Earl Kramer drained his last beer, maneuvered his wheel chair around and flung the can, cursing as it bounced off the rim of the garbage container in the kitchen.

   "No score!" Ethel Kramer cackled a laugh, giving her son a quick glance, before returning her attention to Wheel of Fortune. "That's all you think about is drinking beer. Why don't you donate your skills to something more constructive?"

   "What in the hell can a man in a wheel chair do that's more constructive? I'm unable to work, I can't go hunting; even sex is a goddamn Olympic event. Maybe I should try basket-weaving." He eyed his wife Maureen, noting the wry smile on her face. "Well, you don't have to laugh about it."

   "I'm not laughing, Earl; believe me."

   "And that was my last damn beer, Jesus."

   A smile spread across Ethel's wrinkled, liver-spotted face. "Well, I guess you'll have to settle for my ice tea."

   Just then, there was a knock at the door, cutting short the usual, once-every-evening argument. Getting up from the sofa, Maureen walked into the kitchen, flipped the lock and opened the door, coming face-to-face with a short, bespectacled man in a tweed hat and trench coat.

   "Yes, can I help you?"

   "Hello, ma'am," said the stranger, holding out a six-pack of beer. "I'm a representative from a new micro-brewery that has just opened in the area. We've picked your name out of the phone book to receive a sample of our latest creation, called 'Wisconsin Gold'. It's a little promotional gambit, and, if you enjoy the brew, we hope you'll spread the word."

   Maureen snatched the six-pack, scowling. "Why couldn't it have been something useful, like a beauty product or an all-in-one mop?"

   "Well ----- uh ----- perhaps your husband will be more receptive."

   "Oh, he'll be receptive, all right. Thanks for nothing."

   The man shrugged. "Boy, you really live out in the boondocks, don't you?"

   "Our nearest neighbor is a mile away, both directions. Most times, it cuts down on peddlers, especially after dark."

   "I don't consider myself a peddler, ma'am. 'Promoter' would be a much better term."

   "Whatever," growled Maureen, slamming the door and refastening the lock. Stomping back into the living room, she tossed the six-pack onto her husband's lap. "Look what just fell out of heaven; a free sample from a micro-brewery. And you don't consider yourself lucky?"

   Earl yanked a can from the plastic holder and snapped its tab. "Even schmucks like me get a break once and awhile. Hey, if I like it, I'll give it another try."

   "More like a thousand tries," quipped Maureen as she headed for the bathroom.

   "Jesus Christ; I'm a vegetable, here, and I'm not supposed to have any fun! Shit, I should have died in that accident!" Earl drained the can in one long gulp and snapped the tab on another. "Not fucking bad, not fucking bad at all!"

   Maureen hadn't been in the bathroom more than a minute when she heard a terrible commotion from the direction of the living room; some kind of animal-like growling, mixed with the frantic cries of her mother-in-law! What in the hell was going on? Dashing down the hallway, she rounded the corner and stopped dead in her tracks, not believing the horror that she was witnessing.

   Earl was not only out of his wheel chair, but he had his screeching mother draped over his shoulders as if she was nothing more than a rag doll! His face was beet-red and there was foam oozing from his mouth, his heaving chest very nearly popping the buttons of his shirt!

   "Oh my God, oh my God, what's going on here? No, Earl, don't!"

   As his mother kicked and squirmed, Earl brought her down harder on his shoulders, snapping the old woman's spine like a dried twig. Then, with an unbelievable display of strength, he hoisted her high into the air, at arms' length, and flung her across the room, her limp body smashing into the wall and landing atop an end table. Then he turned his attention to Maureen, snarling and mewling, wild eyes bulging, foam bubbling from his mouth like a shaving cream dispenser. He trembled and jerked, his expanding chest popping one, two, three buttons from his shirt.

   Screaming, Maureen turned and dashed down the hall, slamming the bedroom door and turning the lock on its knob. My God, my God, she could not believe what was happening! She grabbed up the receiver of the nightstand phone, cursing when she discovered that the line was dead. Of all the damn times! There was a mighty bang and a panel of the door splintered, as Earl's hand reached in to grope for the lock. Panicked, she spun and headed for the closet, fumbling along its stop shelf until her fingers grasped the cold steel of Earl's .22 Colt revolver. She knew how to fire it if need be, he had showed her on a number of occasions. Oh, sweet Jesus; she didn't want to, she hoped he wouldn't force her to!

   "Maureen!" screamed a hardly recognizable voice, as the hand found the knob and the door burst open. "Maureeeen!"

   "Please, Earl, no! Please don't make me shoot you!"

   But as he headed for her - hunched and flushed and sweating - she knew that she had little other choice. She fired once, striking him in the chest, but on he came, as though the wound was no more than a mosquito bite. Backpedaling, she pulled the trigger three more times - two to the chest and one to the stomach - yet still his stride was unbroken, a hideous laugh gurgling deep in his throat. The fifth bullet struck him right between the eyes and he jolted to a sudden stop, tottering on his feet, his claw-like fingers reaching out and ripping her blouse down the front as he fell to the floor.

*** * ***

   In a car parked a few yards down the road, Colonel Taggart twitched and looked at the short man in tweed hat and trench coat. "Those were gunshots. Jesus, Jerome, don't tell me that it's happened again!"

   "My readings indicated that everything was perfect."

   "Nothing is ever perfect." Taggart turned on his headlights and blinked them, alerting the team in the van. Then following four men in black helmets and jumpsuits, armored in Kevlar and brandishing automatic weapons, he scurried up the porch steps and motioned to the front door of the Cape Cod. "You know the drill, boys, and make it fast."

   One of the men produced a tool, which he fitted to the knob. With a quick twist and pull, the knob came free and the four men burst into the house, bending low and sweeping their weapons from side-to-side. Spotting Ethel's body, they moved slowly toward the hall, communicating with hand signals, one pulling a stun grenade from his belt. They disappeared and a few moments later, they returned with Maureen supported between two of them, her eyes glazed and a tendril of drool dangling from her lower lip. She was babbling to herself, nothing that anyone could understand. The front of her blouse was torn, revealing an ample bosom and lacy, white brassiere.

   "Where's the subject?" asked the Colonel, already quite sure of the answer.

   "He's dead, sir. She pumped the poor bastard full of lead."

   Taggart sighed, glancing at Ethel's broken body, and exhaled a weary hiss of breath. Picking up an empty can of Wisconsin Gold, he glared at it for a few seconds and heaved it over his shoulder. "Damn, Jerome; I thought you said that all your readings were perfect. Oh yeah, your little elixir was supposed to heal the infirm and the handicapped, saving Uncle Sam a fortune in disability payments and adding untold thousands to the labor rolls. Christ, lucky I brought the team along in case something went wrong."

   Jerome shrugged, averting his eyes to the floor. "Okay, okay, it needs a little fine-tuning."

   "Again!" snapped Taggart.

   "Well, yes, again. I might have added too much of one chemical, or, maybe, not enough of another. I'm on the brink, Colonel, I truly am. I'll start corrective procedures as soon as I get back to the lab." The little man set his mouth, shaking his head enthusiastically. "When I'm finished, we'll be able to add it to beer, milk, soda, Jim Bean, or anything we chose."

   The Colonel grabbed hold of Jerome's arm and propelled him toward the door.

   "Uh, Colonel; what are we going to do with the woman?" Jerome asked, looking worried. "I mean; the poor woman is delirious, suffering from shock."

   "The same as the rest and it's all due to your incompetence." Taggart turned and looked to one of his men, nodding toward Maureen and drawing a finger across his throat. "And do a thorough sweep and clean. Leave nothing to chance."

   At the car, Jerome groaned and kicked one of its tires. "I'll get it right the next time, Colonel; I promise."

   "Christ, I hope so. Our plans are to cure the deformed and infirm, not wipe them and their families from the face of the earth," Taggart lectured, giving a gritty chuckle. "A few more fiascos like this and you may very well join them in the incinerator."