The Voice Within

The success of Gruber's Labs newest contribution to the scientific community reverberated through the sterile halls unchecked as the revelers downed their intoxicating concoctions in wild abandon. Apparently the small gelatinous mass I irreverently referred to as flubber, had been successful in restoring the neurological damage an ambulatory construction worker sustained during a substantial fall some months back. I guess I should have been happy too, but had declined the party invitation in hopes of completing my rounds early to catch the tail end of the Raiders game. With virtually no idea of the ramifications of the experiments success, I chose to remain blissfully ignorant knowing that too much knowledge can be a dangerous thing to a tired mind as my own.

Old man Gruber had hired me right after my accounting position of 28-long years had been downsized into a miniscule pension. My wife left shortly thereafter with a smooth talking real estate agent who probably got his start selling hot cars. She left me with ungodly payments on our maxed out credit cards and the certain knowledge that my genitalia was at the bottom of the under privileged pile in her opinion. Bitter yet relieved, I set about quietly restoring my financial credibility while attempting to smother my deflated ego. That was four years ago, and although I've secured my financial respectability again, my ego never fully recovered. Several frustrating nights at the local strip clubs had convinced me that my personal life was best left to my imagination.

Working as a custodian has its perks; although the hours are long at times, there's relatively little pressure and plenty of free time to converse with the menagerie of scientists and lab techs that scurry to and fro. At times condescending, they seem to enjoy their coexistence with a subservient lower life form, and often bestow whatever leftovers they possessed from food to technological trinkets.

Several other coworkers - like the secretary Susan, a middle aged mother with three kids and a no load mate; Roger, my counterpart and great friend; and of course Mr. Druber, the head of the think tank and his somewhat ditzy niece Dawn, who had just gotten hired on out of some University back east - all treated me as a real person.

The events that were to change my life began to unfold early the next morning as a dark overcast began to drizzle. The street lights were beginning to flick off as I unlocked the front door and sloshed into the lounge with a dripping coat and squeaky shoes. Roger was sitting at one of the shiny tables savoring a warm cup of Joe with his eyes half closed. Roger and I had bonded almost immediately and spent much of our free time together as he lived just a few doors away from me in the apartments that had seen better days. We spent many long hours together tapping brews while enjoying football games on the tube as his "main squeeze" terrorized the bargain bins at the nearby mall. An avid reader, Roger was always interesting with his witty anecdotes and philosophical revelations of the meaning of life. We talked about the persistent recurring stain under the long stainless work table in lab two, and the problem light fixture on the second floor before excusing ourselves to our separate paths – Roger to his pre-warmed bed with Gladys and me to the second floor buffing duties.

Absent mindedly, I went through my well rehearsed procedure of making a new pot of coffee for the crew; especially Susan, who could easily down half the pot before her eyelids remained open. As I turned, there stood Dawn with the most bloodshot eyes I had ever seen. Her reputation as a hardcore party babe would definitely be in question when her coworkers saw her this morning. It wasn't until later that I learned the old man had given everyone a day off to recover from their brain numbing binge the evening before. Dawn had confided in me on several occasions on her life's inconsistencies as I was non-threatening and could truly feign interest while staring at the two perky globes that pushed her lab coat away from her otherwise anorexic figure. I kept her confidence while realizing many of her dilemmas were self-induced brain fade so inherent in the young.

"Hiya Bob," she slurred as she pulled the oversized sunglasses from her pale face.

"Morning Dawn," I drawled trying to conceal the snicker that was forming in my throat. "Raining yet?"

"Haven't noticed," she offered meekly as she moved towards the coffee maker like a fly towards the porch light.

"I got some pills down at Hanks pharmacy that just might help if you'd like me to get them for you," I offered; "They're all natural and non-addicting."

She studied me for a moment and licked her lips slowly as she struggled to stay on her feet. "Yeah, I'd like that."

I was able to suppress my laughter once out of the lounge, but couldn't help but think of what an easy lay she'd be under the influence. Although skinny by most any frame of reference, she still was attractive with her delicate features and long blond hair. I grabbed the pill bottle that was safely nestled between my vitamins and ibuprofen and returned to find the same pale figure losing the balance battle. Helping her to the nearest chair I shook a couple of pills into her palm and handed her the coffee. With nary a glance she downed the pharmaceuticals and chased them with a noisy slurp of Joe emitting a barely audible burp to complete the performance. I smiled and patted her hand in a fatherly way, as she stared at the concentric circles the coffee was making in the small Styrofoam cup.

As I turned to leave her to her misery, she blurted out "Don't go just yet Bob . . . please?" The pain in her voice was unmistakable. I temporarily abandoned my thoughts and warily sat across from her hoping secretly her stomach was settled and her resolve sound. She started sobbing softly, and my nurturing instincts kicked in.

"What's happing, Dawn," I queried sincerely.

She sniffled and produced a wrinkled hanky, taking a lifetime to blow out her nasal passages before letting her red eyes meet mine.

"I'm sorry," she muttered.

I paused for a moment, trying to analyze the best approach – as a therapist, a friend, or as father easily being twice her age.

"I'm afraid the BSP is a long way from perfection, and I'm responsible," she blurted.

Forget the therapist and sibling approach; I'm going to tackle this as a friend, I thought. "OK Dawn," I sighed, "let's get to the bottom of this but try to keep your terminology on the secondary level, would you? What is a BSP?" I reached out slowly and took her hands in mine.

She hesitated and wiped her nose sloppily as if she was more accustomed to a sleeve than a hanky.

"Three years ago," she began, "My Uncle, your boss, discovered the proper chemical sequencing in the human neurological system and through gene splicing was able to perfect a compound that would repair the damaged neural sequencing required to effect movement. When I joined on, I had a theory for creating a symbiotic life form that could live on the unused chemicals the human body normally stores – hence the term biological symbiotic parasite or BSP. We hoped to create a life form that could be applied to skin near the damaged neural system, for example on the spinal column, and once the BSP integrated with the hosts unique chemistry, the integrated neural compounds would repair and sustain the damaged system, restoring the subject to their former levels of dexterity. The ramifications of such a discovery are staggering."

She paused to slurp down some more Joe and continued; "Just recently, our grants have expired and we've been operating on borrowed funds which will soon be exhausted. In an effort to accelerate our research, I incorporated several untested theories into the life form. For several weeks, the subject showed unparalleled recovery, but this morning when I made my rounds, I found he had regressed to his former state and the BSP was lifeless on the chair next to him.

"Sure it wasn't sleeping?"

"Yes, the normal gelatinous mass was dried and shriveled."

"Maybe it's malnourished."

She paused, "I never thought of that."

"Look Dawn, before you start playing the blame game, why don't you get that hunk of dried goo into the lab, and find out what really happened - like maybe the host rejected it, or accidentally leaned up against an electric transformer or something."

A small smile slowly stretched across the scowl she had been wearing and the color noticeably returned to her face although her hands were still as cold as an arctic glacier.

"I'll do that," she quipped and with a quick peck on my cheek, she was on her way to the lab. I'll never fathom the recuperative powers of the young, only look upon them with envy. With a feeling of relief, I staggered up the stairs to the second floor on my quest for a shiny floor, realizing how drained I felt from concentrating on her explanations of something I really didn't want to know and that my current employment was in question.

In an empty building, cleaning is a snap, and before I knew it, I had finished up the second deck as well as thoroughly cleaned the restrooms and vacated offices. It's Miller time! I stuck my head into Dawn's lab as I was donning my rain attire to see how she was doing and let her know of my departure. She was humming while shaking beakers and tubes filled with heaven knows what. I had a gallery view of a mad scientist at work!

"Come in, Bob," she quipped happily; "It appears as if the BSP was starved! Keep this up and you'll be working here instead of cleaning the johns!"

"Great, Dawn – I'm done here so I'll see you bright. . ."

"Wait; you gotta see this!" She held up a large beaker and nestled in the bottom was a translucent blob of flubber.

"Looks like a booger," I mumbled.

She snickered and waved me off. I was gratified and headed for the door thanking all that is great for not being drawn into another scientific discourse about what life could be with the miracle of modern science. Further, I didn't want to get too close to this young gal either as the consequences could be terminal if old man Gruber thought I might be doing something I ought not in the confines of his lab.

"Bob?"

I knew things were going too well.

"Could I talk to you?"

I paused, and finally nodded, "What is it Dawn?"

"Let's go into the lounge – I need some more coffee."

"OK, but let's not mess it up for Roger!"

I eyed her warily as she dumped enough sugar in her mug to sustain a junk food junkie for a week. Topping it of with a few spoonfuls of coffee, she glided over to the opposing chair and landed with uncharacteristic abandon throwing my personnel folder on the table in front of us. The grating noises of spoon stirring raw sugar were irritating. She cleared her throat and assured eye contact before continuing.

"When I applied the BSP to the subject's epidermis, it was unable to sustain itself, but as soon as I exposed it to an open wound it thrived." She pulled up the sleeve to her stained lab coat to reveal a small incision on her wrist. "What we need," she continued, "Is to implant the BSP surgically to insure it may obtain its nutrients directly." She paused for a pregnant moment allowing me to decipher her latest conclusion before continuing. "I see that you suffer from frequent bouts of sciatica and would like to implant the BSP to see if it would. . ."

"Whoa Roger Ramjet; you're not suggesting you stick that slime onto my spine?"

She giggled intoxicatingly; "Gee, poetry! And in a word, yes!"

"In another word, NO," I stated emphatically.

"Why not – aw common Bob, this could help you with your backaches and quite possibly give the project the boost it so desperately needs now."

"Thanks for the opportunity, Dawn, but I'm not into S&M."

"Bob, I'll be with you every step of the way and after you've been host for a few days I can remove it, if you'd like."

"Why not do your little surgical thing on one of the other scientists; like Doc Muskwicz (the oldest scientist that suffered a terminal case of grumpiness) or maybe the Hunchback of Notre Dame? Look the Doc said my condition is quite normal and with a shot of steroids ever once in awhile, I'm just fine."

"Bob, please do this for us, you're the most likely in-house candidate and the easiest to talk with. I'd monitor your progress every step of the way and we'd terminate the experiment the moment you request it. Tell me, do you like your job?"

It took a moment for the implications to set in – without the success of the BSP; I'd be drawing my second miniscule pension along with Roger and all the others I'd come to know so well. In an instant I saw myself morph from a lowly shit sweeper to a real somebody with press conferences, interviews, and maybe even TV commercials (as long as they weren't for hemorrhoids or tampons). One look into her eyes assured me of her sincerity, and the remote possibility of painless work was tempting. "How long will the procedure take, Doc?"

The way she flew over the table and hugged me dispelled the last of my fears. "Five minutes under a local. Common let's prep!" She sailed out of the lounge babbling like a five year old with a new Barbie while I removed my outer wraps and wondered if this was how Frankenstein might have felt. The table was already prepared and before I could mutter any last words, she had me sprawled out face down with my Dickies around my ankles and my shirt scrunched around my neck. Why do medical professionals always refer to a needle prick as a pinch and any type of pain as a little pressure?

Fear can play strange tricks to an otherwise well organized mind, and although the "procedure" was almost over before it started, I was still in the throes of high anxiety. Her deft and delicate hands were gentler than a Mother's caress and her soothing encouragements kept me from bolting for the door and screaming obscenities in wild abandon. With the stinging prick of a syringe in my right buttock, I was on my way to a dream land, barely aware of her struggles to cover me in my conventional attire or scribble her procedure on a tattered clipboard. My head was still spinning when, with a quick peck to my cheek and a packet of Demerol, I was floating out the door towards the ultimate comfort of my unmade bed. The evening fell and night passed without once interrupting the most peaceful sleep ever.

Normally, the electronic buzz of my alarm would throw me into spasms of my fight or flight reflex but the dawn came and the buzzer went off unnoticed. When I finally did stir, any thoughts of an unblemished on-time record had sailed into the clear morning air as I eased myself from the comfort of my down comforter into the familiar recesses of my poorly vented water closet sporting the biggest woody I'd carried in years! I stared at the throbbing appendage amazed by its miraculous rejuvenation and the feelings of desire it was pumping through my torso into my still somewhat drug-clouded brain. Amazingly my back, knees and feet were completely devoid of the normal ache that was a constant reminder of my aging process.

There was a knock on the door; and here I was sporting my first erection in years with my mind, my only bastion of defense, swaggering in a pool of ecstatic confusion. I threw a towel around my torso and stumbled out to investigate the offensive clatter. It was darling Dawn who pushed herself past me and marched into the small studio apartment, throwing her coat unceremoniously over my over worked captains chair. Her eyes immediately landed on the bulge tenting my towel in unspoken awe.

"Why Bob, are you glad to see me?"

I couldn't even mutter a response.

She bounced lightly onto the bed with a small medical bag and patted the blanket next to her. "Let's see how your implant is adapting this morning."

"Ah, don't worry about it, I'm fine," I muttered trying to hide my embarrassment.

"C'mon Bob," she stressed with a hint of urgency in her voice.

I complied gingerly, awash in emotions that were, for the most part, less than honorable. As her gentle hands swept the towel away from my torso and she began to caress the slight bulge in my lower back, her whole demeanor changed abruptly. What once was a look of professional curiosity was suddenly overcome by unmistakable unbridled lust complete with dilated pupils, flaring nostrils, and drool. In one swift motion I was on my back and she was pawing my torso like a woman repossessed. Fondling my engorged organ with the inquisitiveness of a virgin and the urgency of a nymphomaniac, her body began to gyrate in the unmistakable throes of arousal. Her grip tightened suddenly squeezing the living life out of my tool as she emitted a low "Uuuuummmmmmmmmph," and her body began jerking uncontrollably. She wrapped her legs around my own and began humped my kneecap with wild abandon as I watched her orgasmic throes with suspect curiosity and delight.

About the time my kneecap was about ready to slide to safety around the backside of my leg, she rolled onto her knees and pulled her calf length skirt up around her waist. In an instant, she tore away her frilly white panties and, grabbing my glistening penis she guided herself onto me with a swift well rehearsed motion. Ecstasy poured through every fiber of my torso as she grunted with each forceful thrust. Before I could fully savor the warmth of our intimacy, her whole body stiffened and she fell backwards onto her elbows with a long screech as an explosive fountain of her essence shot across by chest and onto the headboard. I was stunned. Dawn rolled off me exhausted; droplets of her essence still clinging to the trimmed downy muff that only partial hid the inflamed lips of her sexuality.

Still amazed at my new found dexterity, I easily rolled off the bed as Dawn continued to shake, quake and squirt. Her face was contorted in erotic ecstasy as her body continued to cope with her orgasmic overload; her beautiful legs twitching sporadically while her delicate fingers continued to knead the center of her lust. Ah the unspoken beauty of youth. Once in the shower, I allowed the warm soothing stream to bring me back to my senses – a liberty I was soon to regret. Questions soon tumbled onto my psychic like a rock avalanche punctuated by why and what if. She was my only contact with the little bundle that had restored part of me to my youth and she was also the boss's niece. This was one fine mess. My penis, now shriveled to its normal size felt mauled yet, for the first time in my life, fulfilled. Should I go to work; should I run away, should I tell someone about my dilemma, or should I just pretend nothing happened? In the end prudence won out, and I decided to run away.

Drying off quickly as Dawn moaned incomprehensible expletives on the bed, I grabbed a few changes of clothes and some important papers and headed out the door for a new life; heaven knows the life I had known was all but ended. As I reached the bottom of the stairs I heard the voice within for the first time.

"Well how did you like that?"

I whipped around quickly trying to locate the source of the unmistakable feminine voice. There was none. Again with more persistence: "How did you like that?"

I froze and whispered "Who are you?" Here I am talking to myself.

"I'm your better half now Bob compliments of that depleted hulk you ravished this morning."

"What the f. . ."

"Come on Bob, you can't really expect a one way symbiotic relationship, can you?"

Pieces were coming together. "It would be nice."

"Listen, I probably could have done a lot better with someone other than yourself, you know?"

"Well, why don't you," I snarled.

"Like, I really had a choice. Now are we going to try to get along or what?"