No crowds meant I didn't have to fight with people to get a hockey game on. I sat down, decided it was a light night and ordered a Shiner, and had the bartender switch the nearest screen to the Rangers game. It seemed like the perfect evening until a new guy strolled into the bar and sat down next to me. It seemed a little weird at the time - there were probably 6 other empty places with no one adjacent that he could have taken - but I didn't think anything of it, until he started speaking."Fucking Rangers," he said a little too loudly into my ear.I hadn't really taken a look when he came in, so now I finally looked over and took stock of him. He was taller then me, probably 6-1, and it was clear from the first glance that he worked out. He didn't bulge through the Thomas Pink shirt in some grotesque fashion like those Creatine-heads who lift every day, but his biceps tugged nicely at the seams and the thin cut showed off his broad shoulders and apparently fat-less stomach. His hair. Breasts. I cupped them with my tiny hands; they were soft and heavy and felt bizarre.I sat for a moment, fighting the temporary sense of vertigo all radical transformees felt. I let it pass, then slid off the gurney and planted my feet on the floor.Okay. Time to get this shit off of me. I walked gingerly to the shower.I turned on the water and let its hot steam wash off the considerable residue the nano had pushed through my sweat glands to the surface of my skin. Most of it was lying in a pool on the gurney, material discarded by the nano as being superfluous to its mission of reshaping me into something 80 pounds lighter. Tissue rendered into a fat-like substance, mixed with chemicals and hormones, enzymes created by the nano and discarded, the job done. I knew if I ran the stuff through an analyzer I'd find a lot of testosterone, broken down and rendered inevitable, muscle proteins broken into small enough pieces to sweat out, and other biological detritus. The radical.
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