Domestic Bliss

Still he was unable to move. He watched passively as the worms flowed off the bed and gathered together in a jumbled heap on the bedroom floor. A few of them began to glow. Then they seemed to coalesce into a common form. It grew larger and began to assume human shape. Norman watched in disbelief as its facial features began to form. His features. The creature walked over and then bent down to study Norman. Norman found himself looking at his own face. Only it was not like looking in a mirror. First, there was no right-left reversal in the image. Second, this Norman was tanned, muscular, and wore a self-assured smirk on its face. "How do you like the new you?" the Norman-thing asked him.

When Norman failed to respond, the Norman-thing grinned. "Not up to talking, are we? Well, never mind. We won't be up to doing much of anything ever again, will we? You see, you are only being kept alive because, in order to impersonate you, I must know your thoughts. Your brain is my library. The worms that crawl around inside it are my research assistants. And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to do a little browsing." The Norman-thing's face seemed to elongate. His mouth became a long, slender proboscis, which he inserted into Norman's ear. As Norman felt it penetrate his newly-healed eardrum, his mind was suddenly assaulted with a myriad of random images. His childhood. Office parties. The time he had lost the championship lacrosse game by failing to block an easy shot. Suddenly the images ceased, and he was again greeting by the gleaming visage of the Norman thing.

"Your secretary, Pamela Rushton, seems a most marvelous creature. She will make a welcome addition to our ranks," the Norman-thing told him as he proceeded to don Norman's favorite shirt and tie. "Well, ta ta. I must be getting off to work, or in your case, should I say getting off at work? Stay out of trouble, now. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Come to think of it, I guess you won't be doing much of anything at all, now will you?" The Norman-thing guffawed at its own wit. "Don't worry," it said, "we'll still have use for you after my research is done. You're going to make an excellent meal." It guffawed once more and seemed to glide out of the room, its pretense of human movement being dropped for the moment. Norman heard the side door to the house open and close. Then he heard the sound of the Lexus pulling out of the driveway and heading in the general direction of Norman's office.

A little while later, he heard the front door open and shut and the sound of high heels clacking their way down the slate path to the street. He supposed that he and his equally paralyzed spouse had the house to themselves for a little while.

Several hours seemed to pass as Norman lay there, his gaze fixated at the ceiling. His thoughts were distorted. Random images from his past assaulted him. The result of the mindworms grubbing about for information stored in his brain, he supposed. His mind was fuzzy, but he knew that there was something he should remember. Something under the bed. Oh yes. The grapefruit juice.

While he could not move his limbs in any coordinated manner, he had discovered during the past several hours that he could flex selected muscles. The Norman-thing had left him lying near the edge of the bed, for which he was now exceedingly grateful. He flexed his right arm suddenly, and his body almost fell over the edge. He lay there momentarily exhausted, but suddenly flexed his triceps and quadriceps simultaneously. His body teetered for what seemed like an eternity on the edge of the bed and then finally fell over.

He landed on the floor facing the paper bags under the bed. The bag containing the squirt gun lay only a few tantalizing inches from his nose. But in his present physical condition, those inches seemed like light years. He felt his mind grow faint and caught himself falling asleep. The work of the mindworms, he supposed. They knew his plan and were trying to put him out of commission. He supposed he had only a few moments of consciousness left. Somehow, the thought of drinking grapefruit juice filled his mind with nausea. It was just the mindworms talking again, he knew. He fought the incredible drowsiness that threatened to overwhelm him and managed to jerk his neck forward. His mouth fortuitously landed on the nozzle of the squirt gun. His hand lay on something within the bag that seemed very hopeful indeed. He pressed with his index finger and was rewarded with a squirt of grapefruit juice on his tongue. It tasted of acid and ammonia. He felt the mindworms panic inside him. Gaining renewed control over his body, he squeezed the trigger again. The grapefruit juice again flowed into his mouth, tasting sweeter this time. He emptied the gun into mouth, feeling the healing liquid pouring down his throat. He felt two worms dying inside his nasal passages as they tried to crawl out of his nostrils. He put a finger alternately on each side of his nose and blew the worms out of his body like so much snot. His vision blurred momentarily as one of the worms banged against the back of his retina in a frantic attempt to exit Norman's body through his eye socket.

Norman rose unsteadily to his feet. He blew his nose again, this time tastefully using a Kleenex tissue for that purpose. He examined the worm carcasses as they lay in quiet repose on the hanky, emitting a smoky acid vapor that Norman found most unpleasant. He wiped his eyes clear of worm "tears" and then flushed his collection of worm husks down the toilet.

He reloaded the squirt gun ("water cannon," he reminded himself), tucked an extra gallon of grapefruit juice under his arm and went down to await his nonhuman friends.

As he passed Clara's room, he briefly considered reviving Monica. The thought of enduring her conversation for the two hours remaining until dinnertime served as a strong deterrent to that plan, however. Instead, he continued down the stairs alone. His act of vigilanteism would be a solo mission.

The Monica-thing was the first to arrive. When she saw him sitting in the easy chair, she seemed surprised at first, gave him one of the warmest and most inviting smiles Norman had ever received.

"I have been waiting for this all day," she told him as she slipped the straps of her gown off her shoulders. "I hope you don't mind, Normy, but I can't wait until after dinner. I have to have you now, Normy," she said as she unhooked her black lace bra from the front. Her magnificent globes spilled out, a wondrous sight for Norm's sore eyes. (Norman had to force himself to remember that the soreness in his eyes was primarily the result of his recent bout of crying worm tears all over his bedroom floor.)

Despite himself, Norman felt himself growing hard at the sight of the Monica-thing's firm tits and belly, his body's sweet memories asserting their priority over his current mission. The higher centers of his brain retained just enough awareness to enable him to tug the trigger of the water cannon. The Monica-thing screamed when it was hit by the stream of grapefruit juice. Norman kept his finger on the trigger and directed the spray over every portion of the Monica-thing's body as if he were putting out a fire. At first, her face seemed to decompose. Soon half of it was bare skull. The eye in the remaining half had reverted to worms. Even they began to smoke and shrivel. Finally, the Monica-thing lost its bodily integrity and fell apart into its constituent worms, which then scattered across the carpet.

"You really should pull yourself together, my dear," Norman said in his best James Bond voice. He then hunted down the remaining worms, spraying them with the cannon, pouring juice straight from the jug onto them and crushing them beneath his feet.

He was more efficient with the Norman-thing. His wormy counterpart found itself hit with three gallons of grapefruit juice the moment it stepped through the door. The few worms that tried to escape Norman's wrath found themselves serving merely as recreational targets for Norman's increasingly accurate water cannon.

When the carnage was complete, Norman sat back in his easy chair and considered the situation. He supposed he should revive the original Monica, but why spoil an otherwise perfect evening? He looked down wistfully at the low cut evening gown the Monica-thing had been wearing when she arrived home, which now lay piled in a heap on the living room carpet. She had been a truly magnificent creature.

After a few minutes, Norma arose from the chair. He supposed he should contact the police, the project Blue Book people or maybe even the Globe and warn them about the danger. As if they would believe him. More likely, he would end his days in some loony bin, painting seascapes and drooling as he shuffled unsteadily down some pastel-colored corridor in his open-back hospital pajamas.

He walked out of his house aimlessly, headed vaguely in the direction of the police station as he considered his options. Suddenly, he noticed his neighbor leaning over the fence and beckoning him. It was Helga Anderson, and her breasts were magnificently tanned as they dangled over the pickets. As was only neighborly, Norman ambled across the lawn to talk to her. As he drew nearer, he could see that something had definitely changed about Helga. Her skin seemed to glow. Her blond hair seemed longer and fuller than it had ever been, her breasts even larger than he remembered. When he came within reaching distance, she touched his arm, and he once again felt the familiar electric charge surge through his body. He became instantly erect, throbbing with the need for better communion with his neighbor. The irises of the Helga-thing's eyes began to spiral, and he gazed into them transfixed. Perhaps he was being too hasty about this police business, he thought. Our new nonhuman friends have much to offer us. All we really need to do is drink our grapefruit juice regularly (and in great quantities). Surely, that would not be too great a price to pay for fabulous relations with our neighbors and friends (although as Norman tongued his cheek, he realized that he would have to do something about all the canker sores this juice drinking was giving him). He smiled back at the Helga-thing. Yes, this was going to be a fine new world to live in, he thought, as he climbed over the fence, wrapped his arms around the Helga-thing, and began to escort her in the general direction of her house.