The gears were grinding hot and heavy. The car bouncing and coursing on the mag-lev pylon. Sparks erupting at irregular intervals behind my black econo-class transport. The 6000 series was never was known for speed or class. Only reliability. The body of the girl in the trunk bounced and hopped as deteriorating electromagnetic connections jostled the car this way and that. Careening out of the town in a mad dash for the lab.
The transplant did not go well. Some screw up with the sub-par company I got my stem-gel from no doubt. Regardless of the cause the arm did not take. Now there's a dead girl in my trunk. One arm still neuro-coupled with my foolishly AMA registered brace.There is going to be overtime put in on this one.
A quick flip of a turn signal and I am off the turnpike and the grid. Manual control is restored and I am on a lonely little highway that plunges into the dark heart of Pennsylvania. Time is of the essence. I've got to get this bitch back to life...stat. Brain damage is a forgone conclusion at this point. I packed her head in a bag of ice [I picked up two at the store...just in case] but that's only going to do so much before all I've got on my hands is a slathering meat pile. Jabbering she-flesh incapable of playing tick-tack-toe let alone taking a stab at free thought. I won't let that happen.
I am not a doctor without morals. I am not reviving her because of my terror of prosecution. A life spent in maximum security lock down administering shower stall sex changes to the big dogs bitches. If I had wanted to avoid that I would have bone-sawed the poor girl into smaller pieces and slipped her down the incinerator chute one chicken bucket at a time. I'm not about that. This girl placed her life in my hands when she asked for a new arm. Then she had crazy animal sex for several hours with me. Then she did several drugs [I'm coming down] and now she's in my trunk...dead...and I am going to save her. Bring her back. God be fucked.
I reach into my bag and pull out a syringe. Placing it in the ashtray I search for the vile I'm going to need. Hypotrianethematemorphinol-12. It's a mouthful. But it gets the job done. Four times more potent than morphine without the disastrous eradication of cognizance. I pull off 20 cc's from the vial and quickly [can't think about it too much] drive the bastard into my carotid and plunge myself into a psychomimetic Elysium in which the mundane problems of the world cannot find me.The dead girl in the back is going to be fine. I am going to win.
Even if she is brain damaged I can reconstruct her napalmed synaptic connections with fiber-optic intra-capillary networking. I need only invent it. I will put her in stasis in my labs WOMB II unit. I will rebuild her better than she ever could have hoped. And then? When I pull the hammer that releases the Bio-amniotic fluid and she slips, naked, warm and confused at my feet? I will bathe her and lay her down. She will be grateful. We will fall in love. She will bear many of my clones. I will receive a fat government grant for my ideas and we will all live happily ever after.
As my vehicle coasts down the highway, and likewise my mind surfs on the cascading waves of the drug, I almost ignore the brilliant lights of the squad car behind me. It is just another carnival attraction on my whirlwind tour of heaven. When the lights do not disappear or transmute themselves into something else [alien ship perhaps] a cold wash of adrenaline fires itself from my asshole to the back of my neck and I realize that despite my best efforts twenty years in the medical profession has come down to a corpse in the trunk.
I retrieve the pistol in my bag and pull my car onto the shoulder...


Tommi L. Godwin said…
Weird contrast of maniacal and lucid. Reminds me of what the 12 Monkeys' character lead monologues might have been, in raw form.
Duke said…
Hehe…you said Elysium.

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