Professor Boylan has a theory that this whole series is about transformation. Orin retorts that it's about getting kick arse legal advice. Insomniac says its both.
'Just do it'.
The girl's dress slid down slowly, revealing her boobs. Boobs so small they could barely be seen. Dave stared intently. It reminded him of his lame poker joke. 'I see your boobs ... and raise you a doodle'.
'You're making me late for golf'.
Dave stopped staring and pressed down with the lawyer's stripper pen at the bottom of the page. He pressed down a little harder and signed with a flourish.
He tossed the divorce papers back in the general direction of the lawyer. A short man, who clearly overindulged in Portuguese custard tarts, with skin the colour of a decades-old washed out t-shirt, and eyebrows, precisely equalling the number owned by Bert and Ernie, looming in all their bushiness over two tiny squinty eyes, topped off by a prominent sagittal crest running directly back from his forehead and over his balding skull.
'A real lady's man', thought Dave, with the tiniest scintilla of a grin forming around the corners of his mouth.
'What's so funny?' asked the wife-boning lawyer.
Dave suddenly realised that nothing was funny. The wife-boning lawyer was boning his wife, or at least his ex-wife now. If he was a lady's man then Dave was Captain Loser, squared.
'Nothin', he replied, and afterwards mumbled, 'Asshole'.
He sat back and admired the new etching in the glass surface of the lawyer's desk. The added flourish had made his signature a beautiful piece of art, catching the sunlight and breaking into a thousand tiny rainbows. He secretly hoped it would be a real knob softener one day when Veitch saw his name twinkling up at him from between Annie's legs as he tried screwing her, legs akimbo, across the desk. He leaned in again, nostrils flaring, to confirm.
'What have you done to my desk, you little fuc...', Veitch stopped mid sentence.
Dave looked up.
Veitch's eyes were blue, now wide open.
'Hmm', thought Dave. He had only ever seen squinty Veitch before. This was something new.
Veitch's eyes bulged. The whites were clearly visible; a corona of light around blue centres, bright red streaks leading away to the periphery.
A single bead of perspiration drew on the right side of Veitch's brow. Dave followed it as gravity sent it straight down to the bushy monobrow, where it veered right and ran further around the bulging eye and down the beige cheek to drip off Veitch's jaw. Dave's eye returned to the source. That bead now had hundreds of brothers. Sweat was pouring off Veitch now as if he had accidentally strayed into a nude sauna at a gay convention while they were doing lines of rhinoceros horn.
Veitch was attempting to say something, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish gasping for water, but other than a gurgle, nothing escaped his lips.
He started leaning to his left, almost imperceptibly at first, but accelerating smoothly until he reached his tipping point, crashing to the floor.
Dave could see through the glass desk that his initial assumption regarding horny homosexuals wasn't too far from the actuality of the situation. He caught a glimpse of the eyestalks of a thresh as they disappeared from sight. The thresh wasn't just fucking Veitch; he was completely fucked. Although this was a new development, he had seen that people stayed deader than dead when they tangled with former inhabitants of the Under Realm.
Veitch lay twitching on the carpet, knees drawn up in the foetal position, his violated arse pointing towards Dave, golf pants shredded.
'Couldn't happen to a nicer person', he thought, as he waited for Veitch to die.
Veitch rose up from the carpet, no longer the short, fat, cartoon of a man. What now stood before Dave was synergistically chimeric: more than Veitch, more than thresh, more than both.
This new Veitch was easily eight feet tall, helped by the now extremely pointy crest riding its skull.
'That's some bad hat, Harry', Dave blurted out with a very poor impression, followed by, 'Oh yeah, we are definitely gonna need a bigger boat'.
The eyes were still blue; there were just more than two now, sitting atop an arc of eyestalks. A triplet of eyes were staring at Dave staring right back. The rest were surveying the office.
The skin of the monster was spectacularly unique. On any other day it would have taken on a pinstriped charcoal appearance, light blue-chested with a band of white around the neck highlighted with a tuft of red fur at the midpoint, but this was Wednesday, and Wednesday was golf day.
Veitch, appalling as he was as a person, had an even more appalling fashion sense. 'Name one golfer who doesn't', thought Dave.
The bottom half was straight from the sixties, mostly daffodil yellow with a series of huge psychedelic flowers with black-edged petals in orange and red and grey, each with an eye looking right through you.
Dave's head was already spinning.
An impossible solarscape was plastered across the monster's poorly cut torso. Suns, nebulae and ringed planets sitting adjacent one another on a sea of space black and blue, with two identical large gas giants straddling either side of the centre line of its chest like a pair of well-developed mazoongas.
The more Dave looked at the monster, the more something wasn't quite right. Something obvious, but not immediately so. Then he saw it.
He made a mental note in his newfound lexicon. 'Ur Veitch: Vulnerabilities: Cock punch: n/a'.