Chapter 01 - Smoke

[Michael Morrison]

We enter a suburban home as the sun gives way to the moon. A fireplace fills the living room with flickering light and the sound of crackling wood as it turns to ash. A handsome example of man’s-best-friend decides to keep the fire company, resting on a rug near the warmth of this aesthetic furnace.

 

There is a sudden burst of cheers, causing the dog to lift his head towards the very source: a family of three, playing Candyland on the dining room table. He focuses on the youngest first, as if to ensure her safety, and after realizing she is not in danger, rather, quite the opposite, he returns to his slumber.

 

The little girl, almost old enough to start school, was celebrating her victory, having reached King Kandy and his Candy Castle. The girl’s mother, lovely and kind, congratulates her with a smile and exaggerated applause. The father, sitting at the head of the table, does the same.

 

FATHER:

Well played. You are a worthy opponent, but we shall see if your luck continues. One more game and then it’s off to bed... unless I lose that game as well.

 

Unlike the living room, the dining room is brightly lit, yet it’s difficult to make out the father’s face… as if the lights refuse to shine in his direction. It’s clear to see that he’s a large man, and although he’s obviously a family-man as well, the visible wear-and-tear on his body suggests he played a different role in his former life.

 

He rises from his chair, making his stature even more apparent as he towers over his petite wife, and tiny adorable daughter. Despite his daunting appearance, there is no fear in their eyes, only love.

 

FATHER:

Reset the board while I grab a beer; I need a drink after that beating.

 

He starts towards the kitchen, but suddenly hesitates, raising his right hand to his head. With his fingers now massaging his temple and his eyes squinted shut, he uses his left hand to point towards his wife.

 

FATHER:

You want one, hun?

 

MOTHER:

No, thank you, But could you stick your head in the oven?

 

Shocked by these words, he stops rubbing his temple and opens his eyes to see his wife looking up at him. Her lips are moving but for a moment he hears nothing.

 

FATHER:

What did you say to me?

 

MOTHER:

I said I didn’t want a beer... then I asked if you could take the cupcakes out of the oven… they should be done.

 

DAUGHTER:

I want cupcakes!

 

The mother, with a slight scowl on her face, and concern in her voice, informs her daughter that the cupcakes are for daddy’s work, but she’ll make sure to save one for her. She then immediately puts her focus back on her husband.

 

MOTHER:

Are you okay? What’s wrong?

 

FATHER:

...nothing... I thought you said something else... and I feel a headache coming on.

 

MOTHER:

Oh, there’s Asprin in the guest bathroom.

 

FATHER:

Thank you... I’ll be sure to take some.

 

He’s had these “headaches” more frequently now, but in true husband fashion, has kept it from his family. No need to worry them after all. He enters the kitchen, where his thoughts are soon interrupted by the pleading shouts of a wife who knows she married an easily distracted man.

 

MOTHER:

Don’t forget the cupcakes!

 

FATHER:

Yeah, yeah. You two should be strategizing on how to win the next game instead of harassing m…

 

His train of thought is derailed by a familiar, yet misplaced sound from another part of the house. Everything else becomes muffled, and before he knows it, it’s all he can hear. The voice of his worried wife is nothing more than a low hum, compared to the mysterious sound calling him... beckoning him.

 

Black smoke seeps out of the oven as he leaves the kitchen in search of the siren song. What were once delicate cupcakes, were undoubtedly charred briquettes now, but no matter. The sound... what IS that sound?

 

He enters a hallway and notices the pulsating light coming from his bedroom, like a fading heartbeat in need of rescue; but, unlike the wave of smoke now rushing out of the oven, the husband SLOWLY makes his way towards the bedroom --towards the pulse.

 

Upon reaching the doorway, he hears the smoke alarm’s feeble attempt to overtake the seductive sound pulling him --consuming him, like the fire that will surely consume his home.

 

Pushing the bedroom door aside, he sees the source of the light. He makes a pointless attempt to ask his wife if she left the TV on, but the first few words barely escape his throat and would not even be considered a whisper to most.

 

The television, mounted on the wall near the foot of the bed, is projecting a bright, flickering light. As the husband positions himself directly in front of this glowing portal, the sound returns with greater clarity. Words of the past come flooding through. Countless voices --scattered but clear as filtered water-- bombard him.

 

TV:

Madness is here, OCW, and his name is... What a match. I’ve never seen a rookie give Fixxxer such a run... our first OCW Hardcore Champion... The Theatre of Pain is a plague and it’s only spreading... my God, they put him through a burning table... someone needs to put an end to this Bloodline... 2010 Hall of Fame inductee... moving last words to OCW as he retires the face paint...

 

Dead silence now fills the room, along with a growing amount of smoke. The flickering light transitions to a solid image of Bray, The Anime Prince of OCW, dawning the paint of the Mad One, himself. The husband reaches up to the screen and places his fingers underneath the image of Bray. He takes a deep breath and his eyes widen while leaning in even closer.

 

TV:

This is a very interesting look, the Anime Prince is sporting. Very familiar, if you ask me.

 

The screen flickers again.

 

TV:

...perhaps he’s hoping for a slice of Mad Michael Morrison’s power...

 

The husband lowers his head and begins to chuckle. The smoke completely fills the room. The only things visible now are the screen, and the hand of the man who is no longer chuckling, but instead, laughing hysterically.

 

His laughter grows louder and the smoke starts to quickly subside, as if being sucked into a vacuum. As the smoke clears, however, the bedroom walls now appear to be covered in white padding; the TV screen now belongs to an old, CRT monitor, encased within a metal cage; the California King has been replaced with a twin-sized mattress on the floor; the bedroom door was now made of steel and locked from the outside with a little glass window for observation.

 

A loud bang echoes from the door as someone delivers an even louder verbal warning.

 

GUARD:

Knock it off, MORRISON! You know it sets everyone off when you pull these freakin' laughing fits! You creepy jackass.

 

Morrison’s laughter tapers off before replying.

 

MORRISON:

You’re right... but that’s why they call me Mad Mike.

[Michael Morrison]

Mr. Truman is a man of business, and he tries his best to portray himself as such; from his meticulous haircut; to his fully shaved, slightly tanned skin; and a suit, which is more expensive than your standard 3-piece, but nothing you’d see on the red carpet. Coincidentally, he’s waiting to see a man who was once quite the star ... for a brief moment in time.

 

Our well-groomed man of mystery patiently stands in front of a white door, surrounded by white walls and white floors. The contrast to his dark clothing and professional demeanor could not be more apparent until the door finally opens, revealing Gary --a fine representation of those who peaked in high-school.

 

Gary could care less about portraying any kind of image, other than “let’s get this over with”, which could also be the title of his biography --not that he would ever write one. It’s unclear if Gary even knows what a haircut is, as his disheveled mane covers a section of his scruffy, pasty face. Like a walking hangover blessed with height and a body made for security, he greets Mr. Truman.

 

GARY:

I’m guessing you’re the man I’m supposed to ... escort?

 

Truman gives Gary the benefit of the doubt by looking around the room, just in case there was actually anyone else, with whom he could possibly be confused.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

Yes, I think it’s safe to say I am, but please, do not use the word “escort”.

 

GARY:

Yeah, well we don’t deal with too many “corporate” types here ... or any types at all, for that matter ... other than, ya’ know...

 

Gary makes the international gesture for “loco en la cabeza” while raising his eyebrows for good measure.

 

GARY:

...so I wasn’t sure on the proper lingo or termologies.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

It’s fine. Just take me to him, please.

 

GARY:

Okay, okay. Pardon the hell out of me for trying to be accommodating. Right this way, mister ... I’m sorry, I never caught your name.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

Truman, Mr. Truman.

 

As they walk down a long corridor, with fenced windows along both sides, Gary goes over the rules and regulations.

 

GARY:

Now, he hasn’t been physically violent for quite some time, but I gotta say, his words seem to do more damage, which is why we usually keep him away from the others. Either way, please try to resist the urge to touch him, hand him anything, or get too close.

 

Upon reaching a large set of double-doors, Gary takes a deep breathe and then takes out a series of keys.

 

GARY:

I know they requested that you speak with him alone, but I’ll be on the other side of these doors, ready to crack skulls and put boots-to-butts if need be. Don’t worry, I know I may not look it, but I’m pretty quick on my toes.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

My confidence in you could not be higher, Gary.

 

GARY:

I feel like there was some sarcasm in that last statement ... but, whatever. Not like it would ever sway my response time or anything.

 

Proud of his own use of sarcasm, Gary begins to open the double-doors, then suddenly stops.

 

GARY:

Oh ... he usually does promos around this time, so he probably won’t speak to you unless you play along. Ya know ... hold a mic and pull out your best “Mean” Gene impersonation. That kinda’ stuff.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

………….Sure.

 

GARY:

Attaboy, Mr. Truman. Here we go.

 

Truman enters the room --a large cafeteria with all the chairs removed; minus two, stationed at the very center of the empty eatery, facing one another. One chair is already occupied by a large man, while the other remains invitingly empty.

 

Much like the previous room, there is a noticeable lack of color, other than various shades of faded white. The numerous fenced windows seem to glow with the amount of sunlight coming through and Truman can’t help but think that this is what a cafeteria would look like in heaven ... if heaven was on a budget.

 

Truman focuses his attention on the large man and makes his way to the available chair. He unbuttons his suit-jacket and has a seat, crossing his legs and waiting a brief moment before speaking.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

Nice place you got here. Like your own little slice of heaven, I imagine. [sarcastic southern accent] They been treatin’ you good, Morrison?

 

Morrison suddenly leaps out of his chair, as if realizing he was sitting on a mound of fire-ants and goes right into promo-mode. Truman seems unaffected by the sudden outburst and even takes the time to check his phone for messages.

 

MORRISON:

SLICE OF HEAVEN?! The only slices I have are thick slices of HARSH REALITY! Or better yet, maybe I’ll slice those mediocre mutton chops off your pizza-pie of a face, Kage!!!

 

MR. TRUMAN:

What a lovely sentiment. Listen, can we skip right past the crazy and cut to the chase? I...

 

Truman is interrupted by a set of signaling coughs as Morrison nods his head towards a makeshift mic, made with an empty paper-towel roll and tennis ball, resting near his chair. Almost simultaneously, Gary can be heard screaming from outside the double-doors.

 

GARY:

Use the mic!

 

Truman is not one for wasting time, so he can’t help but close his eyes and take a deep breath --a technique he uses to collect himself-- before picking up the paper “pipe-bomb” and reluctantly raising it towards his face.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

How would you like a one-way ticket out of here ... [generic Hulk Hogan voice] Brotherrrr?

 

Morrison’s demeanor changes instantly, to that of a calm member of society. He slowly sits, leans back in his chair and extends his arms out with his palms facing upwards, like he expects the tables to start levitating.

 

MORRISON:

Where do I sign?

[EMP]

I don't know much about mad mike but, I'm loving the RP! bring it on!

 

Really like the two different colors for the Actions vs Words dialog. I might have to steal that technique from you.

[Michael Morrison]

Morrison’s response surprises Truman more than the sudden promo from earlier. He squints his eyes and puts his phone back into his suit-jacket pocket.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

That easy, huh? You don’t want to know the stipulations or details before you get to the dotted lines?

 

Morrison lowers his arms, placing his hands on his seated hips with an expression similar to that of someone about to explain the intricate details of tax exemptions.

 

MORRISON:

Ya know ... the greatest trick the devil ever pulled has nothing to do with convincing the world he doesn’t exist.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

And here we go. Let me guess: I’m the devil in this scenario?

 

MORRISON:

Hardly, but let me ask you this: While attempting to fall asleep at night, in that lonely bed of yours, do you close your eyes and wonder if evil exists ... or do you wonder if there’s any good left in this world?

 

Truman ponders the question for a second and smiles as he realizes where Morrison is going with this. His expression speaks volumes, answering the question without the need for verbal confirmation.

 

MORRISON:

Exactly. We are all very much aware that evil exists, Mr. Truman. No, the greatest trick the devil ever pulled, was convincing the world it ever had a chance to begin with.

 

MORRISON:

If there is a heaven, it’s probably full of idiots and lambs.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

That’s a fascinating theory, it really is --not sure I agree, though.

 

MORRISON:

Hm. Would you do anything to survive, Mr. Truman? Would you do everything in your power to keep from drowning in this ocean of attrition?

 

MR. TRUMAN:

Sure.

 

MORRISON:

Of course you would --you’re a survivor. We are all designed to survive, no matter the cost; and deep down, when push-comes-to-shove, we would kill one another to protect what we love most.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

[loud audible sigh] Your point being?

 

MORRISON:

There is no place in heaven for survivors, Mr. Truman, so if the devil appears on your shoulder or offers you a deal ... chances are, you’re already heading his way. So why fight it?

 

MR. TRUMAN:

Well, you got me there, Mr. Morrison ... and an excellent point, I might add. Why fight it, indeed.

 

Truman rises from his chair, buttons his suit-jacket, taps the screen of his phone, and walks back to the double-doors, where Gary has been waiting. His phone, now next to his ear, begins to ring.

 

MORRISON:

That’s it, tell your boss you got the job done. You’re a good hand, after all.

 

As Truman awaits for a voice on the other side of his phone, he makes it to the double doors and turns towards Morrison.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

Oh, I forgot to mention, because you agreed so quickly --before we can get you out of here, we’ll need you to be “better” ... as in, “not crazy”.

 

The phone stops ringing and Truman asks someone on the other end to hold-on for a second.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

Soooooo, get ready for some cutting edge, psychiatric treatment. I hear it’s the best in the world, but some consider it ... aggressive.

 

Morrison, now with his head back, looking up at the ceiling, closes his eyes before replying.

 

MORRISON:

Can’t wait, Quincy.

 

Truman smiles while exiting the room and confirms with his associate over the phone.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

We are good-to-go; get the ball rolling on Operation Jackal.

 

Morrison opens his eyes, and for a moment, we can see the world as he knows it. The room, no longer white, is full of floating ash. The walls appear black from smoke and soot and the windows no longer allow light to shine through.

 

A smoldering hand finds a place on Morrison’s shoulder. Even with what little flesh remains, we can safely assume it belonged to a petite woman; the ring on her finger --the only item seemingly unscaved by the fire that took her life.

 

The woman speaks in obscure whispers as an even smaller hand finds its way to Morrison’s other shoulder.

 

MORRISON:

Don’t worry, I could never forget either of you.

 

Gary locks the double-doors behind Mr. Truman and Morrison’s signature mad laugh echoes from the other side.

 

GARY:

Damn shame. Sometimes I wonder if he’s laughing or crying.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

I don’t think there’s a difference when it comes to that man. Not anymore.

 

Truman has had his fair share of odd conversations, but this will likely be near the top of his list. He remembers the last thing Morrison said to him and is filled with a slight sense of dread. He lightly shakes his head --an attempt to scrub his brain-- before questioning Gary.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

Hey, did you tell him my name?

 

GARY:

No, sir ... but maybe he heard me use it.

 

MR. TRUMAN:

I meant my first name.

 

GARY:

Oh ... well, no. How would I know your first name?

 

MR. TRUMAN:

Exactly, Gary.

[Michael Morrison]

In a small security room, lit by a sea of monitors flooding the wall, opposite the entrance, we find Mr. Truman sitting in your typical office-chair -- equipped with one bad wheel and a finicky height-adjust lever. Having made himself comfortable, quite some time ago, his suit-jacket cowls over the back-rest as he leans forward.

 

Yes, he’s been here longer than a moment, that much is clear … perhaps too many moments. With his elbows resting on the security desk and fingers interlaced just below his tired yet focused eyes, he wonders how many more moments he must endure?

 

The answer will have to wait as his phone suddenly rings, filling the room with the unpleasant sound of inevitability, overtaking any other possible thought. With each ring, the grimace on his face deepens, until he has no choice but to answer … or risk having his face locked in a perpetual scowl.

 

He reaches back into his jacket pocket, securing the phone, but never relinquishing his focus on one monitor in particular; a monitor designated as Treatment Room 01.

 

TRUMAN:

This is Truman. Yes, of course ... the good doctor is with him right now. No-no, he’s been making great progress. In fact, he’s finishing up a session right now...

 

As Truman peers into the monitor, we see Morrison sitting in the center of a room, with his arms defiantly crossed. The Doctor, standing next to Morrison, acquires a pen from the breast-pocket of his lab coat and scribbles something down on a clipboard before looking up towards the camera -- he slowly shakes his head.

 

TRUMAN:

[screaming internaly] ...and he’s making great progress. Morrison will be so sane he -- he could have tea with the Queen of England and you would never even know he recently made a ⅛ replica of the Venus De Milo with his own feces.

 

Yes, sir, it was fairly impressive. Quite breath-taking ... figuratively and literally. But like I said, that insane behavior will soon be a thing of the past.

 

Truman glances back at the monitor and watches as The Doctor returns the pen to his breast-pocket -- something he’s done so many times, you might consider it instinctual. Unfortunately, he did so while facing away from Morrison; presenting him with an opportunity to indulge one of his own instincts.

 

Morrison leaps from the chair and quickly applies a Dragon Sleeper. In a matter of seconds, his victim goes limp and Morrison allows gravity to do its job. The body hits the ground like a bag of tennis balls and Morrison simply sits back down before shouting, “LIME WITH THE COCONUT!”

 

TRUMAN:

Yep, he’s really been taking to the treatment [face-palm] like a fish to water. Oh, and since I have you on the phone already, can we discuss my role in the company once...

 

The phone call disconnects abruptly, which leads to an awkward silence, followed by the clicking of Truman’s tongue. He rubs the bridge of his nose and hits a button on the security desk, which lets-out a quick [bUZZ] as confirmation.

 

TRUMAN:

Gary, could you please collect the good doctor from treatment-room one?

 

GARY:

[bUZZ] Sure thing. Gloves n’ scrubs?

 

TRUMAN:

????????

 

GARY:

[bUZZ] Did he soil himself?

 

TRUMAN:

[bUZZ] Oh ... I don’t know ... but he’s old, so better safe than sorry.

 

GARY:

[bUZZ] Fair enough.

 

Tired and frustrated, Truman focuses back on Morrison via the monitor. The longer he stares, the more visible his anger becomes, until...

 

GARY:

[bUZZ] Got The Doctor. Where do you want him?

 

Truman snaps out of his blind rage and realizes Gary has not only entered the treatment room but has also placed The Doctor in a wheelchair. Like some kind of super-orderly with SEAL training, he now stands next to the intercom system, awaiting his next mission.

 

TRUMAN:

[bUZZ] Bring him to me. Wait ... gloves n' scrubs?

 

GARY:

[bUZZ] Nah, he’s clean.

 

TRUMAN:

[bUZZ] Then yes, bring him to me ... and good job.

 

GARY:

[bUZZ] That’s a big 10-4. Heading up.

 

As Truman awaits the arrival of his Bad News Bears, he opens his laptop and pulls up a folder titled “SESSIONS”, containing numerous videos. He opens, one after the other, searching for any fragment of success or semblance of a pattern. With each one ending more horribly than the last, they could easily serve as the embodiment of failure ... his failure.

 

Defeated, Truman slams down on the keys and almost screams a familiar four-letter word, often used in such dire situations; however, he clinches his fists instead. The anger coursing through him causes his entire body to vibrate, like an engine running with no oil, ready to fall apart.

 

The shaking stops and he exhales, hoping his bad luck would leave with all the air in his lungs. Exhausted, he struggles to muster the energy needed to close the countless windows on his laptop. The videos, having reached the end of each session, appear to be carbon copies of one another ... and that’s when Truman notices the pattern.

 

He rewinds about ten seconds; jumps to the next video and does the same. He repeats this action until the door opens behind him, allowing a blast of symbolic light to shoot in.

 

TRUMAN:

He sees someone...

 

Gary, having opened the door, now wheels The Doctor into the security room and shuts the door behind him, cutting off the illumination provided by the hallway’s overly fluorescent lights.

 

GARY:

Oh, he’s not gonna see anything for a while. He’s still breathing though. Poor guy ... should I get some prune juice or something for when he wakes up? What do old people drink?

 

TRUMAN:

Shutup, Gary … I wasn’t talking about The Doctor. Morrison -- MORRISON sees someone … but doesn’t.

 

Gary, confused by Truman’s last statement, simply scratches his head and tries not to sound judgmental with his next question.

 

GARY:

How do you see something, without seeing it?

 

TRUMAN:

No ... look ... at the end of each session, he does the same thing -- he closes his eyes, leans back and then touches his shoulder. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can see his lips moving. There is someone with him, but he closes his eyes. Why?

 

Gary and Truman silently look at one another, as if expecting the other to reveal the answer at any moment. They both yelp, simultaneously, when The Doctor reveals he is no longer unconscious.

 

DOCTOR:

He probably doesn’t want to SEE whatever it may be.

 

GARY:

Jeezus, doc, how long have you been awake? Scared the hell out of me.

 

The Doctor gingerly rises from the wheelchair and makes his way to the laptop.

 

DOCTOR:

He shows no aggression or fear ... quite the opposite, in fact.

 

The Doctor points to Morrison’s shoulder.

 

DOCTOR:

He attempts to make physical contact here...

 

As the video plays, Morrison touches his shoulder, just as Truman pointed out.

 

DOCTOR:

...and here...

 

Morrison proceeds to touch his other shoulder.

 

DOCTOR:

...but he does not wish to see what his mind is projecting. Perhaps it causes him too much pain? Perhaps, THEY don’t want to be seen.

 

GARY:

My God…

 

Truman, still trying to piece together what Gary and The Doctor have already discovered, extends his arms out, as if ready to catch a sack of answers.

 

TRUMAN:

Care to, once again, shed some light on the situation, fellas?

 

GARY:

His wife and kid.

 

TRUMAN:

......

 

GARY:

They ... they died in a fire.

 

Truman, now understanding their reaction, places his hand over his mouth as his eyes widen. He stares off into the darkest corner of the room -- his mind racing. An uncomfortable silence fills the air as they contemplate the horror of seeing the animated bodies of dead loved-ones, ravaged by fire.

 

GARY:

Hey, man -- you didn’t know. Its a lot to...

 

TRUMAN:

This is great!

 

Bewildered, Gary and The Doctor look at one another as Truman springs out of his chair with a new sense of vigor.

 

GARY:

How is this great, exactly?

 

TRUMAN:

Don’t you see? This is our ace in the hole!

 

The Doctor can see the gears turning in Truman’s head and makes an attempt to throw a metaphoric wrench.

 

DOCTOR:

Now, Mr. Truman, I’m not sure I like where this is going. I never...

 

TRUMAN:

You’ll NEVER work in the medical field again if you don’t fall in line and do what we paid you to do! I have no trepidation in showing the world a series of videos where your “methods” are about as successful as your attempts to escape Morrison’s little choke hold.

 

Remember that, Doctor? I’m not sure if someone your age can remember that far back … it’s so much harder to RECOVER from such a traumatic incident ... is it not? So much harder to bounce back ... much like rebuilding a career.

 

The intensity in Truman’s eyes -- well, it was all The Doctor needed to validate his resolve. Even so, he still took a moment to ponder the consequences of his next decision before lowering his head and sitting back down in the wheelchair.

 

Truman, having his answer and means-to-an-end, turns back to the live feed of Morrison. His face, now twisted by the mixture of anger and exhilaration, is almost unrecognizable.

 

TRUMAN:

Good, because we have a hard egg to crack. Now [looking over his shoulder] who’s up for an omelet?

[FknParker]

Next chapter when?

[Michael Morrison]

Next chapter when?

 

In due time. Glad you enjoy the story so far.

[Michael Morrison]

Morrison’s eyes begin to open; everything feels fuzzy and out of focus; even sounds seem muffled, but he manages to grasp a few branches of conversations as he fades in and out of his river of consciousness.

 

TRUMAN:

...and you say this will work?

 

DOCTOR:

I believe so. As we administer the neuroleptics --or, “antipsychotics”, as you like to call them-- they will temporarily treat his symptoms.

 

When the delusions attempt to pull him back in, we apply a mild shock as a consequence. We continue the process, upping the dosage and voltage, until the brain chooses the relief of sanity over the pain of insanity, so to speak...

 

With every slip into the dark waters of his mind, Morrison’s sense of time also slips further away.

 

TRUMAN:

...how much longer is this going to take, Doc?

 

DOCTOR:

It’s difficult to say... but if we overshoot the dosage, we may cause even more damage.

 

TRUMAN:

What kind of damage?

 

DOCTOR:

The irreversible kind, Mr. Truman. He could end up a vegetable.

 

TRUMAN:

We need him functional --on this, the company was very clear-- so a drooling piece of broccoli, much like a normal piece of broccoli, does nothing for me, Doc...

 

Despite the confinement of this pill-pushed prison, Morrison manages to stumble upon a few juicy meanderings within this monotonous maze.

 

TRUMAN:

...yes, I under... of course, but...

 

Listen, I don’t exactly have the A-Team helping me push this along.

 

Yes, the doctor is doing his thing, but it’s like pulling teeth with that guy. I... no, I’m not making excuses, I just n...

 

No, you’re right sir. Yes. My apologies.

 

Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I’m very thankful for the opportun...

[call ends]

 

...FUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!

 

Like droplets of water in the desert, he savors each one.

 

GARY:

...here’s the stuff you asked about.

 

TRUMAN:

Did anyone seem suspicious, or ask a lot of questions?

 

GARY:

Not really... it was actually quite easy to get it all. Public records, mostly.

 

TRUMAN:

Excellent.

 

[sorts through documents]

 

GARY:

Ah dang, he’s drooling again. How long before the next session?

 

TRUMAN:

Just what I thought.

 

Huh? Oh, in a few minutes. And Gary…

 

GARY:

Yeah, boss?

 

TRUMAN:

Thank you.

I might have a position for you when this is all said and done...

 

[glares at the drooling husk of what was once Michael Morrison]

 

...if you ever want a change of scenery...

 

Morrison, once again, feels the pull of the world guiding him out of the murky waters. With each breath he takes, his sight gains focus and the haze gives-way to an unwanted clarity.

 

The silhouettes, of mumbling clouds, reveal themselves to be none other than his tormentors.

 

MORRISON:

Great, it’s you two stooges. Where’s Curly?

 

TRUMAN:

Like I’m not sick of seeing your face either, Morrison.

 

MORRISON:

Is the honeymoon already over? I can tell you were gentle -- I can still pucker my prostate.

 

DOCTOR:

And thank you for that lovely image.

 

Good morning, Morrison. How do you feel?

 

MORRISON:

Probably better than your wife, Doc. No offense, but with the amount of time you’ve been spending on my crazy ass, she must feel proper-neglected.

 

Speaking of which: you two neglected to answer my question. Where’s Gary?

 

TRUMAN:

That should really be the last thing on your mind, Morrison...

 

In fact, your state of mind is all you should be worried about right now.

 

There is a suppressed rage in Truman’s eyes. Morrison notices, and judging by how uncomfortable The Doctor appears, he’s not the only one who did. Could it be that Truman was running out of patience... or time?

 

It always pleases Morrison to see cocky little punks lose their shit in the face of adversity. It’s so much easier to break a man who isn’t thinking clearly... a man who replaces logic with desperation -- speaking from experience, of course.

 

But now is not the time to push. Truman is nothing, if not clever... but being clever does nothing for a kick in the balls, does it? None the less, Morrison bides his time.

 

MORRISON:

On that, we can agree, but I was simply curious if Gary took that trip to Vegas already. He was supposed to get autographs from Cher, Shania Twain, and Gwen Steffani... she’s bananas, B-A-N-A-N...

 

TRUMAN:

Yeah, we get it.

 

Keep it up and I’ll be forced to shove this...

 

[holding up a jar of tongue depressors]

 

...right up your anus, A-N-U-S, anus. You’ll wish you could “turn back time” to a moment where I didn’t make you “feel like a woman”.

 

MORRISON:

Truman?! Such words. I guess our love was always destined to fail. I’ll give you credit, though…

 

Halted by a sudden change in temperature, like a blanket of ice wrapping around his entire body, Morrison struggles to speak. The cold gives way to a growing warmth and the smell of smoke.

 

DOCTOR:

I believe it’s starting.

 

TRUMAN:

No shit. It’s the only time he ever shuts the hell up. How long?

 

DOCTOR:

A little over 52 hours. I’m afraid you’ll owe Gary a trip to Dairy Queen when he returns from his current excursion.

 

On the plus side, it’s the longest he’s gone so far.

 

TRUMAN:

It’s still not long enough.

 

Morrison, trying his best to push words out of his seemingly seized throat, feels as if he is losing this particular struggle.

 

MORRISON:

Th-that’s... whhhhhhat... sh-she... said.

 

[chuckles]

 

But here’s to small victories, he thinks to himself.

 

TRUMAN:

Go ahead and laugh it up, Chuckles... because I’m about to remove that stupid clown from your prop-bag of personalities.

 

Morrison manages to produce one last grin before his body goes limp.

 

Gradually, he begins to move again; slowly raising his head. One might think he was a human balloon being inflated for a parade, had they seen it for the first time.

 

MORRISON:

Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to do now, for the past 2 months? And failing, miserably, I might add. But that’s your thing now, ain’t it, Quincy -- failing?

 

The more he speaks, the more the room begins to change. First, the falling ash; followed by the walls -- peeled away by an invisible flame.

 

TRUMAN:

Why this version of you feels compelled to call me by my first name, I don’t know... but since we’re talking about failures...

 

Truman leans in and whispers in Morrison’s ear; now, with a smile of his own.

 

TRUMAN:

...that was the first mistake you made.

 

I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work.

 

MORRISON:

Doc, I’m gonna need you to call HR down here, because I believe Quincy here, just broke all kinds of personal boundaries.

 

I don’t even want to know what Charizarding is, but I have a feeling it’s not as bad as a Kentucky Klondike Bar.

Truman, still smiling, returns to an upright position and proceeds to remove his suit jacket while the Doctor prepares to administer the next dose of antipsychotics.

 

TRUMAN:

Is everything ready, Doc?

 

DOCTOR:

Yes. I’ve upped the dosage and adjusted the voltage on the ECT machine. Everything looks in or...

 

TRUMAN:

Good. Now if you would do me a favor and leave the room.

 

Caught off guard, the Doctor looks over to Morrison, who is still restrained.

 

DOCTOR:

But...

TRUMAN:

Don’t worry, Doc...

 

[rolls up his sleaves]

 

...I’ve seen you do it enough times now. I got this.

 

Before the Doctor can object any further, Morrison provides him with another way out.

 

MORRISON:

It’s okay, Doc... this is the way it has to be. I’ll be fine.

 

You have your own family to worry about anyways.

 

TRUMAN:

Yeah, Doc, everything will be fine.

 

The Doctor reluctantly leaves the room and closes the door.

 

As the final click of the lock fills the uncomfortably silent room, Truman follows it with a long, satisfied sigh.

 

He grabs a syringe, filled with the latest concoction of neuroleptics; raises it to eye-level and watches as every single drop shoots out of the needle and onto the floor like an antipsychotic fountain.

 

TRUMAN:

We won’t be needing any of that this time around.

 

Truman rolls out the ECT machine; cranks up various knobs and removes the paddles from the holsters. As he approaches Morrison, the electrical hum of the paddles grows ominously louder.

 

Morrison looks up at Truman, who continues to change in appearance, along with the deteriorating room. He feels the frightened hands of his deceased daughter, gripping his forearm, and then the weight of his wife’s arms draped over his shoulders and chest like an impromptu shield.

 

Morrison turns his head and reassures them that everything will be alright. Truman sees his reaction as confirmation of their presence.

TRUMAN:

There you are.

 

Morrison, now directing his attention towards the man hovering above him, sees Truman as you might see him in your nightmares. His teeth grow long and sharp; large, bat-like wings present themselves, enveloping Morrison and his family. His eyes, like that of a serpent, complementing his forked tongue.

 

MORRISON:

And there YOU are.

[Casey Paine]

Oh Mikey...how I have missed you! You crazy 'MAD' son of a bitch, you!!!

[Michael Morrison]

Oh Mikey...how I have missed you! You crazy 'MAD' son of a bitch, you!!!

 

Sup, Casey. Such a sight for sore eyes, you are. Good to see you around.