What is it, indeed. >:) Please, enjoy my answer aka "Malfunction."
I'm afraid it will smell the gash on my leg. Even with a towel wrapped around the cut and half a bottle of Drakkar Noir soaking in, I've seen enough of the beast's talents to know the cologne won't be enough. If it had a normal sense of smell, I might have a chance. I might even have the courage to search the basement for an exit. Instead, I huddle deeper into a bulky mountain of toilet paper, my leg stinking of my first boy/girl party.
Truthfully, I don't have the energy for much else after running all the way from Denmore Labs. I'd hoped the beast would lose interest in me, maybe get distracted by a jogger, but it seems the technician who ran 10,000 volts through its body daily isn't an easy man to ignore. When I busted into a random house on Porter Street, I thought it might pass me by, even with the old lady screaming and smacking me with her knitting needles. But when I saw it through the curtains, its mammoth nose snorting at the trail of blood I'd left on the sidewalk, I knew it was over.
When the woman shouted, “Is that a cat on my stoop? I hate cats!” I was too busy searching for something to cover my wound to answer her. She would figure out soon enough that there are worse things in the world than having a cat on your stoop.
Any bloodthirsty animal would be enough to send someone diving into toilet paper, but this animal isn't just bloodthirsty. The mutagenic steroids administered by Denmore Labs for more than two years have transformed the tiger into a creature with the potential to be more cunning and deadly than the most talented assassins. It can be programmed to kill anyone in the world, and because of the mutations gifted by Doctor Denmore, a man I used to call a genius, this tiger can change its stripes. It can change its shape, its voice, and apparently, its allegiance. How the good doctor didn't see this coming, I will never understand. I can't call Denmore a genius anymore. I can't even call him tiger food; the beast shat him out back in the lab, in the very cage where it had spent the last two years becoming a monster.
The toilet paper isn't just a hiding place anymore. I need to use it now.
It snorts at the basement door, its claws clinking against the knob as it paws at the wood. It's only a matter of time. I didn't get a good look at the door before I locked myself in the basement, but I figure the beast will make short work of it, especially after seeing how easily it tore the lady of the house apart. I had ducked back into the living room to check on her, but the tiger had beat me to it. Her body was a used tissue in its fangs, ripping and spilling snotty innards onto her unfinished quilt. At that point, its claws saw no difference between the woman and her craft project. My doomed ass deserves no less.
The door splinters, and my stomach sinks. That's it, I'm as good as dead—and I smell like shit and Drakkar Noir. Yep. It's my first boy/girl party all over again.