Adventures In Evil Zombieland Episode 7

In this episode of Adventures In Evil Zombieland, our freedom-minded hero attempts to seek medical care at a so-called hospital. 

A black-clad mind-controlled coward with a badge broke my arm because I wouldn’t shut-up.  I took a taxi to the emergency room in the so-called hospital.    

Why did I take a taxi? Because I live in Evil Zombieland, and I’m one of the few scattered authentic humans left on the planet, so I don’t have many friends.  Being a truth seeker that takes right action in the world isn’t any way to gain friends, that’s for sure. 

Anyway, back to the so-called hospital, which from this point forward will be called the “death care center”. 

 I walked into the death care center and the first thing I noticed were the giant flat-screen psychological warfare weapons hung on the walls.  The second thing that caught my attention was the number of zombies that were staring at those psycho-weapons, mouths hanging open, eyes glossing over.  I don’t know what emergency each zombie had, but those Skinner boxes sure are some potent painkillers based on what I observed that night.

Speaking of emergencies, how about the fact that humanity is nearly completely dead while evil runs amok in this plastic-culture hell on earth?

But I digress…..or do I?

Anyway, yeah, back to my broken arm as I approached the reception/deception desk at the death care center.  I walked up to the lobster-eyed artificial woman who was pompously popping gum and propping herself up in her fancy roller chair.    

 She didn’t look me in the eye as I stood by the desk for a minute.  I found this amusing for a negligible amount of time before I spoke up, “Hey, I’ve got a broken arm and need to see a death care specialist, oops, I mean doctor.”

She looked up at me slowly and deliberately in a snide and carefree manner and said, “Insurance papers.”

She didn’t even ask my name.  Exhibit “A” that she’s not human.  “My name is Captain Courageous,” I said defiantly and then waited for the predictable reaction. 

“I need your insurance papers,” she snorted. 

 “You mean you need proof that I have an overpriced contract with a megalithic corporation which I was coerced to buy by the eugenics-loving government?” I fired back.
 

She smacked her gum, rolled her eyes, and handed me a stack of papers that would make even a woodchuck weep.

  I took a seat next to a zombie who looked like he had been under the spell of the TELL-A-VISION for a few hours and was about to pass out.  I looked at the data-collection booklet before my eyes and almost had a heart attack from the sheer absurdity of what I read.  Everything from……

  Name to 3rd cousin, name of maternal grandparents’ pets (if applicable), history of family illness, SSN, passport number, driver’s license number, favorite food, ideal climate, how many breaths I take per hour, sexual orientation and/or disorientation (what?)……..
 

The list goes on. 

 I decided to just put my name and write “NA” in the rest of the blanks.  At least they couldn’t say I didn’t fill out the forms, right?
 

A positive aspect of sitting with so many zombies is that it gives one a chance to observe and reflect on the state of human affairs.  A negative aspect of the situation I was in was that my arm hurt so bad that I thought I might break some teeth cuz I was grinding from the pain.    
 

After a couple of hours I decided to try and talk to the fake people.  I wander over to one of the few who is not downloading her brain programming, a middle aged woman who is instead staring at the floor.    
 

“Hi, I’m bored.  Mind if I talk to you?” I inquire with forced enthusiasm.  Her drowsy eyes look in my general direction and she nods affirmatively.   
 “Sure sucks that we have to wait so long to get shitty so-called health care, huh?”
 “Oh, I’m not here to see a doctor.  I’m waiting for my husband.”
 “Oh, I’m sorry to hear about your husband.  May I ask what happened?”
 “Well, he gave me a nasty look, so I stabbed him with a fork and smashed a plate over his head.”
 “Wow, so I’ll just go over there.”
 After another 3 hours of staring at zombies, I finally get called into the sacred chamber of the white coats.    

 I get put on a bed in a room with maybe 20 zombies.  After waiting another eternity, I get approached by a young nurse who asks, “What seems to be the problem?”
 “Well, the world is run by evil oligarchs, that’s pretty high on my list of problems,” I said with a straight face.
 “Are you delirious?” she asked.
 “No, actually, I’m probably the only one in the whole death care center who’s conscious, but thanks for asking.” I replied.
 “Have you had your shots?” she continued without making eye contact.  What is it about zombies not making eye contact? Do you ever notice that? But I digress again….
 “No, I haven’t had any bio-weapons shoved into my veins in over twenty years!” I exclaimed proudly.    
 “You have to get your shots before we can treat you,” she ordered blandly.
 “You don’t even know what’s wrong yet!” I yelled.
 “It doesn’t matter.  The law says that shots have to be up to date before any treatment can be given.”
 “I have a philosophical objection,” I explained.
  “A what?”
 “Was that word too big for you?”
 

 She walked off and never returned.  While waiting for the next highly trained expert in the art of death, I noticed some curious things.  First of all, the décor and machines looked straight out of a bad 1970’s movie.  Secondly, I’d be willing to bet my right arm (I’m left handed) that everyone in that room was drugged out.  Well, except for one guy other than myself.  How do I know that? Because he was the only one unleashing blood-curdling screams.  Everyone else had a dopey, crazed, or bemused look about them, which should not happen in any stable mind in that horrific environment.  Last, but not least, there was a severe lack of medical staff (or at least people pretending to be so).
 

Finally, an ungodly amount of time later, a real-life white coat actually came up to me as I lay huffing and half asleep on that fancy million dollar bed.    
 

The white coat had an aura of perverse arrogance about him, which I tried to not make mention of for fear of getting stuck in that hell for eternity.    
 “So I think I broke my arm” I quickly said.
 “Oh, you do, do you?” he haughtily replied. “Let me see your arm.”
 

 I unleashed a horrific shriek when he made contact with the skin.  It was so loud I think I knocked half the room out of their drug-induced stupor.    
 “Yep, it’s broken,” he confirmed dryly and then walked off.
 

 “Great,” I wondered to myself, “How long until I actually get this thing set in a, AAAHHHH!!! Hey, what the fuck!?”   
 I turned my head and with unspeakable horror caught a glimpse of a needle coming out of my arm.  Enraged, I yelled in a blistering tone, “What the hell are you doing? What was that? I didn’t consent to any shots!!!!”
 The white coat gave a coy look and replied smugly, “Consent? We don’t need consent.  It’s the law.”
 Then he walked off again.
 He came back a few minutes later and I asked, “What the hell was it you stuck me with?”
 “A needle.  Are you on any anti-psychotics?”
 “I mean what bio-weapon did you just flush into my bloodstream, you evil mind-controlled order follower!?”
 “That was the Hep B vaccine.  It’s required...”
 “Blah, I know that you criminals require it! And no, I’m not on anti-psychotics.”
 “I’m going to recommend you start taking them.  There will be a prescription waiting for you on the way out.” 

 “Two questions, genius. Do you know the ingredients of the vaccine? Do you know the side-effects of the pills?”
 “Acceptable risk,” he said.
 “Not to anyone who is sane!” I yelled back.
 About an hour later I was finally wheeled out to the reception desk.  Same lady, probably same gum.    
 “How much is this abuse going to cost me?” I asked.    
 “An arm and a leg,” she said.
 And then I woke up in a cold sweat.  Thank God that didn’t happen! But it could, and unfortunately, it does.