I played with the shadowy fabric – what ended up being two garments with roughly the same dimensions as kitchen trash bags – looking for arm and neck openings. What was I supposed to do? Sit in one and asphyxiate myself with the other? I glanced over to Neck Holes, who grinned with amusement and shrugged.

I put the first bag over my head and pulled it down with my hands. Despite its airy feel, the stuff was strong, but with constant pressure it gave and my head emerged through the top. I repeated the same process with my arms, which stretched to fit, but did not break through the material. Then, with me fully inside, it all contracted, shrinking down until it was skin-tight over every inch of my top half. Only my face was left exposed.

I shed my shoes, socks and jeans. I didn’t want to do the underwear, but like the rest of my outfit, it was sopping.⁴⁵ Quickly, I rolled them down my legs, doing a dance to get them off my feet, then held the second bag open and stepped in, pulling it up over my waist. As with the “shirt,” the material flexed and gave. I could feel it adjusting to the contours of my body. It went snug just below the shirt portion, muffintopping my middle. I tried to hike them higher to no avail. I gave up and considered my reflection in the glass. An outer-space sausage-goth stared back. Comeuppance, no doubt, for my ribbing of Ludlow the Librarian.

Ugh. I slid down the glass into a cross-legged sit and pulled Pickles to the center.

“Those nanites are struggling,” giggled Aptat through the intercom. It cut out, clipping off what sounded like an attempt to rein in more laughter, then came back on. Cleared throat. “Ahem. Place the desecrated clothing into the excrement port.” A clank, and the door in the base popped open.

Excrement port? “Will I get these back?”

“Do I look like the space laundry? Put them in the hole, Ben.”

I pushed my shirt down through it and was about to do the same with my jeans, but held back when I felt a bump in one of the pockets. I reached in. The Alpha-Boom-Train fly I’d made for Cheap Jim. There it was in all its glory. I palmed it and pressed the jeans through. Upon shutting the portal, there came a flash of light and the faint scent of vomit smoke wafted up from it. My shoes and socks were in decent shape. I put them back on.

And that’s when the song Pretty Young Thing, by Michael Jackson, began playing.

“What are you doing?” I cried.

“This is P.Y.T, Ben, Pretty Young Thing, by Michael Jackson,” said Aptat through the system.

“I know that!”

“Do you know it was his sixth Top 10 hit from the Thriller album?”

“I hate this song and I hate Michael Jackson!” I screamed, covering my ears. “Do you even know what he did?”