While Brad might be excused for not thinking so, the dank, humid conditions inside the plastic garbage bag were actually ideal for his current form, making it all the more unsettling when the world had erupted into chaos, tossing a tiny maggot into throes of upheaval.
The disruptive disturbance interrupted the cretaure’s simple thoughts only briefly, however, and once the incident passed, Brad resumed feeding, tunneling through the moldy slice of meatloaf, squirming his tiny maggot body with energy and enthusiasm.
The transformed scientist was unaware that the slice had gotten buried deeper in the contents of the garbage as Mark had carried the trash bag to the curb for deposit inside a large trash receptacle made of black plastic.
It made no immediate difference to the tiny grub. As long as it could feed and fulfill it purpose, the maggot was happy. Its contentment kept Brad from worrying too much about his problem.
He still knew something had gone wrong, but the euphoria of burrowing through an exclusive food source without competition from other maggots erased his concerns, at least for the moment.
Unfortunately, the sun shining brightly down on the curbside trash container began to rapidly warm the air. An unusual mark of 80 degrees was hit by late afternoon. Conditions inside the plastic bin grew even hotter, spiking 30 degrees hotter than outside the container.
Pushing past 110 degrees deep in the packed garbage, the temperature ventured into dangerous territory.
Brad emerged from inside the slice of putrid meatloaf, seeking relief from the all-encompassing heat, but even that didn’t cool his tiny body. He writhed and wiggled, desperate to cool himself.
The debilitating heat left his tiny maggot form prostrate and sluggish. He endured the sweltering, debilitating conditions until the sun set, sending temperatures back down rather quickly. He burrowed back inside the meatloaf, now seeking warmth against the chill of night, ignorant of the fact that if temperatures had risen another 10 degrees, it would have been curtains for him.
Inside his home, where his husband had waited far past the expected return of his missing spouse, a local weather forecast played on the television as Mark listened intermittently, his mind focused on other matters.
“We could see temperatures in the 90s in the Bay Area tomorrow,” the announcer said with coy imprecision.
If the forecast proved accurate, conditions inside the bin would exceed 120 degrees, which would swiftly be lethal for Brad’s tiny body. There was a big difference in simply luxuriating in warm, humid surroundings and having his tiny meat-bag of a body slowly cooked in its own juices if the temperatures spiked as predicted.
In the meantime, Mark remained unable to determine why the device hadn’t returned his husband to human form.
He studied the profile again.
Name: Musca Domestica
Age: 6 days
Gender: Male
Height: .25 inches
Weight 10 micrograms
Aware/unaware: aware
Duration: 60 minutes
“He’s hours overdue,” Mark mused out loud.
He couldn’t help but focus on the tiny size. By changing himself into a fly Brad had made himself vulnerable.
Exactly how vulnerable, Mark hadn’t yet guessed.