Finding Himself Dead

11/17/2009

Paul Revis







FINDING HIMSELF DEAD



The very ornate sign read; "Dr. U. R. Walletvac MD, Doctor Of Unusual Conditions".

“Sounds like what I need,” thought the man as he stepped into the neat and empty office and waited for the purple-haired receptionist to end her telephone conversation with her hairstylist. The sudden crash of receiver being replaced rather forcibly promptly brought the man to his feet.

“Yes?” she inquired in that disinterested way that receptionists seem to have. “What is your complaint? What do you need to see the doctor for?”

“Well… I think I’m dead,” the man replied.

“Well, you do look a bit pale, sir. Exam room 3 down the hall, to your right. The nurse will be in to take your vitals in just a minute.” “Nut job,” she thought.



Thirty-six minutes later nurse Agnes Boltcruncher, RN entered Exam Room 3 and began filling out the required forms on the computer that rose from the desk like a praying mantis.

“Name?”

“Not sure anymore,” he replied.

Agnes typed “Notsureanymore” into the Last Name box.

“First name?”

“Don’t remember.”

Agnes typed “Dontremember” into the First Name box.

“Social Security Number?” she asked.

“I’m afraid I just don’t know. I haven’t been able to remember much of anything lately, sorry.”

"Any identification? Drivers license, or something like that? Insurance card? You know we can't do anything without that."

"I can't find any," said the man patting his pockets. "I used to have a wallet, I think, but I can't seem to find it now. I wish I knew where it was so I could find out who I am," he said, his voice trailing off to a barely audible whisper.

“We’ll get back to it later then, shall we? An insurance card is very important though. You'll need to find that for sure. Well, what seems to be the trouble today, Mr. Notsureanymore?”

“Actually…well, I think I’m dead.”

Agnes typed “Possibly dead” into the box labeled “Nature of Complaint”. “I see, Mr. Notsureanymore, but surely, you are sitting here in the Doctor’s office about to submit to a physical examination that you are personally requesting. You walked into the office on your own. In my experience, actual cadavers are quite unlikely to perform these functionions of their own free will. Just how long have you believed you've been dead?”

“About three weeks, I think.”

“I see,” said Agnes, “Well, let’s have a look at those vitals then, shall we? Please remove your hat and shirt.”

The man removed his hat, revealing a large gash in the side of his skull. Things seemed to be moving about, in and out of the fissure. Agnes ignored it, not wanting to alarm the patient unduly. Beneath his shirt were two large caliber bullet holes in the center of his chest, and more wildlife happily entering and exiting the man’s body as though moving into an altogether new neighborhood. Agnes placed the blood pressure cuff over the man’s arm and pumped it up, ignoring the uncharacteristic squishy sounds emanating from the area, as well as the colorful ooze flowing by the pale-colored wildlife.

“Zero over zero,” intoned Agnes, “a bit low.”

“Shouldn’t there be something?” asked the man.

“One would think so,” agreed Agnes with a smile, as she removed the cuff and took his wrist in order to check his pulse. “Zero again,” she said after a few seconds of observing her watch. “At least there is consistency here. Consistency is good, I always say,” she said with another smile calculated to put the patient at ease. She then took the business end of her stethoscope and placed it close to the center of the man’s chest, careful to avoid disturbing the aparently happy wildlife. “Hmm, zero again! Wonderful consistency, Mr. Notsureanymore.” She then typed her findings into their proper boxes. “The doctor will be in to see you in just a moment. Have a seat in the chair if you like; it’s more comfortable than the examination table.” She then disappeared through the door. The preliminary examination took less than six minutes. Agnes was very efficient.



Forty-two minutes later the door opened and in strode Doctor Walletvac repleat with the old fashioned chrome head-gear thingie with the hole in it used to examine the eyes of his patients, the stethoscope flung around his neck and a pocket protector with the name of some drug company or other half obliterated by pen marks. Very efficient looking.

"Well now, Mr. Notsureanymore, what seems to be the problem today?"

"Its like I told your nurse, I'm pretty sure I'm dead. I have these holes in my chest that sort of look serious, and this big gash here in my skull. Not sure what bugs these are, but they don't look normal either," replied the man.

"Those are maggots, actually," replied the doctor in that seriously intense manner that doctors seem to be taught to use in order to sound smarter than their patients. "Any pain associated with your fatal injuries?"

"No, and that surprises me a little. You'd think there would be at least some pain. Shouldn't there be? I mean, these holes in my chest should really hurt, not to mention the one in my head. A headache at least."

Dr. Walletvac continued to scribble notes on the mans chart, punctuating several with exclaimation points and little stars. Clearly an interesting case, even for the doctor who specializes in interesting cases.

"Hmmm, well normally following a massive trauma the body will, to put it into layman's terms, block the pain receptors in the brain, however in your case, there didn't appear to be any reason to un-block the receptors, being dead and all. Hence, no pain. Interesting case indeed."

The doctor began examining the mans wounds more closely, noting the massive exit holes in his back, harrumphing from time to time in a very official manner.

"It is very seldom for me as a medical professional to concure with a patient's self-diagnosis, most people are simply clueless as to what their problems actually are. However, Mr Notsureanymore, you appear to be quite correct in your assesment. In my professional opinion, and I am a real Doctor you know, you are a rotting corpse, quite dead, and should have been buried a week ago at least, pending a post mortum by the Coroner. And yet, here you are, walking and talking and taking up my precious time with a complaint I can realisticly do nothing about. It says here that you have no memory of the circumstances surrounding your death, is that correct?"

"No. Nothing at all. All I remember is waking up in a hotel room somewhere and not feeling quite right. The rest of the time I've just wandered around, I guess."

"Have you notified the police of your murder?"

"No," the man replied, "Hadn't really considered it."

"You may want to do that. When you get the time, of course. No hurry, I'm sure, but whoever it was that executed you may very well be attempting to evade the law. Just a thought. Now then, do you have a taste for brains, something you've not had previously?"

"No, not really."

"Hmmm, most unusual indeed. The overwhelming majority of Zombies have a taste for brains, or so I'm led to believe."

"Zombies? Is that what I am, a Zombie?"

"It appears so. An almost sure case of Zombieism, in my professional opinion, and I am a doctor of unusual cases. It says so on the sign outside."

"Is there a cure?"

"For death? None we have been able to come up with lately, I mean beyond the fine work Dr. Frankinstein did years ago. But practical answer, no."

"Maybe not for death. I mean once you're dead, that's pretty much it, isn't it?"

The doctor smiled and pointed to the man.

"Not always, it appears."

"Then what can be done for me, doctor?"

The doctor opened the examination room door and shouted at his receptionist, " Miss Blatherscape, hold my cases for a while, reschedual if necessary!"

"There aren't any! There haven't been any for a week! When are you going to pay me?"

"It appears I have a little time," said the doctor, closing the door quietly, "shall we do some preliminary research?"

"Please do. I'd like to get this resolved."



The doctor reached into a drawer and removed a DVD, placing it into the slot in the computer. The movie, "Attack of the Killer Zombies" began running on the screen.

"At this point," said the doctor, pointing at the screen with a pen, "we see that the Killer Zombies are being effectivly dealt with utilizing a common chain-saw. Now, normally a chain-saw is not considered a proper medical tool, at least not for the finer art of surgery, however, in your case..."

"That doesn't look pleasent at all," said the man quietly. "Is that my only option?"

"There are always options, Mr. Notsureanymore. You claim not to have a taste for brains, at least not yet, so you don't appear to be a threat to the general public at large in that vein. You haven't attempted to kill me or any of my staff in order to eat our brains, so again, not the type of threat normally ascribed to a confirmed Killer Zombie. Therefor, I suppose the alternative option could very well be, and I almost hesitate to suggest it, to return to society, go back to your job, whatever that was before your obviously violent demise and continue on as you always have. It really is your choice. You think about it," said the doctor, rising and patting the man on his knee, "and then let me know what you decide."

"So, that's it then?"

"I'm afraid so. See if you can come up with that insurance card as soon as possible. We'll need that."



The man did think about it, as best as he could. He walked up and down the street thinking long and hard about returning to his position as... He couldn't remember what it was he did before his untimely death. He had no idea what his skills were, if any. Job? Interviewing for a new position in the food industry would probably not go well. Maybe some anonymous job with an insurance company. At least that way he could get that card the doctor was so anxious to see. He'd have to think about that, and he did. Thought hard about it as he opened the door to the hardware store.

"What I really need is a different brain," he thought to himself. "Mine doesn't seem to be working very well. Maybe if I just ate one it would help me think better."

"Good morning, sir." said the greeter-person with a smile, "Can I help you find anything in particular?"

"Chain-saws?"



END?