Chapter 4 3

"It's all right," Dr. Allen said.She lifts one of my arms and puts it back. What feels the most right now is my nose.It was slammed against the table, and my two lobes gave their first signal of desperation—it delivered a cottony, plundered feeling.My lips are clenched and my nose is partially closed from being squeezed (how much I don't know. I can't even feel that I'm breathing, really).What should I do if I suffocate like this? Immediately afterwards, something seemed to happen that made me stop paying attention to my nose.A huge object - it felt like a glass puck - was brutally thrust into my rectum.Once again I wanted to yell loudly, but I could only hum two pitifully weakly.

"The thermometer is plugged in," said Peter, "and I've got the timer on." "Good job." She said and walked away.Make room for him to experiment on this corpse, and let him experiment on me.The music is turned down a little bit. "The test specimen is a Caucasian man, aged forty-four," Peter said into the microphone, as if addressing posterity. "His name is Howard Radolph Courtnell, and we live at 1566 Laura Crest Lane, Derry." Dr. Allen's voice came from a distance: "Mary Mead." After a while of silence, Peter spoke again, sounding a little flustered: "Dr. Allen told me that the actual place of residence of this specimen is Mary Mead. It was separated from Derry in..."

"Your history lesson is over, Peter." God, what did they stick in my anus?Is it a thermometer for measuring the body temperature of cows?A little longer this thing and I think I'll be able to lick its balls.It's really normal for them to use lube.So, but, why would they use it?Because I'm dead, that's all the explanation. died. "I'm sorry, doctor," said Peter.His brain was desperately searching for some kind of information, and finally found it. "This information comes from the application form to call the ambulance. Of course the content on the form is from a Maine driver's license. The doctor who pronounced him dead was, by the way, Frank Jennings, this guy was pronounced on the spot die."

Now I hope it's my nose that's bleeding.Please, I say to it: bleed quickly!Not just flowing out, but gushing out. It doesn't come out with anything. "The cause of death was probably heart disease," Peter said.A hand stroked gently from my bare back all the way to my anus.I prayed it would take that thermometer away and it didn't. "The spine appears to be intact, nothing of note." Noteworthy phenomenon?Noteworthy phenomenon?What do these bastards think of me?A psychopath? He lifts my head, presses the pads of his fingers on my cheekbones, and I let out a low, painful voice — woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo, yeah, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, woo, woo woo, woo woo woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!! I just want him to feel the vibrations in my vocal cords.

He didn't feel it.Instead he kept dangling my head from side to side. "There were no obvious scars on the neck and no signs of fever," he said.I wished he'd let go and slammed my face on the table with a slam - and my nose would bleed unless I was actually dead - but instead he carefully tipped my head Gently put down, the tip of my nose was so painful that I almost couldn't breathe. "There is no visible injury on the back or hip," he said, "although there is an old scar on the upper right thigh that looks like it has been injured, maybe from a grenade explosion, which is ugly."

This scar is indeed ugly, and it is indeed left after the bomb went off.It ended my war career.A mortar shell was fired at the logistics unit, killing two people, and one—me—was luckier.The scar on my chest and abdomen is much uglier than my right thigh, and it's in a more sensitive place.Thanks to those medical devices that have played a big role in my healing...or so it has been and is.This scar is only a quarter of an inch from the left side of my genitals, and by now these doctors should have brought me back to my senses with hand pumps, CO2 filters, and the like, to make out with the opposite sex.

He finally pulled out the thermometer—ah!God!I felt a burst of relief—I could see his shadow on the wall, holding up the thermometer. "94.2 degrees," he said. "Gee, it's not too bad, this guy is almost alive, Dr. Katie Allen." "Think about where you found him." Her voice came from across the room.The live recordings they were listening to were curated.After a while, I could hear her voice clearly, her tone seemed to be giving a lesson. "Isn't it on the golf course? Isn't it summer afternoon? I wouldn't be surprised if you read 98.6 degrees."

"Exactly, quite rightly," he said, as if reproached.Then he said, "Does this sound funny on tape?" This sentence can be interpreted as: Does my voice sound stupid on tape? "Sounds like class," she said, "but that's it." "Okay, good, great." With rubber gloves on, he spread my ass apart and worked his way down to the back of my thighs.I should be tense by now, if I can be tense. Left leg, I send him a message.It's the left leg, Peter, on the left, my fool, see? He must have seen it, I'm sure, because I could feel a twitch in my left thigh, like a bee sting, or an injection from a thick-handed nurse who didn't push the medicine into the vein, but Scored into the muscle.

"This dead body is a great example of what a stupid idea it is to play golf in shorts," he said.I now find myself wishing he had been born blind.Hell, maybe he had been born blind and was playing the role of the blind man he had been. "I saw all kinds of insect bite marks on his body, and various scratches..." "Uh-huh……" "Go on, Peter, you're doing well." I think her evaluation is definitely questionable. "OK." He pointed at me again.But the movement was light, perhaps too light. "He has mosquito bite marks on his left thigh and it looks infected," he said.Although his touch was still so gentle, this time I felt a sharp pain.If I could make a sound louder than a low whine, I would definitely yell.I suddenly felt that the length of my life depended on how long the record they were listening to last.I always felt like it was a tape, not a CD that played non-stop from start to finish.If the music ends and they haven't dissected me...if I make it loud enough for them to hear before flipping the tape to the other side...

"I'd like to see the mosquito bites after the gross dissection," she said, "although it's not really necessary if our heart surgery goes well. Or... you want me to see it now?" ? Do these marks make you nervous?" "No. Apparently those were mosquito bites," said the idiot. "On his sides, the mosquito bites got bigger. He's got six...seven...eight...Jesus! Just on his left foot There are twelve of them." "He has forgotten that he ever 'escaped from the jungle'." "Don't mention the word 'escape', he can't think of being injected with Diguilin (a kind of cardiotonic-annotation)." He said.There was a burst of laughter from them, not loud but amused, a sort of dissecting-room humor.

This time he flicked my body lightly himself, perhaps happy to use his gymnastics toned muscles to cover my mosquito and snake bites.I stared up at the row of fluorescent lights again.Peter took a few steps back, out of my sight.There was a whining sound and the table started to tilt, and I knew why.When they cut me open, my bodily fluids would flow down to the collection basin below.If any problems were found during the autopsy, a large number of specimens would be sent to the national laboratory in Augusta. As he stared down at my face, I tried to close my eyes, trying not to let them twitch.All I was thinking about was eighteen holes of golf on a Saturday afternoon, and I ended up being comatose Snow White, with a hairy chest instead.I've been wondering how I'd feel when those butcher's scissors pierced my midriff. Peter held a spring-loaded clipboard in one hand.He checked the information above.Then put it aside.Speak into the microphone.His voice is much more natural now.He had just had the most humiliating misdiagnosis of his life without knowing it, and now he was preparing for surgery. "Saturday, August 20, 1994, at 5:49 p.m. I started the autopsy," he said. He pulled my lip, stared at my teeth like he was about to buy a horse, and pulled my jaw down. "He looks good," he said, "no bruises on his cheeks." The sound from the speakers faded away, and I could hear him click on the pedal to turn off the recorder. "My God, this guy might actually be alive." I let out a series of low whining desperately while Dr. Allen dropped something on the floor that sounded like a bedpan. "He also laughed, this time I hope they all have cancer, and it is incurable, and slowly torture them to death. He quickly leaned over me and touched my chest, (“No bruises, lumps, or other external signs of a heart attack,” he said. He would have been amazed if I had a heart attack.) Next check my stomach. I burped. He stared at me with wide eyes, his mouth was slightly parted, and the corners of his mouth drooped.I tried my best to make a woo-woo sound again, although I knew that this sound could not cover the rock song of "Wake Me Up", but I think this faint sound combined with the full belch should make him realize In front of him is... "I'm sorry, Howie." Dr. Allen said.That's the bastard, talking behind me and giggling. "Better check, Peter—belching after death is the worst." He fanned the air in front of him, exaggeratedly, and went on with his work.He didn't touch my groin much, though he noticed the scar on the back of my left leg that ran all the way to the front. Why didn't you see the big one?Maybe it's a little bit high up, I think.He doesn't see it's not a big problem, my "bodybuilder," but you're also ignoring the fact that I'm still alive, and that's a big problem. He continued to sing poetically into the microphone, his voice becoming more and more effortless.I knew his colleague was right behind me, and she was an overly optimistic fellow in the medical profession who didn't think it was necessary to return the tape and listen to the recording of my physical exam again.He did a fantastic job if the patient for his first heart surgery wasn't alive. Finally he said, "I think I'm ready to go ahead, doctor," with a hint of tentativeness in his tone. She came over, looked down at me, and pressed his shoulders hard. "Okay," she said, "oh no, wait a minute." Now I'm trying to stick out my tongue and make a face that's easy enough for a kid, but it's enough... I seem to have a faint tingling sensation in my lips, which feels like I just got off a high dose of slavery. The potency of vercaine (local anesthetic——annotation) is the same as that of awakening.Do I feel a twitch?No, a hope, just... Yes, that's right!But it was twitching, I tried a second time, but there was nothing. When Peter raised the scissors, the Rolling Stones began to play "Burning Fire". Put a mirror in front of my nose!I screamed loudly at them.You can see the mirror fogging up.Just do me this favor, okay? Click, click, click - click. Peter turned the scissors at an angle, and the light shone on the blades.For the first time in my life, I'm sure this thing is going to be cut like crazy, just like the director doesn't let the movie freeze, the boxing referee doesn't stop the fight at the tenth round, and we don't listen to The person in charge talks and stops to do nothing. Peter was going to insert these scissors into my belly, and I lay there miserable.Next, he wanted to unwrap me like a mail package from a Hero Fair. He looked at Dr. Allen suspiciously. No!I roared, my voice echoing in the dark skull, but nothing came out. "No, please, please don't!" She nodded. "Go ahead, it's fine." "Um...do you want to turn off the music?" Yes, that's right, turn it off. "Is the music bothering you?" Yes, interfere with him!It was this music that made him so confused that the patient was dead! "Ok……" "Of course," she said.She was out of my view.It wasn't long before Mike and Katie were gone too.I whined desperately, but horribly I couldn't even make that sound.I was scared to death, the fear was spreading down my brain, and my vocal cords couldn't make a sound.She came back together with him, staring down at me intently, like two coffinbearers looking into a grave that has already been dug.All I could do was watch them. "Thank you," he said.He took a deep breath and raised the scissors. "The heart removal operation will begin now." He moved the scissors down slowly.I saw... saw... and then it disappeared from my view.After a long time, I felt the cold iron scraping across my bare midriff. He looked at the doctor puzzled. "You're sure you don't..." "Peter, don't you want to do it by yourself?" she asked a little sullenly. "You know what I think, but..." "Then let's do it!" She nodded, biting her lip.I would close my eyes tightly if I could, but now I can't even do that.All I can do now is try to put myself through the exercise to meet those steel machines. "Shear." He said, leaning over. "Wait!" she yelled. The pressure that had just spread to the lower part of my abdominal cavity eased slightly.He looked at her with some surprise and some annoyance.Perhaps a sense of relief that this momentous occasion has been postponed. She said, "You missed this, Peter." He leaned over to see what she found—it was the scar on my groin, at the very top of my right thigh, a smooth, poreless bowl of scar on the skin. Her hand was still gripping my thing so tightly that she was about to pull it off.That's all she does now.She probably thought she was lifting a sofa cushion up high so others could see the treasure she found underneath - a few coins, a lost wallet, maybe the camphor wood scent you never found Rats—and then something happened. Dear God came on crutches and in a wheelchair. "Look," she said.She tapped lightly with her fingers, then extended in a straight line under my right testicle. "Look at the scars on the edges of those pubic hairs. His balls must have been swollen the size of grapes." "He was lucky that both testicles survived, not one missing." "You bet your...you can bet you know," she said, and smiled provocatively again.She let go of the gloved hand, moved it away, and pressed down hard, trying to get a better view.Her actions were unintentional.But in other cases, you're asking someone to pay you twenty-five or thirty dollars for doing it on purpose. "I think it's a war scar. Pass me the magnifying glass, Peter." "I shouldn't..." "For a few seconds," she said, "he's not going anywhere." She was absorbed in her discovery.Her hands were still on my body, still pressing down desperately.Everything still seems to be going on, but maybe I'm wrong.I must be mistaken, either he can see it, she can feel it... She leaned down, and all I could see was the back of her green uniform, with the ribbons dangling from her hat like weird braids.Now, oh my gosh, I can feel her breath blowing down there under me. "Notice how radial the scars are," she said. "It's an explosion scar. Probably at least ten years old. We can check his military history..." The door was knocked open suddenly.Peter yelled in horror, Dr. Allen was calmer, but subconsciously clenched her hand even tighter, she grabbed me again, suddenly hallucinations appeared in my mind, as if I saw a new version of the scary Disgusting "The Obscene Nurse". "Don't cut him open!" someone screamed.His voice was too loud, full of fear.I almost didn't realize it was Rusty. "Don't cut him open. There's a snake in his golf bag and it bit Mike." They turned toward him, eyes wide and jaws about to drop.Her hand was still holding me, and little Peter knew that he kept scratching the upper left pocket of his well-washed uniform with one hand, looking like he was holding a battered gas pump.She wasn't much better, she didn't know what she was doing anymore, at least temporarily. "What... you... what..." Peter began. "Put him down!" said Rusty--stuttering, sort of mumbling. "I don't think he's dead, but he can barely speak. It's a small brown snake, the kind I've never seen in my life, and it's mostly in the thick cinnamon bushes, and it's here now. There. It doesn't matter! I think it must have bitten the man we brought in. I thought... God! Doctor, what are you going to do? Wake him up?" She looked around dazedly, wondering at first what he was talking about... she screamed—and took the scissors from Peter's limp, gloved hand as she screamed—while I Found myself thinking again of that old Alfred Hitchcock TV show. Poor Joseph Court, I was thinking. He just kept crying there.