A Future We'd Like To See 1.43 - Rock and Roll Will Never Die By Twoflower (Copyright 1994) I've had my fare share of weird patients. I don't mind; that's what I got into the business for. Since biotech is such a new industry, the government is keeping very tight wraps on what you can and can't stick in a human's brain or body. Even the stuff they advertise as 'powerful state of the art biotechnology' is tame, little blue light special memory enhancers or online organizers. Minor personality adjustments, perhaps some limb modifications, that's as far as you could go legally. But who said I did things legally? I'm not in it for the money. I'm not in it for the girls ("Hey baby, wanna convince your body via neural programming that you're having a good time?"). I'm in it for the fun; the ability to do the impossible, the unmentionable, the unforgivable. All the really twisted, warped, DEMENTED mad scientist things that you couldn't even attempt until now. The government was weak to ban most of the biotech procedures. The foundations for all of them were right there in The Amazing Imploding Upberg's files, just waiting to be used. I'm one of the lucky few that got a hold of them before the Confederation seized all copies and started passing laws. Since then, I've become an expert, one of a dozen low- profile doctors doing things that would make Doctor Frankenstein give up and go to a retirement home. I've installed whole new personalities, extra arms, extra genitalia, mental triggers and enhancements of every conceivable notion. I hadn't brought back someone from the dead yet, however. They entered my office that day the way most of my clients do; looking over a shoulder, overly cautious. I had the laughable local police in my pocket anyway, so there wasn't a need to worry about that. They looked like corporate wishy- washies... dark suits, dark glasses, a vague hint of panic. "Come on in," I motioned, waving from my desk where I was playing computer pinball. "Greets. What can I do for or to you for profit and amusement?" "Are you unlicensed medical doctor Flipper Pickstile?" the man asked, reading from one of my underground business cards. "Yup, that's me. Call me Flip. So what do you need?" "Please be aware, Mr. Pickstile, that we were never here, and any attempts on your behalf to relate our non-being here to others could result in summary punishments of a mortal nature." Oooh, a college grad. "That's not a threat," I noted. "Yes it is, Mr. Pickstile." "That's 'Flip'. And no, a threat would be 'If you EVER even fucking CONSIDER telling anybody we were here, your internal organs will be chopped into slices 1/16th of an inch thick and served to large dogs, with the resulting dogshit incinerated in the nuclear fires of a white star.' You just fed me legalese. Whatever... you didn't come here for an insult lesson. What is it you need?" The corporate boy seemed thrown off a bit by my bluntness. Well, the Flipster was never particularly subtle. Ever. He shrugged to his fellow clones and motioned for the ones outside to join him. (No, we hadn't mastered cloning technology yet. I'm trying to make a comparison or something.) They wheeled in a cargo-crate rack. One of those cheesy ancient two wheel jobbies, hand pushed. A lumpy object on the rack was covered with a red sheet. "We represent the Tiddlywink Recording Company," the company man said, handing me his business card. "We need you to make repairs and return this patient to a fully working condition. We will pay whatever you want provided that the operation is a success." My favorite kind of check; a blank one! "Certainly! What seems to be the problem here?" They pulled off the sheet. My grin fell. "Is that who I think it is?" "If you think it's Chuck Corbins, you're right," the corp stated. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong," I said, idly scratching at my desk with a scalpel, "But according to all the papers, Chuck blew off his head with a level two blaster in C'atel three days ago." "That is correct." "Now, I'm suspecting that you're not a doctor. However, even someone who lacks a degree ought to know that once the head has been turned into paste and the body left dead for that time period, chances that they'll be pumping out guitar riffs the next day are rather slim." "You're the best, according to our feelers in the black biotech market," the corp said. "Our computers predict that you have the skills to complete the operation. And once again; we will pay as much as you'd like for restoring Mr. Corbins' life functions." "You're not getting this, are you? He's a stiff! He's snuffed it! Bereft of life, he drifts eternally. This is an EX- MUSICIAN." "It is possible, however, according to the computer." "Yeah, if I have his DNA, a complete memory dump, and few million creds of stuff on the parts market including a spine and a SPARE HEAD," I laughed. "Best of luck at locating such things." The man whistled, and more corporate clones wheeled in another rack, containing little specimen bottles and microchips. "We've got all that," he stated. "Gaah." "What was that, Mr. Pickstile?" "FLIP. I said 'gaah'. It's a term indicating surprise. Alright, I'll look at the 'ol flannel boy and see if I can do anything. I can't promise much, howver." * Damn, it was hard. It worked, though. I needed to sculpt a new face off of the head they gave me... I don't want to CONSIDER asking where it came from. Not even the black market boys want to deal with spine theft and head pinching. The hair wasn't the right tone, but that's alright, a little dye could cure that. The memory dumps were surprisingly complete. I was figuring I'd have to completely reteach this joker Guitar 101 and Motor Skills 202, but it looked like an entire memory dump. There were also tons of will-switches and things I didn't want to know about embedded in that memory. It's frightening to think that this much biotech is being used in the friggin' recording industry. Which of the Dirty Dozen were supplying these guys with the tech? Not ME, certainly! I managed to get him from dead to near dead to coma to sleep in about a day. He woke up shortly after. "Where am I?" he asked. "Congrads," I grinned at him. "Apparently your bosses like you so much, they couldn't live without you. You're alive again, like it or not." "Alive?" he asked. Don't worry; people are very dense upon being brought back from the dead. "It was a bloody mess... figuratively and literally. Lots of fun though, getting Humpty Dumpty together again. God, I live for stuff like that." "You... brought me back from the dead?" "HE-LLOO? Anybody home? Better be, or I won't get paid. Yeah, you're alive. Thank your lucky stars, kid, if you got any. Hey, while we're on the topic, what was life after death like?" "Boring," he said, and promptly fell asleep again. He smiled through that sleep, however, and I could tell the was pleased to be home. Or maybe pleased to be asleep. * They knocked on my door again three weeks later. "What, again?" I asked, as they wheeled in three carts this time. One containing parts, another containing Chuck, and another containing Chuck. You get the picture. "He managed to program his auto-hair stylist to cut him in half," the corporate boy said. "Surprised everybody. He seemed to be doing so well. Completed a week blazing tour of three worlds and an autograph tour and six public appearances at the Mall of Yttia easily." "Alright... this should be easier. Gimmie a few days." * "AGAIN?!" Chuck asked, rubbing his sore midsection. "Yeah, again," I said, ditching my usual cheery tone. "Surprise. Word has it you're due back on tour soon, and darn it, it's just not the SAME without music and singing." "More mayhem," Chuck groaned. "Yeah, well, expect to see me again. I'm sick of this." "Actually, odds are we'll be parting ways now," I said, lighting up a cig. "They had me throw a will-switch and install a patch. Here, take my scalpel." Chuck took it, confused. "Alright, now slit your wrists. Or your neck. Or cut your dick off for all I care. G'wan, I won't stop you." Chuck went for his wrists, but his instrument of cutting and healing stopped just short. "Can't, can you?" I laughed, coughing on the smoke. "Will- switch. You can't take yourself out of the picture anymore." Chuck yelled, chucking (heh) the scalpel at me. I ducked. "Don't make me recite the hippocratic oath, kid. I just do what I'm told." Chuck cursed, then grabbed his pants and stormed out of the operating room. * "Alright, how did he do it THIS time?" I asked, rolling my eyes. It wasn't even funny anymore. It was like the camel gag in Ishtar at this point. "Your will-switch worked," the corporate guy said. (Funny, I still don't know his name...) "So he got one of his pals to kill him." "Murder. Neat, efficient. I've got to admire this guys' determination. Alright, roll the cadaver in." They pulled in a very large jar. "Where's the rest?" "That's all that's left," the boy said. "His friend utilized a force sword and separated every organ, limb, muscle, and bone." I tried laughing, but couldn't. "You get the feeling that maybe we should LEAVE him dead?" "He's worth more than you, fifteen million times over. It's not that simple. Now patch him up. You'll get your obscenely large payment again, as promised." * This was getting monotonous. I had to hand-attach every part to every other part. Orders were placed, shipments were made. A few innocent unknowns were forced to contribute anything I couldn't find. This rocker now had about twenty of his fans in him. He came to, out of the sleep, muttering about boredom. Then he snapped awake. "I don't believe this," he muttered. "Don't you ever GIVE UP?!?!" "I'm being paid, you know," I said. "I gotta keep you alive. You're the cultural icon of this decade, you know." "It's... FRANTIC!" he screamed. "The tours, the orders, the signing. I have arthritis. I have arthritis and I'm only TWENTY SIX, for crying outloud!" "Yeah, life is hell. Here, get your pants on." "You SEEM reasonable," he said. "Come on. Let me die. It's GREAT over there. It's just so boring... nobody asks you to do anything, you never have to do anything, you never do anything. You're just... in harmony. It's nice, man. I want to go there again. They're beginning to ask why I keep leaving, you know. Last thing you need is some angel with a chip on his shoulder knocking on your door." Hmm, genuine evidence of an afterlife. I considered phoning up the local tabloid, but there were more pressing matters ahead. "I'm just doing my job," I said. "I like my work. I enjoy the challenge. But I don't like to get the same crap over and over again. You're a cramp on my style, kid. Can't you STAY fucking DEAD for once?! The Dirty Dozen aren't known for having regulars!" "I can't," he said. "Because YOU keep patching me up." "Alright, point. So what do I do? If you aren't walking out of here in a day, chipper and bright, I lose payment. That ain't good. I could lose my connections for screwing up. I've got a career to think of." The kid thought this over. "Alright," he said. "I need a way out of my career so I can knock myself off in a civilized manner and not be jerked back. What are the terms of your contract... exactly?" * So Chuck walked out of the operating room two hours later, grinning like a maniac. I was too, but I was a maniac to begin with. Watch carefully, kids. Opportunities like this are rare and must be savored like fine wine. "Are you all set to get back on tour, Mr. Corbins?" the company slimeball asked. "Yup," he said. "Let's go." "You may want to know," I said, "That Chuckie here may not be quite up to the specs you like." The corp guys paused. "See, he hired me to make a few alterations," I said. "Standard stuff. A few will switches flipped, a few parts of the brain dealing with music permanently scrambled... the usual." "What?" C.B. asked. "I paid him to make me musically inept," Chuck grinned. "I can't even sing anymore. Want to hear me do the third verse for 'Phlegm Messiah'? It's just awful." "You... we PAID you to make sure he was alive and in good condition!!!" the man screamed. "He is! Can you breathe, Chuck? Good. As for condition, drop and give me twenty, soldier! Seems healthy to me. As for his skills, well, our contract didn't cover that." "We refuse to pay you for damaged goods." "Technically I didn't damage anything you cared about, but go ahead. I don't mind," I shrugged. "Chuck here has forwarded his entire savings from stardom to me. That's a nice sum. Maybe I'll go into music someday. Oh! You haven't heard the FUN bit yet!" "The... fun... bit?" "Yup! See, I've got connections. I know all the Dirty Dozen personally. They won't be accepting any jobs from your company or any companies you own. And since we're the only guys who can restore Chuck's muse... well, guess you're screwed. Boy, am I HAPPY! I just LOVE destroying people's carefully laid out plans, crushing their hopes and dreams! Isn't this FUN, Chuck? It's not often that you really get to lay it on a butt-kissing, brown-nosing, mindless company drone! Oh, I'm sorry, did that offend you?" Well, the guy reared back to hit me. Luckily, I had the force screen up in the middle of the office... me and kid wonder on one side, forces of evil on the other. His fist bounced back harmlessly. My adrenaline high peaked at that point, chemical reactions causing the loudest, longest laugh I've ever laughed. "You're trespassing, gentlemen," I said, dropping back to sterner tones, but keeping the smile. "I can always call Security and have you escorted out. By the way, Security for me is my good buddy Guido who lives around the corner and sleeps with an ax." So they left. Aw, hell, maybe they'll be back one day for a piece of me, but who cares? I've had my thrill; it was worth it. You just don't get quality mind games like that for free. "And once again, Flip, Wonder Doctor, saves the day," I giggled, taking a bow. "Who said docs never had any fun?" "Well, I'm off to a happy, activity free life," Chuck said, grabbing his personal belongings from the patient cabinet. "What, no suicide?" "Well... naah. I'm gonna try to get that harmony while alive, kind of like a nirvana. It's much easier now that I lack my usual stressload. Maybe I'll go become a hermit or something." "Sounds like fun. Send me a postcard." "I don't think hermits have regular mail service," Chuck laughed, heading for the door. "Thanks anyway." "Well, whatever. Have fun, you wacky crazed epoxied- together funster, you!" I shouted to him as he vanished from the office. The thrill, ladies and gentlemen. Getting your revenge, getting your check, getting the impossible done. That's all there is, that's all there ever was. You need something grafted, mixed or altered, you come see me. I dig the work. No job too weird; no fee to large.