Category: Sci-Fi

Boris’ Brain

The laboratory smelled like hot copper and bad decisions. Professor Morlock’s laugh bounced off the tile walls like loose change in a tin cup as he flipped open Boris’ skull with the smug precision of a butcher who knew he’d already been paid. Under the surgical lights, the pug’s gray matter glistened—every wrinkle a promise of genius Morlock had chased across continents and crime scenes.

He lifted a chrome ice-cream scooper from a tray of wicked-looking instruments and thumbed the lever like a gambler testing a loaded die.

“Finally,” he rumbled, voice deep enough to shake the beakers. “Boris’ beautiful brain meets Jonny’s scandalously perfect chassis. Homo Sapien Perfectus. After that, I run the mold through my cloning rig and stamp out a thousand flawless operatives. Imagine it—an army that never sweats, never doubts, never says no. God, I love progress.”

The scooper hovered over Boris’ exposed thoughts, one heartbeat away from turning brilliance into spare parts.

Then the lab door exploded inward.

A jet-black Tom Ford boot landed first, stiletto heel biting into the tile like punctuation at the end of a threat. Linda stepped through the smoke with twin silver Glocks steady in her hands—one aimed at Morlock’s forehead, the other at a part of his anatomy that didn’t enjoy sudden surprises.

“Show’s over, Professor,” she said, voice cool as a morgue drawer. “Drop the toy.”

Pussy slipped in behind her, eyes sharp, tail twitching with contempt. “You missed a detail,” she said. “Sure, Boris has the perfect brain. But you forgot the primordial goo sloshing around inside that skull.”

Linda smirked without lowering her aim. “A few hours of Boris’ galaxy-level intellect tangled up with Jonny’s… unique cranial sludge? Your super-soldiers wouldn’t conquer the world. They’d be glued to cheap editing software, cranking out ridiculous pulp covers and binge-watching black-and-white panel shows on YouTube at three in the morning.”

Morlock froze, the scooper trembling in his hand. The fantasy drained out of his eyes like liquor from a cracked glass.

“An army of Jonny M.’s that can THINK,” he whispered, horror creeping into his voice. “Sweet mercy… I’d have doomed civilization to endless bad ideas and worse fashion. History would’ve called me the second-greatest monster alive, right after Donald Trump.” He swallowed hard, shoulders sagging. “Forgive me. I nearly made the world an even stranger place.”

The lab lights hummed. Boris snored softly under anesthesia. And for once, even a madman looked relieved that someone had kicked the door in before the scoop came down.

The Trim Machine.

Jonny M. was the kind of guy who made women flinch without knowing why. Something about the way he smiled—too wide, too needy, like a man selling counterfeit charm in a cheap suit. His best and only friend was Boris, a squat little pug with the brain of a physicist and the patience of a saint. Jonny lived off instant coffee and failed pickup lines while Boris tinkered in their dingy Van Nuys garage with glowing tubes, copper coils, and theories that would’ve made Einstein sweat. Nobody thought much of the pair—one too dumb, the other too furry—but that night, when Boris’s machine began to hum like a choir of dying angels, the air split open like a cheap dime novel cliché—and sucked them both in.

When Jonny came to, the world had changed. The smog of Van Nuys was gone, replaced by a city skyline that gleamed like chrome and sin. His reflection in a mirrored tower made him gasp—his skin smooth, jawline sharp, eyes glinting like he knew what he was doing. The first woman he met nearly fainted when he smiled; the second one followed him down the street without a word. Jonny M., the guy who couldn’t score a phone number if he’d mugged Ma Bell herself, had become a walking fantasy. Boris, puffing and panting beside him, adjusted his tiny lab coat and said in his gravelly voice, “Looks like the wormhole did some editing.”

Jonny took to this new world like a rat to whiskey. Nightclubs welcomed him with open arms and low-cut dresses, and the air smelled of perfume and bad intentions. But beneath the glamour, Boris knew something was off—the women’s laughter echoed a beat too long, their eyes shimmered like mirrors, and every corner of the city hummed with that same low frequency as the wormhole machine. Jonny didn’t care; he was too busy basking in a life he’d never earned. But as the pug scientist watched his friend drown in charm and illusion, he began to suspect the truth: this wasn’t paradise—it was the punchline to a cosmic joke, and Jonny M. was still the fool in the middle of it.