sci-fi

‘Do you want me to turn it off?’
‘No, no! Keep it running. Looks good.’
I lay my kit out, open the folder, uncap my pen. ‘What are you watching?’
‘Oh – some old sixties crap.’
A woman in a peach baby doll negligee is exploring the mad scientist’s catacombs by candlelight.
I put a cuff round Ken’s arm and start to take his blood pressure, one eye on the sphyg, one on the screen.
‘You wouldn’t do it, would you?’ I tell him, finding the systolic. ‘You just know it’s not going to end well.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘That nightie would go up in a second. Not to mention her hair.’
‘Your blood pressure’s fine,’ I tell him, ripping off the cuff.
‘Lovely.’
‘Just a couple more things and I’ll leave you alone.’
The woman is in the main chamber now. There’s a talking head covered with wires in a jar, various arms hung on the wall, and the mad scientist confronting her with a pistol.
‘What the hell is this film?’
‘I dunno,’ says Ken. ‘Frozen Nazis or something. That guy with the gun is bringing all the Nazis back by putting their heads on spare bodies. That head in the jar controls them all.’
‘Nazis, eh?’
‘I know. They never learn.’
I take his temperature.
‘Normal,’ I say, writing it down.
‘Lovely.’
It looks like the head in the jar controls all the arms on the wall. For some reason they grab the mad scientist and strangle him.
‘Why are all mad scientists German?’ says Ken as the scientist slumps to the ground – not before shooting the woman in the negligee.
There’s a close up of the head in the bottle.
Bury me! it says, in despair. Bury me!
‘That’s how I felt last time I was in hospital,’ he says. ‘Have you finished?’

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