The sock was like any other sock. Completely run-of-the-mill, average, able to fit over any foot, regardless of shape or number of toes. Maybe not the world's largest feet, probably not the world's tiniest feet, but for his feet, the fit was perfectly snug. It wasn't a glove situation. No three fingers needed, no special company involved. Nothing custom-fit. Which was why it was incredibly frustrating to him when the damned thing wouldn't come off.

It was ridiculous. It was stuck. He'd sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled and pulled and pulled, and it. Was. Solidly stuck! When he finally tugged it free, he nearly toppled a bedside lamp with the resulting motion. Elliott stared at the sock like it were some rare geological specimen. Moon rock, maybe, or a hunk of meteor. There was nothing on it to have made the thing stick like glue. His foot hadn't suddenly become Velcro. There was no tape. Nobody present had control over attracting forces, like magnetism or gravity. No weird cop ladies from Ragnarok protests controlling clothes. Why had he considered someone replacing his sock with a metal clone? Because nothing about the situation made sense. Eh. Whatever. He tossed the sock across the room into the hamper by the wall. Then, he got to work on its pair.

Stuck. What the heck? Did he need some sort of shoehorn for socks, or maybe a spirit medium? Was this a case of possession? Maybe he just possessed some rank sticky socks? Elliott sighed, and slumped back on his bed in his mansion room with his right foot elevated over his body in the still air. This was bull spit.

Elliott kicked his foot out, then rolled over to grab a knife he just so happened to have stashed neatly by his bedside. You know, for safety? It was a nice knife, with great balance, black handle and pommel. Beautifully sharp, with a nice finish across the blade. Probably too long to be legal for carrying on the streets. It wasn't like he'd grabbed the katana he had on a stand over his clothes dresser. It was just a functional knife for sawing the sock's end so he could rip it off his feet. The sock had betrayed him. He was done with the sock.

He sawed the sock's toe out, then gently, carefully, cut his way down the sock's side. He grabbed the sock, pulled it free, then balled it up to toss it underhanded into the trash bin-- and, it stayed in his hand. On his hand. This sock was literally the devil. This was the worst. Elliott moved to set the knife down so he could use his other hand and pull the sock free--

"The hits just keep on coming..."
He trailed. The knife was stuck, too.

Elliott stared at the knife in his hand. In his open palm. It stayed there, held parallel with the ground from the underside of his hand, as if by magic. His brow furrowed in consternation.

"Et tu knife..." He muttered.

There was nothing between him and the knife. No fibers, no little hairs like on a spider's leg, no goo (that he could see). It was weird. Almost like--

He supposed it had to have happened sooner or later. A lot of classic aliens can cling to things, climb stuff, skitter through vents and burst chests. He didn't know from personal experience. He'd never seen those movies. Too close to home. And the way that horrible woman tried to kill them... from what he'd heard, she was a nasty witch. So he could have been wrong with his assessment that many Aliens can climb. But bugs can climb. And some aliens are insectoid in appearance. It stood to reason that perhaps he was simply growing into a new trait. Sticky fingers. And feet. Hopefully, he could turn this crap off.

Continued here: theultimatexmen.proboards.com/thread/13520/talk-biology-dryad