Dead Short

Head Case

The room was an intense shade of green, and not a terribly healthy green at that; it was the kind of green usually associated with open wounds slowly turning septic, and the more unpleasant of nasal expulsions. The only saving grace about the colour scheme, Derek Cakebridge considered, was that the sickly green was on the hospital walls, and not him. The violent throbbing headaches, however, were most certainly his problem.

'Is there anything you can do, doctor?' he enquired of the white-coated stickman with the pornstar moustache who was prodding roughly around in his ears.

'I could try and be more gentle,' the perilously thin doctor mused, 'but on a NHS budget, what are the odds?'

'I meant about the headaches. I've been having them for months and they seem to be getting stronger.' Derek cringed as another wave of agony ripped through his skull. 'It's... becoming almost...unbearable.'

'Not to worry, Mr Cakebridge.' The doctor waggled his torch around to the accompaniment of many a satisfying squelch. 'Soon get to the root of your problems. I'm sure there's probably a perfectly simple expla-' The doctor stiffened suddenly. His jaw dropped open, gaping up and down. 'D-d-dear god!' He finally managed to stammer, blinking in disbelief. 'Dear sweet merciful lord.' He rubbed his eyes and looked again. 'Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no. This can't be. This just can't be!'

Derek turned his eyes towards the doctor. The colour had drained from the man's face. He was beginning, in fact, to look a little like the walls. 'It's bad, isn't it?' Derek observed.

'Bad? Bad?' The doctor brayed nervously, like a particularly unamused donkey who hadn't quite got the joke but didn't want to seem impolite. 'Well, uh, that is to say...um, I'll, uh, have to get a second, third...perhaps even fourth opinion...But, uh, well, I-I'm sure it'll all become clear once we've done some scans and er...will you excuse me one moment?' The doctor sped from the room, pausing momentarily in the doorway to glance back at Derek. 'Dear god...' he said, then raced out.

The second doctor to arrive came up with pretty much the same verbal diagnosis.

The third doctor simply said 'Holy crap!' then fainted.

The fourth doctor took one look between Derek's ears, cried 'It's the Armageddon!' then ran from the building, screaming at the top of his lungs.

By this point in time Derek was beginning to have more than an inkling that something might be amiss.

A fifth visitor came to see Derek some twelve hours later; a short, balding man who was all smarm and smiles. Derek correctly assumed that this one was some sort of politician.

'Derek!' the small man cried, throwing his arms out wide in greeting. 'Dezza, old son! How are you? How are you?'

'Not terribly happy, as it happens,' Derek snapped, his patience wearing thinner than the politician's hair. 'I've been waiting here for twelve damn hours now. Nobody's explained to me what's going on. I would've left long ago, had they not locked me in.'

'It was for your own safety, I assure you.' The politician beamed Derek an immaculate set of pearly whites that would've had ivory poachers the world over reaching instantly for their guns. 'Wouldn't want any of those silly old peace protestors bursting in here and wantonly decapitating the man of the hour now, would we? Very bad for publicity that sort of thing, oh yes indeedy.'

Derek stared blankly at the politician. 'You're a nut,' he said. 'And I'm leaving. Goodbye.' Derek jumped to his feet, clutched immediately at his head, and fell back down again.

'Please try to stay seated, Mr Cakebridge,' the politician said, helping Derek back into his bed. 'It's not wise for you to be moving around, especially in your condition.'