Chapter 1

Long before the mob at the middle of society became aware of it, the high and the low ends knew our world had come to end.

Reproductive doctors watched an ova and a sperm cell fail to do what came naturally. Hookers walked empty streets. The Event halted human reproduction, as our species had known it since the first monkey-boy fell on top of a monkey-girl inventing the missionary position.

Though it would not be discovered until later, an equally significant event repeated itself around the world--people were getting sick and coming out of it healthier. All post-puberty Positives made/created/changed (choose your word) by the Event became ill to some degree or another, depending on how close to the Positive-ideal they fell. As a pot-bellied and much less than average dicked male, I suffered the seven worst days of my life.

I'd already been sick for three days when I went to the clinic. With two busboy jobs and no health insurance, I always waited for confirmation that I might be dying before involving doctors.

The doctor wasn't much help. She did not even take my embarrassed explanation about being swollen DOWN THERE seriously. In her defense, I was in the eye of my health storm so I doubt any doctor would have done more than take blood for tests, give me a prescription for some stern pain medication, and a sample pack of anti-inflammatories. I barely made it back to my place (a single-room occupancy) when the other side of the storm hit me.

It's unsure if any Positives died from the making process. Comparing notes, I've rarely met anyone that got it as bad as I did--fevers, cold chills, and losing forty pounds in a week. If I hadn't been delirious for the second half of my illness, I would have risked owing money for the rest of my life to visit the emergency room.

I didn't live in an area conducive to getting well. I was quite familiar with screaming babies, screaming husbands, screaming wives, screaming fucking everybody, the acoustic difference between a car backfiring and a gun firing, and the other sounds of a street that came alive only with the dark of night. It was fucking ridiculous though! Every motherfucker on the street was yelling his or her mind off.

"You fucking cunt!" Some guy yelled. "This isn't enough money. You been out here for five hours and this is the money you got for me! Bullshit, bitch!"

"He's going to kill us. Mickens is going to kill us. I should call the cops. Or maybe I should go with Reggie. He'll take the three of us!"

I crawled out of my bed and slammed my window opened. Disease gave me the nerve to look around outside angrily. There was a guy, one of the pimps who hid in the shadows, berating three women. I knew one of the hookers commercially. Lisa wasn't the hottest of the streetwalkers, but she was number three behind her two friends, Honey and Adriana. The three women made up the Mickens stable.

"What the fuck you looking at?" Mickens yelled up at me. "Get the fuck back in your hole or I'll have you sucking dicks for five bucks a pop!"

Honey and Lisa took advantage of Mickens' distraction to pull Adriana behind them. I'd seen a few johns have run-ins with Adriana--they didn't come out on top. Adriana was gorgeous and not just for a hooker! I mean, flat-the-fuck-out one of the finest women I'd seen on paper, porn, or TV. I would have spent good money on getting to know her in a professional capacity if she didn't challenge with every look, step, pose, and word. I heard she made Mickens serious bank as a hooker and stripper at the clubs.

My soul lacked the bravery or bravado it would have taken to tell Mickens to shut the hell up, so I closed the window. I passed out on the way to my bed.

They never named the disease, which afflicted those of us who changed. Mostly because some didn't know they were sick and the rest of us, no matter how bad our symptoms, went from death's door to thriving between breaths.

The phone woke me up. I reached over to grab it. "Hello."

"Simon Dice. It's Paul, your boss," the voice said. "Sounds funny, huh? Simon and Paul."

My night job boss fancied himself a comedian sometimes. Thankfully, only sometimes! I never got his jokes.

"Are you coming to work today?" he asked. "It's Valentine's Day, man. Busy day! You haven't worked all week so I wanted to make sure before I scheduled someone else again. Are you feeling any better?"

I remembered calling Paul and Anne (my day job boss) about being sick.

"Hold on," I said. Sitting up, I stretched my neck from left to right. "Is it really Friday?"

"Yeah, buddy," Paul replied. "So what do you say?"

"Hmmm," I looked around the room. A shower would help and maybe cleaning up the room. "Can you put me on as an opener? I feel good now but a little too good to believe. If I get weaker going into the night, you won't lose anything."

"No problem," Paul said. "You know what, come in an hour early. There's always extra prep work on holidays and with V-Day being a Friday, we'll get slammed."

"Uh-huh," I said but Paul had already hung up.

Putting the phone back in the cradle, I leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. Mistake! My bed stank of dried, sick sweat. In fact, my entire room smelled. A glance at the clock made me jump to my feet. "Shit! Asshole!"

Paul waited until noon to make the call. With a two-thirty clock-in time, I'd only have time to shower and clean up my room if I took a cab to work. I hated wasting money on cab rides so on most days I bicycled to work at a pace leisurely enough to not produce a lot of sweat.

"I could just shower ... Jesus!" I'd left my little refrigerator open at some point. Some milk had spilled and the rotten smell permeated every corner of my room.

Room was a misleading description. I had a tiny kitchen area, plus a bathroom with my own toilet and a small shower. Some of the tenants shared a bathroom between two rooms or with the entire floor. I'd have moved to a safer area a long time ago, if it hadn't been nice for an SRO and cheap. With two busboys jobs, it only took one busy day to pay my weekly rent. The neighborhood wasn't safe enough to get too many amenities so I put most of my money away.

The economy took a nice shit on me when it tanked! I graduated college to find no one willing to take a chance on a humanities major who was sure he could 'learn' on the job. The student loan folks weren't understanding, so I continued my career in the lower end of the service industry. I'd done enough damage to my loans while building up a nest egg that I was almost ready to find greener and hopefully better paying pastures in another state. Worst-case scenario--I'd be bussing tables in warmer climes!

I ignored the wince from the bodega owner when I bought general cleaner and some air freshener. There was no point in showering before I decontaminated my place. Walking back to my building, I stopped in the middle of the street. The buzzing around me got strong enough for me to notice it wasn't a natural sound. I heard it from the moment I woke up without really registering the noise. I looked around the street to see if could pinpoint the source ... maybe a bad electric cable?

Honey, Adriana, and Lisa were walking towards me. Daytime isn't usually on the hooker work schedule, at least not the streetwalkers in my neighborhood. The buzzing was getting louder!

"Take a shower!" Adriana said, pulling away from me when she walked by. Honey and Lisa smiled, shaking their heads. I turned to look at their asses. As I watched them strut away, the buzzing got quieter. I wished it would come back because other noises got louder! I remembered the night at the window looking down at Mickens--I could hear people screaming again. It's the middle of the day, people!

I rushed back to my room to start the cleanup. Focusing on the job helped me keep the noisy street at bay.

I didn't have a lot of time so I made due with a quick shower. Very few cabs came by my street, so I had to walk ten blocks to pick up a cab at their home office. It would mean walking home at night, but the denizens recognized their own and left each other alone. Usually! If I picked up a hooker, I'd be another john rushing to take care of business and under the protection of her pimp. Not that a pimp would actually protect a john! He might take bladed offence to someone messing with his girl though, so it would keep all but the most desperate muggers or whatever away from me.

I only thought about the hooker because I was horny.

Considering a man can convince himself that four inches is six, six is eight, and eight isn't enough, my thought that the swelling DOWN THERE was a second growth spurt isn't THAT stupid. I mean, it looked the same just ... bigger. It was probably a badly timed case of wishful thinking, which kept me from running back to the clinic. It's not like I didn't check myself out thoroughly, going so far as to paint the bathroom wall with cum to make sure everything worked properly. It felt better than before, which didn't help the whole 'I don't need to get this checked out by a medical professional' thing!

The massive weight loss was more troubling. I told Paul I was going to work so a clinic visit would have to wait anyway. I didn't remember eating much during my illness so it explained the missing gut. Restaurant food for lunch, dinner, and a doggie-bag snack did not keep me fit.

"Better," Adriana said as I walked by the three women on the way to the cab station.

I stopped and stared at them. The buzzing was back; I preferred it to the general noise of our neighborhood, especially everyone's newly acquired habit of screaming during conversations.

"What? Did you hit the lotto and can now afford me?" Adriana asked with a lot of snarky bitchiness.

"Be nice," Lisa told her. "So, Simon? Want some company?"

The buzzing got louder! I shook my head and walked away.

"You like him," Adriana said from behind me.

"He's clean, and he only does it 'cause he's horny," Lisa answered.

"If he weren't a weirdo, he'd get a girlfriend," Adriana said.

"They're more expensive. He wants to get out of here someday."

"Everybody does!" Adriana replied.

Something in her voice made me turn around to look at her. For the first time, there wasn't a challenge when she met my eyes. I nodded to her--a kindred soul in a streetwalker.

People who work in restaurants don't like holidays. Owners don't count! Holidays suck! They also represent a major moneymaking opportunity, which sucks even more because you have to deal with the bullshit. Not all holidays are the same. Mother's Day truly fucking sucks! There's nothing like a jackass trying to impress mommy when he ignores her the other three hundred sixty four days a year. In the hierarchy of holidays, Valentine's Day isn't bad. Tables of two are easier to bus than larger tables. The owners, host, and waiters only care about turnover, turnover, and turnover. Guys also try to impress their dates by tipping bigger than normal, which keeps the wait staff happy.

The good news was that I didn't weaken as the night progressed. If anything, the larger than normal meal the restaurant served the staff made me stronger. I felt better than I had in a long, long time!

The bad news was that a singular douchebag thought Valentine's Day had to be celebrated with all his friends. A table of twelve in the middle of my section! The waitress was going out of her mind since it took up three of her tables, and douchebags don't tip well. The table ordered enough food and liquor for the owners not to gently urge them out the door.

The worst news was that everyone in the restaurant had their voices dialed up to eight. The douchebag needing to be the center of attention pushed him over the normal digits on the dial and parked it at twelve. His wife didn't do much better, keeping her voice at an eleven.

Chapter 2 »