Paranormal Paramedic

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
I like dead people...

Submitted: March 15, 2009

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Submitted: March 15, 2009

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“Mmyes.” Said the doctor in a drone-like voice. “A fracture. Possibly from a blunt object like a wrench, or lead pipe.”
“This isn’t a game of Cluedo, y’know.”
“Oh, I know. But I’d still like to think I’m winning.”
“Well, who are you?”
The doctor looked up at his patient. His heavy eyebrows and prominent nose twitched, assign of his hay fever.
“What do you mean?”
“Which character are you? In Cluedo, I mean?” The patient looked almost mocking, and a thin smirk crept at his cheeks.
“I was always Reverend Green. He was the only one who wore a tasteful suit.” The doctor didn’t give much thought to his answer.
The patient snorted.
“I was Colonel Mustard.”
“Why?”
“He had a gun. I was violent child.”
The doctor had no reply, and instead lifted the stethoscope from his ears. Looking at the man in front of him, he sighed. The personage had a thick, square jaw and a mullet. His tee-shirt read, “Guns + Roses; 2006 Melbourne Tour” and he was covered over in wet, red, heavy, slimy, scabby, bruised, black blood. The marks were at his back and head, although some were at his knees and arms, too.
“I believe…it was an accomplice of yours who did this. Perhaps jealous of the publicity, perhaps he wanted more of a share. He may have even done it mistaking you for a victim.”
“Oh. That’d be about right.”
“Yes, it would. Now go. I have no intention of watching your ugly mug waggling up and down anymore.”
The man shrugged modestly and walked outside.
The only difference from a real person walking out of the doctor’s office was that the man didn’t open the door and get out.
He went through it.
“Next.” Said the doctor boredly.
Outside, an elderly woman with a battered walker woke up.
“Oh, god…” the doctor said. He had seen more than enough confused oldies for the day.
She was wearing a pastel muumuu and an ethereal sunhat decorated with a poppy. Her wet eyes matched her warbling voice when she said, “Is the chicken cooked yet?”
The doctor simply grabbed her shoulders, and told her what she was doing there. She let promptly.
You see, the doctor (whose name we have not found out yet) was not, in fact, a doctor, but a spirit-guide doctor.
When the livings die, they must find their reason of death. Only then can they go to heaven.
Or hell.
If they don’t know, the doctor gives an autopsy of sorts, and they can pass through. He doesn’t get too many patients, but it gets his living.
Get it? Living?
Never mind.
His next patient walked in staggering. The doctor flinched, and then reached for the deodorant.
This patient reeked.
The pallid, grey-skinned corpse in front of him was missing all of his teeth, but that wasn’t just it. His legs and one arm were hanging onto the sinews of muscle, and one arm had completely fallen off. One eye had been gouged out, and clumps of hair and skin had been pulled out.
Its hand had some mouldy fingers still clinging on, and peeks of brain, lung and heart were peeping out their chest.
“Good…morning. Can I get your name? If you remember it that is…We have a list of default names for you to pick from…”
The corpse moaned, and it became evident that his vocal chords had rotted up, too.
The doctor cursed his bad luck. Only just the other day he’d had two mute people; a headless girl and some guy who’d died in a mentos and Coke sandwich accident.
“Well, how about…your sex?” he said, with discomfort. Then, he lifted up a chart with female and male cross-sectioned pictures on it. The corpse nodded to the left.
Female…?
“Oh, okay…well, there’s a broken ankle, or something…I think. And, and there’s a lot of rotting, and fungus. I have to tell you, I’m stumped.”
He then consulted a medical journal.
“Ah!” he said, slamming the book shut as the woman’s hand fell with a gooey thud to the floor.
“You most likely fell into a water vessel, like a well or pond. That’s what caused this…skin deterioration. You’ve been left there approximately seventy years. Way to hang in there.”
The corpse grinned, at which its black lips slid down its slimy face.
She then disappeared.
The doctor sighed, and sprayed a little more deodorant into the air in the cramped room.
He had barely sat down when a little girl came into the room.
“Is thith the doctor’s offith?”
She had a cute lisp, and the doctor quickly warmed to her.
“Why, yes. Yes it is. Can you please sit on this bench?”
The little girl smiled, and sat primly on the inspection bench.
There seemed to be nothing wrong with her. Internal disease?
“Turn around…”
She turned, and all of her organs were revealed through a gaping, blackened hole in her back.
She smiled and giggled.
“I was burnt-ed!”
He grinned at her, trying to keep down bile.
“Oh…y-yes. You can go now.”
He handed her a lolly as she walked out, and she came back twenty seconds later asking if she had “purple” flavour.
“And thank you very mutth, Mr…?”
The doctor grinned peacefully.
“It’s Peter. Dr. Saint Peter.”
 


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