Charlaine Harris & Toni L. P. Kelner (ed) by Wolfsbane;Mistletoe

Author:Wolfsbane;Mistletoe
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

SA

J. A. Konrath

J. A. Konrath"s short work has appeared in over fifty magazines and anthologies. He"s responsible for five books in the Lieutenant Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels thril er series, the latest of which is Fuzzy Navel. He also edited the collection of hitman stories These Guns for Hire, and penned the horror novel Afraid under the name Jack Kilborn. Visit him at www.JAKonrath.com.

Robert Weston Smith walked across the snow-covered parking lot carrying a smal plastic container of his poop.

Weston considered himself a healthy guy. At thirty-three years old he stil had a six-pack, the result of working out three times a week. He followed a strict macrobiotic diet. He practiced yoga and tai chi. The last time he ate processed sugar was during the Reagan administration.

That"s why, when odd things began appearing in his bowel movements, he became more than a little alarmed. So alarmed that he sought out his general practitioner, making an appointment after a particularly embarrassing phone call to his office secretary.

Weston entered the office building with his head down and a blush on his ears, feeling like a kid sneaking out after curfew. He used the welcome mat to stamp the snow off his feet and walked through the lobby to the doctor"s office, taking a deep breath before going in. There were six people in the waiting room, four adults and a young boy, plus a nurse in pink paisley hospital scrubs who sat behind the counter.

Weston kept his head down and beelined for the nurse. The poop container was blue plastic, semiopaque, but it might as wel have been a police siren, blinking and howling. Everyone in the room must have known what it was. And if they didn"t at first, they sure knew after the nurse said in a loud voice, “Is that your stool sample?”

He nodded, trying to hand it to the woman. She made no effort to take it, and he couldn"t really blame her. He carried it, and a clipboard, over to a seat in the waiting room. Setting his poop on a table atop an ancient copy of Good Housekeeping, he got to work fil ing out his insurance information. When it came time to describe the nature of his ailment, he wrote down “intestinal problems.” Which was untrue—his intestines felt fine. It"s what came out of his intestines that caused alarm.

“What"s in the box?”

Weston looked up, staring into the big eyes of a child, perhaps five or six years old.

“It"s, um, something for the doctor.”

He glanced around the room, looking for someone to claim the boy. Two people had their noses stuck in magazines, one was watching a car commercial on the TV hanging from the ceiling, and the last appeared asleep. Any of them could have been his parent.

“Is it a cupcake?” the boy asked.

“Uh … yeah, a cupcake.”

“I like cupcakes.”

“You wouldn"t like this one.”

The boy reached for the container.

“Is it chocolate?”

Weston snatched it up and set it in his lap.

“No. It isn"t chocolate.”

“Show it to me.”

“No.”

The boy squinted at the sample.

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