Doctor Calgori
Minister of Science, Shhh.....
July 5, 192x
University of Chicago Medical, Byron Webster Building
- It was a dark and stormy night. Mind, not a dark and stormy night, but a dark, and stormy night, so stormy that the orchestra had to drag in a cannon just to sound the thunder splitting the sky across Chicago. A cannonball had gone sailing through Zeus's plumbing, and the water which would have filled his bathtub came crashing down in great colossal bombs, crashing amidst the parked cars and those poor souls who had still not found something to stand under. Their moans and groans could be heard under the air raid sirens, complaining about ruined suits and missed meetings, their tears only adding to the great pool of water slowly making its way down 5841 South Maryland Avenue. The perfect night for the Black City.
"And it is only 11 AM..." Doctor Argus Sckope sighed icily, slamming a window down before yet another aquatic explosion got inside. The building, normally quiet and ominous, seemed even more quiet and ominous despite the pouring rain and crashing thunder outside. Slated for destruction many months ago, the building still stood only with the help of Doctor Sckope's iron will and his way with terrifying the directors. But the reminders of the end still lurked throughout its wooden walls. With each window he threw, the doctor passed three with boards through their midth. Many of the rooms didn't even have windows anymore. Those that did, well...the doctor smiled grimly. The usual occupants weren't too worried with a little rain anymore. They had moved on.
Not dead, no. The doctor shook his head, throwing the latch on the last window of the second floor. But close enough. Most had already moved to the new building somewhere. Steicke had run off West in search of adventure. Sparch had gone back home, and poor Sckope languished in his bed, a victim of a bout of pneumonia.
Why did they all choose S? Sckope, suffering only from a terrible case of annoyance, dashed the seventy-seven steps and seventeen metres back to the downstairs office, where he had made his lair. The soggy splashing of a sickly puddle sent Sckope's mood even lower: ah, it had sunk to the first floor! Cursing, the doctor flung his door open, nearly upsetting the careful balance of the surgical theatre within. Neat stacks of paper and scalpels swayed dangerously as the doctor flew past, landing in a cabinet to rummage for a dry towel. The doctor nearly upset his table as he dashed back to the spill, pausing to wipe a few drops of water off of seven neatly arranged glasses, and then, crashing to the floor with a thump, scrubbing at puddles with a grumble. Why did they all choose S? Why did it rain so much here? Why didn't maintenance answer their phone?
Why the doctor did not stay true to his word and stay in bed, however, had been answered as soon as Sckope had sat down at his desk a few days ago. It had been his duty to make the calls that year, working long into the day with his old phone and small checklist (More S's, one would think thirty years and sixty-six days would have solved that by now...), phoning up the eight directors and giving them the news. Oh, no, he's off, yes, we talked about this last week. Oh, no, he's moved on to Bristol, and I certainly hope that won't be a problem, will it sir? Good. It better not be.
Granted, the doctor had that honor every year, but this time it had been particularly notable because for once, he did not have to shout over the sounds of excruciating pain or missing limbs. Most of the office had, in fact, moved somewhere else, and this brought the good doctor to exactly the reason why he was currently reaching to wipe up a fifteenth puddle with his already soggy towel, instead of reaching for another toffee in the comfort of his room.
The clock struck half-hour, and Sckope threw a seventh towel into the bin, cursing loud enough to be heard over the boiling kettle, which clattered as Sckope unceremoniously threw it aside to make room for more wet towels. They would arrive any minute now, and the doctor hurried back to his desk, where seven identical copies of his hand-writ charter smiled up from under seven carefully cut glass plates. Seven sections, each laid out in radial pattern around the rickety table, and still dry, as the doctor desperately flung his towel out again and again, catching drops in midair. Desired task, required expectations, probable complications, ideal compensations, available clarifications, emergency contingencies, and, of course, medical services provided. The doctor smiled quietly, allowing himself a brief moment of pride. Clear, concise, and very hard to mess up. The doctor had learned long ago, that dealing with dealers of any sort required some sort of contract. This was a simple errand, but still, Sckope had never seen nor heard about his newest employees before. Sckope nodded once to himself, confident that he had done well, before applying his hand liberally to his forehead, an exasperated groan once again interrupting the hiss of the stove and the pounding rain outside.
Nearly 12 AM, and he had forgotten lunch. What kind of business deal doesn't have a lunch?