Old Town Vet

A steady breeze blew through the deserted streets of Old Town lifting dust and debris into a ghoulish danse macabre. The blades of the old windmill whined their arc through the air, the rusted metal cogs and gears screeching in protest.

Marron shuddered with each shriek. He hated coming here. The politicians and the well heeled had moved long ago, abandoning Old Town to those who had nowhere else to go, those who lived on the fringes, and addicts like him who just needed another fix. It wasn’t a high he was looking for. No, Marron had his sights set on a much more nefarious goal.

Gene splicing technology had been getting more refined, more successful in leaps and bounds in the three years since the first trials. Those early experiments that produced beaked and scaly freaks had given way to more subtle evolutions, more nuanced advances.

He flicked up the collar of his thick coat, as much to keep out the bitter wind, as to create a barrier between him and whatever skulked in the dark corners.

His destination, the Old Town Vet, lay only a few paces away. He was early. He could afford to stop and look around, make sure he wasn’t followed.

“Mr. Marron?”

Marron jumped. No matter how many times he came here, how many procedures he underwent, he never got comfortable.

She slouched against the boarded up window of the surgery, her long bare legs crossed at the ankle, a cigarette held loosely in what could only be described as a tentacle. The white nurse’s uniform had bunched up at the crotch, revealing creamy-fleshed thighs and a glimpse of red panties. She noticed Marron’s eyes sweeping up her legs, and a second tentacle shrugged her dress downwards. A third tentacle brushed through her hair, while a fourth pushed her upright away from the wall.

“You here for your gene splicing, honey? C’mon in. You’re early, but we’re ready for you.” The words dripped from her mouth like warm molasses.

Marron tried not to stare at her tentacles.

“It’s okay, honey. You can look. I’m proud of them,” she said, sensing his thoughts.

Her name was Carla she said, bombarding him with a steady banter. Marron let her voice wash over him, not listening to the words, but letting the soothing hum of it calm him.

“You’re a nervous one, aren’t you, honey?” she asked not waiting for an answer, and injecting a vial of something blue into his arm. “It’ll help you relax, honey.”

She led Marron to the operating room; sterile, well lit, surgical tools neatly laid out on a tray. Carla helped him out of his clothes, her tentacles lingering longer than necessary over his groin.

“Relax, honey. You’re in good tentacles.”

Carla giggled softly at her own joke, two of her tentacles kneading his head, while another clamped leather straps onto his limbs, and the fourth traced a line up his inner thigh.

“You ever had a tentacle job, honey? Once you’ve had suckers, you’ll never want hands,” she whispered.

‘No. I’ve got a girlfriend. No, stop’ Marron thought. He felt his mouth move, heard the garbled guttural growl that came out, and felt the muscle relaxant take effect. The regular shriek of the windmill filled his ears, and his mind whorled into darkness.

“That’s it, honey. You just relax now. Carla’s gonna take good care of you,” she soothed.

Through rapidly blurring vision, Marron saw the veterinarian enter. ‘Why did he look so uncannily like Senator Het Levid?’ he wondered briefly before succumbing to unconsciousness.

Image credit: killymk/pixabay

This story is part of a series. You can find another here (Karti’s Revenge).