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Chapter 4

The Story The Authors

"Dr. Smack" as Shmalishickak was known around the ER, would have to do. There was no more time, Janice was quickly moving into a state of shock. At least Dr. Smack could see the problem, a paucity of digits, and he seemed to making progress with the cryptograms he was drawing on the gleaming white tile wall in treatment room 72. Soon Janice began to relax as the morphine was added to her saline drip which Dr. Smack had installed in her left breast. Quickly and deftly he cleaned and then stabilized the wounds. Stepping in to the corridor he spotted Demitrius and using a flurry of sign language and grunts asked him if Janice would mind having two titanium bio-feedback nuclear powered prostheses in stalled in place of her missing digits. Demitrius was concerned about where the hell someone with titanium hands could go for a manicure but heck, this was all on Janice’s Sears card anyway. "Go for it Dr. Smack! exulted Demitrius, "she always had sweaty palms." Ignacious

As he spoke he felt a particular chill run down his spine; instinctively he turned away and began to examine the thick, matted fur growing in the hollows of his own palms. He ran his fingers through it. He looked closer. It WAS growing thicker. Philip Welsh

A shadow fell across the furry objects of his shame. A blush rose to his cheeks. He looked up, slowly. Not wanting to. But some force in him insisting upon it regardless. Up. Into the eyes of Bisty Bootleg. Who regarded him from her six feet nine inches with so diverse a medley of bemusement, teasing, fear, and undisguised lust, that his blush was like mercury rising in the thermometer of his helplessness. He stifled the urge to let himself be carried away on a wave of hysterical cackling. She ran her tongue over a much-bitten lower lip. He felt a stirring in the small of his back, as if the Kundalini serpent ("Mighty scarce round these parts lately, Ma'am, but I'm much obliged t'you for asking...") were twisting and whining in its sleep as it dreamt a dream of chasing ten thousand soft golden pussycats across endless fields of candy-striped burlap. She redirected her gaze from his palms to his crotch; he readjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. No! This is all happening much, much too quickly, were his final coherent thoughts before he felt himself standing, rising to her as to an occasion, and one demanding much celebration, the raising of twenty-minute toasts to the venerated ancestors, the drinking of frothy mead from the hollowed horns of long-extinct aquatic sheep, the slaughtering and roasting of disobediant children, and the conflagrations of bright and glutinous nebulae as the gods made their milky presence known among their humble worshippers...He lit two cigarettes and passed her one. "Was it good for you, too?" he asked, exhaling a first jet of smoke at the drop-ceiling just as the hospital's Emergency Plague Alert alarms began to skreel. Philip Welsh

dash dash / dot / dot dash / dash dot / dot dash dash / dot dot dot dot / dot dot / dot dash dot dot / dot dot dot / dash dot dot dot dot dot / dot dash dot dot / dot dash dot dot / dash dash dash dot dot dot jermy

The preceding was mistransmitted through a fault of alien bandwidth and the doings of the nefarious Dr. T. Augenthaler, soon to be introduced to these proceedings. Aforementioned to be re-transmitted, as follows: jermy

1. dash dash / dot / dot dash / dash dot / dot dash dash / dot dot dot dot / dot dot / dot dash dot dot / dot jermy

2. dot dot / dash dot jermy

3. dot dot dot dot / dot / dot dash dot dot / dot dash dot dot / dash dash dash dot dot dot jermy

Shmalishickak, "Dr. Smack," loved nothing so much as he loved a good stiff Morse Code session on his beloved Semohnsen telegraph machine. It relaxed him; it restored circulation and that quintessentially medico-industrial nimblesse to his stiff, sore fingers between tedious afternoon leucotomies; for the few sane thoughts which somehow, in direct rebellion against the Prime Directive, gained brief footholds in his consciousness, there was nothing like the soft tidal rhythms of the tapping telegraph to relegate such unavoidable mental wisdom-teeth to the medico-industrial waste-bins of the furthest corners of cognition, where they would be carted off with all the aborted fetuses, surplus plutonium, quivering benign masses, dysfunctional occipital lobes, used insulin syringes and other unavoidable by-products of the medico-industrial complex to secret landfills behind public elementary schools. Oh, it was a gasser!, as they used to say in Anatomy 101; he completed his translation/transmission of Chapter 47 of The 120 Days of Sodom precisely at four (Mother will be so pleased, he thought, twinkling), washed and suited, and made his way to Hangar 17, where the poor helpless patient lay wriggling the anaesthetized stumps of what once had been the slender fingers of a concert pianist. Sigh, he sighed, ascending the ramp; intact limbs are such fleeting things, it's a wonder anyone takes them for granted... Philip Welsh

The Story	The Authors
"Dr. Smack" as Shmalishickak was known around the ER, would have to do. There was no more time, Janice was quickly moving into a state of shock. At least Dr. Smack could see the problem, a paucity of digits, and he seemed to making progress with the cryptograms he was drawing on the gleaming white tile wall in treatment room 72. Soon Janice began to relax as the morphine was added to her saline drip which Dr. Smack had installed in her left breast. Quickly and deftly he cleaned and then stabilized the wounds. Stepping in to the corridor he spotted Demitrius and using a flurry of sign language and grunts asked him if Janice would mind having two titanium bio-feedback nuclear powered prostheses in stalled in place of her missing digits. Demitrius was concerned about where the hell someone with titanium hands could go for a manicure but heck, this was all on Janice’s Sears card anyway. "Go for it Dr. Smack! exulted Demitrius, "she always had sweaty palms."	Ignacious
As he spoke he felt a particular chill run down his spine; instinctively he turned away and began to examine the thick, matted fur growing in the hollows of his own palms. He ran his fingers through it. He looked closer. It WAS growing thicker.	Philip Welsh
A shadow fell across the furry objects of his shame. A blush rose to his cheeks. He looked up, slowly. Not wanting to. But some force in him insisting upon it regardless. Up. Into the eyes of Bisty Bootleg. Who regarded him from her six feet nine inches with so diverse a medley of bemusement, teasing, fear, and undisguised lust, that his blush was like mercury rising in the thermometer of his helplessness. He stifled the urge to let himself be carried away on a wave of hysterical cackling. She ran her tongue over a much-bitten lower lip. He felt a stirring in the small of his back, as if the Kundalini serpent ("Mighty scarce round these parts lately, Ma'am, but I'm much obliged t'you for asking...") were twisting and whining in its sleep as it dreamt a dream of chasing ten thousand soft golden pussycats across endless fields of candy-striped burlap. She redirected her gaze from his palms to his crotch; he readjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. No! This is all happening much, much too quickly, were his final coherent thoughts before he felt himself standing, rising to her as to an occasion, and one demanding much celebration, the raising of twenty-minute toasts to the venerated ancestors, the drinking of frothy mead from the hollowed horns of long-extinct aquatic sheep, the slaughtering and roasting of disobediant children, and the conflagrations of bright and glutinous nebulae as the gods made their milky presence known among their humble worshippers...He lit two cigarettes and passed her one. "Was it good for you, too?" he asked, exhaling a first jet of smoke at the drop-ceiling just as the hospital's Emergency Plague Alert alarms began to skreel.	Philip Welsh
dash dash / dot / dot dash / dash dot / dot dash dash / dot dot dot dot / dot dot / dot dash dot dot / dot dot dot / dash dot dot dot dot dot / dot dash dot dot / dot dash dot dot / dash dash dash dot dot dot	jermy
The preceding was mistransmitted through a fault of alien bandwidth and the doings of the nefarious Dr. T. Augenthaler, soon to be introduced to these proceedings. Aforementioned to be re-transmitted, as follows:	jermy
1. dash dash / dot / dot dash / dash dot / dot dash dash / dot dot dot dot / dot dot / dot dash dot dot / dot	jermy
2. dot dot / dash dot	jermy
3. dot dot dot dot / dot / dot dash dot dot / dot dash dot dot / dash dash dash dot dot dot	jermy
Shmalishickak, "Dr. Smack," loved nothing so much as he loved a good stiff Morse Code session on his beloved Semohnsen telegraph machine. It relaxed him; it restored circulation and that quintessentially medico-industrial nimblesse to his stiff, sore fingers between tedious afternoon leucotomies; for the few sane thoughts which somehow, in direct rebellion against the Prime Directive, gained brief footholds in his consciousness, there was nothing like the soft tidal rhythms of the tapping telegraph to relegate such unavoidable mental wisdom-teeth to the medico-industrial waste-bins of the furthest corners of cognition, where they would be carted off with all the aborted fetuses, surplus plutonium, quivering benign masses, dysfunctional occipital lobes, used insulin syringes and other unavoidable by-products of the medico-industrial complex to secret landfills behind public elementary schools. Oh, it was a gasser!, as they used to say in Anatomy 101; he completed his translation/transmission of Chapter 47 of The 120 Days of Sodom precisely at four (Mother will be so pleased, he thought, twinkling), washed and suited, and made his way to Hangar 17, where the poor helpless patient lay wriggling the anaesthetized stumps of what once had been the slender fingers of a concert pianist. Sigh, he sighed, ascending the ramp; intact limbs are such fleeting things, it's a wonder anyone takes them for granted...	Philip Welsh

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