In a single fluid motion, tiny iguana tail twitching nonchalantly, you grab the nearest object — which happens to be a large steel tray containing a variety of surgical instruments — and fling it at the blinding lights above you.
Darkness envelops you as the tray clangs heavily on the ground at your feet. That felt good. But not as good as it'll feel when I get my hands around his spindly little neck.
Unsurprisingly, alcohol seems to affect you significantly differently now that your body is nearly thirty percent iguana. There's a certain clarity obtained through imbibing large volumes of alcohol that you hadn't been afforded when you were still fully human. On top of that, you feel distinctly stronger than before. Maybe it's all in my head, you think as you flex your shoulders, rippling muscles bunching impressively. How did I get into this mess in the first place?
You pause for a moment, scratching absentmindedly at a scaly patch on your backside. Damned itchy, this tail. Would've been nice if he'd at least made it the same size as the rest of me, instead of this embarassing little stump. At least the legs are the right size. As you consider your options, the disembodied voice rings out above you.
Why couldn't the blasted speakers have been attached to the lights?!
"Now, look what you've done! Do you really need to come into my office and throw a temper tantrum like some kind of overgrown mutant child?"
The irritating condescension in his tone of voice enrages you further. You sprint towards the back of the room, newfound intoxicated-hybrid-iguana strength coursing through your veins. Groping about in the dark, your hand claps a handle and tugs down firmly. Unlocked. Light floods the doorway around you, and you lunge not-so-gracefully through the door into the operating theatre.
You pause briefly in the glaring light of the theatre, taking in the scene. He stands before you, lab coat spattered with gore. His receding hairline shines under the bright halogen lights. A solitary bead of sweat drips sluggishly down his forehead. A bloody scalpel in his right hand, a large magnifying monocle perched on his right eye. A non-descript body lies on the table in front of him, chest rising and falling at a steady pace. You can't see its face, but the bulky shapes under the draped cloth suggest something rather large and not entirely human.
He waves at you with his unhindered left hand, a calming gesture. Clearing his throat sharply, he glares at you, unintimidated by your drunken buffoonery.
"Are you going to keep acting like a child or are you going to sober up and help me with this?"
Your tiny tail twitches as you hesitate.