In the Bones
Predator Press
[Mr I]
“Just look at him,” says LOBO. “He looks so peaceful. The thought of us burying him like that gives me some solace at least.”
“He’s not dead,” I remind LOBO from the other side of Cobe’s ICU bed.
“So it’s the drugs? My God, he looks so positively blissed out.” LOBO grabs Cobe’s lifeless wrist and proceeds to slap Cobe repeatedly with his own hand. “Stop hitting yourself. Stop hitting yourself. Haw … this bit just never gets old.”
The doc lowers his clipboard and sighs. “I’m afraid,” he says, “the prognosis isn’t good.”
“He’s going to make it?” says LOBO.
“The only hope the patient has at this time is a heart transplant.”
“Oh my God,” I says to LOBO. “That will cost a fortune. Ethan’s gonna freak.”
“I don’t think you understand," says the doctor. "He has an HMO. HMOs get this done for like eight bucks in Qatar. The problem is actually getting a heart that’s available.”
“Well, this is a hospital, right?” says LOBO, dropping Cobe's arm awkwardly over the bed rail. “You must have a few in stock. Check the closets. Don’t you doctors have a refrigerator in some lounge full of them?”
The doctor shakes his head.
“Not one lousy heart?”
“No.”
“Well what the fuck kind of hospital is this?” he demands.
The doctor continues. “Cobe’s heart was rather deftly removed from his chest with a minimum of tissue damage. Most of the trauma came afterward, when someone lost six scratch-off lottery tickets and a locker key inscribed 'Steal LOBO's stuff and DIE' in the chest cavity.”
LOBO smacks his forehead. “Oh my God! Were any of those winners?”
“No,” he says. “But as a consequence, for this dangerous surgery to be successful we need a really tiny heart. And preferably one that hasn’t been used very often.”
We both look at LOBO.
“Me?” LOBO points at himself. “Uh uh,” he says, reaching in his back pocket. Unfolding a multiple page document he says, “It’s right here in my contract. ‘No employee of Predator Press will remove, eat, or otherwise molest my heart or my Junk without explicit written consent from both me and Charlize Theron from a spaceship'.”
I look at the document. “I’ll be damned,” I says, astonished. “That’s exactly what it says.” I look at LOBO. “Who the fuck is your agent?”
“We fortunately have another option,” says the doctor. “I didn’t want to say anything until we did some tests and blood work, but Phil’s heart is just the right—“
LOBO screamed.
[Mr I]
“Just look at him,” says LOBO. “He looks so peaceful. The thought of us burying him like that gives me some solace at least.”
“He’s not dead,” I remind LOBO from the other side of Cobe’s ICU bed.
“So it’s the drugs? My God, he looks so positively blissed out.” LOBO grabs Cobe’s lifeless wrist and proceeds to slap Cobe repeatedly with his own hand. “Stop hitting yourself. Stop hitting yourself. Haw … this bit just never gets old.”
The doc lowers his clipboard and sighs. “I’m afraid,” he says, “the prognosis isn’t good.”
“He’s going to make it?” says LOBO.
“The only hope the patient has at this time is a heart transplant.”
“Oh my God,” I says to LOBO. “That will cost a fortune. Ethan’s gonna freak.”
“I don’t think you understand," says the doctor. "He has an HMO. HMOs get this done for like eight bucks in Qatar. The problem is actually getting a heart that’s available.”
“Well, this is a hospital, right?” says LOBO, dropping Cobe's arm awkwardly over the bed rail. “You must have a few in stock. Check the closets. Don’t you doctors have a refrigerator in some lounge full of them?”
The doctor shakes his head.
“Not one lousy heart?”
“No.”
“Well what the fuck kind of hospital is this?” he demands.
The doctor continues. “Cobe’s heart was rather deftly removed from his chest with a minimum of tissue damage. Most of the trauma came afterward, when someone lost six scratch-off lottery tickets and a locker key inscribed 'Steal LOBO's stuff and DIE' in the chest cavity.”
LOBO smacks his forehead. “Oh my God! Were any of those winners?”
“No,” he says. “But as a consequence, for this dangerous surgery to be successful we need a really tiny heart. And preferably one that hasn’t been used very often.”
We both look at LOBO.
“Me?” LOBO points at himself. “Uh uh,” he says, reaching in his back pocket. Unfolding a multiple page document he says, “It’s right here in my contract. ‘No employee of Predator Press will remove, eat, or otherwise molest my heart or my Junk without explicit written consent from both me and Charlize Theron from a spaceship'.”
I look at the document. “I’ll be damned,” I says, astonished. “That’s exactly what it says.” I look at LOBO. “Who the fuck is your agent?”
“We fortunately have another option,” says the doctor. “I didn’t want to say anything until we did some tests and blood work, but Phil’s heart is just the right—“
LOBO screamed.
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