“Alex Stevens?” a tall man called from the entryway. “Alex, in accordance with Bio Information Act Thirty-Seven we’re entering your premise. Your implant quarter has sent a distress message indicating your health is in jeopardy.”
A medic and a nurse followed behind the tall man into his Egg and they noticed the torn manuscript pages around the rim of his running, garbage disposal. Bubbles which had been stuffed hastily with ink-scribbled manuscript pages, had been smashed all over his kitchenette’s floor and snow-angel indentations had been left all over the indigo shag of his yolk room. Alex lay on the shag, between snow angels.
“Are you guys from Warner Bros?” Alex asked.
The tall man leaned over him, “Can you tell me where you are?”
Alex blinked. “My new story—it’s still on the hard drive.”
A bored female nurse switched on her pad and accessed Alex’s quarter. “He used Fast Amnesia. The technology’s shoddy. But his vitals are good.”
A short medic turned off the garbage disposal, “Fast Corp. even knows it can’t erase what a person wants to forget most. That type of memory is buried too deep. I’ve seen this type of thing happening more and more. The brain rebels against Fast Amnesia’s attack and it just makes whatever that person was trying to block-out worse.”
“Alex?” the tall man kneeled, touching his shoulder. “Can you hear me?”
Alex grinned. “Did you say you were from Warner Bros?”
“Warner Bros?” the female nurse asked. “What’s that?”
Alex tried to get up on his shoulders but he was dizzy. “...a film studio.”
“A film studio?” she asked. “What’s that?”
The medic picked up a crushed bubble and picked a manuscript out from the rounded shards. “It looks like he wrote a bunch of stuff, then he crossed out his titles.” He bent forward to read. “He crossed out his title on this one and wrote: ‘The Time Machine…arrives thirty years later’.” He fished out another manuscript. “Moby Dick... with planes.” “Pride and Prejudice... with cockroaches.” “These words don’t make sense in this order. Do you think it could be schizophrenia? Word salad or something?”
“I finished it.” Alex’s face cringed. “Someday... it’ll be a classic. I’m a writer.”
“I can’t believe this,” the tall man looked down. “Kid, nobody reads. Everything’s been written.” He looked to the woman, “What’s this kid do?”
“Listed as: Weld Robot Monitor.”
He squeezed his shoulder, “Kid, listen to me. A welder’s a good trade.” He leaned in closer, “It’s a good trade; you don’t have to be anything more than that!”
“Did you say you were the... Warner Brothers?”
“He’s delirious,” the medic said. “I’m preparing a sedative.”
“I wrote it. It’s mine.” Alex seemed to admire an invisible beauty floating behind the man, “I call it—I call it... Casablanca!”