You're also getting less hot at a rough rate of one degree per hour because you are dead as shit. Look at you, just lying there. You can see your most gracious self reflected in the shiny wet surface of your liver, because you just gave yourself something from a bottle on the table labeled GIVE HIM THE STICK instead of whatever it is you give people cut open in hospitals.
You're not even a doctor. You just fucking walked in here.
There's juices and things in there, stuff you've never seen before. Maybe you should do something about this, massage your heart or suction something or whatever. Maybe that's what a doctor would do. Maybe that's what you would do, if you were a doctor. If you were a doctor you wouldn't cup your dead bladder like a girl's nascent boob. You wouldn't breathe deeply and smell your own dead guts, shitty and musky and metal. Goddamn.
With your free hand you pull off your own shades and plant them firmly over your left ventricle, your aorta curving up under the arch of the nosepiece like it had been grown in a vat specifically to wear those shades. There are no words for how cool you are in this moment.
You reach in. Both hands. Your guts churn up around your wrists, then your elbows. Further. You lean forward. The tip of your nose slides between two fat curls of intestine.
The hands grasp yours and you pull.
You pull for years, ages, long enough to become a real doctor, cure cancer, retire, and die. You pull harder and you feel your guts stretch around something big. Your dead face rolls to the side, its shades fall off onto the floor, and you can see the ocean reflected in there. Your dead mouth opens and the sound that comes out is the sound of the ocean. You pull.
Hands pull up out of your guts, then arms, then your head, then your shoulders, then you're out.
FILL: TEAM KERNELSPRITE
You're also getting less hot at a rough rate of one degree per hour because you are dead as shit. Look at you, just lying there. You can see your most gracious self reflected in the shiny wet surface of your liver, because you just gave yourself something from a bottle on the table labeled GIVE HIM THE STICK instead of whatever it is you give people cut open in hospitals.
You're not even a doctor. You just fucking walked in here.
There's juices and things in there, stuff you've never seen before. Maybe you should do something about this, massage your heart or suction something or whatever. Maybe that's what a doctor would do. Maybe that's what you would do, if you were a doctor. If you were a doctor you wouldn't cup your dead bladder like a girl's nascent boob. You wouldn't breathe deeply and smell your own dead guts, shitty and musky and metal. Goddamn.
With your free hand you pull off your own shades and plant them firmly over your left ventricle, your aorta curving up under the arch of the nosepiece like it had been grown in a vat specifically to wear those shades. There are no words for how cool you are in this moment.
You reach in. Both hands. Your guts churn up around your wrists, then your elbows. Further. You lean forward. The tip of your nose slides between two fat curls of intestine.
The hands grasp yours and you pull.
You pull for years, ages, long enough to become a real doctor, cure cancer, retire, and die. You pull harder and you feel your guts stretch around something big. Your dead face rolls to the side, its shades fall off onto the floor, and you can see the ocean reflected in there. Your dead mouth opens and the sound that comes out is the sound of the ocean. You pull.
Hands pull up out of your guts, then arms, then your head, then your shoulders, then you're out.
“Sup,” you say.
“Not much,” you say.
You're both doctors now. Shit yeah.