The Short, Happy Life of Your’s Truly


“We can rebuild him. We have the technology.”

“I don’t know. He’s really fucked himself up this time. No hands left. Face ripped half off. Third-degree burns everywhere. Pretty clumsy for someone in his line of work.  The Feds should be pleased, though. Looks like he caught himself.”

“Very funny. Look. We don’t have time to argue. Get prepped or get out. I have a four o’clock tee time.”

“Alright. Have it your own way. I’m in. But for the record, I think this is a bad idea. Let it go. “

“Noted, you sanctimonious prick. I’m reserving the OR and getting the surgical team here. Call Bradley’s service and get her in here to handle anethesia. Oh, and you’d better notify the hospital’s lawyer. Tell her we’re going to patch this guy up again, have her call the ATF and FBI and let them know their bomber is back. Most of him, anyway.”

“Wait a second… what’s THAT?”

“What’s what?”

“THAT. Is it…. ?”

“Jesus Christ. The sonofabitch… Get OUT!”

I would have smiled, if I still had a functional face. I knew what it was, all right. And it was too late. A sheet of flame from the blast ended all three of us, but didn’t go beyond the exam room. All in all, I thought in a split second, a very professional job.

As the last of my consciousness winked out — funny how time slows down at times like this — I chuckled. How stupid of these doctors to think they could sleep with my wife and think I wouldn’t know. Both of them. MY wife!

Stupid.

©Hemmingplay 2014

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