Post by Cid on Nov 16, 2009 4:53:43 GMT -5
And you will go to Mykonos
With a vision of a gentle coast
And a sun to maybe dissipate
Shadows of the mess you made
---
Dr. Harold Bronstein, MD, general practitioner and licensed physician. Ex-licensed physician. License revoked, taken.
Retired.
Just tired.
Cynic.
Cuts, bruises, sniffles, pregnancies, broken legs, the shakes--stop on by. Wholesale prescriptions, morphine, dope, whatever's your fancy, no question's asked, and always delivered on time to your nearest pharmacy.
All in a life's work, he often said. His paunch, three ex-wives, and countless bastard kids were a testament to that. He'd known every one of them, keeping little pictures in his corner desk top drawer as reminders. Countless, but countable. He spent many nights looking into the fading, not-so-glossy photos and laughing at fate's cruel hand in everything he'd ever attempted. Succeed or fail, the bitch clung to him like his eczema. He always itched.
Hal believed in several finite truths--you'll shoot out of your mother's vagina, wet and screaming, you'll turn fifty and cease to be attractive to any female, and you'll die of a heart attack. He'd seen so many heart attacks he had begun keeping a journal. Some people had dream journals, or deep-thought journals. Hal had heart attack journals. As soon as one keeled over, he'd whip out his pad and pen and begin writing the time, place, and the look on the old bloke's face. Most doctor's would try simple CPR, but in Hal's case this was a do-not-resuscitate situation. He didn't care how many big, angry friends or shrieking girlfriends stood nearby, aghast. The look of the terrified dead sent Hal places.
God's country.
The future.
The moon.
Fuck, he didn't know. It was all so miraculous he'd always forget. That's why he kept a journal, to one day make some sense of it. Like seeing the sun set over the ocean as he walked along a pristine beach. That sort of romantic crap.
Sitting in the Bone's medical ward, which was little more than two adjoining rooms separated by a low-flying screen, Hal floated softly to and from his corner desk. Sandwich stains on his white wife-beater, he wondered what the last one's name was. Pawing slightly at entry, leaving a smudge, he melded the time and place together until they were little more than a dark cloud over the horizon. He took a drag of his nubby stogy and gave a little whimper.
Who'd write his entry when he went?
Captain could give two shits, and that only left Maude, his "nurse." She breathed more hairspray than air, and it was a wonder any made it to her head to keep her perfectly-shaped dome in place. She was a piece, but brains weren't in the package.
The comm sounded on the wall and he pushed himself to it.
"Yah, hello?"
"Cap'n wants a run-down on the crew status. Crab's stew last night sent a couple to the rack or the shitter."
Hal sighed a raspy sigh. "Be a few minutes."
The comm clicked and he went back to his desk with a little effort. He shuffled the photos from the air and gathered them into his top drawer, making sure to keep them separate from his paperwork and prescription leaflets.
With a vision of a gentle coast
And a sun to maybe dissipate
Shadows of the mess you made
---
Dr. Harold Bronstein, MD, general practitioner and licensed physician. Ex-licensed physician. License revoked, taken.
Retired.
Just tired.
Cynic.
Cuts, bruises, sniffles, pregnancies, broken legs, the shakes--stop on by. Wholesale prescriptions, morphine, dope, whatever's your fancy, no question's asked, and always delivered on time to your nearest pharmacy.
All in a life's work, he often said. His paunch, three ex-wives, and countless bastard kids were a testament to that. He'd known every one of them, keeping little pictures in his corner desk top drawer as reminders. Countless, but countable. He spent many nights looking into the fading, not-so-glossy photos and laughing at fate's cruel hand in everything he'd ever attempted. Succeed or fail, the bitch clung to him like his eczema. He always itched.
Hal believed in several finite truths--you'll shoot out of your mother's vagina, wet and screaming, you'll turn fifty and cease to be attractive to any female, and you'll die of a heart attack. He'd seen so many heart attacks he had begun keeping a journal. Some people had dream journals, or deep-thought journals. Hal had heart attack journals. As soon as one keeled over, he'd whip out his pad and pen and begin writing the time, place, and the look on the old bloke's face. Most doctor's would try simple CPR, but in Hal's case this was a do-not-resuscitate situation. He didn't care how many big, angry friends or shrieking girlfriends stood nearby, aghast. The look of the terrified dead sent Hal places.
God's country.
The future.
The moon.
Fuck, he didn't know. It was all so miraculous he'd always forget. That's why he kept a journal, to one day make some sense of it. Like seeing the sun set over the ocean as he walked along a pristine beach. That sort of romantic crap.
Sitting in the Bone's medical ward, which was little more than two adjoining rooms separated by a low-flying screen, Hal floated softly to and from his corner desk. Sandwich stains on his white wife-beater, he wondered what the last one's name was. Pawing slightly at entry, leaving a smudge, he melded the time and place together until they were little more than a dark cloud over the horizon. He took a drag of his nubby stogy and gave a little whimper.
Who'd write his entry when he went?
Captain could give two shits, and that only left Maude, his "nurse." She breathed more hairspray than air, and it was a wonder any made it to her head to keep her perfectly-shaped dome in place. She was a piece, but brains weren't in the package.
The comm sounded on the wall and he pushed himself to it.
"Yah, hello?"
"Cap'n wants a run-down on the crew status. Crab's stew last night sent a couple to the rack or the shitter."
Hal sighed a raspy sigh. "Be a few minutes."
The comm clicked and he went back to his desk with a little effort. He shuffled the photos from the air and gathered them into his top drawer, making sure to keep them separate from his paperwork and prescription leaflets.