However, one thing quickly snaps me back into focus. My eyes fixate on the last page, my gaze locking to the number of signatures at the bottom of the agreements. Swallowing hard I read it over, finally internalizing the three potential clients.
The signatures vary wildly in nature, from elegant and swirling calligraphy-like loops to jittery chicken scratch and the simple printed name 'Mary-Anne' sitting in between. My stomach sinks at the sight of all the names, my hand absentmindedly shifting to my hairy stomach at the thought of what it could mean.
As Pam returns, clutching the clipboard beneath one arm with a glass of whiskey in each hand, she is followed by a small group of people. The sound of slow footsteps, heavy set stomping, and the sound of creaking wheels reach my ears before the sight of any of the potential clients.
Pam quickly passes me one of the glasses, taking a sip from the other herself as she revels in the perks of her position, the sight of the first client causing me to take a long drawn-out sip as well.
Rounding the corner from behind a shelf I watch as a matronly woman strides confidently around into sight. Her silvery gray hair is spun into tight curls, hanging about her face in layered tiers. Heavy wrinkling has set into her skin, her cheeks and chin drooping as the skin sags against her bones. Her overly made-up face, an attempt at the aging woman to hide her flaws and blemishes, quickly twists into a smirk as she sees me and the thought of what might come begins to set in.
Her dress is long and silvery, made to match her hair, the silken glistening fabric having been tailored expertly to adhere to her aging form. If the beautifully made dress hadn't given away her wealth and status her jewelry and accessories certainly do, her neck and fingers adorned with all manner of platinum rings and delicate chains filled with precious gemstones.
Her upper arms hand like wings, the skin loose and sagging much like the rest of her elderly body. Her chest, oddly emphasized in the dress, looks like a tiny set of heavily drooped teardrops. While she is overtly slender she appears to lack any sort of eye-catching assets, even back in the day, barely being better than a flat board.
Behind her I watch a wheelchair-bound man get pushed around the shelving, the older woman having rushed ahead of him to see me first. The young Hispanic man in his early twenties looks rough all over, with scaring and a scant few tattoos lining his bone-thin torso beneath a cheap white singlet. A tattoo on his arm, some sort of symbol, looks almost deflated as the muscle or fat that once backed it was long gone.
His long dark hair hangs down over his face, the sight of his sunken brown eyes barely making it through the fringe. His legs, the slender rakes that they are, are bound to the wheelchair itself to keep them steady. As my eyes dart over him I notice his torso is cinched tightly to the seat as well, a series of bands and cushions acting to protect his back.
Pushing the wheelchair I finally notice a third person, a large rotund woman in her mid-forties, her thick rounded cheeks pulling into a warm smile as she pushes the young man gently into the main room. Long and lusciously combed long sandy blonde hair hangs around her shoulders, a few split ends revealing either a lack of care or perhaps too much care being put in. As she waddles her way towards me, her large chest jiggling and it rests on her equally large belly, she gently strokes the injured man's shoulder with her sausage-like fingers.
Her bulging form strains against the conservative blue-floral dress she wears, wide flabby thighs and even wider hips pushing the once loose material to its limit with each of her unsteady strides. Her feet are practically crammed into a cute little pair of pale pink ballet flats, a ring on her left hand pinching her finger tightly as it begins to cut off blood flow.
"So Mr H..." Pam coos, gesturing with her glass toward the group. "Let me introduce..."
"Marianne Carmichael" croaks the older woman, her tone dignified and her accent filled with refined pomposity. As she takes a step forward her posture shifts, her body shaking slightly as she fights the urge to stoop over and hunch down with the natural curve of her back.
"Ma'am..." Pam grumbles, glaring at the woman. "We use code names for..."
"Oh honey, I know the reason" Marianne coos dismissively. "But he'll be choosing me, so what's the harm of everyone knowing a soon-to-be-deceased old woman?"
"What... what makes you so sure he'll..." calls out the overweight blonde, her chin jittering as she whimpers out her concern.
"Because..." Marianne chuckles, holding up a hand to her mouth to both cover it and show off the immense wealth contained on her fingers. "He'd be a fool not to. I mean, I'm sure he can stomach some... beneficial changes in return for a fortune that I doubt he could piss away before I get my hands on it again."
"Language!" squeaks the blonde, her eyes going wide at the sudden swearing from the matronly woman.
"Villas, manors, boats and even our own hunting grounds around the world. We Carmichael's did quite well over the centuries, and it could all be yours... dare I say... mother?" the older woman states with a loud snorting laugh, the outburst causing her to be wracked with a sudden bout of pained coughing.
"Well... I..." the blonde whimpers, watching as the older and more confident woman easily takes control of the situation.
"Yes, just a few...little changes are all I ask for" the older woman muses, shifting her bejeweled hand down to rest on his chin as she hides the drooping skin on her neck. "Firstly, that brown hair needs to go. I'm thinking black or blonde personally, something a little less... dirty. Secondly, well I suppose we'll see how you look once you're more motherly, but we'll need to add some weight up top and widen out those hips of yours as well as clearing up that complexion of yours."
She pauses for a moment before turning to Pam, forgetting about asking me about any of these changes for a moment.
"Can we make any changes to his mind? I promise, I can pay whatever you..." Marianne asks, Pam flashing her a warm smile before cutting her off.
"Minor changes we can include as a part of the package" Pam chirps, tilting her eyes to look toward me. "Major ones are extra.
"Oh, I just want to make sure he's ready to be a mother" Marianne coos, her gaze slowly shifting back to me as a smirk spreads across her lips. "Cooking, cleaning, sewing, some skills to help me with my hobbies... oh, and can we make sure she's... you know... straight?"
"Cubana..." grunts the young man from his wheelchair, his voice rough and dry as it struggles to carry across the room. "Cubana o puertorriqueña, or mix..." he croaks, reaching down to the wheels to wheel himself closer.
The blonde squeals a little, waddling after him as she tries to gently push the wheelchair awkwardly while he wheels himself closer and closer.
"Oh dear, please don't hurt yoursel..." the blonde coos softly, her hands shaking a little as the young Hispanic man inches up beside the older woman.
"I can do fine" he grunts, breathing heavily as the straps dig into his chest. His accent is think and heavy, the broken English escaping his lips quickly giving away that he was born elsewhere. "Solo quiero mantener mi herencia, ser hispano"
"Usted podria ser hispana" the older woman chuckles, flashing the wheelchair-bound man a cruel smirk. The blonde and the man look at her in shock, her fluency taking the two of them aback. "Please, it's not that hard to learn new..."
"I no care..." the young man groans, tears welling up in his eyes. "I want my... my..."
"Legs?" the blonde whispers warmly, trying to help him find the word.
"Citizenship?" the older woman huffs, folding her arms over her chest.
The young man looks up at me, blowing some hair from his eyes to try and make direct eye contact. "You be madre, hispana, you spend however you want..."
"And how much would he even have to spend? A few pesos and a..." Marianne grumbles, wriggling her fingers to show off her wealth once more.
"Have settlement for..." the man coughs, looking down at the scars covering him and the stick-like legs bound to the seat. "Is millions, yours if..."
"I have money too... I mean..." the middle-aged blonde whimpers, waddling out from behind the wheelchair to try and get my attention as well. As she approaches I can make out a small silver crucifix hanging from her neck.
"Doubtful it's even pale..." Marianne begins to mutter, only to be cut off by a pained yelp as the Hispanic man wheels over her foot.
"I promise... I'd be the best daughter ever..." the blonde whimpers, her blue eyes watering up as she stands only a few feet away from me. "I'd be respectful, I'd help with the housework, I'd make you oh so proud at school. Not that pride should be indulged in... but you'd be tempted constantly by the particular..."
"I'm uh... not religious..." I mutter, the blonde's face dropping a little in disappointment.
"Can we... uh... can we fix..." she muses, looking to Pam.
"What's there to fix?" the older woman snaps, hopping a little thanks to the stabbing pain in her foot. "He doesn't believe in some make-believe..."
"It's not make-believe!" shouts the blonde, her face turning red at the outburst. "Oh, sorry forgive me! I just, my faith has gotten me through the worst times and... I was just..."
"We can't make him a Christian" Pam says shaking her head in disappointment. "But... we can make him act more in line with those ideals, or at least in an image-based sense. Some fashion changes here, a little bit more demure and softening there... we could make him the spitting image of a devout little..."
"So... who are you going to choose?" huffs the old woman, her body shaking a little as she slowly loses the fight against the curve in her back. "Wealth beyond your dreams? or... one of those two..."
There is a brief pause as the fat blonde and the wheelchair-bound man exchange a few looks.
"We... um... we could be..." the blonde mutters nervously, not liking being the one to do the talking.
"Mellizos" the man finally cuts in, his face scrunching up as he tries to think of the English equivalent. The older woman's eyes go wide at the suggestion, the thought having never crossed her mind.
"Twins?" she shouts, a slight amount of worry creeping into her tone. "It... it still wouldn't be close to the amount of money he'd have if he..."
"Yeah... we were talking and... we promise to do whatever you say, we'd be so grateful and we're not that far apart in terms of what we both want in a..."
"I... I'm... I guess I'm fine with being a twin as well..." Marianne grumbles, looking down at the Hispanic man. "We can at least share a language and I've always admired the fiery nature of..."
"What about me?" the blonde whimpers, her plump lips quivering as her trump card is slowly pulled away from her. "What if we..."
"Sorry, but I'd rather not grow up with just one other preachy twin... though I don't mind the idea of a more... housewife-like parent, the traditional nature of it all sounds..."
"Triplets!" shouts the blonde, her voice desperate as she looks between me and the two other clients. "We could be..."
The Hispanic man simply shrugs, not caring so long as he got his new life. The older woman too also doesn't disagree immediately, her slender finger rubbing against her bony chin.
"I suppose... I'd at least have another... less conservative family member to engage with..." Marianne muses, lost in thought.
"It's up to Mr. H of course" Pam interjects, reminding the three of the final decision-maker in all this. The dark-haired secretary turns to me, nodding to the three clients standing nervously in wait. "It's a one-way trip sir, but the choice is up to you. Just... think it over a little... though we don't have all day."
As I sit and squirm in my seat I feel the eyes of the group burn into me, the mounting pressure causing sweat to build across my body. My eyes dart around the room, searching for a place to think in peace without the piercing expectant gazes of the group yet finding little relief.
Swallowing hard, I simply look over at Pam. With a deep breath, I open my mouth to announce my choice.
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