From: mgooley@nyx.cs.du.edu (Markian Gooley)
Subject: goose grease makes sex with poultry a political act, and hungrier
Followup-To: alt.pets.chia
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Organization: Nyx, Public Access Unix at U. of Denver Math/CS dept.
Date: Sun, 24 Jan 93 22:58:17 GMT

	I was telling him the old joke about the farmer's daughter who
killed a sheep and dressed in its skin and became a shepherd's embraceable
ewe, when gradually the telephone rang and woke him.  He answered it: it
was a microcosm named Delbert, who wanted to have its laws of physics
reformulated.  He discussed the implications and costs of this at great
and tedious length, and to amuse myself I turned on the secretary-capture
equipment and the closed-circuit TV to the outer office and the inner sanctum.
	After a few minutes an ugly, peevish-looking old woman entered the
outer office.  The equipment sensed that a visitor was there but not a
secretary-receptionist, and I heard a click as the office doors locked and
the hum as the metamorphosis-field flicked on and enveloped the woman.
I watched with alloyed (a bit of tin, a bit of osmium, some rare-earth metals
for that touch of _brio_) delight as her body youthened, breasts firming,
dowdy clothes changing into a snug-fitting strapless dress, its dark blue
accentuating her pallid but healthy skin.  After five minutes, the magnificent
dark-haired child-woman stepped out of the field, which shut off, and taking
a mirror and comb from thin air (55% fewer molecules and calories than regular
air), she put her hair up, securing it with bobby pins named Bobby, exposing
her swan-white neck and tiny shell-like ears and cliches.
	I went into the outer office to meet her.  She smiled at me.  "May I
help you?" she said, in a very high but warm (36 Celsius, 34 on the weekends,
see our advertisement in the _Daily Gamera_ for detail men in drag from drug
companies, who will be distributing free samples of female hormones and
testosterone blockers for offensive Wichita linemen who may be offensive to
more-sensitive viewers but will arouse envy in transsexuals and bowling balls)
voice.
	"Yes," I said.  "I want you."
	"No problem," she said.  Her hair was parted in the middle, and
putting one hand to either side of the part she tore herself in half, head
to crotch, clothes and skin and flesh and bones.  Her clothes and skin
stretched to cover the torn side of each half, so that I caught only a
glimpse of exposed flesh and bone and internal organs.  Each half regenerated
the rest of her in a matter of minutes, so that two beauties more nearly
identical than twins stood by her desk and me.
	"Wait a moment," they chorused (accompanied by the Moron Tabernacle
Choir), and pressed foreheads and foreskins together for a long moment of
inertia.  They stood apart and looked at me.  The one on the right had an
expression of disgust, but the other had one of desire, and she walked up
to me, took my right hand in both of her right hands, and led me out into
the corridor.
	"We were neutral about you," she explained, starting to secrete
pheremones that drove me to Poughkeepsie and distraction, "but I removed all
my dislike for you from my mind and put it into hers, and she put all her
liking for you into mine, and so she hates your guts and I'm in love with
you now.  Better not go back there, or she'll stab you with a letter opener."
	"I'll be someone else if I do," I said.  And so we walked off into
a wonderful life, inheriting the condom-manufacturing fortune of the old
woman who had served as raw material for her and her twin.
	Two years later I woke up to find next to me in bed half of the
corpse of an old woman, split from head to crotch.  I was charged like a
capacitor with her murder, but escaped by becoming a package of breath mints
in a drugstore in Pierre, South Dakota.  I exist in terror of being bought
and slowly consumed.

Mark.
mgooley@nyx.cs.du.edu
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre