Gregory Samson woke from uneasy dreams. He let out a half-sigh, half-yawn, and rose from his four legged sanctuary of downy throws and feathered pillows.
As Gregory wiped the sleep from his eyes, he was struck with a feeling of discomposure. He felt different. Was it the crick in his neck? He tilted his head sharply to one side and relieved the tension. The crick was gone. He still felt different. He walked the fifteen steps to the bathroom, scratching his bottom and adjusting his John Henry, something that had developed into a morning ritual. He reached the bathroom and threw on the light. It took his tired eyes some time to adjust.
When they did, he was struck with a ghastly realization the rocketed through his body and culminated somewhere in his duodenum, casing a rekindling of his long forgotten acid reflux problem.
It was his face that was different. There were two gruesomely hairy growths just below his brow! He quickly shut his eyes and counted backwards from one. When he got to negative ten, he opened them. Hark! They were still there, and seemed even hairier than before! He let out a belated cry and rushed from the bathroom.
It was ten A.M. on a Sunday morning, and Gregory knew his mother would be downstairs with her bridge club ruling the table. He reached the bottom of the stairs and peered into the study. He was right; the old ladies, or the gaggle of hags as he liked to call them, had infiltrated the room and were taking each others husband's cash. He couldn't go in, for he knew that if the old ladies caught sight of his gruesome overnight mutation they would surley flee and his mother would never forgive him, as she seemed to be up ten shillings and a hay-p'ny. Halt, no! He was mistaken; she was up two farthing and a half-groat. Or was it a sixpence? He couldn't tell from his awkward position. On any other Sunday, he'd look into the situation, but this wasn't any other Sunday, and he certainly didn't have time to decipher currency.
"Mother!" He called out in a shrill yet meager voice, "Mother, I need some assistance!" From the parlor, he saw his mother roll her eyes and pretend to hand herself. This got a cheap laugh from the bridge club. Many a set of eyes had been rolled Gregory's way, but this was the first time anyone had mimicked a suicide at the sound of his voice. Gregory's mother rose from her chair and saw to her son. At first, Gregory hid his face from her, ashamed of his freakish, side-showesque appearance. "What is it, Gregory? I was in the middle of cleaning up house! Why are you covering your face like that?!" Gregory slowly built up enough courage to explain himself. He stuttered as he spoke, his hand still masking the bushy situation. "It's my face, mother! I woke from uneasy dreams to find my brow had transformed into a hairy nightmare!" He removed his hand from his face and revealed himself to his motherly confidante. He expected the worst: a shrill cry, fainting, vomit, the works. He waited for a reaction and got none. "What the hell are you talking about, you silly thing?" Gregory gave her a feverishly exasperated look of irate frustration. "Are you blind?" Gregory screamed, "Don't you see my gruesome brow, mother?! A hairy, linear mass of warped deformity!" She took another look. "Those are your eyebrows!" she said.
Gregory was struck with acute realization. She was right. The fog had been lifted; it was as if he had awoken from a deep slumber. She rolled her eyes at him once again and returned to her bridge game muttering something to herself about all that money wasted on electroshock therapy. Gregory let out a sigh of relief. It wouldn't be his last.