                                  T H E

                          E S T A B  - L O I D
                    ---------------------------------
                    Issue #7                  3-15-86
                    ---------------------------------

                A weekly electronic magazine for users of
                    The Establishment BBS (894-6526)
                    owned and operated by Thane Smith

                        Editor - Gene B. Williams

     . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
     . You may share this magazine with your friends under the   .
     . condition that the magazine remain complete and intact,   .
     . with no editing, revisions or modifications of any kind,  .
     . and including this opening section and statement.         .
     . If you like the magazine, the Sysop and I would appre-    .
     . ciate it if you would let your friends know where they    .
     . can log in to find the magazine.                          .
     . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
                                (c) 1986

    THIS ISSUE:

         It's fiction time again!
         This week's story was actually written several years ago,
    and was published in a trade journal for commercial pilots. Weird
    place to see such a story, really, and I was amazed that they
    bought it. Especially since they didn't buy or use fiction.
         Fair warning:  The story could be rated as a "PG-13" or even
    a soft "R". I kinda wondered if I should even put it up, but then
    figured that the users of this board are mature enough to not
    have the story corrupt their lives.
         But if you're sensitive, you may want to skip it.

                        THE $3.75 (plus tax) MAN

         It had been one of the worst crop dusting accidents in
    years. While making what should've been an ordinary pass over the
    field, the stick had come off in his hands, causing the plane to
    go spinning out of control. The plane did as much of a half
    gainer as possible and smacked into a field of asparagus. His
    last conscious thought was, "I HATE asparagus!"
         Fortunately he'd done all repairs to the plane with Scotch
    tape and old clarinet reeds (to cut costs). The collision cracked
    it like an old, dried-out eggshell, and threw the pilot free of
    the wreckage and into a pile of insecticide, burning oil and
    creamed asparagus.
         Smelling profit, three ambulance services arrived. While
    they fought over custody of the victim, paramedics attempted to
    separate him from the now boiled asparagus, taking care to place
    any stray fingers and feet on the stretcher with the pilots.
    Finally, a coin was produced and it was decided that the pilot
    would be rescued by Bud's Ambulance Service, which was fortunate
    as they were well known for their efficiency. They only dropped
    him twice in getting him aboard.
         In keeping with their reputation, the trip to the hospital
    was extremely quick. All 17 miles were covered in two hours. The
    drivers took only 30 minutes for lunch, and thoughtfully passed
    up their noon appointment at the local massage parlor.
         The hospital personnel, too, were on their toes. The head
    nurse set aside her movie magazine with hardly a grumble and
    politely asked the driver only the most essential questions for
    admittance.
         "Got any money?" she asked.
         "Uhhhhh," groaned the pilot.
         "You'll have to speak up, sir. (God, what a mess he's making
    on our nice, clean floor.) Now - insurance?"
         The pilot answered by allowing his right hand to fall off.
         "Name? And billing address?"
         Silence.
         "Sir, you'll have to cooperate if you want us to operate."
    She broke into hysterical laughter at her joke. The pilot failed
    to see the humor of it, and said so by aiming a spurt from a torn
    artery. She agreed that it wasn't all that funny after all, as
    she wiped the stickiness from her face. She turned to her
    assistant and said, "Get this man to an operating room immed
    iately!" (He's making a bloody mess in the lobby. Too many sick
    people around will give us a bad name.)
         Just then another miracle occurred. A doctor was actually on
    duty. Grudgingly, he set aside the fourth floor candy striper and
    consented to save the life of this poor man (with the rich
    insurance company). "After all," he reasoned, "I took the
    Hypocritical Oath. And besides, I could use another Mercedes."
         So, only 18 hours after the crash (the doctor decided that
    the candy striper should wish him luck - in private), the pilot
    found himself staring into the bright operating lights.
         "Scalpel," demanded the doctor. "Sponge. Suture. Clamp.
    Kleenex," he requested, blowing his nose soundly.
         This was the doctor's big chance. For year's he'd been
    watching reruns on television. He was almost an addict. (He'd
    served his internship on "General Hospital.") And, if a cowboy
    like Lee Majors could be put back together, then so could this
    schmuck.
         Piece by piece he mended the broken body of the driver.
    Using a delightful shade of Coates & Coates he sewed the fingers
    back in place, and the hands back on the wrists. He cursed softly
    when he realized that he'd sewn the left hand on the right arm,
    and vice versa. After toying with his personal asthetics, he
    decided that the left hand should go on the left arm after all.
         An old episode of Star Trek came to mind as he carefully
    soldered the nerve endings together. (He made a mental note that
    50/50 acid core solder didn't work very well on nerve endings,
    and determined to get resin core next time.)
         Six hours, two coffee breaks, a half hour off to watch his
    favorite soapy, and one candy striper break later, the pilot was
    resting safely in the ward in an anesthetic coma. He finally
    opened his eyes, and through the blur wondered why his right hand
    had two pinky fingers while his left had two thumbs. But, happy
    just to be alive (more or less), he decided to let the matter
    pass. Might be a good conversation piece, anyway.

         The nurse entered. "How are you feeling?" she asked sweetly
    while checking his wallet and pockets for spare change.
         "Not bad, considering," he answered. There was a strange
    nasal quality to his voice. He noticed that the nurse was staring
    open-mouthed at him. "What's wrong?" he asked.
         "You're talking with your nose!" she stammered. "Your mouth
    isn't moving, just your nostrils." She moved quickly to the door
    to locate the doctor.
         "Uh, would you mind turning off the light before you leave?"
    he asked. "It's a bit noisy."
         After a thorough examination, the doctor ascertained what
    the problem was. ("Damn," he thought, "I gotta lay off the
    belladonna when I'm operating.") Somehow he'd soldered the nerve
    endings in the wrong places. Terrible as the situation was, it
    WAS kinda funny, and he found it difficult to keep from laughing
    whenever his patient talked.
         The Chief Surgeon of the hospital didn't find it quite so
    humorous and demanded an explanation (before he had the doctor
    shot).
         "Well," giggled the doctor, "Nurse Barkley was tickling me.
    I guess I must've wired him up all wrong. I connected the mouth
    nerves to his nose, and the ear nerves to his eyes. He can still
    see with his eyes, but he also hears with them. Must be confusing
    for him, especially when he blinks. It's sort of embarrassing.
    Nurse Smith got quite a shock when she touched his toe. We're
    still trying to get the toe to lie down flat again."
         "You idiot!" exclaimed the Chief (supressing his own
    laughter). "This could give the hospital a bad name. Worse, it
    could give ME a bad name. You'll just have to operate again. (And
    I left Jessie for this?) We'll have to give the patient a 10%
    discount, too, damn it all. After all it IS our fault.
         "Now, get to it, doctor. And send Nurse Barkely to me.
    (Tickling, huh? Hmmmm. Should be an interesting chewing out. If I
    threaten to fire her, she'll be willing to . . .)."
         The operating room was made ready again, washed down quite
    thoroughly with Ajax and Lysol. ("You're sure he's not Italian,"
    asked a nurse holding a bottle of Dawn.) The steel operating
    table and surgical instruments were placed in the deep freeze to
    make them the right temperature.
         The pilot was interrupted from his lunch, where he was
    attempting to shove a cheese sandwich through his nose, and was
    wheeled into the operating room. A nurse brought in a large
    rubber mallet and clipped the pilot on the head. ("Gotta cut
    costs, y'know," she explained. "After all, you're getting a 10%
    discount.") The doctor came in with a candy striper clinging to
    his leg.
         Through the fog of the mallet anesthetic, the pilot heard
    her screaming something about an interesting bulge around her
    belly. He saw the doctor hand her a technical instrument that
    looked very much like a straightened coat hanger, and, just as
    the doctor was explaining the medical significance of the
    instrument, the nurse clouted the pilot once more, for good
    measure, and the room went black.
         When he opened his eyes again, the light was no longer
    noisy. However, it did have a peculiar odor. "Am I okay?" he
    asked through his ear. He found that all sound in the room ceased
    whenever he closed his mouth. Gently he tilted his head back,
    aiming his nostrils at the doctor so that he could see better.
    The doctor was clutching the side of the bed in a fit of
    laughter.
         "Oh, shit!," he guffawed. "Here we go again."

                             UNTIL NEXT TIME

         I hope you enjoyed the story. It has some references that
    perhaps belong in a game of Trivial Pursuit - but that adds to
    the fun of it. (Try to find them.)

         Next week?
         I'm not sure. To be honest with you, this issue was prepared
    ahead of time - for a situation where I'm under a deadline crunch
    and just don't have time to put together a new issue. (Try taking
    care of all your other responsibilities and putting out an
    additional 3000 odd words per week, and you'll see what I mean.)
         So, next week?
         I guess you'll just have to come by then and find out.

Zephyr Magazine is © Gene Williams. All rights reserved.