Slug Midas

Everything I touched turned to slugs. Fun at first; horrifying shortly after.

Due to my low energy intake (three meals, plus snacks) and high energy output (millions of slugs), I was technically a perpetual motion machine. The government soon caught wind of this and hooked me up to a large generator, which transformed boiled slug dust into electricity for people's homes.

Eventually the situation changed, so that even the food I ate turned into slugs – hundreds of them – which wriggled and escaped my mouth. I vomited a lot. I could not eat food any more.

Soon I was feeling the first effects of starvation. But they didn't want to lose their perpetual motion machine, so they tried everything. The government rep tried hooking me up to an IV, but the second that first particle of fluid touched my vein, it erupted into a thousand slugs. This was painful. I refused to try it again.

I tried ingesting nutrients a few other ways, but to no avail. Each time, I was met with the same result.
Nutritional powders? Turned to slugs in my mouth.

Inhaling protein-enriched vapours? More slugs. I don't know if you've ever breathed slugs in their gaseous, vaporised form, but it's absolutely disgusting.

Rubbing a special vitamin-enriched shampoo into my scalp? Slugs.

Eventually they settled on sending out a team to catch real slugs, which would be sautéed in garlic by a French chef and served to me on fancy crockery. This, I appreciated. I'm nothing if not a fine diner. This worked because when something was already a slug, that slug could not be transformed into a slug – how can you turn something into that which it already is?

Now, I know what you're thinking. The Man Who Cried Gasoline was a more obvious choice for being co-opted as a government fuel source. But, one – his energy efficiency was much lower than mine. If you care about the environment, that's all that should matter. And two – he was nowhere to be found. Unlike me, the Man Who Cried Gasoline was smart enough to cover his tracks. He could be anywhere by now.

I, on the other hand, could only be in one place – government custody.

After inadvertently transforming several of my friends and family into slugs, I tried to isolate myself. I also wore rubber gloves at all times. Skin contact had to be avoided where possible.

But they soon found me.

The operatives who had captured me for use as a power station – they always wore hazmat suits. They'd learned their lesson after the first two grabbed me by the arms, and dissolved into writhing masses of slugs. Now they were slugs, they'd have to avoid all salty food and seawater. Without those things, a lot of fun activities are closed off to you. I myself try to avoid seawater, because morally I can't stand what happens when my skin brushes against a fish, the fish becomes 50 slugs, the slugs make contact with the salty water and they explode into showers of guts.

Bitten

At the age of 18, many of us are bitten by a were-academic. This afflicts us with a curse from which it takes approximately four years to recover, unless you luck out and manage to fail sooner than that.

After this, if not before, we are bitten by a were-employee. This curses us to waste most of our waking hours in pursuit of a goal we cannot enjoy or understand. We are compensated for this with small metal objects, which we can trade for food and shelter. Some choose to see this particular affliction as “purpose”. But all agree it is less enjoyable than doing nothing.

Another sizeable portion of us, usually between the ages of 16 and 35, are bitten by a were-parent. This causes a much more stressful and time-consuming curse, from which it takes at least 18 years and nine months to be anywhere near recovery. Though our parents and our parents' parents have all been subjects to this illness, they do not warn us properly. Some try to explain, but evidently do not try hard enough – because the planet remains vastly overpopulated, growing more so by the day.

As we approach semi-freedom from the curse of the were-parent, we must watch in horror as our child—now an adult—is bitten by the new, more financially-draining form of creature, the were-academic. We misremember and misrepresent our own youths so as to not panic our child as to the nature of adulthood. “It was great,” we say. “Best years of my life.”

And if we do somehow manage to help our child evade capture by the were-academic, it only means the were-employee will catch them all the sooner. Unless, that is, our servitude to employment has been enough to provide for the child a life of leisure. If all goes well, they might pass the threshold of 35 years, free of degree, job or child. That is our dream. Our dream, as a parent. A dream that almost always shatters. And when it does come to fruition, it often results in the child becoming a selfish, sociopathic monster.

Really, there's no escape.

You can spray yourself with anti-human toxins and try to avoid all contact with the outside world, but chances are that something or someone will bite you.

And no matter how well you prepare, around the age of 73 or long before, you will be bitten by a were-corpse. We don't know how to avoid this yet. Just try to get everything you need to do done by then.