“I’ve had parasites before, but never any that talked back to me.”

“Please don’t refer to me as a ‘parasite’. The word has negative connotations.”

“What shall I call you, then?”

“You may call me Charles. Consider me an internal valet.”

“Well, Charles, can I fire you?”

“I require two weeks’ notice.”

 “Consider it given.”

“Right. Until then, or until I take up a new position, would you mind not drinking?”

 “You’re a teetotaler?”

“Not at all. That’s just a wretched vintage, not even in shouting distance of ordinaire.”

“You don’t like my wine?”

“You have execrable taste. I can suggest suitable labels, if you wish.”

“Sure, why not?”

Taxis honked and pedestrians bustled. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular. Why do you care?”

“I know the Village. Please turn right at the next corner.”

“What is this? Driving Miss Daisy?”

“You’re not Jewish.”

“And you’re not black.”

“You couldn’t know that, but you’re right. I’m multicolored, really quite dashing.”

“Right at this corner?”

“Yes.”

“What’s down this street?”

“One of my favorite shops.”

“How does a para . . . an internal valet have favorite shops?”

“My last host was a shopper and lived near NYU. Though quite happy with our partnership, she had foreign obligations. When she caught a plane to Kathmandu, I decided to stay here. I’m a visitor to your city.”

“More of a visitor to my insides. By the way, where are you? You sound like you’re riding inside my ear.”

“Not possible. I’m larger than you think and am currently wrapped around your . . . ”

“Stop! Don’t tell me!”

“Your choice.”

“Definitely don’t tell me!”

“You won’t notice me, I assure you — until I depart.”

“Hey! This doesn’t end with a Sigourney Weaver moment, does it?”

“Not at all.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely, you provide me with locomotion and concealment, not nourishment.”

“You’re an outer space alien?”

“Yes.”

“Plotting an invasion?”

“No. I’m a tourist.”

“A tourist?”

“An extraterrestrial tourist — I wish to explore your curious world without disturbing local culture and habits.”

“I provide transportation and camouflage?”

“Yes.”

“What do I get out of it?”

“Beyond erudition?”

“Come again?”

“I’ll provide an ample fee in the negotiable currency of your choice.”

“How ample?”

“Would twenty thousand dollars recompense you adequately for the next two weeks of cohabitation?”

“Whoa! You can get twenty thousand bucks?”

“Easily.”

“How?”

“After we visit the shop ahead, we’ll pick up my Citibank ATM card. Would two thousand dollars be an adequate retainer?”

“Four would be better.”

“Fine, because that’s the daily limit on the card.”

“How about if we stop at the ATM first?”

“The shop I wish to visit is on the way.”

“Hey, is this the place?”

 “It is.”

“Wow, it looks expensive!”

“Vino Veritas is pricey, but anything we purchase will accrue to my account.”

“On top of the twenty thousand?”

“On top of the twenty thousand.”

“Well, let’s go on in!”

“Welcome to Vino Veritas! I’m Scott Libby, manager and chief sommelier. May I be of assistance, sir?”

Time to assert temporary control over my host, “Yes, please,” I answered.

Mark’s eyes bulged in surprise and his mouth made gasping motions as he tried to speak but failed.

 “Are you well, sir?”

“Perfectly,”

“What may I offer today?”

“I need several bottles for a dinner party later, but I understand you possess some true treasures. Might I view them?”

“Of course, come this way. I’ll just unlock our climate-controlled vault.”

“Ah, Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, marvelous!”

“Our price is nineteen thousand dollars, including delivery and — if the wine is to be consumed — expert de-corking.”

“A bargain!”

“Precisely. And here we have an Egon Müller Scharzhofberger Riesling Trockenbeerenauslese for only fourteen thousand dollars.”

A deafening crash — glass shattering, metal twisting — staggered us and the building shivered. The front of the shop had been replaced by the dented front end of a red Chevrolet Tahoe. Doors heaved open and six figures dressed in black, balaclavas pulled low, leapt through the gaping window.

“Robbers! A smash and grab!” shouted Mark, again able to speak due to my inadvertent release of control.

“What did you say, host?”

“It’s a heist!”

“They are thieves?”

“What else?”

 “What a pity!” I muttered.

 “What are you talking about?”

“Those broken cases of wine are Chateau Mouton Rothschild 2019, unless I miss my guess.”

“Expensive?”

“Six hundred dollars a bottle, at least.”

The leader of the robbers accosted Libby, “You’ve got the keys. Let’s have the good stuff.”

“But sir . . .”

He placed a knife’s gleaming tip in Libby’s left nostril. “Unless you’d like to argue with me.”

“Not at all, sir.”

The gang leader produced a padded rucksack with several bottle-sized sleeves. The other three robbers busied themselves heaving cases of wine into the back of the Tahoe. “Right in the sack, bozo.”

Libby reverently tucked the Romanée-Conti into the rucksack, followed by two bottles of the Trockenbeerenauslese, and a bottle of Domaine Dujac 2019 Puligny-Montrachet Les Folatieres Premier Cru. “There, sir, you have our greatest treasures.”

“What about that one?” The robber pointed to a dusty cabinet at floor level.

Libby’s eyes went wide. “That’s a disused cabinet, sir. It’s empty.”

“Well, let’s just check it anyway, shall we?”

“Please, sir,” Sweat sprang out on the manager’s forehead, “the contents of this cabinet are not remotely marketable.”

“You’d be surprised what I can sell. Open it.”

Libby swallowed.

He twisted his blade so it caught the light. “Go ahead.”

The manager bent, fumbled with his keys, and finally pulled the cabinet’s door open.

“Look what we have here!” The robber crowed. “Two bottles of 2005 Domaine Leroy Musigny Grand Cru. Eighty grand a bottle, no?”

Libby did not reply.

“My client will give me that price and maybe a bonus.”

The manager raised his hands in protest, “These bottles are privately owned and stored here as favor to our best customer. I can’t let you take them.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate.” The robber again raised his knife to Libby’s face.

“We should intervene,” I murmured to Mark.

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“I do have means of self-defense,” I murmured.

“Any time you’re ready.”

“I thought I’d alert you.”

“Why?”

I hesitated. “You may feel a twinge when I activate my proboscises.”

“Proboscises?”

“Activating!” Two needles, each attached to a monomolecular filament, fired from the fatty flesh above Mark’s hips. He screamed and fell forward on one knee. Each needle lodged in a black-suited robber and administered a paralyzing charge of electricity.

The robber chief whirled in surprise and took a step toward Mark.

Mark, not as disabled as he appeared, waited for the robber to close and then thrust up hard with his right fist, catching the fellow beneath his chin, snapping his head back. The villain toppled to the floor unconscious.

“Well struck, Mark!” I exulted.

Sirens sounded in the distance. The remaining robbers clambered into the Tahoe, slammed it into reverse and exited the wine shop in a shower of glass.

* * *

A line of police cars, lights blinking, nosed at the wineshop like piglets nudging a sow. Mark watched crime scene officers gather inscrutable bits of evidence. He muttered, “I think we can go now.”

“Yes, you’ve given your statement and left your contact information. We can be about our business.”

“Hey,” he grumbled. “Those proboscises of yours really hurt!”

“Don’t be a baby.”

“You’re not the one with extra holes in your sides.”

“Hardly larger than hypodermic punctures!”

“Just don’t do it again,” he warned, “or my price goes up. Way up.”

“Needs must.”

His ensuing silence shouted disgruntlement. I decided to change the subject. “At least we now possess several most acceptable wines, a Chateau Lafite Rothschild 2020, a Louis Latour 2018 Corton-Charlemagne, Grand Cru, and a Dom Perignon Champagne cuvee vintage rosé 2008.”

“Yeah, for free, sort of,” Mark brightened. “That dude Libby was pretty grateful that we stopped those wine-muggers.”

“As he should be.”

“It didn’t hurt that the cops caught the other three before they got to a bridge.” Mark took a deep and satisfied breath, “I’ve got to admit that we make a pretty good team, Charles.”

“A fortuitous blending of capabilities indeed.”

He smiled, “I could get used to drinking good wine.”

I took in our location through his eyes and mused, “I’m also interested in cheeses, you know.

“Cheeses?”

“Bitto, an Italian cheese, and Wyke Farms cheddar, to be precise.”

“Where do we get those?”

“There’s a shop around the next corner but one.”

Mark’s inner voice became cautious, “you think somebody might try to rob it?”

“Who steals cheese?

Mark shrugged. “A right turn?”

“Right.” The scent of bagels again tickled Mark’s olfactory receptors. “First,” I murmured, “a bagel would go well.”

“I don’t like bagels.”

“Perhaps you’ll acquire a taste for them.”

“In your dreams.”

“I’ll pay.”

Mark asked, “How much?”

“An extra fifty?”

“Make it a hundred,” he paused. “Per bagel.”

“Done.”

A bristling in my throat, an intimate patchwork of needles against my flesh. My gut clenches as it winds its way upward. I try to swallow but can’t—I have fought it all this time, I have fought it in silence and screams and shadows, but here it is, and I close my eyes and grit my teeth.

“Mr. Secretary,” Johnson says, I think his name is Johnson, their names are always Johnson or Jackson or Davis or Smith, pick one and stick with it and they won’t argue, but I can’t answer him. I turn away so he won’t see, if there is anything to see. I turn away so I can have one final moment without shame, just terror, and I try to swallow again but can’t.

It whispers You can’t fight me, hisses We must feed, and I say “No.” It comes out as a stale exhalation. Johnson says “Sir, are you—” and I wave a hand, not to stop him but to steady myself against my desk. My legs waver as my vision darkens. Feed. Feed. Feed.

I have fought it, I have denied it, but now breathing comes hard. It squeezes my throat shut, twists itself up deep in my sternum. It is large, larger than I had imagined, than I had dreaded. More the fool I.

Outside the window, the day is beautiful, bright. There is a press conference gathering on the lawn, an announcement to be made soon. Something about foreign policy, not my forte, but I’m supposed to know what it is. I cannot concentrate. I know, if anyone looks up, they will see me. I know this because I have done the same thing. But I stand here, throat hitching as it scrapes its way up. It pinches my esophagus and I wince, bending forward slightly. A groan escapes.

“Mr. Secretary?”

I shake my head. I know what they think of me. They think me aloof. I do not know if I was before. But the past three weeks? Oh yes. Aloof? I have thought of nothing but the voice whispering in my head, merely that at first, a disembodied voice. We must feed. I wasn’t hungry, but still I ate. I had thought to silence the voice, but it grew stronger. We must feed. Now. The cravings became constant. And soon, a pressure in my gut. The food, I thought, but then it started to move. To squirm. To creep ever slowly upward.

Where did it come from? I have given up knowing. It is here. It is here and it is eager and it is coming. I force myself to straighten up, put my hands on my hips, my spine as rigid as I can make it. The thing inside me constricts. I bend backwards at an angle I did not think possible. Something cracks. Something else pops. I moan again, an instinctive reaction. I feel no pain, nothing but those needles, now at the back of my throat, dancing over my tongue. It tastes bitter, dirty, burnt, aged. It tastes like rot and carnage.

Johnson steps forward. “Mr. Secretary? Sir? Is everything—”

Feed. Feed. Now. Now.

I turn slowly, my body still my own but not much longer. These are my legs, but this is not my mind. These are my arms, but this is not my will. This is my mouth but not my hunger.

Tears blur my vision, but still I see the outline of Johnson’s face, his muscles tightening in concern, then eyes growing wide in shock. There is a moment, a long moment, where he takes a step forward to help, and I feel it tickling my lips, almost playfully, as Johnson’s shock gives way to something more primordial, something ancient and pure and indescribable.

“We must feed,” I say, it says, the words unintelligible, as I lurch towards Johnson and he begins to scream.

A moon jellyfish
lives among the
cartilage in my knee.

Aurelia aurita. The gold one

has no color in my darkness.
Expands and contracts
across its habitat.
Between ligaments
drifts. Warm
blood cooling. Shadowing
translucence.

Each corner of patella
tiny tentacles triangulate when
I walk. When I bolt its body
flattens along
meniscuses. It stagnates
dreamily
when I sing. Cratering ridges of red
flame my skin when softly
& together we rage. I’m accustomed
to its fits. Each

night I swallow diatoms
hide caches of protozoans
under my tongue
so it can
feed. When I can’t
sleep it drifts
in tempo from fibula to femur
lulling me toward
pleasant ice picked catatonia.

Other medusae have toured
my systems. Envious
of squalling heart & lungs
they sting
complex cells for
spite. But now I host
a gentle resident. I’ve become optimal
for harbor.
A cattailed estuary. My conditions
brackish. Blood slow
pumping
cooler
than death. Between
us a mutual
solitude. Most nights

releasing tempests
for tranquil currents.

Dissolve less and less oxygen
with each breath.

The diagnosis that my mom declared at the end of our video call was clear and without doubt; I had a classic case of mosslung. Could’ve been serious if I hadn’t caught it early, but it was nothing to be freaked out about, nothing that a quick trip to Urgent Care and a 10-day prescription of Evipelenol couldn’t kick out of my system, no problem. We ended the call with optimistic relief and a couple of I love you’s.

What my mom didn’t know was that my job recently changed its minimum qualifications for benefits, leaving me and my 34 hour work weeks totally and completely uninsured. There would be no Urgent Care visit, there would be no Evipelenol. Instead there would be tea, over-the-counter vitamin supplements, and endless scrolling on Reddit and WebMD for cheap home remedies.

What I found online was that I didn’t have to be too concerned, as long as the moss growing in my body remained isolated to my sinuses.

Well, fuck.

It started there. I spotted the first green, fuzzy flakes in my mucus when I blew my nose a few days earlier, but by the time I called my mom I could feel the moss inching down my trachea. Small patches had already sprouted on my inner thighs and beneath my armpits, too.

I shouldn’t even be dealing with this, I thought. Mosslung was wiped out in the 1940s and new strains were only spreading today thanks to vaccine-averse communities in West Texas. Welcome to the New Dark Ages, folks.

Thankfully, I found a solution during my digital research. The health experts of the Information Superhighway recommended a blended tea of mugwort and reishi, at least for those like myself who were too financially-challenged to afford a visit to an “actual” “pharmacy.”

I put on a sweater to cover the mat of emerald fuzz spreading along my arms, donned an N95, and set off for my local co-op. I located the mugwort and reishi with ease; actually, I had a substantial number of options for both under various brand names. I picked the two with the best retro-70s logo designs and pastel colorways, then meandered to the check-out line.

“Mugwort gives you really trippy dreams,” the septum-pierced cashier told me.

“Really?” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

Beep-beep.

“Cool,” I said and loaded the herbs into my tote bag. I didn’t know what else to say and wondered if the moss had reached my brainstem yet.

When I got home, I opened a window and started some water in my electric kettle, then stripped down to my unmentionables and checked out the situation in my bathroom mirror. The moss was dense and scruffy now. It formed an inch-thick layer over my abdomen, down my arms, and up my neck to my jawline. Small bugs, almost like weevils, crawled through the foliage.

Shit, I thought, I hope the cashier didn’t notice any of the green stuff peeking out of my collar at the co-op. They seemed cool.

I stumbled to the living room and flopped down on my futon. Sunlight fell through the  window and onto my body, but I couldn’t feel its warmth through the thick crust of moss. Beneath my skin, the fuzzy shit was filling my lungs and the crevices between my organs.

Goddammit, this disease was supposed to kill World War 2 airmen in the Philippines, not a 24 year old graphic designer living in Bushwick!

The moss coated my cheeks, crept down my calves towards my feet. The patches on my ribcage built connections to the patches on my arms and started to form a cohesive mass. It was heavy now. The insects inhabiting the surface of my diseased body buzzed with peaceful joy. At least I would be a good home to them, I thought. At least there was that.

My kettle whistled, but it was too late for me to move. I was fully encased by a growing, pulsing mound of moss. It ate away at the membrane of my skin and the tissue of my organs, until nothing remained under that heavy, green pile besides my skeleton.

I had no more worries; not about insurance or vaccines or full-time hours or Internet threads. I was the moss; the moss was me. I did miss my mom, though.

After a few hours, the wiring of my kettle caught fire and the flames spread across my apartment, but I didn’t care. The sprinklers in the ceiling burst into action and artificial rain poured down onto my moss-buried skeleton.

Slowly, white and pink flowers bloomed from what had once been my skin. Pollen exploded from the flowers, drifted through my open window, and floated away, ready to be sucked into the lungs of any unfortunate passerby. I hoped the cashier from the co-op didn’t live nearby. I would’ve liked to become their friend, in some other life.

Aw well, not much I can do about it.

I’m only moss and bones now.

Angelo’s hands were swift as his brush dove from the palette to the canvas, and back to the palette again. The male client across from him sat patiently on the stool beneath the flickering lights in his studio, ready to be done with the portrait, but allowing the painter to take his time to produce the best quality work he could.

“I’m sorry I’ve kept you here for so long, but I promise I’m almost at the end,” the meek, frizzy-haired old man said in his deep voice. “I’ll just be putting some finishing touches on the painting, and I’ll ask you for any additional details you want.”

The client nodded silently, cracking his knuckles, and sitting up straighter. Occasionally looking away from the canvas and at the middle-aged, bearded man sitting on the stool before him, Angelo patted down his sweating forehead with a cloth and pushed on, finally coming to a stop almost half an hour later.

“Alright!” He smiled. “I’m finished.”

The client immediately stood, stretching his limbs, and popping his joints. He rolled his stiff neck and walked up to the canvas.

“Woah…”

Angelo stood on his left, the artist beaming with pride at his creation. His constant labor and effort put in over the course of several hours had paid off, and the jade green eyes of the client stared into ones shockingly close to his own. Each hair on his beard, the lashes on his eyes, the texture of his skin, even the wrinkles on his jeans and the folds of his collared shirt; every aspect of the painting looked as if it had been copied and pasted from a normal photograph. In that instant, the client saw just how worth it the hours of waiting and the hefty commission price were.

“It’s… amazing…”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that!” Angelo replied. “It makes me happy to see my clients enjoying their portraits so much!”

He nodded happily, reaching out to pick up the canvas until Angelo stopped him.

“Hang on now, we still have to let it dry, my friend,” he insisted. “Since it’s still fresh, we’ll let the painting dry fully before I give it over to you. That will give me time to add my signature, and you can go get some rest since it’s gotten dark out.”

“Alright then!” The client said. Shaking the aged man’s frail hand, he thanked him profusely for his extensive work.

“I have to ask; how long did it take you to reach this skill level?” The client asked.

“Years, my friend,” Angelo stated. “I’ve been an artist for longer than I can possibly remember.”

“Surely there’s more to it than just practice though, right? I mean, this kind of outcome must have some natural talent behind it.”

“Well, I’ve also received training from my parents,” Angelo explained. “My mother and father were outstanding influences on me as artists, and they helped me reach exceptional skill soon enough. As a matter of fact, their parents were artists, too. As were their grandparents, and their grandparents’ parents, and from the start, it continued all the way down to me. You could say it’s in my blood, really.”

“That’s very interesting… I can’t wait to see how the painting looks when it’s finally finished!”

“…Neither can I.”

* * *

While it got dark outside, the old man remained in his dark, gloomy studio. Normally, he would already be inside his home, cooking himself some dinner and preparing to end another day of business.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not when there was still so much work to be done.

He had waited purposefully until he was sure the client had gotten far enough away. Once he knew he was safe, he placed the portrait back on the easel. The man looked just like he did in real life. His green eyes, his curly beard, neatly combed hair, and comfortable clothing were all nearly life-like, and this was fine.

It just needed some changes.

“You were very patient while I made this, much more so than others…” Angelo remarked, dipping the brush into the paint once again. “I won’t cause you as much pain.”

His brush loaded with red paint, Angelo streaked it across the man’s thigh.

Several blocks down, the man winced in pain. He grabbed at his leg, his entire thigh stinging inexplicably. But as he pulled away, he saw the blood from a massive gash seeping into his ripped clothes, it having gotten on his hands too.

The client cried out loudly as the same thing happened to his upper arm. And then his right cheek.

As the red paint dripped down the canvas, the new wounds being painted onto his most recent client, Angelo continued to add detail. Big cuts, little cuts, fingers bending ways they shouldn’t. A paint scraper served as another tool to the artist, allowing him to smudge parts he wanted, stretching limbs, opening wounds more and more, so long as he could accurately portray what it might look like.

But as promised, he wouldn’t bother his new client for long. Mixing up some paints on his palette, he was quickly able to match the color of the background he’d painted behind the man’s head. As wounds bled further, red paint dripping down the canvas, Angelo readied his last, most important detail.

With a single, clean stroke, he drew a line through the man’s neck, separating it seamlessly into two pieces.

The portrait was finally done.

Angelo carefully took the painting off the easel. It was so beautiful in just about every aspect, he could’ve kissed it. Its style, its skill, and morbidity… he was almost tempted to display it in his own living room. But of course, he had a designated spot for his most grand works.

A switch underneath his desk unlocked the hatch. Lifting the carpet in his studio, he pulled the door open, and walked down the steps to his display room.

He turned the corner and was greeted with a plethora of his past works. All the way down the dim, candlelit hall, paintings of many shapes and sizes covered the walls, no two alike. Some of men, some of women, some were solo, and some included multiple people. Some of them had no skin, a few had no limbs. Some had blue faces and broken bones, entrails pulled out, and a couple looked more like smoldering, blackened husks than people.

Although his newest addition to the collection wasn’t quite so eye-catching, it fit right in as he placed it on a nail in the wall.

Wait. It was still missing something.

Pulling a spare brush from his pocket, he dipped it into a small cup of silver paint nearby. In the bottom right of his outstanding new portrait, he painted his signature: an ornate letter “A”, completed in one fluid motion of his wrist.

Now it was perfect.