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Find the faery--how absurd. Faeries did not dwell in the dilapidated ruin known as Pauperdelle. Indeed we were like a box of chocolates, with plenty of fruits and nuts to spare, but a faery could not be found underneath our delicious shell, and certainly not a sprinkle of magic. There was nothing to suggest a spritely elemental lingered here, now or ever.

We plummeted from the sky, silver clouds shooting by us as the great pines of Brambleton Basin rocketed into view.

The gods whispered among themselves.

"Sanity is in a tailspin," the voice echoed through the void. "Surely he will not pull out of it this time."

The booming voice reminded me of a story about a mischievous god named Xander that another patient crowed about. "When Xander calls," the patient warned, "do not believe everything you hear. Xander is a liar, a puppeteer. He twists and turns every word; uses them against you. Every encounter is a game in itself and how you respond impacts you a thousand times over."

Typically I paid little heed to the aloof ramblings of Jizzman, but Xander commanded my attention. Proceeding with caution could not be understated.

“Lenka, where's my Ziploc bag?” I thundered down the hall. The heart jumped in and out of my hands like a fish out of water.
Lenka snatched it out of the air and zipped the bag shut. “Got it!”
“Honey, what would I ever do without you?” I held her close.

“Tara, what are you doing?” I leaned over the counter.
“Nothing,” she replied, twirling a golden strand of hair with her fingers.
“I already know you're doing nothing. I meant your hair.”
“What about the hair?”
“It's blond. When did you go blond?”
“About a week ago,” said Tara.
“Oh, hell,” I slammed down my fist.

Nearly out of time, I sprinted down the hallway to get a bite to eat. Surely I could not perform heart surgery on an empty stomach or I might accidentally swap out the wrong organ. But there was one thing that could set me straight, one saving grace that could ease the burden of serving as both doctor and director.
Salisbury steak.

"So let me get this straight," I leaned back in the chair. "You didn't vote me into office?"
"No," said Deacon Phillips.
"Then who did?"
"There are more powerful elements at work here besides us," said Deacon. "It's best not to question authority and just go with the flow."
"Famous last words," I quipped.

"Sorry I'm late. I just spent the past hour crawling through the ventilation shafts, matching wits with a demonically possessed patient and scalpel fighting with the former Assistant Director." I took a deep breath. "By chance, does anyone have a heart I could borrow?"
The twelve members of the board stared back. Clearly there was not a heart among them; only a collective frown.

“What are you doing, director?” the man wobbled down the hall, fidgeting with his bifocals.
“Directing,” I replied.
“I've been looking all over for you. You're late for a meeting with the board of directors.”

Detective Fitch struck a match against the wall, illuminating the pitch-black foyer. "Where is everyone?" he brushed a cobweb from his shoulder. "I thought you said this place was operational."

The memory shot through me like a fever.

"Want to hear something really messed up, Byron?" said a man in a light blue Oxford shirt. "Do you know what it was before they made it into an asylum?"

"A farm, wasn't it?" the detective poured a pack of Sweet & Low into his coffee.

"A slaughterhouse," he replied.

“Come down and play,” a voice echoed from the metal grate. I inched forward, pausing over the vent. Below a young woman with black hair and pale skin sat in a chair. “Down here, with me.” She clawed the wooden armrest with her fingernails. Her lips did not move, nor any discernable part of her face. She just stared into the shadows, waiting for some unsuspecting fool to fall into her web.

Only a few minutes had gone by and already sweat poured down my brow. Had he gone left or right? It was impossible to tell. I'd always regretted choosing left over right, so it was right all the way. I plodded along, twisting and turning with the intricacies of the corridor, unable to catch a glimpse of my reluctant donor. The muscles in my lower back tightened as I wormed up and over a narrow pass. My breathing became more frequent as I barreled down the silver passage. I had to find Harold Fritz fast; otherwise it might be my heart on the chopping block.

Harold Fritz was diagnosed with testicular cancer 12 months ago and told he only had one month to live. He outlived the projections by a mile and was the only patient who could cope with kicking the bucket. Or so I thought.

“Good morning, Dr. Bartheid,” I stepped inside.
“Good morning, Director Cahill,” he nodded, drying off his hands. “Congratulations on your new promotion.”
“You didn't have anything to do with that, did you?” I gently shut the door.
“I may have put in a good word for you here and there,” he winked.
“So what's on tap?”
“Heart transplant.”
“Really? Are you sure that an asylum should be performing heart transplants? That's a fairly complicated procedure.”

Confetti rained down on Jizmann and I as we stepped into the hall. “Congratulations,” the staff cheered as they rolled down a large banner that read, ‘Welcome to the Dark Side, Director Cahill.'

“Jizmann, get a load of this,” I said, turning up the volume.
“I'm standing outside of the Merrifield psychiatric hospital,” said the raven-haired newscaster, “where authorities lost contact with the facility just a few hours ago. There are reports of gunfire, but no confirmed casualties at this time.”

“Can I come out now?” I said, pressing my weight against the door.
“Not quite yet,” came a voice.
“How much more time do you need?” I grumbled.
“Just one more minute,” he said as several pots and pans clanged off the floor. “There, done,” he moaned. “You can come out now.”
I cracked open the door and peered up at the clock.
]]> http://www.segordon.com/view_entry.php?id=108 Fri, 11 Jun 2010 10:00:00 EST http://www.segordon.com/view_entry.php?id=108 scott@segordon.com (S.E. Gordon)

I tossed the pills across the room. “What do you think I am, stupid?” I yelled at the nurse. “I'm a fully grown man. What good would Human Growth Hormone do for me anyways?”

What the old bastard needed was a smile, so I took the finest Crayola I could find, the one labeled Jazzberry Jam, and scribbled across his maw. It wasn't as impressive as it was on posterboard, so I knifed down harder and harder until jammy snapped in two. “More pastels,” I exclaimed and dove into the box. What was this? Purple Pizzazz? Perfect. I was going to turn that frown upside-down, so help me God!