Heatstroke appears in the waiting room, taking another gent. His shaker of kosher salt rolling away as the cudgel of fries fall out of his mouth and onto his bib and down his pants. This is the summer in a winter's glaze and we're here to witness nothing new. Doesn't matter, these dead people were old anyway.
Ty, the orderly on duty, takes off the old man's pants and checks the pockets. No wallet, no cash, nothing to leave behind. The old man falls off the chair, cracking his tooth. A golden incisor lands in Ty's front pocket. "At least there's something out of this," says the orderly, chewing on the fries. Picking up the salt shaker, he finishes off the rest of the plate.
"I have a friend who's Greek," he starts, "and I'll tell you that there is no such thing as dying inside. He's plenty in on the joke. So he says, and he calls me something philo... philo-semitic. What's so wrong about loving the juice? I drink it all day."
He checks the man's shirt, "Hey old man, you're leaving me nothing here. How ungrateful are you? Gonna be hard to hawk your tooth. Doesn't melt to much. Them ads are wanting gold chains and watches. You're a poor old man."
A photo falls out.
"This yours, huh?" looking it over, licking his lips. "She's a nice one that. Breeds real well I bet." Flipping it over he reads the note. "Where is Uncanny Valley?"
He continues checking, now gnawing at the fingernails for that hit of collodion. "You're real tasty, mister, at least you have that. I'll stop at them fingers. The rest of you looks past it."
He folds up the old man in the chair, pointing him to that documentary where that gazelle spears a rhino. Shaking off the salt from the clothes, he walks out.
Written on Friday, 1 June 2012