Celebrity Culture - Alexandra Daddario

 

Another sweaty, obese, aging man shuffles into my back alley office. He looks around the space illuminated by a grimy bulb. Even by the standards of a black market clinic, the place is unsanitary. “This is the place?”
“That entirely depends. How did you find me?”
“A friend recommended you. You did great work on him… Err, her?… him? Gal Gadot?”
I nod. “I remember him. What is it I can do for you?”
Licking his lips, he pulls on a pair of latex gloves. Reaching into a pocket, he places an autograph book encased in a plastic bag on the table with the air of a man holding a holy artefact. The looping signature of ‘Alexander Daddario’ is scrawled on it.
“She brushed her hand against the paper when she signed it.”
I sniff. “That's it? Not exactly much to go off.”
“I’ll pay any price.”
Ugh. Another super-fan. I pull the autograph book closer. The paper is fibrous, not gloss - it might have captured a skin cell or two. “Assuming nobody else touched this other than her - not your wife, not your cat-... it’ll take me three weeks to culture the cells. Don’t show your face around here until then."
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I strap the client’s arms to the chair before the transfusion - not for any safety reason, it simply stops them fondling their half-formed breasts before they're done. I hook the thick tube into his jugular vein and hang the 5-liter sacks of cultured cells from hooks in ceiling. Lastly I kick an empty plastic bucket under the chair.
“For when you need to evacuate… this,” I said with a gesture at his beer-bloated middle-age spread.
Around the fifth hour, the client begins to groan, clutching his cramping stomach, and the bucket starts to fill. Each hour, the filled bucket is taken and emptied. Slowly the celebrity cells infiltrate his flesh, forcing out the old cells via the same orifice as any other waste. Little by little, the middle-aged mess shits himself away, skin hanging loose off his bones. Dark hair sprouts from his bald scalp, patchy, ugly tufts at first, but soon growing into thick locks.
At the 37th hour, his skin softens, his complexion smoothening. The excess hanging off him starts to contract tighter about his budding breasts and ass. The delectable shape beneath becomes evident.
At the 60th hour, I pour the last bucket of him down the drain. There is one more Alexandra Daddario in the world. Two seconds after removing the restraints, he's already groping his breasts, his eyes alight with lust. I hand him clothes, if only for the satisfaction of seeing him remove them later.
"So about payment..." he croaks, clutching his throat at his new soprano. "How much?"
"'Any price', you said?"
What I’ve done is highly illegal. Not only is it outlawed tech, the charges of identity theft could put me away for decades. The sensible option is to take the money and run.
But he knows that too. The police are no longer a recourse for him.
“You won’t be paying with money.”