"Mr. and Mrs. Bates?"

There was the small commotion of two people rising and gathering their things.

"This way please."

Mr. and Mrs. bates gladly followed the orderly out of the chaos of the hospital's patient waiting area and into the privacy of a small examining room. The orderly was stout and cordial and obviously tired.

Once they were situated they were told the doctor would be with them shortly. Mrs. Bates was still inconsolable.

Eventually, the doctor entered, closing the door behind him. His expression appeared somber.

"The good news is that we were able to save your son. The bad news is that... we were forced to amputate."

"Am... amputate?"

Mrs. Bates burst into tears.

"My baby! Oh, my precious baby!" Mrs. Bates wailed, "How will he ever live a normal life?"

"It's alright! It's alright! " the doctor reassured them. "We expect him to make a full recovery."

Mr. Bates began a violent tremor in his lower lip, which quickly spread to his whole frame, and then he was blubbering so as to put Mrs. Bates to shame.

"There, there" the doctor said, patting them on the shoulder, "I know just what will make you feel better."

He left the room to the tune of great heaving sobs, and returned sporting a big grin and two giant red lollipops.

* * *
In the end, the doctor's prognostications turned out to be true. Bridger Bates was out of the hospital within the week, and back at a school in two. He was well, and smiling, and seemed to get on much better than Mr. and Mrs. Bates, although they too eventually warmed to the child's condition, and began to think that things might not be so bad afterall.

"So, what's it like?"

Bridger was busy forming the keep of an elaborate sandcastle, which he imagined to house a race of friendly sand people who ate only algebra teachers. The address came from the freckled face of one Joanna Perkins.

"What's what like?"

"Having your belly button amputated."

Bridger began searching for twigs with which to build his portcullis.

"Oh, it's not that bad. I can't do all the things I used to do. Leastwise, not the things that require a belly button. But I don't have to clean it anymore, so that's a plus. And I got to eat ice cream for a whole week when I came home."

The other kids on the playground were clearly impressed.

"But I'm getting a new one."

There were immediately gasps of disbelief.

"A new one?"

"Is that possible?"

"A new bellybutton?"

"Will it go where they old one went?"

"How do they attach it?"

"When are you getting it?"

Bridger began digging a moat.

"Tomorrow. I have an appointment to see the doctor. It's not a real bellybutton, just a prosthetic one. But the doctor says that it will work the same. Mostly."

The news spread like wildfire. Boys made way for him in the hallway. Girls shyly averted their eyes. This was significant. This was monumental. This was the most interesting thing to happen since Samantha Puddings had lost three of her teeth at the same time.

The next few days the school yard was full of apprehension. When at last Bridger returned, there was only sheer-unadulterated awe reflected in the faces of those who saw him. Somehow he seemed more confident, more purposed, more awesome. This time, no one asked questions. They waited expectantly.

All except Victor Brassario.

Victor was the classic brute, an oversized bumpkin with a distinct sense that if he wasn't throwing his fist at something, he just wasn't making a contribution. And he didn't much care for upstarts like Bridger being doused with sudden awe and popularity. It would be Victor's job to set everything back in its proper place.

With a thuggish jaunt, he approached, stopping with his nose just inches from Bridger's face.

"I don't care if you have new belly button," said Victor, "You are still a mega-doofus. " And with that, he cocked his fist to lay Bridger out with a fantastic punch.

The onlookers flinched. Some covered their eyes. Others ran to go get a teacher. The next few seconds were not looking so good for Bridger.

Suddenly, Victor was tackled by two brawny men in suits, who immediately began to pommel him with their fists. Everyone was quite surprised, except for Bridger.

"My belly button is a very expensive government prototype," Bridger explained, "Those guys make sure it doesn't get muffed up any."

There was a general round of approval at this development, although the students were disappointed that Bridger had not actually used his new bellybutton to defeat the bully. As the school bell rang the crowds grudgingly dissolved, ambling back into the interior buildings to begin classes.

Bridger, however, thrust up his arms, and hurled himself into the sky, flying off into the city. The two men in suits jumped into a rocket powered scooter to follow him.

The phone was ringing.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Like some incessant church toll, declaring the increasing lateness of the hour.

John Raulton, who on bad days was an atheist and on good days was an angry agnostic, snatched the phone with a mind to give the witching spirit a good dose of hell.

He was instead startled to find that it was still ringing.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Perhaps it was another phone?

No, they were all on the same line, weren't they? It did not make any sense. It especially did make any sense because it was not making sense at 4 am. And his feet were cold. Slippers? No, they must be under his bed still.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

"STOP RINGING!"

The noise stopped.

It was replaced by an emphatic pounding at the door.

"Dang it John, let me in!"

"What?"

"Let me in, you idiot! It's Kasey."

John waddled over to the door and fumbled for the lock. The clunk of the latch turning was followed by a rush of cold air as Kasey bustled her way in and slammed the door behind her.

"What wouldn't you let me in for? I've been out there half an hour!"

Not having yet reactivated his conscious vocabulary beyond the basic but versatile "What?" John remained silent.

Kasey began brewing a pot of tea, discarding her gloves and winter cap and pulling her matte black hair into a pony tail for whatever reason it is that girls do that sort of thing. John left his hair the way it was which happened to be a disheveled mess, but combined with his ketchup stained undershirt and blotched and frayed boxer shorts, it was what you could call "a look."

Now Kasey was searching for sugar and cream. John did not indicate that he observed this or that he had any idea where the sugar and cream might be because he was fairly certain this would involve showing his guest a dead rat.

When Kasey had finished ransacking his kitchen John made his first tentative start at asking why she had come by in the middle of the night, but he was interrupted by yet another clammer at his door.

"That's them!" she shrieked. "I have to hide!"

John nodded, but as Kasey dived for cover he remained still.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

There was no evading the sound. It washed over and through him, permeating every crevice of his apartment.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"It's Mickey the Nose" came a muffled voice from behind the couch. "He must have followed me here. I owed him money I couldn't pay. I'm sorry John but I knew you were the one who could handle him."

John nodded grimly.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

"OPEN UP IN THERE!"

There was a frantic rattling of the knob and the door burst open in splinters. Three large men poured through and grabbed John, pinning him up against the wall. From behind capered a tremendous nose, which was loosely attached to a much smaller gentleman in a dark pinstripe suit and matching homburg.

"I'm Mickey the nose" the nose intoned nasally, the face behind it scrunching up in undisguised horror as the nose took a whiff of the surrounding air, vacuuming up a few errant fruit flies in the process.

"What is that horrendous stink!"

"It's just my apartment" John replied, feeling it was probably best not to start off on exactly what it might be in his apartment.

Mickey took a moment to recover from his sense of nausea, and, anxious to leave, got to the point.

"Girl. Kneecaps. Pick one."

John looked confused.

"What do you want with her?"

"Lass owes me money. Hasn't paid. I'm not unreasonable, but she's going to pay up one way or the other. Business is business."

Mickey's eyes began to water.

"So where is she?"

John considered carefully. He was very attached to his kneecaps. They were practically part of him. But he also vaguely tolerated Kasey, sometimes to the point of not explicitly avoiding her company. And she was the only one who ever spoke to him. So he was probably under some kind of obligation to help her.

Mickey's cheeks began to swell, his nose turning a frightful shade of lavender.

John just needed to get them away from the fresh icy air, which was making venturous intrusions through the demolished doorway.

"Right this way," John indicated, helpfully demonstrating the route to his hallway.

He waited for Mickey to fall in line behind his goons before leading them on. It was only a few steps later that John started to change.

At first, it was not noticeable. A bit of fur around his belly. A claw, a nose around his right nipple. Another patch of fur along his back. But then, suddenly, the belly of his shirt sagged and he let out a roar, ripping away his clothes to reveal his spandex underarmor, emblazoned with the bright, fetid insignia of DEAD CAT MAN!

"Nooooooooooooo!" screamed Mickey and his cohorts, rushing for the door, now much too far away.

The gangsters collapsed to their knees, clutching wildly at their throats, trying miserably not to breath.

"Scratch and sniff!" shouted John Raulton, the latent Dead Cat superhero, as he rubbed his maggoty belly to release a puff of necrotic vapors.

Mickey began exhaling for breath--a feat of anatomy that few humans ever provoke the desperation to experience.

"Curse you Dead Cat Man! Curse you!" Mickey wheezed, struggling to take his final breath.

"My hero!" shouted Kasey.

She popped up from behind the couch and went to fling her arms around John, but then decided to go puke out the window instead.

"All in a days work, Kasey," said John, "All in a days work."