Scream of Consciousness

If anyone were around to see it, surely they would agree that the lightshow was fantastic; all strange shadows, incredible highlights, and oddly suggestive glows. Colorful blips and blobs of red and blue danced around the multiplicity of rack-mounted screens and reflected off of Monty’s considerable glasses, resembling a group of amoebas dancing the tango.

Tango dances, however, generally end with as many dancers as when they started, which was clearly not the case here. And it was this that Monty, in the throes of a really good buzz, was more interested in.

With almost calculated regularity, the sub-cellular war was being won (and how!) by the blue team. Whole groups of blue blobs, large enough to fill fifteen TFT’s, would charge at a similarly-paced group of red ones, and the inevitable and sudden meeting-in-the-middle would be mistaken by even someone sober as an ESPN-class scrimmage. There would be a violent circulation as blips and blobs would bounce and dodge and parry each other, as all the while the dominant color would shift predictably over to blue. Suddenly, when only blue spheroids remained, they would become instantly motionless and peaceful.

And it never took long for the microscopic probes to find a new conflict and display it in wall-sized, thirty-screened, 64-bit TrueColor.

Monty, alone and in the dark, strolled confidently to the large wall of display glass behind him, as he grew slightly bored with the screens (which were again busy displaying yet another colorful skirmish). He just stood there with a smirk, watching patient 2874’s appealing breasts heave with breath. She seemed to be sleeping soundly on the stretcher, despite being covered only by a sheet, riddled with tubes and wires, and coated with the trademarked purple splotches characteristic of her disease.

A disease for which there was now hope.

The scintillating on-screens battles he had spent the last fortnight watching almost continuously were almost unnecessary – if he stared long enough, he swore he could see her lesions shrink with his almost naked eyes. Her pneumonia had cleared up days ago.

There was now a safe, bona fide cure. He was single-handedly responsible for it. Enough payment for an early retirement was provided in advance. And a phone call from the Ferrari people (regarding the availability of his new ride) was the only thing distracting him from the fact that the current state of intellectual propriety, and subsequent bidding war between pharmaceutical companies, would likely render his medicine effectively unavailable to any patients at all for at least ten years.