The Formula

Chapter 1

The alarm blared its awful, headache-inducing tone and Felix groaned. He hated that thing. So much. With a groan, he reached out and smashed it with the pipe in his hand.

Startled, he snapped awake, bolting up in his bed. The clock still buzzed feebly on the ground. Felix clutched the pipe closer, a rush of memories flitting through his consciousness. With a groan, he put a hand to his head. He had rushed home the night previous, and thrown himself into bed without changing. He must have slept with the pipe at his side the whole night.

He stood and threw the curtains open. A smog-wash skyline met his view and he sighed. He wasn't sure what had happened the night before. He would have dismissed it as a nightmare if not for the evidence to prove it had actually happened. He kicked the pipe under the bed and unplugged the clock from the wall.

He held it tight, reliving the events of last night. What was that creature? It certainly couldn't have been some rabid dog. It was too large for that. And it's teeth... He shivered. Furthermore, as far as he could remember, it had been hairless.

Besides, he thought to himself, what dog has horns?

Whatever had happened, he was lucky to be alive after standing up to those muggers. He cursed and snatched up his Boxtons lying nearby. The frame was scratched somewhat from him tripping, but the lenses were still okay. Which was relieving.

He slipped them on and went straight for the washroom. He stared into the mirror, looking himself top to bottom. Hair products lined the counter, curling his nose with their tart scent. He pushed them to the side to lean over and get a closer look at his face.

If the pipe wasn't evident enough of last night's oddity, his face was pretty banged up as well. A scrape spread over one cheek and there were rocks embedded in his chin. He rubbed himself over with soap, trying to wash the memories away. Trying to rid himself of the image of the lead mugger reaching out towards him, pleading for help...

His cold shower did little to help his stirring thoughts. There was no logical explanation at all. Nothing he could reasonably imagine anyway.

Whatever the reason, and whatever the outcome, he was alive, and he still had business to attend to. He found himself wondering, as he sat down to eat breakfast, whether or not he should inform the authorities of what had happened.

He ate a spoonful of oatmeal and gazed out the main window of his apartment. It was a small arrangement, his. A decent-sized bedroom and an oversized living room kitchen combination. It was anything he needed, and he was quite proud, actually, with nice things which he had managed to fill it with. TV he gave no care for, but his furniture was sleek, clean and charming. His collection of vintage records was sizable and he could blow a hole in the wall with the speaker system, if the stupid neighbors would ever let him use it.

Posters of famous rock singers and bands lined the walls, with a guitar signed by his favorite artist hanging on the wall opposite of where Felix sat. The same artist—his childhood hero—wore matching aviator-style Boxtons.

Felix rubbed his chin as he absently studied his things. He couldn't contact the authorities about the muggers. Perhaps they were dead—he shuddered at the thought—but there was nothing to prove he had been involved in any way. They would never believe his story that some mysterious animal had whisked his attackers away.

The whole situation upset his stomach so much. The violence brought back memories he sought desperately to forget. He couldn't finish his breakfast, so he calmly put his dishes away into the sink.

It didn't take him too long to slip a pair of dress pants on, with a mismatched suit jacket. He opted out of wearing a tie. He usually didn't, unless there was a special occasion.