(HS) Who Needs A Medical License? *Original Form*

(HS) Who Needs A Medical License? *Original Form* (Full Version)

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Goldstein -> (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? Original Form (7/5/2011 12:48:54)
Discuss here October 12th, 8:47 a.m. It was a big day for Doctor Strebor Goldenstein. A Councilman was coming to see him, him! Of all the doctors in city, Mr. Krome had chosen him. It was an honor to perform serious and life-threatening surgery on a man of his rank. The good doctor had even dusted off his plastic plants and cleaned off the caked-on gore that usually adorned his office window. When he heard knocking on his door, he kicked the mutilated skeleton under his operating table, smoothed his white hair and opened the door with as big as a grin as he could. "Mr. Krome, how lovely to meet you on this spectacular morning!" The look on Krome's face did not reflect Strebor's optimism. He was frowning, making his deep wrinkles even more pronounced. His bald dome was polished to a shine, and Strebor could see his distorted face in it. "Is this seriously where you work? This is your office?" he growled as he skulked past. "My God, this building should be condemned." He looked up and down, inspecting the walls, the ceiling and floor, and all of the furniture while Strebor nervously watched. "Everything is to your liking?" he finally asked. "There are cockroaches, dried blood, dirt, grime, and biowaste everywhere. This is more like a butcher-shop than a doctor's office." Mr. Krome glowered at the doctor. "How dare you invite me to such a place." Strebor scratched the back of his head, embarrassed beyond all belief. "I am very sorry. My previous office was destroyed when a compressed-oxygen tank...ruptured. Not my fault, not my fault at all. Oh, well, I guess it was, but really it was due to the fact that my calculator didn't have an order-of-operations function, but, regardless, this was the cheapest I could I find." "You chose a hovel like this as your office?" Krome shook his head and removed his gray overcoat. "Can I at least count on privacy?" "Oh, yes, of course!" Strebor said as he hung the coat on a femur he had nailed to wall to serve as a coat hanger. "Now, you explained on the phone that you contracted a certain disease that would cause you some shame if it was made public? Well, that particular strain of disease, I've found, likes to hide under your this little fold in your large intestine. It should be a relatively simple procedure, trust me. Now, take off your shirt lay down on the table and strap yourself in." Mr. Krome uneasily laid upon the cracked leather table, and Strebor tightened the restraints so that the Councilman was lying like the Vitruvian Man. "Is this safe?" Krome asked as he strained his neck to see over his flabby chest and belly. "Does it hurt?" He waved away his concerns like they were gnats; annoying and insignificant. "Of course it doesn't hurt. Unless you want it to. In fact, I had one patient, a real freak, who-" "Not now, Doctor." "Of course." Strebor breathed in deeply and adjusted the black latex glove from his left hand. He snapped his fingers a few time, and a blue glow slowly started to grow from the center of his palm. It grew and grew until his entire hand emitted a deep blue aura. He held it over his head and trust it at the man's belly. A blue stream snaked out, and quickly spread and enveloped the large area. With his right hand, he fished a scalpel out of one of his apron pockets and held it up to the light. It glinted wickedly. "It'll do," he said. Without a moment of hesitation Strebor cut out a circle. The skin fell away, revealing a pulsating display of organs. "Have you ever wondered what your organs look like, Councilman?" Krome's face was turning a deep green. "Not at all." "Oh, are you going to throw up? That would be fascinating to watch! Go ahead, think of, uh, the decomposition of a dead rabbit. That's had his head cut off." Krome squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered. "How on Earth did you get a medical license?" Strebor grinned as he pulled on a surgical mask. "What medical license?"

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (7/8/2011 15:54:15)
Seven months years earlier, March 30th, 9:34 p.m. All Strebor wanted to do was impress his teachers and colleagues. Well, that and keep the fat juicy benefactor known as OmniRoe. He had to keep OmniRoe as a sponsor. No one else would have ever have decided to fund his research. OmniRoe was a shining knight that stood out as a forerunner of innovation. He just wanted OmniRoe to consider him a successful investment worth continued funding. That is all he wanted to do. He had not a single malicious thought in his head as he unlocked the lab's door with the key he had secretly copied from his instructor's own. It was dark, and the machine glowed with the whiteness akin to a ghost. Being a man of science, however, such silly things like apparitions and ghouls did not scare Strebor. He whistled softly as he wheeled the gurney into the lab. He flipped on a light switch, and the old fluorescent bulbs slowly turned on. The lab had no windows, and exceedingly thick walls, so he could work and move freely. Perfect. Strebor walked through the tables covered in sparking gadgets and jars containing organs suspended in a green goop. He paid them no mind and made a beeline for the white behemoth that sat at the back. The gurney's wheels squeaked as they rolled over the slick linoleum floor. It resembled a MRI machine, but then again, it wasn't. It was shaped like a capital C, and made a relaxing humming noise. On the bottom tip of the C there was an exposed grill. On the top tip, a row of lights, casting a soft blue light onto the grill beneath it. It was called a Life Extending and Enriching Circuit Hub, or LEECH. Strebor pulled on a white lab coat. He felt for the gloves in the pocket, but they weren't there. He shrugged and picked up a tray holding a dead frog, clipped to the tray, prepared for a dissection. He placed the tray onto the grill, then proceeded to the back of the machine. He opened a panel, revealing a mass of flashing buttons and knobs. "Here we go," he said as he opened a can of soda. Strebor worked through the night, adjusting knobs, pressing buttons, and taking notes of various currents. The frog would occasionally twitch, filling his heart with hope, then it would become limp again. Though, at least it was progress. It was midnight when he made a breakthrough. He was sitting on a stool, mindlessly turning a knob back and forth, when he heard a croak. At first he thought it was his shoe, but there it was again...louder. He quickly jumped up and hurried to the front of the LEECH, and squealed with joy. The frog was breathing, and it's eyes were open. It croaked again, inflating then deflating, like a balloon. "It's alive!" Strebor yelled. "Oh, joy, it's alive! Ah ha! Ha ha ha ha!" He stooped down and poked the frog. "How are you feeling, Orwell?" It croaked again. "Excellent!" Strebor said. He felt as giddy as a schoolgirl. He had done it. He had brought the frog back to life! He reached into the machine, removed the tray, and unpinned the frog. Tenderly, as if it was a newborn baby, he carried it over to its cage and let it crawl in. "Sleep tight, my little freak of nature," Strebor said as he shut the little metal door behind it. Then he turned to the body. It belonged to a felon that had been executed. The university had a deal with the prisons, all dead bodies were sent to the medical department for study. This particular fellow had tattoos on most of his body, all of them either depicting lewd body parts or symbols of a former regime. He was bald and had a walrus mustache and had just been brought in yesterday. No one would notice his absence. Unceremoniously, Strebor tossed the dead body onto the tray. With a needle full of 100 milligrams of Pancuronium bromide in hand, Strebor flicked on the machine. The blue lights covered his body. The seconds ticked past. Nothing happened. Strebor, full of disappointment, was about to turn the machine off, when he noticed a twitch. Just a twitch. His left big toe was wiggling back in forth. Then, an entire spasm passed through the corpse. All at once, the felon's eyes tore open and he let out a painful cough. "What is your name?" Strebor asked quickly. He stood over the man, the needle ready. "What?" The felon was breathing heavily, a hand shielding his eyes from the bright lights. "What is your name? Come on, tell me! What is your name?" "Uh...Donny. Donny Roberts. Where am I? Who are-" Before he could finish, Strebor injected the drug into his jugular. He immediately fell silent, paralyzed. Soon, he stopped breathing. "That's all I wanted to know, thank you," Strebor said happily as he hefted the newly dead man off the tray. He propped him up on the counter. Students likes to take bodies and play pranks with them, so no one would guess Strebor, a TA working for the bio-medical professor, would have committed the crime. He was humming as he flipped off the lights. He noticed his hands were glowing blue a little, but that didn't concern him very greatly at the moment. Strebor was too enthralled thinking about where he was going to place his Nobel Prize.

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (7/20/2011 22:18:21)
March 31st, 7:21 p.m. The auditorium was full of people. Strebor never did like crowds; they made him nervous, like a riot was about to break out. But his anxiety was offset by his pride and confidence. His device was about to be used on the college's president! Everyone had turned out to see if the health benefits were as instantaneous as Strebor had bragged. He peeked from behind the heavy red curtain and nearly squealed with delight. There was the president. He was slowly making his way up the central alley, shaking hands with people and laughing. He was eighty-two years old, and had to use a walker to get around, and a nurse in an old-fashioned white coat hovered behind him. "Alright, raise the curtains!" Strebor hissed. He stood next to the big white machine, one hand on it, like a jockey would do to a world class horse. He thought he looked quite dapper in the white lab coat he wore over a grey waistcoat. He took a deep breath, and smiled as the audience came into view. "Hello there, Mr. Sweeney. You have a doctor's appointment." The entire audience rumbled with laughter, even the president, who showcased his bright, barren pink gums. "I won't keep you too long. This is purely routine." The laughter widened Strebor's smile. The nurse gingerly helped Mr. Sweeney up the stairs and to the machine, where he shakily sat down. "How does this doo-dad work?" he asked Strebor, his voice magnified by the microphone pinned to his lapel. "This machine, called the Life Extending and Enriching Circuit Hub, or LEECH, will do just as its name implies; it will extend and enrich your life. And who doesn't want their life to be enriched and extended?" "I sure do!" the old man said. "Very well then. If I could have you lie down...yes, there's a good chap. I will now switch on the machine, which will emit life-giving rays, rejuvenating and invigorating you. Are you ready?" He held up a liver-spot covered thumb. Strebor punched in the frequencies and numbers into the back of the machine, and pressed the activation button. A low hum filled the deathly silent room. Everyone leaned forward in their seats as the calming blue light slowly intensified on the president's still body. "This machine," Strebor said as he slowly paced up and down the front of the stage, "will revolutionize medicine. Cancer patients can be treated regularly until they reach the time they are ready to die. Victims of fatal wounds can be kept alive long enough for the proper attention to arrive. The average man can re-energize his body for about one week's salary. Soon my LEECH will be in every beauty salon, hospital, and mogul's home by the end of the year. The results are truly outstanding, aren't they, Mr. Sweeney?" The old, fragile man, who wasn't so fragile anymore, swung his legs over the side of the machine and hopped up. Every onlooker gasped at the same time as he dropped to the floor and did ten push-ups. "My boy, I've never felt better! I'm afraid you're out of a job, Nurse Shirley!" There was a moment of broken murmurs. Spectacularly, the entire room exploded into applause, ecstatically cheering and waving their arms. Strebor proudly approached the front of the stage and bowed deeply. He shook hands with Mr. Sweeney, both of their eye's full of tears. For hours afterwards, Strebor signed autographs and even gave an interview to the college radio and the local news station. He forgot his concerns about the safety of the LEECH now that it had been modified. He didn't even notice, as he undressed and finally fell to sleep in his dorm room, that Orwell the frog was dead in his cage.

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (7/21/2011 23:33:59)
April 3rd, 10:45 a.m. Strebor awoke to the smell of disgusting decay. His migraine only magnified the repulsiveness. "My god, what is that? Did I leave a pimento cheese sandwich on the counter again? Wait..." He sat up in his bed and sniffed the air. "That's not moldy food...that's organic decomposition. It has a moist feel about it." He threw off his sheets, and approached Orwell's cage. He gagged and drew away when he saw the corpse. The little froggy skin had peeled off to reveal little froggy organs. Flies were dining on little froggy insides. His little froggy eyes could have x's over them. "Oh my, what happened to you Orwell? What happened?" It didn't take long for him to come up with a plausible reason. But he needed to be sure. He had to. He just had to. Strebor changed out of his Cozy Comrade pajamas. With one hand pinching his nose shut, he carried the cage out of his dorm, but not before opening a few windows and spraying three containers of Febreeze. It felt strange to Strebor not to be mobbed as he walked the crowded collegiate halls. People recoiled when they saw and smelled the poor frog. Notebooks and pens fell to the floor. A few autograph-hunters looked disappointed as their sensory organs forbade them for getting any closer to the grim doctor and his grim package. The forensic science class was still rather empty when Strebor arrived. He had counted on that. Only a real enthusiast would be at class forty minutes early. He marched up to a guy with black hair parted down the middle, a guy named Edwen and held up the cage. "Why is my frog dead?" he asked. Edwen immediately dropped the folder he was holding and eagerly rubbed his hands together. "Ooh! Goody!" He lifted the frog out of the cage and plopped him down on a metal tray. He took a shiny stick that he kept in his breast pocket for just such an occasion and started poking around. "Did you heard about the body that ended up in the bio-medical lab? Weird, huh? I bet some necrophiliac or something took the poor stiff there. But I wouldn't expect you to know anything about that, being big man on campus, making cripples walk and stuff." There was a touch of envy in the kid's voice that made Strebor uncomfortable. "Alright, here we go. You've got some massive heart failure here. And not because of atherosclerosis or anything like that." He pinched a little slimy thing and lifted it up. The student's glasses caught the light so that they were just two shiny circles. "See this? This is an artery. For some reason, it's squeezed shut. All of the arteries are shut. No blood, no heartbeat. Dude, what did you do to this poor thing? A new lethal injection serum or something?" Strebor stared at the dead frog. "I have no idea," he said hollowly. Edwen watched him go for a moment, shrugged, and dumped Orwell the dead froggy into a nearby trash can. The lid fell with a starling crash that nearly gave Strebor a heart attack. Strebor was lost in his thoughts. I should have performed additional tests, he thought. It's all OmniRoe's fault! If it wasn't for their deadlines and unwillingness to compromise, they should know by now that I can be trusted...No, maybe it's a specie-related problem, maybe the LEECH only harms amphibians...But God, what if it isn't? I could lose my medical license, people might die! I need to speak with Mr. Mavet... He felt someone tap on his shoulder. He turned, but no one was there. "Ah! I got you, my dear boy!" cooed Mr. Sweeney. He was dressed in suspenders and a bow tie. His face was glowing with health. "How are you, my star pupil?" Somehow, Strebor managed a crooked smile. "Oh, just fine. And you, sir? How's your blood pressure? Healthy, I hope? Within normal parameters, no dilated arteries?" "Oh, no!" he said. He draped an arm around Strebor and sighed happily. "I feel forty years younger. Why, I bet I could wrestle that brute Olaf again and win! I wouldn't even need to use that flower vase!" "That's...great, sir," Strebor said, trying his best to keep his voice from quivering. "Anyway, I just wanted to tell you, that the first line of your LEECH machines are being manufactured by OmniRoe today." Strebor felt the blood drain from his face. "Oooh, re-really?" "Yes! There's no going back now! You must be so proud of your accomplishment. Just imagine, soon you will be a household-" Mr. Sweeney abruptly stopped his train of thought. "Sir?" The president's grip slackened and he slumped to the ground. He was dead before he hit the concrete. He scraped his arm, but no blood came out. A girl screamed out and like bugs to a flame everyone flocked to the still figure on the sidewalk. A cloud passed in front of the sun, making everything seem grayer. Without speaking, Strebor slipped through the crowd, his insides knotting up.

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (7/22/2011 23:31:22)
(New thing! Every time you see a blue link, click it! That's some music for your musical enjoyment! Don't worry, all music is appropriate. Also, here's a link to Arachnid's great poem.) April 3rd, 11:12 a.m. There was an unexpected man waiting for Strebor as he entered his dorm room. He was wearing a crisp dark blue suit with slick backed hair. In one hand was a briefcase, and the other, a thick folder, bulging with papers. "Doctor, how nice to see you," he said in a monotone voice tinged with arrogance. "What? Oh, it's only you." Strebor sighed and dropped down on his bed. "What do you want, Mr. Mavet? I'm not in the mood for corporate stuff right now." Mr. Mavet humorlessly grinned, revealing two rows of very shiny teeth. "Then today is not your day." "Tell me about it..." "But I have some papers I need you to sign to let OmniRoe ship the first line of LEECHs in two weeks." He thrust the folder under his nose with all of the politeness of a spoiled three-year old. Strebor blankly stared at the papers. He took them, retrieved the lighter he kept in his nightstand, and set the whole package on fire. He dropped the flaming mass with all of the politeness of a spoiled three-year old. Mr. Mavet awkwardly coughed into his fist. "I take something is wrong, Doctor? I understand that paperwork is boring, but really now, you're an adult, no need to be so childish-" Strebor leaped up and angrily seized him by the very expensive Italian custom-made lapels and shouted, "Forget the LEECHs! They're death traps! They killed Mr. Sweeney, and they'll kill everyone else who tries to use them." "Oh really?," Mr. Mavet said, very calmly. "Does this have to do with that last-minute modification you insisted upon? It was quite a chore, getting that in without an additional inspection by the FDA. We can not delay the release any further. Please just sign the papers." "WHAT? Have you been listening? The LEECHs are deadly! You have to pull them from production." Mr. Mavet studied the distraught figure with cold, calculating eyes. "We have spent millions on this project, Doctor Goldenstein. Are you telling the truth?" "YES!" He rubbed his chin. "This changes nothing. The LEECHs will still ship on time, with or without your permission." "Are you an idiot? You'll kill thousands of people! You're company will be broken up and you'll get the chair." "You're wrong, OmniRoe will survive the incoming storm." "Incoming storm? You're the morons perpetuating it!" Strebor yelled, strengthening his grip on Mr. Mavet's lapels. Mr. Mavet adjusted his tie, then pulled out a gun. "Please let go of me," he said. Strebor's eyes widened as he let his arms drop to his sides. The gun was big and silver, and very intimidating looking. "Now look outside and make sure no one is eavesdropping. Make a peep, and I'll make a ruckus." A cold sweat broke out on Strebor's forehead as he opened the door. This was it, then. Killed by the CFO of a medical engineering firm. Strebor always imagined he'd go out more spectacularly. Perhaps in a hail of gunfire as he dragged his wounded sergeant to the helicopter waiting to evacuate them out of the war zone. Or maybe a deadly plague would claim him as he treated the president's very pretty daughter. Better still, he'd strap a bunch of C4 to his chest and dive head-first off of the Empire State Building into a massive thicket of zombies below, detonating the C4 just before he hit the ground. There was a noise. He stepped out into the hallway. There was no one around. He poked his head out from behind the door and saw a girl pressing herself to the wall. She stared at him for a moment, then ran and jumped out of the fifth story window. Down the hallway stood two very intimidating looking men in black suits that had OmniRoe embroidered on the chest. Strebor blinked, and closed the door behind him. "We're alone." "Excellent. Now, let me assuage your concerns. Every consumer has signed a waiver, placing all liability of injury caused by the LEECH on them. A thousand people die because of the LEECH? No one can sue OmniRoe, it's the hospital's, or the salon's fault. It will, of course, destroy our reputation. However, we already plan to merge with PluriPotent Enterprises, take their name, and work exclusively in Europe and China. "We can afford it, by any rate. We're making an 8.1 million profit off of each LEECH. We've already sold 1,234. Are you bad at math? That's $9,995,400,000 made in one day. It'll be a few weeks before the government links the LEECHs to the deaths. By then, OmniRoe will be posting record profits from their headquarters in Berlin." Strebor rubbed his brow. "This is...unsettling. That I'd trust you people with my work, I am an idiot." He felt something rub off on his brow. He pulled his hand away and nearly fainted. The skin was flaking off, revealing burgundy patches of skin. The fingers were emaciated and bone like. He moved them, and he could see the white bone slowly emerge. Strangely, the necrosis faded away at his wrists. "What has happened to you?" Mr. Mavet asked, his voice finally conveying an emotion: fear. "I didn't use gloves when I put Orwell in the LEECH...the arteries in my hands are closing up, the muscle is dead and decaying, but I still maintain basic function. Interesting." Mr. Mavet sniffed and put away his gun. "Regardless, you're coming with me." "To where?" Strebor asked, looking up from his zombie-hands. He grinned, and Strebor noticed how sharp his teeth were. "To SkullDeep, of course. OmniRoe can't sell the LEECH once it becomes PluriPotent Enterprises. It'll need a new idea." Moving with more agility than Strebor gave him credit for, Mr. Mavet swung his briefcase, smashing Strebor across the face. Before he could recover, the business man drew a syringe from his inner coat pocket, and injected its clear contents into Strebor's jugular.

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (7/23/2011 22:44:25)
May 16th, 5:34 p.m. His cage could have been bigger. And it could have had a bathroom, and maybe even a television. Instead it was barely big enough for Strebor to squat in, his knees to his chest. It swung slightly in the hot volcanic breeze. His lab coat had been reduced to tatters, his waistcoat was shredded, and the scruff that was growing on his cheeks and chin was itchy and coarse. Whenever he had to go to the bathroom, he just made sure none of it got in his cage. "How are you doing up there?" Mr. Mavet called up to him. "I'm having trouble coming up with new inventions. These conditions aren't conducive to the innovative mind," he called back. "Then perhaps you'd agree to come back down?" "And go back to the lab you set up for me?" Strebor asked hopefully. "Of course." "And I'd still have that hunchback assistant?" "Igor? Yes." "And the collar that will make my head explode if I leave the lab?" "Yes, Doctor Goldenstein, the collar will stay." Strebor thoughtfully rubbed his jowls. "In that case, you can go stick your head in a big pile of hot lava." "Be reasonable, Doctor. Where are you getting food from, anyway?" Strebor scratched his chin and said, "There are some punks that like to throw bits of bread at me." Mr. Mavet shook his head and tightened his tie. "You are being very foolish, Doctor. You will rot in that cage." "Yeah, how about you come up here and we can talk as equals? How's PluriPotent Enterprises doing, by the way?" "I'm actually on my way to a meeting on synergy. Oh, haven't you heard? I'm in charge of SkullDeep's finances now." Strebor stuck his head out from between the bars and spat down on him. "Congratulations, Robber Baron. Why don't you go look that up in a dictionary and tell me what you find." "Let me guess," he said coolly as he wiped the spit of his face, "I'd find my picture, wouldn't I?" "No! You'd find the definition for Robber Baron, moron, which is what you are!" Mr. Mavet chuckled and quickly disappeared into a swirl of ashes and cinders. Strebor sighed. He actually wouldn't have minded going back to the slaughterhouse they called a "lab." At least he could stretch his legs and eat properly. But then again, if that Igor fellow sniffed him one more time, Strebor would have punched him in the face. That'd be a bad thing to do, since Igor was built like a stack of bricks. A change of clothes would have been nice as well. There was that cyborg again. He walked under Strebor's cage everyday...perhaps he could convince him... "Hello there, robot man!" The cyborg slowly came to a stop and gazed up at the caged doctor. "I am not a robot man. I am a cyborg," he said in a perfectly human voice. He even sounded sad as he said it. "Okay, Mr. Cyborg, can I ask you something? What's your name?" The cyborg narrowed his eyes. "Experimental. And you?" "Strebor. Doctor Strebor Goldenstein. I'm a bio-medical engineer. Which is why I want to talk to you." Experimental nervously scraped his pincer-like laser hand-thingys together. For a cyborg, he was amazingly human. "Why would you want to speak to me?" "I've been watching you, Experimental. You walk with the gait of a man who is burdened. I am a healer and an engineer. Maybe I can help you? With something?" The cyborg nervously looked around. "Your Mr. Mavet's prisoner, aren't you? We're not suppose to be talking to you. But...but you can help me with anything?" Strebor grinned, clutching the bars of his cage. His escape was in the bag! "If it's medical, and mechanical, I'm your man! Now, I can't help you, unless you cut me down from here and help me escape this wretched place!" Experimental quickly looked around again. With a nod of his head, he jumped up, sliced the chain connecting the cage to the stalactite-covered ceiling, and gently lowered the cage to the ground. With a deft slice he cut off the padlock and opened the door. "Hurry Doctor, we will not have long before Mr. Mavet sends his Human Resources." Strebor yawned and stretched, his back popping in ten different places. "After you, Experimental."

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (7/25/2011 18:18:58)
June 29th, 5:54 a.m. Strebor awoke from his dream. It was the same dream he had every night, the one where he and that cyborg fellow, Experimental, escaped from SkullDeep. They had almost made it out this time. Strebor had actually seen the light of the outside world. He had planned out the entire thing. He knew every nook and cranny of the hallways they'd have to run down and the closets they'd have to hide in. He knew the position of guards, and which doors were locked. None of these things existed outside of his fevered mind, of course, but they were real to him. They were very, very real to him. "Down the hallway and through the door and kill the guard and hide the body. Hide the body in the closet next to the bucket and mop. Use the mop to bar the door. Kill the two guards. Through them over the railing to distract guards. Cut the padlock and FREEDOM! Freedom...independence. Independence and liberty. The Fourth of July. I could use fireworks to distract the guards. Take the fireworks out of the bucket and kill the guards with the fireworks..." "The LEECH is a leech. The LEECH is a leech. The LEECH is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a leech is a PARASITE!" "Strebor...Strebor is Roberts backwards. I am Roberts...No. NO! I am Strebor. Strebor Ovan Goldenstein. DOCTOR Strebor Ovan Goldenstein. Goldenstein. Goldestein. Emmanuel Goldstein. From 1984. Big Brother is watching me. I don't have a Big Brother. I am a Big Brother. My little brother...my dear little brother. Bless him! Is he watching me? Can he see me? No, no, no...I am Doctor Strebor Ovan Goldenstein." "Mr. Mavet. Mavet. Mavet is Hebrew for death. Μαΐου θάνατο επίσκεψη μου σε αυτό το σκοτεινό τρύπα. Ma olen päris poni printsess. Pidän värityskirjoja ja tuijottaa pilviä alasti. ¿Cómo sé que todos estos idiomas? Najua jinsi ya kuzungumza katika swahili. Acest lucru este atât de interesant! 私はこれを引き起こしているかを理解する私の脳を解剖しているつもりだ." He looked up and a thin grin spread across his face. "A link! A link is cracked! A link in the chain is cracked! Yes, crack! Crack, link, crack! Break, be destroyed. Come on! BREAK! BREAK, YOU STUPID LINK! BREEEEEEEEEEEEEAK! Aaaaaaaaah ha..." The link was never cracked. "Huh? What? Where am I? Am I dead? My God, what is my name? I know nothing! I have no memories, I have no knowledge. No, no, this is not happening...oh, God, someone help me." Strebor hung his head and sobbed, causing the entire cage to shudder. Though he desperately wished for a mirror, it was a stroke of luck that he did not have one. He would have seen the sallow skin and thin, collapsed cheeks, and the dirt that covered him in a cruel film. "Hey! Experimental! Yes, you, Experimental! Cut me down from here" The cyborg suspiciously eyed the hermit in the little bird cage. "How do you know my name?" he asked. "Who cares? Cut me down, now! I will help you with your special problem, just cut me down!" "How do you know about that?" Experimental angrily demanded. "I haven't told anyone about that. I should kill you!" "But you won't!" Strebor countered. "Because I can heeeeeeeeeelp. But only if you cut me down!" "You're Mr. Mavet's prisoner, aren't you?...Fine, if you can help, but if you can't, I'm bringing you back here. In a box." "Alright! Alrighty! Sounds good." Soon Strebor was stretching on the ground. He'd pinch himself to see if this was real, but that didn't work anymore. "Hit me with that claw-thing of yours." "What?" "Hit me! Don't kill me, but hit me! Hard?" Experimental shrugged and struck the doctor across the face. "YES! This is real! Which means if I die, it's over for good. Alright then, LET'S DO IT!"

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (7/27/2011 22:32:17)
June 29th, 6:02 a.m. "The first thing we must do is find me a new set of clothing," Strebor informed Experimental. The cyborg glowered at him and slashed the lock off the door. "These are a little soiled and they smell rather oppressively, so I think it would be in both of our interests for me to procure a-" "Will you please just shut up?" he growled. "Please, your breath smells horrible." Experimental strode into the laboratory and resolutely knocked out Igor with one tap of his claw. The hunchback assistant had been trying to create a potato battery. A potato battery! Strebor was giggling as he tore off his rags and pulled on the starchy business suit that Mr. Mavet had provided for Strebor in case he decided to come on as a full-time employee. There was an apron draped over a blood-soaked lab stool. In the spur of the moment, Strebor pulled it on. Inside was a pair of black rubber gloves. They slid on with a satisfying pop. "Yes, this is delightful. I feel like a new man!" "Can you hurry up, Doctor?" Experimental asked. He glanced through the door. "Someone's going to notice you're gone, and we can't fight off the entirety of SkullDeep." "Give me a moment..." Strebor ran his hand across the rough wooden exam table. "How many people died here?" Strebor rapped his knuckles against the skull of a mangy skeleton that hung from a hook on a discarded IV pole. "I wonder if this is real..." Outside the grimy windows there was nothing but craggy mountains and rivers of lava. He ran his hand against the splattered cabinets mounted on the walls. "How many times did an addict rifle through these? Wait..." The doors clattered to the floor as Strebor rifled through the bottles of medication. "Yes, yes...yes!" He jumped up and clicked his heels. "They have Rolmadine. 'To treat mild to severe psychosis!' Ha ha!" With trembling hands Strebor shook out a few pills and swallowed them dry. He tossed all seven bottles of the stuff into a leather satchel he found next to a dismembered hand, along with a few dozen trays of needles and syringes. "Are you done?" "Y-yes. Ha, yes..." "Are you okay? You seem young to have such gray hair." "The medication is kicking in...but not time to tarry! My hair will turn black again when it's good and ready! Let's go." Experimental mouthed the words "thank you," and he held open the door for the doctor. The hallway was deserted, which was odd. Guards and villains should have been combing everything to find their CFO's star captive. Instead, the sounds were the scuttling of mice and the dripping of leaky pipes. "Keep it down," Experimental whispered. "If we can get out of here without altering anyone, then all the better." The twists and turns of the hallway seemed endless. The gray floors and walls covered in exposed pipes that systematically dripped went on and on for one hour, three hours, five hours, twelve hours. Strebor instinctively knew that they were in the maintenance tunnels. He could hear people muttering, mostly likely from up above. Experimental held out his arm and held a pincer to his lips. "Ssssh, two guards. Posted at the exit. We just have to take them out, then we're scotch-free." Strebor chuckled and stepped forward. "Let me handle this." He held up his hands and clenched his eyes shut. His hands glowed blue and slowly the glow snaked out, taking on a life of it's own. It wormed it's way into the guard's ears and caused their entire heads to glow. They never made a noise, except when they hit the floor. "What did you do to them?" Experimental hissed. "More likely than not, I made them insane. Most likely, if I had to hazard a guess." He sighed and tore down the door. Strebor took a deep breath of the fresh air and spun around, his arms spread wide. He laughed and said, "It's good to be in the daylight again! Thank you, Mr. Robot Man. I hope to see you in the future." He could still hear the whispers of SkullDeep's citizens, but they were growing fainter and fainter. Experimental grunted and seized the doctor's upper arm. "Not so fast, pal. We had a deal, didn't we? Listen, I'll call us some transportation. You are not getting out of this." Strebor smiled weakly. "Of course."

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (8/2/2011 12:00:31)
June 29th, 8:33 p.m. The Northwestern Street Clinic had closed down about four months ago. It's proprietor created it out of a sense of philanthropy. One day, the massive amounts of philanthropy finally collected and hardened in his coronary arteries, causing a massive heart attack. While undergoing Septuple Open-Heart Bypass Surgery, he died on the table at his own free clinic. Without his continued funding, the clinic eventually closed down and sold to the fast food industry. It wasn't going to be demolished for another two months, so Strebor took advantage of its vacancy to exam Experimental. The exam room he chose was the last one with a working power source. The lights flickered and various instruments, like drills and EKG machines would randomly turn on, but it was adequate for Strebor's position. He picked up a clipboard and took a seat in a swivel chair while Experimental sat on the exam table that had lost its sanitary paper a long time ago. "Let me start by saying everything that we discuss in this room is absolutely confidential. Even on the pang of death, I will not reveal your secrets." Experimental uncomfortably shuffled around. "I appreciate that, Doc, but when I got you out of that cage, you seemed a little off. On the ride over here, you fell asleep and kept muttering something about pandas with death lasers harnessed to their backs." "That was quiet the dream." "All I'm saying is that, are you okay now? Are you, uh, competent to perform your duties as a doctor?" Strebor tapped his pen against his chin. "Your concerns are fully warranted. I was in a fevered state of mind. However, the psychosis management medication I took seems to be helping. I'm logical, calm, and sensible. I am perfectly sane, trust me." A subtle change came over Strebor. His eyes slowly grew large and glassy, and his mouth hung open. He seemed to be staring into a cold, black void. "Are you okay, Doc?" Experimental asked nervously. The sudden noise terrified Strebor. He let out a long, bone-chilling scream that pierced the air. His own howl, however, seemed to bring him back to his sense, as he abruptly shook his head and took in a deep breath. "I apologize," he said with an embarrassed laugh. He took out a bottle of pills and popped two more. "Now, what seems to be the problem." "Should you just be taking random medicine without an exam or something? Can't you die or something?" Strebor glared at him. "Who's the doctor here? I performed a self-diagnosis, and I took the medicine that treated my condition. The fact that I am in full control of my facilities just shows that I was correct. So I will take whatever medicine I deem necessary. Now, what seems to be the problem?" Experimental mindlessly fiddled with his claws. "I think I was hacked," he said. "Excuse me? I think I need some context." Experimental sighed and leaned back. "A few weeks ago, I was out and about, not doing much of anything, when I saw this girl. God, she was beautiful. Just absolutely breath-taking. Stunning...anyway, I looked at her, and she caught me looking. She smiled at me, and my heart started beating really fast. Every time I think about her, my heart starts beating really fast, I start sweating, my stomach churns...I think she was an assassin that somehow transferred a virus to me meant to disrupt my normal functions with these annoying feelings." "How paranoid are you?" Strebor asked without turning around. He had his head stuck in a cabinet, searching for more pills. "Paranoid? I'm paranoid at all." "Really? Because it sounds to me like you're in love, that's all." "Love? What is...love?" Strebor spun around, a patronizing sneer plastered on his face. "You don't know what love is? Seriously?" Experimental's brow furrowed with frustration. "No, I told you that already. Is it an emotion or something?" "No, no, more like a poison. It's a feeling one gets when they truly care for someone. You're in love with that girl." "Can cyborgs fall in love?" Strebor didn't answer right away. He was studying a bottle. "For the treatment of schizophrenia and other various mental diseases." He shrugged and dropped it into his satchel. "I've worked with robotic engineers before. They said they were close to making a robot with a conscious. Since you're only part robot, and a conscious is much more complex than the emotion of love, I see no reason why. However, your ignorance on that matter tells me something." "What?" Experimental asked fiercely. Strebor shot him a sneaky look. "It tells me that you have no idea how or why you were created. Am I right?" "That's none of your business," he snapped, a little too quickly. All right. But before you go on an adventure to uncover the secrets of your past, here's my advise?" Strebor scribbled something on his clipboard, tore off the slip of paper, and handed it to the cyborg. "'Find her and talk to her over a cup of coffee,'" he read aloud. "Yeah, ask her out on a date." "A date?" Experimental sounded mortified. "What will I say? What will I wear?" Strebor laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm not a cardiologist, so I can't advise you on the matters of the heart. However, if you ever need me for anything," he fished out a little business card. "Give me a call. I certainly owe you a few favors." Experimental nodded and pocketed the card. "That you do, Doc. That you do. And I expect you to drop whatever you're doing to come and help." "Naturally. I'd say we should shake hands, but I need my hands." He acknowledged the joke with a faint smile. With a powerful jump he flew up into the air. Strebor watched as the villain disappeared behind the city's skyline. "So where does this leave me?" Strebor said to himself as he leaned against the old mailbox. "A doctor to the superheroes and supervillains of the world? I can see it now, business cards that read, 'Doctor Strebor Goldenstein, Doctor to the Supers.' Oh, that sounds wonderful! I might even fight crime in my spare time...then I can charge the criminals for me to patch them up. Wait, does that make me a villain? I'm not evil, am I?...I need more medication." Out of the blue, a dozen police cars rounded the corner of a neighboring building, their sirens blaring. They surrounded Strebor, and out came the police, their guns all trained on the doctor. "On the ground, now!" shouted an APB. Strebor slowly lowered himself to his knees and put his hands behind his head. Like a specter, Mr. Mavet crawled out of a cop car with a megaphone. "How nice to see you again," he said sweetly.

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (8/3/2011 18:04:40)
June 30th, 7:12 a.m. The detective that interviewed Strebor wasn't a very competent. He had read too many crime novels and seen too many episodes of Law and Order. With an over-confident smirk he leaned to one side and asked, "How much trouble do you think you're in?" Strebor looked down at the plastic handcuffs. He was grateful he had the gloves, no matter how much they chaffed. "Not too much, since you don't have my clapped in irons. If I was in real trouble, you'd have already have charged me instead of keeping me in here overnight." The detective narrowed his eyes. "Smart guy, huh? Here's a question, if you're so smart, then why are your hands all dead and stuff? Huh, answer me that!" "That's none of your business. And, yeah, I am a smart guy. I have a PhD from Bukovinian State Medical University. You have a community college degree in basket-weaving, with maybe six years of experience. I'm not being arrogant when I say I'm your intellectual superior, I'm just stating facts." His face turned a violent shade of purple. "I am an officer of the law! A representative of order! I will not be spoken to in such a manner, especially by some snot-nosed terrorist punk." Strebor tried to hold back the waterfall of laughter, but the serious air of the detective broke the dam. He pounded the fold-able table with his hand. "Terrorist? Is that what you think I am? A terrorist? Is that what Mr. Mavet told you? I'm a doctor for God's sake." "That's not what these files say," the detective said triumphantly. He opened a folder and laid out each of the sheets of paper, one by one, all in a line. "We have you for knowingly building a machine that has caused the deaths of 78 people. And that's just so far." Strebor chuckled and wagged a finger at him. "That's a lot of crap and you know it. The LEECH was a machine meant to help people. After a clinical trial, I deemed the machine to not be ready yet, yet OmniRoe distributed anyway. They're to blame, not me." "A clinical trial?" the detective said with a sneer. "There aren't any records of a clinical trial being conducted." Strebor's carefree facade slipped. "That's because I only did it once. On a frog. But I was so excited!" Strebor leaped up and started pacing. "The LEECH was meant to extend the life of it's users through radiation. But instead, I brought a frog back to life! To life! I brought a frog back from the cold fingers of death! Strebor paused and looked into the two-way mirror. His hair had turned silvery white. When the bloody heck did that? He got closer and noticed that there were dark circles around his eyes, despite the fact that he had received plenty of sleep. What had Experimental said only a few minutes after he helped Strebor escape? "You seem a little young to have such gray hair." My God, my body is deterioration. First my hands, now my face...when will it stop? The detective coughed into his fist, breaking Strebor's thoughts. "It was too late that I realized the resurrection wasn't permanent, and that the frog would soon die again, in a much more grisly fashion," the doctor finished sadly. A door opened, and Mr. Mavet walked in. He nodded at the detective, who hastily left. The CFO sat down with his back to the two-way mirror and said, "Stop the recording." Strebor studied the man. He looked the same. He looked right at home in the concrete box lit by harsh fluorescent bulbs. "How did you find me?" "We planted a tracer under your skin while you were unconscious." "Okay, that makes sense. Why are you pursuing me? I wasn't going to mess with you. I was going to try and forget about you people! But noooo, you have to go and have the cops on your payroll arrest me." Mr. Mavet shrugged. "You're a loose end. There's no way we'd know that you wouldn't try to take us down. Quite frankly, Experimental's betrayal was a surprise. Regardless, I do not like loose ends. While killing you is not an option; at least, not anymore, I suppose I'll have to settle with just destroying your reputation and credibility." "What do you mean by that?" Strebor asked as he dug two more psychotic pills out of their bottle. "What are those?' "None of your business." Mr. Mavet pursued his lips but said nothing. "So, tell me, how's OmniRoe doing? No Senate investigations? No class-action lawsuits?" "We are actually looking to merge with another company." "Pluripotent Enterprises not working out for you?" Strebor asked, amused. "They declared bankruptcy before we could merge." "So people are blaming OmniRoe for the LEECHs?" "No, our PR department has done a good job placing the blame on your, Strebor. The entire world hates you, especially since they can't charge you with any crimes. By the way, we're going after your medical license. The hearing is in about two hours." Strebor watched Mr. Mavet, still amused with the whole affair. "Alright. Take my medical license. But know this. I will find you, inject you with the deadliest poison I can get my hands on, and watch as you slowly die before my eyes." With a gulp Mr. Mavet tightened his tie, a thing he did when he was nervous, and wordlessly left. Strebor smiled, satisfied, and propped his feet up on the table. "Maybe rattlesnake...or cyanide. I like cyanide..."

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (8/12/2011 18:34:13)
July 2nd, 1:23 p.m. The future looked uncertain for poor Doctor Strebor Goldenstein. A few hours after his conversation with the insidious CFO of OmniRoe, the international financial-front for the villainous underground, Strebor was roughly ordered to change into an orange prison jumpsuit. His white hair, still apparently as healthy as ever, had been trimmed, and his necrotic hands had been pronounced fully-functional by a dermatologist. He prescribed an ointment and gave the good doctor a pair of hypoallergenic gloves that would not irritate the dead skin. He was escorted by two burly cops out of the concrete interrogation room, with nothing but a plastic bag that contained all of his clothes, through the police department, where everyone shot him ugly glares that made Strebor's skin crawl, and finally to the revolving door that led to the cold outside. With an unceremonious shove they pushed Strebor through the revolving door. He nearly stumbled down the marble steps. Mr. Mavet was waiting for him, his hands in his pockets, a smirk on his ugly face. "Hello there, Mr. Goldenstein," he said. He said it like it should have made Strebor fall to the ground, begging for forgiveness. Instead, he just quizzically glanced at the man as he passed him. "Hello there, Mr. Mavet. What's happened in the world while I was locked up? Has OmniRoe taken over? Should I be referring to you as Emperor?" "We're not OmniRoe anymore," he said with a jovial wave of his hand. "We merged, and now we're Omnicorp. PluriPotent was a bad investment. This new one is more than enough to bolster faltering profits and investor confidence." "Faltering profits? What happened Mavet? Did the LEECH not work out for you?" He tightened his tie, like it was a noose. "After the final death report...435 dead, by the way, all on your head, Goldenstein...our stock plummeted and our other products were pulled from the shelves. We've managed to sustain ourselves on the massive amounts of money we made off the LEECHs, and now that we've merged, and the blame for the LEECHs have been placed squarely on your back, our stock is slowly climbing back up." Strebor chuckled at the absurdity of the whole situation. A massive corporation blaming a 24 year old guy working that used to work as a TA at Sweeney University. How could anyone believe that he intentionally orchestrated a mass murder? People needed a vent for their anger and grief, he supposed. "So my medical license is gone, right?" "Of course." "Good. I deserve it, I suppose." Strebor breathed in the humid July air. He hated the humidity. It made a useful bodily function, sweat, become a bother, and that didn't seem right. "I should have performed more extensive tests on the modified LEECH. I would have, to, if it hadn't of been for your deadlines, Mavet. Or maybe I should have just left well enough alone. The FDA had already approved the LEECH. Then I had to go and modify it...but I was so excited!" There was a hint of nostalgia in his voice. That time in his life, just a few months ago, seemed to be buried in the annals of history. Ancient. "I brought a frog back to life! And then the presentation went over so well. I was king of the world. Who'd have thought you'd kidnap me and release the LEECH to the public to make a quick buck despite my concerns." He paused to watch a jet fly overhead when he heard whispering behind him. He spun around and saw a family, a mother and a father with two wide-eyed kids, staring at him. "This is a private conversation. What are you staring at?" The parents glowered at him and ushered their children away. "They weren't making a noise," remarked Mavet. "You didn't hear them whispering?" "No one was whispering, Strebor." His hand was trembling as he popped two more psychosis pills. "Strebor, you should really get help. See a doctor, check yourself into a hospital, do something," Mr. Mavet said. He almost soundly kind, like a father figure. Then his voice hardened again. "Because you're going to need your strength to survive." "Oh? And why's that?" Mavet pulled a folded up piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Strebor. It was a list of people that included pictures, descriptions, everything. The pictures showed that the people were of the unsavory sort. "I truly hate loose ends. And you're a loose end. So I've hired some people to tie you up. It's nothing personnel." Strebor studied the names, the faces. He had a feeling he was going to meet them soon. He had to be ready. He had to plan his defenses. "Well, thank you for the information," he said. Mr. Mavet bowed, turned, and walked off. Just as he was about to disappear into the throng of people walking on the sidewalk, Strebor called out to him. "Box jellyfish!" He turned, his almost bald head shiny in the intense sun. "Excuse me?" "I'm going to use Box jellyfish venom to kill you!" Mr. Mavet tightened his tie and walked off, leaving Strebor alone on the marble steps, shivering, despite the heat.

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (8/13/2011 20:25:51)
September 9th, 12:34 a.m. The little hovel that pretended to call itself a tavern was so full of smoke that anyone that wasn't crouching would be invisible from the waist up. The dirt floor was stained with the spills of a million drinks. The tables were splintered and so worn that it wouldn't be right to call them tables; they were simply lumps of wood that happened to resemble a table. The patrons were no less worn. People were slumped over the backs of chairs, sprawled on the floor, or sitting, curled up in a corner. They all shared one thing; a glazed look in their eyes that comes about from over indulgence in toxic materials. One man stood out from the rest. He sat a booth with his back to the door, his shoulders slack, his entire frame seeming to hang over an empty mug. His eyes were closed, and he was sleeping peacefully. His breath made his thin white beard rustle a little. With a banging that seemed far too loud for the quiet little hole, a man kicked down the piece of plywood that was currently acting as a door. He flicked his wrist, and inexplicably, the barkeep, who was rearranging his row of glasses, was lifted into the air. "Johan Yackosmidt, you are a hard man to find." The barkeep stared at the man, his eyes wide. "I have no idea who Herr Yackosmidt is! I promise!" "Oh really?" "Yes! And I have no idea who you are!" The man narrowed his eyes, then, inexplicably, a pair of feathery white wings emerged from his back. They were magnificent, like something you'd see in the Sistine Chapel. The barkeep was not impressed. "Oh, Herr Angel. I remember you. Back when I was weapons dealer in Liberty City. You caught me selling to gang." "That's right. And I've followed you all the way here. And I've finally got you." The barkeep shrugged. "Take me back. I don't care. I grow tired of this trash heap anyway." The angel was about to leave when he heard a ragged, but familiar voice. "Will you keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep!" Slowly, the angel turned around. "Doctor Goldenstein?" he asked uncertainly. "What? No one calls me that anymore. I'm not a doctor. I was never a doctor. I just want to sleep, so leave me alone!" The angel suspended the barkeep in mid-air and walked over to the slumped over figure. "I'm Celestin," he said. "And you are really Doctor Goldenstein? What are you doing in Bangkok?" The man looked up at Celestin. Heavy black bags surrounded his thin face. A patchy white beard covered his thin, cracked lips. There was a mad glint in his eyes. He was only 24 years old, but he looked about fifty. "Why do I care who you are?" he croaked. "You're that doctor that created the LEECH that killed all of those people, right?" Strebor laughed and threw the empty mug across the room. It shattered against the wall. "435. Yeah, that was me." "Then you know about Mr. Mavet." "No. I stopped caring about that sack of pus a long time ago." "Then you don't care that he's at his most vulnerable?" Strebor stared down at his lap, then grabbed Celestin by the upper arms. "Are you lying to me?" he asked fiercely. Celestin stared back. "No." "Then explain yourself." Celestin sat down across from Strebor at the booth. His wings retracted as he did. At one point in his life, Strebor might have been fascinated by them, but now, all he cared about was making sure he took his medicine on time. "Mr. Mavet retired a few weeks ago. He's living in a penthouse in Liberty City. The Dealer has taken his place as head of OmniCorp." Strebor scratched his beard. The thing was an itchy nuisance, but he didn't have a way to get rid of it. "Okay. Why should I care?" Celestin raised an eyebrow. "You mean you don't care about revenge anymore?" "No. I'd still love to plunge a syringe full of box jellyfish venom into the pig, but what can I do? I'm a deranged ex-doctor with no money. Not to mention there are three men that are still out there and still probably want me dead." Celestin thought for a moment, then said, "What if I helped you?" "What can you do?" Strebor said harshly. "And how do you know so much about me?" "I've spoken to Experimental. He told me everything. He knows about how OmniCorp wronged you, but being an ex-villain, no one's going to believe him. I want to help you, Strebor. I want to help you clear your name and right an injustice." Strebor threw up his hands. "Haven't you been listening? I have no income, I have schizophrenia and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, that have to be carefully medicated or else I curl up into a ball as the voices warn me about the 'others,' and there are three highly effective hired guns out there, still trying to kill me." He pulled the sheet of paper that Mr. Mavet had given him so many weeks ago. It was wrinkled and felt more like cloth than paper, but everything was still legible. Celestin studied the paper. "You've been missing for two months," he finally said. "A lot of people are saying you're dead. These guys have probably forgotten you. If we can get them before they realize you're back, we might have a chance." "Why are you trying to help me?" Strebor asked. Celestin looked into the blood-shot eyes and saw that there was still hope for the man. "Because I know what it's like to have voices in your head, telling you to do things that you know are wrong. At least you can make yours go away. Look, if you don't want my help, I'll leave with Herr German over there and you can go back to drinking yourself to death. It'll make the assassin's jobs easier." Strebor sighed, and cleared the crust out of his eyes. "What do we do first?" Celestin grinned and helped the young, bent doctor up. "First, we get you back to Liberty City. Then, we get you a cool mask."

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (8/15/2011 23:04:57)
September 12th, 3:34 p.m. The penthouse in which Mr. O'Hare lived was far too fancy and cushy for Strebor. After sitting of hard, wooden chairs, the plush, velvet couches and soft carpet seemed spongy and annoying. But he wasn't complaining. The man had an impressive collection of medical antiques and artifacts. And he was dying. "Are you Mr. Goldenstein?" he asked in a high, quivering voice. He was dressed in a silk bathrobe. "I am. Are you Mr. O'Hare, the man with the love for medicine?" Strebor asked as they shook hands. The mention of medicine made the old man's dim eyes light up. "Oh, yes! I love everything that has to do with the medical field. I myself was a hedge-fund manager before I retired. I never graduated high school, you see, so no college wanted me. But I'm still a millionaire!" He laughed, but the act seemed to much for him, for it quickly ended in a shortness of breath. "I always did envy doctors," he said once he had recovered. "Please, let me show you the library. That's where the goodies are." Mr. O'Hare opened pressed a button on the wall, and two heavy oak doors swung open, revealing a circular library that had a grand view of Liberty City. The bookcases were full of old, even ancient medical textbooks, and in glass cases, antiqued equipment. "I've accumulated this vast collection over the course of my life," he said as he led the awestruck Strebor and slightly bored Celestin inside. "But since I have no heirs, and do not wish to sell my pieces to some museum where they will be mishandled, I plan to sell everything to people that will truly appreciate the history behind each piece. People like you, Mr. Goldenstein." Strebor nodded. "Thank you. Is that a 16th century arrow remover?" he asked, pointing at an instrument with three sharp points. "Why, yes! How knowledgeable of you. Well, I'm going to make some tea. I trust that I can leave you two alone?" "Of course," said Celestin, his hands clasped behind his back. Mr. O'Hare shuffled off. When Celestin heard the banging of the kitchen door, he pulled out the list of assassins. "Okay, the first guy on here is Necronomicus. He's pretty nasty. He specializes in poison and stuff like that. You know, he use to be a doctor, named James Decland? Did you know him?" "No," Strebor answered as he perused a shadowbox full of over-sized glass needles. "But I guess I'm going to know him real well soon enough." "The next guy is named ShadowLord9k..." Celestin furrowed his brow. "The name sounds familiar...oh yeah! He's this mercenary guy. He might even be a robot, I have no idea. I imagine he's pretty lethal, though. Mr. Mavet wouldn't have hired him if he wasn't." "And so you remind me," Strebor growled as he admired his reflection in the metal of a polished amputation knife. He had shaved off his beard and even dyed his hair black. Even the bags under his eyes were fading. He was starting to look like his normal self again, something that relieved him. He didn't want to let his experience with Mr. Mavet to change him too drastically. Celestin squinted at the paper and said, "Lastly is War Pro2. Now, this is weird. I thought he was a hero. Why would he work for OmniCorp?" "Have you forgotten? Almost everyone thinks I'm a murder. Maybe he thinks he'll be taking out a villain or something. I don't know, I just know that I've found what I wanted." The angel cocked his head, curious at the thing Strebor was holding. It was a mask, completely white, appeared to be made from stiffened cloth, and was in the shape of a bird beak. "What the heck is that?" Celestin asked. Strebor gingerly set the mask down on a jewel-encrusted coffee table. "It's a plague doctor mask. Doctors wore them during the Black Death to fend off against the plague. Also, I've found a skull saw." He hefted it up. It looked like a medieval chainsaw powered by a hand-crank. The chain glinted dangerously in the sunlight. "I can attach a motor to this thing, and it'll be a pretty good weapon. The plague doctor mask, the skull saw, and some glass syringes should just about do it." Celestin watched as Strebor carefully gathered up his selections. "Why Bangkok?" Strebor answered without looking up. "Because I needed someplace that those guys couldn't find me. I thought I could prepare myself, maybe fend them off, but eventually I lose my nerve. I took all of the money I stashed in my bed in my dorm room, went to the airport, and purchased a one-way ticket to the most obscure place I could think of. Bangkok was it." "The tea is ready!" announced Mr. O'Hare gleefully as he carried the little cups into the library. "Actually, I'm done," Strebor said, trying to sound as nice as he could. "Oh, okay. What did you buy?" He sounded so crestfallen, it nearly broke Strebor's heart. He showed him his choices, and Mr. O'Hare clucked approvingly. "Very nice!" he said. "You have impeccable taste when it comes to old-fashion medical paraphernalia." "So how much will all of this cost?" asked Celestin warily. He didn't have much money, and knew Strebor was broke as well. Mr. O'Hare sighed and lovingly stroked the skull saw. "Not many people care about this sort of stuff. The fact that you do...take it. It's my gift to you" Strebor smiled, something he did rarely those days, and bowed to the old man. "I appreciate it greatly. Celestin, are we ready to go?" "Actually, I have to drop Johan off at a friend's house. She needs to have a talk with him. It might take a while, where should I meet you?" "Uh..." "Do you not have a place to stay?" Mr. O'Hare asked eagerly. "Well, no-" "Stay here!" "Oh, no," Strebor said, waving his hands. "I can't impose on you like that." Mr. O'Hare let out another laugh, and this time, it didn't end in a telltale wheeze. "It's no trouble! I'd really like the company." "Are you sure?" "Of course!" Strebor smiled and bowed again. "I am forever in your debt. Thank you." Celestin clapped Strebor on the back, happy for him. Maybe the cloud of gloom that hung over him would disperse now. "I'll be back soon. Be ready, we're going after Delcan tonight." With that he expanded his wings, opened a window, and fell off, much to Mr. O'Hares amazement. "You get used to it," Strebor said coolly, a hint of a smile still playing on his prematurely-aged face.

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (8/18/2011 22:11:01)
September 12th, 11:48 p.m. Night came quickly to the city of Liberty City. Or perhaps time just seemed to pass quickly to Strebor as he sat absorbed in his work. When he gazed out of the penthouse's windows, the sun was hidden behind a blanket of clouds and was burning them a brilliant orange that one might find in the workshop of a proud artist. Then, when he heard the sound of a door opening and looked up, the clouds were gone and were replaced by a canvas of beautiful, twinkling stars. For once in his life, Strebor was impressed by the majesty of nature. Celestin found him as he he had left him, with a tray of his newly-acquired needles in front of him. "I got the thing you wanted me to get," he said roughly, tossing the folded up wheelchair onto the floor. When Strebor didn't respond, Celestin said, "Do you even want to know how I got it?" "Not really," he said, "but look at this! The material from my hands seems to condense whenever it comes into contact with cold glass, like it's a vapor...also, I can change its properties! Look!" He proudly held up the tray. Each of the syringes were full of strange, glowing liquids, each a different color. It looked somewhat like a twisted little rainbow. "How do you know what each of these do?" Celestin asked. "Well, Mr. O'Hare had a rat problem. He didn't want to kill them, so he let me experiment on them!" Strebor was speaking faster, and he was getting louder. Color flooded his delighted face. "It appears the orange one is some sort of potent muscle relaxant, the blue, a deadly toxin. The green is an incredibly powerful blood-thinner, the yellow makes you go blind temporarily, and the red causes the user to fall immediately to sleep." "How can you change what type comes out of your hands?" "It seems to be linked to emotion, blue being sad, yellow, happy, et cetera, et cetera. I just clench really hard, feel a certain emotion, and ta-da! The vapor changes!" Strebor eagerly gathered the syringes up, dropping them into the front pouch of his apron, except for the orange one, which he kept in a holster around his wrist. "Now, are you ready?" "I've been ready ever since I walked in. But I had to suffer your constant jabbering!" Celestin said harshly. Strebor blinked. "What did I do?" "Nothing. Let's go." He squealed a little and secured the plague doctor mask. It fit snuggly on his face. Through the glass lens everything was bright red. Rosy. They ventured out into the night, Celestin slumped in the wheelchair, Strebor pushing him along. The occasional hobo or late-night businessman paid them little mind. In a place like Liberty City, a guy in ancient medicinal garb wheeling around some guy wasn't the strangest thing they had seen all day. "Necronomicus likes to hang out around here after a long day," Celestin whispered as they rounded a corner and started down Morte Avenue. "He won't expect you, but you'll still have to incapacitate him somehow. Can you do that without messing up or running away with your tail between your legs?" "Jeez, who took a whiz in your corn flakes?" Strebor asked cheerfully. Nothing Celestin said could have brought him down. Endorphins were flowing through his damaged mind like juice in an orange. He was actually facing down one of the assassins, one of the symbols of fear that had haunted his dreams from the very first time he passed out in Bangkok. Plus, he discovered that the strange and debilitating scars the LEECH had left were actually helpful! All of the depression and self-doubt and pity drained out of his mind. It was like he was a TA again back at Sweeney University, building the LEECH and aspiring for greatness. He was having the time of his life. "There he is," Celestin murmured. "See him?" Strebor had to suppress a gasp. The man approaching him had no hair, lips, or a nose, or even eyes. It was just a black skull sitting where his head should have been. It gleamed, like obsidian. Two luminous orange orbs acted as eyes. It was the stuff of fairy tales. "Yeah, I see him." "Good. That's Necronomicus. Take him down." The monster seemed to smile a little as it neared the doctor and his patient. A glint of light-he had a ninja star in his hand. "A little late for a stroll," he rasped as he readied his projectile. Strebor didn't let him act. As if it was on fire, he let go of the wheelchair and seized Necronomicus by the shoulder. Before he could react, Strebor plunged the syringe full of orange fluid into his arm. The monster groaned and collapsed. "What is this?" it hissed as Celestin and Strebor hoisted it into the wheelchair. "Who are you? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?" Strebor simply chuckled. He squatted down and secured the restraints keeping its arms and legs from moving-not that they would be for another forty-eight hours. "ANSWER ME!" Strebor removed his mask. "Doctor Strebor Goldenstein, nice to meet you." Necronomicus' face melted from confusion to uncertainty to rage. "YOU FILTHY SON OF A BI-" "Hey now, that's just unbecoming of a man of your intellect," Strebor said as he spun him around. "Where are you taking me?" "Nowhere special. You're just over-do...for a checkup." Strebor threw back his head and cackled. Celestin sighed and rubbed his brow. "Moron."

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (8/22/2011 22:44:52)
September 13th, 6:54 a.m. They had been going at him for hours. They had taken only brief rests in order to refill their coffee mugs and take a leak. They tried everything. Good cop-bad cop, good cop-good cop, bad cop-bad cop, good cop-clinically depressed cop, bad cop-nothing to lose cop, schizophrenic cop-terminally ill cop. Nothing worked. All they had figured out was that this guy's name was Billy and he had been paid by the real Necronomicus to wear the silly rubber mask that in the light revealed it's cheapness but in the dark had completely fooled Strebor and Celestin. They had dragged the paralyzed Billy to an abandoned warehouse. Chains and heavy machinery creaked in the gloomy silence. They hadn't told him their names, they hadn't told him anything. Perhaps the sheer terror he had to be feeling would make him talk. "Maybe we should just put a bag over his head and get some hours of shut-eye," Celestin said in between yawns. "No," Strebor said. "I want information. How did Necronomicus know we were coming?" He paused and eyed Celestin suspiciously. "You're kidding, right?" Celestin asked dryly. "I'm going to ignore the insinuation and think you're kidding." "You're dodging the accusation!" hissed Strebor. "HEY! Are you two girls done having a tea party over there? I gotta take a dump." Strebor spun around, marched up to the defiant Billy, who was giving him a brown, toothy grin, and back-handed him across the face. The criminal let loose a stream of expletives, but was silenced by another slap. Strebor squatted down so that he was eye-level with Billy. "Do you see this?" he asked as he pulled out a syringe. "This is a highly volatile poison. Blood will spurt from your eyes and nose and ears and every other orifice. It will shrivel you up and turn you into a pathetic little husk. Like a popped balloon. Or a popped tick. Because that's what you are. A little tick, A PARASITE." He was yelling now, and Billy was whimpering, like a dog about to be kicked. "Now," Strebor said, returning his voice back to normal, "tell me how Necronomicus knew I was back in Liberty City and where he is or I will inject this into your thigh and watch you die." "You won't do that," Billy said, his voice trembling but his eyes defiant. "If you kill me, you'll never find him." Strebor chuckled softly and wagged a finger at him. "True. But I'm beginning to think you're totally clueless. In that case, what's the point in keeping you around? Now, answer my questions, or..." With each moment of silence the needle neared Billy's helpless leg. Strebor kept blinking and licking his lips. He had to do it. If the thug wasn't going to answer him...he made a promise. He couldn't appear weak. He had to be strong... "STREBOR!" Celestin yelled. He whipped around and saw the angel get blasted back by a bolt of electricity. The air smelled of burned hair and ozone. Strebor could hear deep laughing over the crackling of static. "You thought it would be that easy?" A silhouette asked. He understood instantly. Without thinking he threw the syringe full of poison at the outlined figure. Impossibly, inhumanely, it caught it mid-flight. It squirted a bit of the poison onto it's pointer finger and smelled it. "Hydrouraniumoxide Acid. Very...potent. I thought you were one of the good guys, Doctor. They don't use such terrible things like acid. In fact, they don't interrogate people either." The figure stepped under a powerful lamp and Strebor knew that this was no imitation. The skull shown proudly, and the bare teeth were twisted into a smile. "You really think I don't know about everyone that leaves and enters this city?" it said. "You think I'd let you surprise me like that?" It fired another arc of sizzling electricity. Strebor dove out of the way just in time. Instead of barbecuing him, it blasted a wooden crate to pieces. "Yes, dance you little rate, dance!" Necronomicus howled as he continued to blast electricity at the hapless doctor. Strebor grabbed a nearby trash can lid and slung it at the monster. It sidestepped it like it was a dart being shot out of a Nerf gun. It pulled a grenade from its belt and, hovering a few feet above the air thanks to a jet pack, Necronomicus tossed the grenade at the doctor, who was cowering behind a big sheet of metal. "Oh God, tear gas!" he yelled. He tucked his nose under his collar and squeezed his eyes shut and bolted out into the open, blindly flailing about, desperately seeking new cover. The sight was so pathetically funny, Necronomicus just laughed in contempt. Strebor dared to open his eyes and saw a limp Celestin lying face-down next to a cement pillar. Without wasting time he took a syringe containing a purple mixture and injected it into the small of Celestin's back. He awoke from his unconsciousness with a cough. "What happened?" he asked foggily. "Necronomicus found us. Can you stand?" "Yeah..." "Okay. I need you to provide a distraction for just a few seconds, okay?" "Alright." Celestin clambered to his feet and gripped the pillar for support. He raised his hand, and like a magician commanding a ball to rise, a bunch of discarded nails rose up and shot at the monster with lightning speed. "Where are you Doctor...I have no time for games...GAH!" It screamed and yanked a rusty nail out of its shoulder. "You whelk!" it hissed as it advanced upon the weakened Celestin. With a flick of its wrist the nails fell away. Celestin growled and continued to lob miscellaneous objects at it, but they did nothing. He was too weak to overpower the horror. "What disease should I infect you with?" Necronomicus snarled. "Maybe smallpox. Or gangrene. Or the bubonic plague, they're all such fun." "How about none of the above?" Strebor suggested as he plunged a red syringe into Necronomicus' neck. It crumpled to the floor without a word. "What do we do with it?" Celestin asked weakly as he leaned on the pillar. "I have no idea," Strebor said quietly. "But I'm going to have fun coming up with an idea."

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (8/25/2011 22:53:52)
September 13th, 7:23 a.m. "I suggest you burn him," whispered a voice in Strebor's ear. It had a chilly quality, like a cold October fog that penetrates even the thickest of jackets. "How could you say something like that?" Strebor asked, spinning around to face Celestin. "Say what?" Celestin said. His face betrayed nothing, and Strebor could tell that the fellow hadn't said anything. He felt his face become pale. He quickly took out his pill bottle and took his daily dose of medication. "Nothing, my good friend. I suggest we strip him of all of his equipment and deliver him to the police. Good idea?" Celestin shrugged. "I guess. He'll break out soon enough." "I know," Strebor said as he started to work Necronomicus' limp body out of the jet pack harness. "But it'll keep him out of our hair until I can take out Mavet. Once he's gone, Skullduggery here won't have a reason to kill me." "Other than the fact that you humiliated him and dumped him in jail." Celestin watched the doctor work and noticed a pistol hanging from the belt he wore around his apron. He hadn't noticed it in the gloom of the warehouse, but now that Strebor was under a bright light, the gun shined. "That pistol's new." Strebor sighed and stood up, holding an armful of grenades. "Yeah, it is. It was my fathers. He...he died." "Oh my God, I'm so sorry," Celestin said, placing a comforting hand of his shoulder. Strebor acknowledged the condolences with a nod. He dumped the grenades into a wooden box and kicked it far away from Necronomicus. He sighed again and pulled it out. "It's a Makarov. My father was issued one when he joined the Soviet Union's military. He always told me he'd let me have it one day." "How did he die?" Strebor turned and offered a Celestin a smile. His eyes were watery. "It was cancer. Brain cancer. He died on June 13th, in my mother's arms." Celestin's brow furrowed. "That was months ago. You're just finding out?" "I was Mavet's captive until June 29th. The post office held the package until I went by yesterday to pick it up and tell them my new address was Mr. O'Hare's penthouse. I...I missed the funeral. My mother is heart-broken. She won't pick up the phone when I try to call her." Strebor stared down at the shiny gun. It smelled like the shooting range his father use to take him to on the weekends. His father laughed and so did he when the gun's recoil made Strebor drop it in surprise. He wiped a few tears from his eyes and continued. "Anyway, I bought some plastic bullets for it. I dipped them in some of the vapor. I color-coded the clips to tell me which kind of bullet they hold." He held open his apron's front pocket and Celestin saw that there was an unorganized jumble of ammo clips mixed in with the glass syringes. "And your skull saw-thingy?" Celestin asked. "Whenever you interrogated Billy, I worked on it. I got a motor and a good handle on it. It's operational now." "Let me get this straight. You've got a motorized skull saw that fits onto your arm, a gun that can shoot bullets that heal you, and bunch of syringes full of crazy medical stuff. You've gotten to be prettily heavily armed, my friend." Strebor looked up, about to retort, when he was a bit of blood trickled out of Celestin's mouth. "Are you okay?" he asked, springing to his forward. "Yeah, why?" "Are you hurt?" "No..." Strebor looked down and noticed that he was unwittingly clutching his side. "Remove your hand." The wound was deep and looked raw. The skin had been roughly torn. "I can fix this," Strebor said as he removed his glove. "Why aren't I feeling any pain?" asked Celestin, a bit of panic in his voice. "You're in shock," said Strebor as he carefully placed his hand, which was glowing white. "You've lost quite a bit of blood. Maybe you accidentally cut yourself on one of those nails or something. Here, let me patch this up. Maybe I can heal it before the pain hits." The wound quivered and twitched. The jagged edges curled up then fanned out and connected and formed a row of organic stitches that completely closed off the injury. In its place was a little bumpy line. "There we go," Strebor said, sliding his glove back on, "good as new. Or, you know, certified pre-owned." Celestin laughed and helped Strebor up. "To tell you the truth, your hand didn't feel as gross and slimy as I would have thought." Strebor let out an exaggerated gasp. "Slimy? You think I'm slimy? How could you?" "Oh, come on. You know I don't mean it like that." He was trying to be stern, but he was doing a poor job of it. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Necronomicus' fingers were slightly moving. Celestin jerked his thumb at him and said, "Let's go ahead and get him to the police before he wakes up and is really angry." "Agreed," Strebor said, and he helped Celestin situate Necronomicus into the wheelchair. The entire time, Billy had not made a noise. His eyes were huge, and he wasn't moving a muscle. When he realized that his attackers were leaving without releasing him, he called out, "Hey, what about me?" Strebor just waved and slammed the warehouse door shut. The Liberty City Police Department was situated in Hamilton Plaza, a big, bustling place with a beautiful fountain in the middle. There was a sculpture of Pandora, who was shooting streams of water out of her eyes. Lots of people complained about the creepiness of it, and it was due to be removed and replaced with a much more appropriate one in the near future. Unsettling statue or not, many of the regular people of Liberty City liked to come to Hamilton Plaza and enjoy the relaxing atmosphere. It was relaxing, at least, when the crazies weren't there preaching. "I have every superpower known to man," said a guy in a flannel shirt as he stood on a soapbox. "And as soon as a new superpower is created, I gain it. I am, like, the greatest hero of all time. Nothing can stop me. Nothing!" From behind Strebor stabbed a syringe with a sleeping mixture into the guy's back. "God, he was annoying," he said as he re holstered the needle. "What kind of hero is that? Invincibility is boring." He had his plague doctor mask on, so none of Mavet's cops would recognize him, and he had his skull saw strapped to his arm. The engine attached to it purred softly, like a well-oiled car. Celestin just grinned and shook his head, amused by the doctor's antics. He couldn't tell if the guy was insane or just playful and fond of clowning around. He seemed rational and responsible enough. Maybe it wasn't insanity so much as a very light-hearted coping mechanism. Unknown to the two compatriots, a little robot hovered right behind them, above everyone's head. No one paid it much mind. Not very many people look up now a days. "Doctor Goldenstein, I am coming for you!" said the robot in a static voice. It cut through the general commotion of the plaza and silenced everyone. Even the birds. "I am Shadowlord9k," it said, "and I thank you for coming out into the open. You have been a very hard man to find." All of the civilians instantly cleared out, like a scene in an old western movie. Only a few stragglers remained, and the one annoying guy, sleeping on the ground. "Where is he?" Strebor whispered to Celestin. He didn't know why he was whispering, but he would have felt foolish if he had spoke any louder. "Anywhere. Shadowlord9k is a very stealthy guy. He could be right behind us." Strebor revved up his saw and drew his pistol. "Then I suggest we stand back-to-back."

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (8/29/2011 22:13:44)
September 13th, 9:21 a.m. The sun passed behind a few dark clouds, causing everything to become a few shades grayer and a few degrees colder. Strebor felt goosebumps bubbling on his arm. He felt a slight wind caress his face. Some leaves tumbled past. Everything was so...peaceful. "THERE HE IS!" yelled Celestin. As if to respond, a green flash of light, moving so fast that the human eye couldn't assign it a definite shape, streaked past the pair and hit the ground, scorching the glittering white concrete. "Where?" Strebor scanned the buildings, the trees, the benches, the alleys. There was nothing to see. Nothing had changed. It was like a page from a "Where's Waldo?" book, but there was no Waldo. He had his pistol out in front of him, and he was terribly consciousnesses of how much it quivered. "There he is again!" Celestin said as he pushed Strebor down. Another flash shot over their heads. "WHERE?" demanded Strebor. "See that little black dot on top of the tower?" Celestin asked. He was pointing at nothing! More green flashes. The little robot just cackled. "Yes, dance you dogs, dance!" it sang in its robotic voice. "Why don't you face us like a man?" Strebor yelled out. His voice rebounded off the city walls, repeating itself over and over. The robot laughed. "Why don't you face someone when you're talking to him?" There were more flashes. They hit everywhere but where Strebor and Celestin were standing. And then he realized. This guy was just messing with them, playing with them, like a cat would do if it found a mouse dangling by its tail. Strebor was on the verge of randomly firing into the urban thicket when Celestin slowly rose from the ground, his wings fully extended. "What are you doing?" Strebor called up to him. "A moving target in the sky is much harder to hit than one on the ground. I'll draw him out, and you finish him off. However you see fit." Strebor nodded and was about to say something when the robot interrupted him. "Oh, brilliant. Just give away your plan. That's why evil will always win, because all of you heroes are so utterly stupid!" With a flick of his wrist, Celestin sent the robot flying. It hit the statue of Pandora and shattered. There was a second of silence, and then, "YOU JERKS!" It sounded like he was talking from the far end of a tunnel. "I'll show you to destroy Shadowlord9k's stuff!" Then Strebor saw the outline of a hooded figure leaning over the edge of an office building that had the words "Dunce and Associates" lit up in bright green letters. Celestin raised his hand like he was a god, and a lamppost burst from the ground. It floated in front of him, and he inspected with a thoughtful rub of his chin. "It'll do." He clapped his hands together, then snapped them out. The lamppost burst forth like it was fired from a cannon, and it went spinning through the air. It smashed into the office building, cleaving through it like it was made of nothing. The steel folded like it was made of paper. The structure groaned, and then it totally fell apart, sending a plume of dust into the air. "Are you crazy?" Strebor shouted. "What?" "What if there were people in there? You, you blithering moron! You call yourself a hero! You're a menace!" "Look here, you thick-headed-" He was cut short by guttural croak. Like a rag-doll, he fell to the hard ground. There was a twisted bit of metal protruding from his chest. "Oh, crap," hissed Strebor. He ran over, a syringe drawn. Without even speaking, he plunged the syringe into Celestin's arm. "Strebor..." "Shh. Don't speak. Don't remove the metal. Let me handle this guy." Celestin looked like he wanted to protest, but another spasm hit him, and he just gave a little nod. Strebor looked up and saw the outline walking through the brown cloud. He could just make out the knife in his hand. "Perhaps I'll skewer you like your friend there," he hissed. "Or maybe I'll bring you alive. Mr. Mavet said he'd pay extra for that." Strebor simply pocketed his pistol and held up his saw. "A gentlemen's duel would be in order...if you were a gentlemen." He had a feeling Shadowlord was sneering under his hood. "Petty talk from a petty pest." He lunged forward. The chain spinning, Strebor took a wild slash at the villain, only to miss spectacularly. He heard Shadowlord snicker. "Fool." Strebor spun around and slashed again, only for Shadowlord to parry it and then stab. Strebor had to jump back, nearly falling over. "You know nothing of combat, do you?" he said, laughing as he slashed away. The only reason Strebor was able to successively block him was because his weapon was huge compared to the tiny knife. "Just shut up and let me hit you!" Strebor swung horizontally, causing Shadowlord to step back. Before he could retort, Strebor whipped out a syringe and threw it at him. He didn't know what kind it was. He just knew that Shadowlord ducked just in time to avoid having it nail him between the eyes. His face was hidden, but it was obvious that he was unnerved. "I'll admit that you're tougher than usual," he said as they slowly walked in a circle, never breaking eye contact. "Most heroes are nothing without their powers. But you...you..." "I'm just a guy with a saw and some needles and a subscription for crazy pills," Strebor growled. "And I'm about to whip you so hard that Veles is going to wince when he sees what I've done." "Big talk." He lashed out, catching Strebor by surprise. The blade bit into the bridge of Strebor's nose, cutting it to the bone. Hot blood splashed across his face. He double over, covering his face. Shadowlord whooped with delight and sheathed his knife and tackled Strebor. They hit the ground and begun to wrestle. Blinded, Strebor wildly flailed his arms about and managed to get in a glancing blow. Shadowlord responded by a punch to the neck. He couldn't breath. His throat swelled up and he started choking. Then Strebor opened his eyes and saw a hint of a grin under the hood. "You svoloch!" he yelled as he headbutted Shadowlord. The villain cried out in pain and reeled back. Strebor laboriously got up, spat out some blood, and was about to deliver a death blow, a downward swing that would have cleaved Shadowlord's skull open, when the villain sprang forward and knocked Strebor flat on his back. "Now, you stubborn little pest," he breathed as he drew out his knife, "I'm going to silence you forever!" BANG The knife slipped out of his hand and made a loud clang. Quietly, without a whisper or whimper, Shadowlord9k fell over, like a newborn baby. A small indent that glowed a magnificent shade of red marred his forehead. "Nighty-night," Strebor said grimly as he put away the Makarov. Then he remembered Celestin and sprinted over despite a broken rib. His eyes were closed, and his chest slowly rose and fell. Feathers littered the ground around him, and the ones that had remained attached were bent and broken. "Oh, God," Strebor said, feeling a lump well up in his throat. "...I'll take you to O'Hare. You're going to be okay. I know you are. I'm a good doctor, right?" "Right," Celestin said, very weakly. Strebor nodded and picked Celestin up, the metal still lodged in his chest. He was relieved to see that it had hit the right side of the chest; his heart hadn't been damaged. "It was condemned..." "Be quiet, no talking." "But the building...it was empty and condemned...I never hurt civilians..." Strebor let out a low laugh as he walked into the sunlight, leaving Shadowlord to sleep. He wasn't going anywhere any time soon. "I know, comrade. I know."

Goldstein -> RE: (HS) Who Needs A Medical License? (9/1/2011 22:34:38)
September 15th, 11:23 p.m. It was in everybody's best interest that Strebor not participate in the interrogation. After the debacle with poor Billy (who was currently sitting in a LCPD cell), Celestin insisted that he simply read Shadowlord's mind. Strebor consented. He had better things to do anyway. All of his equipment was spread out on the coffee table. A surgical saw, a Makarov pistol, nine syringes, nine magazines. The tools of war...the tools of a madman. He popped a few more pills and washed them down with a swig of water. "Let me see if I remember what all of you do..." He tapped each syringe as he prattled off its content's characteristics. "The red puts you to sleep, the purple is a hallucinogen, the gray causes sneezing, heh heh, that's a funny one, the white is a general health-giver, the blue is a poison, the green is a blood-thinner, the yellow makes you go blind, the orange is a muscle relaxant, the black...I have no idea." "Organizing your supplies, eh?" Mr. O'Hare asked as he sat down next to Strebor with two cups of tea. "Would you like some?" Strebor nodded and quietly sipped the hot beverage. Mr. O'Hare looked at him out of the corner of his eye, then leaned back, crossing his legs. "I fought in the War, you know," he said aloud. He took the silence as a sign to continue his story. "I had a buddy. I can't remember his name, and I hate that, but you remind me a lot of him. He had this quiet intensity that he liked to hide behind a careless facade...we went on patrol one day. There was this gunshot in this nearby house, a little house. Normally we wouldn't stop and see what it was, you know, it was War, gunshots were normal, but we had seen a kid running around the house earlier that day, and my buddy was concerned. He went into that house. He didn't come out. I waited as long as I could, I even went inside, but the thing was empty. I thought maybe he was tricking me and he was back at base, but he wasn't. Officially, he was labeled as a deserter and was dishonorably discharged. "I saw him a month after I came back to Liberty City. He looked terrible, a scraggly beard, about ten years older. He said that he had been captured by enemy forces and that they tortured him. I think he was a wee touched in the head. Anyway, he just wanted to come by and tell me that I had been a good friend. I never saw him again. In person, at least. He was on the news. He had murdered five men in cold blood. His lawyer claimed mental illness, but if fell through, and the poor guy was executed. Electric chair. Terrible." Strebor's tea had gone cold. With wide eyes he stared at Mr. O'Hare with horror. The old man giggled a little and finished his Earl Gray. "Anyway, what I wanted to say was that a robot was here to see you." Experimental stuck his head in. "May I come in now?" "Oh, yes, yes. I was just leaving." Mr. O'Hare tenderly took the china cup from Strebor and walked out. Strebor leaped up and vigorously shook his hand. "How are you, friend?" he asked warmly. Experimental sat down with a sigh. "Good, good. And you?" "Just fine. What brings you here?" His arms creaked as he rubbed his brow. "I thought you might want to know that Mr. Mavet will be leaving for Madrid tomorrow. If you want to see him...taken care of, I suggest you do it tonight. Uh, I see you've expanded your arsenal. Are you planning on becoming a superhero?" "Ha! Not a chance. I've had enough violence." Strebor picked up one of the syringes and looked at Experimental through the colorful liquid. "I'm hoping that once I kill Mavet, once he can no longer cause anyone anymore pain, I can open a clinic for super-powered people. Maybe then I can stop worrying all the time, maybe then I can go to bed at a respectable hour...say, did you take my advice? Did you go on a date with your dream girl?" Even though he was a robot, he blushed, something Strebor though was a marvel of science. "I will," he said bashfully, "all in due time." A door swung open and Celestin walked in, Shadowlord in tow. "Experimental! Buddy!" "Celestin!" They embraced like old friends. Strebor envied them a little. "How are you, friend? Is that where that nasty metal spike got you?" Experimental asked, poking the bandages. "Yeah...hey, it's late, and we got to get this guy down to the jail. Strebor's got a big day ahead of him, anyway. You need the sleep." He didn't hear him, not really. "Yeah, you're right." Experimental patted Strebor on the back and the two heroes escorted the miserable Shadowlord out of the room, chatting the entire way. Strebor waited a few minutes to make sure that they were gone. He selected just one needle, a needle that looked empty because of its clear poison, and his plague doctor mask. Funny, really. Plague doctors were signs of death, not hope, when they plundered the bubonic-ravaged Italy. Strebor smiled at the absurd symbolism, put on the mask, and left the penthouse with naught but a whisper. Mavet's home was very close to the police station and looked foreboding against the cloudy night sky. A storm was brewing. Strebor kicked down the front door and stalked in. Nothing was stirring. He could just make out the dark outlines of expensive paintings and elegant statues. Down the winding hallway he ventured. It suddenly and abruptly opened up, and there he was. Mr. Mavet was drinking a beverage from a shot glass, his back to Strebor, staring out of a big, stained-glass window, and an unfamiliar man was whispering in his ear. When the stranger saw the newcomer, he fell silent. Mavet, however, just laughed. "Come to extract your blood revenge, Mr. Goldenstein?" he asked merrily. "You know me too well." Strebor held out the syringe, like a knife. "You knew it would come to this. I hope you're ready to die." Mavet just laughed a again, arrogant to the end. "You constructed this great big narrative, haven't you? You as the brave, suffering hero, I, the corpulent antagonist. But it's not real. It's no more real than those hallucinations you had in that cage so long ago. No. I am but the wealthy ex-CEO of a bankrupt company, and you are a raving madman deluding himself by trying to claw his way out of lunacy." Strebor slowly advanced on him, the syringe held above his hand. He didn't care that the stranger had a gun and that there was a bright red dot on his chest. He just didn't care. "You've blamed everyone and everything for your predicament. You've blamed me, the police I pay, the LEECH, your disease, Necronomicus, Shadowlord...but you've never looked in the mirror. You're the one that got greedy. A doctor, ha! Fame and glory is you wanted, not to help people. And now that you're the one that needs help, you're arrogant enough to come into my home and believe that you can kill me all alone. I imagine that, if you survive, you'll blame your friends for not helping you." A wind whistled through the cracks and sent the papers on Mavet's oak desk flying. There was a flash of lightning, illuminating the shiny assault rifle and the hard face of the man holding it. The peal of thunder coincide with Strebor's realization that he would die that night. But not without taking Mavet down with him. "Are you ever afraid that one day you'll wake up a madman?" Mavet had yet to turn around and face the ever-encroaching danger. "Are you afraid that the dose you take right before you go to bed might be just a placebo that somehow got mixed into your prescription? Afraid that you'll wake up and never be able to return to the land of the living? How do you know you're not imagining this right now, and that you're actually not in an asylum right now? You're suspended over a very sharp spike right now, Strebor, and all it takes for you to get gored on it is just one little snap. Just one...little...snap." Strebor let out an animal roar and lunged forward, plunging his syringe into Mr. Mavet's back. But he never reached him. The stranger fired just three shots, just three. Strebor felt the impact of the bullet hit his right shoulder, his left thigh, his stomach. Shocked, he dropped the needle. It fell to the floor and broke open. Strebor followed suit. Mavet finished his drink with a laugh. He set it down and strolled over to Strebor, bleeding on the ground. As if he was picking up trash, he reached down and snatched the mask off. "It'd be a shame to destroy such a fine piece of art," he said with an icy snarl. Strebor stared up at him, his eyes full of tear. "Svoloch," he whispered. Mavet raised his foot and stomped down, crushing a bug, an insect, a tiny little nuisance in his life. What a relief for him. Everything went swirled. Then blackness. Then...then nothing. End of Part 1 Beginning of Part 2

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