“Funny. It appears somebody has absconded with my beaker of hydrochloric acid. Was it you, Tito? Well, answer me, yee of little height! Answer me at once!” Dr. Golan paced about his ostrich skin carpeting, his white hair flying behind him as he stormed the laboratory.
“Yes, I do believe it was,” he said to his midget. ”For I-eeeeee.” He paused just then and stroked his goatee. “For I-eeee can only trust you…”
Ripping his monocle from his lazy eye, he sized up young Tito, losing track momentarily as he began to admire his midget’s neatly tailored capris. Then, his anger blazing anew, he made yet another silent calculation, as he gazed into the near distance. ”For I can only trust you approximately 54.7 percent repeating as far as I can throw you.”
Tito shuddered, not just because he found Dr. Golan’s rages terrifying, but because who the hell covers one’s floors with bird skin? Feathers, he could understand. But bird carcass? Carcasses pulled taught?! Who indeed, Tito thought.
And as Golan lurched toward him, wielding a disembodied beak, Tito saw the answer clearly: a madman.
The same madman who, as a young boy in the Kazakhs, once lost the final ingredient for his penile growth serum to a thirsty, and now well-endowed, ostrich. An ostrich that his father, a kleptomaniac zoologist, mistakenly believed would make a nice family pet. But it was Tito who would pay. And pay dearly — at the wrong end of the beak.
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