At some point in 2025, a law was passed that allowed human beings to splice their DNA with whatever they wanted to be. I had no idea that something so stupid had been discussed, let alone passed. Regardless, it didn’t take long for people to start splicing themselves with whatever they desired.

Some of these combinations were pretty basic, for example: Mrs. Santoro, my second-grade teacher, had always wanted to be a cat, so that’s what she spliced herself with. I saw her at my local Stater Bros., with patches of fur throughout her face, cat-like ears, and whiskers. She was licking her forearms and hands (paws? I guess), as she dropped cans of tuna into her cart.

My old neighbor, Dickie Herbert, had always wanted to splice with a shark. I saw him on a news broadcast about botched splices. Apparently, his shark fin came out of his ass, and his arm fins were misplaced, one on his arm, the other on his foot. He looked horrible, and it seemed as though it were a pain to even talk to him.

On Tuesday, just as I got home from work, I saw my neighbor's kids burying their dad in the dirt. He was standing perfectly still, as the kids placed soil around his ankles.

“My daddy wants to be a tree,” said one of the kids—the little fat one with curly hair.

“He’s supposed to be changing tonight!” said the skinny one with glasses.

Their dad didn’t say a word; he stared straight, and I wasn’t even sure if he knew that I was there. This entire concept of him wanting to be a tree threw me for a loop. I didn’t think much of this family; they were loud and pretty dumb from what I’d experienced. And while I wouldn’t have put it past them to splice with anything, I never would have thought of a tree.

"I want to be complete," said Dad, as he stared straight, never averting his eyes in my direction. "Not perfect."

You were far from perfect, I thought. I didn't have a thing to say, so I gave a smile and made my way up the stairs to my apartment. I didn't know how I felt about having my neighbor as a tree right in front of where I parked my car.

That night I heard my neighbor scream from the front of my apartment. It was one of those elongated wails that someone makes when they're in immense pain. It was just after midnight, and his screams of pain had started at around eight p.m. It was becoming clear that sleep wasn't an option for that night. I threw on a jacket and made my way downstairs for the front yard.

His torso and legs had stretched out to about double what he was during the afternoon. Crude pieces of wood had ruptured through his skin, the blood was still wet and it twinkled under the moonlight. They looked like plates of armor growing up and through his skin. Branches with leaves were sprouting out of each of his fingers, out of his ears, and out of his eyelids. His left arm was pointed left, but his forearm was pointed south, as his hand extended left. His right arm was poised upward like half of the letter "Y". A bushel of branches jutted out from the right side of his head, it tore through his flesh and disfigured the whole right side of his jaw. His left eye drooped in my direction, and the remains of his lip quivered as he struggled to speak.

"I'm complete," he said, but he didn't sound like he did that afternoon, not even close. His voice was coarse, grainy, pained.

"But you are far from perfect," I replied.

He said nothing as a gust of wind blew by, blowing bloody leaves onto the pavement, across my car, smearing across my windshield.

The next day I looked for a new apartment.