RE: The $300,000 Fight-A-Thon! [Round Two: Toyetic!]
06-29-2013, 08:38 AM
(This post was last modified: 06-29-2013, 10:50 AM by Pharmacy.)
“This is dangerous! This is very dangerous!”
“IT'S A BULLET. IN A FOOT.”
“S-shut up! I'm the doctor here!”
The doctor was a man of slight built and of slight confidence. He was mousy but rather pallid; although it was debatable if that was his natural complexion or an indicator of his current psychological state as he looked fairly uncomfortable with a eight-foot-tall dragon hovering over him. The doctor tried to scavenge some semblance of courage and professionalism by attempts towards medical diagnosis - if medical diagnosis could be constrained as “poking Silvestris everywhere with a tongue depressor.” Doctor Mus his name tag read in curly handwriting. A DOCTOR.
Guillemet could not help but roll her eyes.
(I swear I am a real doctor guys), a footnote pleaded at the bottom of the name tag. Mus had many name tags – arranged in a way like spots on a Dalmatian. A REAL Doctor, one proudly declared. Do not mess with, admonished another. PhD in biologies, chemstries and other science-logies. (I swear I have the credentials, sir/madam/other).
“But I do know what to do!” Mus spun around – forcing a smile like he meant it but let's face it, he didn't meant it anyway.
“OH SURE,” Guillemet frowned, immediately dampening Mus' spirits. She took note of the fact that Mus not only wore too many name tags but also too many labcoats. And at least three layers of protective gloves. “WHAT IS IT.”
“Ah-ah, ASA, a phenomenally wondrous drug. Mass-produced, wide-spread, and rather effective, shall I say? Otherwise known as acetylsalicylic acid.”
Guillemet blinked a couple times. And sighed.
“SO BASICALLY. ASPIRIN.”
“B-basically!” He beamed a smile. “I-I guess!”
“SO YOU ARE GOING TO TREAT HIS BULLET WOUND. WITH ASPIRIN.”
“It helped in the past,” Mus proceeded to dump an entire contents of aspirin onto a well of a spoon. Obviously, thirty-six tablets was too much for a capacity of an average-sized dinnerware to handle so most fell to the ground. “So it will definitely help in the future!”
Guillemet slapped the spoon away. The remainder of the tablets clattered down to the floor, never to be ingested by anyone.
What a waste.
“ARE YOU. REALLY. A DOCTOR.”
The dragon menaced forward. Mus step back in instinct, causing a plate of rusty surgical tools to clatter noisy on the floor. It was obvious they had not been used for a long time, if not years. He glanced at a scalpel – its obsidian edge long dull – and glanced back at Guillemet. He had basically not defense and the threat basically one foot. He gulped.
“Y-yes I am, can't you see? I'm helping him! H-honest!”
“OH YEAH, HELPING HIM. TOTALLY. HELPING HIM GET BRONCHOSPASMS. PROTEINURIA. HEMATURIA. ENTEROPATHY. HYPERKALEMIA...” Guillemet kept rattling on about the symptoms as though she was reading from an pharmaceutical encyclopedia, giving the poor doctor absolutely no mercy. “HEPATOXICITY.” She glared with an aptitude of a disappointed professor, further belittling Mus and her enormous height certainly did not help. “URITCARIA. PAPILLARY NEUROSIS. PAPULOERYTHRODERMA--”
“S-salicylate toxicity, I GET IT, you pretentious twat.” Mus took off one glove and tossed into the dragon's yapping maw. He then proceeded to pull another from a box for the purposes of replacement – because hey, there is no such thing as excess in terms of safety. “What the fuck is with you and your c-c-condescending attitude?”
“OOOOH, USING WORDS BIGGER THAN YOUR BRAIN, I LIKE THAT.” Guillemet sneered as she swallowed the latex glove, much to the disgust of everybody in her vicinity. “MAYBE YOU AREN'T AS STUPID AS I THOUGHT YOU ARE, THOUGH I CAN'T QUITE FORGIVE YOU FOR THE ASPIRIN CURE.”
“I'm not s-stupid!” Mus had lost all confidence because all that was left was indignant fury.
“SO WHY NOT JUST EXTRACT THE GODDAMN BULLET.”
“W-WHAT? That's b-b-bloody! And violent! Also really gross!”
“THAT IS THE MOST OBVIOUS TREATMENT, EASY AS BREATHING, EVEN AN QUACK CAN DO THAT. IF YOU REALLY CAN'T DO THAT. YOU AREN'T A REAL MAN.”Guillemet snarled. “YOU AREN'T EVEN A REAL DOCTOR.”
Mus made an expression that more suited for a deer on a highway than a normal human being. His face twisted into something between sobbing uncontrollably or righteous frustration. He jabbed a finger at Guillemet.
“Get. Out.”
“FUCK YOU.”
“Get. Out.”
“YOU AREN'T EVEN A REAL DOCTOR.”
“W-well, I may be. I may be not,” he seethed. “But I am the doctor. The only doctor of this hospital. And the hospital is my domain – which means my rules and my views. You had not been complying with my rules through this diagnosis and you had been incredibly rude. Ruder than I can tolerate. I ask you to get out. Get. Out. Get. The.” It took him all his effort not to use profanity. “Gosh darn. Out.”
“WELL WHY DON'T I BEND DOWN SO YOU CAN KISS MY--”
Silvestris waved. He open and closed his mouth repeatedly while making a pinching gesture with his left hand. Guillemet guesstimated that as a statement meaning to comply with The-Worst-Doctor ever and she was right.
“FINE, 'DOC,' YOU WIN. ADIOS.” Guillemet flashed a vulgar gesture as she stooped below a door and out. “OH BY THE WAY.”
“YOU STILL SUCK.”
---
Well that was a certainly pointless.
Guillemet bobbed into the waiting room. It was an insipid and typical affair, featuring chairs, tables, and the worst carpet ever. The air was thick with dust, giving it an unpleasantly musty smell. There was a stand in the front intended for a receptionist but judging from the cobwebs – it was obvious a receptionist did not exist for a while. Inspiring bland jazz music played in the background. There was also sobbing. Guillemet sighed.
Guillemet, your passion in rhetoric is exemplary, but you need to hold yourself back more-- Trademark quipped in somewhere in her memory.
SHUT UP, TRADEMARK, YOU ARE FAT Guillemet thought back. With vengeance.
Rude, Trademark sniffed – well, what Guillemet think he would do. Needless to say, Trademark's words lessen in importance and disappeared in a puff of logic before an unnecessary flashback could commence.
GOOD, Guillemet harrumphed. Yeah, Trademark had a point – perhaps if she was more constrained in the manner sense, her issues back at home would be less conflagrant. Her brothers and sisters would respect her more. The humans (those squishy, squishy humans) would fear her less – and would more readily accept her contributions. Yeah, she could be more empathetic, more polite but that takes her effort. Effort to slow down. Effort to explain basics (“WHAT YOU MEAN YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT A QUASICRYSTAL IS?”). Effort to have patience. Effort that is better wasted on other things.
She didn't even bother to think about San Francis anymore. Pretty sure they do fine without her. Plus, if things go to shit, they always have the neighboring Trademark to depend on. She had other important things to focus on – mainly, the watch on her right.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS A WATCHER” she remembered saying when she was soaring to Toyetic Hospital and Clincs – not a long while ago, about ten minutes and thirty seconds ago based on the watch and her compulsive need for pedantry.
“Well,” Silvestris sheepishly smiled. “I don't exactly know either.”
Guillemet also remembered stopping mid-air and just briefly (but STRONGLY) considering dropping Silvestris – all one thousand feet – onto the asphalt. She was not the type of dragon who treated people who dole out useless information with any mercy. That had a tendency to get in trouble with the police force back in more familiar places.
“They are miracle makers,” Silvestris wistfully sighed, totally obvious (or willfully ignorant) of Guillemet's nefarious plots. “Using these warehouses, they built Toyetic from ground up, made it a place of prosperity and peace...”
Guillemet rolled her eyes and smashed through a building. A couple of tenants fell, screaming before the apartment crumbled into fine dust. Also cancer.
“...Made us...paragons and perfection...”
The dragon snorted into laughter, accidentally running into a flock of robotic birds. The flock erupted into small explosions. And cancer.
“...And then they left.”
”OH WELL.UH, THAT SUCKS.” A few seconds of silence.”SORRY ABOUT THAT.”
“What?! You don't need to be sorry. You are back!” Silvestris hugged Guillemet, causing her to flail in surprise. “And that is all that matters!”
”EW GROSS, STOP SPREADING YOUR INCOMPETENCE GERMS OVER ME,” Guillemet retched. “ALSO WHY ARE YOU SO INCOMPETENT ANYWAY. NO OFFENSE BUT YOU SUCK AS A POLICEMAN. WHY DOES THIS PLACE SUCK IN GENERAL.”
“It's kind of a difficult to explain...”
“FOR FUCK'S SAKE, I'M A SCIENTIST. I THRIVE ON LONG EXPLANATIONS.”
“You see. We ARE good at what we do...”
“OH HA HA THAT'S FRESH.”
“...but when we are told so.”
“OH?” Guillemet was intrigued.
“We literally thrive off the confidence, charisma of a leader...we only can be our best if we are led. If we are our lonesome, well, you know how quality we are.”
“WELL IT HAS BEEN ONLY FIVE MINUTES AND I THINK I ALREADY DESTROYED SIX BLIMPS. A BUILDING. AND UH, A FLOCK OF ROBOT BIRDS. YEEEEEP, SURE QUALITY.”
“And nothing really happened since the Toyetic existed” Silvestris looked sad, but then he looked positively happy. “Which is why we need you!”
“ME?”
“You are back!”
“I HAVE NEVER BEEN HERE BEFORE.”
“You are the best!”
“FUCK NO.”
“The Coach promised us you will solve everything!”
“THE COACH SPEAKS NONSENSE.”
“But he ensured us this was the truth! We love you! We know what you all look like! We even made merchandise of you guys because we think you are awesome!”
Silvestris dangled something in front of Guillemet's eyes. It was a keychain of Eriz Col-Myel, armor, history, and all. As a cat girl. It was absolutely atrocious and basically what you expect. Guillemet screamed.
“NO MEANS NO,” As egotistical as she was, Guillemet wasn't sure she wanted to lead these doormats if they could create that piece of shit. What if they made cat-girl keychains of other people? What if they made a cat-girl keychain of HER? “NO. N-O. FUCKING NO.”
”But we need you!”
“I DON'T WANT TO TAKE THIS RESPONSIBILITY,” Guillemet screamed, back to present but always back in reality. In order to contain her histrionics, she collapsed on a nearby chair.
Apparently the foundations cannot handle a force of a eight-foot-tall dragon's butt because the hospital collapsed.
---
Like everything else in its vicinity, the former Toyetic Hospital and Clinic was built in a way that was astoundingly shitty. It was to the point that even the falling debris was astounding shitty – as in, it fell and failed to kill people because that how much it sucks. Guillemet had to marvel at that phenomenon as there were absolutely, definitely, positively, no physical causalities. However, there were some psychological ones.
“I'M DEAD!” Mus screamed, bursting out of the rubble in a cloud of dust and cancer. “I'M REALLY DEAD!”
“You are very much alive,” Silvestris unhelpfully pointed out.
“Well,” Mus checked himself., uncharacteristically calm before freaking out again. “I'M CLOSE TO DYING!”
“YEAH” A nearby human head erupted out like a freaky blue palm tree. “BUT YOU APPARENTLY HAVE ENOUGH ENERGY TO KEEP SCREAMING YOUR HEAD OFF, LAZARUS.”
“I'M ILL!”
“I'M UNCONVINCED.”
“I'M PREGNANT!”
“YOU'RE A GUY.”
“I'M...SOMETHING I DON'T KNOW BUT IT'S PRETTY BAD!”
“OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE, CALM YOUR TITS.”
Guillemet then proceeded to shake Mus violently on the shoulders. Unfortunately, that brought her watch in close vicinity to the unemployed doctor's eyes. He gasped.
“Ohmygod,” Mus gasped again for theatrical effect. “Watcher.”
Guillemet had only one appropriate word for this situation.
“FUCK.”
“IT'S A BULLET. IN A FOOT.”
“S-shut up! I'm the doctor here!”
The doctor was a man of slight built and of slight confidence. He was mousy but rather pallid; although it was debatable if that was his natural complexion or an indicator of his current psychological state as he looked fairly uncomfortable with a eight-foot-tall dragon hovering over him. The doctor tried to scavenge some semblance of courage and professionalism by attempts towards medical diagnosis - if medical diagnosis could be constrained as “poking Silvestris everywhere with a tongue depressor.” Doctor Mus his name tag read in curly handwriting. A DOCTOR.
Guillemet could not help but roll her eyes.
(I swear I am a real doctor guys), a footnote pleaded at the bottom of the name tag. Mus had many name tags – arranged in a way like spots on a Dalmatian. A REAL Doctor, one proudly declared. Do not mess with, admonished another. PhD in biologies, chemstries and other science-logies. (I swear I have the credentials, sir/madam/other).
“But I do know what to do!” Mus spun around – forcing a smile like he meant it but let's face it, he didn't meant it anyway.
“OH SURE,” Guillemet frowned, immediately dampening Mus' spirits. She took note of the fact that Mus not only wore too many name tags but also too many labcoats. And at least three layers of protective gloves. “WHAT IS IT.”
“Ah-ah, ASA, a phenomenally wondrous drug. Mass-produced, wide-spread, and rather effective, shall I say? Otherwise known as acetylsalicylic acid.”
Guillemet blinked a couple times. And sighed.
“SO BASICALLY. ASPIRIN.”
“B-basically!” He beamed a smile. “I-I guess!”
“SO YOU ARE GOING TO TREAT HIS BULLET WOUND. WITH ASPIRIN.”
“It helped in the past,” Mus proceeded to dump an entire contents of aspirin onto a well of a spoon. Obviously, thirty-six tablets was too much for a capacity of an average-sized dinnerware to handle so most fell to the ground. “So it will definitely help in the future!”
Guillemet slapped the spoon away. The remainder of the tablets clattered down to the floor, never to be ingested by anyone.
What a waste.
“ARE YOU. REALLY. A DOCTOR.”
The dragon menaced forward. Mus step back in instinct, causing a plate of rusty surgical tools to clatter noisy on the floor. It was obvious they had not been used for a long time, if not years. He glanced at a scalpel – its obsidian edge long dull – and glanced back at Guillemet. He had basically not defense and the threat basically one foot. He gulped.
“Y-yes I am, can't you see? I'm helping him! H-honest!”
“OH YEAH, HELPING HIM. TOTALLY. HELPING HIM GET BRONCHOSPASMS. PROTEINURIA. HEMATURIA. ENTEROPATHY. HYPERKALEMIA...” Guillemet kept rattling on about the symptoms as though she was reading from an pharmaceutical encyclopedia, giving the poor doctor absolutely no mercy. “HEPATOXICITY.” She glared with an aptitude of a disappointed professor, further belittling Mus and her enormous height certainly did not help. “URITCARIA. PAPILLARY NEUROSIS. PAPULOERYTHRODERMA--”
“S-salicylate toxicity, I GET IT, you pretentious twat.” Mus took off one glove and tossed into the dragon's yapping maw. He then proceeded to pull another from a box for the purposes of replacement – because hey, there is no such thing as excess in terms of safety. “What the fuck is with you and your c-c-condescending attitude?”
“OOOOH, USING WORDS BIGGER THAN YOUR BRAIN, I LIKE THAT.” Guillemet sneered as she swallowed the latex glove, much to the disgust of everybody in her vicinity. “MAYBE YOU AREN'T AS STUPID AS I THOUGHT YOU ARE, THOUGH I CAN'T QUITE FORGIVE YOU FOR THE ASPIRIN CURE.”
“I'm not s-stupid!” Mus had lost all confidence because all that was left was indignant fury.
“SO WHY NOT JUST EXTRACT THE GODDAMN BULLET.”
“W-WHAT? That's b-b-bloody! And violent! Also really gross!”
“THAT IS THE MOST OBVIOUS TREATMENT, EASY AS BREATHING, EVEN AN QUACK CAN DO THAT. IF YOU REALLY CAN'T DO THAT. YOU AREN'T A REAL MAN.”Guillemet snarled. “YOU AREN'T EVEN A REAL DOCTOR.”
Mus made an expression that more suited for a deer on a highway than a normal human being. His face twisted into something between sobbing uncontrollably or righteous frustration. He jabbed a finger at Guillemet.
“Get. Out.”
“FUCK YOU.”
“Get. Out.”
“YOU AREN'T EVEN A REAL DOCTOR.”
“W-well, I may be. I may be not,” he seethed. “But I am the doctor. The only doctor of this hospital. And the hospital is my domain – which means my rules and my views. You had not been complying with my rules through this diagnosis and you had been incredibly rude. Ruder than I can tolerate. I ask you to get out. Get. Out. Get. The.” It took him all his effort not to use profanity. “Gosh darn. Out.”
“WELL WHY DON'T I BEND DOWN SO YOU CAN KISS MY--”
Silvestris waved. He open and closed his mouth repeatedly while making a pinching gesture with his left hand. Guillemet guesstimated that as a statement meaning to comply with The-Worst-Doctor ever and she was right.
“FINE, 'DOC,' YOU WIN. ADIOS.” Guillemet flashed a vulgar gesture as she stooped below a door and out. “OH BY THE WAY.”
“YOU STILL SUCK.”
---
Well that was a certainly pointless.
Guillemet bobbed into the waiting room. It was an insipid and typical affair, featuring chairs, tables, and the worst carpet ever. The air was thick with dust, giving it an unpleasantly musty smell. There was a stand in the front intended for a receptionist but judging from the cobwebs – it was obvious a receptionist did not exist for a while. Inspiring bland jazz music played in the background. There was also sobbing. Guillemet sighed.
Guillemet, your passion in rhetoric is exemplary, but you need to hold yourself back more-- Trademark quipped in somewhere in her memory.
SHUT UP, TRADEMARK, YOU ARE FAT Guillemet thought back. With vengeance.
Rude, Trademark sniffed – well, what Guillemet think he would do. Needless to say, Trademark's words lessen in importance and disappeared in a puff of logic before an unnecessary flashback could commence.
GOOD, Guillemet harrumphed. Yeah, Trademark had a point – perhaps if she was more constrained in the manner sense, her issues back at home would be less conflagrant. Her brothers and sisters would respect her more. The humans (those squishy, squishy humans) would fear her less – and would more readily accept her contributions. Yeah, she could be more empathetic, more polite but that takes her effort. Effort to slow down. Effort to explain basics (“WHAT YOU MEAN YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT A QUASICRYSTAL IS?”). Effort to have patience. Effort that is better wasted on other things.
She didn't even bother to think about San Francis anymore. Pretty sure they do fine without her. Plus, if things go to shit, they always have the neighboring Trademark to depend on. She had other important things to focus on – mainly, the watch on her right.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS A WATCHER” she remembered saying when she was soaring to Toyetic Hospital and Clincs – not a long while ago, about ten minutes and thirty seconds ago based on the watch and her compulsive need for pedantry.
“Well,” Silvestris sheepishly smiled. “I don't exactly know either.”
Guillemet also remembered stopping mid-air and just briefly (but STRONGLY) considering dropping Silvestris – all one thousand feet – onto the asphalt. She was not the type of dragon who treated people who dole out useless information with any mercy. That had a tendency to get in trouble with the police force back in more familiar places.
“They are miracle makers,” Silvestris wistfully sighed, totally obvious (or willfully ignorant) of Guillemet's nefarious plots. “Using these warehouses, they built Toyetic from ground up, made it a place of prosperity and peace...”
Guillemet rolled her eyes and smashed through a building. A couple of tenants fell, screaming before the apartment crumbled into fine dust. Also cancer.
“...Made us...paragons and perfection...”
The dragon snorted into laughter, accidentally running into a flock of robotic birds. The flock erupted into small explosions. And cancer.
“...And then they left.”
”OH WELL.UH, THAT SUCKS.” A few seconds of silence.”SORRY ABOUT THAT.”
“What?! You don't need to be sorry. You are back!” Silvestris hugged Guillemet, causing her to flail in surprise. “And that is all that matters!”
”EW GROSS, STOP SPREADING YOUR INCOMPETENCE GERMS OVER ME,” Guillemet retched. “ALSO WHY ARE YOU SO INCOMPETENT ANYWAY. NO OFFENSE BUT YOU SUCK AS A POLICEMAN. WHY DOES THIS PLACE SUCK IN GENERAL.”
“It's kind of a difficult to explain...”
“FOR FUCK'S SAKE, I'M A SCIENTIST. I THRIVE ON LONG EXPLANATIONS.”
“You see. We ARE good at what we do...”
“OH HA HA THAT'S FRESH.”
“...but when we are told so.”
“OH?” Guillemet was intrigued.
“We literally thrive off the confidence, charisma of a leader...we only can be our best if we are led. If we are our lonesome, well, you know how quality we are.”
“WELL IT HAS BEEN ONLY FIVE MINUTES AND I THINK I ALREADY DESTROYED SIX BLIMPS. A BUILDING. AND UH, A FLOCK OF ROBOT BIRDS. YEEEEEP, SURE QUALITY.”
“And nothing really happened since the Toyetic existed” Silvestris looked sad, but then he looked positively happy. “Which is why we need you!”
“ME?”
“You are back!”
“I HAVE NEVER BEEN HERE BEFORE.”
“You are the best!”
“FUCK NO.”
“The Coach promised us you will solve everything!”
“THE COACH SPEAKS NONSENSE.”
“But he ensured us this was the truth! We love you! We know what you all look like! We even made merchandise of you guys because we think you are awesome!”
Silvestris dangled something in front of Guillemet's eyes. It was a keychain of Eriz Col-Myel, armor, history, and all. As a cat girl. It was absolutely atrocious and basically what you expect. Guillemet screamed.
“NO MEANS NO,” As egotistical as she was, Guillemet wasn't sure she wanted to lead these doormats if they could create that piece of shit. What if they made cat-girl keychains of other people? What if they made a cat-girl keychain of HER? “NO. N-O. FUCKING NO.”
”But we need you!”
“I DON'T WANT TO TAKE THIS RESPONSIBILITY,” Guillemet screamed, back to present but always back in reality. In order to contain her histrionics, she collapsed on a nearby chair.
Apparently the foundations cannot handle a force of a eight-foot-tall dragon's butt because the hospital collapsed.
---
Like everything else in its vicinity, the former Toyetic Hospital and Clinic was built in a way that was astoundingly shitty. It was to the point that even the falling debris was astounding shitty – as in, it fell and failed to kill people because that how much it sucks. Guillemet had to marvel at that phenomenon as there were absolutely, definitely, positively, no physical causalities. However, there were some psychological ones.
“I'M DEAD!” Mus screamed, bursting out of the rubble in a cloud of dust and cancer. “I'M REALLY DEAD!”
“You are very much alive,” Silvestris unhelpfully pointed out.
“Well,” Mus checked himself., uncharacteristically calm before freaking out again. “I'M CLOSE TO DYING!”
“YEAH” A nearby human head erupted out like a freaky blue palm tree. “BUT YOU APPARENTLY HAVE ENOUGH ENERGY TO KEEP SCREAMING YOUR HEAD OFF, LAZARUS.”
“I'M ILL!”
“I'M UNCONVINCED.”
“I'M PREGNANT!”
“YOU'RE A GUY.”
“I'M...SOMETHING I DON'T KNOW BUT IT'S PRETTY BAD!”
“OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE, CALM YOUR TITS.”
Guillemet then proceeded to shake Mus violently on the shoulders. Unfortunately, that brought her watch in close vicinity to the unemployed doctor's eyes. He gasped.
“Ohmygod,” Mus gasped again for theatrical effect. “Watcher.”
Guillemet had only one appropriate word for this situation.
“FUCK.”