Finally a surgeon appeared.

“What have you done with him,” I said.

“It’s OK, Mr. Weagel. Your friend is doing much better now.”

“Where is he?! Goddamn You!”

“He’s resting,” the doctor said, putting a hand to his brow. “There’s nothing to be excited about.”

They’d cut him open like a turtle on the moon, I was sure of it. “What did you do to him? He’s a man, dammit, like you or I.”

“I assure you, he’s quite unlike any man you’ve ever met.”

“What did you do to him?!”

“We’ve replaced his major organs with replicas made of solid gold. Increased his appetite. Stand him near a microwave next chance you get, he’ll predict the future.”

“You’re a butcher!”

“Hardly. Now let me see about those forearms.” He reached towards me without blinking. Instinctively, I handed him my credit cards and personal identification.

Then from across the room, “There’s an epidemic of identity theft in this county.”

It was a human totem pole. Giant claws, muscles of red wood. Taller because of the springs in his knees. A visible blue aura. A living blank check.

It was V.

“Stand aside, doc. I’d like to offer you 4.5% APR.”


About Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn’t. He can’t stand that shit.

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