Tumorous

John Fogarty                                                                  Tumorous

3635 Chateau Lane                                                        4,950 words

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E-mail: [e-mail]                                          © 2009, John Fogarty

TUMOROUS

by

John Fogarty

Charles Emmonds had never murdered one of his students before, but he was beginning to give it serious thought.

He sat slumped in the teacher’s lounge at Nescient High School, clutching his head and sweating over a pile of student theses, plural, a word that rhymed with “feces,” as his pupils often reminded him. Coincidence?

Hardly. Their theses fairly reeked of it. Worse, it was the first Monday in May, a hellishly hot and humid day, especially when one was a middle-aged old fart with a hangover. And Charles Emmonds, 46-going-on-64, had one helluva hangover. A real head-grinder.

And worse was still to come: after grading 32 student theses, plural, of varying degrees of quality, ranging from the merely incompetent to the frighteningly stupid, Charles Emmonds had three more periods of English Comp to teach — all this in addition to his role as gym teacher for bells one through three each morning. Then lunch. Then Comp. And feces.

But the thesis, singular, that Emmonds now held beat all the others he’d ever seen in his 23 years of teaching English — for sheer audacity if nothing else. It was titled “Tumorous,” with the sub-headline “Or The Dick That Ate Chicago,” and it read:



There are substances in this world that virtually guarantee death from cancer. Carcinogens, they’re called. I’m not talking the usual suspects here — cigarettes, booze or daytime TV. Nor do I refer to car exhaust or factory fumes (though that last one’s a kick: as a kid, I used to puzzle over car commercials that trumpeted the fact that their automobiles came equipped with “factory air!” As if anyone in their right minds wanted a car with “factory air!” The only factory air I’d ever encountered smelled like an anchovy’s asshole on a hot summer day).

No, the cancerous substance to which I allude is boobs.

That’s right: tits.

See, they cause tumors. In my pants.

Everytime I see a big, bobbling pair of bazooms on a hot young babe, I get this tumorous growth in my shorts. Quite embarrassing, as you might imagine (you guys out there, anyway; let the babes try to imagine all they want, I say).

Lately, this tumorous growth has begun taking on gigantic proportions . . .



The boy’s paper went on to describe, in lurid detail, the precise size and nature of this “tumor” in his pants and the embarrassment it caused him, especially at school.

Charles Emmonds blinked in disbelief — which he’d done three times since picking this particular piece of feces out of the pile. Now, he added a shake of the head and a sigh as he flipped back to the cover sheet to find the idiot responsible: Rod Thomas.

Odd. Emmonds knew in a flash who he was: quiet kid with red hair and freckles who sat in the back of his fourth bell English Composition II class, for juniors and seniors. He also had him in one of his gym classes — first bell, he thought. Puzzling.

Thomas was a promising — a very promising — junior, as he recalled. Hamilton County Board of Ed IQ tests showed him weighing in with a respectable Intelligence Quotient of 148. Not quite Mensa Level, but pretty hot stuff for good ol’ Nescient High. Compared to the rest of the student body, the kid was a wunderkindt.

He’d even won the Junior Science Fair last fall, at the beginning of the school year. He’d created a remarkable display on meteorites, featuring one he’d rescued from his swimming pool. Apparently, he’d been cleaning the pool for his parents when a sizeable chunk of space-junk crashed through the corner of the house, smashed the downspout, then bounced into the water, where it sizzled and hissed for ten minutes, sending up plumes of gray-green fumes which the young man had described as “noxious.”

The kid had fished the thing out, built a presentation around it, complete with models, charts, a three-page white paper on meteors, and — zip! — won first place. Why would such a talented student write such drivel now, only eight months later?

Despite its vulgarity, Rod’s thesis betrayed a logical, well-ordered mind. The only syntactical flaw Emmonds could find was the phrase “the fact that,” a no-no in academic writing. Other than that, and the lamentably lewd discourse on “tumorous” erections, it wasn’t a bad piece of writing, for a high school student.

A pity. That such ability should go to waste. All that nonsense about tits and tumors . . . It was worse than juvenile, it seemed almost like, well, like a cry . . .

“For help,” Emmonds murmured, as he sat perched over his papers in the teacher’s lounge that afternoon. Could that really be what Rod Thomas’ paper was? A cry for help?

Charles Emmonds thought so.

*          *          *

Which was why, when first period gym class rolled around the following morning, Emmonds wasn’t exactly surprised to find Rod Thomas missing.

He searched the bleachers, scanning the rows of well-worn wooden slats, smooth from years of untold buttocks. He checked the jungle of wrought-iron railing beneath the bleachers, and peered behind both basketball goals.

Nothing.

While the rest of his students began filing into the gym, Emmonds stepped into the hall and searched it for his missing prodigy.

Still nothing.

Finally, he entered the boys’ locker room and found him sitting alone on a bench, staring into the void.

“Rod?” Emmonds said. “Why aren’t you with the rest of the class?” He glanced around the locker room and saw that they were indeed alone.

“Can’t,” the boy said. He tried to say more but couldn’t, able only to gaze at the floor and shake his head. He seemed so woebegone, he might’ve been a poster boy for Prozac.

“Rod,” Emmonds repeated, “you’ve got to join the rest of the class. Otherwise, I’ll have to report you as absent.”

The boy continued staring at his feet, as if the answer to his problem might be hiding in his shoelaces. Finally, he said, “Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.”

Emmonds didn’t like his tone. He sat on the bench next to Rod and had to stop himself from patting the kid’s shoulder — an act that could be misconstrued in a school locker room. Instead, he took a breath and said:

“Why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong? Is it girl trouble? Parents? What?”

“Nothing,” said the boy, refusing to meet Emmonds’s gaze.

“Well, at least it’s not acne, right? Believe me, if you only knew the horrors a few pimples cause most kids, you’d—”

“I’m not ‘most kids,’” Rod said.

Emmonds paused and nodded. “Of course not. I know that, son. I’ve seen your records. And I’ve read your . . . thesis.”

Rod turned away from Emmonds as if from a flame. “Oh, great.”

“Well? You obviously wanted me to,” Emmonds said. “Why else did you submit it?”

No reply. Not even a shrug.

“What were you thinking, son?” Emmonds continued. “Why turn in such a piece of drivel when you’re obviously capable of better? I’ve seen your grades.”

“It’s not my grades,” Rod said. “Or my skin. It’s . . . a couple of things.”

Emmonds sighed. “Such as?”

“My eyes, for one,” said Rod. “They’re shit-brown. And everyone else’s is blue.”

Emmonds chuckled. “Son, not everyone else has bl—”

“Yes they do!” Rod shouted. “All the great stars of the past —Newman, Redford, even Cuba Gooding, Junior! You name it, they all had blue eyes.”

Emmonds blinked in disbelief. “Rod, I don’t know how to break this to you, but  . . . you’re not a Hollywood movie star. You’re not even in the drama department.”

“But I wanna be,” the boy replied. “I just never tried out. I knew better: brown eyes.”

“For heaven’s sake, is that what this is all ab—”

“No!” the boy cried. “There’s . . . one other thing. A much bigger thing. It’s . . .”

“Yes?”

“It’s all in my thesis.”

“Oh, yes,” said Emmonds. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t accept the paper you turned in. The idea . . . tits and tumors. My boy, you’ve got your whole fu—”

—“But it’s all true!” Rod Thomas cried, his face a picture of agony. “Everything I wrote. My — my penis is . . . enlarged.”

“Son, if you think I find this humorous, you are sadly—”

“I don’t give a damn what you think, it’s true!”

Again, Emmonds blinked. “What’s true?”

“I’ve got . . . like . . . tumors, or something, on my . . . on my dick. My penis.”

At 46, Charles Emmonds was dismayed to find he could still blush.

“I apologize, Rod, I thought—”

“Thought I was joking?” the boy asked. “Huh? That I was making it all up? Is that what you thought?”

“I said I apologize. I didn’t know. Have you seen a doctor? About your . . . condition?”

“Shyeah, right. Like I’m gonna show this to anybody.”

“But—”

“And don’t even think about sending me to the nurse.”

“But, if you really have . . . er . . . tumors . . . on your . . . uh . . . on your penis, you need to see a—”

“I’m not seeing anybody!” the boy shouted.

“Then why did you turn in that paper?” asked Emmonds “And write it in such a jocular, off-hand way? Because, let me tell you, young man, if this is your idea of a joke . . .”

“JOKE?” the boy cried. “A joke? You call this a joke?” He stood and began pulling down his pants.

“Don’t do that!” Emmonds cried in return. The last thing he needed was a charge of child molestation. “Keep your pants on, I don’t want to . . . see it. I have no interest in your privates. If you have a problem, a tumor or something, then for Christ’s sake see a doctor. But don’t skulk around in here. You’ll only draw attention to yourself.”

Emmonds gave the boy a quick once-over.

“I don’t see anything wrong with you. Nothing seems . . . unusually large or tumorous as far as I can tell.”

The boy laughed — the kind of laugh that Emmonds had often heard described as a “mirthless laugh.” Until that moment, he’d never appreciated the phrase.

“That’s because it’s not reacting right now,” the boy said. “But our class is co-ed, and has been since tenth grade. And there are two girls in that class with some really nice b—”

“I understand, you don’t have to—”

“—boobs,” the boy finished. “I mean, really nice boobs. And the first thing that’ll happen when I see them is . . .” The sentence hung in the air between them.

“So, what you’re saying . . .” Emmonds began, “you’re saying that you—”

“Won’t be able to conceal my reaction, is what I’m saying,” Rod finished for him.

“You mean, it—”

“Yes.”

“It actually—”

“Peeks out from under my gym shorts, yes.”

“Good Lord.”

“I don’t see what’s so good about Him.”

“But, don’t you realize how lucky you are? For heaven’s sake, Rod—”

“Why do you keep bringing heaven into this? Seems to me my problem’s from the other place.” He paused, then added: “I’ve got the Dick From Hell.”

The bell began ringing in the hallway.

Emmonds sighed. “I can’t stay any longer, I have to start class. But, Rod, listen to me: the school year’s almost over; you only have one more month. Now, I can’t let you skip your remaining gym classes without a written doctor’s excuse. However,” Emmonds added, “I will let you slide today, if you write me a different thesis.”

“Really?” the boy looked up at him, a flicker of hope in his eyes.

“Really.”

“That’s all? Just write a different paper?”

“That’s all. And bring me a doctor’s excuse from gym for the rest of the year.”

Rod Thomas sighed. “You’re the best, Mr. E. I don’t care what everyone else says.”

“Thank y—” Emmonds began, before the boy’s last sentence registered. He nodded at the door with a smile. “Get outta here before I change my mind. Young snot.”

And for the first time in weeks, Rod Thomas actually laughed.

*          *          *

Two days later, on Thursday morning at 8:05 a.m., Charles Emmonds was no longer smiling. He was, in a word, pissed.

The boy had tricked him.

Oh, sure, he’d re-written his thesis. Now, it was re-titled, “Elephantiasis and the Penis.” And it was every bit as juvenile and pornographic as his previous effort.

Worse, Rod Thomas had failed to produce a doctor’s excuse.

All of which meant the kid had been having him on. Fooling him — or, rather, making a fool of him. And Charles Emmonds, 46-going-on-64, was nobody’s fool.

Once again, he found the boy skulking in the locker room before class, alone.

“Young man, I fear you and I are about to have a parting of the ways.”

“But, Mr. Em—”

“I was willing to let you out of gym class Tuesday because of your . . . alleged condition. But that was contingent on your re-writing that thesis and providing a written doctor’s excuse for future classes. All of which, I fear, is now moot.”

“But—”

“You will take gym like everyone else. Now change.”

“But, I—”

“I said now!”

The boy slumped his shoulders, but did as ordered. He tore off his dress shirt, popping two of the buttons, then unbuckled his belt. And as he pulled down his jeans, the awful truth revealed itself at last to Charles Emmonds.

For what protruded from Rod Thomas’s underwear was nothing that could in any sense be called a “penis.” It was at least 16 inches long, and a good 8-10 inches in circumference. To say the kid was “well-hung,” however, was wrong. There was nothing “well” about it.

The kid’s dick was hideous. Monstrous. A deformity.

Warts bulged from every surface; clumps of gray-green hair sprouted from lumps of flesh like weeds. The glans had actually split, and was apparently forming a twin of itself. The warhead was horrible, otherworldly. A German helmet rimmed with warts.

For once, Emmonds was speechless. Which was only natural, considering he was barfing up his guts in the nearest stall.

*          *          *

In the ensuing days, Emmonds saw little of Rod Thomas. He hated himself for doing it, but he avoided the boy. Because of that thing — that thing in his pants . . .

It was a living nightmare. For both of them.

By mid-May, Emmonds couldn’t stand the sight of Rod Thomas anymore: the kid looked sullen and guilty all the time. He also looked as if he were smuggling a python down his right pants leg. Although he hadn’t seen it since that first day, two weeks ago, Emmonds knew the thing was destroying the boy’s life — and causing him who knew how much physical pain. Brown eyes were one thing but that, that monstrosity . . .

Emmonds finally took pity on the kid and produced a temporary solution to Rod’s gym class problem: he raided the Lost and Found box and came up with a pair of insulated sweat pants for him, the thick, cottony kind. Which would have been just fine — a permanent solution, even — except for one small problem:

The kid’s dick kept growing.

*          *          *

Or, rather, mutating.

And no longer in response to well-endowed women, either: the thing was growing bigger, thicker and more grotesque by the day.

“It’s not elephantiasis,” Emmonds told the boy in the locker room one morning, before class. It had become their regular meeting place.

“How do you know?”

“Looked it up on the Net,” Emmonds replied. “Elephantiasis is caused by parasitic worms, filarial worms, spread by certain types of mosquitoes. But they’re found only in tropical regions. Unless you’ve been to Bora Bora recently, you’re unlikely to have elephantiasis.”

“What about John Merrick, the Elephant Man?” Rod asked. “He lived in England, but he had elephantiasis, right?”

Emmonds shook his head. “Wrong. He suffered from neurofibromatosis and Proteus syndrome, both congenital nerve and tissue disorders.”

“Man, you sure know your stuff.”

“I only know what you don’t have, son. Christ alone knows what it is you do have.”

The boy shrugged. “I told you: the Dick from Hell.”

“No, no, it has to be a known medical condition.” Emmonds stood and began pacing around the bench. “Surely there’s a doctor somewhere who can diagnose it.”

“I think I have an idea,” said Rod.

Emmonds paused and glanced at him. “What?”

“That meteorite I found in my pool last fall. I think it . . . infected me, or something.”

Again, Emmonds shook his head. “This isn’t science fiction, Rod, this is human biology. There has to be a rational, medical explanation for it.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. E. This all started after I came into contact with that meteorite. And it’s not just my . . . thing, either.”

“What do you mean?” Emmonds asked.

“I mean, lately, I’ve been getting these thoughts . . .”

“What kind of thoughts?”

The boy looked away. “Just . . . thoughts.”

When he said this, the boy’s enormous organ — visible even under the thick sweatpants — stirred to life.

“Oh, shit,” Rod said. “It’s . . . moving. By itself.”

“Well, make it stop.”

“I can’t, it’s got a mind of its own.”

As if fulfilling a prophecy, the mammoth object began to rise, straightening out Rod’s right leg as it did so. The boy’s sneaker popped off his right foot, and part of a hairy, lumpen warhead began peaking out from below the pant leg. Even though the sweatpants had elastic in each cuff, there was no stopping the thing. Soon, the sweatpants began ripping, the thick, cottony material tearing from the ankle all the way up to the knee.

And from the knee up to the crotch. It was out of control — far too fat and angry for such confinement. It was a living thing. It was the Dick From Hell . . .

“Jesus!” Emmonds cried, as he backed away from the boy. Rod wasted no time tearing away the last of the sweatpants that had once been so promising. Now, they were a joke.

And now, at long last, Charles Emmonds saw the thing in all its glory.

It was still engorging with blood, still growing longer, thicker and more erect; the boy’s right leg fell away from the thing as the last shreds of fabric gave way, and it was free.

Fully extended now, it was at least three feet long and full of wriggling veins like angry blue snakes, writhing under the skin. And what a skin — a dark, lurid purple, with knots, lumps and warts all up and down its surface. The glans had completely split by now, making two giant warheads, each with its own “nuisance,” or pee hole.

“It’s a double header,” Rod moaned, nodding at the twins.

“Christ,” Emmonds gasped, his face white as chalk.

Both warheads looked like swollen German helmets, each rimmed with warts. But at least the clumps of gray-green hair had fallen away. The warts were now bald.

Which was somehow worse; they looked angry, enflamed. Infected. One or two of them were even weeping, running with fluid. Pus, probably. Emmonds turned his face away. Then he staggered to the locker room door and locked it.

“Can’t . . . let anyone . . . in,” he choked.

Rod, fighting back tears, could only nod.

“It’s got to be amputated,” Emmonds said. “There’s no other choice.”

“NO!” the boy cried. “That’s why I didn’t go to the doctors. I knew they’d . . . want it. For experiments.” He nodded again at the prodigy of flesh between his legs. “I’d rather have this than no dick at all.”

“For God’s sake, son—”

“There you go bringing God into it again,” Rod cried. “If God did this, then he’s a gay, interstellar maggot. No, I think the Other Guy’s to blame.” He nodded at the monster dick and groaned, “This is the devil’s handiwork.”

“Rod, they’ve got prosthetics — lifelike prosthetics — they could implant so you’d have a normal life again. You’d never have to hide it or—”

“Hide it?” the boy shrieked, completely beside himself by this point. “How the fuck could I ever hide it now?”

He nodded at the monstrosity still growing toward the ceiling. It had to be three-and-a-half, possibly four feet long. As the boy gaped at the towering column of pulsating flesh, both of them saw that the warts had changed. Now, not only were they bald, swollen and exuding fluids, they were . . . cracking open. Splitting, horizontally, across the middle. Emmonds even thought he heard the wet, heavy “fffphhlit!” of skin ripping.

As if to make his horror complete, Emmonds saw that the warts ringing the warheads were actually opening now. But they didn’t issue blood or pus or any other fluid. In fact, what they revealed was more terrifying than disgusting.

They were blinking, as if waking from sleep.

Then all eight of them opened at once.

And looked at him.

They were a beautiful shade of blue. The bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

*          *          *

Rod Thomas ran away that day. True, he had to douse the multi-eyed, double-headed monster with ice water to calm it down, first. The thing finally shrank back down to size, but that “size” was still 28½ inches of pure, oozing nightmare.

He strapped it to his left thigh this time, running it down the leg of his oversized blue jeans (Phat-Boy Jeanz, $189.95 at Kohl’s) and hobbled away from school. Emmonds called for him to come back, to go to the emergency room with him — or to a laboratory on the University of Cincinnati campus, but the boy would have none of it. He and his prodigious penis were gone.



Emmonds didn’t hear anything from him for several days. Then, just one week before the school year ended, he received a postcard in the mail — at school (despite his I.Q., Rod hadn’t been able to find Emmonds’ home address).

The card had a full-color photo of the Lincoln Park Fountain, in Chicago, on the front. On the back, in laborious, schoolboy handwriting, it read:



Sorry I had to leave. No doctors or labs for me. I’ve got to . . . (and here, he’d crossed out the words “get a grip”) . . . put everything in order and go from there. Weather lovely this time of year. Give everyone my best.

Your friend,

R.T.



Emmonds detected an artificial chattiness to the postcard (“Weather lovely this time of year?” Since when did Rod Thomas talk like that?) And he wondered: could the boy be coming completely unglued? Or was it possible — just ever so slightly possible — that he’d been right about that meteorite “infecting” him?

“I get these . . . thoughts,” he’d said, the last time they talked. And when Emmonds asked him what kind of thoughts, Rod had mysteriously replied, “Just . . . thoughts.”

Emmonds frowned and shook his head.

Could it be?

Was it possible? . . .

. . . that there had been some kind of alien intelligence in that meteorite?

Never. Not in a zillion years.

Still . . .

He stuck the postcard in his back pocket and returned to class. And Charles Emmonds, 46-going-on-64, felt every year of it — like a lead jacket on his back.

*          *          *

Meanwhile, Rod Thomas had found an answer for the burning, rambunctious sensation in his rebellious member. The following morning, before dawn, he strolled along the lakefront, near Chicago’s Navy Yard Pier. There, at the widest point on the beach, he unbuckled his Phat-Boy Jeanz and loosed the monster.

It uncoiled like a rolled up fire hose. With an audible sizzling sound, it entered the lake and floated out to its full length: nineteen feet, four inches.

It now weighed nearly 200 lbs. — more than the rest of Rod’s body.

And the second warhead had now split in two: a triple-header. And all three German helmets were identically rimmed with big, bulging blue eyes. Eyes that ran and watered and blinked and watched.

And took in everything.



“Ahhh . . .” sighed a grateful and relieved Rod Thomas, as he lay on the sand and let his triple-headed fire hose monster-cock waft and loll in the waves. Damn thing nearly filled the bay. Maybe some day it would fill the lake — Lake Michigan was exactly the right shape and size for it, proportionately speaking. Who knew?

It was as dawn broke over the eastern shore, and Rod Thomas was reeling his mutant monster back in, that his penis began to talk to him.

*          *          *

Thoughts were one thing. Telepathic messages another.

But when his dick started talking to him — ordering him about — Rod knew the game was up.

“OK, that does it,” he said, speaking in the general direction of his zipper. The thing was coiled around his right leg, wrapped about his ankle and stuffed into a fake cast that he’d signed with six different signatures, in six different colors of ink. All bogus, of course.

As was his predicament. He knew it couldn’t go on any longer.

Because what the thing wanted him to do was impossible.



“But I can’t,” Rod told it that morning, for the third time.

You must . . . said the space-penis, in a voice eerily similar to the late Michael Rennie’s. You have no choice . . .

“Wrong, dickhead, I do have a choice.”

Do I have to say it?

“No, please. Not again . . .”

Then do as I bid you.

“But . . . I can’t.”

Very well, then . . . Kla—

“No, stop . . . please.”

Klaatu Bar—

“Please! Don’t say it!”

Klaatu Barrata—

“I beg you, for the love of God don’t say it ag—”

Klaatu Barrata Dicto!

“It’s Nicto, dammit!” the boy wailed. “‘Klaatu Barrata Nicto,’ not Dicto!”

Who’s the alien here, asshole?

Rod Thomas’ shoulders slumped. He knew the struggle was over; the thing had won. He had no choice but to do its bidding.

That’s better. Now, let’s get going. I’m hungry. Oh, and one other thing . . .

“What?” Rod moaned.

In future, do not refer to me as a ‘gay, interstellar maggot.’ Not if you wish to live . . .

He nodded and shuffled into the shadows.

*          *          *

The next day was a Saturday, normally the one day each week when Charles Emmonds could let his hair down and get quietly and thoroughly sloshed at home. Again, normally. But things hadn’t been anywhere near “normally’s” zip code for several weeks now, and Emmonds knew it. Hence, his presence in class that Saturday, turning the place upside down in his frantic search for the answer.

He turned on the classroom TV in the corner and flipped to Tall 12 News, the only local channel covering the disaster. No sign of it yet — which had to be good. He nodded and returned to his searching, dreading what he knew he would find, but unable to stop looking for it. He had to see, to verify his suspicions. About Rod. And what he’d heard on the news that morning.

Early reports were sketchy at best and, so far, no one seemed to know for sure what had happened. All Emmonds knew was that he was getting third-hand bull, from a local reporter relaying second-hand bull from a Chicago reporter who, in turn, was interpreting what first-hand bull he could get from his police-band radio and the National Guardsmen who flew past.

Something mighty big had happened to Chicago. It wasn’t a tsunami or an earthquake, but it was pretty hot-damned big, nonetheless. That was when Charles Emmonds found what he’d been looking for.

It was the original thesis, singular, that young Rod Thomas had turned in nearly a month ago, when this whole nightmare began — at least for Charles Emmonds. (Rod, poor lad, had been living it for nearly nine months already, if the whole meteorite-alien-dickbug-in-the-pool theory was to be believed). And there it was: the clue as to what might be going on in Shy-town.

In his original thesis, singular, titled “Tumorous,” the sub-head read:

“Or, The Dick That Ate Chicago”



Charles Emmonds slumped to the floor by Rod Thomas’ desk as the TV reporter maundered on and on with his third-hand bull about the body that had just been discovered in Oak Park: it was that of a teenaged boy, possibly 17 or 18, with red hair, freckles and a cast on his right ankle. He had been abducted by the creature and . . . castrated. His lifeless, dickless corpse had been found lying face up in the middle of Kenilworth Avenue, exsanguinated.

Meanwhile, the beast that had killed him was destroying (or devouring, according to some reports) a good chunk of Chicago. And there seemed no way to stop it: the thing was monstrous—an 80-foot, purple, pulsing, three-headed creature with German helmets and eyes.

A dozen beautiful blue eyes — the bluest eyes anyone had ever seen.

—30—