Pete Hammond huddled in a doorway across the street from the hotel, watching the to-and-fro of
pedestrians and cars.Pulling up the collar of his jacket, remembering the old party game question his
friends would ask: "Would you streak across a stage in front of everyone you knew for a million dollars?"
Those were the terms. Not running starkers in front of total strangers, people you could forget and would
never see again. It had to be a room full of people you know, friends, family, associates. People you
would be too embarrassed to be seen in front of again.
He would bravely claim, "Sure," but always knew in his heart he could never do such a thing. Not in front
of people you knew.
Until today. In a matter of moments, he would strip down to the altogethers. Dart across the busy street, in and out of the
passersby, into the hotel ballroom across the street. Past the dinner tables hosting the scientific community, under the very
noses of those who had dismissed him, had dismissed his work. Up the stairs to the stage, just as Professor
Benjamin Felker would be reaching the podium to receive yet another odious award. Then, in front of a roomful of
witnesses, naked to the world, Hammond would kill the old man.
He had not yet decided how he would do it. Grab a steak knife as he passed the circular tables? Or maybe he would
bludgeon the old man with the award itself.
Yes, that brought a certain sense of poetry to the moment. Bash in the old man's head with his own stolen award. In front of
the assembled scientific community. In front of the world.
The ceremony was usually relegated to a paragraph on the back page of the daily paper. If that. This would make the front
page. So, not only would Hammond be performing a sort of cosmic duty, he would be performing a greater act of publicity
than the entire scientific establishment had ever conceived.
Would you streak across the stage in front of all of your friends and associates? For a million dollars? Maybe not. To prove
a point? Of course.
Hammond held his breath a few moments, huddled in the doorway of the closed jewelry store. Out of business, no reason
for anyone to pay much attention to the man standing here.
He watched the passersby a few more seconds, still holding his breath, gauging his nerve. Then, determining that no one
much cared what happened in this doorway, Hammond unsnapped the wrist on the left sleeve of his overcoat. Undid the
button on the left sleeve of his shirt.
Feeling in his pocket for the syringe, he pulled it out, popped the cap. Pressed out the air with a squirt, then pulled up his
sleeves.
Stuck the needle where it would strike blood. Injected the serum into his vein. Felt the liquid energy coursing through his
blood and bone and sinew. It was a rush of power, a rush of pure, naked power. A man with this power could rule the world!
Why had he waited so long?
His hands, already starting to fade, undid the buttons on his coat. He thought of the animals on which he had tested the
process. He doffed the coat and began unbuttoning the shirt. The rat, the chicken, the dog, the monkey. His hands
continued to fade -- Hammond was sure his facial features would soon be unrecognizable -- and he began pushing off his
pants and underwear. The animal tests had been remarkable, but Felker had refused to start human testing yet. It is
enough for us to tamper with Creation, the old man had said. We want to be careful before we play God. The hat surely now
floating on a milky, dissolving figure, Hammond flipped it off and threw it down to the concrete. The sky seemed darker.
Was it getting cloudy?
Hammond looked to his left, into the store window. Could not see himself.
At all.
The clouds must have bunched up around the sun. No matter. The darkness would only make it easier to wreak havoc.
He thought of the brass monument, the award as it might feel in his hand, the award engraved for Professor Felker. How it
might feel as he shifted the weight in invisible hands. How the room would gasp at the sight of the floating trophy. How the
room would recoil in horror as the floating junk proceeded to batter the recipient to death.
Hammond took a tentative step out from under the overhang, into the weather. He thought of how it would feel, whacking
the man in the head with his own award, again and again, blood flowing freely, down his face on the brass, on the stage.
Visibility should be better than this. Why was it so dark, this time of day?
Wobbly, padding out onto the sidewalk, Hammond felt the first whump as an unsuspecting pedestrian walked into him. As
the man fell down -- was he disappearing, too? -- Hammond also tumbled to the pavement. He was losing his sight. What
was happening?
A sharp heel stabbed his hand... he shouted... smacked himself in the face. He could not see his own hand, could not
judge the distance. He was invisible. No one could see him.
But they were turning invisible, too. He blinked violently, tried to concentrate on the patch of sidewalk in front of his face.
He stared, tried to force his eyes to focus. The strain made his eyes ache. He was going blind.
Hammond started to laugh, a crazed, unsettled laugh. It started low in his throat, gurgled outward. He felt a kick to his leg,
heard another pedestrian hit pavement. He could hear the growing unrest around him, a crowd of bystanders confused
and frightened by the strange unseen lump of flesh on the sidewalk hampering their walks, by the strange laugh floating
from nowhere.
He processed. Analyzed. Realized. As the invisibility serum altered his metabolism, his state of being, his very cellular
structure, his eyes had turned
invisible, too.
No eyes, no way to process light. No way to refract. No way to see.
As he turned invisible, so had the world.
As he felt the first pelting of the rain, Hammond began crawling, hoping he was inching toward the safety of the recessed
doorway and his clothing. Naked, shivering, soaking wet, Hammond scraped across the sidewalk and felt the concrete
suddenly drop.
Oh, no, the curb.
He felt another sharp kick in the ribs, heard someone else tumbling, felt himself shoved into the street. Hammond heard
shouting, traffic, cars, horns, squealing tires. A truck swerving to avoid the man suddenly ejected into the street by an
invisible lump. Hammond never saw the truck. The truck driver never saw him.
Stupid Felker.
pedestrians and cars.Pulling up the collar of his jacket, remembering the old party game question his
friends would ask: "Would you streak across a stage in front of everyone you knew for a million dollars?"
Those were the terms. Not running starkers in front of total strangers, people you could forget and would
never see again. It had to be a room full of people you know, friends, family, associates. People you
would be too embarrassed to be seen in front of again.
He would bravely claim, "Sure," but always knew in his heart he could never do such a thing. Not in front
of people you knew.
Until today. In a matter of moments, he would strip down to the altogethers. Dart across the busy street, in and out of the
passersby, into the hotel ballroom across the street. Past the dinner tables hosting the scientific community, under the very
noses of those who had dismissed him, had dismissed his work. Up the stairs to the stage, just as Professor
Benjamin Felker would be reaching the podium to receive yet another odious award. Then, in front of a roomful of
witnesses, naked to the world, Hammond would kill the old man.
He had not yet decided how he would do it. Grab a steak knife as he passed the circular tables? Or maybe he would
bludgeon the old man with the award itself.
Yes, that brought a certain sense of poetry to the moment. Bash in the old man's head with his own stolen award. In front of
the assembled scientific community. In front of the world.
The ceremony was usually relegated to a paragraph on the back page of the daily paper. If that. This would make the front
page. So, not only would Hammond be performing a sort of cosmic duty, he would be performing a greater act of publicity
than the entire scientific establishment had ever conceived.
Would you streak across the stage in front of all of your friends and associates? For a million dollars? Maybe not. To prove
a point? Of course.
Hammond held his breath a few moments, huddled in the doorway of the closed jewelry store. Out of business, no reason
for anyone to pay much attention to the man standing here.
He watched the passersby a few more seconds, still holding his breath, gauging his nerve. Then, determining that no one
much cared what happened in this doorway, Hammond unsnapped the wrist on the left sleeve of his overcoat. Undid the
button on the left sleeve of his shirt.
Feeling in his pocket for the syringe, he pulled it out, popped the cap. Pressed out the air with a squirt, then pulled up his
sleeves.
Stuck the needle where it would strike blood. Injected the serum into his vein. Felt the liquid energy coursing through his
blood and bone and sinew. It was a rush of power, a rush of pure, naked power. A man with this power could rule the world!
Why had he waited so long?
His hands, already starting to fade, undid the buttons on his coat. He thought of the animals on which he had tested the
process. He doffed the coat and began unbuttoning the shirt. The rat, the chicken, the dog, the monkey. His hands
continued to fade -- Hammond was sure his facial features would soon be unrecognizable -- and he began pushing off his
pants and underwear. The animal tests had been remarkable, but Felker had refused to start human testing yet. It is
enough for us to tamper with Creation, the old man had said. We want to be careful before we play God. The hat surely now
floating on a milky, dissolving figure, Hammond flipped it off and threw it down to the concrete. The sky seemed darker.
Was it getting cloudy?
Hammond looked to his left, into the store window. Could not see himself.
At all.
The clouds must have bunched up around the sun. No matter. The darkness would only make it easier to wreak havoc.
He thought of the brass monument, the award as it might feel in his hand, the award engraved for Professor Felker. How it
might feel as he shifted the weight in invisible hands. How the room would gasp at the sight of the floating trophy. How the
room would recoil in horror as the floating junk proceeded to batter the recipient to death.
Hammond took a tentative step out from under the overhang, into the weather. He thought of how it would feel, whacking
the man in the head with his own award, again and again, blood flowing freely, down his face on the brass, on the stage.
Visibility should be better than this. Why was it so dark, this time of day?
Wobbly, padding out onto the sidewalk, Hammond felt the first whump as an unsuspecting pedestrian walked into him. As
the man fell down -- was he disappearing, too? -- Hammond also tumbled to the pavement. He was losing his sight. What
was happening?
A sharp heel stabbed his hand... he shouted... smacked himself in the face. He could not see his own hand, could not
judge the distance. He was invisible. No one could see him.
But they were turning invisible, too. He blinked violently, tried to concentrate on the patch of sidewalk in front of his face.
He stared, tried to force his eyes to focus. The strain made his eyes ache. He was going blind.
Hammond started to laugh, a crazed, unsettled laugh. It started low in his throat, gurgled outward. He felt a kick to his leg,
heard another pedestrian hit pavement. He could hear the growing unrest around him, a crowd of bystanders confused
and frightened by the strange unseen lump of flesh on the sidewalk hampering their walks, by the strange laugh floating
from nowhere.
He processed. Analyzed. Realized. As the invisibility serum altered his metabolism, his state of being, his very cellular
structure, his eyes had turned
invisible, too.
No eyes, no way to process light. No way to refract. No way to see.
As he turned invisible, so had the world.
As he felt the first pelting of the rain, Hammond began crawling, hoping he was inching toward the safety of the recessed
doorway and his clothing. Naked, shivering, soaking wet, Hammond scraped across the sidewalk and felt the concrete
suddenly drop.
Oh, no, the curb.
He felt another sharp kick in the ribs, heard someone else tumbling, felt himself shoved into the street. Hammond heard
shouting, traffic, cars, horns, squealing tires. A truck swerving to avoid the man suddenly ejected into the street by an
invisible lump. Hammond never saw the truck. The truck driver never saw him.
Stupid Felker.
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| "Naked Truth" |
| Originally published at INFUZE ... November 2004 |
© 2004 Chris Well
StudioWell
| ©2009 Chris and Erica Well |
STORIES and ART
