Grizzly Science - Ch. 4

Yay: I've figured out how to do the scheduling of my posts, so they should be posted on time from now on... :)

Enjoy the story!

-Del'an/Gryphbear

Chapter 4

Once out of the hospital, He waited on a bench outside the hospital doors for a cab. Sitting there, he pulled out the card, and studied it.

Shock filled his face at the realization that the appointment was later that day -- at two p.m. And it was pushing fifteen minutes before nine a.m.

Uncertainty set in quickly. Did he really want to undergo treatment? He had to admit that he was being stubborn because he hadn't wanted to feel lousy after chemo, and being muddle-headed was his least favorite mood.

He had read a lot of stories in the past -- news and fiction, on how experimental science could screw up their guinea pigs too easily, and worse.

What if the nanotechnology did something wrong inside his body?

His stomach twisted in anxiety, as he barely acknowledged the taxicab pulling up, but he had enough sense to get in, and rattle out his home address.

He rode inside the cab in a fog, not answering to the taxi driver's questions, but after a ten minute drive, the driver rolled to a stop in front of Grant's house.

It took the driver's shaking of Grant's arm to snap him out of his thoughts.

"Oh. Right. Sorry. Here's the money."

He pulled out a twenty, without realizing that it had only cost about ten bucks, and gave it to the driver.

The driver was about to give him change back, but Grant had left the cab, closing the door.

The driver called out through the passenger window. "Hey! What about your change?" He held up a ten dollar bill.

Grant focused on the driver, then shrugged. "Er...Keep it."

The cab driver grinned widely. "Thanks, sir! Have a great day!" He pulled away from the curb, and went down the road.

It was minutes later that Grant blinked, mentally smacking himself, and realizing he just gave a cab driver a ten dollar tip. Ah well, it wasn't a big deal -- there wasn't much else he could or wanted to spend it on, and the driver most likely would have a better day.

Even if it was an absent-minded accident on Grant's part...

He dug into his pocket for his keys, and let himself in. Once inside, his smile grew in relief. He was home. Flipping the light switch by the front door, the house became illuminated in warm florescent light.

Laying the box on the coffee table, he peeled off all his clothes and left them in a pile in the middle of the room, and paying them no heed. Laundry could be done after his shower. All of the windows were covered with thick curtains, ensuring his privacy. 

Feeling gloriously naked, he stretched his arms upward then down to the side, feeling his back crick slightly. He grunted, and sniffed his armpit, and his eyes watered.

"Ugh. Time for a shower."

Grant grabbed a gray towel and a washcloth, walking into the bathroom. Tossing the towel on the counter near the sink, he slung the washcloth over the metal bar to the side over the clear plastic door. 

Pulling the door open, he leaned in and fiddled with the hot water knob.

His hand tested the temperature, and he frowned, then shifted the shower handle a slight increment toward cooler water. Once the temperature was steamy enough not to boil his skin off, but pleasant enough to relax, he stepped in and pulled the door shut.

His hands touched the shower walls in front of the stream of water, as it beat a steady rhythm against his chest, slowly getting his thick fur wet. The water felt wonderful -- the grime seemed to vanish wherever he let it wash over him.

Grant bent his head forward to sluice water through his hair, and turned around to get the rest of his body soaking wet.

He let the steamy water beat his upper middle back, enjoying it flow in rivulets down his muscular back.

Grant sighed once he felt the water's temperature finally drop slightly; he gelled some shampoo into his hand, and started massaging it into his hair. He shifted the shower head to the side.

He rinsed his hands, then pulled the washcloth off the metal bar and started soaping it up.

He started scrubbing his chest, arms, then stomach. Bending over slightly, he lathered more soap into the cloth before washing his legs, and feet.

He straightened up, and rubbed at his crotch and butt crack with the washcloth, cleaning it meticulously, and mechanically.

He squeezed the washcloth under the now-tepid stream of water, while rinsing it. He uncrumpled it and hung it over the metal bar, then taking the shower head in his hand. Quickly, he sluiced all the soap and shampoo from his body, so he wouldn't be caught with cold water.

He turned the knob back, turning the water off, and replaced the shower head back in its place.

Opening the shower stall door he leaned out and grabbed his towel, and dried himself in vigorous motions. Grant sighed as he stepped out, to towel his legs and back.

He stood at the counter, gazing at his own reflection, then shrugged and left the bathroom.

He stopped at the pile of dirty clothes he had left on the floor, and scooped them up, and threw them into the laundry basket after emptying his pants and shirt pockets. He deposited his wallet, keys and other things on the coffee table.

His eyes strayed to the card in his hand, and he stared at it for moments, feeling nervousness creep in. 
Grant gritted his teeth, and tossed it onto the table, watching it land.

There was no need to be nervous -- he hadn't heard any news on TV about any casualties or any odd occurrences revolving around the nanotreatments.

But why did he feel a little uneasy? Maybe it was just simple nerves.

His stomach rumbled in hunger, deciding his next move, as he started walking over to the kitchen for something to eat...

About a hour passed as he prepared, fixed, then ate breakfast in the comfort of his living room. Grant leaned back after sliding the plate and fork over on the table, feeling pleasantly full.

Scratching his belly, he idly wondered what he should do next. He had at least two hours to kill or so...

He scooted to the edge of the couch cushion, and leaned toward the box of cigars, pulling it closer to his side. Pulling the box open, he rested his fingers on the neat pile of cigars, with a small smile of slight resignation of the inevitable.

After today, he ... probably wouldn't be able to smoke them anymore.

Grant had an impish smile on his face, and chuckled. "One last smoke won't hurt. Perhaps the nanotreatment would help cope with not being able to do it anymore..."

He ran his fingers back and forth across the cigars, trying to decide which one to start with, then selected one at random.

Sliding the stogie under his nose, he inhaled deeply, then half growled/purred at the heavenly scent from it.

Soon after, he had the stogie's tip glowing, and smoke wafting from it. His chest moved up and down slowly, as he rolled the smoke around in his mouth, savoring the taste, and releasing it slowly.
His eyes were half-lidded with lazy pleasure; he occasionally alternately dropped some ash into the tray on the table in front of him, and chewed on the stogie, while letting it burn, lodged in his jaw.

He slowly gazed at the clock, and saw it had been a hour -- and the cigar had burned down to half it's length. He sighed. It was time to get dressed, and at least get his laundry started.

He stood up, stogie still firmly held in his teeth, and went into the bedroom. It was a large bedroom that he kept tidy because he seldom used it other than to get dressed, and rarely sleep in his bed.

He rummaged through his closet, frowning at his selection of clothing.

Grant had one question on his mind, as he rifled through his shirts with one hand.

What does one wear to a nanotreatment appointment?

He puffed on the cigar, while scratching his stomach. He then reached out and selected a few clothes at random, but together they made a theme -- casual. He had picked a blue t-shirt, and a pair of nearly new black denim jeans.

He preferred loose fitting shirts -- particularly in the size range of 3 to 4XL. It let his fur and skin breathe, and he hated to be restricted in his movements.

The only exception was wearing his boxer briefs. Those he found had the best snug fit, and were comfortable at the same time.

Speaking of, he dug around in the tall dresser near the top for another pair of boxer briefs, and grabbed a set.

He slid his legs into the leg holes, and pulled them up, then adjusted everything to a comfortable position.

He set his cigar on his ashtray which rested on the counter of his dresser, then tugged his shirt on, and his pants.

Grant sighed in relief as the pants still fit. He had hoped they hadn't grown too small in the last few years. He started tucking his shirt in, then buttoning his fly up, feeling his crotch get hoisted into the relatively tight pouch of his pants.

He grunted as his crotch felt snug -- more snug than usual, but survivable.

He mumbled under his breath. "Socks...yes..." The next drawer down from the top was opened, as he yanked a pair of socks out.

Grant took his cigar, flicked dead ash into the tray, and stuck it in his mouth, sucking away. He ambled back into the living room, nicked his tennis shoes, and sat at the couch.

As his eyes met the clock on the wall, he swore a deep rumbling obscenity. He hastened his movements to yank his socks on, and tie his shoes on.

He had about thirty minutes left to get to his appointment.

Grant grabbed his blue jacket, yanked the card from the table, and his keys, exiting the house in a rush.

[TBC]

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