Unnatural Selection

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In the last hour Burt Solare's intestines still worked; while his heart still pumped blood, his lungs and other organs toiled in concert-while all that comprised the inner workings of Burt Solare remained hidden inside his delicate flesh shell, as nature had intended-Burt Solare found he had a problem somewhere along the miles of compressed tubing that was his intestinal tract.

"Dammit, this ulcer's gonna kill me." Check that. Make it two problems.

"Helen? Dammit, Helen, where the hell's the Maalox?"

At 220 pounds, five foot six inches and standing on tiptoes on a fragile rattan chair, Burt was a looming figure pawing through the cabinets in the upstairs bathroom of his Lubec, Maine, home. Given his size and disposition, he looked like a hungry bear rummaging for food in an abandoned vacation cabin.

"What's with all the hollering?" Helen Solare said as she stomped into the big room, the pink fur fringe of her satin dressing gown swirling around her thick ankles. She stopped dead near the Jacuzzi.

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