Congratulations Bat Senator!

From your perch under the roof of the capitol building you'll be able to hear everything.  Every rustle, every cough, every sigh.  You'll know everything about every sitting senator in America, every dirty secret they've ever uttered under their breath or into the ear of an aide as they pass between sessions.  Your exceptional hearing and exceptional positioning will have combined to make you the single most powerful sitting senator in Wyoming state history.  Thanks to your efforts, roads will have been built, bridges erected, military bases staffed.  Giant complexes will catacomb the area beneath your state, military industrial investments in a mole-like infrastructure for "future bat soldiers of America," paid for with government largesse, leveraged by your political maneuverings.

Your ambitions will have been relatively modest until today, until, during a hearing on military expenditures, the junior senator from Virginia will tell his senior senator that "He doesn't trust that bat, or bats in general."

You'll be hurt by his intolerance, but you'll also realize something: that the world won't see bats as people until you, and bats like you, rise to positions of actual prominence.  Not just to simple seats in the senate or at the helm of multinational corporations like BP, but to the highest office in the land: the presidency.  You'll determine two courses of action that you'll dedicate the rest of your career to achieving.

First, the absolute destruction of the junior senator from Virginia, an easy enough task given the dirt you have on him, his hair piece, his KKK meetings, and the 14 year old boy he keeps in his office for "play wrestling."

Second, the attainment of the office of President of the United States of America.  Since you're a bat, this will be no mean feat, but if you run a campaign based on how cute you look in your suits and how tactful and observant you are as a politician, you should have a good chance of winning.  And if that doesn't work, you'll just play dirty, because you're a bat, and if there's one thing we know about bats, it's that they're willing to play dirty to get what they want.

Congratulations Bat Senator!

Congratulations Bat Gregor Samsa!

When your parents died, you were sad.  But you settled into a life, a good life, as a salesman.  It didn't pay much, sure, but it secured you a comfortable living, an attractive wife, and a beautiful dog named Charles.  Charles was easily your favorite part, but you kept that from your wife.

The years have been easy, if a bit of an uninterrupted slog towards eternity.  But, of course, today is coming, and, as is so often the case, for our readers and in general, today will change everything.

For today, you see, you will begin to take on the form of an enormous bat!

You'll spot yourself in the mirror, hair growing on the back of your hands.  You'll scratch your chest.  Scratch scratch scratch.  Then you'll call to your wife.

"Honey?!" you'll shout through the halls of your modest home.  "I think I need to see a doctor."

She'll rush into the room and, upon seeing you, cover her mouth.

"Oh my," she'll mumble.  "Honey."  She'll drop her hands from her mouth, wander across the room and give you a big old hug.  Then she'll get Charles ready to travel, load the two of you up in the car and drive you, man sized bat and golden retriever, to the hospital.

When the lot of you arrive, the attending at the ER will rush you to an exam room, where he'll isolate you from the general population.  He'll speak to you in a hushed voice.

"Sir, it's important that you realize that your condition is not life threatening."

You'll nod in response.

"You're experiencing a phenomena we've dubbed animal transmogrifism, or metamorphosisitis, if you're kind of a dick.  There's no known causes, and no known cures, but it only seems to impact your life if your family and co-workers are dicks."

Your wife will kiss you on the cheek while your dog licks your palm.  You'll shrug and run your finger along the inside of your mouth, where row upon row on tiny, razor thin teeth will have manifested.

"Can I fight crime?" you'll ask, suddenly excited by the prospect of avenging your parents' deaths, suddenly a fresh scar upon your psyche after so many quiet years unconsidered.

The doctor will look at you, puzzled, in response.

"Could you before?" he'll ask.

Congratulations Bat Gregor Samsa!

Congratulations Bat Herder!

Guano, or “bat milk” as some might call it, is fast coming in to high demand with molecular gastronomy enthusiasts and rich idiots in general.  Assholes have been serving it up and wolfing it down from the upper west side of Manhattan to the lower east side of Manhattan, paying as much as fifty dollars for a plate of bat shit enriched with some weird fucking stuff that literally kills the bats that eat it.

People will pay bank for things that make them violently ill, so long as those things are hard to come by.  And you, enterprising young person you are, are going to try your damnedest to make a living selling these idiots the shit they so monomaniacally crave.

Today you’re going to open up Manhattan’s first Bat Farm.  Taking the title “Lead Bat Herder,” you’ll trap hundreds of bats in an old closed off subway tunnel and feed them toxic chemicals and slimes of questionable nutritional value until they begin to drop dead within the tunnel. Then you’ll clean the floor once a day and serve the mix of bat excrement and corpse to various rich idiots who will line up for blocks to buy it.

Within a day and a half, you’ll have killed nearly three dozen bats and harvested almost three thousand dollars in bat shit.  And, following your first sale, two days from now, you’ll be indicted for reckless endangerment and criminal mischief.  Your profit-mongering business model will kill ninety percent of your clientele and the remaining few will also open up civil suits against you for medical and psychological damages.

When word gets to you in your underground lair which, for copyright reasons, cannot be called The Bat Cave although that would be perfect, you’ll immediately prepare to flee.  But not before you write out a long, poorly worded letter blaming the various woes that have befallen you on Obama who, as we all know, has the power to communicate with all flying creatures, bats more than any other.

Congratulations Bat Herder!

Congratulations Swarm of Bats!

Today you’re the incorporeal intelligence governing a swarm of ravenous bats. Some would say that you’re some kind of sonar bullshit or something, but we all know the truth. Bats have a hive mind, and today you’re it.

You’re going to be super into it, too. First you’ll wake up and make the bats huddle together for warmth and poop upside down. It’s going to be fantastic and for the first time your life you’re going to be happy with the morning routine you’ve stumbled upon. You’ll even get a few of the bats to have upside down sex, which a fantasy you’ve always had. Living vicariously through them will be kind of bittersweet, but more than that it’ll be edifying. You’ll look at them and see ways you could potential make upside-down cave sex work.

Then you’ll get the bats to fly around the cave a little and catch bugs. You’ll also get a few of the bats to think about fruit idly for a while before deciding that it’s too bright outside and that they’d rather not go there at present.

Then the bats will settle in for nap-time, again at your discretion.

After naptime you’ll direct the bats in their nightly terrorizing of cavers. You’ll make them swarm around the cavers’ heads and dive at them and bite at them and generally make the cavers’ day unpleasant. You’ll even kill a few of them, which will make the bats really happy because bats are kind of dicks.

All in all it’ll be the most active day you’ve had since you entered this coma, and it’ll change your whole outlook on the situation you’re in which is medically considered life.

Congratulations Swarm of Bats!