The news was showing his picture again. Franks picked up the remote and muted the sound. It was all the same MCB media manipulation. It was so predictable and boring he could have written it himself. He went back to the stove and stirred the pot full of green sludge. The counter was covered in glass beakers, Bunsen burners, and ingredients. The next batch of Elixir was almost ready.

“You better not be cooking meth in there,” Lana called from the living room. “I like this place. Luxury suits me.”

He’d had Lana purchase most of the items at different locations. A few of the ingredients were rare, and any attempt to buy them locally would be flagged to tip off STFU, but Franks had thought ahead and had those things in his gnome stash. One of his cases was open on the table. Franks removed a bag filled with dried moths. They were a species native to Germany. He dumped a few of them on the cutting board and began dicing them with a knife.

“Not that I’m against you cooking meth. I love that show.” The succubus was lying on the couch, reading People magazine. She looked up at the now silent television. “It’s about you again. You’re a hit. I’m dating a celebrity.”

The succubus had a very odd definition of dating. He continued chopping up insects.

“That picture isn’t even close now.”

Franks glanced over. His MCB ID photo would not help them. They’d spent the last few days damaging his face and then forcing it to heal with the last of his Elixir. He’d changed the bone structure enough that facial recognition software would no longer pick him out of a crowd. Lana had helped. She had a good eye for human proportions and a steady hand. He suspected that she’d enjoyed repeatedly breaking his jaw, nose, and cheekbones with a meat tenderizer and then pushing the bits into new positions.

“I tried to accentuate your natural manliness. I could have molded you into a sexy beast, but oh no, you’re all hung up on blending in. Like that’s going to happen with those broad shoulders of yours. I like your shoulders. And your arms . . . Yum . . . You could use new calves though. How about this guy?” Lana held up the magazine. It was an issue with the list of the most beautiful people. “He’s got amazing calf muscles. If he’s dead it isn’t like he’s going to miss those magnificent legs. I could arrange a little accident . . .”

“No.”

“Come on, Franks. What’s the point of having swappable parts if I can’t change them around for my amusement? You’re like my own personal Mr. Potato Head. A muscular, super strong, tireless, focused Mr. Potato Head who could use better calves.”

“Quit shopping,” Franks ordered.