Fired from a slick, black, finger-print smudged barrel the bullet, a stubby little penis with a star of grooves emanating from its overlarge hole, speeds toward your flesh. Had you been as quick or clever or observant as the bullet you might have heard the wet smack of penetration, the explosive rip of the hollow point peeling back into a deadly pinwheel. You might have distinguished the biting sensation of flesh churning through the lead presence like wind through a fan from the sharp spinal shock of bones cracking with leaden impact.

But it was far too late for that.

The nervous signals reporting invasion, like old Roman signal fires flashed from hillock to hillock, spark along a wet biological chain too slowly, reaching your brain to find you missing. You had already fled the hallowed chambers of your fleshly home, sucked into the gory turbulence of the egressive bullet, a mangled mixture of Modern technical achievement and human meat.

The bullet, changed by its impact, does not require much of your fleshy medium to perform its duties. And you speed along after the lump of lead and meat, pulled by it, enveloping it, pushed ahead of it and increasingly unaware of your passing.
You may no longer be what you were. The light of your technological cleverness has shown upon you, permanently etching your shadow on ephemeral walls.

You are Cyborg.

Dave McKee [dmckee@uci.edu]