MAIN » ARTICLESThe Iain (Rawson) Experience, part X: Vol. 1
Extract from ‘The Diary of Dr. Rog’: Week 667, Day 4597
The back-up lights flicked a few times before becoming fully operational. Of course it was pure wishful thinking on my behalf to believe, even for a second, the lights would be much help in this hour of chaos. The usual makeup of critical systems within the Institute is usually whatever one of the doctors happens to find lying around, or even something stolen from the local garden centre by Technician Hardcastle whenever Dr. Shields is indisposed looking at the shrubs.
I followed the Christmas-tree lights to service duct H67, where I blindly fumbled my way into the small vent and attempted to make purchase on the quality, yet lubricated, access ladder. After falling two hole floors before hitting the bottom of the service duct I wiped Dr. Jameson’s hilarious ‘Gloop’ trick slime onto my lab coat and began to painstakingly climb the five floors to Operations Deck B, home of the specimen I hold so dearly.
The lights were still operational from Deck C onwards, no doubt one of the unexplained quakes had cut a power conduit somewhere in Sub Station #7c on Deck D plunging the lower levels into grim darkness.
I hauled myself out of the vent and was flabbergasted to witness Dr. Randy loading crates of hardcore pornography onto a gondola.
“Roggery, thank fuck you happened to walk by”, exclaimed my colleague, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. “I need some help getting all this Swedish onto this here boat, before this whole shit heap goes cock up”.
I nodded forlornly, allowing time to take in the image of the 5’11” tall Randy. Like always, Dr. Randy was semi-naked, electing today only to wear a plain white lab coat and black boxer shorts with ‘Warning: Caged Beast!’ stitched in white thread over the crotch. As usual he was wearing blue tinted sunglasses, regardless of luminosity, with the objective of, quote, “stopping those faggots at city hall getting one up on me”.
He paused a while from his labours to walk up to me and look me in the face, so close that I could see the beads of sweat on my forehead reflected on his sunnies.
“I’m sorry about this whole god-damned situation Roggery, I really am”, he told me, “you’ve got to understand we didn’t plan it out like this, our hand was forced”.
Four questions went through my mind at that point: Who was the ‘we’ he spoke of? What could they have done to result in the destruction of the Institute? Who was it that forced the hands of my fellow doctors? And why wasn’t Jeff present in series four of Coupling?
Before I could speak, another aftershock made the Silk Cut tumble from the doctor’s mouth onto the dusty floor. Unperturbed Dr. Randy walked over to east wall of the corridor, removed the ‘Corridor F4G’ sign and proceeded to assault the cigarette machine next to the service duct.
I took the lull in the conversation to inspect my surroundings. The earthquakes had caused some major structural insecurity, however this unmatched the destruction wrought in this particular corridor. Support beams had smashed through the ceiling; live wires were hanging loose and shooting sparks that danced through the air before sizzling in the puddles of waste that had leaked over the floor. Most of the west wall had collapsed, revealing the location of a previously unbeknownst underground river; where the gondola had appeared from remained a mystery.
His teeth gritted and his eyes glazed, Dr. Randy continued to beat the dispenser into submission. It was at this point I decided to leave him to his essential task; I alone could rescue the specimen.
Navigating the corridors was hard work, I’ve never really considered it before but the Institute is comically big when you could count number of staff with your fingers. No floor is symmetrical and the naming of rooms, labs, floors, decks, corridors, toilets, quarters, ducts, panels, systems etc. are namely by the time honoured tradition of ‘thinking of a random combination of numbers and letters’, making the whole place virtually impossible to navigate at the best of times.
After about ten minutes I heard a sound emanating from behind a closed door. Upon opening of said door I found Dr. Jay. The room was bare apart from a table, filing cabinet and a large pot plant. A window on the far wall gave an astounding view of some subterranean earth. A large paper shredder occupied most of the table, stacks of documents inhabiting any spare room.
“It’s remarkable what you can learn by reading” lectured Dr. Jay with his back to me, “for example did you know Dr. Jameson is a qualified gynaecologist? Or that Dr. Randy’s first job was for the Chinese Tourist Board? In fact he’s a Chinese ex-patriot I believe.”
“That’s most certainly is interesting” pro-offered the plant without prior warning. I paced the five steps to the corner of the room, and was not entirely surprised to find Dr. Shields cowering behind the bush.
Being relatively alone in a huge underground complex several miles below the Earth’s surface and only seeing the same people, if at all, day in day out had had a range of effects on the doctors. Dr. Jay for example had become addicted to Satsumas while Dr. Shields found himself unable to function properly without making physical contact with a pot plant.
I circumvented the row of plants and discovered Dr. Shields, watering can in hand, happily attending to his beloved plants.
“This place won’t stay up for long Doctor, we need to tell him to leave his plants and escape”, I didn’t take my eyes off Dr. Shields, who was blissfully unaware of the events surrounding him.
“Dammit Marc, you can’t convince a fanatic he’s wrong by giving him data. He believes what he wants to believe.”
“My mind is made up, please don’t confuse me with facts.”
Dr. Jay had finished his task of systematically destroying the Institute’s administrative records, but not out of any regard to confidentiality, or indeed regulation. His destructive urges not satisfied he began to torch a Ruben’s original of King Ferdinand VII, a priceless antique thought to be lost at the Battle of Vitoria.
I pleaded with Dr. Shields for several minutes, trying to persuade him to join me or reach safety. However I was just met with the same happy, yet quizzical expression of joyous ignorance my colleagues and I were growing accustomed to. At that point, much to my indifference, I observed a baby seal walking into a club. Unperturbed, I vacated the proximity.
I left my colleagues to their vital tasks, confident that they would find an alternative route from this grim tomb. I had no reason not to be confident, after all, they were doctors.
With no time to lose I picked up pace to a gentle jog, the fastest rate of movement allowed by any personnel during a crisis as outlined by Section 173 Paragraph E of the Institutes Rules and Regulations.
I caught a glimpse of a security monitor in my peripheral vision. No, “it couldn’t have been” I persuaded myself. I pushed the thought to the back of my head. “That’s impossible”.
To be continued..
Written by Randy
The back-up lights flicked a few times before becoming fully operational. Of course it was pure wishful thinking on my behalf to believe, even for a second, the lights would be much help in this hour of chaos. The usual makeup of critical systems within the Institute is usually whatever one of the doctors happens to find lying around, or even something stolen from the local garden centre by Technician Hardcastle whenever Dr. Shields is indisposed looking at the shrubs.
I followed the Christmas-tree lights to service duct H67, where I blindly fumbled my way into the small vent and attempted to make purchase on the quality, yet lubricated, access ladder. After falling two hole floors before hitting the bottom of the service duct I wiped Dr. Jameson’s hilarious ‘Gloop’ trick slime onto my lab coat and began to painstakingly climb the five floors to Operations Deck B, home of the specimen I hold so dearly.
The lights were still operational from Deck C onwards, no doubt one of the unexplained quakes had cut a power conduit somewhere in Sub Station #7c on Deck D plunging the lower levels into grim darkness.
I hauled myself out of the vent and was flabbergasted to witness Dr. Randy loading crates of hardcore pornography onto a gondola.
“Roggery, thank fuck you happened to walk by”, exclaimed my colleague, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. “I need some help getting all this Swedish onto this here boat, before this whole shit heap goes cock up”.
I nodded forlornly, allowing time to take in the image of the 5’11” tall Randy. Like always, Dr. Randy was semi-naked, electing today only to wear a plain white lab coat and black boxer shorts with ‘Warning: Caged Beast!’ stitched in white thread over the crotch. As usual he was wearing blue tinted sunglasses, regardless of luminosity, with the objective of, quote, “stopping those faggots at city hall getting one up on me”.
He paused a while from his labours to walk up to me and look me in the face, so close that I could see the beads of sweat on my forehead reflected on his sunnies.
“I’m sorry about this whole god-damned situation Roggery, I really am”, he told me, “you’ve got to understand we didn’t plan it out like this, our hand was forced”.
Four questions went through my mind at that point: Who was the ‘we’ he spoke of? What could they have done to result in the destruction of the Institute? Who was it that forced the hands of my fellow doctors? And why wasn’t Jeff present in series four of Coupling?
Before I could speak, another aftershock made the Silk Cut tumble from the doctor’s mouth onto the dusty floor. Unperturbed Dr. Randy walked over to east wall of the corridor, removed the ‘Corridor F4G’ sign and proceeded to assault the cigarette machine next to the service duct.
I took the lull in the conversation to inspect my surroundings. The earthquakes had caused some major structural insecurity, however this unmatched the destruction wrought in this particular corridor. Support beams had smashed through the ceiling; live wires were hanging loose and shooting sparks that danced through the air before sizzling in the puddles of waste that had leaked over the floor. Most of the west wall had collapsed, revealing the location of a previously unbeknownst underground river; where the gondola had appeared from remained a mystery.
His teeth gritted and his eyes glazed, Dr. Randy continued to beat the dispenser into submission. It was at this point I decided to leave him to his essential task; I alone could rescue the specimen.
Navigating the corridors was hard work, I’ve never really considered it before but the Institute is comically big when you could count number of staff with your fingers. No floor is symmetrical and the naming of rooms, labs, floors, decks, corridors, toilets, quarters, ducts, panels, systems etc. are namely by the time honoured tradition of ‘thinking of a random combination of numbers and letters’, making the whole place virtually impossible to navigate at the best of times.
After about ten minutes I heard a sound emanating from behind a closed door. Upon opening of said door I found Dr. Jay. The room was bare apart from a table, filing cabinet and a large pot plant. A window on the far wall gave an astounding view of some subterranean earth. A large paper shredder occupied most of the table, stacks of documents inhabiting any spare room.
“It’s remarkable what you can learn by reading” lectured Dr. Jay with his back to me, “for example did you know Dr. Jameson is a qualified gynaecologist? Or that Dr. Randy’s first job was for the Chinese Tourist Board? In fact he’s a Chinese ex-patriot I believe.”
“That’s most certainly is interesting” pro-offered the plant without prior warning. I paced the five steps to the corner of the room, and was not entirely surprised to find Dr. Shields cowering behind the bush.
Being relatively alone in a huge underground complex several miles below the Earth’s surface and only seeing the same people, if at all, day in day out had had a range of effects on the doctors. Dr. Jay for example had become addicted to Satsumas while Dr. Shields found himself unable to function properly without making physical contact with a pot plant.
I circumvented the row of plants and discovered Dr. Shields, watering can in hand, happily attending to his beloved plants.
“This place won’t stay up for long Doctor, we need to tell him to leave his plants and escape”, I didn’t take my eyes off Dr. Shields, who was blissfully unaware of the events surrounding him.
“Dammit Marc, you can’t convince a fanatic he’s wrong by giving him data. He believes what he wants to believe.”
“My mind is made up, please don’t confuse me with facts.”
Dr. Jay had finished his task of systematically destroying the Institute’s administrative records, but not out of any regard to confidentiality, or indeed regulation. His destructive urges not satisfied he began to torch a Ruben’s original of King Ferdinand VII, a priceless antique thought to be lost at the Battle of Vitoria.
I pleaded with Dr. Shields for several minutes, trying to persuade him to join me or reach safety. However I was just met with the same happy, yet quizzical expression of joyous ignorance my colleagues and I were growing accustomed to. At that point, much to my indifference, I observed a baby seal walking into a club. Unperturbed, I vacated the proximity.
I left my colleagues to their vital tasks, confident that they would find an alternative route from this grim tomb. I had no reason not to be confident, after all, they were doctors.
With no time to lose I picked up pace to a gentle jog, the fastest rate of movement allowed by any personnel during a crisis as outlined by Section 173 Paragraph E of the Institutes Rules and Regulations.
I caught a glimpse of a security monitor in my peripheral vision. No, “it couldn’t have been” I persuaded myself. I pushed the thought to the back of my head. “That’s impossible”.
To be continued..
Written by Randy