"Just what the fuck do you think you're doing?!"

Herbie looked up the opaque projector/heat beam with which he'd been tinkering. Victor stood in the doorway of the classroom the two had been using for their thesis experiment, his boyish features filled with an adult rage. "Right now I'm screwing back on this outer panel", Herbie said innocently. "Why?"

"Don't get fucking cute with me", Vic snarled. "I saw you last night. I saw what you did, how you visited each one of our test subjects. What the hell were you doing? What was that little disc-thing you were carrying with you?"

Herbie picked up his handheld device from off the a-v cart and admired it. "Fantastic little doohickey, isn't it? It's a palm beacon, of sorts. I found out that after initially programming our subjects with the large device", and Herbie patted the top of the projector for emphasis, "we can reinforce and enhance the suggestions and command triggers with just this little dealie." He stroked his chin, considering it. "It just takes so damn long to recharge, is all. I wish it held more juice at one time. But I'll work that out later, I suppos--"

"What does chick-chick-chick mean?", Vic demanded. "I heard you say that last night in the library. Is that a command trigger? What does it do?"

Herbie twisted his mouth in a satisfied smirk. "For our little freshman chickens, 'Here, chick' is an irresistible order to intensify their feelings for one another and their actions in expressing it. Each 'chick' raises the displays of affection a notch. So 'chick-chick-chick' would multiply their newfound homosexual feelings by a factor of three."

"Jesus! Are you insane?", Vic said, blanching.

"I'm thinking of going for five next time. With the first one said in a real high voice. You know, like 'Heeeere, CHICK-chick-chick-chick-chick!!' Like that. With a sharp emphasis on the last one. What do you think?"

"I can't let you get away with this, Herb. I mean it. I'm telling you to stop the experiment right now. You have to."

"And why's that?"

"Hell-O! Because it's wrong! You can't just rewire innocent kids' brains and make them your fag boytoy entertainment! Call it off. Bring them in here for the next session and undo the damage. Fix it and then destroy that goddamn machine."

Herbie's voice took on a hard edge. "Not gonna happen, Vic."

"You will shut this thing down, Herb. Two days into this and it's already gotten this far out of hand? What the hell happens next if I let you run with it?"

"Stick around and you'll find out."

"No, I won't. Because you're stopping it. Right now."

"And if I don't? What? You'll kick my ass?"

Vic let out a deep breath. He could easily kick his friend's ass, but that's not the way he wanted this to go down. "I'll report you. I'll tell the school what you're doing. I'll expose this whole thing. Even if it means me going down for it, too."

Herbie got right up in Vic's face. "You just do what you have to do, then."

Vic watched as Herbie went back to adjusting his precious machine. Vic wanted to say more, but knew his friend long enough to tell there was no longer anything he could say. Vic went to the door and at the threshold, he turned around. "It's not too late. You can still stop this."

Without looking up, Herbie answered, "Can, but won't. Do what you feel is right, Vic."

"I will, Herb." And so he did.

Victor walked boldly up to the university's main administrative offices. He must have had a very purposeful air in his stride, because he half-noticed a few people watching him as he went by. Vic entered the front office and passed a junior classmen carrying a takeout coffee cup who almost did a spit take for some reason. Vic muttered to himself, "They shouldn't let the ADD students do work studies."

Vic made his way to the head secretary's desk. "Excuse me, but it's urgent I speak to someone." The secretary held up one finger to silence Vic and indicate he should wait, as she kept he head down and her eyes focused on her desk.

The secretary, an aging woman who'd been with the college so long it was now as impossible to determine her age it was to remove her, was busily scrawling a note of some kind. Her cat-eye spectacles slipped down her beaklike nose at regular intervals, to be shoved back into place by finger with brightly-painted nails so thick they looked as if they could cut glass. She finished her note, tore it decisively from its pad and slammed it authoritatively down on a nearby spindle. She gave the note one last look, possibly to ascertain that it wasn't about to make an escape from it's memorandum harpoon, and then turned to face Vic.

Her face shifted from staunch to exasperated when she laid eyes on Victor. "Dare I ask?"

Vic was a bit put off by her tone. "I need to see Chancellor Hardcourt."

"Oh, do you, now?" She shoved her glasses back up her nose.

"Yes, I do! It's very important. It involves something going on in the psych building."

"I don't doubt that much", she sneered.

Vic was getting annoyed. "Look, I'm not kidding around here. Is the chancellor in his office?"

The secretary stood. Frail as she was, her demeanor projected the power of the dragon at the gate, who'd rather fight to the death than let any visitors pass unannounced or uninvited. "Sonny, you are not going back there. I don't know what your problem is, but Mr. Hardcourt is a very busy man."

"Lookit, I realize I don't have an appointment, but this can't wait. He needs to hear about this."

"Well, tell you what, young man. Why don't you write me a little note", and she slammed down a pen and a scratch pad, "and I'll see to it that the chancellor gets it. Then you can go skipping off to wherever it is you came from and let us big city folk handle your little problem."

Vic was thoroughly pissed now. What the hell was this bitch's problem? "Look, Mrs.--" and he leaned down to read her name plate, "--excuse me, MISS Churlimann, but perhaps I haven't made myself clear in stressing the urgency of--" At that, there was the sound of people approaching from beyond the reception area.

Vic stepped back to see none other than Chancellor Hardcourt and two other men in suits approaching. Vic stepped forward to intercept them.

"Don't you dare bother him, young man! He's in conference!", Miss Churlimann brayed.

Ignoring the secretarial harpy, Vic leapt forward to block the chancellor's path. "Mr. Hardcourt, I really need to speak with you, sir. It's extremely important."

The chancellor, a tall dignified man with dark gray hair, looked at Vic. The two men on either side of him, both younger and shorter, also looked at Vic. Stared, actually. The chancellor looked Vic up and down and then looked over to Miss Churlimann. "Henrietta, what's the meaning of this?"

"I tried to stop him, sir. If you'd come out of your office only two minutes later..."

"What is everybody's freakin' problem?!", Vic blurted. "Can't a damn student even speak to the guy whose supposed to be here to help the damned students??"

Mr. Hardcourt looked hard at Vic. The room had gone silent. In a very even voice, the chancellor said, "Okay, son. You have one minute to state your case. Although you should know that I'm within my rights to have you thrown out of here on the grounds of dress code violation alone."

Dress code? Vic didn't understand, but feared he would. He looked down at himself. He was barefoot. And he was wearing very old, faded bib overalls, pant legs rolled up to mid calf in wide cuffs. Oh, shit.

"I realize we don't require any kind of uniforms or the like at this university", Hardcourt observed, "but some amount of decorum is called for, even in casual dress."

Vic whirled to catch his reflection in the glass of the office partitions. Sure enough, he was dressed only in the overalls. Not only barefoot, but shirtless. With a big straw hat on his head. He looked back at the chancellor in abject horror. "Sir, I can explain this."

"Really? Because I'd love to hear this."

When had Vic put on the farmboy outfit? How long had he had it on? Trying to maintain some composure, he said, "Sir, this is not how I got dressed this morning. I swear it!"

Mr. Hardcourt frowned. "Really. So...what, you accidentally tripped on the way over here and fell into a Tom Sawyer costume? Is that it?"

Vic had no idea where to go from here. "We have to forget my costume for now, sir. Just trust me on this, please! I'm here to warn you about someone I've been working with on a senior thesis project. He's gotten out of hand, he--"

Hardcourt held up a hand. "What is this project?"

Suddenly, Vic felt his mind go into overload. A rush of images filled his thoughts. All of the adorable young freshman, dressed like innocent farm boys, down on their haunches, fists in armpits, elbows flapping, bucking and clucking. The words spilled from his mouth unbidden. "He's turning people into chickens!!" At that, Vic lost all control of his motor functions and dropped to a squat and became a chicken himself.

"BuhKAWKK! Buck-buck-buck-BaKAAAWWWKK!!"

"That's it", the chancellor growled. "Get this idiot out of here."

Inside, Victor was screaming at the top of his lungs, trying desperately to tell everyone in earshot that this was not his doing, that he'd been hypnotized, that none of this was what he wanted to say or do. But on the outside, Vic just kept on acting like a big chicken, unable to stand upright, unable to stop bobbing his head and clucking insanely. Two security men were on hand in an instant, having been summoned moments earlier by Miss Churlimann. The burly guards easily picked up Vic by his flapping elbows and carried him out of the building and tossed him onto the lawn.

"The hell with all the metal detectors", one guard said. "They ought'a install an early warning system to ward off dumbass fraternity initiation pranks."

"You got that right", said the other, closing the doors behind them.

Vic tried to get up off the lawn, but found he couldn't. At least he couldn't get any farther up than his haunches. Frustrated and humiliated, Vic tried with all his might to stand up on his feet, to pull his knuckles from his armpits. To shut his goddamn mouth. But it was no use. He just kept right on squatting, flapping his elbows, scratching his bare feet along the grass, squawking his heart out.

Herbie stood leaning against the side of the building. He had his arms crossed, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. "Oh, Vic, Vic, Vic. Did you really think I'd leave you in any kind of position to upset my project once I got it going? Silly boy." Vic wanted to run up to Herbie and strangle him, but all he could do was trudge over to him while still on his haunches, clucking furiously.

"You see, Victor, you've got it all wrong. I'm not out of control. I'm in control. Total control. Of my experiment. Of my boys. And oh yes indeed--of you, too." Herbie took his handheld heat beacon out of his pocket. "And I think you need to be reminded of just who's in charge here, Vickie old boy. Herbie tossed the handheld device playfully in the air, sending it spinning before catching it again.

"See you on the other side, chicken boy", Herbie said. And then Vic saw a flash of crimson light bursting from Herbie's palm. And he felt a tremendously soothing wave of heat flood over his mind.

And then nothing.

Vic suddenly found he was able to stand upright again. In fact, he already was. It was time for a serious confrontation with Herbie. If need be, he would kick the kid's ass. He would smash his stupid brain-roasting machine and would then kick his ass. He would smash the fucking thing over Herbie's head if he had to. Vic stood with resolve to set things right, but his stalwart attitude was derailed when he noticed how dark the world around him was.

It had been mid-afternoon, outdoors, and all was bright and clear. Now his surroundings were dark and dreary and the air smelled of stale smoke. The background noise of the campus had been replaced by the dull thud of taped music. An angry female voice snarled out "I hate myself for lovin' you". Vic looked up and was met by a row of smiling faces.

Perhaps "smiling" was too charitable a description. More than half a dozen bodybuilders and biker boys leaned against a bar and eyed Vic hungrily. They were clad in all the recognized clichés of leather vests, chest harnesses, buckled armbands, loose-fitting chains and leather biker caps. Arms with bulging biceps ended with gloved, calloused hands that fingers shot glasses raised past hairy chests to unshaven lips to be gulped down in a heartbeat and followed by a low rumbling belch.

One of the men, with a thick black caterpillar moustache crawling across his upper lip and dangling down either side of his jaw down to his chin, extended his hand toward Vic and curled his index finger inward. With a harsh crackling voice, he growled, "C'mere, boy."

Vic tried to take a step backwards in escape, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot. No, not rooted, weighted. Vic looked down at his feet scuffling lamely across the floor to see he was wearing a brightly-polished pair of heavy steel-toed work boots. They seemed to weigh almost as much as he did. He wasn't going anywhere.

Spotting the shoes led to the pants, which made Vic inhale sharply. He was wearing extremely tight-fitting black leather pants that left nothing to the imagination. As his hands touched the pants to verify their existence, he saw that both his wrists were strapped tightly with black leather manacles bearing thick D-rings and held in place with tiny padlocks. It was then Vic saw his shirt.

To top off his ensemble, Vic was wearing a skintight white wife beater tee, and even upside down, Vic could make out the words silk-screened across it in bold, block letters. "COCK HUNGRY". He gasped, suddenly having trouble breathing.

"Don't make me say it again, boy", the man at the bar snarled. He curled his finger inward again and then pointed to an empty stool at the bar that one of his compatriots had just vacated. "Come. Here."

Vic turned to run, but only ran into the massive, tattooed chest of one of three bouncers that barred his way. Each of them also wore leather pants and wrist manacles but it was obvious that they were prey for no one. The lantern-jawed giant with the Marine regulation haircut put a powerful, meaty hand on Vic's shoulder and said under his breath, "There is a serious penalty in this establishment for false advertising, son." He tapped Vic's shirt logo for emphasis.

"And teasing", said a bald monster behind the bar.

The bouncer turned Vic around and with one quick shove sent him over to the bar, weighted shoes be damned. Vic grasped the bar's edge as he slammed into it, and as he gasped for breath, he saw his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. His blond hair, usually unruly anyway, had been furiously moussed and spiked extensively, the tips of his hair stained pink with a brightness that came only from temporary dye. Vic's face fell. "Oh, perfect."

The mustached gorilla held Vic by the neck and said low, "Glad you think so, boy." His smile showed nicotine-stained teeth and terrible portent.

Vic trembled under his grip and said quickly, "Please, there's been a terrible mistake."

The man slammed Vic's head against the bar. The impact wasn't that hard, but it was executed so cavalierly that is was obvious that it could've been. "SIR!", he shouted. "A boy addresses his betters as Sir!"

Vic's eyes began to water. Squinting them tight, he squealed, "SIR! SIR! Please, Sir, I'm not supposed to be here. This-this isn't really me. I'm not like this! I don't want to be here, SIR!!"

The man gripped Vic by the shoulders and said to one of his companions, "Boy finally gets the guts to recognize who he really is, then when he gets here he chickens out."

The man two stools over clicked his tongue. "Typical."

The man yanked Vic up off the bar and one of the other men (Vic couldn't tell which one) clasped a thick leather dog collar around his neck and locked it in place with a padlock that slapped heavily against the back of Vic's neck. "Don't worry, boy", the man said, although he pronounced it "buh-HOY". "You showed you had the balls to come in here (heAH), I ain't gonna let you back out now and run on home to your boring little white picket life (laIFF)."

With a harsh clink, the man fastened a stout leash to the front of Vic's collar. He then shoved Vic back down onto the bar and said, "You ought'a thank me, boy! THANK me, son!!"

With his voice at least two octaves higher than he remembered it, Vic cried out, "Yes, Sir! Thank-you, Sir! Thank-you SO much!" The man gave the leash a quick tug. "SIR!!", Vic added quickly. He was nothing if not a fast study. The other men whooped and hollered as the man yanked Vic away from the bar by his leash. Just as Vic was jerked away, he saw written upon all the rumpled napkins and matchbooks strewn across the bar the name of this fine establishment. In a frenetic font was scrawled the legend "Rough Trade". With his heart in his throat, Vic knew he was about to find out exactly what that name meant.

Vic stood in the doorway of the classroom, bracing himself against the frame to keep upright. There were bags under his eyes, his normally bushy hair was matted down by something with the consistency of syrup, his shirt was torn, he wore no shoes, and a thick chain hung round his neck, held in place by a small but formidable-looking Master padlock. Herbie turned to look at him.

"Well, you look like shit. Had an exhaustive night out, did we?"

Fire burned in Vic's eyes and he said through clenched teeth, "You little fuck. You have no idea what I've been through tonight. We are finished. And so help me God, if you try any of your hypno shit on me again I will wring your little ba-Cawk!" Vic's face switched from outraged to horrified. Herbie just stared at him, his mouth a half-smile.

Vic tried to compose himself. Pointing a condemning finger at his friend, he cleared his throat and said in a low hiss, "I am warning you, Herbie. I will bbbUuckk-buck-buck! Ba-KAAWKK!" Vic slapped a palm over his mouth, but it was too late. He continued to buck and cluck like a chicken from beneath his hand. "brrk-brkk-brk-baKarrk--!"

Slowly, Herbie walked over to his former friend and confidant and lifted one finger towards him. Vic shook his head in protest of what was coming, but Herbie continued. He pointed first at Vic, then at the floor, indicating that Vic should shrink down. Without hesitation, Vic squatted down onto his haunches, his hand pulling easily away from his mouth as both hands formed loose fists that slipped into his armpits.

Vic continued to shake his head. Quietly, he whispered, "No, no, no, no...Herbie, you can't. You can't do this to me, please, man. We're friends, we're supposed to be frien--"

Herbie placed a finger over Vic's lips and locked eyes with him. A curt nod was all that was needed, and when Herbie took his finger from Vic's mouth, Vic was softly clucking away, unable to stop himself, unable to pause, utterly humiliated. "...buckbuckbuckbuckbuckBakAWk... buckbuckbuckbuckbuckBakAWk..."

Herbie crossed his arms and looked down at his handsome friend the chicken. "Did you really think I'd let you stop this project once I got it running, Vic? Did you really think I was that fucking stupid?"

Vic continued his clucking, but his eyes grew wider with fear. "Look, I knew you weren't going to see this through with me, not all the way. So early on I took the liberty of enhancing your programming a little. I figure, why waste the opportunity to work with such an obviously susceptible subject, right? You go under easier than any of the freshmen we're using combined, Vic!"

Vic kept on clucking, hanging on Herbie's every word.

"But I saw how you looked when I started turning all those yummy but misguided hetero kids gay. And you proved my suspicions correct with your little lecture. So I made sure that any time you attempted to say anything against me, your voice would revert to a chicken's. And hey, that's not all I can revert on you, Vickie." Herbie leaned in close to Vic, pressed a finger to his lips to stop his clucking, and said, "Hey. Buddy. You remember your first wet dream, don't you? Stain those sheets, did'ja?"

On hearing the phrase, "stain those sheets" spoken by Herbie, Vic shot a mammoth wad of semen into his pants. He shot upward convulsively onto his tattered shirt and spurted over the top of his tight leather pants. Vic's forced clucking continued, but now with high shrieking tones prompted by his intense orgasm. Both boys watched intently as Vic's shirt and the front of his pants grew moist and sticky. Vic's eyes were wide with horror, Herbie's with satisfied malice.

"Now here's the deal", Herbie said, beginning to pace. "I still need you, Vic. I need a partner to cover the workload and I'm too far along to train somebody else. Not that I'd ever find anyone as easily controlled as you are, anyway. So I'm giving you a choice." His eyes still on Vic, Herbie snapped his fingers and pointed toward the ceiling. Vic's clucking ceased, and Vic found he could rise up out of his hunkered squat. Gingerly, Vic rose to his full height. He still had his knuckles stuck in his armpits, though.

Herbie walked over to Vic, and gently lowered Vic's arms to his sides as he explained. "You can continue working with me, and avoid any more unpleasant nights spent being the bottom boy to gay leather masters and skinheads--provided, of course, you allow me to implant one more posthypnotic suggestion to keep you in check."

Vic shook his head vigorously, his lips sealed tight, preventing him from communicating any other way.

Herbie's mouth split into a smile without warmth. "Don't have a breakdown, Victor. It won't be another time-bomb sabotage. In fact, I want you to be aware of everything I tell you to cement it in your brain." Vic stared back at Herbie intently, unable to do anything else. His arms remained at his sides as stiff as a tin soldier's. It was infuriating. Though slim, Vic was ripped like a bad report card and could easily take Herbie apart, if he could only move.

"All you have to do", Herbie said, "is willingly submit to my control. Just say two words. 'I submit'." Vic's mouth formed a tight thin line and his brow wrinkled. "It's either that", Herbie said quickly, seeing his resistance, "or you get used to spending most of your time as a chicken." Vic's eyes went wide again. "Think about it, what would it be like if I implanted commands so that at random intervals you'd go poultry without warning? In the middle of class, on a date, at a job interview, marching down the center of campus during lunch hour..."

Vic began inhaling sharply through his nose, as if he were going to hyperventilate. Herbie got right in Vic's face, using his hands as visual aids, waving first one, then the other. "Just choose, Vic. You submit. Or you become a chicken. Pick one." Vic felt something wet against his bare foot, and realized the thick semen on his leather pants had dribbled down his leg, reinforcing his understanding that he was by no means the one in control.

Vic swallowed hard, then said flatly, "I submit."

"Good choice", Herbie said, placing one finger firmly against Vic's forehead. "Go silent, go deep."

Vic felt all the tension leave his body. He felt as if he were falling backwards, yet somehow falling within himself rather than to the ground. The aches and pains of his previous night's misadventures faded away and his mind seemed to drift on an anesthetic cloud. Relaxation rippled gently through his body, down his chest and torso, into his legs, across his shoulders and arms. From a great distance, he heard Herbie's voice.

"Vic, can you hear me?"

Vic nodded.

"Open your eyes."

Vic opened his eyes to see Herbie staring at him, looking even more confidant than before. "I want you to be aware of everything I say to you, Vic. You will accept it completely, believe it utterly, and remember it for the rest of your days. Do you understand?"

Vic nodded.

"Vic, from this moment forth you will never speak ill of me, and will work only to further advance the project. Do you understand?"

Sluggishly, Vic nodded.

"Repeat your new command."

Partly a whisper, partly slurred, Vic repeated back, "I will never speak ill of you and will work only to further advance the project."

Herbie took Vic's head in his hands, and firmly pressed his thumbs into his brow, and said, "Indelible seal. This command must never be broken--"

Vic finished, "--can never be disobeyed."

Herbie let go of Vic and said, "Sleep." Vic did, slumbering soundly standing up, until Herbie said, "One, two, three", and snapped his fingers. Vic's eyes fluttered open, and his freedom of movement was returned to him. But he felt altered somehow, he remembered the command and knew without a doubt that it was very real and imbedded within his subconscious beyond removal. He looked at Herbie with both contempt and fear.

"Got something to say to me?"

Vic swallowed, then looked at the floor. "I can't, sir."

Herbie smirked. "I know. Now you better get home and get cleaned up. You're a mess." Vic turned to shuffle out, defeated. He got no more than a few steps into the hallway when Herbie called after him, "Oh, and be here tomorrow morning at 8:30. I want an early start for the next phase of the project. And wear your white sleeveless tee, you look so cute in it."

Vic felt a swell of fury within him, which was extinguished as soon as it began. Almost under his breath, he said as he departed, "Yes, sir."