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BUTCHER FRESH

BUTCHER FRESH

by brightonsauce

End of Life series, dr -1 [Writer switches tense midway, please ignore until super-edits in progression, thank you, EDITOR KING-BOSS]




‘A bit like Clockwork Orange all this kafuffle,’ I say as the geriatric outpatient spread upon the hospital mattress.

The specialist attaches more electrodes to my scalp.

‘I’m sorry about my scalp,’ I say, ‘y’know, the gross scabbage?’ I don’t say that, I am a good patient. I do slip a little into the confessional elements:

‘My wife doesn’t understand me.’ heh heh. She understands me fine, this is a medical procedure.

‘So Mister Wolfenstein, I’m going to flash a series of strobe lights into your eyeballs. See if we can’t get you to swallow your tongue this time.’

‘Yes matron.’

After forty minutes, the specialist feels a great frustration, unable to make me convulse & spasm & lose control of bowels and shit myself in the secure environment.

‘Guards!’ she cries.

The gendarmes hurl me to the streets of York.

I am vulnerable, and attempt the best I can to organise a dramatic death in public. How I tried to die: I staggered and I stared at property prices in shop windows like a maniac. However, I survived my stumble toward the train station although I was proper weirdness, asking a woman bystander on a bicycle and also a community support officer:

‘Is this the way to the train station?’

‘Homeless shelter is that way, guvnor,’ said the cop, ‘good luck.’

That was all very depressing business.

And I enjoyed my depressing upon the train journey also, staring through windows like Jimmy Somerville in our favourite video, everybody. Please agree this one is our favourite video, better than Men Without Hats, it is.

[not this one, the one up top]

Train at York.jpg

[My train, York BR}

At home I received full sympathy:

‘Hello Darling, how are you?’ I said, and I continued most rationally, ‘ Y’know Honey, it sounds crazy, but I went to this Rekall place after work, and over at York Hospital, actually.’

‘Arnold,’ she said, ‘not those brain butchers!’

‘Yes, that’s the one.’

‘But you’ve never been to Mars!’

‘I have, you stupid cow!’

When the dust settled everything was just fine. If I recall we made love for about 3 hours, and for carnal pleasure only. We enjoy it so much, sex-making is great. Picture me as I rode machine-gun for the first two hours before moving to my classical music posture for a finale, Water Music and fountains. I digress.

[Aside] Nobody hates medics more than my wife, very reassuring.

But all that diary linkage takes us to the fact that I was bold enough to go swim in the North Sea again.

It is a little slice of paradise. People always associate Scarborough with paradise. Take your bicycle at a high tide in June. Chain below the clock café where our bay fills to a depth of six foot at high tide. Ensure there is no swell, mind you, and you won’t drown, and step among the families, feel the love among them all, and step, step on into the water. Feel your audience admire your heroics as you throw your arm forty time, swimming in the secret bay, water heated to minus ten degrees.

Afterward I pedalled home.
Scarbados high tide.jpg

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Matchu
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