dejitaru
11-04-2006, 01:22 PM
I think the writing sounds stilted. How could I make it sound better?
"This doesn't taste like beef."
"It isn't," he replied.
I stopped chewing the sample.
"It is a mass of histological scrap."
"That is a rather unimpressive piece of flesh," I said. He looked me over, tilted his head, and scoffed. I got it.
"It's nice, I mean, but who's going to eat synthetic meat?" I asked. "Is it for vegetarians, or like a low cost..."
He rose from his seat and spoke. "70% of foods sold for profit boast modifications from a natural form, with that amount rising daily."
He always talked in a rigid, low voice. As if every word dug sharp hooks into his skin, yet he was pressed to say them anyway.
"This is not a gimmick, boy. It will supplant anything mommy and daddy can stuff down your throat."
"There's a difference..." I started.
He continued, "And it is no charity brunch for nitwits with frail stomachs, but simply to honor my duty as a doctor of biology."
I could feel those hooks in my skin. I thanked him for his time and left that place never to return.
The next night when I returned, he showed me a large glass container filled with an opaque red liquid. The blood tank. His life's work.
"That's quite impressive." And the question I would regret, "How does it work?"
He fetched a curette and pressed it to his skin, drawing blood. With a meticulous hand, he shaved a large piece of flesh from his arm and placed it in the tank. No, that wasn't beef.
The liquid in the blood tank started bubbling gently, eventually reaching a thick froth. At the 60 second mark, he summoned with forceps a colossal, gory brisket from the soup. I declined his offer to sample.
The room was blindingly humid.
I asked, "Why did you choose me to be your lab assitant?"
He said, "You know my plight." That was his full response.
I stepped outside for some air. The absence of picket signs on the lawn was a sure indication that I was one of very few people who knew how this thing worked. Or that it existed. Regardless of personal qualms or legal restrictions, this was a project that needed to be carried out. It was frightening to think that I understood this monster.
I could hear the doctor murmuring to himself in his room. As I entered, I saw that he was sobbing. He had a scapel in hand and dry clothes.
"What's happening?" I asked him.
He said they were all making fun of him. After little consolation, he shot up from his seat and lunged at me.
We engaged briefly in a chase around the room, concluding with me pinned underneath him and a scapel in my face.
The surgical blade was very attractive from this distance. What craftsmanship! I would certainly lose some part of my body tonight.
"I know who they are!" I shouted. "I know who it is!" The doctor looked at me with wide eyes and slowly receded. I rose to my feet.
"I know who did this to you." I walked him down the hall as I took the scapel from his hand. "I'll show him to you. I'll show you his face."
We ended up in the washroom. I grabbed him by the hair, and with all my energy, slashed his face with the scapel. He stared ahead blankly. I kept cutting. Pieces were spattering in all directions.
I put him in front of the mirror, his face undecipherable. I told him, "This is the one who did this to you." In one motion, I slit his throat and dropped him to the floor.
I scooped up pieces of his face and headed back to the laboratory. The room was cluttered with machines I didn't know how to operate and chemicals whose names I couldn't properly pronounce. I put his face in the tank. The liquid swayed back and forth, stirring sediment to the top.
I siphoned what chemicals I could into jars and put them in my bag along with some of his books. The blood was boiling violently. I opened a window.
The room was silent. No cars outside, no mechanical hum from the ventilation system, no ears ringing, or hearts beating. I just realized I shut out the lights when I entered the room. I had been working in faint streetlight.
I took my things and exited when something caught my eye. At the end of the hallway stood the doctor, looking rather lively for a dead man.
It was a success! I cut to the stairs and made my way to the second floor. I could hear him in pursuit.
I ran to the other stair well, broke a window and squeezed out to give myself a better head start.
I was no less that astonished by what I had witnessed. The man is a genius! I should have broken his neck.
I sped home with the headlights out and went to my room. Shutting the blinds, I opened of the blood jars, still warm from tonight. There were not only chunks of meat in the viscous stew, but fragments of bone and hair.
I took a quaff from the jar. He didn't taste quite like beef. More sharp, like venison. Still, I'd eat him.
These are things I would certainly refine before serving to the public.
I wonder if he's calmed down by now. He'd never return to work in that condition. I wanted there to be no hard feelings. I really knew his plight.
His lab notes. I pulled out my switchblade and opened it. Being left-handed, I was in a predicament. I put the blade to the last knuckle of my ring finger.
I struck the back of the knife. The joint dislocated with a loud crack. I hit a second time, and a third time to sever it completely. I dropped the nub into the blood jar and sealed the lid.
Surely it will grow back.
"This doesn't taste like beef."
"It isn't," he replied.
I stopped chewing the sample.
"It is a mass of histological scrap."
"That is a rather unimpressive piece of flesh," I said. He looked me over, tilted his head, and scoffed. I got it.
"It's nice, I mean, but who's going to eat synthetic meat?" I asked. "Is it for vegetarians, or like a low cost..."
He rose from his seat and spoke. "70% of foods sold for profit boast modifications from a natural form, with that amount rising daily."
He always talked in a rigid, low voice. As if every word dug sharp hooks into his skin, yet he was pressed to say them anyway.
"This is not a gimmick, boy. It will supplant anything mommy and daddy can stuff down your throat."
"There's a difference..." I started.
He continued, "And it is no charity brunch for nitwits with frail stomachs, but simply to honor my duty as a doctor of biology."
I could feel those hooks in my skin. I thanked him for his time and left that place never to return.
The next night when I returned, he showed me a large glass container filled with an opaque red liquid. The blood tank. His life's work.
"That's quite impressive." And the question I would regret, "How does it work?"
He fetched a curette and pressed it to his skin, drawing blood. With a meticulous hand, he shaved a large piece of flesh from his arm and placed it in the tank. No, that wasn't beef.
The liquid in the blood tank started bubbling gently, eventually reaching a thick froth. At the 60 second mark, he summoned with forceps a colossal, gory brisket from the soup. I declined his offer to sample.
The room was blindingly humid.
I asked, "Why did you choose me to be your lab assitant?"
He said, "You know my plight." That was his full response.
I stepped outside for some air. The absence of picket signs on the lawn was a sure indication that I was one of very few people who knew how this thing worked. Or that it existed. Regardless of personal qualms or legal restrictions, this was a project that needed to be carried out. It was frightening to think that I understood this monster.
I could hear the doctor murmuring to himself in his room. As I entered, I saw that he was sobbing. He had a scapel in hand and dry clothes.
"What's happening?" I asked him.
He said they were all making fun of him. After little consolation, he shot up from his seat and lunged at me.
We engaged briefly in a chase around the room, concluding with me pinned underneath him and a scapel in my face.
The surgical blade was very attractive from this distance. What craftsmanship! I would certainly lose some part of my body tonight.
"I know who they are!" I shouted. "I know who it is!" The doctor looked at me with wide eyes and slowly receded. I rose to my feet.
"I know who did this to you." I walked him down the hall as I took the scapel from his hand. "I'll show him to you. I'll show you his face."
We ended up in the washroom. I grabbed him by the hair, and with all my energy, slashed his face with the scapel. He stared ahead blankly. I kept cutting. Pieces were spattering in all directions.
I put him in front of the mirror, his face undecipherable. I told him, "This is the one who did this to you." In one motion, I slit his throat and dropped him to the floor.
I scooped up pieces of his face and headed back to the laboratory. The room was cluttered with machines I didn't know how to operate and chemicals whose names I couldn't properly pronounce. I put his face in the tank. The liquid swayed back and forth, stirring sediment to the top.
I siphoned what chemicals I could into jars and put them in my bag along with some of his books. The blood was boiling violently. I opened a window.
The room was silent. No cars outside, no mechanical hum from the ventilation system, no ears ringing, or hearts beating. I just realized I shut out the lights when I entered the room. I had been working in faint streetlight.
I took my things and exited when something caught my eye. At the end of the hallway stood the doctor, looking rather lively for a dead man.
It was a success! I cut to the stairs and made my way to the second floor. I could hear him in pursuit.
I ran to the other stair well, broke a window and squeezed out to give myself a better head start.
I was no less that astonished by what I had witnessed. The man is a genius! I should have broken his neck.
I sped home with the headlights out and went to my room. Shutting the blinds, I opened of the blood jars, still warm from tonight. There were not only chunks of meat in the viscous stew, but fragments of bone and hair.
I took a quaff from the jar. He didn't taste quite like beef. More sharp, like venison. Still, I'd eat him.
These are things I would certainly refine before serving to the public.
I wonder if he's calmed down by now. He'd never return to work in that condition. I wanted there to be no hard feelings. I really knew his plight.
His lab notes. I pulled out my switchblade and opened it. Being left-handed, I was in a predicament. I put the blade to the last knuckle of my ring finger.
I struck the back of the knife. The joint dislocated with a loud crack. I hit a second time, and a third time to sever it completely. I dropped the nub into the blood jar and sealed the lid.
Surely it will grow back.