The Art of Failing Mad Science

Chapter 1: Swimming in Cats and Other Abnormal Living Conditions

     The afternoon was one of the hottest I could remember all year, and my friend April and I were spending it the way any sensible teenage girl would, at the pool. Without any breeze on the air or a cloud in the sky, it was simply the only way for us to cool off. Not that it was calming. We were definitely not the only ones there. It seemed as if half the town had thought up the same idea! Nobody could swim more that a foot in any direction without running into anyone else. Presently, April and I were relaxing in the shade of an old ginkgoak whose branches had grown over the tall fence and the lounge chairs within it. She was sunbathing and I was reading a book about a girl who drew the power of the moon and cast it at her will. Such fantasy used to fascinate my sister, and she has lent the book as an attempt to make up for missing us this summer. There was nothing to disturb us. Nothing, except an irritating leave that managed to find its way right into the pages of my book.
"This really is my favorite kind of tree," I remarked, twirling the leaf between my thumb and forefinger. "I just love how delicate and detailed these leaves are. I wonder who hybred them?"
"Of all the questions that's the one you pick?" Avril glanced at me from under her sunglasses, "Really, if you were a mad scientist, would you focus on bigger problems or just make little stuff like them Ginkgoaks and Ribbitortoises? I honestly think whoever made this tree either made it by accident or got payed to by some filthy rich women with an obsession for aesthetics. And anyways..." she blew a falling leaf away from her face, "If I were a mad scientist, I think I would do nothing but work hard on whatever the world needed, no matter how much someone payed me to do otherwise!" and then she plopped back down in a foomph of finality.
"Yeah" I laughed, "I bet you would, but don't you think the world is going well as is? And don't tell me people don't need a little fun or aesthetic every once in a while. What's more important in a film, the star or a good plot and setting?"
"A good star can save a terrible plot"
"And a bad star can bring a fantastic plot to its knees!"
"So what's the situation in that book of yours?" She gestured towards it.
"It's a fair story, but I think the main character needs to get a grip!" I answered. "Hey, if you don't wanna swim anymore, we might as well head home for some dinner."
"Sorry, but I ought to head back to my place. Mom is making a 'special meal' and I sure don't wanna miss meatloaf night."
My grimace was all the reply needed. I packed up my towel and grabbed my keys, and made my way towards the gate. April did the same and hopped on to her hoverbuggy. She turned back just before taking off and said, "We gotta get together at least one last time before summer is over and you get shipped off to that lame boarding school! Message me when you're available!" And then she was gone.
I walked over to the bike rack and readied my keys. Gulliber (whom we were going to name Gulliver but thought better of) was alert in an instant. His species wasn't a very popular one as far as organic transportation went, but we had rescued him, and letting his abilities go to waste was the last thing we were going to do.
Gulliber was a grizzly dog. They had been bred up once upon a time by some Frankenscientist and sold at high prices as organic transportation. Their well mixed structure offered up a long lifespan, and loyalty was one of their main traits. Of course, their odd gait made riding rather rough and their appetite for raw fish left some people recoiling. Before long, they were outsold by other transports and became unpopular and uncommon. Gulliber had come from a breeder who was trying to bring them back into the picture by promoting a stronger, sleeker appearance and higher intelligence. Unfortunately, breeding tended to produce either very fine creatures, or terribly deformed ones. Gulliber fell into the latter category, and was tossed out a back window, onto the feet of a very considerate man with a wife and two daughters. So he served us with an unrivaled loyalty. His odd back legs actually proved to make his run more steady and less unpleasant to the rider, and we called his crooked face "character".

I put my towel, goggles, purse, and Gulliber's restraint chain into his saddle satchel and mounted his back by clinging onto his thick shoulder fur and pulling myself up. He set off at a trot down the neighborhood's main street until we came across a particularly crooked ginkgoak tree. Just beyond this tree was a small worn path that would cut through the woods into my backyard. It was not entirely necessary but it would save us a large amount of time as well as a few miles of twisting, forking roads. Honestly half of them went nowhere, and all those ancient houses were so big and crooked it was extremely easy to get lost. A straight path through the woods was anyone's best option, and a few could be found strewn about the neighborhood.