Mitchel started to feel woozy. The whole room started spinning. He tried to steady himself, stepping back wards, grabbing at the island in order to steady himself. He blinked several times as the world around him started to become fuzzy. He tried to get everything to stay still, to clear up, but it was no use. He tried to stand straight, but lost his balance and fell to the floor. However, before he could collapse onto the cold floor, he felt a pair of arms catch his back, his body slumping into the arms that held him. Through drowsy eyes, Mitchel could see his savior. It might have been because he was tired, but he could have sworn the person holding him was the father from the dining room he saw earlier. Before he could think about it anymore, his eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep.
.
.
.
It stared own at the sleeping teen, a big grin on its face. Then again, it couldn't make any other expression but joy. It had been lucky to have the boy eat the apple first. The drugged apple would have him sleeping for a while. It'll be enough time to perform the Caretaker's work on him. It watched the easy rise and fall of the boy's chest. It lifted him up, tossing him over its shoulder before walking out of the room.
.
.
.
The Caretaker was in the basement, working on an acquisition he had acquired this morning, before Jay and Mitchell arrived. He ran his hand around the man he had captured. He had been a thief who thought it would have been a good idea to try and steal from the museum. No body touched his work, his precious, precious work.
And this thief wasn't even psychically attractive. He was a tall man in his late thirties, with a thick bread and eye brows the size of caterpillars. His limps were lackey and he had a fat belly with no defined chest. A chest with hair. Oh how the Caretaker hated hairy men. He would not have his statues hairy. Not unless they were for his Horror Exhibit.
But he knew how to work his magic. He knew how to work the craft. He knew exactly how to reshape this poor excuse of a man to a beautiful work of art. He used a special syrum he created to turn the thief's body and fat into a malleable substance, like clay. He used waxed strips to rip away the hair.
He took the thief's body and started to mold it, pushing muscle out of the meat. He flatted the man's stomach, giving him a needed six-pack and a firm, toned chest. He gave him biceps by pushing fat to the arms. And a firm, perky ass. After giving him firm caffs he pushed the man's member and nuts into his body, smoothing his crotch. After all, why give a thief a set of balls and cock? No, he'll just become a swimsuit mannequin. When he was done remolding the thief, he drenched him in wax. It would keep the clay like body hard and durable once it cooled.
When it cooled, and he was left with a lumpy man, the Caretaker took his tools and craved the muscles and face, a squared jaw and shorter forehead. He had just finished polishing his newest addition when one of his living figures came in, a sleeping boy over it's shoulder.
The Caretaker smiled. Ah, another addition to the museum. The dining room father placed the boy onto the wooden table just as he started to stir. Taking a syringe, he walked over to the waking boy.