Latura in "Sick Things"

The Beginning; Death

    Doctor Death reached out his long bony fingers and picked up the brown envelope which had just fallen through his letterbox, smiling to himself at the sound of the startled cry of the postman as the flap slammed closed on his hand.

    “Motherfugger!” Cursed the postie as he yanked his fingers from the letterbox trap which had been specifically rigged for the purpose of obtaining blood samples from unsuspecting delivery men.  It was rare for the same person to call twice.

    The blood trickled down into a contraption which looked an awful lot like those found behind the bar in pubs, under real ale taps to collect the dregs of alcohol.  Probably because it was one, but hey, why complain when it did the job just fine?  It just meant that the blood he collected had a habit of smelling like an odd combination of Fursty Ferret, Bishops Finger and Old Peculiar.

    The one known only as Doctor Death (in his own circles at least) pulled a syringe from one of the varied and numerous pockets of his floor length white lab coat, uncapping it and carefully drawing the sticky fluid that was today's postie’s blood from the drip tray.  He replaced the plastic protection cap and returned the syringe into the mysterious and quite possibly dangerous depths of an entirely different pocket.

    He turned the brown envelope over in his ghoulishly white hands which were marred by an assortment of chemical burns accumulated over many years spent hunched over a bunsen burner.  The see through oblong on the envelope designed to show the recipients name and address crinkled ominously as he smoothed the paper flat.

    Pushing up his protective prescription haz-mat goggles, he peered short-sightedly down at the plastic window and let out an exasperated sigh before running his fingers through his lanky black hair.  Hair which was quite frankly disgusting, filled with grease and god only knows what else from the Lab.

    “How many fugging times?” He cried out at no one in particular, other than the envelope which stubbornly refused to reply.  Bastard envelope.  “It’s not ‘Dr. Death’, it’s Doctor fugging Death!”  He tore the defenceless envelope across its throat with the swipe of a thumbnail as a puff of smoke accompanied by the whiff of P15 rose from the paper.

    “Hmmph, Phosphorus,” he mused.  “I really should wash my hands...” His brain flicked into self preservation mode, reminding him in no uncertain terms that Phosphorus does not tolerate liquids at all well.

    “...Or not...”

    He stalked away from the postie biting door and down the dingy hallway which was decorated in a tasteful shade of green furry mould and mildew with the occasional patch of slimy algae to break up the pattern here and there.

    He hated the shortened title of ‘Dr’ with a seething passion for the simple reason that if it was spoken aloud (in the manner in which it was written), it sounded like someone saying “Durrrrr” in a critical, disparaging fashion.  Much like his former classmates had said to him on many occasions.  Those of them that were still alive.  Well, partially alive anyway.  It depended on the definition of the term.  Doctor Death used it loosely.

    For the umpteenth time he considered changing his name to ‘Doktor Death’, Doktor with a ‘K’.  It just sounded so much more... evil, more fitting, but as the contents of the envelope advised him, his Dole cheque had been withdrawn yet again, meaning that he was unable to afford the fifty quid charge for changing his name by Deed Poll.  

   “Beaurocratic fugging bastards,” he muttered under his breath.

    A curious sucking sound followed him down the hall as he mentally cursed the Job Center for not acknowledging ‘Mad Scientist’ or ‘Criminal Mastermind’ as appropriate work-worthy qualifications.  Neither did they class the resourcing and seeking of Minions as ‘Job Hunting’.

   Wrenching the concertina-style metal elevator door open, he shlopped inside, wincing when a stray tentacle got caught in the gap between the door and its surround as he pulled the cage closed behind him.  He had inadvertently mixed up H2O with O2 whilst trying to create a concoction to relieve his asthma.  

    Not the brightest of ideas when taking into consideration that he had spent most of that day surrounded by a niggling whiff of chloroform. He really had been quite out of it.

    Instead of superior inhalation and enhanced lung capacity, he had ended up with two gills on each side of his neck and Octopus like tentacles which crept out from underneath his lab coat.  He wasn’t sure of exactly where they were growing from, nor did he particularly want to know but they were there nonetheless.

    As the elevator creaked and groaned into the depths of the house, Doctor Death found himself experiencing a strange and uncomfortable urge to dive into the nearest mass of salt water.  

    “All it will take is some local anesthetic and a scalpel,” he threatened, glaring down at the offending ocean dwelling appendages, “I have plenty of both.”  He smirked as the tentacles crawled sheepishly under the folds of his lab coat.  “That’s better.”

    “Allright Bri?” he grinned at the skull sticking out of the dirt some hundred yards or so down the elevator shaft.  ‘Bri’ grinned back, he didn’t have a lot of say in the matter really, what with being a skull and all.  

    Doctor Death occasionally wondered if it was odd to name an unknown skull after himself-  At one point in time he had been known as Brian De’Ath, but that part of his existence was dead and buried, much like poor old Bri.

    “Eegor!” He yelled into the vast chasm of emptiness which lay bare before him as the elevator clunked to a halt, “Ee-gor!”

    “Yeth Marthter?”  The slightly disembodied echo of Eegor’s voice appeared in the darkness beside him at the very instant he pulled the door open.

    “How is the girl?” Doctor Death rubbed his hands together in anticipation, causing another small plume of smoke to rise from his skin.

    “The girl, Marthter? Eegor lisped.  If he had hesitated any more then he probably would have experienced a small quantum leap, landing around two hundred years before the present day.

    “Yeth, I mean yes, the girl you idiot.”  How in the name of all things Scientific had he ended up with such an incompetent imbeceile of an Eegor.  He really should have asked for references.

    “Um, therethh been a bit of an acthhident, Marthter...”