79 - Something Extra

There were so few candles left now, compared to when they had begun. Even Asenath in her white dress looked like a corpse in a shroud as she picked one up.

"I remember a story from the 1920s. A woman who wasn't satisfied with her lover, and thought she found a way to improve things. I call this story...

SOMETHING EXTRA

Dr. Duck's office for the consultation was in one of the new brick buildings, on the back of Main Street. He had a wisp of a moustache, thinning hair the color of pale sunlight, and a thin build that made his suit look oversized on him. There were impressive diplomas framed on the wall, dripping with gold leaf, written in a Latin that Ellie Wolff did not read.

Eliza Wolff was not yet twenty-five, her naturally platinum-white hair in a neat bouffant, and a dress that hung rather generously on an already generous frame. Her soft arms held her purse in her lap, just beneath an ample bosom. Yet the look on her face was rather stern.

"I can assure you Mrs. Wolff," Dr. Duck said. "I am well-versed in the Steinach procedure, Dr. Voronoff's work with monkey glands, and have personally studied under Dr. John R. Brinkley and assisted him with his glandular operations. It's really only a question of securing the correct tissue, and if the...subject is willing. You are willing to undergo the surgery, aren't you Mr. Wolff?"

The hulking young man who sat next to her flinched at that. His broad shoulders and callused hands screamed "farmhand," yet the tailored suit and center-parted blond hair made him look like a henpecked giant next to his soft, broad-hipped wife.

"Horace Hansen," he said, in a low rumble. "My wife kept her name after the marriage. And, um, yes. If it will make Ellie happy."

Dr. Duck blinked several times at this. He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

"Excellent! Well, as it happens I have a special shipment of glands coming in by train on Tuesday. If we can just discuss the matter of payment..."

Ten minutes later, the Wolffs left Dr. Duck's office, leaving behind a check for two thousand dollars, and Mrs. Wolff's personal guarantee that if he attempted to cash that check before the operation, he would not survive to board the next train. There was something about the way the white-haired young woman had said it that sent a queasy feeling through Dr. Duck's guts. As if she had given the speech before, and was tired of having to repeat herself.

The train pulled in early in the morning. Dr. Duck was waiting to receive his parcel, and swiftly identified a box as his. Dripping with condensation from the ice that would, hopefully, keep the organ viable. There was some argument over the receipt, as the label had gotten wet, yet no one else came forward to claim the item. So Dr. Duck took his prize and retired to his office, to prepare for the surgery.

Horace Hansen left his shirt and socks on for the procedure, though he removed his trousers and underwear. A small cloth screen his the doctor's work from view; the ether soon rendered the big man ****. With his scalpel and forceps freshly sanitized, Dr. Duck began his work. The razor delicately shaved the scrotum. Dr. Duck weighed the two testes, each rather small and delicate for a man of Hansen's size, in his hand. Then he drew forth the scalpel.

There was a bit of blood from the primary incision. Duck quickly ascertained there were no strange masses or scarring on the testes or tubes. From the box, he removed the gland—cool to the touch, but not frozen, and as big as a goose egg. It reminded Dr. Duck of his apprenticeship as a veterinarian, when he had helped geld the horses. The patient did not even grunt as the alien organ was placed next to the much smaller normal ones. A mere flick of the knife, and a few stitches, to attach the small grey tube to the others. The skin struggled to stretch over the something extra that Eliza Wolff's money had bought, and with a sigh of relief, Dr. Duck took his time stitching the patient's wound.

It was an hour later when Horace came too, his underwear and pants secure, a towel full of ice on his crotch.

"A complete success. It will take a few days to a week to heal," Dr. Duck said with a smile. "And you will want to avoid coitus or strenuous lifting until it heals completely. Some soreness is to be expected, and you must keep it clean. Soft soap and water. But you should soon feel added virility and improved libido."

"I hope so, doctor," Eliza said, as her husband awkwardly maneuvered himself off the table, tugging at his pants and assuming a slightly bowlegged gait. "For your sake."

Dr. Duck did not think much more of his patient for some weeks. The check cleared. A few other, mostly older, men approached him for his services. Some were happy to take away a bottle of his patented gland elixir. A few opted for surgery, though less drastic and requiring mundane glands more easily at hand. At one point, a Japanese gentleman arrived, the manager of the New Tokyo Hotel, and asked about a possible mix-up involving packages at the rail station. Duck had, fortunately, retained the paperwork, and the box.

"And...the contents, doctor?" the Japanese man in his neat suit said. "What did you do with the organ?"

"I used it in an operation on a client, that same day while it was fresh," Dr. Duck said.

The Japanese man's dark eyes had golden flecks in them. They seemed to hold Duck's own. It was a most unsettling experience, yet Duck could not look away.

"What kind of operation, doctor?" he pressed.

The words spilled out of Duck's lips. The manager looked grave.

"I see."

That was all he said before he left.

John Nakimura heard the screams from the porch of the house. He rang the bell, anyway. One of the servants answered. A very tired man with sallow skin and deep-set eyes, his close-cropped hair once black and now shot through with grey.

"Is Mrs. Eliza and her husband in?" Nakimura said, raising his voice to be heard.

The servant smiled and pointed upstairs, towards the source of the noise.

"They are indisposed, sir. However, if you would like to wait a few moments, I believe—"

The feminine scream reached a crescendo. A grunt, so low and deep that Nakimura felt it in his bones, rocked the house.

"—Mrs. Eliza may be available in, perhaps, half an hour. If you would like to wait in the parlor."

Nakimura did so. The house was new, away from the main Wolff house but in sight of it. The family liked to keep close to each other, as everyone in Dagon's Hollow knew. It was not with great surprise that, half an hour later, while sipping a very commendable cup of oolong, Mrs. Wolff arrived, in a wheelchair, a pink robe wrapped around her body, a satisfied smile on her face.

They spoke for perhaps half an hour. Pleasantries quickly turned to technicalities. At last, an agreement was reached. The servant guided Nakimura upstairs.

Dr. Duck had spoken earnestly during their conversation about the realities of his profession. That the transplant of flandular tissue from an animal or human being to another human being had a mostly psychological effect, despite his grandiose claims. The body would either reject or absorb the alien tissue. At least, that is what normally happened.

The Wolffs' marital bed had been reinforced with bricks after the legs collapsed. Heavy manacles held Harold Hansen to the posts of the bed. For a moment, Nakimura admired his bulky physique, the broad shoulders and well-defined pectoral muscles and biceps. A sheet covered his lower half...and something stirred under that sheet. With a sigh, and a glance to make sure the servant was not looking, Nakimura pulled the sheet away.

A black, pulsing trio of orbs, as large as cantaloupes, nestled between the bound man's legs. The penis, half-swollen, was nearly as long as Nakimura's forearm, the tip now a bluish-green and as large as a woman's fist. Black veins throbbed on its half-swollen length, and it moved about like a snake, the head pausing on the clear spots where, he presumed, Mrs. Wolff's scent was strongest.

Nakimura took a cautious step forward. The cock reared up like a serpent. Behind it, Harold's head stirred. The whites of his eyes had turned jet black, and his voice spoke in a language like the blooming of anemones in the deep sea, and brought forth the smell of spider-haunted temples in tropical jungles to Nakimura's mind. A wave of unnatural heat stirred him, and he bowed, stiffly but politely, and gave a greeting.

Eliza Wolff was not surprised when she heard the screaming start. She watched the servant take Mr. Nakimura's unfinished tea away. In truth, the operation had far exceeded her expectations. If anything, she was slightly glad at the temporary relief that Mr. Nakimura's sacrifice would offer.

A convulsion ran through her body, and Mrs. Wolff gasped in pain as her muscles tensed. A dark green sphere fell from between her legs, off the wheelchair, to strike the carpet. It was about the size of a goose egg, with a small grey string attached to it.

"Milo," she said quietly, when she could speak again. "Put it with the others, please."

The old servant dropped to his knees and, wearing gloves, recovered the object.

"They did not all live happily ever after," Asenath said, with a wicked grin. "But for the first time in her married life, Eliza Wolff was satisfied in the bedroom."

So saying, she blew out the candle.