DAVESPRITE: RUN A HOSPITAL INTO THE FUCKING GROUND
You don't even need the goddamn elevator, you've got wings.
You just had it put in so you could take it straight down from your office at the top of the hospital to the lobby, let the sweet Art Deco doors slide open nice and slow to reveal you kicking your sweet mahogany-paneled executivesprite wetbar moment, and then slide shut again.
Having a hospital is pretty much the best thing. You would sincerely recommend it to anyone.
But you can't do the elevator thing all day, eventually people just stop looking and that is grossly unsuitable, so you have to mix shit up a little bit, get your hands dirty and a whole host of other metaphors that get that extra little frisson when applied to surgical procedures. You get back to your office and you get on the horn.
You don't get on the horn, you do nothing of the fucking sort. What was that. You don't have to do that at all because Director Pyrope is already in your office licking your most private correspondence, the shit you forged to artfully incriminate yourself in all manner of vile and profligate shenanigans and hid in a file marked DEF LEPPARD at the bottom of your drawer for her to unearth and use against you. It's her thing, you're cool with that.
She's head of oncology. Mostly. Oncology and burns. She puts out cancer fires or whatever.
“Director Pyrope,” you say, “surely that cannot be the document connecting me to unethical and gratuitous development of antagonist hallucinogenic effects in repatented generic pharmaceuticals?”
She looks up and there's toner on her tongue. You get the cheap shit, just for her.
“Chairman,” she cackles, which she likes doing just to be a dick about the fact that you don't have a chair, it's kind of a perch. “These documents are a shameful fraud encasing a kernel of truth. Your reign of bodacious terror is at an end.”
“Lies,” you say.
She tiger-stances right over the desk and tackles you and drubs the shit out of you and drubs the shit out of other things with you and then hangs you out the window upside-down by your tail until you crack and tell her where you hid the money and what your real name is and that you're the Batman. She says she fucking knew all that already and to quit fucking around, so you start crying and begging and snot runs off the end of your nose and up your forehead as you hang there, you don't want to die please let me go
and she does
but you have wings so you groove on down to the front door and come in just as the sweet Art Deco door of your executivesprite wetbar elevator is sliding open and Director Pyrope walks out.
“I brought your labcoat,” she says, and throws it to you. It's the one with the pin on the lapel that says DRE. “Let's do doctor things.”
You're all about doctor things. Doctor things are the best.
It's a fucking nightmare down in the operating rooms, there's like rivers of wet glands running down the hall, but this is your hospital so everybody's too busy being cool about it to care.
“Feeling a colonoscopy feeling today, Director,” you say, “what's showing in the operating theater?”
“Same thing as always,” she says, with heartfelt disgust. “Failure.”
“Allow me,” you say.
So there's somebody running an amputation in OR three, you just bust on in there with your sword held aloft and take over like you own the place, which you do in a very real and fiscally-responsible manner, and by the time you're done the guy is mostly made out of snakes.
You ask him how he feels.
He says he feels pretty good. Gonna go home, maybe mow the lawn.
You say that's cool.
The Director's feeling a little left out, though, sure she had to go get the snakes but fuck that, that's work for interns. A gurney goes by with somebody on it prepped for who even cares, the Director is on that shit. A palm up, and everything draws to a halt.
“Knives,” she says, and knives are brought to her. She jabs them into the gurney around the patient to foster the proper sort of mindset. Dignified. Reverent.
“Gas,” she says, and gas is brought to soothe the patient into a state of unquestioning compliance.
Then she reaches over, whips your sword out of your guts, and pauses a moment to study her patient. She circles him; carefully. She notes his properties and catalogues their significance. You bleed a little bit and stuff a corner of your labcoat in to stanch your wound. This is boss.
She raises her sword, which is totally your sword, which doesn't matter for shit right now, and she lets out a shriek that kills tumors in a three-mile radius.
She takes his head clean off.
“It's cool,” she says, wiping off the blade, and jamming it back into your torso. “He was a bad guy. It's good we caught it when we did.”
You say that's cool. She says yeah, sometimes there's just nothing you can do.
FILL: TEAM KERNELSPRITE
You don't even need the goddamn elevator, you've got wings.
You just had it put in so you could take it straight down from your office at the top of the hospital to the lobby, let the sweet Art Deco doors slide open nice and slow to reveal you kicking your sweet mahogany-paneled executivesprite wetbar moment, and then slide shut again.
Having a hospital is pretty much the best thing. You would sincerely recommend it to anyone.
But you can't do the elevator thing all day, eventually people just stop looking and that is grossly unsuitable, so you have to mix shit up a little bit, get your hands dirty and a whole host of other metaphors that get that extra little frisson when applied to surgical procedures. You get back to your office and you get on the horn.
You don't get on the horn, you do nothing of the fucking sort. What was that. You don't have to do that at all because Director Pyrope is already in your office licking your most private correspondence, the shit you forged to artfully incriminate yourself in all manner of vile and profligate shenanigans and hid in a file marked DEF LEPPARD at the bottom of your drawer for her to unearth and use against you. It's her thing, you're cool with that.
She's head of oncology. Mostly. Oncology and burns. She puts out cancer fires or whatever.
“Director Pyrope,” you say, “surely that cannot be the document connecting me to unethical and gratuitous development of antagonist hallucinogenic effects in repatented generic pharmaceuticals?”
She looks up and there's toner on her tongue. You get the cheap shit, just for her.
“Chairman,” she cackles, which she likes doing just to be a dick about the fact that you don't have a chair, it's kind of a perch. “These documents are a shameful fraud encasing a kernel of truth. Your reign of bodacious terror is at an end.”
“Lies,” you say.
She tiger-stances right over the desk and tackles you and drubs the shit out of you and drubs the shit out of other things with you and then hangs you out the window upside-down by your tail until you crack and tell her where you hid the money and what your real name is and that you're the Batman. She says she fucking knew all that already and to quit fucking around, so you start crying and begging and snot runs off the end of your nose and up your forehead as you hang there, you don't want to die please let me go
and she does
but you have wings so you groove on down to the front door and come in just as the sweet Art Deco door of your executivesprite wetbar elevator is sliding open and Director Pyrope walks out.
“I brought your labcoat,” she says, and throws it to you. It's the one with the pin on the lapel that says DRE. “Let's do doctor things.”
You're all about doctor things. Doctor things are the best.
It's a fucking nightmare down in the operating rooms, there's like rivers of wet glands running down the hall, but this is your hospital so everybody's too busy being cool about it to care.
“Feeling a colonoscopy feeling today, Director,” you say, “what's showing in the operating theater?”
“Same thing as always,” she says, with heartfelt disgust. “Failure.”
“Allow me,” you say.
So there's somebody running an amputation in OR three, you just bust on in there with your sword held aloft and take over like you own the place, which you do in a very real and fiscally-responsible manner, and by the time you're done the guy is mostly made out of snakes.
You ask him how he feels.
He says he feels pretty good. Gonna go home, maybe mow the lawn.
You say that's cool.
The Director's feeling a little left out, though, sure she had to go get the snakes but fuck that, that's work for interns. A gurney goes by with somebody on it prepped for who even cares, the Director is on that shit. A palm up, and everything draws to a halt.
“Knives,” she says, and knives are brought to her. She jabs them into the gurney around the patient to foster the proper sort of mindset. Dignified. Reverent.
“Gas,” she says, and gas is brought to soothe the patient into a state of unquestioning compliance.
Then she reaches over, whips your sword out of your guts, and pauses a moment to study her patient. She circles him; carefully. She notes his properties and catalogues their significance. You bleed a little bit and stuff a corner of your labcoat in to stanch your wound. This is boss.
She raises her sword, which is totally your sword, which doesn't matter for shit right now, and she lets out a shriek that kills tumors in a three-mile radius.
She takes his head clean off.
“It's cool,” she says, wiping off the blade, and jamming it back into your torso. “He was a bad guy. It's good we caught it when we did.”
You say that's cool. She says yeah, sometimes there's just nothing you can do.