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The Electric Cure

Old Guy

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What has gone before: see “Scouts in the French Resistance” for the sordid tale of Oberst Fick, his terrible affliction, and his eventual capture by Allied forces.

Scene: Hospital torture treatment room.

Those present: Doctor “Dynamo” Joker, Nurse Bountiful, two burly trustees orderlies, and one victim patient -- Oberst Fick.

Doc Dynamo and Nurse Bountiful stood to one side as the orderlies transferred the struggling Oberst to a large stone slab decorated with grinning gargoyles at each corner.

“Nein! I do not need ein electroschlock. Let me go!” Ignoring his protests, the two orderlies finished securing him to the slab and stepped back.

Dynamo tried to comfort his patient. “Relax, Colonel. When the treatments are complete you will no longer associate female breasts to the spinning propellers of a strafing P-38. You will either be cured or -- and this is a veeery slight possibility -- dead.” Fick started moaning and thrashing around. “Calm down. Calm down. If a man can't fool around with the ladies he might as well be dead, eh?”

The doctor's words didn't seem to assure Fick. With a resigned sigh, Dynamo affixed a pair of metal electrodes to his patient's forehead. “We will start with 25% power, Colonel, and a ten second duration. This will sting a little, but you won't remember a thing.”

“Nooooo!” shrieked Fick. “Nein! Nein!”

Dynamo donned a set of earphones. “With this I can hear the sizzle, sizzle of our friend, electricity, at work.” He signaled the two orderlies. “Hold him. Sometimes even strong straps will break.” With the twist of a knob he set the power to 25%. “Count down from five for us, Bountiful.”

“Um -- count down?”

The doctor looked at her and smiled. Blonde and buxom, she gazed back with empty blue eyes. He found it impossible to be angry with her. “Never mind. We don't need no stinking countdown.” A flip of the switch and power surged through heavy cables into Fink's mostly empty skull. His eyes glowed a kind of purplish color.

“Interesting,” mused Dynamo. “Never seen eyes glow like that before.” He adjusted his earphones and leaned forward, listening for the dreaded sizzle, sizzle, sizzle, POP! which would signal the end of a billion or so brain cells. Fick strained against the straps, shrieking like a damned soul.

Their patient moaned and lay unresponsive for a good fifteen minutes after the procedure. Dynamo and the two orderlies retired to a table in the corner and played poker for tongue depressors. Bountiful sat in a chair beside the electroshock machine and practiced counting down from one.

“Ah.” Dynamo saw signs of life in his patient's eyes. “Are you back with us, Colonel?”

All Fick could do was sputter helplessly. Nevertheless, the experiment had to go on. First, it was necessary to test the colonel's reaction to unclad breasts. Nurse Bountiful already had her blouse open, just to be ready. She had a lot of practice at being ready to take her clothes off. Unhooking the front of her cable-reinforced Ironworks bra, she faced the patient. He responded by jerking back and screaming, “Take cover! Mein Gott! Here it comes again. I can't move -- can't get down!”

The two orderlies dropped like bags of sand, mouths agape, out cold.

Motioning Nurse Bountiful to cover herself, Doc Dynamo stooped to check the orderlies vital signs. “Sensitive louts for a couple convicted killers, eh, Colonel?”

Fick strained against his bonds and foamed at the mouth.

“I see you're as anxious as I am to continue,” said Dynamo. “We shall try 50% power and twenty seconds duration. How about that?”

The only reply was a strangled sob.

Procedure completed, Dynamo glanced at his watch. “Lunch time, Bountiful. Cover yourself. We don't need to decimate the male staff.” He chuckled. “And possibly some of the female as well.”

Frowning, Bountiful followed him out of the room. Fick lay in a stupor, wandering the burned out corridors of his mind. He didn't meet anyone he knew.

By the time Dynamo returned, chewing on a toothpick, the colonel was somewhat aware of his surroundings, but still not able to do anything but grunt and moan piteously. Bountiful felt a surge of pity for the poor man. She wondered if a day or two in her bed might help. Many another mentally wounded man had left her quarters restored in spirit though broken physically.

The doctor brought her back to reality. “The test, Bountiful. The test.”

Hurriedly, she complied. Fick shied away and began trembling, but made no sound. He hadn't recovered enough to let the shrieks out.

“We make progress, Bountiful.” Dynamo checked his watch. “I have a golf date at three. This will be the last treatment. What do you say, Colonel? 100% and thirty seconds? No. A minute. We must make sure we burn out the bad cells.”

Though he tried to scream, Fick still couldn't do more than squeak. He pushed feebly against the straps.

“He is ready, Bountiful. Last run -- now!” A low hum filled the room. Smoke poured from Fick's ears.

“Smell that, Bountiful? Burning brain cells! Just what we want.”

“Phew,” she said, waving at the smoke. “It's stinky.”

Dynamo jerked as it stung. Sparks shot from his earphones. The electroshock machine stopped with an ominous thud. “Himmel!” he cried. “Ve haf zuccezz! Ein treatment vorkz! Zose foolz at das Institute vill grovel at my feet.” He leaped up and ran out singing verses from the Horst Wessel song.

“My goodness,” murmured Bountiful.

“My goodness, indeed,” said Fick. “Remove these straps, if you please.” His eyes glowed red, though the effect soon faded to a dull orange.

“I don't know what got into the doctor,” said Bountiful as she loosed the restraints. “He was going to take me to dinner and a movie before we went to my place.”

“My dear,” said Fick, taking her hand. “I shall go in his stead. We will go to dinner and I will have . . .” He hesitated, staring at her unclothed chest. “Ah -- eggs. Yes. Eggs. Sunny side up.” He slid off the slab. “I feel -- I feel -- different. Cover yourself, my dear. It's not fitting for young women to wander about with their -- ah -- their -- their eggs uncovered.”

“But these aren't eggs. They're . . .”

Fick covered his ears. “I can't hear you. I can't hear you.”

“Well, never mind then.” Bountiful hooked hooks and buttoned buttons. Then she stalked out, more than a little confused. She headed for the night janitor's office. Archie was always understanding and he had a nice cot set up in a cozy room in the main warehouse. She didn't mind that he was short and kinda ugly. Nor did the purple spots bother her. They were kinda kinky, in fact.

The Colonel wandered the hospital ogling well-endowed women and asking each if he could treat them to a dinner of fried eggs -- sunny side up. Finally a security guard sapped him and delivered him to the military authorities. He ended up in a POW camp in northern England.

No matter how he tried to speak Germlish his words always came out sounding like something an upper-class English twit would say. “I say, old man,” he said one night as he sat in the camp orderly room playing chess with the British commandant. Both men were wrapped in blankets. The only warm thing in the room was the tea pot and it was cooling rapidly. “I say,” he repeated, “I can't regain my former manner of speech. I sound like a ninny.”

“You sound perfectly normal to me,” replied the commandant, who WAS an upper-class English twit.


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