Ham Taylor: Lost In Time! Read online

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  The Overnight Intensive Recovery Unit, New York Downtown Hospital

  It was 3am and the only light in the Unit came from bleeping machines and a small TV mounted near a shaded window. Taylor tried to watch the movie but even John Wayne herding 600 head of beef from Texas to Missouri wasn't enough to distract him from himself.

  He threw back the sheets, straightened out his hospital issue pyjamas then inspected the IV attached to his left hand. The line from his vein wasn't connected to a pole with hanging bags of fluid pharmaceuticals, but instead went directly into a Hippocrates medical unit. Taylor squinted, confused at how the hospital found the capital for top-of-the-line units like Hippocrates, and how on Earth he would pay for his involuntary use of it.

  "Love this movie," said an elderly man on the opposite bed. "My Grandfather met the Duke once. Did you know he had no hair?"

  The old man ran a frail hand through his thick silver side part. Taylor grinned before a pinging blue light brought his eye back to Hippocrates. The machine was an all-in-one diagnosis and treatment centre, a sleekly designed smart pod the length of your average man and attached to each bed in the Unit. It had x-ray capabilities, would prescribe appropriate drugs and promptly administer them. It could even perform cutting edge procedures such as advanced neurosurgery and if you had the credit, Regenerative Organ Agriculture (ROA). Hippocrates was a personal M.D., equipped with inoffensive lights and a soothing voice to promote tranquillity.

  "You'd have shot him between the eyes!" blared a voice from the TV.

  "Just as sure as you're standing there!" yelled a determined John Wayne.

  Taylor's head was spinning so he was glad he was lying down, but far from pleased to be in a hospital. The scar across his throat was testament to the last time he was here, and he groaned at what awaited him in the morning. Come 9am the police would arrive to interrogate him. He would then pay the officers for their time before being charged for jumping off a perfectly good bridge - court date due in the mail. When the officers left he would be at the mercy of blunt foreign nurses and Porsha, a patronizing 21-year-old psychologist who hadn't lived a day in her life.

  This was Taylor's third suicide attempt. The first time he’d put a gun to his ear and pulled the trigger. It exploded in his hand, embedding shrapnel in his neck and leaving him deaf for a week. The incident taught him never again to purchase a firearm from the internet. Taylor's second attempt was with a straight razor, but fortunately or unfortunately, the cut wasn't deep enough and his brother found him before he could bleed out. Last night he had hoped that a combination of methods would get the job done. Fate, it seems, had other plans, and saw fit to send Taylor a fearless jogger and a sharp eyed dog walker.

  "Suicides," Porsha once told him, "were seized-upon moments of dark inspiration." These days, Hamilton Taylor spent a lot of time in the dark.

  "Bah!" cried the old man, throwing the remote aside as commercials (only 50 credits to skip!) interrupted Red River.

  Taylor glanced at a timer on the old man's headboard. Every bed had one. The more you pay, the longer you stay. The old man's timer was currently down to five minutes.

  He caught Taylor looking and smiled. "I was hoping to see the end of the movie before they kicked me out, I know what happens...but still."

  Taylor kept his mouth shut. With an hour left on his own clock, and no way to pay, he too would soon be on the receiving end of a boot.

  On television, an interview with US President Chantel Cox played in a corner of the commercials. Cox was in her late thirties - pretty, privileged and polished, with an unprecedented public approval rating. In the interview with ICU News' Ron Bateman, the President discussed a recent controversy.

  "We had the debate and the bill was passed" she said, smoothing creases from her dress. "The benefits far outweigh the downsides. We want to protect our children. We want to make sure they feel safe, and Ron, there is currently no better way of doing that than through the use of drones. I understand they have a bad reputation with educators but adjustments take time."

  "Last month one went down in a school playground," Ron cautiously added. "Naughty boys throwing rocks, no doubt."

  "No doubt." Cox smiled. "We are working on making these machines more child friendly by painting faces and adding pleasant voices. A work in progress. Trust us to care for you."

  The courteous journalist nodded. "Final question Madam President. We've been inundated with questions regarding your bewitching shoes. Can you tell the folks at home where you bought them and where they can purchase their own?"

  President Cox blushed and tittered. "They're Mario Balsar exclusives!" With a blinding smile, the President raised her foot to show off the emerald green high heels. "Americans at home can have them on a 6 month pre-order from Mario's personal site, and don't forget to add promo code POTUS, to get 5% off."

  "Thank-you for your time, Madam President."

  "LAUNCH SUCCESSFUL!" Flashed the following headline. The report detailed a joint Russian/American shuttle launch from Baikonur Cosmodrome, the world’s largest space facility in Kazakhstan. The purpose of the launch, as reported by the anchor, was to shore up the International Space Station, now a floating museum recognising human achievement.

  Taylor sat up on the bed, intrigued to see NASA and the Russians using the formerly decommissioned shuttle Endeavour for the mission, a piece of scrap once on display at the California Science Center.

  "Fixing old junk with older junk," Taylor muttered, as John Wayne returned to shoot up the screen. "Bloody idiots."

  While the Duke did his thing, Taylor noticed a numbing sensation in both hands. It continued up his arms and enveloped his chest, stabbing his torso with chilly pins and needles. Taylor's vision began to blur as he hopelessly fought against the anaesthetic.

  "Hippocrates?" he said, facing his automated doctor.

  "Yes?" the machine responded. "How can I assist you, Dr. Taylor?"

  "What treatment have you initiated? I gave no consent to any operation!"

  "Dr. Taylor your medical condition has been reviewed and an anaesthetic has been administered."

  "For what purpose?" he yelled, his limbs and lower body paralysed.

  Moments later his jaw sagged and tongue began to loll. As Hippocrates replied to his question, dark clouds gathered over Taylor's eyes and he found himself falling further and further from the answer.