The Squidge That Ate Paris

“Vite! Déshabillez-vous! Vite!”

Calla St. Germaine barely suppressed a laugh as Madame Beauchamp, pendulous breasts and rolls of fat jiggling, pushed her corseted gown down over thunderous hips. She was glaring with a face like a simmering bouillabaisse, her once elaborate chignon now a frizzy mess on her head. 

“Merde, keep that thing away from me,” said Calla, side-stepping around the suddenly nude facilitator, who wobbled while slipping off her pumps in a shadowy alleyway near the Seine. “That’s gonna need more than a hedge trimmer now, it’s like an unexplored rainforest.”

Averting her eyes from the pubic monstrosity sported by the furious guide, Calla unfastened her own dress as her friends Princess Inez of Castile and Lady Marigold of Lancaster joined her, giggling as they tugged off their skirts.  

“Show respect,” soft-spoken Monsieur Laurent, Beauchamp’s equally nude co-facilitator said from nearby, where he was dousing a pile of artificial silks, brocade suits and lace-trimmed skirts with kerosene from a street lamp. Three hours before he’d had a full head of hair, now he had a rapidly spreading bald spot ringed by lank, trailing strands like webs. “We won’t make fun of your armpits, Madame St. Germaine. Everyone’s side effects are different.”

“You don’t say,” Calla replied, wriggling to have her champagne-coloured chiffon gown slip off her breasts and fall. She nodded at the thin man’s pubic region, the hairs of which were as grey and sparse as those on his head and so long they almost touched the ground. “And I like how bushy my pits have become. They’re sophisticated. Très chic, non?"

“Outrageous,” barked the Duchess of Ravenshire, bony fingers–with nails that had doubled in length since the start of the trip–fumbling with corset laces as she, too, hurried to strip. “Forced to flee Tour Eiffel on the night of its grand opening! Insulting dignitaries, enraging ministers! One minute we’re drinking champagne with Gustave Eiffel, rubbing shoulders with the Prince of Wales—the next we’re being chased like criminals through the Champ de Mars! All because a trio of harlots couldn’t keep their chattes in their culottes!"

The woman with silver hair, which had originally been short but now hung as far as her buttocks, stood apart from Calla and her friends with the rest of the party—powerful royals and celebrities, exposed as they shed their attire and added it to the pile at Laurent’s feet.

“Eine Schande!” wheezed Klaus Eisenberg, the rotund CEO of Global Robotics Europa, his Kaiserbart mustache bristling with every huff. He cast his breeches away before covering his shriveled manhood with both hands, flushed jowls quivering with rage. “Never have I seen such behaviour. I don’t know how you stand there looking so proud.”

“Worry about your own pride,” Inez retorted, tossing her gown and slippers on the pile which Laurent had set ablaze, with a flame siphoned from another lamp. “Chrono-radiation has had the opposite effect on you, your bratwurst has only gotten smaller.”

The comment earned Inez laughter from Calla and Marigold, who added their own period clothing to the blaze, clothing that had been nanofabricated on the Chronocart upon touchdown in 1889 three hours before. Travel from the Timeport in Calais–300 years in the future–had been conducted nude as per Temporal Integrity Protocol, so the time for modesty had passed. They’d boarded nude, travelled nude, and would return nude, no risk of chrono-contamination or of anything left behind or carried back.

Eisenberg moved to challenge the mocking trio, pushing past Count Albrecht van der Veere–who was letting the disruption to the expedition go, since it had blessed his previously bald pate with a beautiful head of bronze locks–and the renowned French actress Sylvie Lamoureux–who was cradling her once perfect breasts, which had sagged as a result of rapid tissue aging and now hung almost to her waist–but Madame Beauchamp stepped in his path and brought him to a halt with her bush.

“Enough!” she barked, arms wide. “The Garde Républicaine will be upon us! As much as I would like to leave these salopes to explain why a trio of nude time-travelers are lurking in the alleys of Paris, Temporal Integrity forbids it. So everyone–onto the Cart! Laurent, if you please! We must depart!”

Laurent, having burnt off his overlong pubic hairs in the flames, straightened obediently and hurried to the lavish 19th-century carriage that blocked the alley. Its wheels gleamed, its lacquered wood shone and it looked for all the world like a vehicle befitting of the time.

“Oui,” said Laurent, placing his palm on the door of the carriage to pop it open with an anachronistic hiss. The polished exterior flickered, the holographic illusion of a horse-drawn carriage glitching for a moment before stabilising, revealing a glimpse of the egg-shaped craft hiding beyond. “If you’d all be so kind as to board and pass through the scanner… ”

“Move!” Beauchamp barked, manoeuvring behind Calla, Inez and Marigold and shoving them in the direction of the vessel with her breasts. “Everyone on!”

“Ew, don’t touch me with those things,” cringed Inez, who along with Marigold didn’t seem to be experiencing chrono-effects. Both girls’ hair, fingernails, pubes, breasts and everything looked the same as they had when they’d first undressed back in Calais. “I don’t want brute boobs!”

“Or ghastly minge!” Marigold added, shuddering as she picked up the pace. “It looks like a rabid porcupine has taken up residence between those thighs.” 

From the streets beyond the alley, the sound of whistles, shouts, and galloping hooves grew louder. The Parisian police were approaching, prompting the members of the Tempstrails excursion to clamber aboard their one and only means of escape.

“Speaking of minge, mine’s tingling,” said Calla, as she waited for Count Albrecht to enter the craft, flicking flowing locks and clenching freshly tightened buttocks. Looking down, she could see dark hairs growing longer as she watched. “Why is only my shit growing now?”

The Bio Scanner at the entrance to the sterile, molded-plastic interior of the craft flashed green as Albrecht passed through, verifying organic status and absence of contraband.

“Maybe our delayed chrono-effects are more delayed than yours?” suggested Inez. “Or maybe it’s because we succeeded in swapping saliva with 19th century noblemen.”

“Yes, Calla,” Marigold chimed in. “You conveniently disappeared for some time, longest bathroom break ever. Was that an excuse to hide, because you saw us actually manage to snare a man?” 

Calla shrugged as she passed through the scanner and entered the smooth and featureless Cart, wasting no time in acquiring the rearmost row of twin seats. The Duchess of Ravenshire and Sylvie Lamoureux were clumsily entering the front row, dangling breasts and overlong fingernails obstructing them, Eisenberg and Albrecht were ignoring each other as they positioned themselves in the row behind, and row three Calla left for her companions.

“A daughter of the ChanOréal dynasty doesn’t kiss and tell,” she smirked as her friends took their seats. Behind her, Beauchamp and Laurent boarded the craft, the thin man staying back to seal it up while the larger-than-life Madame stomped to the front, where a console and stools awaited before a large viewscreen.

“Are you joking?” scoffed Inez. “I know more about your rampant sex life than my own delicate fumblings, few as they are.”

“Ma derriere!” Calla laughed, eyes drawn to Monsieur Laurent’s swinging member as the anxious male hurried past. “You are anything but innocent ma cherie!”

“Agreed!” said Marigold. “Darling Inez, you’re the one who caused this kerfuffle! You got your claws into Duke Henri de Rochefort, the most notorious womaniser! Ten of his lovers in attendance and not one of them aware of the other until they saw you try to play with his flute!”

“Unglaublich!” snapped Eisenberg. “Verdammte girls ruined the expedition. I’ve a good mind to sue, though doubtless your shamed fathers would have to pay! You must be barred from future excursions!”

The other passengers, including Albrecht, agreed, while Beauchamp and Laurent fired up the Chronocart’s reactors, causing the oval craft to vibrate and hum. 

“Rest assured, they will be,” said Beauchamp, handling a lever while Laurent turned a dial, his free hand poised over a button. “Phase stabilization at eighty-four percent. You may choose not to sue, Herr Eisenberg, but Tempstrails certainly shall. Phase Out in five, Laurent. Three, two, one…”

On the count of one she jerked the flux lever down and Laurent slammed his hand onto the ignition button, causing the craft to phase as horseback Gendarmes appeared at the opposite end of the alley. The vehicle shuddered, light fractured across its surfaces, the hum escalated into a high-pitched whine and the air inside the craft became charged, making the naked flesh of its occupants tingle.

"Great job, guys,” Calla sniggered, watching through the screen as startled men and horses disappeared with their surroundings and the oil-like colours of a million melted rainbows folded in. “Got us banned from time travel and letters home to our parents. Maybe you should have thought about being discreet.”

“Phase stabilization at ninety-seven,” Beauchamp advised, adjusting dials and toggling switches. The Chonocart jolted and rolled before settling into a familiar state of mild turbulence. “Chronal shift in progress.” 

"Now then," Monsieur Laurent said, turning from the psychedelic fractals on the viewscreen to address the girls. He looked like a disappointed teacher, a teacher who was now completely bald. “Attempting to seduce noblemen and initiate relations with royalty? In view of their wives and their mistresses? What were you trying to achieve? Some childish conquest to brag about? What if one or all of you fell pregnant? Or passed on an infection? Have you any comprehension of the damage that could have caused?”

“We don’t carry infections!” Marigold blurted. “What are you insinuating?”

“And we wouldn’t have gotten pregnant!” Inez added. “We took precau-”

A thump from Calla cut her off and Laurent continued, not having noticed.

“It’s a blessing you did attempt to, um, position Duke de Rochefort’s hands inside your under-garments Princess Inez, provoking the brawl that got us reported to the Gendarmes. If not for that…well, Miss Marigold, Madame Beauchamp may not have found you with your legs akimbo beneath a banquet table and a very enthusiastic Lord de Lesseps preparing to introduce his, um, baton to your, ah, delicate rose. Anything could have happened.” 

“Scandalous,” Calla said, slapping a hand to her chest and feigning surprise. “Such a pity I wasn’t there to see.”

“I would like to know where you were, Madame St. Germaine,” Beauchamp said, concentrating on the controls as the craft shuddered. “When we met you on the promenade as we fled, you looked like you’d been caught with your hand in the cookie jar… Laurent, something is amiss. Phase stabilisation at seventy-nine percent and dropping…”

A sudden blast of turbulence hit the Cart, almost knocking Laurent from his stool. The whine from the propulsion jets devolved into a dull rumble and the shaking of the cabin intensified.

“What’s happening?” said Laurent, swinging back to the controls. “Did we hit a pocket of Interflux?”

“Non,” Beauchamp replied. “But stabilisation is down to sixty-three. I don’t know what’s...”

The passengers up front began to mutter, holding fast to the edges of their seats. “Is this okay?” asked Sylvie. “Why so much turbulence?” queried Albrecht. “Is something wrong?” opined the Duchess of Ravenshire. “Eine Entwürdigung! This entire excursion is a scheißdreck disaster!” cursed Eisenberg.

Calla leaned forward between Inez and Marigold, gripping both girls by the shoulders.

“Listen, you two. Don’t fuck this up. If they find out about the squidges, we’ll be more than fined or banned, we’ll be facing charges.” 

Marigold shifted uncomfortably, shrugging Calla’s hand off and rubbing her stomach. “Speaking of squidges…are you guys feeling okay? I feel…weird…”

"Me too," Inez agreed, pressing her thighs together and bending forward, breath shallow, skin clammy. "I feel…like I really need the toilet. Ohhh. Cramps. You said you used these before, Calla, is this supposed to happen?”

“Shush!” Calla hissed, glancing forward to make sure nobody had heard. “What’s wrong with you two? I’m fine, it must be something you ate…”

“No, something’s wrong!” Marigold gasped, face red as she turned to Calla. “I feel like it’s expanding. I knew this was a bad idea, I want it out.”

“Me too,” Inez said, beads of sweat on her forehead as she clutched her stomach. “Fuck, it hurts. What’s it doing, Calla? Why does it feel like this?”

“Stop,” Calla said, sitting back from the girls. “It can’t be the squidges. They only become active when touched by semen, and they shrivel up and die when they’ve absorbed it. You didn’t have sex so they should remain dormant inside. Not like mine, and I feel…oh…merde…”

“Merde what?” Marigold demanded, eyes filled with a mix of pain and fury. “What do you mean 'not like yours'?”

“Did you do it?” Inez groaned, tears in her eyes. “Hostia puta! The squidges absorbed the chronal radiation. That's why we're not affected. But...Calla...What happened to yours?"

“Nothing happened,” Calla said, dropping a hand between her legs to check inside. “It's still there, proof that I did it, like we planned... Oh... Pas Bon. Where's it gone?” 

The Chronocart jolted and rolled as though it had hit a temporal speed bump, hurling passengers into one another and Beauchamp and Laurent to the floor. The lights dimmed, the console beeped, vomiting fractals splattered on the viewscreen.

“It’s alright!” Monsieur Laurent said, climbing back up onto his stool. “Everyone remain calm! We are twenty seconds out, we can make it. Madame Beauchamp, we must execute emergency protocol 99-X! Madame Beauchamp? Madame Beauchamp!”

Madame Beauchamp wasn’t listening. She was staring at Inez and Marigold, who were doubled over moaning in pain, and Calla sat behind like a deer in the headlights.

“Squidges?” she spat, from where she lay on the floor. “You nymphomaniac putains travelled with genetically-engineered, cephalopod-based contraceptives in your minettes? Mon Dieu. You lost a temporally-radiated squidge?”

“Fifteen seconds to phase in!” Laurent shouted. “Eugenie, get to your station!”

A sickening schlorp filled the cabin and Marigold screamed, her stomach splitting to allow a glistening appendage burst free, whilst two more wriggled out between her thighs, stretching her and unfurling like fleshy whips.

Inez screamed, a moment before her own rupture occurred, her lower belly ballooning and ripping apart, her pelvis arching as thick, pulsating tendrils spewed out.

Sylvie Lamoureux’s sagging breasts bounced as she jumped up and shrieked, only to be staggered by a fresh wave of turbulence and thrown towards the Duchess, who instinctively stuck out her arms, slashing the actress's face with her deadly nails. Eisenberg, too, was on his feet, howling in German as he shoved Albrecht to the floor and trampled him in his bid to escape. Marigold and Inez’s bodies, now grotesque marionettes of the evolving Squidges, rose up on the tentacles protruding from their cavities, limbs dangling as the lab-developed cephalopods carried them onward.

"Stay calm!" Laurent yelled, unaware of the horror behind him as he operated buttons and dials. "Ten seconds! Eugenie, help, man the lever…"

Calla lurched from her seat and staggered back, falling against the rear wall of the craft. She watched as the tentacles sliding from her friends’ mangled bodies coiled and flexed. Saw one from Inez’ gut curl around Eisenberg’s head and pop it, another from her lower orifice snap Albrecht’s neck. Saw a multitude trailing from Marigold fall upon the entwined Duchess and Sylvie, wrap around their limbs, tear them apart. Saw Beauchamp struggle to her feet, stagger back, bump into Laurent, knock him onto the Cart’s ignition switch. 

The cabin lurched. The fractal tunnel outside the viewscreen collapsed, vanishing into darkness.

And then, with a stomach-churning lurch, the Chronocart stopped.

“Eugenie,” gasped Laurent, wriggling free of his colleague’s quaking bulk. “What did you do, I…”

And that’s when he turned. And that’s when he screamed, in unison with Madame Beauchamp, as the Human-Squidge hybrids lurched forward. And that’s when Calla grabbed the exit lever by the door and slammed it down. 

The hatch exploded open and she fell out, hitting the ground hard, bare skin scraping on wet stone. Stone. Not metal. Inside a swirling, red-tinged fog. Fog where the Timeport should have been.

She staggered to her feet, confused, turning circles, searching, for something, anything, familiar, finding only mist, mist filled with strange organic shapes, squid-like forms with arms and legs, drifting in and out of the haze, the air thick with the sound of slithering tendrils.

“What the fuck?” she said, shaking her head, trying to reason, reality dawning like the tentacle that snaked forward and coiled around her leg.

She screamed as it jerked and hauled her up, carrying her high, bringing her to a halt, upside down, before a massive, grey-skinned Squidge, its gelatinous skin mottled with age, its beady eyes peering at her darkly.

The ones on the ground were evolution. The one holding her up was ancestral. 

A slimy voice slid into her mind: “I’ve waited a long time for you, Calla.”

“Stop,” Calla gasped, fighting the grip of the tentacle, feeling it slide up her thigh, around her waist. “It was just for fun..."

"Fun? Putting me up there? Disgusting. And then what that other one did. Ugh. Thankfully I had become sentient enough to understand what was happening and get out..."

"Please. We didn’t mean to cause any trouble…”

"Your suitor was the first one I ate. Now it's your turn to see what it's like."

It tilted its bloated head and then it opened, a gaping, pulsing orifice at its centre, lined with glossy ridges, slime-slick and glistening, yawning and gaping like a void.

Calla screamed as the tentacle shoved her into the maw. She struggled, she thrashed, but muscular walls closed around her, sucking her into a fleshy abyss.

Her last thought before the acids took her was a single, horrible realisation.

That contraception can often let you down.