Rachal Daddio: Tough-Minded Orderly from "My Favorite Magazine"

 

Handing Out 51/50 Orders Like It's Christmas

 

No Country For Old Farts

Dr. Wily finally had Mega Man right where he wanted him. The mad scientist had to admit his foe had serious mechanical balls for scaling his skull tower to the tippy-top. All the metal dragons that breathed fire on him. All the construction helmet gizmos that frustrated the hell out of him with their cheap tactics.

And yes, all of Dr. Wily’s maverick hunters had another shot at their blue-suited rival, whether it was Elec Man zapping him into next week, Bomb Man blasting everything to pieces, or Guts Man throwing hunks of metal at Mega Man with the ease of snowballs. Even after all of that, Mega Man was rocking and rolling with his arm cannon charged up and aimed directly at Dr. Wily’s massive robotic horse.

The mad scientist’s poofy white hair and lab coat blew backwards in the breeze created by his fired missiles. Mega Man blasted nearly all of them out of the sky except for one that exploded right up his “iron diaper wearing ass”. Dr. Wily pulled a few levers and had the horse breathe more flames onto Mega Man. And then more missiles were fired. And then electrical bolts shot out of the horse’s eyes.

Mega Man’s wires and pieces were jutting out of his wrecked body, especially his now crippled legs which wouldn’t take him to safety anymore. He laid there in a pile of metal and mechanical shit waiting to be squashed by the robotic horse’s hooves. Dr. Wily’s eyes beamed with deranged excitement. He smiled the creepiest pedophile smile he could. He rubbed his hands together as he prepped to deal the final blow to his lifelong rival. And then…

“Wily…Wily…WILY!”

That final cadence awakened him right as he was ready to stomp on the last remaining pieces of Mega Man’s battered body. Only he didn’t achieve victory. The only violent mess he caused was in his bed, puke covering his moustache, beard, and what passed for clean white sheets in this hellhole of an elderly prison. Dr. Wily gazed around with puffy red eyes and knew full well he had woken up into another nightmare. He was no longer the vile, cunning mad scientist that the world had grown to fear. His robotic warriors had since been blasted into scrap metal…and he had since been committed to a retirement home to live out the rest of his miserable existence, complete with a thin body and a sensitive stomach.

Dr. Wily’s stomach was the only sensitive part about living in this white-walled shithole. The overweight nurse with a pugnacious mug, crossed arms, and thinning blond hair could be described with any word but sensitive. Nurse Cassie North stood over his bed with a disgusted scowl on her face and fists balled so tightly they could snap anybody’s neck. The broken down mad scientist could do nothing in her presence but cower under the puke-laden blankets.

Cassie ripped off the sheets and revealed a trembling eighty year old in striped red pajamas underneath. She leaned in and growled, “What did I tell you about making my job harder than it has to be?” No response, just more shaking from Dr. Wily. She continued, “You think I enjoy cleaning up your disgusting puke? You think that makes me happy? I could be at home right now with my kids. I could just leave your ass here to die and feed you nothing at all. Is that what you want?” Still no response. She grabbed his arm with skin-purpling tightness and rolled up his sleeve, holding a hypodermic needle with the other hand.

“No! Leave me alone! You can’t do this to me!” quivered Dr. Wily as he squirmed in a vain attempt to get away.

“HOLD STILL, GODDAMN IT!” He did. “Your days of being a terrorist douche bag are over, old man. This ain’t no country for old farts. I don’t have time for your precious little pipe dreams. You’re not a doctor. You’re a broken down piece of amphibian shit! Now stay still while I jab this motherfucker in your arm. Don’t make me force it in you this time.”

Cassie and Dr. Wily had different ideas of what constituted force. He screamed for a bit once the needle was jabbed in his arm, but then relaxed in his messy bed drooling and teary-eyed.

“There we go. Nice and comfy. Maybe this time you’ll have dreams about making my life a little easier here at this dump of a nursing home. God, I can’t wait to retire. You little piece of shit.” Cassie stomped out of the room and left Dr. Wily to drain his eyes and saliva glands even further, numb state and all.

This was how things were going to end for Dr. Wily. He was a broken shell of his former self. He went from creating the most threatening robotic warriors the world had ever seen to wallowing in his own biological sludge. Never again would he have a shot at defeating Mega Man and achieving world domination. Never again would he be feared as the iron-fisted badass he once was. If he would have led a clean life free of violence and terror, would he still end up in this crappy nursing home? Would he still be subjected to the same white walls, the same boring schedule, the same dementia, and the same sloppy food that reminded him too much of what he was laying in currently?

A loud bang interrupted his glazed-over thoughts and widened his droopy eyes. “Could it be?” he asked nobody in particular. “Are they here?...No…nobody’s coming for me. Why would they? Just kill me already…Just let me die peacefully…”

“That’s not an option, Master Wily,” said a tough feminine voice. This voice wasn’t as husky or brutal as Cassie North’s was. It at least had some tenderness to it. Was it another nasty-tempered nurse? Was it someone finally coming to put him out of his misery? No. Dr. Wily opened his eyes and saw the voice came from his own creation, Stardust Woman. There she stood; six feet of metallic beauty, complete with an arm cannon, star-shaped armor, and the most lovely red eyes a robot could possibly have.

Standing next to Stardust Woman was another creation of Dr. Wily: Slaughter Man. Judging from his navy blue Viking armor, massive spiked hammer, and bulky body, it must have been him who created the loud thrashing noise. The walls were definitely cracked and shattered enough. Why weren’t the other patients screaming in horror? Were they so out of it that they couldn’t feel fear anymore, just like Dr. Wily himself?

Slaughter Man held his hammer high in the air and proudly declared, “We’re here to break you out of here, Master! We still have a chance at defeating that squirmy little bastard Mega Man!”

“…I’m sorry…” wheezed Dr. Wily. “I can’t make it anymore. I don’t want to fight Mega Man again. I’m aching all over. I’m tired as hell. Can you just do me a favor and smash me over the head with your hammer? I don’t want to live anymore.”

Stardust Woman scowled at Dr. Wily and folded her arms, just like Cassie did earlier, but with more concern in her posture and voice. “What happened to you, Master? This isn’t the Dr. Wily who built us with his own genius. You’re going to give up just like that? We’re practically gifting you an exit from this place. You can at least live out the rest of your days in your laboratory. Anything is better than this dump.”

“…You’re…you’re not even real…neither are you, Slaughter Man…I’m dreaming again…If Cassie catches me dreaming again…she’ll beat me…”

Slaughter Man pointed his hammer at his broken master and shouted, “Who gives a shit what that fat whore thinks?! Give me five minutes alone with her and I’ll smash her body all over the goddamn floor! You’re worth a hundred of her, Master Wily!”

“…No, I’m not…I’m worthless…I’m going to die anyways…I could never beat Mega Man before…and I can’t do it now…Please…just leave me here to die…Don’t drag this out any further than it has to be dragged out…”

As Slaughter Man growled and seethed in the background, Stardust Woman sauntered over to Dr. Wily and held his frail, bony hand in hers. Not even that would restart the old man’s heart, but hopefully her words would. “Let me tell you something about Cassie North and the rest of these sycophantic nurses and orderlies. They’re tough when it comes to dealing with fragile old people, but once they come face to face with a couple of your creations, all the courage is gone. Cassie North will sing a different tune once she sees what we’ve got for her.”

Just when Dr. Wily formed the tiniest smile, when the smallest glimmer of hope shined in his damp eyes, a meaty hand grabbed Stardust Woman by the skull and slammed it against Slaughter Man’s oversized head, dizzying both robots. Cassie put both of them in headlocks and held them there while she berated Dr. Wily some more.

“What did I tell you about your silly fantasies, old man? They don’t mean shit here. Your robots are just glorified tin cans. And you? You’re mediocre at best and a shit stain at worst. You terrorized the planet and failed. I’ll be damned if you fuck with my vacation!” She slammed Stardust Woman and Slaughter Man’s heads together again…and again…and again…each time drawing scratchy shrieks from their now former master. Once they were dizzy enough, Cassie heaved Slaughter Man’s hammer like it was nothing and smashed his heavy chest in with repeated blows. Stardust Woman fired off lasers from her cannon, but was obviously too disoriented to aim correctly. Cassie jerked her cannon arm behind her back and fired lasers up her ass, dismantling her with a war scream.

Dr. Wily cried one more time as he watched the last of his creations get easily wrecked by an ordinary woman. Maybe there was some truth in her painful rhetoric. Maybe he was deserving of the insults. Maybe dying was the only answer after all. Cassie seemed to agree as she breathed heavily and marched over to the foot of the bed after discarding the robots’ bodies like the junk they ended up being.

“I am tired of your horseshit, Doctor, and I use that title loosely. You need to know when to give up. You need to conform just like every other sad sap in this nursing home. If not, I could just kill you and write you off as natural causes. I’m sure the head doctor wouldn’t mind, the REAL doctor, by the way. Face it, Wily: you can’t win. You never could. Your imagination is shit, just like whatever’s in your pajama pants.”

Dr. Wily gazed his sore eyeballs at the needle in Cassie’s belt. Surely, that would be enough to put him down and end this madness once and for all. He had nothing left to lose. His soul was gone. His robots were trash. His mind was deteriorating with images of Cassie North mocking him with her angry tone. It was his time to go and let Mega Man escape with yet another victory.

“If it’s my time to go…and I can’t take my creations with me…I’ll find something else to take to the grave…” Wily snorted and sniffed.

“And what would that be?”

“…Your dead ass!” Using his last bit of elderly strength, Dr. Wily pulled the needle from Cassie’s belt and stabbed her in the throat with it, pressing down on the plunger afterwards. Cassie sang a different tune, alright. Her eyes bulged with the horror of her own mortality. Her mouth bled buckets. Her husky grizzly bear voice was nonexistent. Her thick legs could no longer hold her even thicker body.

Once she dropped to the linoleum ground, Dr. Wily’s mind went from empty to insane as he looked into her dying eyes. This wasn’t dementia overriding his “mediocre” creativity. This was a full on stream of rage. He got out of bed and kneeled beside her, pulling the needle out with savage force. He stabbed her in the throat again. And in the eyes. And in the face. He stabbed her over and over again until she was unrecognizable. No longer was he the silly scientist who always lost. He finally did something with his life worth commending: ridding the world of someone who was more villainous than he was.

He kept stabbing and stabbing as other orderlies rushed to save their fallen friend. They pulled him off of her and he just went limp with a smile on his face. Slaughter Man and Stardust Woman were never there to begin with, hence why the white walls were still whole. As Dr. Wily was no doubt being dragged to his death, it didn’t bother him that his work was incomplete. There were more orderlies and nurses here that deserved a brutal stabbing. All Dr. Wily could do was send a message to everybody here: the real villains weren’t the mad scientists and kooky robots. They were the humans who pretended to be more than pond scum. Dr. Wily was okay with that.

Knives Out

MOVIE TITLE: Knives Out

DIRECTOR: Rian Johnson

YEAR: 2019

GENRE: Murder Mystery

RATING: PG-13 for violence and language

GRADE: Pass

In a family full of rich, spoiled brats who all claim entitlement to Harlan Thromby’s fortune (and are all cut off from his will), who could possibly want him dead the most? Who would want all of that money for themselves so badly that they’re willing to commit revenge murder to get it? Is it book publisher Walt Thromby? Is it social media influencer Joni? Is it alt-right troll boy Jacob? Truth is, everybody in this family is so unlikable that any one of them would make a convincing suspect. Some are more worthy of hate than others and that may lead you, the viewer, to obvious conclusions. You’re tempted by the obvious choice, but know deep down that’s not always the case. This mystery is so nuanced and so complicated that you’ll not only yearn to know who did it, but also how. Any mystery movie that can keep the wheels turning in your mind for as long as possible counts as a great story in my opinion. Knives Out is that great story. That’s what I expected going into the movie theater and that’s what happened.

In a movie genre where lying is paramount, I love the fact that Marta, Harlan’s personal nurse from [insert Latin country here], spills her cookies every time she lies. It could be a clever plot device. It could be a convenient way to keep her honest. Or maybe it’s just a fun little gimmick to make sure the audience knows what side she’s on. Either way, the gimmick doesn’t overstay its welcome and plays an important role in the story so many times that it’s completely necessary. It’s not even a crutch to get out of storytelling plot holes. It’s there because it needs to be. Marta is a kindhearted woman anyways, but even she makes her fair share of enemies in this movie. She’s not a total Mary-Sue in that respect. Plus, she has her own deep dark secret that may or may not influence the detective work going on throughout. The plot will thicken, not unlike the intestinal acid that bursts from Marta’s mouth every time she tells a whopper.

As to be expected with a rogue’s gallery as the main character roster, there will be some bickering among them and there are some genuinely funny moments in their dialogue. The political discussions are incredibly hammy from the basic talking points to the argot used by both the leftwing and rightwing characters. “How’s that SJW degree going, Meg?” says the most obnoxious member of the family Ransom, who’s seen eating a package of cookies at the will reading. Speaking of which, I nearly bust a gut when Walt makes an offhand remark about Harlan leaving Ransom a glass of milk in the will, proceeded by a swear word insult I will not repeat in this review. Even the serious dialogue is entertaining to listen to and at times accidentally comes off as humorous. Bottom line: it’s hard to be bored with a movie like Knives Out whether it’s the dialogue, characters, or overall mystery that you’re intrigued by.

This movie met my expectations the minute I walked through the theater door. No more, no less. I wasn’t expecting to be emotionally tear-jerked by this movie, but then again, Knives Out doesn’t have to do that. It’s just a fun story from beginning to end. It was cleverly crafted, beautifully acted, and not a single detail went to waste. This movie gets four out of five stars a.k.a. the passing grade. Rian Johnson gets a lot of heat for the way he handled his Star Wars movies. I personally don’t have a problem with them, but if Mr. Johnson needed to wash away the muck from his criticism, Knives Out was the movie to do it. Was it considered for an Oscar? I’m not sure, but it should have been.

Characters Going to the Bathroom

***CHARACTERS GOING TO THE BATHROOM***

When I was little enough to think that piss and shit were funny, I watched movies and TV shows with one burning question in mind: “Why don’t these characters ever go to the bathroom?” Or a more appropriate question for my age group would have been, “Why don’t these characters ever make pee-pee and doo-doo?” This question would continue to burn like an asshole after eating too many spicy wings, something I have too much experience with. It’s true, though, even after all these years of maturing (somewhat): characters never seem to have to go to the bathroom even after eating questionable food. You know why? Because nobody wants to see it, that’s why!

It’s like George Carlin once said: “I’ve never really understood it nor have I really cared for it.”

“I’m going to the bathroom to take a shit.”

“NEVER MIND! Do what you have to do in the bathroom and leave me out of it! And don’t describe it when you come back!”

“Boy, you should have seen it…”

“NEVER MIND!”

“It set off the smoke alarm.”

“NEVER MIND!”

If a character is going to make pee-pee and doo-doo, there better be a plot-related reason for it. Sure, constantly visiting the john would make for realistic storytelling, but not necessarily good storytelling. For instance, let’s say in my rewritten novel Beautiful Monster, Shelly had Windham shackled to her bed and suddenly had the urge to take a wee-wee tinkle. Let’s say she drank too many of her signature milkshakes, without the sedative drugs, of course. How exactly would her urinary needs be met in a way that moves the plot along quicker than her digestive system moves things along? Let’s say she relieves herself over Windham’s face like a Russian prostitute. Does this help the story? No, it doesn’t. Does it turn the reader off and not take Shelly seriously as a femme fatale? Absolutely!

I can only think of a handful of times where bathroom trips helped advance the story along without being disgusting as fuck (most of the time). Quentin Tarantino used bathroom trips as a plot device for Pulp Fiction at least three different times. Vincent had to go to the bathroom when he took Mia Wallace home, leaving her all alone to OD. Had he not gone to the bathroom, the overdosing could have been prevented and therefore, there’d be no infamous scene where Vincent stabs Mia in the chest with an adrenaline boost. Vincent also happens to be on the toilet when Butch goes back to his apartment to get his father’s watch. Had Vincent not been in the bathroom, he would have killed Butch and there’d be no infamous dungeon scene later on. And finally, Vincent goes to the bathroom during the restaurant robbery scene. Had he stayed at his table, he would have thwarted the robbery and Jules wouldn’t have his come to Jesus moment of clarity.

Another example of bathroom plot devices being used to full effect comes from Tales From the Hood. No, I’m not referring to any scene where Crazy K shits himself on the spinning table, because that never happened. I’m talking about the first story, which deals with racist cops. One of the cops urinates on a civil rights activist’s grave. Had he not done that, the zombie wouldn’t have risen from the grave to rip the cop in half and therefore, there’d be no comeuppance for the rest of the cops.

In short, the whole reason why you never see characters going to the bathroom at inconvenient times is because nobody wants to see it. Nobody wants to see Gimley from Lord of the Rings taking a massive dump nor do they want to smell it. Nobody wants to see WWE wrestlers have accidents in the ring, which has happened before, regrettably. Stone Cold Steve Austin once shit his trunks while getting body slammed by Yokozuna in a match in South Africa. Good thing his trunks were black.

Are you sick and tired of all of this middle school toilet humor? If so, you’ve just confirmed your own reason why you don’t want to see toilet breaks in movies and TV shows unless they serve a bigger purpose. Rarely does it serve that bigger purpose, though. If bathroom breaks were as random and haphazard as they were in real life, it would border on Deus Ex Machina storytelling and that’s a big no-no. Suppose Darth Vader had food poisoning at Taco Bell right before his light saber fight with Luke Skywalker in The Empire Strikes Back. If Vader went to the bathroom, Luke could get an easy kill and wouldn’t lose his hand nor learn that Vader is his father.

I feel disgusted for having written this blog entry, but it’s a topic that I’m sure was on everybody’s mind at some point in life, whether in middle school or adulthood. We’ve all thought it, but we’ve never actually dug deeper into the question. Maybe it’s best that we haven’t. Maybe this controversy should be put to bed once and for all. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***SONG DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

NURSE: Excuse me, doctor? Do you have a moment?

DOCTOR: A moment? What’s the question?

NURSE: More like a situation. A gentleman in exam three.

DOCTOR: What’s the problem?

NURSE: That is the problem: we’re not sure.

DOCTOR: Do you have the chart?

NURSE: Right here.

DOCTOR: Hmm…not much here, is there.

NURSE: No, doctor. No obvious physical trauma and vitals are stable.

DOCTOR: A name?

NURSE: No, sir.

DOCTOR: Did somebody drop him off? Maybe we can speak to them. Let’s get some background on this fellow.

NURSE: No ID. Nothing. He won’t speak to anyone.

DOCTOR: Well, let’s go and say hello.

PATIENT:…

DOCTOR: Good morning, I’m Doctor Lawson. How are you today?

PATIENT:…

DOCTOR: How are you today?

PATIENT:…

DOCTOR: Look son, you’re in a safe place. We want to help you in whatever way we can, but you need to talk to us. We can’t help you otherwise. So what happened? Tell me everything.

-“Lost Keys (Blame Hofmann)” by Tool-

Due Process

“Savages. Fucking savages,” said McKenzie Youngblood under her breath as she power-walked through the halls of Aspire Mental Hospital. Every jacked up orderly and nurse made her skin crawl. Every image of “crazies” suffering in silence on their padded cells made her stomach turn. The walls and floors probably hadn’t seen a sponge and bucket since the Reagan Administration. If they did, it was most likely off the backs of these patients.

The closer she stomped toward Dr. Oliver Killian’s office, the hotter McKenzie’s blood boiled. Her flat shoes were the most audible part of the hallway. Her chubby scowl and gray business suit indicated she meant…well…business. Deep inside, a wildfire began to grow as these white orderlies scowled at her black skin. Nonetheless, she was a professional first and foremost. Just deliver the papers to Dr. Killian, get in, and get out. A pepper spray bottle in her leather briefcase would only be used as a last resort.

McKenzie adjusted her suit and skirt and gave a hard series of knocks on Dr. Killian’s office door. “Come in!” he commanded and she did just that.

The first thing she noticed was the pristine condition of his office. Bookshelves with infinite wisdom, wooden plaques containing various college degrees, a marble office table with the latest computer technology sitting on it, and not one speck of dirt or dust unless one were to count Dr. Oliver Killian sitting with his hands behind his white fluffy hair. He adjusted his glasses and asked, “What can I do for you, young lady?”

“My name isn’t young lady. It’s McKenzie Youngblood and I’m a process server. The Paulson City Courthouse sent me here.” She pulled a thick manila envelope out of her briefcase and dropped it unceremoniously on the marble table. “You’re being sued by your former patients. Rough treatment, suppression of rights, unnecessary procedures, lengthy incarceration with no due process of any kind…you’re in deep trouble, Dr. Killian. It’s your right and your responsibility to contact the courthouse within a week of receiving these papers. Otherwise, the case will go on without you. Any questions?”

Dr. Killian’s sarcastically pleasant demeanor turned to silent rage as he rifled through the papers and read them hurriedly. “Psychiatric patients don’t have rights. This case will never stick.”

“Well, then I guess you have nothing to worry about, Doctor.” McKenzie leaned forward and said, “And I use that term loosely.”

Slamming the papers on the table, Dr. Killian, without raising his voice, seethed as he said, “Our facility is one of the best in the country. We are the good guys. We’re not the ones committing heinous acts on the street. We’re not the ones making life difficult for our loved ones. These patients are here because they deserve to be here. They’re a threat to society. How dare you question my methods!”

“Technically, I don’t have to stand here and have a debate with you. I could just walk out of this hospital and tell the judges you were served. But I’ve got to know something before I head out. When was the last time these patients have seen the summer sun? When was the last time they’ve had visitors? When was the last time they’ve had love or kindness of any sort? I know how this place works. Beatings, lobotomies, electroshock, repeat. Beatings, lobotomies, electroshock, repeat. Day after day, every hour on the hour. This isn’t a hospital. It’s a death camp, especially for minorities and women, which make up eighty percent of your patient roster.”

Dr. Killian stood up and slammed his palms on the table, still maintaining his silent anger. “We use those methods because they work. They’re the only thing that will. Crazy people don’t learn any other way. They don’t listen to reason. They don’t comprehend order and decency. They don’t live in our reality. If we don’t do this to them, the world will. These patients should be thankful for the lessons we teach them. Instead, they want to make a few bucks off of us and complain about us to the liberal media. If anybody should feel oppressed right now, it’s me and my staff!”

McKenzie leaned in closer until she was almost touching noses with Dr. Killian. She did her best to contain her own anger as she told him, “You’d better hope the judges and jury buy into your twisted propaganda. If not, then you’ve got a shit storm on your hands, buster. Who knows? Maybe this dump will be closed once and for all. Good luck with your trial.” Just as she was turning around, Dr. Killian grabbed hold of her wrist, his bony fingers barely making a dent in her thick skin. “You have three seconds to pull your hand away and then I’m whipping out the pepper spray.”

“Okay, Miss Youngblood. You win. You can have a tighter grip if you prefer that.” Upon releasing his clasp, Dr. Killian pointed his elongated, creepy finger at the door to his office.

McKenzie turned around and saw two beefy orderlies standing there with their arms folded and their faces fixed in death stares. “Great idea, Dr. Killian,” she said. “You can have yet another lawsuit on your hands and hemorrhage money like no tomorrow. You tell these orderlies to back off or I’m taking your ass to court.”

Dr. Killian whispered into her ear, “What good is a lawsuit…if you can’t even make it to the courthouse? You think you’re the only one to serve me papers lately? You think you’re the only one who’s trying to sue me? We’re not just doctors and nurses. We’re magicians. We make lawsuits…disappear.” He licked her ear hole to punctuate his last point.

She turned around to try and slap him, but he ducked out of the way and allows his orderlies to grab her tightly by both arms. McKenzie struggled and fought while screaming curses at her captors, but their grips would only serve to leave purple bruises on her arms later on. They bent her over the table and yanked her hair so that she was facing Dr. Killian, who glared at her with ophidian eyes.

“Nobody’s taking my money away,” snarled Dr. Killian. “We’re making enough of it as it is. Turns out locking people up is quite the lucrative business. The more patients we’ve got, the richer we all are. It’s basic economics.” He leaned his face close to McKenzie’s. “You’d have to be crazy to stand up to capitalism. So crazy, in fact…you’d need your own padded cell.” With the orderlies’ hands firmly behind McKenzie’s neck, Dr. Killian planted a sloppy tongue kiss on her lips and slammed her forehead against the table.

McKenzie’s head swam as she was roughly dropped to the ground. Sparkling stars and colorful clouds filled her vision as darkness threatened to overtake her. She tried to stand up on her own two feet, but her legs and arms felt like rubber. Any last chance of rebellion was snuffed away when an orderly kicked her in the skull and sent her on a one-way ticket to dreamland.

It felt like an eternity since she slipped into unconscious hell. Waking up from it proved to be an even bigger drain on her body. She tried to wiggle around yet again, but leather straps held her horizontally against a metal table. She tried to yell for help, but her lips were held together with what appeared to be medical tape. Despite being in bondage, she never stopped struggling, especially when Dr. Killian’s hazy image swirled into view.

“Fighting isn’t going to make things better, Miss Youngblood. Or should I say, Patient #855341. Why fight something you have absolutely no control over? Why keep fighting and expecting different results? That is the true definition of insanity. You’ll eventually leave this place like any other patient of mine. How soon depends on your ability to conform to my rules.

From this point going forward, you will do what I say. You will think the way I tell you to think. You will be cured of your insanity. Your brain is mine to play with. Your body is mine to puppeteer. It’s crazy to rebel against basic human order. It’s crazy to think you’re capable of winning. It’s crazy to bring a can of pepper spray to a gunfight.”

As soon as Dr. Killian dangled the can of pepper spray in front of McKenzie’s face, she opened her mouth as wide as she could and ripped the tape off that way. She spit in Dr. Killian’s face before taking deep breaths and trying to relax for the horror she would have to endure.

He smiled, wiped the spit off with his finger, and sucked it down like maple syrup. McKenzie shivered in disgust before Dr. Killian grabbed her by the throat and squeezed as hard as he could.

As she gagged, wheezed, and struggled for oxygen, Dr. Killian held the spray bottle to her eyes and laughed maniacally as he pulled the trigger. Except instead of a blizzard of hot chemicals, he got a beeping noise. He slowly let go of the chokehold and allowed McKenzie to cough violently and regain her breath.

Dr. Killian studied the device even further, his face growing more and more confused. He glared at the bottle before peeling the label off and seeing that the pepper spray was actually a beacon.

“What? You thought the courthouse wasn’t going to investigate their own process servers going missing? In about five minutes, the cops are coming to tear this place apart. You could have taken your blood money and paid off your patients like a good corporate stooge. You could have kept this quiet. But you made this shit personal and it’s going to get as loud as a motherfucker up in here!” McKenzie smiled as the words and rage dripped from her mouth.

It didn’t take five minutes. Sirens blasting off in the distance echoed throughout the room and Dr. Killian paced back and forth in nervousness. “No, no, no, no, no! I’m supposed to be the good guy in this story! I’m doing God’s work!”

“Sorry, Dr. Killian…but it’s crazy to rebel against the system,” said McKenzie with a wink.

“Okay, Mrs. Black Lives Matter! Okay, you Snowflake Justice Warrior! You want to be a martyr?! I’ll make you a martyr!” Dr. Killian pulled shock pads from the sides of the table and electrocuted McKenzie’s brain. She could feel her insides droop. She could feel her face fall off. She could feel her brain melting like butter on mashed potatoes. Her eyes popped out of her skull at one point. But she never lost that smile no matter how many volts of electricity she was subjected to. Why would she? It was hard to frown at the prospect of justice being served. She was a process server, after all.

Demon Axe, Chapter 14

In traumatic situations, doctors were supposed to provide delicate care so as not to trigger raw emotions. But when Daniel Mercer thrashed around in his hospital bed punching and kicking anything that moved, he had to be held down by the toughest of the tough. Three different nurses held his left arm. Two doctors held his right arm. One of the bigger nurses laid across his shins.

The Lord of the Pit roared and screamed his head off with his most demonic voice, but the medical staff’s pressure on his limbs increased even more. He got so cantankerous that they had to strap him in bed with leather buckles. Even in bondage his head bounced off the pillow as he howled like a wounded animal.

All it took was one jab in the arm and a press of the plunger. Daniel felt coldness running through his veins to sooth his burning anger. The volume of his possessed screams got lower as his breathing intensified. His eyelids became heavier than dumbbells. His clenched jaw relaxed to where his tongue was hanging out like a dog. While he wasn’t completely knocked out, he was drowsy enough that the doctors and nurses could wipe the sweat off their foreheads and breathe sighs of relief.

“I’ll take it from here, guys. Thank you very much,” said a familiar male voice. The medical staff huffed and heaved their way out of the semi-private room after such an exhausting struggle. Even with blurry vision and a relaxed mind, Daniel could make out the cue ball head of Detective Shawn Henry, the man who brought him to this hospital in the first place.

As the delirious snoozer tried to form words, Detective Henry placed a gentle hand on his shoulder to signify that he’ll be the one who does the talking. “You’re in a safe place now, Daniel. You were a pain in the ass to get here, but that just goes to show how much of a fighter you really are. I can only imagine what kind of pain you were in when Roger Zee tortured you. It’s one thing to use musical torture on somebody else. But to a man who built his entire life around that genre of music…it’s unacceptable. It’s like A Clockwork Orange for the good guys.”

Daniel once again tried to form a coherent sentence, but he ended up sounding like a drunken stroke victim. He seemed to get Shawn’s message with little nods here and there.

The detective placed a hand on Daniel’s knee and said, “You may not realize it right now, but we need you now more than ever. Roger Zee has the entire police force under his control. I should have never let him get to those computers. Even so, there’s still a chance we can put him away once and for all. I have a pretty good idea of where he’s taking his newfound forces.”

“…Lay-len…Lay-len!” said Daniel with a swollen tongue.

“Yes, Daniel, you’ve mentioned this Raven girl to me before. Is she your girlfriend?” asked Shawn, to which the Lord of the Pit flashed a retarded grin. The detective flashed a small grin himself and said, “Whoever she is, we’ll find her before Roger can hurt her. I know it seems like we’re wasting time in this hospital, but trust me, you’re in no condition to be chasing bad guys right now. You might be better in the morning, depending on just how long you spent at that black site. Either way, you’re the only one who can stop this madman. With that microphone of yours, you might even be able to talk some sense into my colleagues.”

Daniel shook his head and allowed his tongue to dangle from side to side like a pendulum of spittle. His attempts at “Uh-uh” grew stronger the more he realized what he was being asked to do.

“I know you don’t think much of your music right now. I know you think that you can’t do this without your band mates. But like it or not, you’re a huge part of this puzzle. While you’re not even close to being the one to blame for Roger’s violence, he’s taking a huge interest in your vocation, not to mention everything your music stands for.”

Shawn leaned in closer with this next sentence. “You are the creative force behind every music group you’ve been a part of. Even with traumatic nightmares, you’re one of the most imaginative people I’ve ever known. That scares Roger. He doesn’t like creativity. He shuns individuality. He wants this world to be just as boring and dull as him. You can’t let that happen. You’ve got to put a line through that.”

Daniel made a whiny groan in his throat while slamming his head on the pillow in disbelief. Shawn patted his knee and said, “I know we’re asking a lot of you. But this is a responsibility you were custom built for, my friend. Don’t think of these civilians as mere strangers. Think of them as audience members. They’re gathering around you so that you can put on a show for them. Not just any show, but one that will fill them with positive memories. Memories that will make them want to come back for more. Even with your most violent lyrics, you inspire an entire generation of listeners to face the hardest parts of life.”

The Lord of the Pit had a flat tire hiss and shook his head. Breathing a sigh of relief, Shawn knew he had to pull out the big guns to get this reluctant hero’s attention. He reached in his pocket and pulled out something that made Daniel’s eyes light up like Las Vegas.

“You see this, Mr. Mercer? This right here is the very first Demon Axe album. I bought it after the two of us met for the very first time. I admit, it was a god-awful interview at your house, but if it wasn’t for that, I would have never known about your music. I have to say, this is a pretty goddamn good album. I don’t claim to be the biggest metal head on planet earth, but even I think this is pretty fucking good. You and your band mates put a lot of hard work into every song on this CD. Your band mates gave you their lives, now it’s time to finish the job.”

Tears rolled down Daniel’s cheeks as he made little whimpering noises through his nose. Shawn grabbed a paper towel from the counter and wiped them away ever so delicately. He said, “I can tell you’re still not convinced. You somehow have it in you that you let everyone down by allowing yourself to be tortured. You didn’t let anyone down, Daniel. Some things in life are beyond our control. But this road that lies ahead of you, this road to recovery, it begins and ends with putting Roger Zee in his grave. To help you along the way, I brought another surprise for you.”

Shawn motioned toward the doorway and two nurses wheeled a gigantic radio into the room. The detective pulled out yet another CD, though Daniel’s eyes widened when he couldn’t tell what the album was. The Lord of the Pit made loud whining noises in anticipation of more torture. He thrashed around in his straps, but no amount of white hot rage could set him free.

The gentle piano music, on the other hand, could, at least psychologically. The pianist’s fingers danced lightly and gracefully across the keys, especially near the lower octaves to provide the sweetest lullaby to a pain-wracked Daniel. The whining and whimpering was reduced to silent drooling and a spaced-out look in his eyes. With his hands at his lap, he performed the one technique that got him through the death of his Demon Axe brethren. He tapped his left leg, then his right, then his left, then his right, almost in perfect harmony with the tranquilizing piano music.

“Lay-len…Lay-len…Lay-len…”

Shawn smiled at Daniel and said, “Raven was the one who taught you that technique. That’s called EMDR. I’d definitely say she’s a keeper, my friend. If you don’t do this for anybody else, do this for her. She’s depending on you.”

Daniel formed another stupid-looking grin on his face while his eyes danced in different directions. Shawn covered his own face as he noticed a sizable lump growing in Daniel’s shorts. The detective jokingly said, “Too much information, buddy! Too much information!”

The Lord of the Pit chuckled in his moment of quasi-embarrassment and kept tapping his thighs until his eyelids closed for the final time of the night. Daniel’s face fell to the side of his pillow and he ended his evening with a combination of frothing drool and lawnmower snores.

Shawn smiled again and shook his head. Meanwhile, one of the nurses produced Daniel’s magical microphone and asked, “Where do you want me to leave this?”

The detective took it and said, “I’ve got a nice place for it when he’s ready to wake up.” Confident that the singer was lost in dreamland, Shawn placed the microphone handle in Daniel’s hand and closed his fingers around it. The cop was careful not to allow the mouthpiece near his drooling sewer hole, but it was right there when he needed it. Even in his subconscious’s theater, Daniel Mercer had a decision to make: run away and never turn back or fight like the warrior he was always meant to be.

Weapons and Warriors

“What are we looking at here? Formaldehyde, necrolium, nitro benzene. This thing actually has over seven thousand chemicals. Don’t get me started on what they do to you. Prematurely wrinkled skin, stunted lung growth, tooth loss, cancer…”

“Cut the bullshit, Dr. Archer, you know damn well this is wrong,” said Nurse Taylor Patrick, who stood across the mad scientist’s lab in pink scrubs with her arms folded tightly to her chest.

“Wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong, Miss Patrick,” said Dr. Adam Archer as he ate a slice of pepperoni pizza while twisting the last few bolts on his “project” with a monkey wrench. “You know those goddamn hippies outside of our lab? They just so happen to be getting in the way of production. And if it wasn’t for the hard work of these loyal CEO’s, you’d be out of a job. Well, not really a job. More like an internship. Or indentured slavery. Haha!”

Dr. Archer dropped a slice of pepperoni into the “life core” of his machine and ate it shamelessly, causing Taylor to cover her mouth in disgust. “Look, I need this internship, I really do, but putting a serial killer’s mind into a robot body? That’s just sick and twisted. Not only that, but it’s probably illegal too! You know, there’s always that remote possibility of prosecution.”

“Don’t worry about the legal shit, Miss Patrick,” said Dr. Archer as he finished tightening the last bolt on his robot. “It’s nothing a little hush money can’t fix. And trust me, we’ve got enough hush money to go around, kind of like that welfare shit you hippie liberals love so much. Haha!” Taylor rolled her eyes and shook her head.

The puffy white haired scientist in a dark lab coat stepped backwards to admire his handiwork…and to uncomfortably wrap his arm around Taylor’s shoulders. “You see this, my dear?” said Dr. Archer as he waved his hand about for theatrical purposes. “I want you to meet the new enforcer for Sexton-Naylor Oil Trade.”

“SNOT?” said Taylor when putting the company name into an acronym.

“We don’t call it that, sweetheart,” said Adam before patting Taylor on the shoulder and causing her to shove his arm off. The mad scientist danced happily over to the power box to flip the electrical switch while Taylor sat down in the fetal position with bile coming up from her throat. The poor nurse rocked back and forth silently praying to herself that she would live though this scientific nightmare.

“World? Meet Cain Gutwrench, society’s most sadistic, bloodthirsty, animalistic, and gory serial killer! He’s perfect for slaughtering protesters and anybody else who decides to screw up business for us! Are you ready? I said! Are! You! Ready?!” Adam threw down the electrical switch and lightning bolts flooded through the cords attached to this hellish creation. The robot thrashed and wailed about while Taylor Patrick cried softly to herself. Was this internship really necessary? Were there no other jobs out there for a nurse like her? How did she wind up in this shit-hole of a project? What the fuck was she thinking?!

The lightning flowing through the robot’s body turned purple, green, and blood red whilst crashing into the metallic body in larger waves. Taylor slowly picked her head up from her fetal position to see that the electricity was getting slower and gentler before it fizzed out. The cords running through Cain Gutwrench’s body snapped off and the creature from the ninth circle of hell slowly sat up on the table with an ogre-like groan.

Cain’s face was that of a metallic dragon. His body was that of a robotic skeleton. His hands and feet both held scythe blades that could cut through a telephone pole like a stick of butter. He had black bat wings on his back to make his appearance even more frightening. The life core in his chest had the appearance of blood and ooze in a nuclear container.

Taking one look at this robotic monster caused Taylor to tuck her head and cry a waterfall onto her knees. She wanted so badly to leave this place, but she was too terrified to stand up and move. She shook harder than one of Dr. Archer’s power tools.

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t be like that! It’s going to be amazing! There’s going to be blood everywhere on the streets! It’ll be great!” boasted the sadistic scientist, who received a slash to the gut for his efforts. Taylor screamed like a banshee as Cain Gutwrench stood up from the table and hoisted Dr. Archer’s gushing corpse high in the air. The murderous robot gave a sick laugh before tossing the limp body off to the side and allowing the stomach wound to soak the floor.

As Cain slowly stalked the nurse in the corner, Taylor screamed bloody murder once again before crawling quickly on her hands and knees toward the door. The robot flapped its bat wings and stood in Nurse Patrick’s way, causing her to scream and sob some more while on her knees.

“Please! Please don’t kill me! I’ll do whatever you want! I swear! Just please let me go!” Taylor begged with her hands together prayer style.

Cain held a finger to his monstrous face and creepily shushed her. With tears and snot rushing down the nurse’s face, Cain petted her hair gently and sang in his demonic rasp a lullaby for her. “Hush little baby. Shh! Don’t say a world. Momma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird don’t sing, papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring. Shh. It’s okay, little princess. I won’t let the big bad monster hurt you.”

Taylor tucked her head down and puked all over Cain’s bladed feet, to which the serial killer said, “Oh, for shit’s sake! You can stop acting now! We all knew you switched out life cores! Well, everybody except Dr. Archer, but you get the point!”

“Sorry,” said Taylor in a weak, shaky voice. “it’s just that seeing the violence for the first time…it’s just a little too much, that’s all.”

“You saw it alright, Taylor. And you’re going to see it again…and again…and again. Did you already forget how angry you were when the CEO stiffed you on your payments? Did you already forget how traumatized you were when they stuck you in this dump basement with that pervert Adam Archer?” Cain leaned his head down so that he was making direct eye contact with his co-conspirator. “Did you also forget that time when Adam offered you money to put your mouth on his…you know what? You’re right. It is a lot to take in at once.”

The trembling voice turned from frightened sadness to volcanic anger when Taylor said, “Trust me, Cain, I didn’t forget about any of that. I had fantasies every night about killing Dr. Archer. I thought about slaughtering every executive in this whole fucking building for the shit they put me through. It’s all I could think about. All those sleepless nights led to this moment. And yet…I still feel empty and cold. This isn’t right, Cain. This isn’t right at all.”

“Do I also need to remind you that it was you who swapped out life cores in my body with out Dr. Archer’s knowledge? Just because you don’t like the results of your actions, doesn’t mean you’re excused from them. There’s no turning back, Taylor. Either you see this whole thing through, or you can puss out and sit in a jail cell. Which will it be?” asked Cain.

Taylor wiped the tears and snot from her face and slowly rose to her feet to give the robotic demon her answer. “I’m sorry, Cain. I really am. I can’t go through with this, not after seeing Dr. Archer looking the way he does. You slaughtered him like a farm animal. It smells awful in here!”

“It’s okay, Taylor. I understand,” said Cain as he put his bony hand on her shoulder. “Not everybody can handle this kind of violence. Which is exactly why…I’m not letting you live a life as a prisoner. Then again…you won’t be living at all!”

In one swift motion, Cain kicked Taylor in the stomach and impaled her body on his scythe feet. Her spine was severed, her life juices poured out of her like a biblical flood, and the room just got a whole lot smellier now that she emptied her intestines and bladder. After discarding her corpse on the floor like common trash, Cain said, “I’m sorry, Taylor. It had to happen. You were going to jail for this one way or another. But since you took the coward’s way out, there was no future for you. Revolution is only for the brave.”

There were heavy knocks on the bolted steel door of the laboratory along with shouts of, “Open up! Security! Open up this goddamn door now before we get the battering ram! Move it!”

Cain Gutwrench reached inside his life core, pressed a few buttons, and detonated a secret bomb that Taylor tucked away in the core should things go south. They went south in a hurry and now a volcanic flow of hellfire blew through the laboratory, taking the SWAT-like security team and anybody else standing around with him to the underworld. Even with the sprinkler system going nuts to put out the fire, it grew and grew until the SNOT building resembled a corporate effigy. One way or another, this shit was going to end badly for somebody. It wasn’t best for business. But then again, if Taylor was still alive, she wouldn’t give the shits that came out of her intestines when she did die.

Pull You Under

Spencer Henry spent what seemed like hours at his apartment staring angrily at a photo of himself. His cheeks were trembling. His eyes were burning and watery. Every muscle in his body tensed up. The picture he held in his hand was taken at the age of 21, when life was beautiful and happy. At age 40, all he felt was the fiery sensation building in his belly.

“I hate you,” he finally said to the picture. He said it again. And again. With every repetition came more fire and volume in his throaty voice. He said it so many times that his hot breath started to resemble that of a dragon. He couldn’t care less how thin the walls in his apartment were. He didn’t care how many warnings he got from the superintendent. There wasn’t a whole lot about life that Spencer cared about. Just rage. More and more rage.

“I’ll pull you under, motherfucker!” he suddenly screamed before punching the glass-encased photo. Punching glass probably wasn’t the wisest move of Spencer’s life, but a middle-aged man’s wisdom went away a long time ago when the hateful dialogue poured from his mouth like snake’s venom.

The shattered glass cut deep into Spencer’s fingers, splattering blood all over his carpet. The screams were much louder and more barbaric, but this time it was out of mind-blowing pain. He wrapped his hand in his burgundy polo shirt, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop. It kept pouring like a raging river and all Spencer could do about it was kneel to the ground and wait for help to arrive. Someone must have heard him and dialed 911 by now. The walls were thinner than a Catholic wafer sometimes.

The last few minutes of Spencer Henry’s consciousness were spent bleeding all over the floor and adding tears and snot to this hodgepodge of emotional fluids. Fading to darkness was probably the best thing that could have happened to him at this point. He wouldn’t have to think those hateful thoughts of himself any longer.

But the thing about being rescued by first responders was that the patient eventually had to wake up. The fuzzy brown and white-haired Spencer awakened slowly and painfully while wearing a paper thin hospital gown. He had wires and tubes going into his body as he lay there on a semi-comfortable bed. His previously bloody hand was covered thickly in white gauze and showed no distinction between fingers, like a mitten of sorts.

“I’m glad to see you awake, Mr. Henry. We thought we’d lost you there for a minute. I’m Dr. Josie Cosgrave. I was in charge of your hand surgery.” The good doctor sat at the edge of Spencer’s bed with a hunched over posture and her chin on her arms. Her pose suggested that she wanted to talk about more than just a few stitches or some medication. The look on her darkly-complexioned face suggested something far more serious. “Is there a reason why you punched a picture of yourself, Mr. Henry?”

He let out a sigh and shrugged his shoulders before saying, “I’m just a little stressed out right now.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” said Josie with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “There’s just one problem. People who are just a little stressed out don’t unleash a Mike Tyson assault on a piece of glass. They also don’t cry incessantly and fight the same EMT’s who are trying to load them into the ambulance.”

“Wait a minute…I did all of that?” asked a weary Spencer.

“All that and more,” answered Josie. She meandered over to the side of her patient’s bed and held his good hand in a semi-affectionate way. “Something’s bothering you, Mr. Henry. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out one way or another. The answer just might determine if you need psychological counseling or not.”

“Yeah, like my insurance is going to cover that,” said Spencer while throwing his bad hand in the air sarcastically. “Oh wait, I forgot. I don’t have insurance. People who fry fish in the afternoon and write crappy novels at night don’t have that kind of luxury.”

“So is that why you’re so angry at yourself?” asked Josie. “Because you’re pissed off about how life has treated you?”

“What a mind,” said Spencer with even more sarcasm in his voice.

“You don’t have to be a wise-ass with me, Mr. Henry. I’m not your enemy here. I’m your friend. Yes, the hospital bill is going to be expensive, but I personally didn’t take this job as a doctor for a paycheck. It took it because that’s what I love to do. I love helping people like you get through their worst moments.”

Spencer shook his head and smiled unconvincingly when he said, “That’s it, huh? That’s the answer to my problems? Just love what I do and do what I love?” Silence overtook the room before it was broken with a sad sigh. “I really thought I could do it. I thought writing a novel and getting my name out there would give me a comfortable life. I thought I’d be a rock star by now. My novel, ‘Pull You Under’, has been edited countless times by countless people. God knows how many drafts I’ve got.”

Instead of interrupting the flow of the conversation, Dr. Josie Cosgrave squeezed Spencer’s good hand and gave him a look of concern. She didn’t want to talk at that moment, just listen. And damn, did Spencer have a lot to say.

“And then…just when I think I’m finally getting a big break…” A solitary tear rolled down his cheek. “Those asshole editors take their rubber stamp and brand my manuscript with the word ‘reject’ in beg red letters. Reject! That’s what I am to these people! I’ve spent the last ten years sending in that novel and all I ever got was a mouthful of battered fish and French fries for lunch! Every damn day! Every day, another fucking stamp! How many more times are they going to do it?! Why can’t they just say ‘yes’ for the first time in their lives?! Three fucking letters, one fucking word! Yes! Yes! Yeeeeeeeees!!”

The rage has finally boiled over for Spencer Henry. He ripped his good hand from Dr. Cosgrave’s clutches and tried to rip at the bandages and stitches in his hand. Josie tried to pin the furious man’s arms down, but he was much too powerful for her and shoved her to the floor. The man was so pissed off that he started foaming at the mouth with saliva. He was determined to rip his hand to shreds and put an end to his lackluster writing career forever.

Once again, the power of his fiery vocal cords brought help when he needed it the most. Dr. Cosgrave got up again and along with a team of blue scrubs nurses who just came rushing in held Spencer’s tensed up arms down. He put up a wilder fight than a raging bull being lead to the slaughter. Nurses were shoved backwards and more foam poured from Spencer’s mouth.

In one quick motion, Josie stabbed Spencer in the arm and pumped his bloodstream full of sedatives. He fought like a rabid wolverine for a few more seconds and then slowly, but surely descended into darkness once more. By the time he was knocked out, the spittle on his chin looked like he had a Santa Claus beard. The nurses all breathed sighs of relief while Dr. Cosgrave took a napkin and wiped the spittle off.

Spencer Henry didn’t wake up for another hour or so. When he did, his head was pounding and his jaw felt like he’d taken one of his own right hooks. His vision was blurry, mostly from the tears he shed, but it was eventually restored to where he saw Dr. Cosgrave at the foot of his bed again along with a team of nurses in the background.

“Truth is, Mr. Henry,” said Josie in a much more stern voice. “The writing business isn’t all frills and gimmicks. Rejection is common even for the most popular authors who are drowning in a sea of revised drafts. They have a name for going through that kind of hell: it’s called paying your dues. I know you felt like you’ve paid yours with one hundred percent interest, but you have no idea how much further you have to climb.”

“I…I didn’t mean to scare you guys like that,” said Spencer with a weak voice.

“I’m sure you didn’t, Mr. Henry,” said Josie with her arms tensed at her sides. “But we all know why you did it. You did it for the same reason that me and my nurses have: because you feel underappreciated. You’ve paid your dues time and time again. Well, guess what? So have we. So has anyone else who’s ever had a career. We as a society are all in this together. The sooner you let us into your world, the better off you’ll be. Whether you’re a writer, a doctor, a construction worker, a teacher, or otherwise, the struggle and the stress are both real. How will you respond to yours, Mr. Henry? Are you going to give up and flat line in that bed of yours? Or are you going to keep on fighting this endless war? We’ll fight for your life, but only if you fight for yours too.”

Spencer let out a deep sigh and said, “I want to keep going on. I want to believe there’s something out there for me. I just don’t know what it is and how I’ll get there.”

“That’s the beautiful thing about life: you don’t have to know, because it’s not laid out for you. You have to make your own destiny. Your medical chart says you’re 40 years old, but your life is far from over, my friend,” said Josie. She let her words resonate with Spencer for a minute and then she continued. “I’ve been saying that shit for a long ass time now. Some of my patients believed it, some of them didn’t. Those who believed it became successful in their lives or at least happy with what they’ve got. Those who didn’t believe it eventually grew up to be stored in our morgue’s body lockers.”

Spencer tried to calm himself with some basic breathing techniques as he thought about what the good doctor said to him. Was she right? She could be. But she could also be someone collecting more money than a professional fish fryer. Either way, it didn’t matter. The pissed off author was now calm enough to make his decision in his 40 year old crossroads. “Does anybody here know of a good editor I can hire?”

“Not off the top of my head,” said Josie with a satisfied smile. “But I can look it up for you.” As she pulled out her smart phone and did a Google search, Spencer relaxed into his pillow and let out a deep breath, thinking at last that he was on the right path once again.