Autumn, the season of harvest and death. A beautiful season for some brave enough to accept the passing of life around them as natural while the winter slowly creeps in the frame. Yet no matter how much your heart aches for the crunch that orange leaves make when you stomp on them, you'll never be ready for your own death in the autumn, crunching your body as you did to the flora.
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Douglas admired this exact view his desk window offered him; a beautiful dance of fallen leaves that went on and one for three months, always there to offer him some relief from his work. Even if he was mesmerized now, his gazing was interrupted rudely by the ring of the door. The cheerful ring was followed by heavy footsteps, Douglas beted that this was Old man Jenkins shambling in his clinic. The dragging sound of unwashed blue jeans confirmed his suspicions as a tired man appeared from the corner and greeted the doctor with fatigue in his idle pose.
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"Good day to you Mr Jenkins, please have a sit"
"I wish I could have a sit without feeling my asshole explode, doc". The disgust on Douglas's face rivaled the cruelty of the season's swing of death. It was already late evening and the last thing he wanted was for Jenkins' painful asshole to spoil the beautiful orange sunlight that drew out all the charm of the locale. He didn't want to be a doctor right now and treat Jenkins' ingrown hair, he wanted to go down to the bar of the town and sip away at the bronze drink of a strong whiskey. Lucky for young Douglas, the old man stood up immediately once his ass touched the hair. Seemingly, this was because the stinging pain rushed through Jenkins' body like lightning but the real reason for his sudden rising was much more convenient for the doctor.
"Goddangit doc, I completely forgot I promised ma wife we'd go to the mayor's office to get some paper business done. Holy, forgive me doc, I'll have to cancel our appointment." An instant shine radiated in the blackened depressions of the young man's face.
"Of course mister Jenkins it's not a problem, besides an ingrown hair is nothing to fret about, something we can always finish the next day as I like to say!' Douglas was thrilled at the fact that he wouldn't have to get his hands close to the old man's crack and squeeze, only to have to use a hefty bandage to cover the man's fat backside. The hardest part now was to help the old man sit up from the chair again.
"Make sure your wife applies some disinfectant with clean cloth and don't sleep on it"
The old man gave his sincere thanks through his gapped teeth and lightly hobbled out of the clinic. Douglas dropped in his chair and unwinded his whole body for some time, just enough to appreciate all the good work that was down today. Applying a solid splint on old Mary Jane was a duty since the old woman was the first to greet the young man and warm up to him, giving him a proper welcome to the town as he first settled. Yet this didn't feel as good as good as giving Jimmy Kob his final diagnosis.
"You're good now Jimmy, since your stomach is better now, you can eat anything you want" his mother was ready for the good news and had prepared a big piece of apple pie for the young lad, the tiny teeth on the boy devoured the desert like a wild animal catching prey after a dry period. No greater pride for a doctor than seeing the fruits of his labour right in front of him, a healthy young boy eating and having recovered completely.
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Jimmy shifted his head left to right to left in an almost automated motion, Douglas' best guess was that the kid wanted to find anything barely interesting enough so he would keep himself occupied. Eventually his gaze settled on the doctor's desk
"Why is this toy broken mister Douglas?"
"It's Mr Darkhope for you young man" the mother corrected
"It's ok miss Kob. Well Jim, this is a very old toy of mine. I had kept it because of sentimental value but that didn't seem to stop it from breaking". Douglas held a small steam machine in one hand, a broken conductor and driver in the other.
"I can't quite bring myself to get rid of them I guess,but I can't fix these myself."
"You should take that to Mr Ironside! He can fix anything!". Douglas stared at the boy with a clueless expression, turning to the mother for clarification.
"It's understandable since you moved here only recently, mister Darkhope, mister Ironside used to be the town's local mechanic. He built and fixed everything modern we have now, along with some other engineering folks.
"Sounds like he is respected by everyone then, old and even young alike" His hand pressed down gently on the boy's head, patting and ruffling his unkempt hair.
" If you ask anyone they'll swear they love him since he brought some of that new world to our little town but I don't quite buy it Mr Darkhope
Living in that old building all alone , with an old clock tower above it like he's a king or something."
"Mom stop talking about Mr Trevor like that, he's a good person that always fixes out toys for free!". The mother didn't dare or dare or disagree with the boy anymore. Yet Douglas kept a mental note of this new person he hasn't met before. Curious thing obviously, even if he's been here for a short time, most people need to visit the local doctor every now and then, but where was this Ironside? Did he never have a need for healing? These and other questions circled in his head but he chose not to question the son and daughter anymore, instead letting them leave and enjoy the rest of the day. He celebrated these successes from his daily routine of healing as he wore his thin coat and locked up his clinic for the day. He'd make his way to Saul's bar, he thought to himself.
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The small wooden houses of Concord laid as gaps between an untamed wild of dried up cacti and low grass- a silent agreement between humans and nature felt strong here, allowing all to live in peace. Like the very same agreement between Douglas and the town's folk, Douglas would move his entire existence from the big city to dirt-back no-where Concord to heal the residents and in exchange he would getto heal the residents of Concord. Not many would find much satisfaction in the actual work, so it felt right that at least his life fit perfectly in the small little puzzle of the town. In the mornings he would wake up early to do his grocery shopping in Miss Marygold's general store- he'd quickly have to finish his business and return to his clinic, nothing gave Douglas worse anxiety than worrying that someone may be waiting for him while they were sick or wounded. As if an instinct of the doctor inside him hurried him to his office so he could uphold his duty, wait restlessly and motionless for someone to hurt himself so he had something to do. This very nature of his profession, the anxious impending of damage, a reason for his training to come to use, was perfectly encapsulated in his love for the autumn. Waiting for the leaves to fall, for the limbs to break or bleed. Getting to feel and hear the crunch under your feet as you stepped, the powerful crack and realignment of bone under sinew as you jerked a poor kid's hand back to its rightful position. This very need where he had to experience these sounds and images made him feel a bit darker inside, like the dark blue that came after Autumn was satisfied with its meal of life and left everything that was still struggling to Winter. Winter would keep it safe and fresh. But Douglas never liked to overthink his part in life that much. He always ended up somewhere morbid, he knew. Eh, ridiculous fluff, he was the one that healed and so he was respected as such. Not of his own demand of course, Douglas was thought of as a humble man; it was the quiet village-town that had showered him with praise.
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No matter how fast or sneaky his walk was, he always had to indulge 5-10 'mornings' and 'greetings' from the townsfolk during an average walk in town. Never too enthusiastic to respond as to not start up conversation with the polite passerbys but also not brooding or laconic as to come off as rude. Somehow he even had managed to forget that even people indoors would recognise him, stunned as he was from the saloon's wholehearted greeting: "Hey there Doc!", the men of the saloon exclaimed.
"Hi there everyone" he responded in a sheepish manner, taking a seat in front of the barman.
"Good evening Mister Darkhope" a gruff, low voice offered him a glass of shining orange whiskey, Douglas was almost envious of how the ice cubes had the chance to dance in the amber pool of alcohol so peacefully, only to melt and become one with the drink. He took a hardy sip from the glass and cocked his head back,his expression wide by the moment he had brought his right hand down again. His eyes became googly and his irises almost contracted inside themselves.
"This is stern stuff Saul" his throat gave a weak cough of appreciation for the power of the drink, 'This can be used instead of my medical grade disinfectant for Christ's sake'.
Saul let out a childlike laugh of amusement under his adult mustache.
"New arrival in our little town, Jack Daniels I think they called it? Some new type of brand. Came straight from the big city just like you doc."
"You thought it right to make me feel at home huh? Wait, did you just charge me for more expensive drinks by shoving it in my face as I came in the saloon?"
"Are you saying it's not worth its price?" Douglas took another small sip to wet his throat and make a decision.
"Nuh. It's probably just right."
"There you go". In a more stereotypical fashion, other bartenders would have said something akin to "Its on the house Doctor, least I can do for the work you provide" as they sat back and cleaned an already spotless mug for way too long with a white rug. But not Saul. Saul treated Douglas just right. His local supplier of booz and company for the evening. Because to Saul, Douglas wasn't no doctor, or healer or magic man, he was a working man just like every other working man in town. You do hard work in the morning up until the moment you want to drown it all inside you with some poison of your choice, and Saul was the local poison man. Even the way he called him, "Doc" felt more like a nickname rather than his profession.
And that's how it was, Saul was just right for Douglas, he treated him good.
That's why they kept each other company until the late hours of the night, definitely way too late for the work he'd have to do next day in the morning. It was fine though, you get one per week and you make sure it's a good one.
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Douglas's glass was empty again, making the third time the barkeep would have to pop the cork and refill his container of liquid regret. That was the best part anyway, the comfortable silence he shared with Saul as they both sipped like dessert dwellers out of their canteens and Saul sparsely tended to the few customers of the store. That was why Douglas chose this night of cold emptiness, a Saturday, the few and weary drinkers couldn't or wouldn't bother the man about anything, they'd just join him in his deep drowsiness, a collective numbing of the soul. That was until the second favourite man of the town entered of course.
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"Hey it's Trevor! Come on join us for a drink." The brooding presence didn't even look back at the patrons.
"I'm here for a drink Sheldon, not company, excuse my rudeness". A big thud suddenly plopped down next to Douglas, awaking him from his upright slumber.
"What can I bring you, mister Ironside?" Saul asked, paying only half attention, with his eyes hanging the glass he was holding in front of his lips.
"Just gin is fine, cheapest you've got". Douglas couldn't help but stare at the unknown man's hands as they rested on the bar, their brushes and cuts seemed to form a hard protective shell around the man's fingers and knuckles from hard work. Enthralled as he was though, he got caught by the older man's piercing gaze, an unfriendly sight that didn't seem to give any welcome signs. So naturally, Douglas grasped his glass and ever so gently nudged himself a few degrees to the right, giving Ironside the space he seemed to believe was his own, even if he had decided to sit strangely close to Douglas. Or maybe it was just meant to be close to Saul. Instantly, the conversation switched speakers from the doctor/barkeep to the mechanic/barkeep.
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"I don't know Roger, I don't think that kid had any chance in the end."
"Every fucking time I talk about this you disagree with me Saul, I've told you, carbolic acid was necessary for Johnny, you're supposed to disinfect wounds to treat them, basic medicine right there". Douglas made a choice to butt in the conversation of the two men, either because he felt that Saul was his own barkeep to talk to or because he took personally the offense to his craft, correcting the old man about the use of disinfectants
"...that's why the use of carbolic acid has been academically disapproved, third degree burns aren't worth it whether the area is infected or not. Proper disinfectants closer to pure alcohol must be preferred." Douglas's long and arduous explanation tired Ironside incredibly so, his eyes spinning in their sockets round and around in disbelief. He mumbled under his lips that cupped the edge of the glass again.
"Fucking young kids thinking they know everything…" a big gulp finished his drink with a thirst for more. He extended his hand and with no words instructed Saul to fill her up. His moustached smile was never gone for a moment even in these situations so as he served Trevor Ironside another gin, he grimaced playfully at Douglas.
"Don't worry about Roger over here doc, he's just bitter you took his special little spot and you get to treat the people of our town now." The old man took up a grouchy grimace but certainly not one of denial, these words were as true as Saul's drinks were strong. The man explained that, after his engineering studies and some real life practice for a few years, he decided to go back and finish his studies on medicine, his initial interest in life. Although the life of a mechanic is demanding at these changing times, everyday things become more and more automated, soon even people will be replaced by a fucking factory line, he complained to himself. And so he never had his chance to officially finish his studies or get his diploma to practice medicine. Now that's the part that Saul filled in since the old man became too grumpy to finish his own story.
"That's very impressive Mr Ironside, most folk don't even get to go to college, yet you attempted to acquire not one but two degrees, honestly impressive." Douglas's eyes had opened wide now, the alcohol's effects shaken away and replaced by a reignited interest for the new resident of the town he had never met.
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Saul seemed satisfied with how his two best drinkers were getting along, well, more like squabbling, dazed chickens than getting along, but still, progress was made here. Suddenly Saul turned around with a striking remembrance
"Douglas, you should talk to Mr Ironside about that old toy you told me about"
"What toy?". Douglas's head shifted downwards, trying to hide away his childlike need to repair something that held zero real value to him now but a great sentimental one to someone else. The old man seemed more interested in this rather than anything else that had been brought up, like a natural need to fix and repair everything that fell under his jurisdiction as a "mechanic". Douglas decided to drop his guard, revealing a small but very complex model of a steam engine. Its beautiful red colour had kept over the years, betraying that it had been maintained and protected properly by its owner. Its heavy steel lining made for a strong skeleton for the rest of the model to depend upon, a solid toy meant to be passed from generation to generation. Roger snagged the toy away from Douglas's arms , almost making him leap in his seat. He examined it with a different eye to everyone else. He could really appreciate the craftsmanship on this one here. After cradling the engine for a few moments longer than what seemed appropriate, he placed it on top of the bar and started to make every single bit of damage he could get his eyes on . With little effort he simplified the damage it had sustained to some simple fixes and corrections he'd have to make, "child's play" he wanted to make it seem like.
The man crossed his arms and rested them on each other victoriously, as if fixing this simple toy was as easy to him as to name its faults.
"So you can fix it no problem?" Douglas started his sentence with a huge grin across his mouth, expecting to hear something positive. He didn't believe such a well known craftsman had actually spent time tinkering with toys and such, so this gave Douglas hope.
"Of course I can fix it! Don't think we can't be engineers as well because you took our doctor job away young man".Douglas decided to ignore the old man's rude agreement and decided to focus on when this could be done, he explained his program was always tight due to his job and it's demands.
"Yes yes, we know how important your job is already. Ah Jesus, you can pass any time you want young man, I'll fix that simple toy whenever."The two men extended their hands awkwardly due to their close proximity and gave a firm handshake, now this was something that even Trevor could respect about Douglas. Although when their palms greeted each other, Douglas could now accidentally examine the old man's tired hand closer. The sleeves of his yellowed white shirt barely covered some miserable sutures, a few miserable lines of string that barely managed to hold the folds of the skin together properly to let the arm heal.Their quality, that of a butcher slaughtering a baby pig likely, stabbed the young doctor through the chest, the sheer incompetence of the needle work was enough to make the man gasp and instinctively pull the old man closer.
"Excuse me mister Ironside but I can't, my pride won't allow this! Who is the man that stitched your forearm?! I shall have his licence suspended immediately! This is not a joke, honest and hardworking people rely on our craft to survive their harsh lives". Douglas's reaction jerked Trevor's hand back immediately, asking for a serpent gaze from the old man as an answer.
"I do my own sutures, boy." His face shifted back to a stone cold statue of some dictator of the past. His pride was also deeply hurt clearly.
"Now if you'll both excuse me gentlemen, I have to tend to my Marybeth." Saul raised his head from its relaxed hunch and he looked up at the man as he was wearing his coat.
"God Trevor… have a good rest"
" You too Saul" the tall old man raised his arm behind him as to goodbye the tavern keeper and the rest of the remaining drunkards of the night. Though Douglas couldn't help but notice how somber Saul's expression had turned.
"Hey what's wrong buddy, don't make me think you don't want my company anymore now that Mr Ironside left". Saul chuckled sadly , almost ignoring what Douglas had suggested as a joke.
"You don't get it doc, it's heartbreaking seeing that man like that. To put it simply, Marybeth is no longer with us". Douglas turned his head back to look at the man as he was leaving the shop, taking a finishing sip to process this quick explanation.
"Does he blame himself for his wife dying?"
"Who wouldn't? It happened right after that young boy died as well, one of the workers training under Ironside to learn to be a mechanic." Douglas looked Saul straight in the eyes with a single burning question written across his face, "Is the previous doctor to blame?". The question was silent, the words never left Douglas's mouth but Saul knew to answer properly.
"No for god's sake! How could you think that. Maybe he wasn't the best doctor this side of the river but they both died naturally. The boy passed from his injuries after an accident and according to Roger his wife died of a heart attack, or at least that's what he said. Poor man hasn't accepted her death yet I think." Second hand grief is an abstract concept but who was Douglas to have time for philosophy right now, it's safer to have another glass in the name of Trevor Ironside. Even if he comes off as a cold old grump, it was still appropriate to have another drink and finish it in honour of the man that Douglas had unintentionally agitated quite a bit tonight. With the glass playfully swinging in the grip of his fingers, the doctor cast his gaze towards the barkeep and decided to prod him a bit.
"So where does the great old mechanic of the town live?"
"Just at the edge of town, under the old clock tower that has been refurbished to accommodate the poor soul."
"He lives in the clocktower? Someone told me this before but I thought it was some sort of exaggeration."
"Sure does, I guess he could never let go of that broken thing. Took about 3 months and some hardy boys from our town and the big city to finish such an undertaking, even if some folk considered it too grand for our tiny little Concord."
"Then why did he build it?"
"I dunno, I guess he couldn't allow himself to live in this place without leaving his mark. He sure could convince the mayor to give him extra supplies for the project, can't think of how upset Miss Ginger was when her school didn't get new desks and chairs that year for the kids. Probably was even more upset when the tower never was finished." Douglas made out Ironside as quite a selfish man in a way immediately after hearing Saul's tale but it wasn't something he felt the need to express- the old sack was already tired and dried up like a raisin, more bitterness wouldn't help much.
"And what's the story after?"
"You mean for Ironside?" A nod prompted Saul to resume.
"Well not much, just spending a bunch of his time fixing anything that need fixing. Me myself, I can't even count how many times the man has helped by fixing my taps and other such work. I bet every single person in town could name a time where the old bolt nut fixed something for them. You know, you're very alike in that manner." Douglas raised both eyebrows and his forehead at the statement.
"How do you mean that?" He picked up his glass and kept it next to his face in an almost protective manner.
"Folk depend on you to fix up their lives. I mean really, without you kinds of folk around everyone would be much more uppity. Can't live a peaceful life if you're not safe. People need a good roof over their heads, but at the same time they need their own damn heads to be healed up and worth a damn to even protect them. What the hell do I do? Siphon out beer from the tap and siphon cash into the register. It's a living , but what you do is a "saving"
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Douglas' eyes went round and round and round in their sockets, buzzing like busy bees and filling with a cute feeling, slamming his mug on the bar.
"Shut uuuuuup you mustachio pal, you'll make me blush" and he was blushing to be precise, like a little girl. Although little girls usually don't blush from 3 Jack Daniels and 8 beers. Finally, the drinks seemed to put a dent into his tolerance, quite abruptly as well.
"Well you convinced me you smoooooth fella, this old fuck sounds like a real nice dude. Maybe I'll just go and give him a warm visit, saviour to saviour, in your own words. Wheaaare's his house…" Saul couldn't quite call himself surprised at how suddenly his buddy's alcohol defence crumbled, it was more like an expectation at this point. And that's what made him giggle like a little boy to Douglas' little girl.
"You HONESTLY want to go visit him now? You're crazy man, he'll kill you for going so late."
"Hey. Hey! He said, he said it. Come whenever you wish, I'll fix it, or some shit like tha-wheres my beer? Ah whatever! Just point me in the direction old chum!" The barkeep couldn't think of an outcome that didn't result badly for his friend ,yet still the worst result could only be an embarrassing story the next day accompanied with a hefty hangover. Maybe it was because he himself wasn't quite sober, so he didn't see any harm to giving the doctor what he wanted.
"Alright alright doc whatever. You know where the mayor's office is, go there and just follow the road to its right, eastward and behind the building and at the end of that long stretch of dirt you'll find the old clock tower. Knock yourself out." Douglas scrambled for his wallet to pay for his drinks but the keep waved at him neglectfully, I'll just add it to the tab, we're too drunk to do math doc. So that's how the doctor left "Saul's Corner Club", with a drunken step barely able to walk upright and with a shout-out to the few remaining patrons. "Goodnight doc" they replied cowardly after Douglas's loud farewell.
"He is so going to kill you , that old man does NOT like to be disturbed at this hour" Saul could only manage in a half-advisive way since he was too busy laughing under his big black mustache.
"Eh, whatever! No respect for a fellow doctor? He'll come around , night Saul"
"Goodnight doc"
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Douglas' glee was neither momentary nor an effect of the tavern; his happy cheeks that raised almost up his ears kept up during his walk towards the edge of town, greeting everyone that made his way past him. Now he was the one greeting people, the one that turned his head to everyone single passer-by and almost assaulted with his 'howdy'. All the tired men that were returning home had a small story to tell their wives that night. 'That doctor sure looked happy to me honey, you don't see him that enthusiastic every day, that's why I saluted the man properly'.
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The greenery between the white houses of Concord seemed to grow right in front of Douglas' eyes, their vine-like limbs stretching across the dirt roads in an attempt to grasp at the man's heels and drag him by his feet. No matter how terrifying such a description may sound , Douglas found some interest in the living plants that were born from his late night drinking. The expanding bushes and greenery of the side roads became a direct antithesis to his favourite orange leaves, the dried up, long dead appendages of the autumn trees. And he could find some entertainment in that obviously, but he still couldn't shake his inexplicable obsession with the orange blades that floated down from the tired brown giants. He always found some peace in their colour, their weak yet satisfying snap as you pulled them between your palms. That's why he always liked to spend some time outside his clinic, his now new home, every night. Swinging on an old piece of dried wood that was hanging from an even older and even drier giant of a tree, a brown and black hulking structure of mother nature, dressed in wild mushrooms and wearing shiny colourful flowers at the bottom that almost looked like an expensive pair of shoes. That's where he would spend some of his tired night's, sleepy and still encumbered from his long day of doctoring, with a slow move on the swing that gently caressed him as he crept closer to his slumber and played with the orange leaves using his feet. Douglas somehow missed that feeling every day,waiting for the night to come so he could return to that same spot and play like a child, recurring nostalgia for something that was so easy to find and yet so fleeting to him.
Now he was missing that feeling again as he still stared at the growing flora around him, making his way behind the mayor's office and following the long dirt road. His clinic was located right in the center of town, split by the eastern and western halves of Concord so even if this was right in the middle of the town, it still felt as if he was located in the middle of nowhere. Looking south , right outside his front door he had the entirety of the main Street of Concord, with all its tiny glory of its 300 residents to show off as they went on about their own business. But behind it all, at the north part , behind his house, lay the rest of America. A big, empty, barely explored and utterly wild lands, giving attention only to the tiny road that led to the rest of civilization in the distance, and the rest was fields of green that had a horrible tendency to give in and wither to turn orange and yellow , only to be swallowed and turned into a unifying white that loves to overstay its welcome, meant to be violently melted with brilliant rays of sunshine that give life to a new type of green, one that is adorned in splashes of pink and purple and red. That quality felt like an unexplored epic which laid right behind his clinic , as if only his land was meant to hold the few trees that actually shed their leaves in the autumn of this year. Like he was the only one lucky enough to enjoy those big bundles of deceased foliage. The rest of the town was littered with disgusting, tiny bushes and dried up cactus-like plants.That's why he never enjoyed walking the town that much this time of year. Even these funny looking jokers that were dancing and growing and shrinking, these "town" trees and bushes felt uninteresting to him. It was only until he was approaching the edges of town that he met with a never before seen delight. The old town's clock tower, tall enough to stand against the biggest capitals of the Americas and European countries, truly a sight to behold. The tower held its ground like a proud monster, a giant meant to be seen by everyone and yet Douglas somehow had never paid attention to such a grand undertaking. The only thing able to make its scale even scarier was the woozy, twisted effect that was applied to Douglas' eyes through his intense night of alcohol consumption. Its long body of steel and wood seemed to falter to the wind, pushing it and moving it from left to right to left again, although this would have been an insult to its designer, of course the moving was an illusion that the doctor was experiencing. Yet as he drew closer he knew for sure, in the first moment that what he was seeing now was not an hallucination, but a surprising sweet dream brought to life.
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In the courtyard of the structure were placed two mighty oak trees, behemoths that could easily dwarf the pathetic little tree that rested outside of the doctor's clinic. These colossal entities had something everlasting to them, something that made them not care about the huge piles of orange and red and yellow leaves that were piled up right under them . These trees were survivors; their life could possibly have been greater than the young town of Concord itself; and they seemed to take that in pride since their stature proposed something similar to that of a sculpture, classic statutes that were expertly crafted to stand the test of time and represent the strongest qualities of living beings. Clearly these old timers hadn't been planted so they could decorate some puny architectural and mechanical attempt such as the clocktower that stood between them. They had stood their place for longer than the idea of this clocktower had existed, or even the idea of clock towers and clocks or hell, even the essence and idea of time itself. Seeing these enormous trees sitting ever so silently, minding their own business with their huge arms raised high above, letting only faint glows of the moonlight bathe Douglas's face, he himself felt a cold chill go down his body and tracing his nervous system. For the first time he realised his situation. This was a scary moment for him, for anyone really. Alone, out in the night while drunk, daydreaming about giant dead tree giants or whatever while the scene itself acted as a silent watcher. His sudden hiccup in thought was justified, a loud bang roared from the towers' guts as it opened its mouth and let out a scream that yelled out 'I'm still here' while its rotten breath rained down in its yard, the tower ringed once.This wasn't wholly unexpected, Saul has explained to Douglas that this was the reason why Ironside had such a fame for being a stubborn old man. Randomly, here and there you can still hear the loud echo of time taking over the city, a wrong depiction of time obviously, yet still a faint reminder that the grand tower still attempts to cling to its purpose along with its master mechanic. Douglas raised to his feet after almost going down on his knees and stared down the head of the tower, the old rusty hands of the clock seemingly frozen in time, waiting for the beating heart of the monster to beat and produce heat, enough heat to melt the ice and thaw out of its shell.
The doctor made his way to the front door of the tower, knocking on the door to request entrance to the house. His reply was another loud bang and gong that made his ears almost cringe and enclose themselves in his head. He pressed his hand against the door to support himself as to not fall, accidentally pushing the surprise open door and allowing himself inside the house, by accident of course.
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A mighty Autumn wind roared past him , coming from inside the house and making its way all along his face and exposed arms, a cold gasp of the season that was happy to touch someone. Douglas wrapped himself tighter in his coat as it flapped about from the strong wind, making sure to close the door behind him. But that wasn't quite the issue here, because when he did so, the small living room with its tiny table next to the entrance and the decorated fake gold mirror that hung on the wall felt even colder somehow to Douglas. The atmosphere of the indoors managed to become even more oppressive than the chilly yard wiped by cold winds. That's why he has to stand still now, the doctor has to look around carefully. He doesn't know why, he just feels like he has to. Maybe because he has to pay attention to the excellent wood work on the floor, the deck of the building shined like a work of art that still radiated with its master's pride. To be more accurate though, the reason why Douglas had to stand still and observe his environment was the simple fact that it felt too easy to get in here. The front door was unlocked and not properly closed even, and now the door that he stood against seemed to be open as well, almost inviting him in, whispering in his ear to pull him in as an hunter would. The room felt empty, not because of its size but for its lack of decoration or detail, so simple and uninteresting that Douglas felt the urge to walk forward and grab that handle tight in his palm. And who was he, the drunk doctor of the tiny town of Concord to say not to such a calling? Of course he would open the door and cross, only to find an even stranger room, a room resembling the explosion of a brain, the insides and deepest machinations of the human mind spread out and explained properly in the walls and ceiling. In layman's terms, the old man's workshop was a fucking mess. Papers, drawings, blueprints and sheets of writing filled with gibberish in mechanical language filled the 6 sides of the room, some writings tossed and spread all over. An old yet sturdy bookshelf stood its ground high above the rest of the chaos, although its contents seemed to have been arranged by an enlightened Viking warrior with deep roots to his barbaric calling, both chaos and order merged in this unorderly union.
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As Douglas slowly circled the edge of the room, making sure not to step on top of anything he found too important looking, the corner table seemed more appealing to his sight. He slowly crept closer to a big leather couch-esc furniture that was placed next to a small steel desk lined with white cloth and tiny surgical instruments. In reality though, Douglas knew the cloth wasn't what it should have been, its threads had been submerged deep into a red paint of failure. The corner looked like a small failed medical procedure, even the wallpaper of mechanical nonsense was adorned with the savage beauty of a faint red.
"This is why amateurs must not touch a medical instrument. I can't begin to understand what makes that man wish to heal his own wounds with his own hands when he has no skill for it". He touched the edge of some of the tools with disgust in his mind, a faint aversion rose out of his mouth via a grin that reeked of disgust. He threw the tiny silver tool back to its place and gazed at his hand as if he had been infected by inadequacy. Now the only thought that managed to erase everything Douglas was processing was that he was technically a criminal right now. Let's check the facts.
He had entered someone else's household without permission, shifting through his personal space and items by his own volition and let's not exclude the fact that the night was getting older by the minute- the idea that he had casually walked his way into this seemed unimaginable to him, with his only excuse being the drinks he had had.
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He took a step back to reset his head and think where he was. It would have felt weird to go out and start knocking again until someone answered him anyway, but most importantly, where the hell is the old man anyway? If he was guilty then he might as well get caught red handed at this point. Yet he was nowhere to be found. Douglas shifted his attention to the next door that lead to the rest of the building.
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Through there Douglas found a hallway leading to the rest of the houses basic rooms, first of them being the tiny kitchen that he went by as he ever so slowly went down the corridor. The weak glow of a lantern with a meager flame to its name did its best to provide some light to the young man yet his step was slowed down from his inability to make out where he was walking . As such, his gaze had shifted the whole time to a downward angle, analysing and taking in every inch of the hardwood floor so as not to stumble and fall. His dizziness didn't seem to want to contribute to the situation, only making Douglas' step more sluggish and lacking rhythm to the rest of his body. If only he hadn't drunk so much, he wouldn't have had to bend down his head and witness the crimson river of blood in front of his feet. A slow stream, a gentle canal of body fluids, leading his way towards the end of the hall. Slow and faint, a small scream made itself present in his eardrum, nestling and making itself known. So that was how Douglas' tired head had come to its own conclusion,a snappy decision based on logic and analysis right on the spot, a crude explanation that didn't quite have to base itself upon fact but merely exist as a catalyst to action.
"Someone broke into Mr Ironside's house, they must still be in here". A different Douglas, one that was sober, wouldn't sprint like a hellish dust devil the same way he was now, even if the old man was in such trouble. If only drunk Douglas was half as smart as sober Douglas.
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Skipping past the bathroom and the bedroom, the young man followed blood trail that led to the door at the end of the hallway,hiding away the still echoing scream, and grasped the handle the same way as before, if not with an extra bit of determination and heroism. This led Douglas to the main room of the building, the clocktower room, the place where work was done. The room where one may never escape as a whole.
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His ears suddenly relieved themselves and allowed him to fully experience the magnitude of the screaming. As the door swung open, his eyes blinked once, slowly, almost in a commanding way 'get rid of the alcohol in the system, this is an experience' were the direct orders. Jeffrey Holmes Jr was strapped down and rose as his scream reached its crescendo, a natural reaction of one's vocal cords at the sight of mutilation. A limbless, potato sack of a human was bound tightly around a conveyor belt-like contraption, gently moving its cargo towards its final destination. The screaming vegetable of what used to resemble a boy, a capable pair of farmhands, was gently locked in place by a mechanism around his neck , a collar to subdue the yelping dog. Its metallic weight and density choked on the man's throat, applying just enough pressure to create a feeling of trapped air around his Adam's apple, like a ripe fruit about to fall and wither because it wasn't harvested in time. The collar had a thin gap in the middle of it, barely wide enough for something like a dollar bill to pass through, only its true use was much more practical. As the boy's eyes trembled and quivered in their sockets like popcorn, a blade lowered itself automatically down the slit of the collar and dropped in a decisive fashion, a cold machine severity was present but mostly necessary to properly severe the throat in its base and extract the head intact, raising it in its steel, cold collar upwards, in a quiet proper and automated way. The torso of the man ascended towards the middle of the room through a complex machination of conveyor belts, gears that gently grabbed the package and raised it higher and hook-like claws meant for grabbing and carrying. Unlike the torso , the head made its way directly to the top of the room, closer and closer to the highest point of the machinery behind the aging clock tower. The entire structure gave off a feeling of confusion and nausea from a design standpoint, classical gears mixed with unorthodox devices and connecting pieces that all came together to create a behemoth of a machine. A well oiled creation, not in a literal sense but it was obviously properly constructed to carry out it's unholy duties of consumption and eradication of flesh.
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Douglas stood dumbfounded at the foot of the room, staring up like a confused child that must have witnessed God ripping his parents to pieces. He followed the head of Jeffrey Holmes Jr, still agape and trying to continue his scream of desperation through the endless ascent. His eyes finally reached the top of the room along with the head- now coiled around it where horrible fingers that resembled those of a stone monster , a gargoyle meant to scare away children. The fingers properly caressed the head, handling it the same way a father would hold his own flesh and blood. But to Ironside, this was not far from the truth, this piece of human was his own now, marking it with a kiss across the forehead. A mad laugh that contorted the old man's neck like a broken accordion erupted from his throat , a magic spell blessed with corruption.
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"Hahahaha! Douglas! Look at it! It's beautiful, oh boy. This is a special one, look at his sapphire eyes! I always wanted them, too bad they were wasted on the farmlands. Ah but my poor girl is aching, her bones aren't what they used to be… please step back Douglas, I have to oil her up". With the pull of a lever, the torso that had reached the top and hanged like a butchered pig was tossed down to another contraption, a big grinder placed in right about the middle of the main machine, the complex pieces of gears and other tech moving each other in a beautiful union. A big pole lowered itself down the open grinder to push the lifeless torso down the teeth of the monster as its jaws unhinged and tore the flesh, razing it into a soup of meat. The long mouth of the grinder opened wide and puked out a thick yet light bloodfall. The viscous essence of the grinded thorax fell upon the machine gently, grazing every little piece, nook, and corner of it with its crimson lubricant. The blood dripped from the beams of steel that held the room tall , finding their way down to the floor and even on top of Douglas' hot cheeks since his gaze was still affixed over him, staring up at the old man with a look of mental collapse. The denser chunks of gore that landed on his face grabbed his attention due to their heavier nature, dropping his eyesight down to the floor where most of the bloodfall found itself at the end after the "oiling". He could notice a severe alteration in the very floor where he stood upon, the previous beautiful orange wood he knew seemed to twist in nature in this room and take a colour closer to gray, bearing a resemblance to a tree that had survived a forest fire rather than a floor that served as a foothold for a mere clocktower. The floor was soaking with a warm yellowish liquid now, alerting Douglas' shell-shocked subconscious that his body had given up the fight and was urinating himself. The action seemed as involuntary as it was natural, a logical continuation of the whole ordeal he found himself- only fitting of a stream of tears that flowed effortlessly from his tear glands. The broken man, now awestruck with a pinch of hopelessness had only one wish, to scream at the world around him. To scream out in defiance, in disgust, even in rage against the death that reeked all around him.
"What the hell is this Trevor? What is all this? This doesn't make any sense".
His eyesight was weaker now, it could only randomly focus on details among the pieces that made up the whole of the machine instead of focusing on the man he had been yelling at. His lower lip frowned and curled around his jaw like a baby's would; he searched for his explanation, hell, any meaning or logic to be found but his pleas were meaningless. He could only peer into the very soul of the machine, taking it all in slowly to process it with his damaged senses. The original design and architecture of the clock tower remained and still held its place among the rest of the confusion, radiating with a sense of logical continuity in creation and design; its big and small gears working in tandem, perfectly aligning their paths in life with each other and working towards their common goal , to knock and sound the time, to keep the ever-long continuity of time in place. And that's about where the line between logic and madness blurred, the initial design where everything seemed to rest upon was abstracted by various additions and modifications. The conveyor lines were kept in motion by their connection with the basic gear system, the grinding of the wheels keeping the movement constant, eternal in its duty to humbly carry the bodies to their next destination. That is, the stomach of the monster. If the outside of the building resembled a mighty giant, the guts of the same building seemed to slowly morph into the right form. His eyes , still tired and only faintly drunk, now felt even dizzier than before, Douglas' vision also blurred the line between reality and madness. The conveyor belts easily could be mistaken for a long and bloody tongue of a beast, bringing its victim closer to its main body so it could feast upon its victims. The limbs of the monster, big remotely controlled joints for cutting and ripping, seemed perfect for grabbing their prey and dismembering them as it made its way across the disassembly lines. A need could be felt, almost understood. The beast was hungry for more, the harvester of humanity wouldn't stop until it was full. Prolonging its disjointed life with the lives lost under its grasp, feeding it straight into its heart until It stops beating forever, turning silent and motionless. Its only way of surviving seemed to be the assimilation of consumed flesh, grafting its prey's forsaken flesh and bones into its own form.
Upon closer inspection, his eyes focusing slowly but precisely to the fine details, as the old man made his way down the machine gently with a laugh, Douglas found the assimilated parts of past meals on the machine. Certain tiny gears had been crafted out of what seemed human bone, like beautiful ivory sculptures with a function in a bigger picture, a practical work of art. The big chunks of skeleton form had been reduced down to simple, unrefined pieces of tech that tried to play their part in the task of satisfying the hungering will, prolonging its life for a pathetic amount of time. Douglas started to notice gaps in the design of the machine, even with his untrained eye. Some of the gears seemed to miss their queue, skipping a beat and not connecting properly with their half machine half human counterparts, the unsuccessful merging of machine and flesh obvious. Yet something bigger was amiss here. The man never much cared for engineering or anything of the sort but this even he could spot. This was not a machine. A machine, by definition, is meant to provide, produce, alter or even refine as its job. This? This "thing"? This was not a machine,at least philosophically, no use for it could ever be found by modern, civil humans. "This" did not produce, only consume. No bigger purpose is fulfilled by its function, an unending hunger for assimilation is the only realistic purpose.
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A big thump could be heard next to Douglas as the old man jumped and landed next to the boy. Douglas showed off his teeth through a terrified expression as if he could exorcise the demon edging closer towards him with his smile's shine. Ironside replied properly, giving a huge grin with his yellowed rotten teeth, projecting the shine back with his one golden tooth. The man slowly laughed, barely keeping himself in check while drawing closer to the doctor who was slowly crawling backwards from sheer fear for his life. When he hit the door with the back of his head he dropped his elbows and knees, his neck felt thicker with spit as he trembled in the tiny space he was taking up, trying to make himself seem harmless. The old man took a knee "A fucking knee" Douglas yelled in his own mind as a stinking mouth came closer to the boy.
"She's beautiful, isn't she doc?" His grin evolved past its own limits of creepiness, his cheeks raising and pulling his smile past his eyes holes, almost in enjoyment of how cruel he made Douglas feel deep inside. Proud of his creation of course, as well.
"I don't mind that you entered during our dinner time Douglas, besides, wasn't I the one that told you to visit whenever you wish? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA IM JUST GLAD YOU TOOK MY OFFER SERIOUSLY, it can really get lonely all alone with my cunt of a wife to watch over all the time". The connections of the machine roared in discontent, perfectly imitating an old wife's moaning at her husband, close enough for Trevor to believe it anyway.
"Heh, shut up you old hag, you know I love ya" his hand flicked dismissively in an attempt to comfort his own illusion. The screeching of the apparatus continued, mad at the ignorance of the old man. With a snap and a fall, Douglas' arm became pierced by a sharp blade, cutting through his skin and flesh the same way a hostile stalactite would and embedding itself deep in his biology. The clicking and turning of the gears was finally overshadowed by the brutish scream of the pained healer. He struggled as Ironside wrapped his arms around his flailing body, trying to hold him down and applying pressure to his arm.
"Well aren't you lucky young man, who else gets their arm penetrated by a big fucking knife and also has a doctor around to help them?" His grip on the young man weakened as Douglas' struggle worsened.
"Don't you dare touch me you third tier, butcher, mockery of fucking healing! I'd rather take a trip in your fucking psycho machine that let your blasted hands around my wounds!" Suddenly the pressure over his body felt limitless, like a whole tree crushed its weight upon him. The sturdy, cobblestone fists of the old man forced their terrible power upon Douglas, holding him and pinning him down with great might, unable to free himself.
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"Listen here you little bit city chicken shit hotshot" the old man's mouth spat curses and insults like a machine gun. " You think you can come to my fucking town and steal my job? Huh?! You think you can just steal away the only thing that gave this old man's life a little meaning? Look at this fucking place, look at it!" His fingers grabbed and forced Douglas' gaze back at the room, as if he had never seen the rest of what laid over his head.
"Look at this fucking mess. First, they want you to build a fucking tower clock. Then, when you offer to make something more grand, something that would bring any fucking amount of stature in this shithole of a town , they just tease you. They get your hopes up , they give you men and materials to start up but then you get fucked. "Can't fucking afford any more expensive metals Trevor", "can't keep these men employed Mr Ironside", "why don't you go for a more humble design Trevor?". Fucking cowards I call them Douglas." The man paused, almost insinuating that he wanted Douglas to respond but as the doctor tried to do anything, Ironside's grip on the poor man's head worsened.
"And they just tease you with hopes that you may actually have a chance of building something to be proud of, something to look forward to. Then when your life is in a standstill for God knows how many decades, finding any tiny bit of excitement in fixing boring shit or stupid kid's toys, they throw another bone at you "guess you'll the right man to take over the clinic Trevor, congratulations" and then you think "hey, maybe life is turning around after the hallway point" but no , no! That's where God himself decides to strike you harder, everyday more and more patients coming in, the flue is spreading faster than fucking wheat, everybody becomes a fucking imbecile and keeps breaking their arms and legs left and right, and to top it all of, how about your wife kicks the bucket as well? Doesn't that sound fair to you Douglas?" The boy's lips trembled, following his heart's beating rhythm as Trevor made sure to keep his attention by screwing with the blade embedded in Douglas' arm, shocking his nerves and squeezing the pain through his throat and out his mouth in audible form.
"So you see Douglas, it's only natural for an old man like myself to lose his patience here and there, nothing I ever found to be over the top. But I wouldn't fucking do this alone, oh no! No no no, no no, no. I made a vow at my wedding and I never go back on my word, I'd spend the rest of my life with the woman I swore to love. Look at her now Douglas." Ironside gripped the handle of the blade and gave it a mighty pull, assaulting Douglas' pain receptors and freeing his tendons from their torture.
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"She's always there for me, and what kind of husband would I be if I didn't take care of my wife?" Trevor held Douglas by his shirts collar bone, bringing each other closer to whisper in his mouth.
"I think I did quite a job with this one , wouldn't you say so?" As the blade was kept closer to his face, the doctor started to realise what the blade really was. The handle that was connecting to the rest of the machine was made of a sturdy, white material. At the bottom, it was dressed in a tight leather, holding the entire structure solid. The colour of the leather seemed a bit off at first sight, a fainter hue of brown was present.
"Just like the way we held hands during our walks honey." The realization struck the doctor like the rage of a mad bull, a sudden fatigue of his soul dropped him to his knees, only to throw up his infested insides all over him and the floor.
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The infected bile didn't slow down the giant of an old man from stomping towards Douglas, pressing down on the green and yellow mess on the floor and raising the repurposed human arm to strike. His raised palm was suddenly showered with a rain of orange dust, the living corpse of the machine spewing its guts out and letting them fall down below, alerting it's creator to the pain and damage. The bright, bitter powder of rust filled Douglas' mouth with a striking taste of rotten metal, a byproduct of the ever approaching walk of decay, relentless in its pursuit to kill and take over. Even the harvest god of metal wasn't impervious to such forces, the natural flow of life for its metallic parts taking its toll. A booming bang and squeak protested again at the old man, demanding its nourishment from its caretaker.
"You're right, you're always right. It would be a waste to kill him now. Harvest is the wise choice."
Douglas's throat exploded with a cough, fire tore his larynx apart, making him unable to get rid of the rust that made its home deep inside his body. More orange dust fell from the aching joints of the machine, the scenery in front of him resembled the beautiful autumn leaves he always admired. But now, the bitter-sweet appreciations he held for Autumn contrasted with its cruel mission to bring about the death of all. But this situation was different to what he had fallen in love with. This. This cruel charade of Autumn did not bare the same regret that the season had, for when the orange leaves surround you and drown you in their chilly droves, they do you a favour. Preparing you for what is to come, the cold of the Winter shall never touch you when you are already accustomed to Death, its freezing embrace seeming like nothing compared to Death itself. That's the difference, this imitation of Autumn snaps its jaw faster than you can appreciate your life.
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The doctor's eyes widened in their place to examine their ever-moving surroundings, the world seemingly rolling on wheels by itself. Douglas awakened from his slumber only to find himself strapped on top of a moving part, slowly making his way. He shook his head to make sure what his situation was, correcting himself if maybe it was all just a bad dream, a cruel joke his own mind played on his body. Yet this was not the case, no matter how hard Douglas struggled physically or mentally to let himself escape. No-one could save him from the impending rolling of the wheels and gears that carried his future corpse to its final destination. As he ascended a small slope diagonally, he looked up to locate the old man but his visual ascend stopped halfway when he saw Ironside climbing with stairs and mini elevators up to the top, giggling like a kid that gets to play with his favourite toy after school. After finally reaching his floor that had all of his sick levers and buttons that controlled the show, he pulled a big handle that dangled above him. An automatic sound pinged and alerted Douglas to the change in his track. Immediately, two large buzzsaws raised next to each side and started spinning , chugging along , either from their tired skeletons that held them together or maybe because some small chunk of gore from Jeffrey Holmes had made its way inside the mechanism. Whatever the case, this didn't seem to make the serrated wheels any more appealing, especially since they stood right in the path of his extended arms. Ironside barely could hold his chuckle between his lips- this wasn't his favourite part but he always appreciated that it came first. He imagined what horrible, inhuman screams the doctor would produce as his upper limbs were shredded at their base, their weak bone and sinew making for a pathetic attempt to stop the cutting. The old man's face became red with excitement, almost losing his eyesight as his head jolted to stare at the ceiling, his look almost orgasmic in nature. And that fantasy of his would be buried swiftly, since his deepest, most perverse thoughts had come to life by a howling from below.
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Now the live experience was much more severe. The immeasurable pain bubbling inside Douglas' pain receptors defied all logic he had left. This didn't feel possible, the sheer feeling of pain and dismemberment wasn't anything he could ever prepare himself for- the ripping of his tendons and weakened muscles seemed almost effortless, the blades slaughtering their way past the chunky meat around the bone and making short work of his joints right at his shoulders. His scream echoed inside the huge room of the machine, bouncing off surfaces and making its way around the area, beautifully blessing the ears of the sick old man. As unending as the pain seemed, so was the path of the machine while the armless body of his kept tracking on at its normal pace, barely halting from the shredding that took place. The severed arms had already fallen gently below in a special funnel big enough to catch anything that fell in any trajectory. The pitiful remaining of Douglas was wiping, an orphan child seeking something that felt lost now. He really understood the phrase "you never know what you have until you lose it", now it seemed clear what their worth was, how difficult it is to cry and jerk your arms around in protest when they were just cut off. Yet the world didn't wait for no crying children, the path seemed to become slower and slower as the blood loss worsened but still the machine continued to work for its meal. The stream of blood, another bloody rainfall in this damned room of torture, was properly gathered in its path on both sides from special funnels that seemed to run across the victim all the way, collecting properly the bloody liguid of life the old man seemed to cherish the most, either for oiling his beloved machine or another use.
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But Douglas couldn't spend time thinking about such things, he could barely keep his body conscious in its desperate effort to escape. He obviously didn't have any remaining energy to resist, yet the stamps where his arms used to be still moved and wriggled in their place, a phantom pain burning from his missing limbs.
"You always look so cute after that you know. But, it's always funny, no matter how many times I do this, you poor fucks think you still have a chance. And you're the most pathetic of them. You've already seen what happens to people in the same spot as you, Douglas. Why are you even surprised? It doesn't matter though, now comes my favourite part…"
The doctor struggled to open his eyes just a tiny bit more, in a natural attempt to discern more about his future punishment. Before he could think about turning his head around, he felt a tight grasp around his knees. His mind flashed a light of adrenaline, lifting the darkness from the seams of his vision and allowing him to bear witness. Slowly but surely, the rotten, rusted grips of the machination turned around his knees, gently applying small increases of pressure on his joints. The circular motion , one from left and one from right, hypnotized the poor man, feeling his mind with hollow hopes that maybe this wasn't going to hurt, or hell, maybe this isn't even a part of the feeding. Why wouldn't this be the part where the machine picks his tired body up and places him gently on a soft surface to rest and bleed out peacefully?
His foolish hopes of a calm death were crushed with the force of 1000 kilograms, the calculated force that must be applied to crush and tear bones from their place, all thanks to the brilliant mechanical mind of Ironside. The cold grips bent his knees opposite, piercing the underpart of his leg with the bone itself and forcing the lower half of the legs to dangle pitifully from his thighs. A final, assertive pull managed to sever the knees and the legs from his hips and waist. Douglas could swear on his future grave that his vocal cords wrapped around his esophagus tightly right before twisting and crushing themselves, same way as his lower limbs had. His face unhinged from its lower jaw, enabling him to take shapes and sizes that could only be called natural if a cave monster attempted them. His final moan of pain marked the release of his soul from his tortured corpse, a perhaps hopeful sign that some part of him could live on in a better place, less painful oflr sadistic than this room. Maybe he should have prayed that his poor afterlife wasn't spent in this very room he passed in.
Instead he only thought of two things in his final breaths. One, he found it quite ironic how similar his death was to the stomping of the Autumn leaves. In the exact same way, his bones and meat crunched, giving up when confronted with the immeasurable pain of being bulldozed by something mightier, something bigger than you. Maybe if he had more time he could have reached a grander resolution about Death. Hopefully, it would be a deeper connection with the thin line that separates his ill patients and the impending doom of their death. No matter how much work he could put in a patient, they could always be found cold and stiff the next morning, either due to their incurable disease or even any other random cause of death. Maybe, just maybe, Douglas could dance with Death and become a better doctor , giving himself invaluable experience that few have, a deeper appreciation for the process that his patients have to suffer. Sadly, no such revelations were ever achieved.
And finally, he completely forgot what he originally came here for, to fix his broken toy.
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Ironside relaxed his tired back on his chair to take in the pleasure of another day's days job done well. The cycle is complete even when it has just started; the machine's will is absolute and unchanging. Once its jaws unhinge and stay open, they must be fed to close up against, lest the whole world be consumed. This universal rule gave comfort to the old man, these things always did for old people to be fair. They need stability, they seek unchanging features that they can rely on. And once their plan falls short from a tiny detail, their whole life also crumbles, almost.
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The moans of a hurt animal filled the room, alerting it's master that this was an emergency, he was needed next to his companion. This shook the old sack of bones, shaking him from his seat and pulling him down from his throne of wood to come and check the situation. He ran besides the machine, checking and carefully studying every inch that could have sustained any damage during the feeding. His careful examination could be compared to a doctor's examination, slowly but surely making his way to every limb, every connection part that makes up a whole and confirming they all work in tandem. Finally, he realised there was a deeper moan coming from the machine , deep down the grinder in the middle.
"Don't worry honey I'll fix you!"
He descended a flimsy wooden ladder to find himself above the huge jaws of the grinder. He fixed his flashlight inside to figure out what the problem was. The spinning parts struggled to continue their circular crush and yet Trevor seemed unable to find the problem.
"Your fucking cursed corpse will destroy my Marybeth, you goddamn savage!"
But finally, he pointed his flashlight at just the right spot to make out a tiny shine in a corner. He stretched his neck closer to make out the source, revealing a small, silver and steel locomotive decorated with tiny bronze features. The very same toy he was shown back in Saul's bar was somehow keeping his monster from shredding its former master to pieces. Ironside grimaced like an old dog, grinding his own teeth against each other in sheer anger as to how a tiny , shitty toy crafted maybe decades ago could stand against his own creation. His pride as a doctor and a mechanic felt tainted now. And as every shamed and bitter man does, he took a stick and hit his worries away. He pushed the toy inside, reveling in the sight of its complete ruin. The grinder could finally complete its task and it did so proudly, spreading the poor remains of the old doctor only to faintly cover up Trevor's shame. The dried up blood on the body of his wife, the shame of a healer and husband, and the rust that ate away at his creation, the shame of a mechanic. Even if two bodies were sacrificed today, at the end of the night the entire machine felt just a little bit more tattered and broken. He rose to his feet , taking in very little around him, choosing to think inside his own brain.
"You fucking childish boy, you just had to bring your toy here. No matter Marybeth, we'll have lots of time and resources to fix you up, slowly but surely, I'll fix ya now that I'll have the chance."
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A knock preceded the opening of the clinic's door. Behind it was old man Jenkins, stumbling as he was used to now to get inside the building. He slowly made his way towards the doctor's desk and took a painful seat opposite.
"Goddamn doc! I'll tell ya I'm glad you could see me today, that other bastard didn't even seem to care that my asshole was about to burst. That's why I liked you Trevor, you always care about the people in this town"
"Oh don't even mention that young fool Mr Jenkins, I'm just glad I have a lot of bodies to work with now. Say, how about I offer you an extra examination today, maybe you can pass by my house tonight?"
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