Dear diary,
As our medical entrepreneurship becomes more and more successful, I demand that Toshiro and I update our facilities and translocate into the future. For we earned a lot of rubles being honest physicians, and I argue that it would be a smart move to make our neighbors the cosmonauts an offer on their used space-station; then, once we secure the title of ownership, we should continue dabbling in doctoring — this way, we can increase our profits tenfold by adding Space Aliens to our supreme clientele.
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So now I’m floating at my desk, while Doctor Toshiro Mifune is floating at his desk. We are both wearing bubble helmets. The Cosmonaut Space Station (I forgot its previous name — I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Apollo) has been redecorated so that its frosted glass double-doors have the name of our business etched into their surface: The Outer Space Medical Hospital of Doctor Bryan and his nurse-friend Doctor Toshiro. Then in smaller print underneath that is written: Featuring a Deluxe Emergency Room with Soothing Seashell Sounds.
“Greetings, aliens,” sez our first Alien Visitor, as he or she walks thru the automatic glass sliding doors from the blackness of space into the blinding fluorescents of our manmade satellite.
“You’re the alien,” I say. “We’re humans, from Planet Ground; alias Planet Land, or Planet Soil; also known as Planet Earth.”
“Oh, yes: I’m familiar with Planet Dirt,” sez our first Alien Patient.
“We only bought this here Space Station,” I explain, “so that we could bring the gospel to you non-believers. — Now, what seems to be the problem? Cat got your tongue?”
The Alien Visitor appears confused. He or she stops looking at me and turns to look at my colleague Doctor Toshiro.
“Why don’t you have a seat, and we will examine you,” sez Doctor Toshiro Mifune.
The Alien Visitor squiggles upon its tentacles toward a wooden chair at the periphery of our operating room. The thing sits on the chair and breaks it, and many infant squidlings come live-birthing out of the uteruses on either side of the organism’s abdomen.
Doctor Toshiro kneels down and uses some lime-green kerchiefs to stop the birthing. “Is that normal?” he asks the Alien.
“Define ‘normal’ please,” the Alien replies.
“I mean, does this type of thing happen more than seventy times a day? Because if you were a human, this mass-birth behavior would definitely be diagnosed as unusual — we humans cannot manage to gestate so fast, or so prolifically: it takes our womb six months to develop a single decent infant; and, even then, the thing would need many days of practice before it could squiggle around on its tentacles. Most parents would opt to pop it in the incubator (which is like a warming oven) for a few more eons until it became a Giant Squid; then we’d write a letter of recommendation so that it could land a job as an insurance executive. You see, on Earth, nothing can survive without scheming for a corporation; and all they are willing to pay to have done is only evil continually.”
“Yes, yes, this is totally normal,” sez the Alien Visitor, while writhing back to the upright position upon his or her tentacles.
“So are you sick or in need of treatment in any way,” asks Doctor Toshiro Mifune, “or did you just visit our Space Station on a social call, to make small-talk and shit squidlings?”
“No, I’m happy to provide interesting conversation for a fee, but the real reason I came here,” sez the Alien, “is that I’ve been having a pain in one of my top-front teeth, and I would like you to make a mold of my mouth and glue a denture onto my jaw.”
“That sounds more like a job for either a dentist or an oral surgeon,” I say, approaching while holding a cigarette and tapping its ashes on the floor.
“Wait, Bry,” my colleague Toshiro grabs my lab coat and pulls me aside to make a sotto voce remark: “consider how much we could maximize our profits, if we charged this Alien Visitor for services rendered.”
I tip my head side-to-side and then say: “OK.”
So Doctor Toshiro walks over to the toolbox and rummages around for a while; then he returns holding pliers in his right hand, and a sword in his left. “Open up,” he sez.
The Alien Visitor opens its maw, revealing multiple rows of countless fangs that look deadly and undoubtedly project venom that kills upon impact.
“Which tooth is the problem?” Toshiro jangles his pliers across the rows of fangs like it’s a mallet upon the bars of a xylophone, while he waits for his answer.
“The one on the far right,” sez the Alien.
“The furthest right fang? Are you sure?” Toshiro confirms that he has understood correctly while using the pliers to yank out the tooth.
“Yes, thank you,” sez the Alien after his or her tooth is out. Pink slime and squidlings ooze from the cavern where the fang had been rooted, but Doctor Toshiro staunches this gushing miracle with his green kerchief again.
“You’re all set,” sez Doctor Toshiro. “We’ll bill you electronically, via radio waves. Are you a member of our ‘microchip-under-the-skin’ payment system?”
“Yes, I am,” sez the Alien, as it squiggles toward the automatic French sliding doors of our Space Station’s exitway.
“Then just check your account when you get to a phone booth; you’re probably double-charged already,” sez Toshiro. “Make sure seagulls are smashing into the glass sides of the booth when you dial the numbers for your account — it’s more exciting that way.”
“Will do,” sez the Alien as it floats off into the night.
“Jeez, that was a tough customer,” I remark, tossing my half-smoked cigarette over my shoulder and it lands near a gas can.
“Bry, take care: You keep flicking those things in dangerous places,” sez Doctor Toshiro, pointing.
“Oh, sorry!” I say, sincerely regretful — I hasten over and kick the cig away like a soccer ball. “Goal!” I quip, as it hits the X-ray machine.
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