"Next test, doctor?"
"Yes, the Dagron serum, nurse."
"But he's only been a stud pony for just such a short time..."
"Yes, well, he agreed to be an experimental lab animal. He chose a horse. Now it's time to experiment on the horse, and change it into something interesting. All scales and wings! Now on with it, nurse!" the doctor snapped testily. "If we're lucky, he'll be a true breeder."
"True breeder? But I thought Dagrons are all male?"
"The smelly beasts are not male, but are in fact functional hermaphrodites. Very rare in higher life forms, but if you want a beast of burden that can fly, you take the smell and sexual anomaly along with it. Ah, the serum!"
The nurse wheels in an industrial oil drum with a couple of long-handled brooms or brushes.
Then the nurse and the doctor step into the other room and return in yellow hazmat suits with respirators. You snort, and canter backwards in your stall. The putrid pungent odor of the contents of the oil drum fills the air, as the doctor removes the lid. Soon the two of them are brushing you down with what feels like a cross between oatmeal and tar. The serum is really topical, you're relieved that you don't have to ingest it, but you're not thrilled that they seem intent upon covering every square milimeter if your beautiful equine physique.
What the h--- is a Dagron anyway? Do they mean dragon?
You feel a steel needle jab into your thigh, and then you feel happy and calm.
"There, that's better," the doctor said as you become still.
The soon have you coated in the thick warm green goo.
It begins to harden, and you feel the pain. The awful wrenching pain of your insides being torn apart. You scream. It sounds like the mournful sound of a horse sinking in the tar pits or quicksand. Which in ancient times came rise to the myth of the banshee.
Your large frame bucks and contorts as your skeletal structure is reworked from equine to reptillian. Your tail thickens and thrusts out. Your legs fore and aft shorten and widen. Your neck elongates. Your shake violently, and heavy chunks of the green plaster fall away from your body.
You shriek, as you feel the wet wings spreading across your back. Your hooves are gone, replaced by loathsome bird-like claws.
"Marvelous, Mr. Blott will be pleased," the doctor chortles.
"Mr. Blott," snorts the nurse distastefully. "He's a self-styled Blofeld or Goldfinger stereotype."
"Actually, my dear, I prefer to think of myself more like Drax. He saw a brave new world over which to reign, as do I," said a deep voice belonging to a tall, fat bald man who stands in the doorway.
"Mr. Blott! I'm so sorry! Nurse, you will be-" the doctor exclaimed in agitation.
"Now, now, doctor, no harm. Your nurse and I are just James Bond fans. And I admit I physically resemble Telly Savalas' Blofeld. Perhaps if I had a cat..." Mr Blott commented as he patted the head of the odd parrot-like monkey like creature he led on a leash.
"I don't think your stepson can take another genetic grafting, sir," the doctor said nervously.
"Awk! Ian wants a Snickers!" the bird-monkey chirped.
"Quiet, Ian! You can have half a bisquit, now, and some chow back in the limo," Blott snapped. The looking apologetically toward the doctor, nurse and your changing body, he shrugs, "What can I say, I promised his late mother, I'd take care of her only son."
The nurse snorted but said nothing.
Blott laughed, "Yes, nurse, it's too bad I'm not more like Goldfinger. Then instead of DNA soup, the boy would be a paperweight or perhaps a lamp."
"I never said -" nurse replied cutting herself short. She had been thinking of Goldfinger. It was as though Blott had read her mind.
"Besides a monkey-bird makes a perfect winged jockey for a winged horse or should I say dagron!" Blott laughed evilly while the beak of the monkey-bird nibbled on the bisquit in its master's hand.
"Noy, jeet, tot!" you bellow unintelligibly using your new vocal chords.