Ain't nothin' gonna breaka my stride

Taylor was the Neptunian type. He had a way with words that reminded me of the subs-standard form my mind had become. Foggy droves of nitrous fumes clouded my mind and I needed help. Taylor took the proper notes. Although his statements were about as clear to me as a light bulb smeared with an opaque gelatinous material (like fruit preserves left in the sun perhaps), I was interested; interested in a way that most robots would envy, as they are unable to have real interests, thank any god you like.

“Clearly the new program doesn’t work on absolute truth, it operates on assumed truth, the same kind of knowledge that you’ve latched on to for so long you tired, old mongrel. The problem is, corollaries that we look for have been found to be non-existent in your spark box. I refer to your mind as a “spark box” because the work you’ve done in the past has decreased the capacity for real fire up there. Astoundingly though, you seem to have overcome this, and have become internally unsettled. Some of this has been external as well, and rest assured, that will also be taken care of. Let me note this. “

More notes were taken, and I was drooling. My comprehension factor was low right now and Dr. T. wasn’t backing down, he just continued to pour the acid into my ears via funnel. He arranged items taken from a strong, white plastic box and placed them on the granite counter top. The illustrious shine of sharp metal illustrated technological triumph and craftsmanship to the unnerved patient. I mentally observed only my own chicken split face and neck. The doctor opened a small cabinet and mapped out several routes on it with his finger. “The Bronchovsky Method.”

“Clarity, is in the eye of the beholder. I described destruction earlier, and when I said that, an alarm likely sounded in your head. Don’t let that happen. What you call destruction is misunderstood, and is optimal for your success. Reverse your thoughts and ascend the elevator of triumph. Your ultimate questioning of reason has strained your relationship with reality, and again, we shall reinstate the appropriate program to allow you to transcend the absolute… that you refer to. Now let’s play chess and grease you up some more. I assure you that my methods will not transform you into that Golem creature, you know that big Jewish bodyguard with the finely-tuned hair.”

Elevator of triumph. Jerry? Okay. I guess now I should play chess to see if I can get through to the checkmate without the castling technique. This might decide the voltage level I needed. But Dr. Taylor didn’t want to play chess after all; he was using that as a symbolic game. He waved his arm to the mirror and I heard the machinery go into its healthy whir. He left the room for a moment, and I lay down. I felt the all too familiar feeling of being captured by sickness. The feeling when people in your serene environment continue to laugh and interact normally while you lie in extreme pain; knowing in your own mind that you’re on the mossy, dilapidated steps of death. You can’t comprehend the health that they’re feeling, and your ears seek to block out the joy they experience. Special offers for pizza pies also are blocked out.

“Mmmm, the delicious sound of a pulsating electric field. Everybody has problems Jerry, don’t feel guilty.” “And you?” I decided to ask in a trembled voice just to see that he wasn’t tricking me. “Well, I'm fucking saucy, and I have non-predictable plate movement in my head… the two items may or may not be related.” With a head nod and a quick look away Torque said, “Okay, well, the procedure should begin now as to not disturb the incorrect areas when they awaken… the areas that is. The areas that are so gently twisting your inner self-appeal, making you hate yourself. We have to be vigilant.”