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One morning Gregor Samsa awoke to find that he was Sterling Fairchild.
He slithered among the shadows of the underbrush on his belly. Two of the creatures clumped past him: tall, pale oblongs with grotesquely tiny mouths, flat faces, and round, protruding eyes. With their blind eyes, stinking mouths, clogged nostrils, pasty bodies sprayed and swathed in disgusting substances, they sickened him. But inside the filthy wrappings he sensed the throbbing of the red nebulas of energy he lusted for.
The door of the room stood ajar. Inside he heard the sound of running water.
“You gonna spend your whole fucking life in the fucking shower, Sherri?”
Far though these creatures fell from his standards of what was right and beautiful, he yearned for their pale bodies with something more than lust. He wanted to embrace them so as to blend them with himself, to absorb their essence, to . . . to devour them.
Sterling eased in, inadvertently making a thumping noise against the door. The first girl turned and saw him.
“My God! What is that?”
He snapped the first one’s twiggy neck and struck the second, fresh from the shower and less rancid. He inhaled hot, quivering chunks of the creature as its red cloud of energy burst and sprayed around him. He closed his teeth on her heart while it still throbbed.
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