THE horrifying truth ran through Zanzibar's memory at a rate of knots. The images, akin to celluloid clarity, were distorted, staggered; but painfully factual. 

In a bid to save Dynamo, Zanzibar had been caught in the blast of green energy which exuded from the Sorceress' fingers. In that moment of heroism, his life was changed - dramatically.

Lifting the neckline of his theatre-gown, he stared at his breasts and his smattering of chest hair which nestled - rather neatly - between his two new mounds. This unsettling modification to his person needed resolving. He could not possibly continue to exist in this - mutation of himself. It was breaking all the rules; not only those by which he lived but by society's mindset too.

Distantly, he heard voices along the corridors. The news of Pearl Harbor was the main topic of discussion; he could hear the gasps feel the horror and dread resounding in the staff and patients' exchanges - but Zanzibar's panic came from a different perspective. His shock was deeply personal. 

He whipped back the blankets. Lowering his feet to the floor, he waited, gathering the courage to see if his legs were willing to support him. With a daring push, he rose to his full height. He wobbled, for a moment, then, with a few deep breaths, he steadied himself and looked around the room.

"Thank goodness it's private," he muttered, grabbing the iron bed frame and steering himself to the wardrobe across the wooden floor. He opened its doors, relieved to find his tuxedo hanging on a coathanger. His shirt, neatly folded, was on one of the shelves with his cufflinks sitting next to it. Underwear sat in the compartment next to his shirt and just above that, his beloved fez. On the lower level, his shoes polished and laced. 

Tugging at the ties on the theatre-gown he discarded it on the chair nearby and reached for his underwear. He pulled up the cotton shorts - and that was when another shock confronted him. "What!? Where?" 

Frantically, he pawed between his legs - he was - incomplete! Suddenly he became aware of his reflection in the wardrobe door mirror. He stared, a feeling of nausea rising as he looked at his body. No longer was it that of a toned, athletic male; no longer was it masculine at all. Everything was changed! Curves which most Hollywood actresses would die for stood before him. Not quite Marlene Dietrich, but the facial features were female, softer, less angular. "Oh, my God!" 

The clattering of medicine trolleys from the corridor yanked him from his stupor. Quickly he dressed although his clothing no longer fit as well as it had. Nevertheless, he made do. He had to get out of the hospital and back to his apartment.

As he placed his fez at just the right angle, the door opened. Two nurses - Sister Harris and Nurse Miller, he assumed - halted and stared. 

Zanzibar, equally stunned was rendered speechless.

The more senior of the two nurses spoke. "You - you should not be out of bed, Mister - Miss - "

Her words infuriated him. "I am Zanzibar the Magician," he growled. "And do not call me 'Miss'!"

With an extravagant wave of his hand - POOF! He was gone.