Pandora's Children

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“Momma, I’m hungry,” the little girl said in her little girl voice.
“Then momma will get you something to eat, dear.”

Michael Worthington Esquire snapped his laptop closed. It was an expensive piece of electronics, requiring the use of a biometric fingerprint scanner to simply turn it on followed by a series of encrypted passwords to logon to the operating system. It wasn’t his business computer, as one would assume because of its many security features. After all, he was involved in several high profile medical malpractice cases at the moment and sensitive information had to be protected in case the machine was stolen. No, the Dell laptop was Michael’s personal computer and the information stored on its hard drive was far more sensitive than legal statements and depositions.
Michael was the self-proclaimed king of medical malpractice. He had built his empire on the crippled backs of the American people, doctors and pharmaceutical companies. Hospitals trembled when they heard his name, and insurance companies raised their deductibles when they saw him coming. He considered himself a modern day hero, protecting the people from medical negligence by bringing the worst offenders to task for their carelessness and negligence. The rest of the country called him a soulless monster, an ambulance chaser of the highest order, hurting hospitals and doctors who had done no wrong. Regardless of the labels applied to him, the fact of the matter was that he was very good at what he did and he had earned millions doing it.

It was Thursday at five o’clock and Michael’s Manhattan law office was closing for the evening. Workstations were being shut down and filing cabinets locked. Lights in individual offices and in the common areas were snapped off. The staff, including receptionists and legal aids, associates and junior partners, gathered their briefcases and pocketbooks and donned their jackets, disappearing from the sprawling office in groups of twos and threes. The day had been mild before lunch, but snow was now falling and there was a late November bite in the air. Everyone was eager to get home before the city became a slushy gray mess.

By the time five-thirty chimed, only Michael and his personal assistant, Craig Munson, remained. Michael stood alone in his office as he waited for Craig to finish his chores, studying his reflection in the mirror and smiling. At sixty-five, he looked as healthy and hungry as he had in his thirties, but the years had bestowed upon him a more regal, more predatory, bearing. He possessed high, chiseled cheekbones and a broad, strong chin. His lips were full, his nose narrow, his eyes a piercing blue. Regular botox injections and several plastic surgeries had erased the wrinkles from the corners of his eyes and mouth and removed the bags from beneath his eyelids. The procedures had smoothed out his features and infused his skin with a youthful suppleness. He wore his gray hair proudly, though, instead of dying it black as many men his age did. Despite his desire to appear younger, to feel younger, he felt his gray hair was a subtle yet powerful reminder to his opposition as well as to jurors that he was a distinguished veteran of his trade and not a rank amateur.

Craig rapped on the door. Michael waved the older, balding man into the room, still eyeing himself in the mirror.
“Is everything ready?” Michael asked, turning to his assistant.
“Got everything right here,” Craig said. He handing Michael a slim manila envelope. “E-tickets for your flight there and the return flight, confirmation letter for the hotel suite for two nights and reservations for a Lincoln Town Car to be brought to you directly at O’Hare. Just have your driver’s license and credit card and you’re all set.”
“What about my Bears tickets?”
“They’ll be waiting for you at the stadium.”
“Excellent,” Michael said. He placed the envelope in his briefcase, followed by the laptop. He snapped the case closed and listened as the locks engaged. Like the computer itself, the briefcase was fitted with a finger print reader to protect against unwelcome intrusion. A transponder chip, sewn into the fabric inside the attaché, allowed him to track down the briefcase if it were ever stolen or misplaced.
“You know,” Craig said as Michael gathered his wallet and keys from his desk, “I’m kind of surprised you’re attending to this case personally. You haven’t worked on something so… well, dull, in a decade. Gilbert’s been handling the case for the past month with no problem.”
“I know,” Michael said, “but nothing scares the shit out of a hospital law team more than seeing Michael Worthington, in the flesh, sitting across the table from them. It’s all about intimidation, my friend.”
“Of course,” Craig acknowledged, “but this seems like an open and shut case. I mean, for god’s sake, the surgical team left a sponge and a retractor inside the boy’s abdominal cavity. You don’t need the country’s most prominent malpractice lawyer at your side to win. ”
“I know, but Gerald Connors is an old college friend of mine and he asked me to attend this meeting personally. He saved my life one night in college and I owe him. A drinking accident, if you must know.” He paused. “Besides, I could use the long weekend away from the office. A little gambling, a football game, new restaurants. Things like that.”
Craig didn’t press any farther. It was really none of his business. This was Michael Worthington’s law firm and Michael Worthington did whatever he wanted to do.

Gerald Connors and Michael had been friends in college, but Gerald had never saved Michael’s life. He had asked Michael if he would handle his case personally, but Michael sent Shane Gilbert instead, explaining to Gerald that he no longer handled such mundane cases personally. Shane was more than qualified to handle a case like this. It was an obvious case of negligence on the part of the surgical team that any green malpractice layer just out of law school could roll the case with little difficulty.
But last week he had made plans to meet a new friend in Gary, Indiana, a city sixty miles east of Chicago. They had met over the internet. His plans were of an illicit nature, highly frowned upon by both the law and most major religions, and attending this deposition with the hospital’s legal team would give him a legitimate reason for being in that part of the country in case questions were ever raised.
Gerald was ecstatic when Michael called to tell him he would be there for the Friday morning meeting.

Michael ate dinner alone at a small Japanese restaurant that Thursday night then retired to his penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan where he lived alone. He had been married once upon a time, and Jessica had been a source of strength and inspiration during law school and the first ten years of his career. She satisfied his lusts like no other woman he had ever been with. But as he grew successful, she slowly became unbearable to live with. She slowly transformed from a loose, beautiful creature into a wife. She nagged and complained and demanded and spent too much of his hard-earned money. She ate too much and never exercised, and her waistline expanded until he could no longer stand the sight of her. He turned to other women for his sexual gratification, and when Jessica discovered this, instead of trying to understand the situation from his perspective, she threatened to divorce him and take half of his money. He decided that it would be cheaper and less stressful if she simply disappeared instead. He paid a freelance ex-marine five hundred thousand dollars one night to cure his headache. Jessica was never seen again.

A limo was waiting outside of Michael’s apartment building at five thirty the next morning, ready to whisk him to La Guardia for his seven thirty flight. Taxis were acceptable for the short commute between his work and home, but for a trip that could exceed an hour because of traffic, there was only one way to travel, and that was in comfort.
The ride took a full hour, as Michael had expected it would on a Friday morning, but he managed to check in, pass through security, and reach his gate by seven. He boarded along with the other first class travelers ay seven fifteen.
The flight was only an hour and a half, just enough time to review Gerald Connors’ case. It was a classic case of surgical negligence, instruments and sponges left inside the body after the sutures had been placed. Michael flipped through the documents his assistants and associates had compiled for him, including depositions, doctor’s charts, and several gruesome pictures of the damage sustained by Gerald’s son because of the neglect.
Garret Connor, sixteen, had needed an emergency appendectomy. Because of the retractor and sponge left inside, he suffered three more months of horrible pain afterwards, required a second surgery, and was left with disfiguring scars on his abdomen where internal infections had drained through the skin. It was an open and shut case, as Craig Munson had noted the previous night, one that would never see the inside of a courtroom. He would have an eight figure settlement hammered out before lunchtime.
As he placed the documents back into his briefcase, he noticed a photograph pressed between his laptop and the briefcase. He pulled it out and looked at it. It was a passport size photo he had printed out two weeks ago. His intention had been to shred it once he had burned her image into his mind, but he had obviously forgotten to. Had he packed it subconsciously?
He studied the features of the girl in the photo. Her skin was the color of alabaster, smooth and without a single imperfection. Her hair was blonde, the shimmering color of spun gold. She had large blue eyes, a button nose and full pink lips.
She looked like a china doll, her features fragile, but she shone like an angel. He closed his eyes for a moment, watched her in his mind’s eye as she touched him with her hands, with her kips. He could feel himself begin to harden under his seat tray.
A voice to his right broke his concentration, shattered his mood. “Is that your daughter?” the woman next to him asked as she peered at the picture. “She’s adorable. How old is she? Seven? Eight?”
Michael quickly stuffed the picture into his breast pocket and turned to the woman. He said the first thing he could think of to preclude any further conversation. “She’s dead, actually. Today was her birthday.”
The woman frowned. “Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry.” She returned her attention back to the magazine she was reading and kept quiet for the rest of the flight.

Michael’s flight landed in Chicago at eight thirty central time. As promised by Craig, a black Town Car was waiting for him. He showed the driver his license and credit card, confirming his identity, and was handed the keys. He fought the morning rush hour and finally arrived at the Renaissance Chicago O’Hare Suites, an upscale hotel designed with the wealthy businessman in mind. Michael availed himself of the curbside valet parking service and entered the hotel. He checked in, a process that proved to be quick and painless, then made his way to the hotel shop after giving his luggage to a bellhop to bring to his room.
The shop was more than just a haven for cheap souvenirs and t-shirts. It offered a multitude of groceries and drinks and a pharmacy section that rivaled that of CVS. Michael began shopping for common hygiene products. He never checked luggage on short business trips, and with the airlines cracking down on liquids and gels allowed on carry-on luggage, Michael was forced by buy items he needed at his destination. He trolled down the aisles, briefcase in hand, and began to fill his red plastic basket with essential items. Shampoo and conditioner, deodorant and body wash, toothbrush and toothpaste, disposable razors and shaving cream. He would throw everything away before he left on Sunday.
Michael was walking towards the check out when an aisle filled with a variety of toys caught his eye. He strolled over and began pawing through the selection, finally choosing a pink teddy bear with a white belly and a fluffy purple tail. Michael knew she would absolutely love it.

Michael took several minutes to freshen himself up in his suite, steaming the travel wrinkles from his suit and brushing his teeth, then left for his noon meeting at the hospital.
He shook hands with both Shane Gilbert and Gerald Connors when he entered the conference room then offered a predatory smile across the table at the hospital’s two lawyers and chief of medicine. He could see the fear in their eyes, could smell their desperation. He wouldn’t be surprised if one of them pissed their pants.
“You guys fucked up,” Michael said without preamble as he took his seat. “Write me a check that doesn’t insult me or my friend and we’ll call it a day.”
While Shane Gilbert would have been able to reach the same settlement as Michael, it would have taken him several hours of wrangling and bickering to do so. Michael had the case wrapped up in fifteen minutes. He left young Mr. Gilbert to finish hammering out the small details and left the hospital.

Back at the hotel, Michael stripped off his suit and showered. Hot water rushing over his body, he carefully shaved his face and his groin until both were smooth as a newborn’s backside. He dried off and dressed in non-descript clothing he had brought with him: blue jeans, a dark green sweater and a black overcoat. On his way out of the hotel, he stopped for a banana muffin and coffee at the Starbucks in the lobby.
Michael left the hotel again, his destination this time the Bank of America branch downtown. He entered the lobby and walked towards the help desk. The young blond sitting behind the desk looked up from the magazine she was reading as he approached.
“How can I help you?
“Michael Worthington. I’m here to see Mr. Jamison.”
The blonde consulted a schedule hidden beneath her magazine. She looked up at Michael and smiled. “I’ll call him right away she said.”
Michael only had to wait two minutes before the bank president emerged from an elevator on the far side of the lobby. Dressed in a sharp charcoal suit and red tie, Mr. Jamison strode purposefully towards Michael, his long legs covering the distance in a matter of moments. The two men shook hands.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Worthington,” Mr. Jamison said with a smile.
“Good afternoon,” Michael replied politely. “Is everything ready?”
Mr. Jamison nodded. “If you’ll follow me to my office, I’ll have you out of here in five minutes.”
“After you,” Michael said, making a slight sweeping motion with his hand. He followed Mr. Jamison to his first floor office.
The banker locked the door behind them and gestured to the chair on the visitor’s side of the large mahogany desk. Michael politely declined. “I prefer not to get comfortable,” he said with an easy smile. “I can stand for five minutes.
“Suit yourself,” Mr. Jamison said, moving to the other side of the desk. He pulled a key ring from his pocket and sat down. He fumbled for a moment with the numerous keys until he found the one he was looking for. “I’m happy you had the foresight to call ahead with your request, Mr. Worthington,” Mr. Jamison said as he unlocked one of the drawers behind his desk. “It’s rare someone asks to withdraw thirty thousand dollars in cash. Makes life easier for us, getting the paperwork out of the way beforehand.”
“Happy to do so,” Michael said.
Mr. Jamison placed several banded stacks of hundred dollar bills on the desk between them. He carefully broke the bands and began to count out the money, sorting the bills into twenty piles of fifteen each while Michael watched. Once the money was counted, the banker re-wrapped the bills in five thousand dollar increments at Michael’s request. He pushed the stack across the desk, along with several papers which Michael quickly read and signed.
“Excellent,” Michael said. He opened his briefcase and placed the six piles in one of the elastic pockets, followed by his copies of the paperwork. “It’s been a pleasure.”
The transaction completed, Mr. Jamison stood. “If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Worthington…” He trailed off.
Michael smiled easily. “I have a date with a high stakes poker game tonight,” he said.
“Those are the best kind, aren’t they?”
Michael nodded. “If it’s not high risk, Mr. Jamison, it’s not worth playing.”

Michael did not visit any of the riverboat casinos across the river in Indiana. He did not gamble at all. He never intended to do so, despite what he told Mr. Jamison at the bank or Craig Monroe the night before. The money was earmarked for a more enjoyable enterprise. Instead of going to the casinos, he ate dinner at the steak house inside the hotel, preferring not to venture out into what had become a bitter and windy night. He dined on filet mignon and lobster tails and drank Merlot that cost him fifty dollars a glass as he watched college football on the plasma television hanging above the bar.
He retired to his suite after eating and drinking his fill, his mind buzzing pleasantly, his eyesight slightly fuzzy. He turned off his cell phone and spent the rest of the evening watch pay-per-view porn and masturbating.

At nine o’clock the following morning, after showering again and shaving what little stubble had re-grown overnight, Michael left the hotel, briefcase in hand. He was dressed in the same clothing he had worm to the bank the previous day. His head pounded gently and he cursed himself for drinking too much, but he wasn’t about to let this minor hangover deter him from that morning’s plans.
He did not stop at the valet station, did not ask to have his rented Town Car pulled around. Instead, he walked several blocks and hailed a taxi.
“Where to, boss?” the driver asked once Michael had made himself comfortable in the backseat
“The Avis car rental office at the airport, my friend.”
“You got it.” And they were off.

Using a driver’s license and credit card issued to a Mr. Warren Taylor of Akron Ohio, Michael rented a blue Ford Taurus. He politely declined the offer of a free GPS system in the vehicle, claiming he didn’t want anything in the car that would further encourage a thief to break into it. The true reason was that he simply did not want anything in the car that could be tracked or monitored or had the capability to transmit his location. He already had directions stored on his laptop and that was good enough.
Once in the car, he opened his briefcase on the passenger sat and fired up the laptop. Three minutes later he was looking at a text file containing turn by turn directions to the Becker household. He scanned the document and committed as much as he could to memory, then set off driving towards Gary, Indiana and his date with Lily Becker.

Michael pulled up to the house at eleven thirty. He circled the block several times, finally settling on a curbside parking spot two houses away from his destination and on the other side of the street. He pulled a small prescription bottle of Percocet from his briefcase and swallowed one of the blue pills dry, chasing it several seconds later with a swig of his bottled water. He would have preferred to snort some coke instead, but he learned the hard way several years earlier what you could and could not do in a rental car. The legal narcotic would give him an acceptable buzz.
Michael shutdown his computer. Before snapping the briefcase closed, he removed four of the five thousand dollar stacks. He tucked the money into an inside pocket of his coat and got out of the car. He walked around to the trunk and tossed the attaché inside, then pull pulled out a small plastic bag containing the teddy bear he had purchased at the hotel. After closing the trunk, he began the short walk towards the Becker house. The sun was bright, even through the polarized lenses of his sunglasses, and a biting wind blew fiercely against him, as if the elements themselves were conspiring to prevent him from entering that house.
The Becker house was a sad affair. A three foot tall rotting, peeling white picket fence surrounded a front yard filled with dirty and broken plastic toys. The home’s white asbestos siding was in the same state of disrepair as the fence, and the roof was worn and practically bereft of shingles. The twenty grand could go a long way in fixing up this place, Michael thought.
Michael pushed open the broken gate and walked passed the toy graveyard towards the front door. There was a tarnished bronze knocker, which he wrapped against the door three times. Moments later, the door swung inward, revealing the mistress of the house.
She was a short woman, her round shape accentuated beneath a ratty, worn canary yellow robe. Her dull brown hair was supported atop her equally round head by a dozen plastic curlers. She wore no makeup, every wrinkle and imperfection in her aged skin apparent as the flat nose which sat in the center of her face. Her eyes were small and beady, filled with mistrust.
Michael had a difficult time believing that the girl in the picture had sprung from this beast’s loins. He felt a moment of panic, wondering if the product he was to receive was the same as the one promised. This wasn’t the type of transaction that could be brought to the attention of the Better Business Bureau if he were to be cheated. The alarm he felt quickly abated, though, and he attributed the paranoia to the Percocet he had taken. He could feel the euphoric nature of the drug beginning to massage his mind. The girl was probably adopted, not a product of this slug’s genes. After all, what mother could sell her own flesh and blood like this?
“Mr. Taylor,” the woman said. It was not a question.
“Ms. Becker.”
“Does anyone know you’re here?”
He shook his head.
They eyed each other across the threshold, Michael glaring down, Ms. Becker craning her fat neck up. A mutual loathing passed between them, conveyed in the coldness of their stares. Neither mother nor suitor could claim the moral high ground in this battle.
“Come in,” Ms. Becker finally said. She turned and waddled into the house. Michael followed, closing the before quietly behind him. They stopped in the foyer. It was as hideous as the outside of the house, with cracked brown linoleum floors and peeling yellow and brown wallpaper. The air was still and musty and old with a hint of rot, as if a mouse had died behind one of the walls.
Ms. Becker turned back to Michael. “You have the cash?” she asked.
Michael nodded, pulled the wads from his jacket. He handed them over. Ms. Becker counted the money quickly then, satisfied all twenty thousand was present as promised, slid it into one of the pockets on her robe. “Follow me,” she said.
Michael expected her to lead him towards the staircase which led up to the second floor. Instead, she led him through the foyer and towards the kitchen. On the wall to the left, just before the brown tile of the entranceway gave way to the beige tile of the kitchen, there was a door. Ms. Becker pulled a single key from a pocket and unlocked the door. She pulled the door open and pulled on a chain that dangled just inside, causing a single bare light bulb to flare to life.
“Enjoy yourself Mr. Taylor.” Her voice was cold, but when Michael glanced at her, he swore he saw a small smile playing at the corner of her rubbery lips. Another illusion he blamed on the narcotic.
Michael handed Ms. Becker the bag with bear. “Give this to her after I leave,” he said before turning towards the staircase which led down to the basement.
The steps were wooden and they groaned as he slowly made his way down. The door closed behind him and he heard a soft click as the lock engaged. He assumed it was to prevent her from getting away.
Michael stopped when he stepped off the final stair onto a concrete slab that was the floor. The dank, musty smell he had first noticed upstairs was heavier here, more pervasive, more offensive. He ignored it as he scanned the room. Most of the basement was hidden in darkness, the corners shrouded in shadows, all except for the bed in the center of the room and the figure reclining on it.
Michael had been with all kinds of women. Blondes, brunettes and redheads. White women, black women, Asian women, Hispanic women. He had been with women he thought he loved and women he had paid to love him. He had been with virgins and he had been with women who had been around the block so many times their tires were bald. But he had never been with a girl quite like Lily Becker.
Lily was sitting up in the bed, her angelic features accentuated by the gentle wash of light from twin lamps on either side of the bed. She wore a pink nightgown with a purple pony stamped on the front. The top half of her body was exposed while her lower half was tucked under the dark purple blanket. She smiled at Michael.
Michael stood still, unsure of how to proceed.
“Aren’t you going to come keep me company?” Lily asked in her little girl voice, giggling as she spoke.
Michael frowned. There something unsettling about the girl’s voice, something that didn’t ring quite true in his drug-clouded brain. She looked like a little girl and sounded like a little girl but the way she spoke reminded him of a courtesan he once knew years ago, sensual and sultry and seductive. But her voice was the voice of a siren, one that couldn’t be resisted. Despite his sudden uneasiness, he was intrigued and he found himself shuffling towards the bed.
She was just as advertised, with pale skin and bright blue eyes and blonde hair which fell about her shoulders. A cherub in the flesh, cats from Heaven for mortal pleasures.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Lily said, her laugh like wind chimes.
Without hesitation, Michael unbuttoned his jeans and pulled both his pants and boxers down, exposing his erect penis to the little girl. Warning alarms started to sound in the back of his mind, screaming to him that something was wrong, that he should leave now. But he ignored that advice, his sensitivities dulled, his body following Lily Becker’s hypnotic voice and his own primal, lustful desires.
As Michael waited, his attention focused on that beautiful face and that lilting voice, he felt something tickle and then begin to crawl up his right leg. A moment later, the same sensation followed on his left. He looked down in sudden alarm and saw what appeared to be twin snakes curling up his legs. But they weren’t serpents. Even in the gloom, he could identify them for what they were: tentacles, black in color and covered in a thin layer of slime. And he could feel them moving quickly.
Michael reached down frantically to tear them from his legs. As his fists closed around the disgusting tendrils, he felt a prick on each thigh, followed by a fiery pain that ran up the length of his spine. He screamed and his entire body spasmed once. Their task complete, the tentacles retracted down his pants, escaping his grasp and disappearing back into the darkness, leaving Michael with nothing but two fistfuls of ichor.
Michael tried to turn, tried to run, but he had lost all control of his muscles. He could do nothing but watch in horror, watch as the blanket covering Lily’s lower body began to move and undulate. Watch as the purple blanket was tossed to the floor, revealing the nest of writhing black and green tentacles that comprised Lily Beckers’s lower body.
The seething mass carried Lily’s human upper half towards Michael with a wet, sickening sound. When she reached the end of the mattress she smiled up at him again, revealing a mouth lined not with human dentition but with dozens of tiny sharp teeth designed by some terrible god for tearing and rending. She began to stroke his penis.
Michael watched as the monster played with his manhood, willing it to shrink, to shrivel. Instead it seemed to throb more under Lily’s gentle ministrations. He tried to strike out, tried to run, but his entire body continued to betray him, paralyzed by whatever toxin had been introduced into his system.
“So nice,” Lily whispered. She placed her tongue on his penis and slowly began to lick, savoring every movement. “So big,” she murmured.
Unable to move and unable to escape, Michael tried to relax, tried to enjoy his fantasy come to life. She was an expert at the art, better than untutored virgins, superior to the most experienced whores. For a single delirious moment, a fevered part of Michael’s mind thought that there was a chance for a happy ending to this nightmare. Despite the paralysis, despite the rows of predatory teeth, despite the monster at his genitals, he could see himself walking out the front door and back to his rented Ford Taurus. Back to his life.
But then Lily bit down, not the gentle nibble of a lover, but with the force of a triggered bear trap.
And then she began to chew.

Momma Becker sat upstairs in the kitchen, counting her money and listening as the man who claimed to be Warren Taylor, the man who had paid twenty thousand dollars to rape a seven year old girl, screamed. And oh how he screamed, his alternating sobs and shrieks floating up from the basement for over half an hour as he was slowly consumed by her beautiful daughter.
Lily did like to savor her food.
An hour after the screams ended, Lily’s voice rose from the bowels of the house. “I finished it all like you told me,” she called in her little girl voice, “but I’m still hungry.”
“Then momma will get you something else to eat,” she said, turning once again to her computer