The Newcomer

The little bald stranger wore a bulky overcoat, buttoned to the neck, which gave him a vaguely pear-shape, As he stood, he made a grinding, zonking sound in his nose and throat, and began to undo his coat, take it off, and hang it neatly on the back of his chair. His actions revealed a belt around his middle, with three rolls of toilet paper hanging from it spaced equidistant around an ample paunch. He zonked again, snorted, smiled sheepishly, unrolled a foot and a half of paper, brought it to his red potato-shaped nose, and blew a blast that made Ryan jump.

Upon finishing his activity, he folded the now-soggy mass of tissue, and dropped it in the trash can, where it landed with a sodden thump. Smiling again, he spoke in a voice that reminded more than one person in the meeting of that sad little cartoon dog. "Allergies." he explained needlessly. Gesturing to the contrivance around his waist he said "I like to keep plenty of rotary Kleenex on hand.". He moved behind the lectern, zonked again, and said "Hello, folks. I'm Cal, and I'm a were-...well, let me explain."

"Hi, Cal?" came the quizzical antiphony.

"As long as I can remember, I have had allergies. Really bad allergies. As a small child, I was taken to the best doctors my parents could afford - which wasn't very much. Skin tests, blood tests, shots, drops under the tongue, enough Benadryl to render an elephant comatose, and that was when Benadryl was prescription." He rubbed his right thumb across his fingertips in a knowing way.
"My father had to work a pizza delivery job at night to keep me in tissues. I was the one boy who was happy to get handkerchiefs at Christmas. All those doctors, all those pills, and no-one could figure out my problem. Finally. when I was twelve-and-a-half, my paternal grandmother came to visit from the Old Country."

Here he paused, unreeled a couple of feet of tissue, brought it to his nose, and blatted a sharp blatt. Ryan whimpered and looked imploringly heavenward. It was that loud. Then the little man resumed, punctuating his tale with grinding nasal snorts.

"She was small, wrinkled, and smelled of garlic, which made my nose twitch more than usual. She saw my symptoms, squinted hard, and began to mutter under her breath. Then she turned and left the room.. Finally, at suppertime she came out, wearing a crucifix that shone against her black widow's dress. She was working with my mother at the stove. She started when I spoke to them both and knocked over the salt shaker. Muttering, she took a pinch of the salt that spilled and flung it over her right shoulder to ward off bad luck (she was OLD Old Country). Some of the salt landed on my arm, which began to sting and bubble. The pain drove me to the floor, where I convulsed, and...and...my nose started overflowing, my arms and legs began to contract until my body became cylindrical, yellow, and coated with...with...snot, only it was coming from my now-changed underside instead of my nose. I did notice my grandmother clutching her crucifix before she fainted. I don't know what happened to my parents, because my eyes would not focus right. They extended themselves on two stalks, and their movement made my vision move sickeningly. Then I passed out. When I awoke, my mother was holding me in her arms and crying. Her tears stung where they fell on me. I was lying in a pool of clear slime, but otherwise I was back to normal."

The little man zonked, snorted, unreeled a yard of TP from his waist, and honked a great honk. Ryan left the room. Others looked like they wanted to.

"So, hello folks. I'm Cal, and I'm a were-slug. You might be surprised that I have gotten a rather good job because of it. I work in a non-lethal weapons lab. You know the frictionless anti-riot goo, and the sticky anti-terrorism spray webbing you see on the Discovery Channel shows?"

The little bald man snorted, looked at once modest and inordinately pleased with himself, and chuckled.

"It's some of my best work!"

(Copyright 2008 Weatherly B. Hardy)