everywhere because I am, how you say, a paranoid bastard. Plus, he appears to be the kind of man who opens dustbins in search of food. We have very unusual things in our dustbins here, Sir, and were our retarded acquaintance to satiate his appetite, he would undoubtedly explode.”
He seats Ceesal beside the increasingly worried looking receptionist. “Do not worry, he will be perfectly safe here. Michelle is a cold and unpleasant woman. Her heart is dead from a man who left her many years ago. She will make sure your shavenape does not make any trouble. And now, Sir, if you would be so kind as to follow me, I shall show you around whilst you detail me the full extent of your problem. Possibly you will offer me more money at the juncture of which we may endeavour to do something about it.”
“Indeed,” says Malmot, picking out the meaning from the doctor’s rattling syllables.
Stemset’s labyrinthine corridors beckon. Onward they go, through infinite soulless, olive drab hallways – all mental institution clichés present and correct. They barge through reinforced door after reinforced door, Holubec pointing out numerous fascinating atrocities; things that shouldn’t exist but do; partially-human arrangements of flesh, screaming silently inside tubes full of oxygenated liquid.
Meanwhile, in reception, Ceesal skips and sporadically collapses, performing a dance he believes will win Michelle’s affections. He asks if he is annoying her. She replies that he is.
In some horrible, tiled room, Holubec points into an incubator.
“This,” he says, moustache twitching emphatically, arms in an animated flourish, “is the most rather amazing breakthrough in bio-mechanical surveillance technology. I say, the most rather amazing, but I mean the most rather fantastic! This is Science in action – beyond the cutting edge; beyond the bleeding edge; the Stanley-knifed cheek of discovery: The Sliced Face, yes?!”
“Where is its head?” asks Malmot.
“There,” says the doctor. “We have replaced the jaw and mouth with a socket that goes straight to the stomach. It is accepting an intravenous-style drip tube for the drastic reduction of feeding/refuelling times.”
“And the wires?”
“We steer the creature with electrical impulses to the brain. The connector in the spine is for data transfer.”
“It looks like ... Well, no offence intended, Doctor, but now I look, it bears a passing resemblance to your good self.”
“It shares a small percentage of my DNA, I will admit.”
“And you’ve had it tattooed?”
“Let us be realistic,” Holubec says, pointing with a pencil. “Many institutions employ complex anti-surveillance technologies. Given a long enough operational time span, it is likely that the creature will be discovered. And if it is to be seen and examined, then we would be foolish not to utilise the advertising space.”
“Is it alive?”
“It, er, was .”
Further into the intestines of the building, they encounter a stack of insulated metal containers.
“What’s in there?” Malmot asks, whilst adjusting his flies.
“Possibly your penis,” Holubec replies, “But the boxes contain arms.”
“Guns?”
“ Arms, ” Holubec corrects. “Like legs with hands on the end. We are removing them from soldiers in preparation for limb regeneration experiments. It is very hard to get genuine amputees these days, since the landmine treaties.”
“You experiment on conventionally-born people?” asks an incredulous Malmot.
“Of course!” Holubec answers. “We cannot let the freaks take all the credit. We are an equal opportunities experimental facility. We can even experiment on your companion. We were always testing the cognitive capabilities of apes. We could teach him sign language. Then he would be able to communicate.”
“Which brings me, rather, to my point,” starts Malmot, but the doctor interrupts.
“You will be wondering what happens to the arms in our efficient
He seats Ceesal beside the increasingly worried looking receptionist. “Do not worry, he will be perfectly safe here. Michelle is a cold and unpleasant woman. Her heart is dead from a man who left her many years ago. She will make sure your shavenape does not make any trouble. And now, Sir, if you would be so kind as to follow me, I shall show you around whilst you detail me the full extent of your problem. Possibly you will offer me more money at the juncture of which we may endeavour to do something about it.”
“Indeed,” says Malmot, picking out the meaning from the doctor’s rattling syllables.
Stemset’s labyrinthine corridors beckon. Onward they go, through infinite soulless, olive drab hallways – all mental institution clichés present and correct. They barge through reinforced door after reinforced door, Holubec pointing out numerous fascinating atrocities; things that shouldn’t exist but do; partially-human arrangements of flesh, screaming silently inside tubes full of oxygenated liquid.
Meanwhile, in reception, Ceesal skips and sporadically collapses, performing a dance he believes will win Michelle’s affections. He asks if he is annoying her. She replies that he is.
In some horrible, tiled room, Holubec points into an incubator.
“This,” he says, moustache twitching emphatically, arms in an animated flourish, “is the most rather amazing breakthrough in bio-mechanical surveillance technology. I say, the most rather amazing, but I mean the most rather fantastic! This is Science in action – beyond the cutting edge; beyond the bleeding edge; the Stanley-knifed cheek of discovery: The Sliced Face, yes?!”
“Where is its head?” asks Malmot.
“There,” says the doctor. “We have replaced the jaw and mouth with a socket that goes straight to the stomach. It is accepting an intravenous-style drip tube for the drastic reduction of feeding/refuelling times.”
“And the wires?”
“We steer the creature with electrical impulses to the brain. The connector in the spine is for data transfer.”
“It looks like ... Well, no offence intended, Doctor, but now I look, it bears a passing resemblance to your good self.”
“It shares a small percentage of my DNA, I will admit.”
“And you’ve had it tattooed?”
“Let us be realistic,” Holubec says, pointing with a pencil. “Many institutions employ complex anti-surveillance technologies. Given a long enough operational time span, it is likely that the creature will be discovered. And if it is to be seen and examined, then we would be foolish not to utilise the advertising space.”
“Is it alive?”
“It, er, was .”
Further into the intestines of the building, they encounter a stack of insulated metal containers.
“What’s in there?” Malmot asks, whilst adjusting his flies.
“Possibly your penis,” Holubec replies, “But the boxes contain arms.”
“Guns?”
“ Arms, ” Holubec corrects. “Like legs with hands on the end. We are removing them from soldiers in preparation for limb regeneration experiments. It is very hard to get genuine amputees these days, since the landmine treaties.”
“You experiment on conventionally-born people?” asks an incredulous Malmot.
“Of course!” Holubec answers. “We cannot let the freaks take all the credit. We are an equal opportunities experimental facility. We can even experiment on your companion. We were always testing the cognitive capabilities of apes. We could teach him sign language. Then he would be able to communicate.”
“Which brings me, rather, to my point,” starts Malmot, but the doctor interrupts.
“You will be wondering what happens to the arms in our efficient
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