William Rose - The Seven Habits

Ocean nodded and positioned her head so that it was resting on his shoulder. The feeling of his arms around her, so firm and strong, made her feel more secure than she had since her father had died. As long as he held her, she was safe, nothing could hurt her. Even the tingling in her cheek slowly faded in his embrace.

But, for some reason, she still found she was unable to pull her gaze away from that forbidden door.

What could I say? I just kinda gulped, ya know, and felt like the walls of Blue Moon were closin’ in on me. Like with that security guard at the mall. I got it in my head that she knew what I had planned for her, and she just stood there with that flimsy shirt drying cool on her back, waiting for me to either confirm or stammer out some half-baked denial. I wanted to say somethin’, believe you me, but I was like Ocean when she saw all that food, ya know? There just weren’t any words.

So there I am, feeling like a little boy who’d just been caught peekin’ into the girl’s shower room. But Clarice fuckin’ Hudson, man? What’s she do? She just leans forward, smiles, and puts her hand on my thigh.

“I’ve been watchin’ you, too,” she says. “How about you buy me a drink and we get to know each other a little better?”

I couldn’t help it. I jerked my leg away from her touch so fast you’d have thought she’d just poked me with a hot needle. It was only a second of contact, but I felt like I needed a shower, dig? I wanted to scrub my skin in scalding water ‘til it fuckin’ bled, man, and this single word keeps repeating in my mind like a Buddhist mantra— contamination, contamination, contamination…

She musta seen somethin’ in my eyes, or maybe it was just the way I recoiled so quick, ya know? Because she snatches her hand back and this real stern look comes over her face.

“What?” she demands. “You think I’ve got cooties or somethin’?”

Me? I still don’t know what to say. It’s like the words just got stuck somewhere in my throat, dig? And I can feel ‘em in there, all hard and edgy like I’d tried to swallow a rock that was too big to pass through my pipes. She’s lookin’ as disgusted as I feel, and kinda glances around the room as if to say can you believe this guy? Then she leans in so close that the alcohol from her breath stings my nose, I can feel the heat just rollin’ off her body and she’s right there with all her fuckin’ mutagens streamin’ outta her pores, and she half-whispers to me.

“Let me spell it out for ya, lover boy. You buy me a drink and you’re gettin’ laid. I’ll ride you until the sun comes up and leave you beggin’ for more. So what’s it gonna be? You gettin’ lucky tonight or what?”

You know how many nights I’ve dreamed about some chick saying that kinda shit to me, man? How many dead soldiers were tossed into the toilet in little wads of Kleenex? And it has to be a fuckin’ carrier, ya know? Hell, I wouldn’t have touched that dollymop if my prick were made of latex…

There’s only two letters that change condom into condemn — n and e. As in, I ain’t havin’ n-e of that shit, man.

Clarice fuckin’ Hudson is just standin’ there with her hand on her hip, waiting none too patiently for some kinda reply. So I mumble something about how she ain’t my type, ya know? And it was like I’d just slapped her in the face and called her a cunt or something.

“Look, asshole, a sure thing is everyone’s type,” she says.

So I’m feelin’ like a mouse that’s been backed into a corner by the big, scary cat, right? People are startin’ to stare and the last fuckin’ thing I want is for someone to put my face and this chick together, ya know? My synapses are firin’ like photons on The Enterprise, man, and before I know it the words just come gushin’ outta my mouth. I didn’t think about what I was gonna say or nothin’. I just opened my mouth and there they were.

Two little words. I’m gay .

I don’t know. Maybe part of me thought that would diffuse the whole fuckin’ situation. Instead, she just gets this hard, mean stare in her eyes. It was like she was picturin’ me splayed out on one of those little wax slabs you dissect frogs and shit on. Her jaw’s all tight and I can see this little vein throbbing on her temple. I swear to God, I thought this bitch was seconds away from deckin’ me, right?

Instead, she just kinda clears her throat and next thing I know there’s this glob of concentrated infection splashin’ down into my brew. Who the fuck does that, man? Spit in a dude’s drink cause he turned ya down?

Well, I practically jump off my bar stool ‘cause I got the image in my head of that tainted beer splashin’ all up in my eyes, my nose, my fuckin’ mouth. She just glares at me, says fuckin’ faggot and storms off.

Well… yeah , man. Fuckin’ listen to me for once, why don’t ya? Of course that ain’t the Clarice Hudson all her friends and co-workers described. I’m sure she used to be a nice lady. Probably saved a baby seal for Jesus or some shit. But that’s what this virus does, dig? It changes people, and not just on a molecular level either. I’m talkin’ like split personality shit. They say things they wouldn’t normally say, do things they never would have dreamed about doin’ in a million years. ‘Cause it’s controlling them, man. It’s makin’ them do what it wants them to do.

No, that is not a load of bullshit, man. Ophiocordyceps unilateralis. September 2009 edition of American fuckin’ Naturalist . Look it up, if you don’t believe me. There’s this fungus in Thailand, right? It likes to call the underside of leaves on the forest floor home. It’s picky, though, dig? It only likes the northwest side of plants. So it infects these carpenter ants that live way up in the trees, see, takes control of their brains—scientists don’t know how—and makes them go down to the ground and latch onto these leaves. Through the whole journey this fungus is killin’ the ants, ya know. But, once the bastard is dead, it keeps right on growin’ inside its body, only it leaves the muscles that control the mandibles alone. That way the ant is still there, clingin’ to just the right spot on this damn leaf. Don’t take my word for it, man. Look that shit up. Get a little education.

Anyways, this virus is doin’ somethin’ like that to Clarice fuckin’ Hudson, man. It’s manipulating her into situations where it’s exactly where it needs to be to thrive and grow… and there’s nothin’ that poor girl can do about it.

I mean, I’ve just confirmed three and a half of the signs, man, that’s half the fuckin’ checklist. I’m more certain than ever that… yeah, I said three and a half. Because three doesn’t divide evenly into seven, Einstein. Okay then, let me spell it out. Again.

One: you got all that sweating, right? Two: outrageous fuckin’ appetite. The third sign was the alcohol, man… remember how I said she slammed those shots but wasn’t even wobblin’ when she came up to me? That was important… that’s what you shoulda wrote down in that little book of yours. God is in the details, ya know.

The way I figure it, her stomach musta been colonized with those little bastards. The invaders break down the alcohol into acids see, and then feed off that to fuel the transformation.

So she can down all this liquor, right, but instead of gettin’ corned outta her head, sobriety just keeps plaguin’ this chick. And, of course, they want her to drink, man. They need those perfect conditions for incubation.