I Am Every Man

I can be whoever I want to be.

Right now, I want my freedom.

I look in the mirror and laugh.

I’ve changed my appearance to resemble Dr. Felix Texidore, the lead researcher at Biotech.

Imagine me as a researcher. I always got a D in science.

I step over Dr. Texidore’s body. He’s wheezing heavily as he takes his last breath.

Evelyn, the assistant researcher, cowers in the corner. She watched me change my appearance. Then, she witnessed me choke the life out of Dr. Texidore.

“Don’t worry, Evelyn. I won’t hurt you as long as you promise not to call security for an hour.”

Her body shakes. “…Ye…Ye… Yes…” she finally manages.

I know she’ll betray me as soon as I leave, but I’m not going to hurt her. I may be a monster now, a changeling, but there’s still an inkling of humanity left in me for anyone willing to show me a fraction of kindness.

Dr. Texidore wasn’t one of those people. He might have been when I arrived with third-degree burns and no face, but unlocking my secret became his obsession, and he forgot I feel pain, need compassion, and suffer just like everyone else.

His callousness cost him his life.

I take his wallet. Now, anything I do while wearing his face is on him.

Leaving the lab, I casually walk toward the front door, buoyed by the prospect of freedom.

An alarm sounds. The sharp, frantic ringing sets everyone in the building in motion. Two lab technicians, sharing a friendly chat, panic and duck into a utility closet.

The mad tapping of dress shoes hitting the linoleum floor behind me draws my attention as a security guard runs down the long hallway toward me.

“STOP THAT MAN!”

Throwing open the front door, I run, calling upon my past experience as a track star in high school.

Yes, I know they’ll send a security team to track me down. They’ll throw me back into their lab to be treated like a disobedient guinea pig, or maybe shoot me where I stand.

But not before they pay for what they’ve done to me.

***

Join the Navy, see the world, and get a free education, my pops said.

I’d served five months before I became the Navy’s biggest secret – Nick Cutter, sole survivor.

The rescue team found me in the burnt-out wreckage of the nuclear submarine Argo, my face melted down like a pizza with extra cheese, my body seared black. For nearly a year, my body was so radioactive that the doctors and nurses who treated me had to wear lead shielding and could only be in the room with me for a matter of minutes.

My life was over at twenty-six. There was no hope for a wife or family, no more fishing with pops. Once the Navy realized what they had, I knew I’d never see my friends or family again.

Dr. Texidore and his research team kept me in a coma. But I could feel every prick of a needle, every cut of a scalpel, every torturous touch against my burnt body.

The researchers, Dr. Texidore, Evelyn Kees, Phil Maxim, and Sergei Federov, shot me full of antibiotics and vitamins, replaced my blood, and constantly tore at my skin.

Someday, I’ll tear at their skin.

I simply couldn’t stand the pain any longer, opening the slits where my eyes had once been.

They tried to hide their shock when I came out of my coma. I saw them turn away. Evelyn and Maxim were so disgusted and frightened by my faceless appearance that they left the room to be sick.

They kept mirrors away from the hideous monster, the sailor with no face.

So, I made myself look like Paul McCartney.

John Lennon was my favorite Beatle, but I heard Evelyn say how cute Paul McCartney was, so I willed my body to look like him.

Then I was allowed - encouraged - to look at myself in the mirror as Texidore and his lackeys called out their requests… John Wayne, Michael Jackson, Abraham Lincoln. I discovered I could even change the clothes I was wearing. I could look like anyone.

Evelyn tried to wean me off intravenous feeding, but my body rejected solid food. Everything except apples. Apple juice, apple sauce, apple pie. I’ve always hated apples, but an apple a day keeps death away. And why not? Like Adam, I’m the first of my kind, so why not eat the fruit of Eden?

There are a few hindrances tied to my ability to change my appearance. I can only hold onto any illusion for three hours, then I need a shot – a mixture of adrenaline (speed), and (speed).

I heard Texidore and the others whispering about how rich they would be once they figured out how the changeling’s body worked. Imagine, they said, the amount of money the Navy would give us if we could create a thousand changelings just like him.

That was when I decided to leave.

***

Biotech’s researchers will pay for turning me into a monster. Who’ll I take my vengeance out on first? Why not Phil Maxim, the sadist who enjoyed scraping my burnt skin? He used to brag about his fancy bachelor pad in Manhattan, where he could bring his easy marks.

I head toward the subway.

Passing a fruit stand, I steal an apple and tear into it.

I’ve been holding onto Texidore’s face for close to an hour. It’s time for a new one.

My tired eyes focus on an advertisement hanging near the subway entrance. It features a Black man in a gold lame suit, holding a microphone. The poster reads:

JAMES BROWN

The Godfather of Soul!

His greatest hits

Now available on Avenger Records

I chuckle to myself. It’s nearly midnight. There won’t be many people on the subway on a Wednesday night, so why not have a little fun? Besides, it’ll be a challenge to look like James Brown.

***

Glancing in the subway window, I take stock of my appearance. My reflection tells me I’m the Godfather of Soul.

Two young men on the other side of the train stare at me. The first is pasty, freckled, with a working-on-it mustache. The second has butt-length, greasy black hair and grey teeth.

“What’s with the gold jumpsuit?” Freckles asks.

“You don’t recognize me?

“Are you in some boy band?”

The two toughs share a mocking laugh.

“I’m James Brown.”

“James Brown died in 2004. You’re an easy mark; that’s who you are,” Freckles says.

The two young men rise, menace in their bloodshot eyes.

“You know what I hate, Marty? I really hate folks who think we’re fools,” Freckles says.

“Then you must hate just about everybody except for your lowlife friend,” I respond.

“You got a wise mouth for a fossil,” Marty replies, displaying his diseased teeth as he smiles. “Let’s show him, Cappy. Let’s beat some respect into him.”

Cappy reaches for my arm with the intention of twisting it off.

Backing up, Cappy pulls on my arm again. Stepping back further, Cappy yanks at my arm yet again.

My arm is now stretched across the aisle, ten feet from where I’m sitting.

“What are you, the Rubberband Man?” Cappy asks.

“I’ll show you what I am.”

A German Shepard’s head sprouts from my chest, yapping at Cappy and Marty.

Marty climbs onto a nearby seat, convulsing in fear.

An arm sprouts from my stomach. Its fingers wrap around Marty’s neck, shaking him until his abundant hair covers his shocked expression. Marty’s eyes bulge, and blood drips from his tear ducts as his once-pasty features turn purple.

I toss his dead husk aside.

Cappy scrambles for the exit. He desperately tears at the door, which refuses to give.

My German Shepard head barks hungrily, its rancid breath steaming in Cappy’s ear.

Glancing to his side, Cappy can see saliva dripping from my dog’s mouth as I growl, ready to strike.

I tear into him. The bones in Cappy’s clavicle crunch like Rice Krispies.

Tearing away a chunk of Cappy’s shoulder with a ravenous growl, my shepherd head spins Cappy around until he’s facing me.

My arm stretches out. Grabbing Cappy by the throat, I squeeze him until his eyes bulge and his tongue hangs out.

The train stops at the 53rd Street station. The doors open, and I dance out, catching the eye of a mousey blonde. She watches James Brown sashay down the platform as she absent-mindedly boards the train.

Her screams echo in the tunnel when she sees what’s left of Cappy and Marty.

***

Police cars and ambulances streak past me. The word has spread about what happened in the subway, which means Biotech knows where I am.

I sense I’m being watched as I hustle down the darkened city streets. A new Chevrolet SUV carrying two men is cruising a few car lengths behind them.

The man in the passenger’s seat, wearing a black suit, a white shirt, and a thin striped tie, has the businesslike appearance of a government agent. I can see his beady, lifeless eyes bearing down on me.

The driver looks like a throwback to the days of Serpico, sporting a denim jacket, bushy, shoulder-length hair, an unkempt mustache, a goatee, and a cross earring. He leans over the wheel, an eager smile spread across his tanned features.

I know them. When I was in a coma, I heard Dr. Texidore order these men to eliminate a nosy news reporter and a curious councilman who were going to expose his secret operation.

At least Biotech sent their best agents to kill me.

The hippie-looking driver is Lazarus Medina, a half-Cajun thrill-seeker perfectly suited for clandestine operations. Lazarus is ruthless. He’ll do anything to complete an assignment.

His strait-laced partner, Warren Peace, is known for his methodical and meticulous approach to dealing out death. But he’s paid a price for partnering with the impetuous, unpredictable Lazarus over the past decade, having developed a burning ulcer.

I slip into the alleyway of a nearby apartment building. Being James Brown was fun, but it’s now a liability. I will myself to change into the figure of an innocuous Gen-X’er, complete with a hoodie that conceals my features.

The Chevy stalks me. I turn to see Peace sticking a radiation detector gun out of the window. He points it at a passing couple, a teenage boy, and a suavely dressed businessman.

I’m next.

I cross the street as Peace continues to point the device at passing pedestrians.

Frustrated, Peace lowers the device, reaching for the paper bag at his feet. Pulling out a quart of milk, he takes several long swigs.

“Don’t you know that stuff’s no good for an ulcer?” Medina asks.

Peace’s face contorts as he takes another gulp from the carton.

“Medical opinions aside, this helps.”

“You ought to calm down, son. Maybe try some chantin’.”

Peace looks at his partner with the same guarded curiosity a sane man holds for a lunatic.

“If the truth be told, Lazarus, you’re what’s giving me adjida.”

“Maybe so, son. But together we kill beautifully.”

“Some ground rules for this mission, Lazarus. No talk about politics, loose women, trashy movies, or all the child support you owe.”

“That don’t leave us much to talk about, son.”

“Precisely.”

The pain in Warren’s stomach jabs at him. Finishing the milk, he closes the container and puts the empty carton back in the paper bag.

“Did you scan that kid in the hoodie across the street?” Medina asks.

“Him? Just some punk on his way to a rave.”

“I got a feelin’ about him, War.”

Peace picks up the radiation gun. “All right, if it’ll shut you up.”

I try to walk faster without looking too conspicuous. I can hear Peace shout, “It’s him!”

“Told you, War,” Medina replies, pulling the car to the curb.

“Don’t get cocky, Lazarus. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

The two toughs exit the Chevy.

“Hey, you!” Medina shouts at me. “Stop and turn around!”

I turn to face them.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!”

“Not likely, snappy,” Medina responds, pointing a compact submachine gun at me.

I freeze, slowly raising my hands, saying, “Don’t shoot. You don’t want to cause a scene, do you?”

“That’s up to you, snappy,” Medina says.

“You can come with us peacefully, or we can throw your corpse in the back seat,” Peace adds. “Your choice.”

“I choose to remain free.”

“Not a choice, snappy.”

My Gen-X’er guise melts as I turn myself into a pile of white, radioactive goo.

Peace and Medina stare at me, pop-eyed and paralyzed.

Peace jabs Medina. “Let him have it!”

“But we’re supposed to bring him back alive!”

“I don’t have a spatula, and I’m certain that mess oozing toward us is toxic. Fire!”

The bullets pass through me. They tear into a passing car, shattering the backup lights and puncturing the trunk. Another burst from Medina’s gun flattens the back tires. The car sinks to the pavement.

Another burst knocks out the streetlight. Shards of glass rain down onto the pavement. A group of men heading for the apartment building drops their beers and flees. Families in the nearby apartment building turn out their lights, not wanting to be questioned as witnesses.

Peace takes out a pistol, desperately pouring shots into my now pliable form.

Peace and Medina’s sense of duty seal their fate.

Rising from the pavement like a cresting wave, I engulf them. The high concentration of radioactivity in me dissolves them, leaving only the imprint of their screaming bodies on the pavement.

I continue my mission to see Phil Maxim suffer.

***

The doorman points me out to Maxim, whispering, “There’s a real honey here to see you.”

Maxim’s head swivels in my direction.

Remembering his obsession with blondes, I’ve morphed into his fantasy – long legs, platinum hair, and an hourglass figure, all packaged in a tight skirt and dangerously unbuttoned blouse.

I’ve altered my body a thousand times to resemble celebrities, presidents, and criminals, but I’ve never changed into a woman. Perhaps this illusion won’t hold as long as the others. Reaching into my pocketbook, I take out my compact. I look in the tiny mirror and smile at myself. A long-haired version of Marilyn Monroe smiles back.

Maxim approaches me like a slithering, predatory snake.

“How can I help you, miss?”

“I was told you’re the head researcher at Biotech,” I answer, using Monroe’s breathless delivery. “I was hoping you had a position for me.”

As I stand to shake his hand, Maxim sizes me up.

“I’m sure I can find a position for you. Let’s go upstairs to my office and discuss it.”

I can barely contain my disgust, but I give him a bright smile and coo when he winks at me.

He stares at me in the elevator, mentally undressing me. My skin burns as I struggle to maintain my illusion.

Once inside, he points toward the sofa, gliding toward the bar.

“How about a drink? I make a mean martini.”

I answer in my sexiest voice, “That would be nice.”

He glances back at me, a perverse glint in his eyes.

I watch him make our drinks. He slips a pill into mine, stirring the contents.

“Can I ask you a question? Who told you about me?”

“Nick Cutter recommended you.”

He turns to face me.

I drop the illusion. I’m Nick Cutter, the man with no face.

I raise both hands. My fingers change into razor-sharp talons.

“I’m going to enjoy tearing off your flesh, just like you enjoyed peeling off my skin.”

“But…But it was to help he..heal your burns,” he stammers.

I step closer. Maxim’s eyes bulge. He clutches at his chest, gasping for air. He opens his mouth to beg, but only a hushed, petrified “Nooooooo” comes out.

I reach into his chest with my talons, pulling out his heart.

Maxim’s empty body pitches toward the floor.

***

I pilfer an apple from a market, tearing into it.

Sergei Federov is next.

That’ll leave Evelyn as my lone remaining tormentor.

There was a time I considered her the closest thing I had to a friend, the only member of the team who still looked at me as a human being instead of a ticket to fame.

She has a four-year-old girl. It’s a shame she’ll have to watch her mother die.

I begin to feel fatigued. I spy an all-night market a block ahead.

Feeling magnanimous, I grab three apples, intending to pay for them with Dr. Texidore’s money.

The owner gasps as he looks at me, turning away.

A woman shopping in a nearby aisle shrieks, dropping her basket.

“What? What is it?” I ask.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Angry at his avoidance, I grab him by the collar.

That’s when I notice the flesh on my arm is seared black.

A couple peers nervously at me from around the corner of an aisle. A rough-looking man, his arms covered with tattoos, drops his tray of Chicken Parmagiana, uttering, “Holy %$$#!”

“I’m sorry, sss-sir, but you’re scaring my customers,” the owner stammers.

I run for the door, stopping to stare at the glass.

My reflection reveals a hideous creature, his face melted down like a pizza with extra cheese.

Across the street, a clock embedded into the wall of the First National Bank chimes three a.m.

It’s been over three hours since I had a shot.

I grab three apples, greedily slamming them into my maw.

Nothing happens. I remain a deformed, charred nightmare.

I run past dozens of people who shrink and scream at the sight of me.

“I CAN’T CHANGE! I CAN’T CHANGE!”