There was an awful clatter downstairs. A sound like dishes crashing and breaking. A sound like never before, then came the cursing. A female voice from the kitchen. A string of foul words and then giggling. A simple oh shit would have done it but not the curses. Then the sounds of pieces being picked up and thrown into the garbage. A man’s voice clearly said “Don’t move an inch! I’ve got him cornered.”
“You scallywag. Get him where he belongs, out of doors!” screamed the lady.”
More sounds of cleaning, then a loud bark. Ah, I thought it’s a dog. The more I think about it the longer I wonder why I was here. I mean I came to write a story. A good story. One about myself and the hospital I just came from. I’ve been researching a doctor who died along the Trans Canada Highway between Winnipeg and Portage La Prairie. He was a miserable old fuck. A real sneezer. You could set your watch by the guy and that’s where we’ll start the tale. His watch. His wife gave him the Rolex for his last birthday and he wore it everywhere. He never took it off. The story goes that this doctor was killed setting his watch while driving. He lost control of his vehicle and it hit the ditch. At the speed he was going, the car flipped when the wheels dug into the soft mud that had formed a partial marsh. The car rolled twice and then came to rest on the roof. The driver or the good doctor, Mr. Benjamin Coulter, was thrown from the vehicle and crushed under the weight of the car. From the autopsy photos, I can see his head was severed. Anyways the brutal death is not the point, the fact that this miserable old cock sucking fuck head was dead is the point.
Sorry for the profanity but you see this man was a murderer. Not just a murderer but a man who experimented on his patients. He used to use the worst of his mental patients as live experiments into mind control. The best where the lobotomy victims as he found them suggestable. They would not have a choice but to submit to his will. He would perform brain surgery on them trying to take over their freewill and then using them to perform tasks he wanted done within the hospital. By the way, my name is Peter Lipton and I’m a professor of English at the University of Winnipeg. I’ve been tracking this doctor for some time now through death certificates and the like all signed by the good doctor. Many of his patients went into the hospital thinking they would one day return better. None of them survived. They all were DOA and died of suicide, overdose and the like. The doctor had a nasty way of dealing with people. I just had to visit his old hospital to reveal what they knew of him. Especially since the place was closing and all the records may be lost.
Oh sure, you’re thinking didn’t the families complain? Didn’t the authorities catch up to him? Well no they didn’t. See back in the sixties the asylums were like slums. They housed all those who couldn’t look after themselves mentally or in some cases physically. The mentally ill were second class citizens. They had no rights and anything could happen back then. The abuse was astounding throughout the system. It was everywhere, including Portage La Prairie’s Manitoba Developmental Center. Patients were neglected in their cells for days and drugs were overused. Some places had them living in their own filth and not providing for showers. It was horrible. Just the perfect environment for our good doctor to develop his nasty habits.
The room was still warm in the midday and the sun shone in the window. I was feeling warm and stood to open the window. The barking dog was now outside running in the yard being chased by two little children, the innkeeper’s little boys. My knee ached as I moved and my leg cramped from sitting still at the desk. I’ll get a Tylenol when I go down for lunch. That should take the sting out of that knee. The window reached, I grabbed at the lock and undid it. Then I slid the window open a bit. The barking got louder and the kids could be heard laughing. I looked and seen the old lady hanging clothes on a line to dry in the sun. She was hired help to tend to chores around the inn which was run by the Whitmans. Now I’ll get back to my story. I have been aching all day to get at it. It’s been three years of research. I’ll stun the world with this tale. OF course, nothing can be proved so I’ll change the names and then tell it as a work of fiction. Now sitting I grab at my pen and proceed to write the tale of a lifetime. Oh well, the doctor’s story should be told and I couldn’t wait to get back home to write it so I rented this room at a nice little Inn in Portage La Prairie and set down to writing at once. I had brought my laptop and camera and little else. I wish I had brought the printer too. Anyways down to the story.
Jonasson Enigmatic Nirvana 