Category: Fiction Factor

Dr. Miller Braxton made sure the information on the monitor was correct, glanced at the documents on the screen briefly, and offered up a forced smile to the man sitting across from him.

“These all appear to be in order,” he said, turning the computer around. “Once you sign the contract there, you’ll officially be a patient and client of the Guilt-Free Association.”

Phillip Meadows cheerfully scrawled his name across the bottom of the screen, initialing the last two of several pages and shifting the monitor back so it was facing Braxton.

“So,” Meadows said, “Tell me again how this works and how soon we can make it happen? Time is  money, and I don’t have time to waste.”

The Guilt-Free Association was the latest in the “Mind Over Matters” movement that gained popularity in the latter part of the 22^nd century. Just as plastic surgery had been a staple for those who wanted to make themselves more beautiful, brain surgery no longer had such ominous implications. There were procedures that could make you happy, optimistic – even fearless.

But one of the newer operations was the boldest – and most controversial – yet; it could remove all guilt and prevent the mind from allowing any culpability for future transgressions.

Meadows had spent three decades as a cyber trader, and couldn’t think of a customer he hadn’t cheated … probably because there wasn’t one. True, he was able to help people make money in the information technology stock game, but never as much as they could have. The illegal program he devised to make transactions allowed him to shave off a little more for himself – to go along with an already exorbitant fee.

His dishonesty had made him wealthy, and continued dishonesty would make him even wealthier. The longer he perpetuated his scams, though, the more guilty he felt.

And guilt was something he simply didn’t want to deal with.

“The surgery itself is extremely safe and, really, quite simple,” Braxton explained. “I could throw a lot of technical jargon at you – it’s all listed in the fine print of the contract – but it comes down to extracting the feelings of guilt from your prefrontal cortex and installing a block, which is a device about 10 times smaller than the head of pin. The guilt we remove is placed in a small containment vessel and then we transfer it into the brain of one of our service animals, usually a dog. Dogs don’t feel guilt – at least not the way humans do – but our studies show that it can alter their behavior in other ways and could open up a whole new avenue of mental makeovers in the future. The larger point is, your guilt lives outside your mind. The surgery takes less than 10 minutes, we keep you sedated for two hours afterward to observe your brain activity, and then you’ll wake up in one of our recovery rooms with no guilty feelings whatsoever. Once you’re aware of your surroundings, you’ll simply press the buzzer by your bed and we’ll answer any additional questions you might have.”

Meadows took a deep breath.

“And you absolutely guarantee no matter what I do going forward – no matter how bad – I won’t feel guilty?” he asked.

“Guaranteed 100 percent,” Braxton said. “Now of course, you’re still subject to the laws of the Pan-America Corporate Government, and the contract you signed absolves us of any liability for a criminal act you might commit. That said, whatever you do will not result in any feeling of guilt or remorse. And, let me remind you, the procedure is irreversible. It’s hard to imagine why anyone would want to reverse it, but it’s important you know that before we continue.”

“Understood,” Meadows said. “Now, let’s do this thing. I’ve got a virtual call with a client in Amsterdam in four hours, and that could be one of my biggest scores of the year.”

Braxton led the patient into a pale blue-colored operating arena that featured a surgeon and an assistant, both adorned in red scrubs. Meadows stripped down to his shorts, and was then asked to lie flat on his back on a cushioned table.

“Have any of you guys had this surgery?” Meadows wondered.

Braxton shook his head from side to side.

“No,” he said. “Our staff is comprised entirely of sociopaths, so there would be no need. With the volume of surgeries we perform, its best to have a staff that is all business all the time. Now, close your eyes and we’re going to give you an injection that will put you under. Once you awake, it’ll be as though no time has elapsed at all. Good luck, Mr. Meadows … I’m confident this will be routine for us and life-changing for you.”

Meadows awoke with a start and saw a large dog crouched in the corner, barking. As he arose, the dog inched closer to his bed and started to growl.

Meadows quickly located the button Braxton had told him about and pressed it.

“Hey!’ he shouted. “This is Phillip Meadows in the recovery room … I guess it’s the recovery room. There’s a dog in here for some reason and he doesn’t seem happy. At all. What the hell?”

“Mr. Meadows, this is Dr. Braxton,” said the voice coming through the intercom. “The surgery was a success and we’ll be releasing you within the hour. In a few moments a technician will come in and give you instructions on the care and feeding of your service animal.”

A service animal was not part of the agreement, at least not as far as Meadows knew.

“Look, I just wanted to have my guilt removed. I didn’t sign up for a dog.”

The door to the room opened and Braxton and a Guilt-Free Association staffer – holding a leash – walked in.

“You should’ve read the fine print, Mr. Meadows,” Braxton said. “The dog is your responsibility since it now carries your guilt. You won’t feel it anymore, but you still have to live with it.”

The 40^th reunion of Hellman High School’s Class of ’84 was well into its third hour when the band took a break after performing Night Ranger’s “Sister Christian.” Many of the well-lubricated guests then headed to the cash bar for a refill, or outside for a cigarette.

“There’s where I did the deed,” said Daryl Bailey, lighting his Marlboro just outside the gymnasium’s red EXIT sign and glancing toward the baseball field as a handful of other smokers joined him.

The round, red brick gymnasium had held up relatively well over the years, although it was now a community center instead of home to the Hellman Purple Demons basketball and volleyball teams.

The school itself had moved to nice, modern digs a few blocks away, yet the old gym and main building remained – as well as the baseball field.

And it was the baseball field that made Hellman High a cause célèbre back in 1983. Oh, it had nothing to do with the team … they rarely put together winning seasons. But the gate that led to the field – and specifically the latch to the gate – gave rise to the “Hanging Meat of Hellman High” legend.

On a late spring Monday morning, members of a freshman gym class were heading to the baseball field while some upperclassmen were walking off. It was routine for the frosh to run through the open gate of the chain-link fence, take a lap around the field, and then line up for jumping jacks and pushups.

But Lonnie Stone never made it to the field.

Hardly a fast runner, he was bringing up the rear while his classmates charged toward the diamond. Just as he was about to enter, the right side of the gate swung violently in his direction, and his upper right leg hit the fork latch at full force.

The latch ripped a trench in his flesh, peeling it back like an accordion as the youngster screamed in agony.

A combination of excruciating pain – and blood loss – caused Lonnie to faint, and even after paramedics arrived, there was some question as to whether or not he’d survive.

But as they put him on a stretcher and sped away to the hospital, a part of him was left behind.

Roughly six inches of flesh hung from the fork latch, creating a gruesome scene. It was so sickening, in fact, no one wanted to go near it – not even the Hellman High coaching staff.

For days the shredded piece of Lonnie’s leg dangled from the latch, alternately eliciting giggles and gasps from kids who dared move in for a closer look.

By Friday it was still there, although at that point it had baked in the sun so long it resembled beef jerky.

And then – the following Monday – it was gone.

The gate was closed and the latch clean, presumably the work of the school’s janitorial staff.

But some of the more creative members of the Hellman High student body decided the incident was too bizarre to just let go, so they didn’t. They claimed that the hanging meat of Hellman High hadn’t been cleaned up at all – it had actually wandered off into the woods behind the field. Lonnie’s pain had manifested itself into an evil, troll-like creature – “Meaty” they called it – and it kept a watchful eye on everyone who dared run past the gate and onto the field.

It was said that late at night, you could sometimes see Meaty’s glowing red eyes staring out from the woods – occasionally releasing a guttural scream mimicking that of Lonnie’s.

It made for a nice campfire-style story, especially since Lonnie never returned to Hellman High; he moved to another state after his father got a new job, and his accident occurred during the final week of his freshman year.

Thing is, it wasn’t an accident.

Large gates like the one at the baseball field don’t just swing by themselves – they need a push.

And if not for Daryl, Lonnie wouldn’t have the gash in his leg, and Hellman High wouldn’t have its legend.

Bailey was a bully, and during his high school days took great pleasure in causing pain to kids who were younger and smaller than him.

As he saw Lonnie trundle toward the field, the junior thought it’d be funny if the freshman met the gate face first. So, he grabbed it with both hands and pushed as hard as he could.

Unfortunately for Lonnie, the  timing was a bit off and instead of crashing into the gate – which would’ve been painful enough – his leg was caught by the gash.

Although several students saw Daryl do it, they didn’t dare report him. And while the legend grew during his senior year, anyone who told the tale made sure to leave his name out of it for fear of retaliation.

“I kinda felt bad about it,” he said to no one on particular. “I mean, I thought it’d be funny as hell to see his stupid face slam into that gate, but I didn’t mean to send him to the hospital. I wonder if the kids at the school still talk about the hanging meat at Hellman High? I hope so … it means I’m still famous.”

Feeling nostalgic – and a little bit buzzed – Daryl stomped his cigarette out and wandered toward the gate. All but one of the others headed back in as the band cranked up 38 Special’s “Back Where You Belong.”

Daryl stared off into the woods and – even though he figured it was probably just his imagination – felt like he was being watched.

In fact, he was.

“Hey.”

Daryl was startled by the voice, and as he turned around, he saw a small, slight man standing just a few feet away. He’d seen him during the course of the evening, although Daryl had no real idea who he was.

“It’s me, Daryl … Lonnie … Lonnie Stone,” he said. “I heard about the Class of 84’s reunion and thought I might be able to find you here. Turns out anybody can buy a ticket to one of these things – I didn’t even have to use my real name. Anyway, I just want you know that I forgive you for what you did to me.”

Lonnie then pointed toward the gate.

Daryl turned slowly and froze; a hideous creature with glowing red eyes was glaring at him.

“Unfortunately,” Lonnie said. “Even though I forgive you, Meaty doesn’t. You took a pound of flesh from me, and now he’s here to take yours.”

The cat eyed the visitor standing outside the front door, let out a quick yawn, and then laid its head back down on the sofa, its fluffy, gray tail switching rhythmically.

“You must be Jeff from that dot com,” said Malcolm Scrimm, his gap-toothed smile stretching across his wrinkled face. “Come in, come in. Here … I made you a cup of my famous tea. Everybody that enters the House of Scrimm has to at least try it.”

Scrimm was the owner of Vlad, a Norwegian Forest cat who – according to its owner – was 39 years old.

Jeff Jaffee worked for CandidCritters, a website that specialized in writing offbeat articles concerning animals. Having received a call about Vlad a week earlier, Jaffee wanted to see if there was something to the story.

“I appreciate you letting me come out,” said Jaffee, who had no real interest in the tea but politely took a sip after Scrimm passed the cup. “Wow … that’s really good, thanks. Well, I can see Vlad has quite a tail. Now I want to hear the tale of a cat that’s nearly 40. Do you mind if I pet him?”

“Please do.”

Jaffee gave Vlad a couple of soft rubs on the head, then scratched his chin.

If Vlad was, in fact, 39, then the folks at Guinness would need to amend their list. Creme Puff was a Texas feline that lived 38 years and three days from 1967 to 2005, making it the world record holder.

“Just curious,” Jaffee said. “How exactly do you know that Vlad is 39?”

Scrimm walked over to a table beside the sofa and grabbed a scrap book.

“Because I found him 39 years ago,” he said with a chuckle. “Just showed up on my doorstep on July 3, 1985. Couldn’t have been more than three or four weeks old. Here, look.”

Scrimm pointed to a photo of himself holding Vlad while standing on his porch, which was decorated in Fourth of July bunting.

“There’s your proof,” he said. “As you can see I had some 1980s hair going for me. I think I was trying to channel Howard Jones.”

Jaffee looked at the photo and it appeared to be legitimate. Still, he needed more proof than a faded Polaroid.

“That certainly looks like you and Vlad as a kitten,” he said. “But don’t you have any veterinarian records or something like that? I just need to cross the Ts and dot the Is … you understand.”

Scrimm rubbed his chin and thought for a moment.

“Sure I do,” he said. “Lemme get it from the drawer in the kitchen.”

As Scrimm left the room, Vlad continued to eye Jaffee. There was hardly anything unusual about a cat stare, but the look he was getting from the creature was unnerving. Making things even weirder was that he was struggling to look away and felt himself overcome by a wave of dizziness.

Jaffee stumbled back against the wall after Scrimm returned with a yellow piece of paper and silver tag.

“I found what you need,” Scrimm said. “This is the paperwork for his first rabies shot in 1985, as well as the tag. Of course I’m guessing the last thing on your mind right now is your little write-up.”

Scrimm plopped down on the sofa next to Vlad, who moved onto his lap without ever breaking eye contact with Jaffee.

“I can’t tell you the number of people who are just amazed by ol’ Vlad here,” Scrimm said, gently stroking the cat. “They can’t believe he’s as old as he is and looks as healthy as he does. But I’ll let you in on a little secret before you nod off, Jeff. It all comes down to diet.”

Poisoned by the tea, Jaffee could no longer move. He slowly slid down the wall, his shirt riding up his back and his legs sprawled in front of him as his life drained away.

“See, cats need a balanced diet to stay healthy,” Scrimm said. “A little chicken, a little fish, some grains … now you feed a cat that, and he’s probably gonna give you 15 or 20 good years. But Vlad here, he’s special. And as soon as he showed up, I knew we had something in common.

“I like killing people, and he likes eating the people I kill. Turns out you give a cat some long pig, and it adds years to their life.”

Scrimm grabbed Jaffee by his feet, pulled him toward the door leading to the basement, and shoved him down the steps.

Vlad’s tail raised straight in the air as he leapt from the sofa and headed for his dinner.

Scrimm reached for his phone and punched in seven digits.

“Yes, is this CandidCritters? This is Malcolm Scrimm. That fellow you were supposed to send – Jeff was it? He never showed up. But it’s probably just as well. Me and my cat don’t really like drawing attention to ourselves, anyway.

“Have a blessed day.”