#jalsey

Crunch.

Silence. Ripley nods once and begins slowly pressing down on the syringe's plunger until it reaches the bottom, then withdraws it from the flesh with a smooth motion. At first, nothing happens; but Payne leans slightly forward, focusing more of his weight downward. Ripley's hands hover over the dead man's forearms in practiced precaution.

And rightly so; the body begins at once to twitch, and not even seconds later to convulse. Blood squelches and sprays across the floor and onto Ripley’s suit, but he makes no indication of being bothered by this as his hands close around the corpse's thrashing arms, lips pursed. Payne closes his eyes and looks away as a wet, retching sound like mud being pushed through a pipe gurgles out of the corpse’s throat.

"Here we go,” Ripley mutters, watching their patient’s midsection with an unreadable expression.

The exposed tissue begins now to writhe and squirm as if sentient; wet, sucking noises reverberate off the walls as the flesh sluggishly knits itself back together with pulpy crimson tendrils and sinews. Several feet of small intestine, still strewn across the floor, begin to bunch and squirm, gathering and folding its length back into the open abdominal cavity. The crushed bones are quickly encapsulated with gleaming white cartilage, under which they can be seen reconstructing themselves into proper vertebrae and realigning themselves with moist cracking noises. Subcutaneous fat and muscle grope back towards their respective places, and over it all stretches raw, red skin - fresh skin, which immediately breaks out in waves of goosebumps. 

Both men watch with mingled expressions of disgust and interest.

"He's her pet," Payne grumbles, curling his lip. "She oughta feed and water him. And do this crap herself."

"Easy," Ripley warns, snapping his head around to glare at Payne. "I wouldn't say such things if I were you. Watch yourself."

"Just sayin'." Payne's expression dims in annoyance, but he drops it.

The gurgling sounds from the body begin to diminish quickly over the next minute. It has miraculously twisted and contorted itself back into order; and if not for the tattered bloodsoaked clothing, one might never have known that he had been beyond saving only seconds prior. As the final layers of skin stitch themselves together, his chest rises once, then drops. And then the body finally lies still. 

Ripley releases the man’s arms and Payne quickly stands, brushing his hands off on his pants. 

As soon as the men move away, the body heaves with a single croaking cough. Then a second, followed by a burst of small phlegmy coughs that send spittle spraying into the musty air above him.

And then, wild-eyed and wide awake, he sits bolt upright as if struck by lightning, desperately sucking air into his lungs.

Two hulking male figures drag a body towards the center of a featureless room, its sole occupant a weary aluminum chair. A trail of congealed blood like a mangled tongue unfurls behind them, smearing the gritty concrete with viscera that steams up in little wisps in the cool air.

Their quarry's shoes drag and squeak against the stained floor as if protesting their transport. Limp arms are twisted backwards at disturbing angles; the head lolls back and forth like a bent pendulum, one synchronized to no familiar method of timekeeping.

The two men bearing his weight take no care in moving the body, and don't even attempt to set it upon on the chair; instead, it is dropped unceremoniously at the base of the chair, and they step away from it. They're both neatly dressed in crisp gray suits, with close-cropped hairstyles and shining black boots. One man is dark skinned with foxlike eyes and a black tactical bag hanging across his chest, the other a blond man with a heavy crooked jaw that appears to have been broken in the past. Slim rectangular bulges under their suit jackets suggest concealed firearms; these men are both dressed and armed to the nines.

The blond kicks at the body, digging his boot into their ribcage, snickering. He pulls out a slim polaroid camera from his breast pocket and with a squint, lines up the shot so the body's badly mangled spine - sections of crushed yellow vertebrae protruding through webbed and mangled skin, stuck throughout with chunks of pink-and-white sinew, glistering blobs of fat and white cartilage - is clearly visible. A mechanical click-and-whirr rattle the stagnant room's air for a second, and the camera dispenses an image. The man snatches it out of the camera and immediately begins whipping it back and forth, stopping occasionally to watch the photo develop.

"Payne," says the darker man, chiding his coworker exasperatedly before stooping near the body. He shrugs off his bag, and after rummaging inside for a moment he produces a slim white cylinder, about the length of his forearm, and a small clear plastic case. He pops the case open, taking out a pair of disposable nylon gloves and pulling them on with a snap. Then from a smaller box he produces a short silver needle. The fat hypodermic gleams, catching light from the overhead cyan fluorescents. He inserts it into the end of the cylinder with a snap and a hiss.

"Wall of Fame, Ripley, Wall of Fame," Payne replies, shaking his head with a smirk. He gives the photo a few more shakes for good measure. "He'll wanna see these when he wakes up."

Ripley only shakes his head in reply, then with nimble hands he straightens the body so it lies flat and straight on the ground, and this takes considerable time given the condition of the body - although in spite of the carnage endured, the face and head are still remarkably intact.

The man's face is defined, with a bony, crooked nose and high cheekbones shadowed with dark stubble. His hair is neatly cut and ebony brown, though flecked throughout with a hint of gray. He's blood-drenched and windswept, wearing a tattered white button-up, black slacks, and an abused pair of leather dress shoes. Most of his midsection is indistinguishable from roadkill.

"When you're done," Ripley drones, pulling the remains of the corpse's shirt back and positioning the tube just above his heart.

Payne places the camera and photo back into his pocket and stoops beside Ripley. With a sigh of familiarity he presses his palms against the cold shoulders of their patient, holding him firmly against the concrete.

"Ready," says Payne tonelessly.

"He got a concussion last time. You got his head?"

"I got his head."

"Alright." Ripley's eyebrows ripple into question marks - his look of intense focus - and the needle shivers just above the pale veined flesh. He takes a breath, and inserts the needle.

NEXT:

Frank was the new punk gay kid at Gerard's youth group, and Gerard wasn't sure how to handle his feelings about him.

I FCKN LOVE THAT SONG and I resonate with the lyrics a lot so another one in which I should pretty much paste the whole song here, but I’ll go with

Do you call yourself a fucking hurricane like me?Pointing fingers cause you’ll never take the blame like me?And all the people say,“You can’t wake up, this is not a dream,You’re part of a machine, you are not a human being,With your face all made up, living on a screen,Low on self esteem, so you run on gasoline.”Oh, oh, oh, oh,I think there’s a flaw in my code,Oh, oh, oh, oh,These voices won’t leave me alone,Well my heart is gold, and my hands are cold.

I just used to think of me as a hurricane, as something strong and destructive. But lately I’ve been feeling like this is not true anymore, that I’m just wasting time and that I don’t have the strength to be a hurricane anymore, so my code is flawed. I love how this song talks about how we’re all fucking the same, concentrating on stupid and useless things, all buried in material goods. And then there are some people who just feel like they don’t belong anywhere, and they feel flawed instead of different. They have a good heart but they can’t spread their love or goodness. The mental image I get with that last line is a glowing gold heart that pumps glowing gold blood through the veins, but once it gets to the fingertips it can’t spread anymore. That’s what feeling flawed feels like. You’re able to love but you can’t, or you can but are too afraid to do it, or you do it and get hurt. It kinda sucks.