Pulp-Noir-Sci-Fi.

My one-armed lover lay on the floor. I dont know what the hell she had injected into herself, but she offered me some and Im sort of sad and glad that I refused her. Shes not dead. Far from it. She keeps rambling on about daisies. How they are the most perfect flower. Pure. Shes startlingly lucid, despite the fact she thinks the planet is spinning ten times faster than normal, the increase in gravity pinning her to the floor like an astronaut on Venus...or something. My astronomy is pretty fuzzy. I just hope I can pull this off.

I reach into the closet and pull out the case. Place it on the desk. Its a large silvernumber. You know the sort? One of those Comes with the explosive bolts!,Digital-Gene-Referencing-For The-Whole-Family! sort of numbers. I place my hand on the top-panel scanner and the bastard clicks open. I open the case and inside is my task for the evening.

It floats in the center of a viscous sack of nutrient rich gel. Ever-floating in that ninety-eight point six degree oxygenated nutri-jelly. The perfect right arm. Grown for you pretty lady. And Im going to try sticking it on to you. Ill do my best. You should know that I havent done anything like this in a while.

Hey! I yell at the girl

Dont make me get up. she says

Again I am startled at how coherent she is despite her obvious chemical-induced insanity.

Hey, get on the bed! I command.

And still she lay there on the floor.

Hell...

Going to have to do this the hard way.

Hold very still I say as I stalk over to her form on the floor.

No...dont...the gravity. she pleas.

I heft her into my arms, flipping her over so I can lift her up like some fucking 16thCentury character in a poorly written book. My arms are strong, and she is warm and wetin them, still smelling of lotion and perfumed bath water. I lay her on the bed.

Just relax here. I say, and return to my case.

Obviously this isnt the kind of thing you want to do on a bed, but its a relatively safe and easy procedure. But its going to hurt like a bastard. A true bastard. I remove the mouth guard and walk over to the bed. I sit down beside her and place a hand on her forehead. Her eyes are closed, no doubt watching a myriad of colors wash and ebb and flow behind those eye-shadowed lids of hers.

Marie. Can you hear me? Its Jean. Your Doctor.

Yes Doctor Jean? she says in a faux-French accent.

I grimace.

Im going to put your arm on now. Now listen, dont cry or scream or interrupt, just listen for a few minutes while I explain how this is going to work. Im going to put in this mouth guard for you. Its got a numbing-jelly that is fluorinated and a subsonic irritator that will not lonely allow you something to help bear down on during this, the worst pain of your life, but will also whiten your teeth up to five shades and leave you feeling minty fresh. The arm has been pre-loaded with everything were going to need in terms of bone restructuring and muscle reattaching. But its going to be doing it with needles and hooks and screws and trans-vascular-steel-clamps. Why do we need the pain you ask?

She nods vigorously.

Because we have to keep those neurons of yours firing long enough for onboard computers to map your neural connections. Heres what Im telling you; its going to be the most unpleasant experience of your life-

My arm was chainsawed off by a jealous lover.

-second most unpleasant experience of your life, but it will be back. Smelling like new car and capable of lifting fifty or so pounds before it tears itself free of your body.

What!?

Oh no! Just dont try lifting a car or anything! Thats all Im saying. Its bio-bionic but its not going to make you able to punch through concrete. Thats a different model.

She seems to have been startled. I quickly place the mouthguard in and touch off the subsonic irritator. The instant vibration to the gums soothes her into an incognizant state. I pat her forehead and return to my case. Had I told her too much? Was this going to be an unpleasant procedure? Probably. So had the last few months. Retrieving the coupler I made my way back to the bed.

The coupler is a sinister looking piece of equipment and I hoped that those green eyes across the room didnt shoot open. Id look like a fucking monster. Eyes blood red. Hair flying everywhere because of this damned humidity. White shirt with as many bloodstains as sweat. At least my tie isnt crooked. Frayed certainly, but its still got a nice clip. Its more of a hanky at this point anyhow.

I am a sinister looking piece of equipment, but nothing compared to the coupler. Imagine a spring powered dual guillotine. Take a hoola-hoop, reduce its diameter to a manageable half, place two huge razor sharp blades on either hemisphere, and youve got some idea. It will shear off her arm-stump like a cigar clipper. And drive into her flesh the teeth of the host coupler-ring. An interlocking donor ring has already been placed on the replacement arm. I placed the circular tool over her arm stump and dis-engaged the safety.

three...two...

I pulled the trigger and her arm-stump was sheared off. It flew across the room and landed on the desk with a wet-slapping noise. As the hooks drove home and the initial drive-bolts locked home the internal screaming began. She was a smart girl and kept in her mouth guard, but the pain was there. Her eyes were tightened down to little slits. Not enough space to release the tears. The arterial blood was hampered to a slight trickle through the black protein-weave net.

Where the hell did it all go wrong?

Everything seemed to be going fine.

Comments

Sentinel 47 said…
"...lift her up like some fucking 16thCentury character in a poorly written book." ha. nice. -tommi
Quaddle said…
My god...you ARE obsessed with my blog...now I've got to maintain it.
Duke said…
I’m glad I quickly realized I was reading these out of order and came back.

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