The Good Doctor
By
Ron Capshaw
“That
was a very
foolish move, 707.”
The spy
got up, a
rifle butt-shaped bruise already forming on the back of his neck, and resumed
his place at the dinner table.
The food
satisfied
the gourmand in the snobbish spy:
lobster bisque, lightly-braised trout and a Bollinger ‘39.
“I’d
prefer not to
listen, Doctor.”
The Doctor
sat
back in his chair and laughed.
“That
is the only
thing keeping you alive.”
“I’ve
played this
scene so many times I’d prefer death,” the spy said in an impeccable Oxford
accent. “Villain captures hero.
Over a lavish dinner, the villain monologues
about how he will take over the world.
Instead of shooting the hero in the head, he constructs an inventive way
to kill said hero. But the villain
doesn’t have the hero searched thoroughly, doesn’t stay to watch the death and
so said hero escapes thanks to a gadget, usually contained in a fake tooth.”
The Doctor
rose
from his chair.
“I’m
something
new. Walk with me.”
There were
three
gorilla-faced henchmen behind him, so the spy, handsome in a cruel way,
followed.
****
“It’s
called
cloning,” the Doctor said, amidst the bubbling chemical beakers in the jungle
lab.
He invited
the spy
to look through the microscope.
“We
extract the
genetic code of the one to be copied, dead or alive, inject it into a healthy
specimen,” the
Doctor said, gesturing toward the natives, lashed to the bed, wired up to a
pulsating machine, “and Voila!! You have several of that individual. They
even have the same memories.”
“Looks
like it’s
not working,” the spy said, looking at the caged figures, monstrous hybrids of
native women and the Doctor.
“Oh.
I’ve had some
setbacks but I finally had a break-through.”
The Doctor
pointed
across the room to a copy of himself writing square roots on a blackboard. Even
far away the spy could see the clone was
a much taller, more muscular version of the Doctor.
The spy
was
horrified, but as usual, in moments of high stress, made a quip.
“Physician
heal
thyself.”
The Doctor
laughed.
“So
I’m to gather
you are so egotistical that you think an army of yourself can take over the
world?”
The smile
dropped
from the doctor’s face, and what was exhibited was so hateful that the spy took
a step back.
“Not
exactly.”
+++++
They were
now
outside, facing rows of bamboo stalks.
“I
was in medical
school when I discovered what was theoretically possible. I just needed time
and numerous test
subjects. Hence this small remote island
in the Pacific.”
The Doctor’s
face
again became hateful.
“You
don’t even
remember her, do you?”
The spy
grinned
rakishly.
“You’ll
have to be
more specific.”
The Doctor
unclenched his fists and nodded to the guards who chained the spy’s left ankle
to an iron disc protruding from the ground.
“Yes,
I suppose I
should. This started because of what you
did to my sister. Then I realized she
was just one of many you raped and murdered while your government looked the other
way.
A wave
of
something was charging through the bamboo stalks toward them and the guards,
taking no chances, ran away.
The doctor
faced
the spy, his back to what was almost out of the bamboo.
“I’ll
stay and
watch.”
What burst
out was
many of her, screaming and wielding machetes.
And then the spy
remembered.
Ron
Capshaw is a writer based in Florida.
His novel, The
Stage Mother's Club, came out in June from
Dark Edge Press. Here is the link:
https://www.amazon.com/Stage-Mothers-Club-Ron-Capshaw/dp/B0BWPN4GP8/ref=sr_1_1?crid=28E2C73KBSH1F&keywords=the+stage+mother%27s+club&qid=1680278727&s=books&sprefix=the+stage+mother%27s%2Cstripbooks%2C139&sr=1-1