Sedatives are all that Fell okayed, thus far, for his father, whose condition,
since admittance two days prior, if not improved, at least has stabilized. He is
calm, within his jacket of wrap-around sleeves—histrionics thereby involuntarily quelled, with room enough to grant a degree of
though this has been abridged
by Prozac three times daily (when and if he swallows it).
"What I most object to is their ultra-smug presumption that a person
diagnosed with mental illness is excused from having anything to say of
possible relevance. Cancer patients aren’t dismissed as kooks because of tumors.
When a person has pneumonia no one writes him off as nuts. A broken bone or two,
or twenty, doesn’t equal feeble-mindedness. Why should schizophrenics suffer
hushed asides and innuendo plus a steady stream of smiley-face
(Because we’re loons. You want the pilot of a plane you’re on to argue in
the cockpit when the co-pilot's seat is undeniably empty? Want a cop who mimics sirens
en route to crime scenes? How about a barber who insists on
cutting their hair first when you and only you represent the queue?)
the jobs get done by those best trained to do them, quirks regardless..."
(We’re not quirky, we’re psychotic. Wait till what’s-his-face gets back from
performing his appointed chores.)
"Which he’ll do dutifully."
(Oh, he’ll shut down the Lab all right—then blow the whistle. We’ll be more than out of
business; we’ll be out of circulation. In jail. Or on some funny farm fit for dads
with clones for sons.)
"That’s clone; singular."
(Skip it; someone’s coming.)
Remington/Stuyvesant halts his two-part tirade, soundless lips grown taut... relaxing
into a grin upon Rockefeller’s entry.