Goiter Head Read online

  Contents

  Cheat Sheet

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  Also by Kelly Fox

  Goiter Head

  COPYRIGHT @ 2019 by Kelly Fox writing as K.C. Littleton

  Cover designed with: Canva

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental.

  The Licensed Art material is being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Cheat Sheet

  Goiter Head takes place after the events of Violet Crown, a paranormal romance that I wrote under the pen name K.C. Littleton (Kelly Fox is my main pen name, and the place to go for gay romance).

  You don't need to read Violet Crown to enjoy this Halloween novella, but here's some context to help you enjoy Bernard and Arye's story:

  The Cave: A black ops military site located in the Central Texas Hill Country, about an hour outside of Austin. The characters there are… interesting.

  Wanderer: Beings from a different plane of existence who combine with humans in the womb, and live as that person. Souls are visible as auras to other Wanderers.

  Dr. Hedy Villarreal: Wanderer. Recruiter of and therapist to the various military and scientific operatives at the Cave. Violet aura. Call sign Gaia. 45 years in current body.

  Bernard: Human. Conjoined twin. Works in the Cave's technology lab. Call sign Goiter. 25 years old.

  Arye: Human. One of Hedy's first recruits. Can't feel pain. Call sign Kinky. 44 years old.

  1.

  Arye

  Damn it, I am going to have to have my nose reconstructed. Again.

  Why do so many torturers go for the nose? What I wouldn't give—just once—for someone to go for my balls.

  “Where. Are. The. Plans?”

  I'm being yelled at by a very sweaty, very smelly man, and spittle lands on my face.

  “I don't know what plans you're talking about,” I lie smoothly in a gravel tone, my Brooklyn accent in full force. I wonder if I can request Dr. Jenkins. She did a damn fine job of putting me back together the last time, and on top of that she was a spectacular lay.

  The man's face is turning a mottled red, and the veins on his neck look like they are about to explode. Dude is about.3 seconds away from stroking out, which means I've done my job well. Sure, I usually have to endure some kind of torture to pretend that I have information that the criminal masterminds (sarcasm fully fucking intended) need, but I'm gathering far more information on them than they'll ever gather from me.

  "Yes, you do, you piece of shit. Tell me where the plans are, or I'm going to use my knife to start playing with parts of your body,” he says, flicking open a rather cheap-looking knife and holding it to my battered face.

  God, I'm so bored that I actually miss the Shed, of all places. It's where my bed lives, with its plush top and firm underlayer calling my name. People might discount the importance of a good quality bed, but having slept on a cold concrete floor for the better part of three days, I have a newfound appreciation for a supportive mattress.

  I'm also horny as fuck. To be clear, I'm not getting off on the torture; I just haven't been with someone in a long time. With the violence of the last several months, I'll be looking for a soft place to land. Someone adorable, femme— maybe a sassy blonde with bouncy tits, maybe a twink with a pouty mouth and a bit of eyeliner, maybe someone in between…

  A flash of silver catches my peripheral vision, and I realize that I need to pay attention to this interrogation and get my boner under control or I might end up losing an eye. Wanting to fuck with him a little more, I let him beat on me for a few more minutes, then say, “OK, you're right, you're right. I do know where the plans are. But I don't think that they're worth your time.”

  Raising up to his full height, Genius declares, “I determine when something is worth my time. Tell me everything you know right now.”

  Sure, dickhead. I'll get right on that.

  What he doesn't know (aside from proper hygiene) is that my team is minutes away, and all I have to do is keep stringing him along until they show up. So, I launch into an incredible story that involves a llama, a burnt piece of toast, and, eventually, a bicycle. Nearing the end of my tale, he's laughing his ass off while also putting matches out on my skin. Mid-laugh, the door is flung open, and four of the finest black ops agents on this planet storm the room, taking turns putting a bullet in this asshole's head.

  Edison, a lower leg amputee and the scariest motherfucker on our team, gives me shit about the fact that my nose is half-hanging off my face, but he knows my secret. I have CIPA and literally cannot feel pain. And before you ask, yes, I can orgasm. That's a different system entirely but thank you for your concern. Anyway, this genetic anomaly is usually a huge problem for a body that's regulated by, among other things, the avoidance of pain, but the Serum X that the Cave keeps around is real helpful for stitching back together that which had been torn asunder.

  Thankfully, my carnal prayers are answered in the arrival of an operative on loan from another black site, a compactly muscled fuck buddy of mine. He's looking pretty masc in his tactical gear, but there's a very good chance that he's wearing a camo lace jock under all of that armor.

  Smiling, he walks up and takes an embroidered handkerchief out of his pocket, wetting it with his tongue, removing the blood splatter from my forehead and chin. Leaning in so that only I can hear, he whispers, “Baby, they really did a number on you this time. You need to stop pissing off your captors. There's only so much Serum X can do. Take St. Louis," he says, using Edison's call sign. "That shit did not grow back his leg.”

  “I know, dollface," I reply, taping my nose in place. "But torture gets so boring. I can't help it; I'm a button-pusher.”

  “That you are," he smirks. "But there are things you do with that impressive nose of yours that I rather enjoy, and now that's off the table," he whispers with a pout.

  "Do you think I need a nose to please you?" I whisper back, discreetly licking his earlobe. The other operatives try to look busy as I haul the man with the call sign Perky up against my body. I used to be more discreet, but now I don't give a fuck.

  He shudders, touching the spot where my tongue had been. "No, but I'd rather not have to place a napkin on your face to ride your cock."

  "Fair point."

  >>>>>>>

  That Serum X is some pretty damn good stuff, and after a few hours I don't look any worse for wear. This works in my favor because I have my little fuck buddy up against the shower wall, still wearing his jock (I stand corrected, it was black lace, not camo). His powerful, muscled legs are spread, fucking lewd in a pair of patent black stilettos that echo along the tiled room. His adorable bubble butt is adorned with droplets of water and a few handprints, and I just want to chew it. I kneel behind him, spreading his cheeks, letting my hot breath ghost the sensitive skin. The moan from above me tells me I'm on the right track, and I can't help but tease him a little. "Such a fuckable ass, baby. Too bad you doubted me earlier today, my nose is back in full working order.”

  He stomps his foot with a sharp staccato rap, and I can all but hear the pout a
s he whines, “I take it back, Daddy. I take it all back. Please."

  I'm forty-four and older than most of the men I fuck, so the 'Daddy' comment, while not usually my style, is not uncommon. Might as well lean into it. “Nope, too late. No nose action for you,” I say with another resounding smack to his abused cheeks.

  He lets out a little whine and kicks back a heeled foot in a cute little dance, looking back at me with big, pleading eyes. “Please?" he begs. "Pretty please, Daddy?”

  "Mmmm, you are my pretty little commando, aren't you?" I tease his puckered entrance, then flatten my tongue along his crease, licking him from taint to top of crack, eliciting a string of curse words and non-words that feed my ego and inflate my cock.

  Ah, well. He's had a rough day and begged so prettily. Might as well give him what he asked for.

  2.

  Bernard

  Today is the day.

  Today is the day that our surgeon, Dr. Wu, separates me from my conjoined twin, Elliot. I'm not quite sure how to feel, considering the fact that there's a pretty good chance that I won't even survive the surgery. Frankly, I have zero chance of surviving the next few weeks without the surgery, so either way Elliot will be rid of his parasite.

  You should know that my brother has never, would never call me that. He'd add bows to the beard he's grown out to cover my presence in retribution for me saying so.

  Perhaps I should explain that I share his entire body. More to the point, I'm just a head.

  On his neck.

  Thus the beard.

  I've been known to get a bit mouthy, which he likes to reward by styling his beard in such a way that it looks like a hairdo for me. Mind you, these are never flattering hairdos. They usually involve pigtails and some well-deserved laughter at my expense.

  Anyway, a disconcerting sort of numbness has taken over me because my life is going to either change or end today, and as usual, there is not one damned thing I can do about it. At least I like the body they're giving me, even if it is second hand. And kitten, does it have a story to tell.

  You're gonna wanna lean in for this one.

  Ah, hey. Nice titties. Unless you're a dude, then nice pecs. #nohomo

  Shit. Eh, that's not ent—um, just. Bad habit. Genuinely sorry for that.

  Er, back to the body.

  Get this: I'm snatching the body of a body snatcher. The long and short of it is that there are these beings—called Wanderers— who can live as humans over a series of lifetimes. Hedy, the cave's therapist and a Wanderer, says that they become that person's soul in the womb. She's real clear about that distinction because the Wanderer who had the body I'll be inhabiting had removed Hedy's soul and stolen her body… twice.

  I don't know about you, but that blows my mind every time I think about it. And with the help of the world's most advanced genetics team, I'll be using the body snatcher's body and our very own Serum X to do it. Damn, it'll be cool if it works.

  Fuck, I hope it works. I had to see Hedy in her role as therapist before the doctors would agree to the surgery. She said that I had to have a post-op goal to look forward to, and I was way ahead of her. Halloween, my favorite holiday, is a little over six weeks out and I am pumped. Elliot and I have always put together some kind of funny ensemble, but this year our friends are going to see something they've never seen before. It's one hell of a costume.

  >>>>>>>

  “Elliot?”

  “Yes, Bernard?” replies my brother, our chest and neck reverberating with his deep voice. We're in a hospital room in one of the lower levels of the Cave, just out of the shower and wearing only a towel because Elliot has to cut down his long beard. It's weird seeing the coarse hair fall into a pile on the counter, and even weirder to watch him prepare to shave his face for the first time, ever. Dr. Wu offered to do this for him in pre-op, but he insisted on doing this himself. It's pretty messy, to be honest.

  “You don't have to go through with this. They can simply remove me. You don't have to have them open up your entire face and neck,” I say, watching as he lathers up.

  Elliot looks at me in the mirror, my head half-covered by his shaving towel. Gazing straight into my eyes he responds, “Bernard, if there is even the smallest chance that we can save you, I am going to do whatever it takes. So, if I end up with a huge scar, if I end up with nerve damage, if you have to feed me with a spoon for the rest of my life, I could not regret doing this.”

  I snert and respond, "Oh, if you had to be fed with a spoon, I'd hire that out."

  Elliot flicks my ear and says (as I knew he would), "I feed you with a spoon every day."

  “And that's why you're such a good brother."

  He rolls his eyes, but his expression is soft. "And that's why I give you pigtails," he says, striping the razor through the white foam. "Well, up until now."

  My throat tightens. "You know, brother… I—love you very much.”

  He bunches his eyebrows and points at me in the mirror with the foam-tipped razor. "No, no, no. Don't do that. Don't be all… loving… all of a sudden. Do I need to get the cute nurse in here for you to harass?"

  I do the only thing I'm physically capable of; I roll my eyes. "I'm trying to go into my new body with a new attitude. No more harassing comments. No more sexual innuendo."

  "Why start now?" he asks dismissively, focused on denuding his face. I don't mind telling you that his incredulity stings.

  "I'll actually be able to have sex, and while it's cute when a Goiter Head harasses sexy girls," I say, using the nickname that will not die, "that shit doesn't really fly in the fully-bodied world."

  He cocks his head. "Hm, was it ever really cute? All I know is that sex'll be a helluva lot easier for me without my skeevy brother sucking up all the oxygen in the room." He follows this up with what is supposed to be a sexy hip shake, but he's about six-foot-tall, brawny with a craft beer belly and no rhythm… at all. Sufficed to say, it fails on all levels as a hip shake, and looks like a prelude to I've fallen, and I can't get up.

  Seriously, how did this asshole end up being the one with the body?

  “Oh, I get it,” I say, lifting the corner of my mouth into a smirk. “You just want to be able to bang that cute dolphin doctor without my running commentary.”

  My timing, as usual, is impeccable. Dr. Fisher, our resident human-dolphin hybrid generalist walks in, looking stunning, as usual. She's not beautiful, she's… amazing. She's six-foot-tall, just like Elliot, with pearlescent grey skin and white freckles that I suspect go all the way down. “Elliot, Bernard. How's it—oh, sorry," she says, a clicking whistle sounding from the back of her throat. Her eyes skate down Elliot's body—and believe me, it is his body she's looking at—and her cheeks flush purple.

  Elliot, half-shaved, half-naked, and fully embarrassed, freezes and gulps. The hand towel over my head is obstructing my view of the mirror, but I look down and our hairy chest is flushed. She stumbles backwards and closes the bathroom door. "I'm sorry," her muffled voice filters through. "I just wanted to check in with you two and make sure you had everything set for the surgery."

  Elliot glares death at me in the mirror and shimmies into the hospital gown hanging on the hook by the shower, then opens the door. Gesturing to his face, he says, "I just need to finish up with this." He then ignores the both of us and concentrates fiercely on the task, carefully running the blade over virgin skin.

  “Oh, the surgery's today?” I ask, layering on the snark, hoping that I didn't just fuck up my brother's one true chance of happiness. I hear the softest growl in the back of his throat, and I'm sure he's wondering the same thing. "I was planning on getting my nails done."

  I joke, but this surgery is deadly serious. Once we're sedated, Dr. Wu will draw a line with her scalpel from just in front of Elliot's ear down the neck, around my head, and down his arm, where she will pull back the large flap of skin and, using imaging technology, identify my nerve endings and blood supply, which have grow
n halfway up his face and halfway down his left arm. At this point she'll begin the delicate process of peeling me back from the kind brother who's let me live off of him for twenty-five years.

  Disconnecting from Elliot is just the beginning. The next part will involve actually removing my brain from this swollen, yet too small head and placing it, along with all of my nerves, in the vacated calvarium of the body snatcher, letting the Serum X connect my brain and stringy bits to the spinal cord. Elliot will need several more surgeries, but I will heal—if I survive—very quickly. If all goes well, I'll be able to see, hear and speak directly after surgery, with walking and all physical processes coming fully on board within two to three days.

  A lot of that is due to Serum X. I don't care to know what's in it, I just care that it works.

  I refocus, belatedly, on our conversation with Dr. Fisher. She's in the middle of rolling her eyes and throwing it right back to me, adding a few sonar clicks and whistles that I know for sure mean something offensive. “Whatever, you don't even have nails. And yeah, no bigs. It's not like this surgery has any implications for people with spinal injuries, auto immune diseases, or gender dysphoria.”

  Ugh. “But no pressure, right?” I ask, shocked by what I'm seeing in the mirror. Elliot finished shaving, and he is… wow. He's kind of a good-looking guy. The good doctor lets out an involuntary chirp, and their eyes meet for a second. Meanwhile, I see myself in the mirror and sigh. With my large eyes, slightly smaller skull and gray complexion, I look like one of those shrunken heads.

  “No pressure at all," she says, laughing nervously, trying to move past the weird energy in the little bathroom. "We don't really care if you survive or not, and the research might actually benefit from you dying, if only to figure out how to do it right for the next guy.”

  She is clearly perfect for my brother, because once I'm removed from his neck, he'll immediately go into inappropriate snark withdrawals and I'll be too busy getting my pole waxed to help him out.