FICLET: "Adjusting to Changes"
SERIES: Nr. 13 of the Boring!Orli series. Back to nr. 12 .

Author: Lobelia; [email protected]
Pairing: Orlando Bloom / self; Viggo Mortensen / Johnny Depp; Dominic Monaghan / OC Inspector Sergeant Detroit; Dr Craigmarton / medical tome.
A/N: Acknowledgements to http://biology.clc.uc.edu/courses/bio105/ribs.htm for rib prose.

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Bathroom. Orlando Bloom's flat, London, UK. Friday, 4:25 p.m.

Orli's face was a lurid green. This was not because he was bizarrely turning into The Hulk. No, this was because his stomach had just done a 360 degree flip, because his brain had flipped along with it, because he wanted to vomit and faint and scream all at the same time.

Instead, he sat unmoving on the lavatory seat. One hand clutched the ointment tube. The other hand clutched the side of the toilet. His eyes were fixed, in mute horror, on the wart on his penis.

What used to be the wart on his penis.

What was now the wart on the folds of, on the labia of, on the deltas and highways and by-ways of...

Thud.

That was the sound of Orli's body hitting the bathroom mat. The poor boy had fainted clear away.

-----

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen.

"The real Orli?" said Johnny. His eyes still had the glazed-over appearance of someone who'd just been catapulted to Mars.

"Yes," Viggo said and took a dainty sip from his mug of tea. "The real Orli."

"Man," said Johnny, "have you got any idea of what the real Orli is like?"

"Yes. Actually, I do. He's methodical. He's responsible. He's circumspect. He's meticulous about personal hygiene. He's punctual. He prefers salami to ham and suede to leather. He..."

"No, man." Johnny sank into the kitchen chair across from Orli. He skidded only briefly on the grains of salt that were still littering the floor. "I mean, what he's like physically."

"Physically?" Viggo put down his mug. "Well, yes, I know what Orlando is like physically. Of course, I do. He's five foot eleven. His eyes are brown. He has twelve pairs of flexible, archlike ribs. His shoe size is..."

"No, I don't mean that kind of physical. I mean down below."

"Down below?"

"Yeah." Johnny drifted off again, into his fuggy Martian world.

Viggo tapped Johnny's wrist. "Johnny? Sorry. I'm aware that we only just met but may I say that you seem to be a bit... out of sorts?"

Johnny shook himself. "Out of sorts? Oh no, not at all. But let me tell you something. No, you won't believe me. It's a dream come true. I thought it was just gonna be about a wart but it's turned out to be a whole different ball game. Oh yeah. Though when I say ball game, I don't mean balls. Oh no."

"You're not making sense, I'm afraid."

"Well, let me tell you about Orli down below. He is.. how to put it? He is not as other men."

Viggo frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, my man, I mean that just before you came barging in I had the chance to get a good look at Orli's... at Orli's thing."

"Oh," said Viggo and stood up. "Oh, is that what this is all about? Did I come at a bad time? Was there some..."

"Oh no, not at all. Perfectly good time. But..."

"Where is Orlando, by the way? He's been gone an awfully long time. Orlando? Orlando?! Let me just try the bathroom door. It's open. Orlan... Oh my god."

-----

Police station, corner of Huston and Problem. 4:38 pm.

"Hello, Mr Monaghan. Glad you could make it." Firm handshake.

"Hello, Inspector Sergeant Detroit. Sorry about these plastic bags. I was hoping to see my friend Orli here and I wanted to show him these albums. They're very rare, first edition. I got them at a discount. Have a look at this one."

"Let me get straight to the point, Mr Monaghan. A serious new development has occurred in the course of the investigations of this case in which you and Mr Bloom are involved. So serious, in fact, that we may have to detain you here overnight. You may contact a lawyer. You have the right to remain silent though we wouldn't advise it. You may make one telephone call between now and 5:30 pm."

"Wha...?"

"Yes. I'm afraid we have evidence linking Tuesday's criminal doings to an international drug smuggling ring whose evil coke lords sent each other secret messages encoded in Lord of the Rings interviews and promotional media appearances."

"Wh...?"

"Yes. I'm afraid that a digito-analogue-technoluddite analysis of the videotape recovered from your domicile showed that there were not only hidden communications written into the Lord of the Rings poster in the background of the interview, but also that you were executing clandestine hand gestures and even facial movements that contained information aimed at the twisted crack barons of this drug cartel."

"W...?"

"Yes. Please place your hands on this inkpad and then apply them to the top of this form. Then give me your wrists for handcuffing."

-----

Jacksonpete Medical Practice. 4:41 pm.

Dr Craigmarton buzzed the nurse. "Yes," she said, "I have rung the patient. I did tell him about our mistake, that we had wrongly prescribed him a vaginal anti-fungal cream and not a penis-wart removal ointment. But he hasn't replied and I'm going home now."

Dr Craigmarton put his head in his hands. Disaster! The end of his medical career! Struck off the G.P. register! Professional ignominy! Suicide!

He had allowed a patient to apply dangerous, physique-altering hormones to himself. His head lolled sideways in desperation. His elbows slipped to reveal the page of the Anatomical Encyclopaedia he had been perusing. The heading read, in a bold sans-serif font, Inadvertent Genital Metamorphoses. The photographs below, in grainy 1950s colour, came in a 'before' and 'after' pair.

The 'before' showed a close-up of a healthy, rosy penis.

The 'after' showed a close-up of an equally healthy, rosy vagina.

-----

[email protected]
4 August 2003

The story continues in nr. 14: Appreciating the Health Professions.

Back to nr. 12: Paying the Taxi Driver.

All original parts of this story: © Lobelia

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