Untitled chapter 1
Matthew J. Klingforth
Birth-Control
The light kept him in a warm, motherly embrace as it gently guided him down the rivers of the infinite. With the knowledge held within, the light instinctively chose between one of many estuaries to trickle the man onto the shore of his personal destiny.
That was odd,” he thought to himself as he stared wonder eyed at the filthy, mirrored ceiling room that he suddenly found himself in. “Lotta hooplah to end up here,” was his continuing thought process and as he tried to ponder out not just where he was, but who he was, a soft breeze reached up and breezed him in a spot that just shouldn’t get breezed.
“I’m naked,” he declared on a swivel as he looked down at himself for the first time. “I wonder why I’m naked?” was the worry that led to his next concern. “Who in the heck would appear naked in this disgusting room?”
The man, believe it or not, deemed the latter problem to be the lesser of the two dilemmas as, clearly, any man as cool, relaxed and brilliant as he, would for surely have a larger goal or scheme.
Which only brought him back to naked.
“Naked?” he puzzled, “By God, it just doesn’t fit.”
Perplexed and without base or reason, the man quickly surmised that, if nothing else, he was for surely a pretty person. “These are model wrists, after all,” he said and fake hand demonstrated a product, “the Price is Right,” style.
“Sure, I’ve got the appendages of a Greek Goddess, but now, it’s time to see the whole package,” he thought to himself as he leapt in front of the hallway mirror to find not the pin-up vision that he fancied, but the image of a skinny, buck-toothed man with light blue eyes and mop of greasy, brown hair looking back at him.
“Oh. My. Mercy. I am gorgeous!” he yelled in disbelief as he checked himself out from every conceivable angle, flexing his…muscles? “Yep, yep, yep, this explains everything,” he nodded his head with the new revelation. “There’s probably some national law that demands that I stay naked…like, at all times, it only makes sense,” he determined and gave the mud flats one last tweak, inadvertently spying a covered suit and jacket hanging from the bathroom door.
Welly, well, well, what do we have here?” he said to himself and unveiled the brownish green, looks kinda itchy, jacket and bowe-tie.
“It’s a Harris Tweed, herringbone twill suit!” the man exclaimed while nuzzling his face into the fabric of the suit. “Fresh from the isle of Harris.”
With one last tug and adjustment, the man, once again, stood in front of the mirror to shamelessly admire his reflection. “It’s a perfect fit,” he marveled as he ran his hands over the lapel, confident that whoever he was, whatever greatness was intended, that this was exactly where he was meant to be. “Now, it’s time for some answers,” he said and gave his image one last finger point.
