HIS apartment was as it had always been - fairly basic, masculine, but clean. Zanzibar closed his door with a rearward kick, relieved to be back in familiar territory. He leaned against the door, exhausted, heavy, still struggling to come to terms with all that had transpired; not least of all his bizarre metamorphosis.

He pushed himself forward and slumped into the sitting room. Casting his fez on the baby-grand, he then moved systematically around the room lighting a standard and two small table-lamps; the warm, homey glow was somewhat comforting.

Although tired, he needed a drink. Atop the sideboard sat a tray with two glasses and a decanter. The bourbon beckoned. He smiled at the suctioned 'pop' when he opened the crystal ewer and subsequent 'glug' when pouring a generous measure. He was going to enjoy this. His eyes closed, blissful, as the heat from the liquor warmed his throat.

Moulding himself into his favourite armchair, he lay the glass down, reverent, on a side-table. An open pack of Chesterfields lay next to his drink -  he picked it up. 

Tapping the bottom of the white packet a long slender cigarette slipped out, then he flipped open a book of matches. A whiff of sulfur hit his nostrils as he struck the match. His lips tightened around the cigarette, and the tip of the Chesterfield glowed firey-orange as he drew deep, relishing the nicotine brume when it hit the back of his throat. He reclined, his head lolling back and slowly, he released smoky halos, watching them expand as they drifted upwards; this was as close to normal as he'd felt for...How long? A couple of days?

He recalled the radio broadcast in the hospital; the reporter announced it was December 7th. He drew on his cigarette. So, his life had changed, dramatically, the day before that.

He took another drink and thought about recent events. Staring into the glass, he recalled the vicious attack by the Sorceress of Zoom; she had been merciless. Descending like some demented goddess with her ruthless minions from the imperious cloud city of Zoom, she had unleashed her wrath upon New York City. Of all the blasted things to escape the Fourth Dimension, it had to be Zoom and its resident psychopath.

He sighed as he contemplated the fate cast upon members of The Mystery Men, The Syndicate of the Weird and countless others.  The Sorceress' despicable attack had injured dozens of heroes, but they would rally again, fight another day. Some, like himself, however, had been changed - literally! At least Cub, Lion and Lynx could morph between their feline and human forms. 

Unfortunately for Zanzibar, having taken the full force of the Sorceress' blast which she had intended for Dynamo, his predicament could not be so controlled. He now had curves where once there was hardened muscle while other anatomical parts had vanished completely!

And suddenly he realised this battle was utterly personal - one in which Zanzibar's magic would be ineffectual. Like it or not, he was no longer a gentleman.

Stubbing his cigarette out in the Bakelite ashtray, he became irritated as the butt caught in his nails; his strangely well-manicured nails at that. He flicked the stub off and studied his shapely fingers.

He had always taken pride in his grooming, but this was beyond any of his former efforts. The nails were all beautifully shaped, cuticles perfect and tips all white, pristine, just crowning his fingertips.

He looked more closely at his hands; they were much more slender, delicate, unquestionably female. No more pesky little hairs poking around his knuckles or the odd callous on a fingertip. These hands were - beautiful. But, could they -? 

Focusing on his fez which was perched on the edge of his baby-grand, he flexed his fingers and flicked his hand. The hat rose from the polished surface of the piano, hovering, moving to wherever Zanzibar directed with his fingers. Satisfied with that little stunt, he returned the hat to its original position.

He aimed at one of the lamps across the room and succeeded in turning it on and off repeatedly. Next, he targeted the Steepletone radio, a classic model from the '30s which Zanzibar cherished. He switched it on, turning the tuning knob to find the latest news. The dial quivered as it travelled around the wavelengths and finally Don Goddard's voice came through loud and clear.

Zanzibar listened as Don announced that following the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the United States Congress required all men in the age range 20 to 44 years inclusive, to register for conscription. This would be the fourth draft in American history; the first being the American Revolutionary War, then the American Civil War, World War I and now World War II.

Amongst the brave souls wanting to sign up was the famous crooner, Bing Crosby. Wanting to do more than merely uplift the troops' spirits by entertaining them, he wished to enlist. Yet, his age (38) and the fact he was married, with dependants, meant he was far down the priority list for being drafted. The news item finished with Bing performing "Silent Night" - the third recycling of the hit from 1935.

Disgruntled, Zanzibar flicked his fingers and the radio was silenced. He drained his glass, pondering over the news. A bizarre thought crossed his mind. What if he tried to enlist? He guffawed, loud, bitter and ever so feminine.

As the US Military had frowned upon homosexuality since 1778, what the hell would they make of Zanzibar? He was neither homosexual nor androgynous, although his appearance now contradicted that point. How on earth could he be explained or even verified?

Come to think of it, how was he going to conduct his everyday life now? Who would accept him as the bonafide magician and hero Zanzibar? Would people even tolerate the 'freak' he had become? He looked at his empty glass considering another shot. No! The last thing he needed was an inebriated, fuzzy mind.

He had to properly consider his options - if indeed he had any. To the best of his knowledge, there was no magic to reverse this 'curse'; to bring back the hairy-knuckled, testosteroned specimen he once was - at least not in his mindful library of thaumaturgy. He would perhaps need to venture far for answers or seek out others who could provide a possible resolution.

For the moment, however, unsavoury though his predicament was, he had to become acquainted with his new self and also determine exactly how many more of his powers remained intact.

Following the experiment with his fez, lights and radio, he at least knew his telekinesis was unaffected. Also his ability to vanish at will, as he did at the hospital - that at least was encouraging.

So, he stood up, abrupt, cringing inwardly; it was time to accept - for now anyway -that he was Miss Zanzibar.

*****

Don Goddard was a radio news presenter on WMCA and WINS New York radio stations during the 1940s. For reference: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Goddard

Bing Crosby's desire to be enlisted and the reasons he was not considered for the draft was factual, although whether it was ever reported as I have depicted here is unknown. I have used this merely to highlight Zanzibar's predicament and how his own potential enrollment could be viewed during those times.

*****

* Flashback to Sorceress of Zoom courtesy of @JasonGreenfield from his 'Time Immemorial' collection: Chapter 22.5c War Clouds (1941 alt)