SIMON SAYS

 

SIMON SAYS

Disturbing fiction by strzeka (02-03/25)

For sl38century, who appreciates ‘one stump in a long peg leg and the other just a neat butt stump’.

 

Simon says I ought to practise my handwriting but although I can grasp a pen, eventually, after several attempts, I cannot form letters with the stumps of my fingers and thumb. I am reluctant to try writing with my left hand. I have never been able to and it is still painful, although it looks perfectly healthy. I can type well enough with a stylus on my phone and the nubs can operate a laptop keyboard although the remnant of my hand blocks my view. At Simon’s suggestion, I started a diary about my thoughts and future plans soon after I revived from my coma and found myself, a world-class Olympic yachtsman, in my present configuration.

 

I should copy the old text file onto this machine. It needs some editing before it can be offered for publication. I’ll get round to it sooner or later. Most of the details about the accident and my subsequent treatment are there. I certainly don’t want to type them again.

 

I was moved to this residential annex just off the hospital soon after I woke up. Or was woken up. My physical injuries had healed and I was judged medically fit to restart my life. Somehow I already knew I had become disabled before I awoke although the first moments were the embodiment of confusion infused with panic. I was intubated for oxygen and the back of my left hand had a cannula measuring other vital functions. The display of the machine it was connected to began to flash yellow and green and a chime like an incoming phone call sounded. A nurse arrived within seconds, followed by another, then a doctor.

 

Throughout this commotion, Simon sat on one side unobtrusively watching me. After the initial excitement and assurances that I should relax and that everything was fine, Simon stepped forward to introduce himself. He did not attempt to shake hands, realising how disturbing it would be for me to reach out with my disfigured right hand. Instead he placed his left hand on my right shoulder and held it there while he explained where we were, what had happened, and how I had been in a coma while my stumps healed. No, that’s not exactly what he said, but it’s what he meant. Apparently my left leg was originally injured less severely than my right and it was expected to repair itself but several outbursts of gas gangrene required amputation and re‑amputation in ever more urgent attempts to save some of my leg. None of them were successful and I now have about two inches of thigh stump on the left. The wound has closed and the presence of even such a minimal length of femur means that I can still sit on an even keel. My right stump is much longer. The leg was severed in the accident and the stump required little more than cleaning up. It is about two thirds as long as my thigh used to be. Long enough to be useful but short enough not to be obtrusive. So Simon says. He has great plans for getting me ‘back on my feet’. I somehow doubt he will be successful.

 

I am grateful to Simon. More than anyone else, he has taken over the everyday details of my life and made it possible for me to live in my own private digs in the hospital annex. Simon acts as my nurse, my advisor, my trainer and coach, and I regard him as a surrogate older brother, although I have no cause to regard our relationship as emotionally close. Simon says he wants me to have the psychological strength to overcome my considerable physical challenges and has promised to do his best to ensure that I reach my own goals. Not surprisingly, I was uncertain what goals might be achievable for a former athlete with half a thigh and disfunctional hands but Simon gently explained what other men have achieved both with and without prosthetic adaptations. He is the first person I have ever heard extol the benefits of artificial limbs. It seems too improbable to contemplate but on the other hand, I see one or two of my neighbours going about their business every day in the canteen, walking in on a pair of aluminium legs and feeding themselves delicately with a pair of hooks at the ends of artificial arms. All of my neighbours are severely physically disabled, transient beings in an indeterminate stage between one life and another. We watch each others’ progress, giving silent thanks to fate that at least we are not quite as badly off as the other, who assuredly thinks the same of us. Simon says it is time I became independently mobile. He means walking, rather than sitting in a wheelchair with one stump on display.

 

We watched a few videos together. He had them all in a playlist in no special order. We watched how a double leg amputee descended the steps from a DC-3 on tin legs. Simon pointed out that the man had exactly the same amputations as me. I should regard what I saw onscreen as either something achievable with artificial legs or as something highly admirable to aim for. Simon says attitude is half the battle and I believe him. It is true, after all. I watched a smartly dressed 1950s businessman in a light beige suit rise to his single foot to greet a lady, supported by long wooden crutches. She ignored his injury and gaily accepted the flame from his lighter for her cigarette. How strange people were! Why would he encourage her to spread her stinking breath around her? But the point of the story became obvious a little later when it was revealed that the man had only one short stump, like me, and was escorting the nicotine addict to a taxi on a solitary tin leg. Another clip from an ancient Ealing film showed a newspaper seller shutting up shop, hobbling about on crutches and swinging himself into invisibility through a pea‑souper, crutches supporting his strides on a single peg leg. The last clip showed an old man in some eastern European city park, strolling along on a similar single metal peg leg but instead of crutches reaching to his armpits, his forearms apparently inserted into sockets attached to crutches.

 

I have no great sense of loss regarding my leglessness. In my former life, I avoided using my legs in every way possible. I walked to my car, took the elevator or the escalator, drove to the gym to use a machine to walk on, and made my career and fame from sailing. There have been some remarkable legless competition sailors so my current situation is hardly noteworthy. Simon says I have an unusually positive attitude about getting my first artificial legs, but perhaps they do not represent the same goal for me.

 

Now, several weeks later, I am a little more realistic about my possibilities. My capabilities. And I should have been more specific about my goals. I have been fitted with a pair of exoskeletal artificial legs. This means the components are hollow and leg‑shaped. The material is thick and resembles a dried paste‑like substance. The surface is matte and vaguely Caucasian. Simon says the colour was carefully formulated when tin legs became the preferred type of prosthesis. It was discovered that although attempts were made to match northern human skin, the results looked pallid and slightly ridiculous. The colour has never been found to accurately match the skin of any living person and therefore was regarded as the ideal shade to represent flesh. However, I digress.

 

My left leg comprises first a rigid corset with a protrusion to envelope my paltry stump. My artificial thigh is affixed to it by a hinge and I am supposed to move the thigh by swinging my pelvis forward. This movement in turn causes my lower left leg to swing as the first part of half a step forward. At this point in the sequence, I am supposed to control the angle of my artificial ankle, up through three feet of dried paste and two sets of cantankerous hinges. My right stump is inside a more familiar socket, attached to a lower leg. I can use this prosthesis after I have successfully completed the process with the left leg. I am exaggerating a little. I am giving the impression that I have been walking around on my new legs but this is not the case. I have not even attempted walking on the legs since I got them. Simon says he understands completely and suspects there is some kind of breakdown in communications along the way, although he pointed out that legs like these were what the double leg amputee on the aeroplane steps was wearing. He tottered along, his back to the camera, without walking sticks.

 

Simon says we have time to get my prosthetic care right before I leave. He assures me that my home on the Isle of Wight is safe and secure and has been both aired and moderately heated during the winter months. The Fund Me account for my well‑being holds an impressive sum and I am grateful to everyone who contributed, although I already had access to sufficient funds even before my accident. That being the case, I feel I have the opportunity to experiment with various alternatives. The convoluted left leg prosthesis with its rigid corset is out of the question. I cannot see myself ever relying on such a precarious device, regardless of how well the old double amputee walked. The right prosthesis is much more trustworthy. The only problem is in using a single artificial leg. I can balance on it well enough but the problems start when I want to move around. I need crutches and that is where another set of problems rears its head.

 

I have a fine pair of aluminium axillary crutches, so called because they come up to my armpits. I can lean forwards and they will hold me in place quite securely. When I complain about the difficulty I have using the crutches, Simon says he can understand the problem I have with the stumps on my right hand but does not understand why I am so reluctant to grip the crossbar of the left crutch.

 

I felt it was time to explain how I felt about my hands, now it was obvious that my future mobility relied on them. Simon sat with me while I described the agonies I experienced when I moved my hand and the scorching pain if something touched it or if it brushed against my clothes, for example. I soon realised that Simon had been deliberately ignoring my protestations, waiting for my to reach a point when I demanded some kind of resolution. Simon says the cure is just as bad as the illness and therefore medical teams are reluctant to act before the prospective patient actually begs them. Apparently I have a chronic syndrome and the only guaranteed cure is another amputation. I can be fitted with a robot hand, the main purpose of which is to grip my crutch. I thought it sounded like overkill. Simon says there are alternatives. I could also be fitted with a body‑powered artificial arm with a hook or a mechanical hand which would be more robust. I said I thought it sounded much more sensible. I quite like the sound of a mechanical hand. It would not hurt like the natural one I have now.

 

A week or so later, I stopped donning the ridiculous left leg contraption. The artificial right leg looked OK when I sat in the wheelchair. I thought I looked less shocking. It is common enough to use a wheelchair for a few weeks after losing one leg and I might be such a man. I know I looked shocking with a completely empty pants leg on the left and a single stump. My configuration makes me appear extremely crippled, which I am, of course. But I do have the choice of disguising how crippled I am. Related to that, I suggested that I have both my disabled hands amputated at the same time, to be replaced by mechanical hands. I shall have working fingers again! Simon says it may be advantageous to undergo two similar procedures simultaneously as elective amputations usually heal quickly and we may have some considerable time ahead of us before Simon’s ambition of seeing me leave under my own power is realised. He put his warm hand onto my nubs and promised to arrange for bilateral tibial amputations in short order. I am going to be a quadruple amputee with two shortened arms and a remarkable absence of legs. And yet I shall be mobile again and far more capable of living independently than I am at present.

 

There have been several requests from the press for interviews which Simon has fielded without my knowledge. It seems that word has got out that I have been revived from my coma and am undergoing treatment to recover from my injuries. Simon says if he opened the floodgates by granting some national journalists permission to talk to me, we would never be rid of them. He also mentioned the case of an obviously young up‑and‑coming journalist from the Isle Of Wight who has written three times to apply for an interview and who has mentioned the special interest and concern on the island for my well‑being. I said maybe we could invite the young journalist to call in and he could ask his questions. If the local paper publishes a short interview, it might stay under the radar. So Simon invited Clarke Ploughman to meet me.

 

As it happened, he arrived only thirty‑six hours before I was due for surgery. We sat outside on the veranda, half‑hidden from view by potted rhododendrons, plied with tea and lemon icewater by Simon who sat close by protectively, ready to intervene if things somehow turned sour. It was hardly likely, especially after our introduction.

            “Thank you for seeing me, Mr Goodwin. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

            “Thank you for coming. What shall I call you?”

            “I’m Clarke Ploughman. Clarke with an ‘e’.”

            “Oh! I can’t call you Clarke. My headmaster’s name was Clark and I don’t want to call you that. I’ll call you Withaney instead. Clark Withaney Ploughman.”

The young man looked to see if I was serious and I heard his delightful laugh for the first time.

            “I’d like that, sir. Withaney! That’s a genius name!”

 

I allowed him to call me Greg instead of Mr Goodwin. I have a title, after being knighted following the Olympic wins but I did not have the heart to insist that the respectful youngster who had seen considerable personal inconvenience to interview me should call me Sir Gregory.

 

It was difficult to distinguish between respectful questions which a newspaper journalist might ask and friendly, slightly personal questions which a friend or neighbour might ask. Without seeming intrusive, Withaney gradually worked his way around to discussing my leg amputations. I could tell that the nubs on my right hand interested him visually but he seemed more concerned about my progress with my new artificial legs and his interest in the physical effort required to operate all that dead weight. Somehow during the interrogation, Withaney persuaded me to remove my right prosthesis and took hold of it in order to inspect its construction and general design. It was then that I realised we had gone far beyond the remit of anything feasibly permissible during a professional press interview. I was baring my stump for Withaney who had shifted his position to inspect it more closely. He continued asking intelligent questions in his quiet educated manner, knowledgeable but curious at the same time. I was enjoying his company a little too much, perhaps. Withaney had not even enquired about my finger nubs, nor was there any reason to mention my useless left hand, but I found myself speaking about my expectations after I recovered from my imminent hand amputations. Withaney’s eyes widened and he simply stared at me until I asked him what was wrong.

 

            “Could I interview you again after you recover, Greg? I’d love to see you with a pair of false hands.”

            “I don’t see why not. Listen. Do you think you could work an advert into your story?”

            “Mmm, maybe. I guess so. What do you mean?”

            “I’m going to need an assistant after I leave here. I’m guessing you know where I live on the island. It’s a big place and I’m going to need a chauffeur and a cook and someone to take care of the personal things which a man without hands would find difficult.”

            “Personal things.”

            “Yes. So you might say that Goodwin hopes to find a local personal assistant.”

            “Oh, I see. I could do that.”

 

In my naïveté, I thought Withaney meant adding it to his article. I had no inkling that he was practically volunteering to be my personal local assistant. We shook hands on his departure. He held my stubs between his warm hands and thanked me and Simon for our generous hospitality. I had no inkling that Withaney was wearing a steel chastity cage to prevent his endless erections from revealing that he found all amputations the height of eroticism, especially arm stumps, both below and above the elbow. Withaney was fascinated by the mechanisms required to operate an artificial arm and demonstrated the same kind of enthusiasm for seeing one as a seven year old boy did for seeing a model railway.

 

My hands were history. In order to provide a more aesthetic body image, both forearms were shortened by the identical amount. I have three inches of bandaged stump below both elbows and I am informed by surgeons, nurses and Simon that I have the optimum length for both deploying my stumps without prostheses and for operating a bilateral set of arms. They seem oddly short to me and I expected to see much longer stumps. But I guess it’s pretty much the same thing in the end. No‑one will ever see my stumps after I get my new arms and hands. Simon says I should be ready for my first fitting a week after the stitches come out. I hope so. I am looking forward to standing erect again, on crutches, but able to walk after my own fashion. My artificial leg fascinates me by both resembling a natural leg in shape, but not my leg! And at the same time, it looks completely artificial. Hard and somehow too perfect. The ankle is so smooth and elegant, quite unlike a man’s real ankle. And the foot is simply roughly foot‑shaped. No toes or anything like that. I have a pair of boat shoes at home which I would like to wear on the foot without socks, the traditional way. Simon says lace‑up boots are better because they are more secure with a broader sole.

 

Withaney had been busy while I was gaining my arm stumps. He sent a draft of his article. It’s only six hundred words, long enough to let the community know that I am well on the way to recovery and already being outfitted with the artificial limbs I shall rely on in future. According to the article, I am in good spirits and anticipating my return to my home on the island. Withaney apologised for not including anything about needing a carer of some description and added such a heartfelt request that I burst out with laughter, bringing Simon in from the next room to see what was so amusing.

            “It’s alright, Simon. I think I’ve just had the question of finding a carer solved for me.”

            “Ah! That’s excellent news. Is that stylus OK for you?”

            “Yes, it’s fine, thanks.”

I had a touch‑screen stylus on my right stump, held on by a rubber band, with which I could use my phone. It was very similar to using my nubbed hand. I hoped I would be able to grip the stylus with my future mechanical hand. I knew whatever material the hand was made of would not work a touch‑screen.

 

Later the same evening, I returned to the subject of Withaney’s email message and explained to Simon how the eager young journalist had volunteered to switch careers in order to act as my manservant or butler or personal assistant.

            “Is that what made you laugh?”

            “Yes.”

            “Do you think he is serious?”

            “Oh, yes. I am quite ready to give him the benefit of the doubt and trial him for a month or so. It’s only fair since he’s so keen on it.”

            “Would you like me to type out a message to him?”

            “You’re reading my thoughts again, Simon. Yes please, if you would.”

 

I dictated a fairly concise reply which I had been thinking about all day. Withaney would have to give notice in good time to his editor and he would need to be available immediately on my arrival with transport up to my cliff‑edge home. I pointed out once again to Simon how important it was for me to be independently mobile in some fashion before returning home. My preference was to swing myself along on crutches and the single artificial leg, but I would have also settled for a wheelchair propelled with a pair of claws on my new arms. Simon said he understood completely and guaranteed that I would not need a wheelchair after leaving the hospital annex. As it turned out, we were both correct but not in the way either of us had imagined and Withaney was dumbstruck at seeing me step off the ferry. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

 

Withaney replied the next day expressing his gratitude and said he had already considered all the procedures necessary to leave his current employer in timely good stead. We did not correspond until several weeks later, after I had been fitted with my first pair of artificial arms equipped with both a pair of voluntary closing mechanical hands and a pair of voluntary closing steel claws, large and fierce curved grips which I could close around an object and which remained locked in place without further effort. I released them by shrugging. I had watched other amputees fitted with similar devices on Simon’s video channel, so I knew what to expect and the theory of how to operate the claws and hands, which worked in a similar manner. I had great fun testing the arms and terminal devices for about a week until Simon and I sat together discussing my progress and experiences.

 

Chief amongst these was the instability of the artificial forearms. The sockets were a snug fit and curved around my elbows to protect them if I should trip and fall but I felt that the mechanical strength of the steel claws and the meagre torque my elbows and tiny stumps provided were out of synch and I explained that I was absolutely not confident that my current arrangement was sufficient to let me use a heavy pair of crutches.

            “I don’t know if it’s too late to do anything about it, Simon, but I’ve seen enough of your videos to know that men without elbows have far more robust and strong mechanical arms than amputees like me with just an inch or two. If I had two legs, it wouldn’t be a problem. I’d just have weak arms and that would be an end to the matter. But my artificial arms are going to have to act pretty much as my legs, aren’t they? You can’t expect me to haul myself around with artificial arms like these.”

            “I didn’t realise you were having so much trouble. I suspected there might be some problems with the brevity of your residual limbs but I thought you were managing. Let me discuss the matter with the surgical team. The best alternative I can envisage at this stage is for you to have revisional surgery to disarticulate your forearm stumps at the elbow.”

            “So I’d lose my elbows and have upper arm stumps?”

            “Yes. It would then be possible to fit you with peg arms, which are like crutches with sockets into which you place your stumps, and you would then alternate between the peg arms and arm prostheses when you wish to use the mechanical hands or claws.”

            “That sounds like the perfect solution, Simon. Can you look into it as soon as possible, please? It’s becoming frustrating to be so close to dismissal and yet facing yet more amputation to get myself strong enough for mobility.”

            “Don’t worry yourself, Sir Gregory. The disarticulations are both elective again and are quick to recover from. You’ll have a pair of perfect stumps before you know it. Leave it to me.”

 

The amputations were performed in one afternoon between lunch and supper nine days later. My artificial arms were returned to the lab which made them, with an order to retain the mechanical hands and claws. Once again, I was relegated to wearing thick compression bandages on my arm stumps while the flesh healed, which it did in good time. I was allowed to forego bandages after ten days and became used to the sensation of feeling fresh air on my long rigid arm stumps. It felt grand to know how close I was now to departing the annex which had been my home for so many months during my recovery.

 

I was made a replacement set of artificial arms which differed from the first pair by requiring extra movement at the shoulder to alternate between operating the forearm or the hand. It was an interesting dichotomy until I became inured. Both shoulders had to be involved in jerking and twisting the various components and required a clear mental overview of all the available equipment. In more ways than one, it was like maintaining trim on a yacht, something which I understand better than most, and Simon says he has never seen anyone adapt to a pair of above‑elbow prostheses as quickly and as naturally as I have. I am merely happy for the extra power they provide. I am also very satisfied with my current configuration. I have three stumps all shorter than their mid‑limb joints. All my stumps are long and rigid and I look forward to the challenges of leading a new life assisted by an ever‑developing selection of artificial limbs, something which normal healthy men could never experience. Withaney might be beside me, a trusted companion always ready to lend a hand, literally. I am not a naïve man. I know a pair of claws operated by shoulder movements is not good enough for many delicate tasks. I hope we shall form a fine team, the two of us.

 

I have had further problems with mobility in general. The mechanical hands on my latest pair of two‑phase artificial arms grip well enough but I have little control over the mechanical elbows and unfortunately I do not trust the arms enough to put my weight onto them, without which I cannot possibly move my artificial leg. Simon had discussed the matter with the prosthetists and researched online for possible solutions. The best is simple but somewhat inconvenient. Fortunately I will not need to undergo further amputations in order to avail of their ideas.

 

The problem originates in my less than reliably rigid elbows, Simon says. It might be possible to manufacture a pair of peg arms, long crutches with sockets I can slip my stumps into. But there is the additional problem of my leglessness. If I had a single natural leg, I might not have the same problem of being completely unable to sense the position of my limbs. And I should have some sensation in order to move fluently. Unfortunately for the time being, it seems that even with the long peg arms, I will be unable to manoeuvre myself around well enough for me to be allowed home. I am becoming a little frustrated, understandably. I can use my artificial leg, my claws, my peg arms all perfectly well. The combination is what slays me.

 

Simon says the team has finally come up with the perfect solution. The great disadvantage is the temporary loss of my upper limb prostheses when I wish to be mobile. They will be replaced by my peg arms, a new pair, much shorter than before, which match my new peg leg. Yes! What could be more fitting for a disabled sailor, even an Olympic medal winner, than a peg leg? It is fashioned from black carbon and is vaguely conical, taking into account that it curves from halfway down my thigh. It makes me a little taller than I was previously kneeling on my own legs. It looks extremely artificial and unnatural especially when it pokes out of the trouser leg of a pair of shorts. It has a fat rubber ferrule on the bottom which makes my approach silent. My peg arms have identical ferrules. They were remade to match my new height with my peg leg. They are matching carbon fibre, black as the midnight sky and they taper gently to the same width as my peg leg. My arms are encased in toto from my armpits to the rubber tips of my peg arms. I feel so strong, so erect and rigid, invincible in myself, strengthened by the new limbs which replace the original flesh and blood.

 

Kitted out with my three pegs, I feel ready to confront the world again. I am mobile, eager to return to my home, and anticipating a new life with a dedicated manservant. This morning I have finally received note from the insurance company that my yacht will be compensated for to its full value. I do not intend to replace the vessel. The proceeds will, wisely invested, provide for me and Withaney for many years.

 

HOME

 

As planned months previously, I swung my peg leg down the landing gangway and came to rest facing Withaney who had allowed his beard to grow since I last saw him. There were press photographers and a crew from the local tv station to welcome me. I exchanged a few words, trying not to make too much of a spectacle of myself. Standing only a metre seventy on my peg leg instead of my former meter ninety, I felt a little vulnerable until I glanced at Withaney, who is the same height now as I. He is a little on the short side but I feel that we have a stronger bond because of it.

 

We were driven up to my clifftop house in the hospital van which also brought my few possessions and devices. I was using my peg arms with my peg leg and thus unable to handle my own bags. They contained my artificial arms and all the claws and hands, in addition to my shorter stubby and the matching shorter crutches. Withaney opened the door and allowed me to enter my home for the first time in nine months. I savoured its silence and aesthetic perfection. I stabbed across the floor with my crutches, thumping along on my peg leg at an increasing rate to admire the view over the Solent back towards the mainland where I had left all my problems. Withaney lifted my bags into the entrance hall and quietly joined me.

            “You must be relieved to be home at last, Greg. Independent again. No more timetables for treatments and medicines.”

            “True enough. I’m not sure relief is the right word. It’s more than that. And I hope you’ll feel at home too, Withaney.”

I rotated myself to face him.

            “You have you work cut out for you. I’m not going to be easy maintenance.”

            “Don’t worry about that, Greg. You look magnificent with those peg arms. I’m glad you got the longer peg leg. We’re as tall as each other now.”

            “I know. I was thinking the same thing.”

 

I notified our meal service that our food deliveries could commence immediately and were promised our first meal within ninety minutes. Withaney insisted that he could also handle simple meals but I can afford better than simple cuisine and I do not think it fair to put that additional responsibility on Withaney’s shoulders. He has enough on his plate already. We shall eat fine meals prepared by a professional chef and delivered twice a day at regular times. Withaney detaches my peg arms and conditions my stumps with an antiperspirant salve before assisting me in donning my claws. Eating is then a simple matter of gripping a fork at the correct angle and operating the forearm with my opposing shoulder. Withaney suggested it might be easier for me to use a pair of standard hooks to feed myself but I prefer the much stronger grip provided by my claws. The claws look vicious and aggressive. It amuses me to think that a figure as severely crippled as myself can still strike fear into strangers when confronting them with my pair of open claws.

 

It will come as no surprise that my determination to walk independently under my own power soon evaporated after confronting the practical necessities of domestic life. Being dependent on my arm stumps for both dexterity and mobility, it soon became tedious to exchange my claws for my peg arm crutches when I wanted to change position. I frequently wish to enjoy the sea air on the veranda from which I can watch shipping below me in the strait. To get there, I need my peg arms. Withaney assists me without complaint but sounded positive when I suggested that some kind of transport might be a worthwhile investment.

 

            “You could experiment with so many different things until you find something you really like. There are some stylish mobility scooters, for example. You would be able to control one with your claws, I’m sure. And you could wear your peg leg or stubby, or just your bare stump.”

            “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Withaney?”

            “You know how I love seeing your ruined legs, Greg. The solitary half stump, good only for kicking a peg leg along.”

            “Go on. What else do you like?”

            “The empty space where a stump should be. Where there is nothing. Just a tiny nub of bone inside a dome of flesh.”

            “And why do you like it, Withaney?”

            “Because of the way it moves when I fuck it. The way it moves against my dick and turns me on more.”

            “You like the short nub more than my stump, don’t you?”

            “Only when we’re naked together or in the jacuzzi. I like the stump better when you wear the peg leg. It looks so fine and your peg arms look so masculine and powerful. I love the way you move.”

            “You like to see me struggle, don’t you, Withaney?”

            “Yes sir. I like to see the tips of your peg arms jittering around on the ground trying to find balance when we’re standing somewhere and how you can thrust them forward when we’re strolling. I love to see how you kick forward with the peg leg and how prosthetic it all looks.”

            “I’m glad. Do you imagine how I feel being limbless?”

            “Yes, of course I do. Most of all, I think about your arm stumps. They look perfect. The perfect shape, perfect muscles. But no elbows or forearms. No hands. Only the shiny pink wooden hands or the butch claws. So artificial, so mechanical. Wonderful!”

            “Do you think I should use my wooden hands and claws more often?”

            “I think you would find it useful, Greg. I think it would be best for you to be legless in a gyrochair with your artificial arms.”

            “That’s what I’ve been thinking about too. Let me talk to Simon and hear what he says.”

 

Simon adopted the habit of enquiring regularly into Goodwin’s prosthetic health and well‑being. He took the opportunity to spend a working day travelling across to the Isle of Wight in order to visit his patient and discuss relevant matters. He never failed to suggest some piece of new technology or some modification to Goodwin’s existing equipment but both Goodwin and Withaney were sticklers for traditional body powered prostheses. They had developed a regime whereby Goodwin was fitted with his claws from breakfast until soon after lunch in order to be comparatively independent while Withaney tended to housework or his own private affairs. After lunch, Withaney removed the prosthetic arms and replaced them with peg arms, and removed Goodwin’s rigid thigh stump shield, replacing it with one of several peg legs of various designs and lengths. The latest set of pegs, earnestly recommended by Simon, consisted of two peg arms which matched a long and slender peg leg, all three covered with a textile resembling fine old oak and lacquered to a diamond‑hard shine. For the first time, the two men felt that Goodwin’s appearance was stunningly handsome. The jerking peg leg accompanied by heaving and staccato peg arms were the zenith of limblessness and extreme restrictive prosthetic solutions. Simon intuited a development in how Goodwin considered his artificial limbs and suggested a primitive adaptation for Goodwin’s arm stumps. Goodwin and Withaney were both keen to see a new pair of arms and Simon departed that day with an order for new prosthetic arms with detachable rigid hooks, and a ball and ring combination.

 

Both men resumed writing. Withaney encouraged Goodwin to consider an autobiography in two parts, the first half concerning his youth and sporting prowess, and the second his maiming and recovery. Withaney edited the text files generated by AI from Goodwin’s sporadic dictation and irregular typed passages, which have formed the basis of this narrative until now.. The ‘thumbs’ of Goodwin’s claws were well suited to typing on a flat laptop keyboard and once ensconced on a chair with his thigh stump encased in its thick plastic sheath to prevent chafing, Goodwin found the slow process of notating his personal history to be cathartic and relieving. He had discovered that other biographies of disabled athletes hurried over the technical recovery from amputation in order to resume tales of rediscovered abilities and challenges. Goodwin found his process of re‑amputation until he had reached his current configuration to be far more deserving of lengthy explanation than half a paragraph somewhere near the end of the book. For the first time in the new millennium, an Olympic medal winner would reveal the process of acquiring artificial limbs in realistic detail and describe his difficulties in adopting them and then his triumphant acceptance of and pleasure in his stumps, assisted by a loyal companion and an enthusiastic prosthetist.

 

In accordance with their daily routine, Goodwin and Withaney both worked diligently at their tasks until one o’clock, by which time their midday meal had arrived and the previous day’s dishes were collected. After their meal and depending on the weather, they often went for a ride on their matching trikes. It had been Goodwin’s suggestion after receiving an oversized hollow steel hook from Simon that he would be able to navigate the island’s country lanes in an electric three‑wheeler with an adapted joystick throttle and braking system. Withaney could feed the hook into the control stick’s adaptive ring before attaching the hook back onto Goodwin’s prosthesis. There was room in the cockpit for Goodwin’s thigh sheath or his knee‑length stubby, but not for any of his long peg legs. If and when they wished to walk around at some destination, Withaney could fit a short pair of peg arms, leaving the hook dangling from the joystick. The two silent tricycles became a common sight in the eastern part of the island and occasionally the couple disembarked for a shandy in some pretty beer garden on a warm summer evening. All but the most distant visitors recognised Goodwin and surreptitiously watched the couple enjoying a pint, not wanting to appearance overly curious about Goodwin’s arm stumps or his peg leg.

 

They had little cause otherwise to leave the house on the cliff. Goodwin took great pleasure in seeing his low brutalist home reappearing as he approached from the south‑east. The whitewashed raw concrete reflected the ambient light and its expanses of glass added levity and elegance to the building’s perfectly balanced proportions. The entire expanse of the property was accessible to its owner who had never envisaged spending his young adult years learning to be mobile as a human tripod with an infatuated but dedicated male companion. When he and an architect student from uni had designed the buy‑and‑pour single storey, Goodwin had anticipated using the house as a base on the island where he and an elegant wife might entertain local and international guests, hangers‑on, sycophants dependent on glitterati media exposure. Goodwin’s black carbon arms with their vicious claws were not the stuff of the gutter press and his life as a quadruple amputee with three functioning stumps was superior to the drearily predictable alternative. Withaney heard Goodwin chuckling and came to investigate the cause of the merriment.

 

            “Nothing really. I was just planning what to write about the way our destinies are not always what we might have planned for ourselves.”

            “That much is true. Are you ready for lunch?”

            “Oh! Has it arrived already?”

            “It’s gone noon.”

            “Already? How time flies.”

            “Do you want your pegs?”

            “Not just yet. I like wearing this big hook. I can tap out text on the laptop and it works great on my phone screen. Quite a brilliant invention, in fact. Everyone should have one!”

            “It looks great. I love it when you leave the other arm off and wear only the one big hook. It makes you look disabled.”

            “In that case, I shall wear it as my solitary hook more often. Let’s have lunch.”

 

Withaney pushed Goodwin’s wheelchair to the dining table. The stumps on the left side of his body were naked. The right arm stump bore the large hook and his half thigh wore his flesh‑toned stump shield, the alarmingly unnatural sheath which terminated in a hemispherical tip and protected his leg stump as well as attracting shocked attention in public. Goodwin was experimenting with non‑functional prostheses which had only shock value. His latest pair of artificial arms had articulating joints at the elbows and wrists and resembled human arms except for the aforementioned joints, inspired by those on Lego toys. The artificial hands were handsome facsimiles of male hands and could be rotated into various positions. His next stubby was already planned, a mid‑length peg permanently wearing a masculine engineer’s boot, completely incompatible with all of Goodwin’s nautical wardrobe. The short black carbon leg with its boot would look well with his thick pair of peg arms, artfully designed to fit his upper arm stumps perfectly but to appear merely as black cylinders with rounded rubber ferrules.

 

Goodwin studied his varying appearance in a full‑length mirror and gradually taught himself how to orgasm by visual auto‑eroticism. Although Goodwin was unable to touch his genitals with his stumps, he was reluctant to rely on prosthetic manipulators for masturbation and learned to appreciate the erotic side of amputation. With the sole exception of the micro stump at his left pelvis, he found all his stumps worthy of fantasy and experimentation and willingly denied himself opportunities to function with prosthetic limbs in public, preferring to wear some combination of inert prosthetic designs which served only to slowly excite his libido by allowing him to wallow in his limblessness, individually savouring the brevity of each of his stumps and releasing his fantasy for limblessness.

 

Simon had worked diligently on his client’s behalf, arranging for the gyroscopically controlled two wheeled upright wheelchair to be granted an import licence and for its actual physical transport. Goodwin intended wearing his engineer’s boot stubby while sitting on the gyrochair and envisaged adopting it for permanent use, except for when he wished to experience extreme disability via armlessness or when Withaney wanted to see him on pegs.

 

            “Simon says my chair is ready for collection and asks if we want to fetch it ourselves or whether we would prefer him to deliver it in person. What do you think? Do you fancy a daytrip to the mainland?”

            “Not especially. Think of the logistics. You’d need to wear all your pegs and take at least one claw with you. Then on your return, you’d have to carry your pegs.”

It was perfectly obvious that Withaney would do the carrying but that kind of detail was never distinguished.

            “You’re quite right, of course, Withaney. Perhaps Simon would like to bring it. We haven’t seen him for a couple of months and I have an idea hatching I want his advice on.”

            “Really? You haven’t mentioned anything.”

            “I know. I want it to be a surprise.”

            “Is it something prosthetic?”

            “Indeed it is.”

            “Oh good!”

            “So let Simon know he’s welcome to deliver the Gyro in person and we’ll celebrate its arrival with a meal in town. We can experiment with a few different hands and claws to see what works.”

            “That will be fun.”

            “Yes, it will.”

 

Withaney met Simon off the ferry. The simplest way to transport the device was to sit in it and drive it. Simon had tested it the previous day and was confident he could negotiate his way by rail and sea to the Isle of Wight. He was a little disappointed not to see Goodwin waiting for him as so often before but greeted Withaney as an old friend and they discussed the best way to get the gyrochair up to its clifftop destination. Simon suggested he rode it up and as Withaney had rode his electric trike down with the intention of collecting it later if necessary, the two men rode their respective vehicles at walking pace up the road and then the lane which led from the harbour to Chez Goodwin. Goodwin met them both and welcomed Simon back. He was wearing a yachtsman’s cap, an off‑white polo‑neck cable‑knit pullover and his three fake oak pegs. He stabbed at the floor with his peg arms in an attempt at keeping the gyrochair in sight as Simon rode it in wide arcs across the polished concrete floor, demonstrating its versatility.

            “Enough! Get off it, Simon! My turn. Thank you for bringing it, old man.”

            “A pleasure. Think nothing of it. It had a good charge overnight but I rode uphill from the port so it might need topping up. If you press this button, it says how much charge is left.”

            “I see. Help me into it and let me try it out.”

 

Withaney and Simon removed Goodwin’s pegs and lifted his limbless frame onto the gyrochair’s seat. Withaney fetched the right mechanical claw and the right Lego hand to let Goodwin commence testing. The chair obediently stood in position until Goodwin ensured his half thigh was in place and leaned forward slightly. The chair began to creep forward and he laughed at the realisation that he was as mobile again as if he had regrown his legs. However, he could remain legless and if he had his druthers later today, he would soon regain another method of mobility, which he had already hinted at to Withaney. He leaned to the left and the chair curved around returning him to his starting point. The manual control knob could be manipulated by almost any kind of prosthesis and Goodwin nodded to indicate that he wished Withaney to fit his white Lego arm. Withaney twisted the wrist to a suitable angle and stood back to allow his lover the freedom to experience mobility in a life‑changing wheelchair. Seated on the chair, Goodwin was almost as tall as Withaney. It was possible too that the chair would allow Goodwin to wear his artificial arms with claws more often if he wished. It must be frustrating, he thought, to rely on either a pair of claws or a pair of peg arms when you needed to move around. He longed to know the sensations Goodwin’s stumps generated, to know the nirvana of accustoming to the length of one’s stumps, never remembering hands or feet—or forearms or shins. The longer Withaney served Goodwin, the more certain he became that he too would succeed just as well in life with a set of artificial limbs. He kept his fantasies to himself but Simon already intuited Withaney’s great interest in life. He was waiting only for the slightest mention of admiration for amputation from Withaney before he offered a series of elective amputations. He knew Simon would assist Withaney in every way regardless of what amputation his assistant desired for himself but suspected that Simon would be most enthusiastic if Withaney enquired about exchanging a hand for a hook or two.

 

In the meantime, Simon was kept busy on Goodwin’s behalf. Goodwin had discussed the matter for an hour with Simon, privately, when Simon delivered the Gyrochair. Goodwin stated that he believed he had mastered his three feet long peg arms well enough to master full length crutches which in turn would allow him to stand at his original natural height on a pair of immovable rigid prosthetic legs. The legs would attach to a similarly rigid corset and Goodwin would gradually learn to move himself carefully on a pair of genuine leather shoes again. Simon assured Goodwin that such a device was perfectly possible to manufacture but pointed out several disadvantages associated with a completely rigid framework. Goodwin was determined to try, pointing out that for a limbless man, it was as effortless to stand as to sit when supported by prostheses. Simon promised to talk with the prosthetic lab about the device and found himself more deeply involved in its manufacture than he had anticipated. However, the pair of legs was nearing completion and stood at attention while its harnessing was finessed. There was a problem looming—how to deliver the legs to Goodwin.

 

The upper section was in two parts, front and back, allowing Goodwin to be inserted with his right stump inside the artificial leg. The upper front shell was reassembled and clipped into place and a detachable codpiece added if wanted. The outfit was made entirely of carbon fibre and Goodwin was quite decent wearing it and nothing else, although the codpiece ensured privacy and a T‑shirt or hoodie hid the shoulder harness. Once Goodwin was wearing the outfit, he would be incapable of changing his position or even turning his head far. His arm stumps were the only other visible skin, soon to disappear inside one of his sets of peg arms. It all sounded too cumbersome and impractical to be true but suddenly the device was ready and Simon once again informed Goodwin that a delivery was imminent.

 

            “Simon says my carapace is ready and asks do we want to collect it ourselves or have him deliver. What do you think?”

            “I think we should collect it ourselves. I want to see you travel from the clinic all the way back here, completely rigid and upright except for your peg arms. Use the thick cylindrical ones!”

            “I was intending to. Anyone who sees me will not believe their eyes.”

            “You’ll probably need some outside help on the ferry.”

            “I know. That’s what other people are for. I simply want to be encased in my rigid shell with immovable legs and balancing with my thick peg arms. Once I relax into it, I shall be in heaven.”

            “I envy you. Such a release, like a permanent orgasm.”

            “Ha! You know better than most what my disability causes to happen.”

            “I know. If only I could experience it too.”

            “Withaney, if you are genuinely curious about experiencing a stump, it can be arranged. We’ll discuss it with Simon when we collect my legs.”

 

It was the first time Withaney had dared mention his wish to have a stump of his own and Goodwin admired him for his long‑lasting fortitude in remaining silent about his fetish. Assuming that another assistant could be arranged while Withaney recovered from whatever amputation or amputations he had undergone, Goodwin was willing to allow his assistant to disable himself on condition that he continued to serve him with prosthetic limbs. Goodwin intended to insist on it. If Withaney felt himself capable of succeeding in all his duties on a pair of stubbies, he was welcome to lose his legs. If he wanted to emulate Goodwin’s prowess with a pair of above‑elbow arm prostheses, he was more than welcome to try. But Goodwin would not accept a loss of physical intimacy. Whatever Withaney did to his body, he should always be able to titillate Goodwin’s stumps and generate the same powerful stump lust which controlled their lives.

 

Withaney dressed Goodwin in his smartest attire, designed to impress. He wore his handsome cable‑knit sweater, a pair of knee‑length white shorts with a sharp crease and his captain’s cap with its Olympic logo. His stumps were hidden both by his sweater and his full‑length peg arms which in turn complemented his slimline full‑length peg leg. He teetered around the house, impatient for Withaney to finish his duties, impatient for the taxi to the harbour and mostly impatient to immerse himself into his rigid carapace, in which he intended navigating his future life. His limbs had been lost to fate but a new life had been granted and it was in his power to experiment with his stumps and artificial adaptations, accompanied by his loyal and loving companion who would soon begin the process of becoming a multiple amputee, perhaps joining him in exploring increasing helplessness, reliant on a wide variety of artificial limbs.

 

Goodwin was already physically helpless. He knew it and accepted it and derived intense erotic pleasure from it. Withaney might achieve the same. When the taxi arrived, Withaney removed all of Goodwin’s pegs for the five minute ride down to the harbour only to replace them outside the ferry terminal. Goodwin was upright and mobile again, feeling attractive and well‑dressed in his nautical clothes and enjoying the burgeoning thrill of expressing his utter limblessness in front of other passengers. He admired the peg arms he was currently using. They tapered in the exact same way as his peg leg and the three devices looked more like sculptural artwork than prostheses. Goodwin jittered his peg arms forwards slightly in order to lean on them more heavily. It emphasised his peg leg, which had caught the eye of a good‑looking man about his own age who sat to one side holding a pair of crook‑handled walking sticks. Knowing he was being surreptitiously watched increased his own self‑recognition of his situation. It was perhaps not yet clear to the man that Goodwin’s crutches were peg arms, extensions of his concealed arm stumps. As if to torment his audience of one, Goodwin swung his peg leg forward and followed with the peg arms. Finding his position less than optimal, he re‑balanced his weight, scraping the thick rubber ferrules of his peg arms across the polished linoleum floor, causing them to squeak. Withaney watched the performance with some amusement, knowing that his lover would be feeling the onset of an auto‑erotic orgasm, relishing some aspect of his limblessness. The crowd of awaiting passengers began to stir as boarding began. Goodwin and his admirer hung back, not wishing to cause other passengers delay. They would board last. Finally, the admirer rose awkwardly to his feet and, glancing at Goodwin for leave, stepped forward with the unmistakable gait of a man walking on basic health service issue artificial lower legs. Rigid ankles, rigid feet. It was obvious. Goodwin followed on his solitary peg leg and Withaney boarded last of all, carrying an oversized gym bag, presently containing only Goodwin’s arms and claws. The two legless men sat next to the seats for invalids. Goodwin’s elegant peg leg extended into empty space and the footless man with walking sticks stared at it as often as possible during the twenty minute journey to Southampton.

 

Simon was almost as impatient as Goodwin. They greeted each other warmly and for the first time, Simon treated Withaney as a valued prospective client instead as merely Goodwin’s caretaker. He had been forewarned by Goodwin that Withaney was ripe for his first reconfiguration but declined to explain further. Simon had therefore reserved an hour of his time for Withaney after lunch.

 

            “Here it is, Greg. As you can see, it extends up to your chest and it pretty much relies on your ribcage for vertical support, so don’t go putting on weight all of a sudden. We’ve designed the front panel in such a way that there’s leeway for a small alteration in girth, which means we need only reprint that upper panel rather than the entire prosthesis. As you can imagine, that would be a lengthy process. I should mention, Greg, that the lab ran some stress tests on the feet and refused to include feet which would accept shoes so instead they designed the lower legs to seamlessly blend into a rather handsome pair of engineer’s boots with broad heels and wide rounded toes. We have also added an inch thick rubber sole to the base so we can follow the wear pattern.”

            “I see. I must say, I am a little disappointed by the boots. They are distinctly out of character compared with my otherwise nautical outfits.”

            “I know, and I apologise, Greg. But the lab thought it was more important to provide you with as sturdy a base as possible.”

            “I understand. I’m sure I’ll get used to seeing them.”

            “Good. Now I have to ask—are you ready and willing to test your new prosthesis, Greg?”

Simon grinned, knowing very well that Goodwin was almost desperate to enclose his torso inside his future belly, backside and legs.

 

Simon removed Goodwin’s pegs and made recommendations about what kind of underwear would be most convenient and comfortable to wear between skin and prosthesis. The interior surfaces had been smoothed in areas where Goodwin had skin. Simon and a lab assistant lifted Goodwin into the lower section of the carapace, which mainly comprised the legs which lay horizontal on a red‑leather couch. They aligned the front panel and ensured it would stay in position before locking it closed with six tension buckles. Goodwin looked around him for assistance with the next procedure. He could feel his leg stump firmly gripped inside the artificial right leg and savoured the absence of anything similar on his left.

 

For the first time, he was unable to bend from his waist. He was rigid from his chest to the soles of his fake engineer’s boots. Simon and the assistant turned the carapace to extend it over the edge of the couch and tilted it until the rubber heels of the fake boots touched the floor. Goodwin urged his body forward in an attempt to complete righting himself and to stand on his ultramacho boots. But nothing happened. He tried again, knowing his efforts would have no effect and once again he succumbed to the reality of his complete helplessness. This time, after having edged several times on the journey, he ejaculated for several seconds into the left leg of his carapace where the fluid slowly pooled for the next twenty minutes before drying into a crust.

 

Simon and assorted lab assistant fussed around Goodwin, eager to be reassured that their own contribution to the life‑sized booted carapace was perfect, as required, a good fit, comfortable. Goodwin’s naked upper chest with its sleek short fur and his head and shoulders rose from the glossy black carapace. He rotated his arm stumps, testing his balance and discovering that he was very secure. His weight was precisely over the fake boots and Goodwin would remain upright on his new legs providing he did not deliberately start a pendulum motion. Otherwise it was impossible for him to move anywhere.

 

The lab team had carefully crafted the legs to extend as far as Goodwin’s full‑length peg leg. His longest peg arms were designed for use with it and should be equally suitable for use with the full‑length legs. Goodwin had worn them that morning and Simon fetched them and offered them individually to Goodwin, who held each stump firmly in position while his peg arms were returned. Even more of his skin was concealed under rigid black carbon fibre. Goodwin concentrated on the coolness of his peg arms and the complete lack of joints in his arms. Instead of being able to express himself with his handsome masculine hands and healthy muscular arms, he could now only drag the rubber ferrules of his unique peg arms over the floor. He lifted each ferrule in turn to find its best placement and then heaved himself upward and forward. The carapace tilted and shifted and the boots progressed a few centimetres. Simon felt the urge to hold his client, to assure him physically, but there was really nowhere that Goodwin could be held. Withaney looked at Goodwin’s expression and knew what was going through the man’s mind. Goodwin was currently more physically challenged than at any time previously. The carapace and legs were demanding and the heaviest prosthetic equipment so far. The peg arms seemed pathetic devices to rely on for mobility but they were all Goodwin had. Leaning forward slightly, he stabbed at the floor with their tips before again heaving himself forward. Withaney suspected he was deliberately making it look a lot more awkward than it actually was. Goodwin could wield his peg arms as impressively as a teenage athlete showing off skills with crutches after breaking an ankle. The sound of his single peg leg regularly tapping against the concrete floor was the tell‑tale sound at home which gave away his approach.

 

The client was allowed to acquaint himself with his new equipment with a professional audience ready to leap to his assistance at any moment. Simon had anticipated the practical difficulties in reconfiguring the man from his newly upright position to one in which he might be seated at a dining table in public. Goodwin would need to be lifted out of his carapace and onto his waiting peg leg, a process involving at least two assistants. Today’s luncheon would be served in a small conference room on the premises in order to minimize general inconvenience to everyone present. Goodwin would be allowed to choose how he wished to be fed beforehand, indeed he might prefer to remain standing. Simon announced that lunch was served and the ensemble made their way slowly to the conference room, where Goodwin was helped out of his new gear and seated in shorts with a naked leg stump and his artificial arms and claws. He and Withaney sat together, sharing a jointly experienced meal like so many others, Withaney alternating with admirable efficiency between feeding himself and feeding his lover. Goodwin’s grotesque claws remained open and immobile on the tabletop.

 

At an unarranged signal, Goodwin gestured to Simon that he had finished his meal and that Withaney was free. Simon responded with a brief smile.

            “Clarke, would you like to accompany me to my office? There’s a certain matter I need to hear your opinion on.”

            “Oh? That’s alright, isn’t it, Greg?”

            “Yes, of course. Go ahead.”

 

They rose to the third floor to Simon’s elegant office and Simon indicated that they should sit facing each other in easy chairs.

            “Now, I hope you won’t take offence where none is meant but Sir Gregory has indicated to me that he believes you are harbouring thoughts of amputation. He has expressed that he feels strong enough after his own amputations to believe he and you would continue to function as a team if you were also to become disabled and he has expressed his willingness for you to commence a series of operations to achieve a similar state of satisfaction with your body just as Sir Gregory has. I’m sorry! That was quite a mouthful but I’m sure you understand.”

            “Yes, of course. Greg is quite right. I’m surprised he has noticed. You see, I not only admire amputees, and especially my friend Greg above all others you understand, but I would love to experience life with my own leg stumps.”

            “Yes, that’s what Sir Gregory has mentioned and I have already made enquiries on your behalf. To put it bluntly, we have recently discovered hospital records which demonstrate increasing vascular problems in your legs. We have to inform you now that I believe imminent bilateral amputations would deliver the best future outcome.”

            “What? You mean I could be a DAK on stubbies?”

            “Is that the configuration you’d like?”

            “I’d love to have such short thigh stumps that only the most minimal stubbies are possible. I want to twist my hips and waddle in order to move my stubbies along. Tiny metal legs with little square feet rocking from side to side!”

            “I know patients who have experienced that on their way to using full‑length prostheses.”

            “Oh, I don’t want to walk on long prostheses. Just stubbies. Short ones. The shorter, the better.”

            “I understand. Leave it to me, Clarke. We need to coordinate with Sir Gregory but I believe you will become a DAK within the fortnight.”

 

The couple returned home in the same guise as they had arrived. Goodwin swung along in his accomplished fashion and Withaney struggled with the unwieldy gym bag which now concealed two artificial legs. The rest of the gear poked out from one end.

 

            “Greg, I hope you don’t mind me asking this but there’s something I don’t understand.”

            “I don’t mind whatever it is, Withaney. Does this have something to do with your conversation with Simon this afternoon?”

            “Yeah, sort of. You see, I don’t think your new legs and so on are any use to you. If you want to walk, you can walk much better on your stubby or peg leg and if you want to use your claws, it’s easier to change from a stubby than from your new long legs.”

            “Yes yes. I know all that. You see there comes a time in any successful wannabe’s life when he simply thinks that he has reached the end and there’s nothing else he can experience to make him feel disabled again. I’m sure you can imagine how despondent that would make you feel if you had realised your life’s goal by the age of, say, thirty‑five and had the rest of your life ahead of you without anything new to look forward to.”

            “Well, I imagine that would give you an empty kind of feeling.”

            “It would. And that’s why I need something to make me feel disabled again. Some new challenge. Tall legs which don’t move, rigid hips which don’t let me sit and of course my trusty peg arms, my legs and the arms with claws operated by my stumps. What more could an amputee desire?”

            “I understand. I think it looks wonderful. You can already walk in it so well.”

            “It’s easier than walking on my peg leg, to tell the truth. Much better balanced. But wasn’t there something else you wanted to talk to me about?”

            “Yes. You see, Simon said you’d asked about amputations for me.”

            “That’s right. That’s what you’d like, isn’t it? Your own stumps? I know how you love mine.”

            “Yes, my own leg stumps. My own stubbies. He said I could be a DAK in two weeks.”

            “And would you like to be a DAK for the rest of your life? Legless?”

            “Yes! I want my almost legless body to kick the shortest possible stubbies along. Maybe even graduate to a pair ten centimetres tall!”

            “Haha! That sounds great. I’m pleased you don’t want conventional artificial legs. It always seems ridiculous to first undergo voluntary amputations to rid yourself of limbs and then replace them with something prosthetic and as similar as possible. Shall I let Simon know he should continue with the process?”

            “Yes please. Greg, you won’t stop loving me when I’m disabled, will you?”

            “You won’t be disabled. You’ll still have legs—very short ones made of steel rods but legs nonetheless. I promise to love you with stumps as much as I love you with natural legs. I won’t stop loving you.”

 

As if to reassure Withaney that his upcoming mutilation would not be to the household’s detriment, Goodwin began to exert more independence. He dressed himself independently and chose his gyroscopic wheelchair for mobility with a stump shield on his thigh stump and his glossy black arms and voluntary closing claws for dexterity. Only after their midday meal did Goodwin request his peg arms, usually his shortest to be used in combination with his shortest stubby. They would make a fine and handsome couple after Withaney’s stumps had healed and they both stood at the same height, eye to eye.

 

Goodwin discovered that walking outside in his carapace was too demanding. The terrain was not especially level and it became obvious that his peg arms and arm stumps could not generate enough torque to allow him to navigate the gentle slopes and irregularities surrounding the house on the cliff. The carapace was renegated to interior use. Goodwin envisaged himself standing on his leg‑boots in their lounge, entertaining a crowd of friends and admirers, and for the hell of it, a couple of media reps too. He would wear only his black carapace, black arm prostheses and maybe an officer’s cap. There would be a small team of caterers and servers, handsome young men, who would circulate with hors d’oeuvres and drinks. Perhaps some kind of celebration could be arranged after Withaney’s first stumps had healed. They should entertain more often to larger groups of guests. Perhaps it might be more demure not to expose the entirety of his prosthetic body right from the start. It would be intriguing enough ask a couple of guests or interlocutors to lift him slightly by his artificial elbows and rotate him to face a new direction when he wanted to turn. His continued infirmity even on new full‑length artificial legs would surely generate more interest especially in the circumstances in which his personal assistant suddenly found himself. Goodwin was not perturbed by finding himself too disabled to use his carapace outside. It was enough to wear his solitary peg leg. With it he was spry and manly. His lack of arms and hands made him extremely disabled and his limblessness edged him gradually towards auto‑erotic nirvana every time he displayed himself in public.

 

Withaney insisted that Goodwin stayed home. There was no need to accompany him down to the port, although Goodwin had insisted on ensuring that his trike was fully charged the previous evening. Goodwin was unusually active in the forty‑eight hours before Withaney’s departure as if to demonstrate that Withaney could relax into his maiming in the knowledge that Goodwin would be fine in his absence.

 

Simon received Withaney with the respect due a future customer of prosthetic devices and escorted him to a private room equipped with a television and a remote control. Unknown to Withaney, Simon and Goodwin had communicated further details about Withaney’s apparent desires concerning his body. Goodwin was fairly certain that Withaney wanted at least one hook and would appreciate it if his disablement could begin at the same time when he would be otherwise out of commission. Simon suggested what he always did in similar circumstances. The patient’s fingers and thumb on the dominant hand would be reduced to their first joints. There would remain five nubs, essentially useless but not overly disturbing to outsiders. Enough to engender an impression of disablement, not enough to make normal life inconvenient. Withaney listened to Simon’s special offer and suddenly realised for the first time that Greg must be in contact with Simon. They were working together, trying to persuade him to relinquish more of his body that he had planned. Withaney was a determined man himself, certain of what he wanted and persistent enough to see it through. He decided to try his luck.

 

            “I agree to the amputation of my fingers in the way you describe, Simon, but on one condition only.”

            “Oh? And what is that?”

            “That my left forearm is amputated midway between my wrist and elbow. I am going to have two artificial arms some day and if you and Sir Gregory have already decided that you are fine with me losing my fingers, you will also be fine with me gaining my left arm stump.”

Simon looked as if he had been shaken awake.

            “I don’t know what to say. I may have to reschedule.”

            “Do what you need to.”

            “And I need to talk to Sir Gregory.”

            “Why bother? He’ll say yes in any case.”

 

Simon knew it to be true. There was little point. The one additional amputation could be done concurrently with the others. During the same week, probably. It would make little difference. Withaney was about to undergo the most significant transformation of his life. From a normally healthy thirty year old, six feet one inch tall, he would be surgically reduced to just over half his height with semispherical leg stumps and useless nubs of digits on his sole remaining hand.

 

He slept long chemically‑induced hours and his mutilated body gradually accustomed itself to the physical insults. Withaney was most excited by his extreme leglessness. Special prosthetic experts would be needed to fit his stumps with the stubbies he lusted for. He had no doubt that his gait would forever be laboured and demanding in the extreme. His idol and lover had inured him for long enough to the belief that only severe physical effort against overwhelming disability was worthy of consideration and Withaney had intensified his own urges for limblessness. He imagined his future steel feet scraping at pavement as he twisted his torso to move his stubbies forward. His hooks would glint as he used the weight of his arm stumps to put additional power into his stride. Limbless and almost comatose, Withaney returned to unconsciousness, dreaming of his new physical perfection, his ultimate goal of leglessness achieved at only thirty with further procedures on the way regarding his arms.

 

Goodwin followed Withaney’s progress closely, thanks to daily input from Simon, who informed him that Withaney’s days as a personal assistant were over and that Goodwin would be wise to seek out a new Man Friday to serve the pair of them. Simon was of the opinion that Withaney would learn to walk on his minuscule stubbies but he was going to find life a challenge with a solitary hook and his modified hand. Goodwin was of the opinion that artificial arms were Withaney’s goal and that he would not be satisfied with one prosthesis. Both men were eager to discover exactly how Withaney came to terms with his mutilated hand. It was almost useless as a hand but with luck the stumps would heal neatly and the end result might be attractive in and of itself. Simon said he had no compunction about amputating the forearm later if requested and Goodwin thanked him. It was reassuring to know that Withaney could be rid of the maimed limb if he became chronically frustrated by his useless finger stumps.

 

Goodwin gave thought to his own future with a severely disabled life companion. The pair of them were severely restricted in their mobility, for different reasons. Goodwin could stride along with masculine elegance for considerable distances at the cost of losing all use of his prosthetic arms for the duration. Withaney intended to restrict himself to mobility on stubbies as short as was technically possible and would therefore have a very restricted and slow gait. On the other hand, so to speak, Withaney would at least have the opportunity to maintain some degree of dexterity. He would always have the use of his left artificial arm and whatever terminal device he chose and his maimed hand could act as an assistive device if he so wished.

 

Goodwin enquired about prospective personal assistants from gym owners both on the island and in Southampton. He envisioned some physically beautiful homosexual with a fetish, a young devotee who would enjoy seeing extreme disability and the prosthetic trappings which ensued. There was such a young man in Hythe, who was already an amputee, and who had inadvertently revealed that his amputation was self‑inflicted. He walked with a customised below‑knee prosthesis on his left leg. Goodwin persuaded the gym owner to forward the young man’s contact details and set about composing an introduction to himself and his partner, explaining that they required assistance from someone who understood.

 

The young man selected was called Lance Olivar, the son of a Brazilian father and Engish mother. The father had been deported for trafficking marijuana. His son grew into an athletic Adonis whose dark good looks and radiant smiles were reserved only for the boys. At eighteen, Lance joined the British army and while stationed in Aldershot, he and another admirer‑wannabe arranged to cause severe injuries to the other to get them out of the army on a pension at twenty‑three and on the way to the disabilities they both wanked over. Over a period of weeks, Lance chopped his friend’s right hand off after having his left thigh severed. When Goodwin’s introductory message arrived, Lance knew exactly who the couple were. He had a respectable collection of candid photographs shot of the couple on the Isle of Wight while out on their afternoon walks. Lance replied, stating his interest, enquiring about wages, possible living arrangements to prevent a daily commute from Hythe and other relevant details. Goodwin replied as soon as he could with a touch‑screen sensitive stylus gripped in his right claw. During the week before Withaney was released from hospital, Lance moved into Withaney’s bedroom. Withaney would henceforth sleep at the other end of Goodwin’s bed, since neither had legs which might clash in the night. They usually slept in the same bed anyway. Lance was enrolled in Goodwin’s and Simon’s unofficial prosthetics service and informed that he could experiment with new legs if he wanted. It was a perk of the job.

 

Withaney was delivered after a seventeen week absence. His arm stump had healed first and his first prosthetic limb was fitted while he waited for his thigh stumps to heal. He chose a body‑powered standard hook, voluntary opening like most such devices and the opposite to what Goodwin wore. His right hand was still slightly swollen but the stumps no longer pained him. It looked fairly shocking. Withaney hoped it would look better when it healed completely. The hospital assured him that he would not be released from the hospital annex where Goodwin had also spent many weeks and months until he was walking on his first pair of stubbies. He had been warned that they might not be exactly the type which he had described but they would make him mobile and they would be challenging to walk in.

 

Instead of the short metal legs he lusted for, Withaney had short conical carbon fibre stubbies with circular rubber soles. They increased his height by five inches. They were held on by an intricate network of rubberised strapping similar to a pair of suspenders for trousers. Their design would change after Withaney’s stumps healed further and became more robust, when he could progress to wearing the short metal legs on the individual stump sockets he yearned to use.

 

Lance was overly deferent towards Withaney, intent on acknowledging his diminutive stature in the household’s pecking order. Withaney had been perturbed to return to the cliff house to find Lance already in residence and was immediately fearful of his standing. Lance was friendly and accommodating towards Withaney. He was not impressed by Withaney’s makeshift stubbies and he believed, correctly, that Withaney did not like them either. The two younger men of the house had different rôles but much in common. Lance was fascinated to see how someone as viciously disabled as Withaney would adapt to wearing three artificial limbs, regardless of the fact, as Goodwin had baldly stated, that Withaney had chosen all his amputations himself and in no way deserved any kind of pity. Lance’s own leg stump was longer then either of Withaney’s but short enough to be inconvenient to fit and Lance had a distinctive limp to signal his status as an amputee with a short stump for those with the wit to see. His prosthesis bore a flesh‑toned cosmetic cover and outwardly Lance appeared full‑bodied. It was an amusing challenge for him to keep admirers guessing the reason for his intriguing limp.

 

Withaney suddenly insisted on playing a more active part in both the upkeep of the house on the cliff and future plans for their evolution. Lance was far more efficient at the practical affairs. Goodwin and Withaney were left very much to their own devices, spending many hours a day on the shaded terrace with and without their artificial limbs and accoutrements as the mood took them. Withaney began enjoying a gin & tonic in the late afternoon, which he was able to hold in his left hook. His right hand had healed perfectly by late summer and, despite its limited benefit, was sufficiently distinctive to maintain Withaney’s determination to keep it, thus refuting Goodwin’s advice to have his right arm amputated to the same extent as the left. Goodwin was enamoured of bilateral amputations but only if they were symmetrical. A long above‑knee stump paired with a short above‑knee stump was an abomination to his mindset and he disliked seeing Withaney using his hook and finger stumps in tandem. He would have preferred to see either two natural hands missing their fingers or two arms stumps operating a pair of hooks. Withaney appreciated his opinion and promised him that he would have his right arm crafted to resemble his left if and when he became dissatisfied with his five finger stumps. Lance was also fascinated by Withaney’s arms, both the maimed natural one and the black carbon version bearing a steel hook. He had no interest in converting his own arms but judging on what Withaney had told him on occasion, amputations were a constant temptation at the house on the cliff and readily available. Goodwin derived great pleasure from seeing Withaney’s determined progress to master his tiny stubbies and ruined hands.

 

Another winter passed. The two quadruple amputees maintained their habit of touring the local area in their electric tricycles, rarely following the same route on two consecutive days. Lance had an e‑bike with fat tyres which saved him much effort on hilly roads. Withaney insisted it was time for him to graduate to a pair of proper stubbies, the short metal legs he fantasised over. He had other ideas regarding his leglessness which he wished to discuss with Simon which would require the amputation of his mutilated hand. In short, Withaney envied the ultra‑disabled helplessness of Goodwin’s arm stumps when fitted with peg arms and he wanted to experience something similar. He wanted a carapace similar to Goodwin’s which would cover his belly, pelvis and short stumps. He had not yet decided whether he wanted his stumps permanently in a sitting or standing position. It was something to discuss with Simon.

 

Lance helped him to decide. If he had a carapace which held his stumps in a vertical position, he would always put pressure on his stumps possibly leading to problems later. If he had a carapace in which his very short stumps were horizontal in a sitting position, he would be able to rock forward using whatever kind of prosthetic arms he was using and his leg stumps would always be safe from knocks and injury. He could even have a carapace made with much longer fake stumps if he wanted and he would look like he was a DAK with long robust stumps. The idea was attractive to Withaney. He and Simon designed a carapace with fake thigh stumps extending half the length of Withaney’s incinerated legs. He would be more easily able to heave himself forward on the short pegs fitted to his arms. They would extend only to his elbows and he would be far more dextrous with two rubber blocks at the end of his forearms than Goodwin.

 

With planning completed, Withaney returned to the mainland once more for the amputation of his right arm to make it the mirror equivalent of his left, in order to please Goodwin. His finger stubs had been fun. Useless but fun. It was amusing to try using the half thumb and the index finger stub to pick up something like a knife or a pencil. But the mutilated hand had been intensely susceptible to cold. It had been uncomfortable, almost painful, during their winter outings. Their trikes were not especially well insulated from draughts. With two artificial arms, a northerly wind could present no trouble. Withaney looked forward to his own set of hooks and hoped that Goodwin would be pleased that his lover had sacrificed his arms to emulate him.

 

Simon placed Withaney into a room in the adjacent building without delay. There were other clients, or patients, arriving in the near future, a result of a new series of Dr Who in which the entire population of the enemy population used hooks on handless arms as a result of atomic testing. The three bilateral amputee actors who played the baddies had immediately generated thousands of requests to surgical clinics around Britain which could provide the necessary services for a suitable price, currently six thousand sterling for a below elbow job. The price tripled within weeks. While his newest arm stump healed, his new stubbies were manufactured. They were held onto his stumps by pins, resulting in yet another elasticated conjoined pair of stump liners. The shortest possible pylons were fitted between the sockets and the square steel feet, resulting in a leg length of nine centimetres. Wearing a white plaster cast stump sheath on his right arm, Withaney tested his new stubbies and stood in awe before a full length mirror admiring his extreme leglessness and the insistent release of endorphins into his blood stream. He balanced himself with his arm stumps, bowed his head and ejaculated onto the floor for nine seconds. He pronounced himself satisfied with his new legs and tottered with his metal feet chittering on the concrete floor to where Simon and several technicians watched his performance. His pelvic motion was sufficient to allow him to increase the meagre reach of his minimal stumps. They reasoned that their client could generate useful power to operate his carbon and steel stubbies and signed off for their delivery to the customer.

 

Withaney was overjoyed to finally be fitted with his tiny metal pylons and allowed his conical carbon stubbies to go for recycling. He now awaited a pair of steel hooks on a double harness. His arm stumps were almost identical. No‑one would ever see them. No‑one he was not intimate with. Greg might like them. In fact, he knew Greg would like them very much and he was impatient to use his fresh stump to explore Greg’s torso.

 

Much of the following mornings was dedicated to Withaney learning both to balance on his tiny square feet and to walk on his tiny pylons. His sockets were successful, comfortable and firm, and the conjoined elasticated liners felt exciting against the violated skin of his former thighs. Withaney presented a shocking figure in the weeks before his artificial arms were delivered. The absence of hands on his truncated arms was almost as alarming as the apparent complete absence of legs until he kicked his short stumps into action and waddled ahead, ten centimetres with each step, twisting his hips from side to side in order to propel his square metal feet across the veranda’s raw concrete surface. Goodwin crutched out to check on his lover’s progress and spent considerable time admiring and relaxing in a familiar tripod pose, his peg arms firm against his shoulders and the peg leg rigid from his pelvis to the floor. Lance glanced out at his employers from time to time, imagining what life reliant entirely on prosthetic limbs might be like. His trusty leg prosthesis was merely a tool for him, nothing like the quasi‑erotic equipment which the other men had chosen to enjoy. Lance had lost his leg in an easily avoidable road accident when he was eight years old, only three weeks after receiving his Road Safety Awareness Certificate from his primary school headmistress. He knew the rules but chose to flaunt them. His parents had been distraught and he himself was upset at first until he realised that he was upset on behalf of the others and that having a little stump instead of a leg was pretty cool and everyone wanted to see his wooden leg after he went back to school. He was cool with it and liked to prank strangers with it. Now he saw how vanilla and demure his antics had been and how much fun he could have had as a teenager wearing a peg for Halloween or how much sympathy he could have engendered by tucking his empty jeans leg into his belt and swerving around on crutches. He had been the ideal customer at his prosthetics lab—proficient and unimaginative. Seeing Goodwin stabbing his way back inside, he returned from daydreaming to everyday reality but with the intention of enquiring about the possibility of having a genuine old‑fashioned style peg leg made for his short stump, depending on what his employers thought.

 

Goodwin submitted his biography for review and publishing. Its receipt was acknowledged immediately, after which followed silence for two days. Three days. On the fourth morning, an email arrived inviting Sir Gregory to attend an editorial meeting at the publisher’s premises in Basingstoke. Lance would accompany Goodwin. They could travel from Southampton by taxi or a rental car.

 

Their taxi arrived in good time before the scheduled start of the meeting. Lance fitted Goodwin’s peg arms onto his stumps. Goodwin had not required his claws during the short ride. They were in Lance’s back pack along with spare liners, cotton stump socks and various unguents and disinfectants. Goodwin was wearing his trademark cable‑knit polo with the short sleeves and his Olympic captain’s jacket, the sleeves of which had likewise been shortened in order to expose either his prosthetic arms or an expanse of peg arm, as on this occasion. The CEO of the publishing house rushed out to welcome him but, finding no hand to shake, stood aside watching in private horror as the tripod negotiated its way into the entry hall. Once on an even keel and a level floor, Goodwin looked back over his shoulder for direction and put his energy into thrusting his peg leg in the appropriate direction, followed by the elegant dual swing of his peg arms, so reminiscent of oars. It was an impressive sight, regardless of the fact that there was no‑one else to compare the gold medal winner to. There was no Olympic competition for most accomplished limbless man.

 

As had been decided beforehand, those present would concentrate on the frankly shocking revelations concerning both Goodwin’s accident and his journey through increasing disability to his present status. The general consensus was that the great British public was not ready for such details. The word distasteful was murmured.

            “Are you sure that is the word you were intending to use? You find me distasteful?”

            “I meant only that your injuries are distasteful. I apologise.”

            “I am my injuries. My prosthetic limbs and my stumps are my reality. They are me. That is what the book is about.”

The errant editor, who had watched in horror while Lance removed three peg limbs and replaced them with two artificial arms and claws and a solid thigh sheath, shrank back into her seat.

            “I was wondering if you could expand upon the accident itself?”

            “I wrote about my own experience of the collision, or the accident, as you call it. I was below deck relaxing while the second‑in‑command took the wheel. I really can’t speak for him, and of course, we can’t ask him. This is all I can remember of the actual occurrence. It was not my intention to write a semi‑fictional tale about How I Was Capsized And Maimed By An Oil Tanker.”

            “No, of course not. I do understand completely.”

Another one silenced.

 

A third critic had seemingly spent suspiciously long reading and rereading the descriptions of Goodwin’s successive amputations. Goodwin had written them intentionally to be as voyeuristic and titillating as possible. This was the first time, after all, that anything of the kind had been published in English, far surpassing the grovelling drivel about a one‑up‑one‑down legless pilot written while the idol was still alive.

            “Do you not think the descriptions of the sensations in your stumps are a little graphic?”

            “Graphic? They were utter agony—physically and mentally. How do you think it might feel to wake up in a hospital, by accident I should mention, to find myself in excruciating pain and without legs? And without hands, although I did not yet realise it. I don’t intend to exaggerate my agonies for dramatic effect but I would be dishonest to sugarcoat the process of becoming the limbless man you see before you today.”

            “I understand. And I assume you would prefer to retain the description of how your present arm stumps were created in two steps, on the advice of the mentally disturbed liaison officer?”

            “Of course. That’s how it was. Just as I was coming to terms with the reality that I would have only one functional hook on my left arm stump, the opportunity was whisked away and I ended up with a left arm stump to match the above‑elbow amputation I had already suffered on the right.”

 

To demonstrate his point, Goodwin lifted both artificial arms a short way above the table top and allowed them to drop. The resultant crash acted as a turning point in the discussion. The editors understood the hard reality of limblessness and were prepared to forgive the blatant descriptions of pain and recovery, the promises of artificial limb manufacturers and the reality of peg arms combined with one peg leg.

            “The reality did not match the description and yet still I walk.”

 

They broke for lunch, which involved the conversion of the conference room into a dining room in order to save Sir Gregory the indignity of being refitted with his peg limbs for a mere ten metre walk before being returned to his legless stature with claws. An efficient team of caterers had been hired to provide a medley of seafood and a professional male nurse was on the premises to assist the limbless national hero should something untoward occur with the lobster bisque.

 

The afternoon session dealt with far more genial matters concerning Goodwin’s sixth form  standard of language. Witticisms were honed to perfection, convoluted detours through tangled tenses were straightened and by the time the meeting was adjourned, those present were all agreed that not only did they have a gripping story of adventure on their hands, the about‑to‑be‑published book would also provide a practical guide for anyone facing an amputation and a unique source of encouragement through all the despair and discouragement. Not a single word hinted at the merest suggestion of the fact that Sir Gregory and his similarly limbless homosexual lover had fetishised multiple amputations since they were old enough to know what a prosthetic limb was and what it actually meant for the man who wore one.

 

SIMON SAYS