Dad stares down at you from an increasingly lofty height as you shrink down and fall to the ground, but halfway through he finds something even more fascinating than his transforming son - his bank balance. On the teller's screen, a number continue to mount in pace with your diminishment - $30,000....$40,000... more. Dad stares at the digits in amazement, muttering "that's the car paid off... and the rest of the mortgage!... retirement, please... give me retirement."
It is your humanity being sucked out and converted into cold, hard cash. By $100,000, you stand only a foot in height and your arms have dwindled to nothing. $150,000 and your legs fuse together. At $200,000 a shudder run through your increasingly-inflexible body as your flesh plasticizes into a tough rubber.
One might expect that having skin of rubber would diminish your sensation of touch but it is not so. If anything it is increased, as if all your senses have been condensed into a much smaller space. With a wiggle of your length, you feel every individual fiber of the carpet rubbing against you with enough detail to be able to count the strands. Despite that are laid horizontal upon them, there are not many, only a few dozen, and you calculate your final size comes to only a few inches.
The last of your human heat ebbs away as the figures tick slowly to a stop - $425,526. The price of a human - or at least a strong, white, male human - stripped totally of its humanity and vital attributes, left with the smallest shred of animation. There is a look of utter joy on his face - he is set for life and all it took was the sacrifice of another one. The teller reflects his grin. "How would you like it?"
"Give me a moment to catch my breath," he chuckles, almost speachless. "Right. Yes, I'd like $50,000 wired to my mortgage account, $100,000 to my current account." He paused, staring down at his scrawny, awkward body - a body that had begun to show the ravages of aging just as Michael had started to grow into his manhood. How he'd envied that physique, his young son looking more a man than his own father without even trying.
"And the rest, George?" the teller asks.
"The rest in Change," he replies.
He watches greedily as the teller counts out small stacks of platinum coins, $325,526 worth, sweeps the total amount into a coinpurse stamped with the Bureau's logo and slides it across the desk. Dad tugs upon the neck of the bag, allowing one solitary platinum coin to slip out and roll back towards the teller, to be vanished by the man's nimble fingers. "You know what, you keep it," dad says with a wink.
"You're too kind, sir. Happy to help you today. Will there bee anything else today?"
Dad scratches his stumble and turns around to look at the ticker of current prices, the chewing-studded underside of his loafer looming over you as he does so. You try to wriggle your body out of the way but it is no good - his foot crushes down on you with all his weight and you give a pained scream that comes out only as an odd hum of protest.
Dad steadies himself against the desk. He had almost slipped on the tubular thing lying there on the floor, the son that he had already forgotten about. He raises his foot and stares down at the dildo. It is seven inches of purple, veiny rubber, and it is currently vibrating against the carpet. Who would leave such a thing here, in a place of business? He prods it with the toe of his shoe then picks it up gingerly by the non-business end, his fingers closing around the plastic door that had once been your feet, that conceals your batteries. He places you down on the cold surface of the counter and with a gentle push sends you rolling across to the teller's side. "Something for the lost and found, I think," he says with disgust.
As fortune would have it, your dizzying roll comes to a stop just in front of the hand mirror that the teller keeps for showing customers there new form. You stare at the few inches of phallic rubber reflecting back at you, all that remain of Michael Brooks, and a scream even louder than the one before sets your body vibrating against the counter with such intensity that the teller has to pin you down to stop you vibrating off the desk. Flipping you face down, you feel his giant fingers against the door at your feet. Releasing the catch, your feet swing aside. He turns you back over, rattles you a number of times, and you feel the two triple-A batteries that run the length of your insides slide out of your bo-
The dildo goes inert in his hands as the batteries tumble onto the counter. "Actually, George, this is yours," he laughs. "Your son, I mean. Yep, I've seen this happen before. After the humanity is gone, they have to have some shape and they usually tend towards one that fits the remaining attributes. Teenage boys, their Libido predisposes them to things like this." He admires the dildo. "He's pretty well made, your boy. Ever since I got my wife that Libido upgrade I can barely keep up, she'd really appreciate something like this. Or would you prefer me to toss it in the lost and found after all?"
George Brooks...
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