Take My Organs Please
Nightmare | February 25, 2009
I was a body on a stretcher. Unconscious, but observing the scene from a detached, omniscient point of view. Two paramedics carted me into a grimy room with an operating table in the middle. An evil-looking surgeon with a face mask was putting on white latex gloves.
"Where did you find him?" he asked.
"That restaurant on sixth near the park," one answered. "Vegetables, chicken, rice. Drank water all evening." He was describing the memory I had of that evening.
The surgeon mumbled into the mask something about nice healthy organs and told them to put my body up on the table. "What did you use on him?"
"Stuff you gave us," The other medic replied. "Out like a light."
"One more tonight." The surgeon said. "Now get out."
They left and I suppose that the surgeon carved me up and sold my organs. But I departed with the medics and followed them as they shot some poor shmoe in a dark parking lot with a tranquilizer gun and bundled him into an ambulance. They took him to another surgeon who looked less evil but ransacked the victim's body for parts nonetheless. They left again and got some woman as she walked past a dark alley. This time they blew a dart at her through a silent tube and she fell into a mess of garbage cans. The first surgeon was furious that her body was dirty and stinky, but he chopped her up anyway.
I wondered briefly what became of my body.
The next night they shot some fellow as he walked into the hallway of his building. As they were hauling him out the back door someone walked by and they told him the man had a heart attack.
They took him to the second surgeon. As the paramedics were leaving I recognized the victim.
It was the first surgeon.