsters burnt down the Terries' place. They're OK, though-- they got out in time. But what the hell happened to you? We all figured you drove off a bridge or something on your way back to school. What's going on, man?" SR paused to consider what he would say-- what would have the desired effect. "Jason, go to hell." There was a lengthy pause on the other end of the line. Finally, a much-subdued Jason spoke. "Uh... OK, man." SR smiled to himself. "Look, I don't want you or any of the other SCABS from TIC to call me again on this line. Ever. Is that understood?" "Uh... yeah, man, whatever you say." "I don't give a flying fart what happens to you or the Terries or..." SR spent the next ten minutes verbally abusing his former friend. When he was done, he pressed the 'Off' button on the phone before Jason could respond. He quickly extinguished the twinge of remorse he felt for saying what he had said to someone who used to be as close to him as Jason was. But it was all for the best: That SCAB was getting what he deserved. That evening, SR apologized to his family for all the pain he had caused them. Tears of joy were shed by everyone present. For nearly five minutes, George and his son held each other in a loving embrace. The prodigal son had returned. SR laughed loudly in agony. If there was a God, then He had to have the most gothic sense of humor! SR looked at the red, white and black fur on his forearms. Gripping it with his teeth, he tried desperately to tear it off. He screamed when a tuft came away. To his luck, the pink skin underneath did not bleed. No one acknowledged his cry of pain: The corridors of green and grey were deserted. He remembered that day in April all too well.... It was a bright and sunny Easter Sunday. For the previous two days, SR had been incapacitated by a nasty cold, but on this morning, apparently fully recovered, SR felt better than he had in a long time: His father had asked him to present part of the morning's sermon. Skipping to the bathroom, SR was going over some of the things he would say when the congregation met. No, it wouldn't be appropriate to apologize to them for his blasphemous behavior, but he planned on making his speech particularly scathing to SCABS in order to show everyone that he was indeed remorseful for what he had done. Grabbing his electric shaver, he began to hum the notes to "Christ The Lord is Risen Today." He stopped humming when the shaver jammed. He popped off the cover and began shaking out the hairs. "Dang, this piece of crap! I thought I cleaned it out last..." SR's heart did a somersault. Something was very wrong: The hairs in the shaver were white. SR had black facial hair. He slowly turned to face the mirror. "Oh, God! No! Not now!" The face that was staring, shocked, back a him was still his own, but there were marked differences from what had been there the previous day. The bottom portion was covered with a short and thin coating of white fuzz. The top half had carried the beginnings of a red pelt, with a patch of black on either side of his nose. It was perfectly clear what was happening: SR had SCABS. "Oh, please, no! This can't be happening!" He looked at his ears. Each was slightly larger than before and somewhat pointed, with a thin coating of black fur on the back sides. Checking his hands, he saw that the skin on his palms had grown thicker and was becoming black. Each fingernail was darker and more pointed that the day before. "Oh shit! What am I going to do now?" He tore open his shirt, only to be greeted by more of the white fuzz. Gripping it in his hands, he tore at it desperately. But in spite of his efforts, the fur remained firmly rooted in his skin. "ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit!" SR was startled a moment later when his mother knocked on the door and, not waiting for an answer, opened it. "SR, breakfast is read..." As soon as Janice saw her son, she stepped backward, gasping and covering her mouth with one hand. "Mom! I can explain... uh..." But it was too late: Janice was already down the stairs by the time SR reached the door. Of course, SR knew that no amount of explaining would get him out of this one. He collapsed on the tiled bathroom floor, beating it and himself hopelessly and desperately. Over the course of the next half-hour he made several more frenzied attempts to tear the new hair from his body, actually resorting to shaving it at one point. At last, when the initial shock had run its course, he began to consider his options. But he knew that the choice had already been made, and that God had made it for him. There was really only one thing he could do: Resigning to his fate, he hung his head and walked back to his room. There he retrieved a small suitcase from the closet and began to pack. When he was done he sat silently on his bed, waiting for his father to call him downstairs and letting the changes painfully grip his body. From his room, SR could easily hear the sermon his father gave that Easter morning. In a stern voice that seemed passionate to his cause, George gave the speech SR had planned on giving, emphasizing the need to show SCABS that they would eternally pay for their mistakes. Minutes stretched to hours. SR eventually got up to retrieve a pair of scissors to cut a hole in his pants for the tail that had begun to form there. Finally, at exactly 9:24 that evening, someone quietly knocked on the door. SR rose and opened it. Janice was there, sheepishly staring at the wooden floor of the hallway. "Um... George wants to see you in his office," she said, noticeably not referring to George as 'your father,' as had previously been her habit. SR nodded, picked up his suitcase, then walked slowly down the stairs and corridor to the room where he would be sentenced. By this time, SR's nose had extended about an inch and was tipped by a cold, wet, and leathery black pad. He walked in and stood before the mahogany desk, not bothering to take a seat. George looked up and into SR's eyes. His jaw was set, and SR was unable to tell what he was thinking or feeling. After a minute, the pastor broke the gaze, and reached for the top drawer of his desk. Instead of the Bible that SR expected, George retrieved a manila envelope. George rose steadily on his feet and walked to the door. With one hand, he held it open. With the other, he held out the envelope to his son. SR took hold of the envelope. When George didn't let go, he looked back into his father's eyes. Again, for another minute, they exchanged that indescribable communication. At last, George let go, set his jaw, and stared angrily at the wall behind SR. Shaking from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, SR slowly walked out of the warm velvet box. His father silently shut the door behind him. William was holding the front door open. Before SR was completely through, William grabbed his brother's paw and pressed something into it. SR looked up into his brother's eyes. William's were red with tears. Without a word, SR returned his gaze to the ground and walked out of his former life. The front door clicked quietly behind him. SR would never hear his father collapse in agony, wracked with sorrow at the sound of that oak door, like a gavel, sealing the verdict. He would also never see his father spend almost the entire next year in a nearly-clinical state of depression. No, SCABS was never easy to deal with. SR walked to his Jeep at the curb without looking up. Once there, he considered the vodor his brother had given him, and whether he would ever need to use it. The envelope contained several legal documents that SR would need to establish a new life, a letter informing him that he was being excommunicated from the church, and a check for thirty-thousand dollars. SR didn't cry. At this point, he was beyond feeling. Numbly, he looked up at the stained-glass windows of the foyer and the inviting warmth he saw there. He shifted his gaze to the sign in front of the church: Gnade Street Christian Church -- 45 Gnade Street -- Visitors Welcome He turned the key in the ignition and drove away. Copyright © 1998 by SR Foxley. All rights reserved. Please contact the author if you have questions regarding the publication of this document.
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