Mark McGinnis - The Simpleton

Tow followed Cuddy’s gaze and smiled. “You are correct, there are no table legs—they are not necessary on this spaceship. Sit!”

Cuddy did as told and watched the alien move around the strange-looking kitchen. Bringing a tray over, he placed it in front of Cuddy, who watched Tow’s expression—he looked unsure of himself. The tray held a plate with a large golden-brown sandwich atop it. Sliced in half, corner to corner, the toasted bread was thick—bright yellow cheese oozed out from inside. Cuddy spied the ends of bacon strips poking out the two halves. On a separate plate, a bowl contained what looked like steaming hot, dark red-orangey tomato soup.

Cuddy didn’t hesitate. Grabbing one of the halves, he bit into the center of the sandwich. He chewed for a moment, as if assessing it. It was perfect—the most perfect sandwich he’d ever tasted. Even better than Momma’s, but he wouldn’t tell her that.

Tow left, returning with a strange-looking spoon that he placed next to the bowl of soup. “You are going to need that, I imagine,” he said.

The alien stood by and watched him eat, which was kinda weird. But then Momma did that pretty often too—so he let it go. “Are you going to eat, Tow?”

“Not right now.” Tow took a seat next to Cuddy and made a serious face then asked, “Would you let me do you a favor?”

“I don’t know. What?”

“It would only take fifteen minutes.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Would you let me heal the injuries on your lip and cheeks? After you finish your lunch.”

“I don’t know… they’ll get better on their own. I hurt myself all the time. Things get better if I don’t pick at them, or do something stupid to re-hurt them.”

As Tow continued to stare back at him, it became apparent this was important to the glowing alien. The truth was, his split lips almost always hurt, especially when he laughed or tried to whistle for Rufus. And even now as he bit into the sandwich. “I guess it would be okay.”

Tow brought over a small bowl of ice cream drenched in hot chocolate syrup.

Tow felt as if he might throw up again. After tasked with the collapsed sleeping berths, the smell of the foul human food was enough to put him over the edge. He quickly tried to think of other things, like what was at stake here. He looked across the wellness chamber to where Cuddy now sat.

“What am I supposed to do?” Cuddy asked.

“Simply sit there.”

“Why?”

“I told you, so your lip and cheek can be repaired.”

“By just sitting here? That’s ridiculous!”

“It may seem that way to you, Cuddy.”

Cuddy reached a hand up and touched his lip. With a furrowed brow, he pressed his fingers down somewhat harder. Looking over to Tow, he said, “I guess it hurts a bit less than it did before.”

“Yes… we’ll give it another ten minutes, then we’re done until next time.”

“Next time?”

“Yes. Your face will be all better today, but I wanted to ask you an important question.”

“Okay… just ask me.”

“You’ll need to think long and hard before answering,” Tow said.

Cuddy waited for the question.

“What would you say if I told you I could make you really smart, like you never had that accident happen… when you were younger?” Tow watched the young human’s expression. Cuddy’s eyes looked away—unfocussed—as he thought about the question. Balancing things out the best he could in his growth-stunted mind. Earlier, Tow had decided this deception would only go so far, and that hereafter he would attempt to be ethical. He wouldn’t be like the Howsh—a wrecker of divergent life forms.

In truth, the healing process to Cuddy’s brain began as soon as he took a seat within the wellness chamber. Invisible manipulations were occurring—faster than thought—faster than the speed of light. His brain matter was being reconstituted; first to a reference point dictated by human DNA indices, then to that of the superior Pashier physiology . But Cuddy would need several other sessions. The effects from a single session would hardly be noticeable. But with that said, Tow was unfamiliar with human physiology, knowing only that humans had large brains. Even larger than Pashier’s.

Tow watched Cuddy fiddle with his untied shoelaces and sadness tugged his heart. This man-boy child was actually no longer completely human. Even now, he had become a different being and would never again be quite the same. Tow instantly regretted his subversive action. In principle, was he any different than the Howsh? What have I done?

Cuddy suddenly straightened up and leaned back in his seat—his brows pulled together. “I don’t know what is happening to me… I don’t like what is going on… in my head. I want it back the way it was, Tow. Make it the way it was!”

Tow watched as Cuddy brought his fists up to both sides of this head and started to pound against his skull in a staccato rhythm.

Tow moved quickly—kneeling down in front of Cuddy. He took hold of his fists. “Stop… Cuddy… it will get better… I promise. Just give it a little time.” But Tow wasn’t sure his words were, in fact, true. What have I done?

Tow watched as Cuddy’s anger turned to fear—fear along with a confluence of other emotions. Tow hadn’t thought he could feel any worse, but now seeing the tears streaming down Cuddy’s cheeks, he realized he was wrong.

Abruptly, Cuddy stood up. Seemingly disoriented, he looked around the confined space—panic increasing with each hurried breath. “I want out… I want out!”

Tow hurried to the control panel and got the hatch open. Cuddy ran like a scared wild animal released from a cage.

Tony Bone gave it one more shake and left the toilet bowl unflushed. Turning around, he came face to face with himself as he studied his reflection in the dirty mirror. Two long strips of medical tape were on his nose—one high up at the bridge, one lower, near midway. His nose was purple and looked twice its normal size—both nostrils plugged with gauze. Now, in order to breathe, he had to inhale through his mouth, so his jaws were always ajar. He knew it made him look retarded and instantly thought of Cuddy Perkins. He felt anger rise up and hatred. That big mother fucker is going to die for this…

He exited the bathroom, zipping up his fly.

“I can’t even look at you without getting annoyed, boy.”

“Christ… come on! Leave it alone, Dad,” Tony said, plopping down into the middle of the sofa.

He watched as his father in the kitchen tilted his large head back, swallowing the last dregs in his coffee cup. Setting the cup down in the sink, he gave Tony a sideways glance. “Hey… you don’t take the Lord’s name in vain in my house.” His father buckled his thick black holstered belt around his hips then continued, “…I’m just saying, boy, it’s all over the damn station.”

Tony shut his eyes and groaned. He’d already heard the same shit the night before. How the Woodbury Police Station buzzed with what had happened. How the retarded Perkins kid broke the sheriff kid’s nose. The problem was the station did double-duty—was both a police station and a jailhouse. So the inmates, mostly drunks sleeping it off from a night-before bender, wouldn’t shut up about it. The one person you didn’t want to taunt in the town of Woodbury was Sheriff Bone, his father. He had no sense of humor. None.

“I sent Plumkin out there to collect the boy, but he came back with the damn dog instead. I want you and Gary to submit formal, written complaints, so get your asses into the station this morning, understand?”