The Rigby Narratives:
The Ultimate TG Experience
by McKenzie Rigby
as told to Andy Hollis and Jaye Michael
Chapter Seventeen -- The Mansion and the Madame
The storm raged on as bolts of lightning split the night sky. It was the only light available as McKenzie tried to locate his car before dashing to it through the pouring rain. Power looked to be out everywhere. Yes, McKenzie thought, another freaking Dark and Stormy Night. The wind tore at Mac's umbrella as he pushed off from the warehouse and ran for his car.
After three tries, the old clunker finally turned over. Hell, the car was only thirty years old, he thought as he listened to the engine knock and sputter as loud as the thunder. He eased the beast into drive and took off with a groan and a jerk, heading for home. He might not have power there, but at least he would have Igor for company.
The rain drove harder on the windshield and, as if to add to the ambiance of the night, McKenzie's wipers gave out. The blades, after all were original equipment. Mac cursed, but kept driving as he peered through the rain soaked glass.
How long he drove, he had no idea, but eventually he came to his turn, made it and drove for another couple of miles before he realized he wasn't on his street. From the look of things, he had driving far out into the countryside. He must have missed his street and left town, without knowing it. He banged his fist on the steering wheel in frustration, stepped on the brakes, and prepared to do a u-turn. That's when he heard a tire pop.
That was it. He managed to stop the car on the shoulder, before he lost it. What else could happen to him, tonight? The wind found the crack in the doorframe and blew a sheet of cold water right onto McKenzie's lap.
That did it. He pulled out his cell phone, dialed in his sister's number and pressed send long before he realized he had no service. Nothing. Not even a hint of a connection. He sighed, as he put the phone away, and buttoned up his greatcoat before opening the door on the rain.
The driver's side front tire had blown, and badly. There was nothing left of the rubber, from what he could see. McKenzie hurried to the back of the car, opened the trunk only to find an empty space where the spare should have been. Then, he remembered that the spare tire was already on the car. Cursing, her peered through the deluge, trying to find someplace where he could get some help.
There! On the top of a hill to his left, McKenzie spotted lights blazing against the darkness. The place looked far off, but he saw nothing else that even offered a glimmer of hope. He turned his collar up against the wind and rain, and started walking.
About an hour later, McKenzie found himself at the entrance to grounds of some stately mansion. He couldn't remember anyone rich living out this way, in the middle of nowhere, but there was no mistaking the size of the house. He found an intercom set into the gate and pressed the button.
"Yes?" a female voice crackled over the speaker.
"Uh, hi. My name is McKenzie Rigby, I'm a night watchman, and I was on my home when my car broke down. My cell phone is dead and I would really like to borrow a phone to call for help."
The gate swung open. McKenzie hurried up to the front door, which opened before he had the chance to knock. A girl with amazingly long legs and a huge bust line stood in the light wearing a black and white maid's uniform.
"Uh, wee, monsure, ze madam has been expecting you. Zis way, por favor."
"That has to be the worst French accent I have ever heard," McKenzie said with a laugh
"Oh, please, monsure, do not say such zings. I weel be horribly punished if I do not make ze good impression. Please, senor."
"Tiffany, what is taking you so long to show our guest inside?" an older woman's voice called out from down the hallway.
"I am letting him een now, Madam. We weel be right zere. This way, mein Herr? No, zis way, monsure. Follow me, ouí? No, I mean, sí? I don't know what I means anymore. Please, monsure, run for ze hills while you still can. I was einer-Einer Kleiner Nacht Musik, before I came to zis place, no, I means I was a freaking ball-not. I had, no I was uno macho dudette? Zis process zat the madam uses is most confabulating?"
"I'm sure it is, my dear, but the madam is waiting."
"Damn straight I am, Tiffany. Bring our guest in here this instant, and prepare a tray of our finest house de la chat, and some champagne."
"Ah, wee, wee, madman. I vill pour ze 1942 Virve Kickyou. Perhaps monsure would care for un cocktail de estrogen while he waits for ze appetizers?"
"No, a diet coke without the estrogen would be fine. How long will it take me to turn female? Will I get to wear a uniform like yours? What about the bust line? The bigger the better I always say."
"Ah, monsure makes ze joke wiz Tiffany. Zis way to ze madam."
McKenzie followed the girl down the hallway made of the finest cream-colored marble he had ever seen. The blocks were evenly colored, no discolorations or cracks anywhere. Erotic tapestries lined the walls and, after a couple of turns, Tiffany led the man into a formal sitting room.
A tall woman, perhaps in her early forties, reclined on the settee, as Tiffany flounced back down the hallway to fetch the refreshments.
"You are most welcome to my home, unfortunate stranger. I understand that your car is in need of repair. Please, sit down and make yourself at home. I will have my butler-slash-chauffer retrieve the vehicle in question and you should be on your way in a trice. Champagne?"
"Oh, yes, thanks," McKenzie said taking a delicate crystal glass from the tray now offered by Tiffany. He could see millions of bubbles rising to the top of glass as he took a sip. He downed the bubbly, and took another glass and waited. Nothing happened. No lengthening of his fingernails, no slimming down of his waist. Nothing. He drank the second glass, and still nothing happened. "A truly vintage year, Miss?"
"Oh, yes, I have been remiss. I am Helga Gatochateu, the owner of this house that serves so admirably now for your refuge from the storm. Oh, Brucie, Brucie, would you be a lamb and come here, dear?"
"You rang?" a tall lady in a chauffeur's gray uniform said.
"Brucie, please fetch Mr. Rigby's automobile and have it repaired for our guest, post haste."
"The car is already in the garage, Madam. It will be fully restored within the next couple of days."
"Excellent, you don't see many Falcons still on the road, these days. Oh, by all means, Mr. Rigby, try one of the appetizers, chef's special, you know."
On the tray that Tiffany now held under his nose, McKenzie found two styles of crackers, both covered with gray stuff. Half the crackers were piled high with the filling that now resembled a female breast. The other crackers had the gray stuff spread eagled to resemble a female pussy-cat, pussycat, I meant pussycat.
McKenzie sampled both of the crackers, quite a few times, but in spite of the tingling he felt in his fingers, nothing happened. "Very good," he mumbled, a little disappointed.
"Is something the matter, Mr. Rigby?" Madam asked, quietly.
"Not at all, this is excellent. Pâté?"
"Yes, a house blend, you must understand. Tiffany, my dear?"
"Yo, Big Mamma! Here I am. No, that wasn't right. Un Mille Pardone-somethings. Madman knows how terribly difficult zis ees for moi. What service can I be attending for you, Mistress?"
"Please take Mr. Rigby to his room, and make sure he has some dry clothes. Dinner will be served in the dining room at eight, promptly, Mr. Rigby. Since you will be sharing the hospitality of Chez Gatochateau for the next few days, I do wish you to be comfortable while your automobile is being restored."
"A tire blew, that's all, Mrs. Gatochateau. What is going on here, really?"
"Whatever do you mean? Nothing is going on except for the fact that you came to our door asking for shelter and succor in this storm and we have provided it. You think, perhaps, that we intend to use you as the subject of some foul experiment right out of the mad scientists' club? Perhaps you think we are about to turn you into a simpering female ditz like Tiffany there? Nothing could be further from the truth. We are not mad scientists or Domineering Dominatrixes here. A ditz like Tiffany has to be born, not created, and we have no desire to be anything but hospitable to you."
"My apologies, Madam, I have read too many stories lately about some luckless traveler captured and changed in a situation such as this. I will be ready for dinner, gladly, at eight."
"Yes, and while you are here a few rules, if you please. You must never sit in the Master's chair, and you must never go to the West Wing. The rest of the mansion is yours to explore. Please, be our guest."
Even without the dancing china and flatware, McKenzie found the mansion a fascinating place. But here he was, no matter what the lady had said, in the perfect setting for a TG story and no way of changing. The food and drinks didn't do it, although that estrogen cocktail might be promising, but…. Would he trust anything coming from Tiffany the ditz? There, down the hallway, he spotted the girl.
"Oh, Tiffany, my dear, I had some questions for you."
"Oh, no, non, monsieur senior. I am not Tiffany. I am called Brigitte. Tiffany is, how you say, my littermate? Nein, this is all wrong. Nyet. She is mein hermano, nome de plume, mein mister, she's my sister but she ain't heavy. Not on 97 point 6 on your FM Dial where Rock rocks you all day long. Is this not correct?"
"Brigitte, were you always a maid in this place?"
The girl laughed, a sparkling sound that sent shivers down McKenzie's spine. "Oh, non, senor. I am, how you say, un gato? A chat? Das Pussy Galore? No. Zis is ze home of ze famous Dr. Meow. No, I mean Dr. Merrow," she purred. "He changes me from ze housecat common, no, I mean…. I am Siamese if you don't please! Am I not ze perfect cat for zis, ze chateau le cats? Midnight, not a zound from ze pavement, I am warning you and yet, if you touch me you will know what happiness is and owe me lots of mice and rats and sprats and…. God said, let zere be cats to gobble ze rats and you must never go to the West Wing, which is right down zere."
McKenzie glanced in the direction she pointed and spotted a huge, metal door at the end of the corridor. A bronze plaque read "West Wing." "Ah yes, the West Wing, I see. Tell me there isn't a rose in a glass jar-or should I be expecting Martin Sheen instead?"
"Non, no, nein. No roses just mouses for ze catses. Catnip got your tongue? Youse better watch out, see. No admittance."
"Thanks for the advice, Brigitte. I really appreciate it."
As the girl wandered off, McKenzie glanced over his shoulder to see her enter a room, before he walked down the hall to the West Wing. When he got closer he could see small print on the bronze plaque. It read: Achtung! Verbotten! West Wing. Area Forbidden! Abandon All Hope all those who enter here. This means you, too, Mr. Rigby. Signed, The Management.
"Nein mister man, don't go near zat portcullis!" Still another maid shouted as McKenzie tried the door.
"Nyet, silly rabbit. I am Simone, Brigitte is mein sister."
McKenzie opened the door, hurried inside and closed it before the girl had a chance to say anything else. Where did this Dr. Merrow find these girls? He looked around the room to find himself in what appeared to be a huge laboratory complete with Bunsen burners, and racks of chemicals of all sorts.
"Velcome to my la-boratory, Mr. Rigby," said a tall, round man who appeared, as if by magic from behind a bookcase. "I am Dr. Morouser, the master of this house, and quite a beast if you ask any of the girls. Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked before clouds of white smoke billowed from his ears. "Old joke, quite?"
"Very amusing, Doctor. What are you doing here? Those girls? This place? This really isn't a cat house, is it?"
Dr. Morouser laughed and shook his head. "Yes, it is, but perhaps not in the sense that you use the term. You see, I am a cat, or was. My human owner was a great man, and certified lunatic, but he developed a way to turn cats into humans, and vice versa. Why any cat would wish such a demotion is beyond me. I certainly didn't, but the process is one way for the most part. I can never be a cat again, so I have decided to continue my owner's great work. You may have met my girls?"
"Yes, I was wondering about them. So they were all cats?" McKenzie asked, impressed.
"No, they were all people-men to be exact, that came to this house seeking aid, such as yourself. My process turned them into cats, and back into the lovely ditzes you see now. More than that however, you will be the fourth ditz, which is quite important to me. You shall be Annabelle."
"Annabelle? Why not just Belle, since this whole set up is going that way?"
"That is the crux of the issue. Do you have any idea how rare it is that an appropriate male subject, such as yourself, comes to this house? Hardly ever happens, let me tell you. I have been trying for years to complete the set, and now, it is done. You see I have Brigitte, Simone and Tiffany, but I needed the 'A'."
"I still don't get it."
"Of course not, silly kitty. I need to spell out B A S T, you see. Bast, the ancient goddess of cats. When the set is complete I may finally have an offering to give the goddess to entice her into helping me. While my former owner, who is now Ms. Gatochateau by the way, created this process, even he was unable to reverse it. Only Bast, my goddess would be able to save me from this indecent human shape. Oh, to be feline again!"
"You're mad," McKenzie said and tried backing away from the man.
"Certifiably, my dear Mr. Rigby. Mad, I tell you, is so much fun. But not nearly as much fun as being a cat-as you will find out in a few moments. Cats are the true rulers of this planet, Mr. Rigby, and soon you will have a taste of the power, the freedom, that only cats have, until, of course, I change you back into a serving wench. As Annabelle, you will join your sisters is complete ditziness, and my work will be done."
"You fiend, you beast. How long do I have to be a cat before you turn me into a girl?"
"Yes, you are eager to begin," the doctor purred. "I wondered how real those stories of yours were, Mr. Rigby. So, you are not frightened of these changes? You really wish to be a girl?"
"Yes," McKenzie admitted. "I want to be a girl."
"Even knowing that you will mate with other males like an alley cat?"
"Yes, even that. I have always wanted to be a girl, but I could do without the cat bit. Couldn't you just turn me into a girl?"
"What is wrong with being a cat, Mr. Rigby? I would give my right foreleg to be a cat again, and you, you disdain my gift to you? Perhaps I was too hasty in choosing you to be Annabelle…."
"No, I love cats, I really do. So does Igor, he loves cats, and my little nephew David loves cats, and everyone I know loves cats. I'll adopt a litter of cats from the pound when I get to be Annabelle."
"Deal, but you keep them in your room, along with Igor. Now, then, you have eaten the cat food, as it were, and the changes will be taking place as soon as I give you this activator shot."
McKenzie hid under the bed, yowling, as the three girls tried their best to coax the cat out of hiding. Now a beautiful Siamese female, McKenzie had no desire to give up her position of power to be a simpering ditz. She fought, kicked and clawed at the girls when they came close.
Dr. Morouser sighed and told the girls to move out of the way. He kneeled down, stuck a long pole with a noose under the bed, and forced the rope around the cat's neck. He dragged McKenzie into the room, and threw a blanket over the still struggling cat.
"Happens every time," he said as he picked up the animal and carried her to the West Wing.
Annabelle woke up, took one look at her perfectly formed, voluptuous human body and screamed. "No, I'm a cat. I don't want to be human again. What have you done to me?" She cleared her throat, and said. "Hello? My name used to be McKenzie Rigby and now I am a perfectly formed, voluptuous female, and I'm not a ditz. I'm not a ditz." Now this, he thought, had possibilities. He would still rather be a cat, but perhaps he had better not mention this to Dr. Morouser.
"Here you are, my dear, Annabelle," the man said as he entered the room. "Lovely and perfectly formed. My procedure is getting better and better." He gave the new girl a skimpy, black, French maid's uniform.
"Why zank you, monsewer, eet is loverly. I weel wear zis forever."
"Such a pity you had to be a ditz with the rest of them, but such is life. Get dressed and report to the lab in the West Wing as soon as you do. There are signs on the wall if you forget the way."
"Oh, may we, mein senior. I vill be there pronto,"
As Dr. Morouser left the room McKenzie dressed, amazed that the skimpy little outfit could fit her so well. She patted her hair into place, checked herself in the mirror one last time and walked out into the hallway.
"This way to the West Wing," Tiffany said. "Dr. Morouser sent me to keep an eye on you."
"That was rather thoughtful of him," McKenzie responded, then looked the girl over. "You're not talking like a ditz?"
"Took you long enough to figure that out, sweetheart. The master is waiting."
"But why the act? What are you planning?"
Tiffany laughed. "Us? We poor pitiful little ditzes don't have enough of a brain between us to plan anything, don't you know, monsuer? We wouldn't do anything to spoil the master's plan to return to cathood."
"I see. Neither would I. Lead on, MacTiffany."
"You think I don't know Shakespeare, don't you? I know more than you think, Mac. I was an English teacher before my Desoto broke down outside. Say, did we ever win that war?"
"With Iraq? It's still going on."
"No, I meant with Korea. Don't you read the papers?" Tiffany asked.
"Oh, no, that one is still going on, too. It's the year 2003, you know."
"That's a load of bullshit! It's 1950. Looks like we got us a real ditz."
"What was that?" Brigitte said, joining the group.
"Annabelle thinks it's the year 2003," Tiffany said with a tinkling laugh.
"2003? It was 1972 when I came in here."
"What was 1972?" Simone asked. "It's 1996."
"Perhaps the three of you have been playing ditzes so long you never bothered to check notes," McKenzie suggested. "Hmmm, if this was the Outer Limits, we can't let Tiffany go outside. She might age 53 years in seconds. This presents a problem, but we need to address Dr. Morouser, first."
"I call him 'sweet cakes'," Simone admitted.
"He's my 'sweet tomcat'," Tiffany answered.
"I didn't want to know what you call him" McKenzie tried to explain. "I meant he is the first problem we need to solve."
"No problem at all," Tiffany said. "Not if you rub him right here on his jaw line. He loves that."
The door to the West Wing swung open as the girls approached. Dr. Morouser stood just inside, and moved aside to let the girls in. "How nice of you to come. Been expecting you and all that. Tea? Coffee?"
"No, thanks," McKenzie said. "Okay, kitty cat, this is where the world's biggest ditzes kick some mad scientist butt-starting with you."
"Oh, really. Brigitte, Annabelle, Simone and Tiffany! Give me a B, give me an A give me and S and T. Put them all together and what do have you got?"
Automatically, the four girls began doing cheers. "B A S T is Bast, Bast, Bast. Rock them, sock them and grind them to dust. Go Bast, go Bast, there's no messing with us."
A pale yellow glow formed in the middle of the room. An ancient presence woke in the Light and stared at her surroundings. Dr. Morouser could make out the shape of slanted, transparent eyes in the middle of the light. They turned to stare, with vertically slit pupils right at him.
"Who has woken me, and what is the meaning of this noise?" the goddess spoke, in a whisper. The girls stopped their cheers.
"Mistress, it is I. I, who once served you on the alters of Egypt have been trapped in this dreadful human form for centuries now. I beg a boon, one small boon for your faithful Amencatep."
"And are these all but brainless creatures with you?"
"These are a gift for you, Mistress. All four of these were once mortal men, changed by my arts to feline, then back into the brainless creatures you see now."
"That is very nice, I'm sure, my pet, but what do you expect me to do with them?"
"We wish to be cats, again, mistress," Brigitte said for the group.
"My talents are not great enough to change them again, Mistress," Dr. Morouser explained. "Naturally, whether you do anything with them is no concern of mine. I created them simply to call you, Mistress. I wish to, once more, regain my true shape as a cat."
"Amencatep, who do you think is responsible for you being in that shape? Would I let just anyone turn my alter cat into a human without my express consent? Silly cat," she said and chucked the man under his chin. "How long have you been human now?"
"Three thousand years and some. I've lost count."
"Very well, that seems like a long time for a punishment. You will have your wish, and be a cat, once more. As for these lovelies, I hardly think they are worthy of being cats. Mice, perhaps, but not cats."
"Mistress please," Annabelle said. "This person used us without any thought about our feelings or needs. He turned us from men into cats just to tease us with the feline shape before he turned us again into the creatures you see before you now. He ruined our lives, and we would wish compensation for that."
"Perfect example of a cat. Very well, Amencatep, return to your natural form."
As Dr. Morouser shrank back into a cat, the Goddess turned her attention on the girls. "There is great wealth here in the house, and the people that live here do so without needed compensation. You girl, you were a writer before you entered this house?"
"Yes, I was. I wrote about men turning into girls, and as you see it happened to me. I am not complaining about this shape, mistress. We who have known the joy of being cats, only wish to return to that shape to serve you."
"I see that you also own a dog?"
"Well, that was before I knew what it was to be a cat," Annabelle protested.
"I see, but dog people never make good cats. Return to your dog and your writing, Mr. Rigby, perhaps if your writing pleases me, in time I will see my way clear to make you a cat once more."
McKenzie found himself behind the wheel of his fully restored Ford Falcon convertible, driving for home. A moment ago he had been at that mansion. He sighed, and snapped his fingers. "What does a guy have to do to be TG'd these days?" he asked.
"What?" McKenzie asked as he sent off his latest chapter to the list. He looked down at Igor and sighed. "So? I like cats, too, you know. I never said I didn't. Besides, you were in the story, too. Weren't you?"
The dog whined for a moment. When MacKenzie ignored it, he whined again, louder and more forcefully.
Finally, McKenzie took the hint. With the usual groans and grunts, he stood up, stretched and grabbed Igor's leash. Where was David? The kid usually didn't miss walking to dog. McKenzie didn't want to do it himself-he didn't feel that good-but, if David was a no-show, he might not have a choice.
About to open the door, Mac thought he heard a knock. He opened the door to find a large, familiar looking cat sitting on the porch. "Amencatep?"
"Meow," the cat replied and strolled grandly into McKenzie's apartment as if it owned the place, which, as McKenzie thought about it, she might.
Igor was less than happy and began barking frenetically, but, in spite of Igor's barking, or maybe intentionally as the Amencatep refused to recognize the existence of such a lowly creature, the cat walked around the apartment, jumped up on the sofa and promptly fell asleep.
Igor's barking became even more frenetic, if that was possible. It was clear the dog wanted this interloper out.
"Me?" MacKenzie asked innocently. "I'm not moving that cat. If you want it out of here, Igor you'll have to do it yourself. Come on, that's a good dog. Get that cat. No? Then don't complain. It might be someone important.
CONTINUED IN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A Well Heeled Spy
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