MAIN » ARTICLESThe Iain (Rawson) Odyssey, part 3
Extract from ‘The Diary of Dr. Rog’: Week 672, Day 4606
Saturday - AM
I woke in a cold sweat. Space was cold, very cold. The nightmare was brutal, those damn midgets just never stopped coming. Poor Dr. Hendy, may you find the peace in death you never could in life.
The inertia of the shuttles turning circle was making my stomach churn. I had no idea how Dr. Jameson maintained his professional demeanor, perhaps it was all those hours he had spent drinking Tequilas on the Bucking Broncho in the Whacky West Zone on Recreation Deck 7. It almost seemed like he'd done this sort of thing before...
I swung my legs out of bed and put on my Institute branded fluffy slippers. Yawning, I made my way to the Kitchenette where my friend the Doctor and the man who Jameson introduced to me as Reverend Buldock were already present, it was 4 AM.
“Christ, it looks like we're out of Brandy!” exclaimed the Reverend.
“Don't worry, we still have plenty of Sambuca to get through your holiness”.
“Praise Jesus”.
Dr Jameson has made our grim situation plain to me the day before. It looked like he and the Reverend were performing a much needed service, by drinking all the alcohol rations they were shaving precious kilos off the gross weight of the shelf. Ironically getting ridiculously drunk may be the action that saves all of our kidneys.
It was at this point that I made a disturbing observation, the Reverend was wearing a dog collar, only a dog collar. That brought me back to my childhood.
“Why don't you take a seat, my dear boy” said Dr. Jamesons, gesturing towards the grimy kitchen worktop, “And would you please stop staring at the Reverend's font! You're making him feel exposed!”.
We sat in silence for about an hour playing Svoyi Koziri to pass the time. Jameson had insisted we played the the sixes and fives included in the deck, as always my protestations fell on deaf ears.
I lost myself for a while gazing out of the tiny port hole at the stars that glided blissfully. I wondered at the serene beauty of those seemingly tiny bastions of light and I began to ponder at the irony that..... crack, my pondering was interrupted by the very revised and extremely pointy copy of the Old Testament which appeared to have lodged itself in the back of my neck. I swore.
“But whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit never has forgiveness, but is guilty of an eternal sin. Mark 3:29” chanted the Reverend Buldock, his rage visibly growing.
It was at this point that Dr. Jameson masterfully defused the escalating situation by slapping the Reverend forcibly across the cheek and screamed at him that he was a “Filthy Pederast”. I am as much surprised to tell you as you are to hear it, dear reader, but this seemed to return the Reverend to his passive state.
The Reverend and I discussed religion for a short-while, I played the devils advocate against his fanatical hatred of all the major religions, his own included. The only belief system I detected even a mild appreciation of was Confucianism, although I was unable to ascertain why.
We continued playing cards until my companions decided to leave. They were adamant that somewhere on this ship there was a possessed girl in need of a good old fashioned exorcism, vomit and all.
The last thing I remember is searching the cabinets for something to eat. I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten, before the disaster at the Institute no doubt. Maybe it was that bucket of Southern Fried Chicken I got from the drinks (and chicken) machine on Operations Deck 4, I remembered having a discussion with Dr Hendy why using water to plump up a chicken breast is bad but water in fruit is seen as an inherent sign of quality. Oh Dr Hendy! Why do the good ones die so young?!
Disappointed with the lack of food and the overwhelming reek of child's urine in the Kitchenette I decided to leave myself on a foraging mission. If only I could of found one of those fancy replicators they have in Star Trek, then I could have tucked in to a delicious Tiramasu.
Cold, alone and acutely aware I may never taste an Italian dessert again I left the confines of the room and entered the corridor. A rather out of place grandfather clock chimed twelve noon.
Written by Dave Randall, Edited by Jay.
Saturday - AM
I woke in a cold sweat. Space was cold, very cold. The nightmare was brutal, those damn midgets just never stopped coming. Poor Dr. Hendy, may you find the peace in death you never could in life.
The inertia of the shuttles turning circle was making my stomach churn. I had no idea how Dr. Jameson maintained his professional demeanor, perhaps it was all those hours he had spent drinking Tequilas on the Bucking Broncho in the Whacky West Zone on Recreation Deck 7. It almost seemed like he'd done this sort of thing before...
I swung my legs out of bed and put on my Institute branded fluffy slippers. Yawning, I made my way to the Kitchenette where my friend the Doctor and the man who Jameson introduced to me as Reverend Buldock were already present, it was 4 AM.
“Christ, it looks like we're out of Brandy!” exclaimed the Reverend.
“Don't worry, we still have plenty of Sambuca to get through your holiness”.
“Praise Jesus”.
Dr Jameson has made our grim situation plain to me the day before. It looked like he and the Reverend were performing a much needed service, by drinking all the alcohol rations they were shaving precious kilos off the gross weight of the shelf. Ironically getting ridiculously drunk may be the action that saves all of our kidneys.
It was at this point that I made a disturbing observation, the Reverend was wearing a dog collar, only a dog collar. That brought me back to my childhood.
“Why don't you take a seat, my dear boy” said Dr. Jamesons, gesturing towards the grimy kitchen worktop, “And would you please stop staring at the Reverend's font! You're making him feel exposed!”.
We sat in silence for about an hour playing Svoyi Koziri to pass the time. Jameson had insisted we played the the sixes and fives included in the deck, as always my protestations fell on deaf ears.
I lost myself for a while gazing out of the tiny port hole at the stars that glided blissfully. I wondered at the serene beauty of those seemingly tiny bastions of light and I began to ponder at the irony that..... crack, my pondering was interrupted by the very revised and extremely pointy copy of the Old Testament which appeared to have lodged itself in the back of my neck. I swore.
“But whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit never has forgiveness, but is guilty of an eternal sin. Mark 3:29” chanted the Reverend Buldock, his rage visibly growing.
It was at this point that Dr. Jameson masterfully defused the escalating situation by slapping the Reverend forcibly across the cheek and screamed at him that he was a “Filthy Pederast”. I am as much surprised to tell you as you are to hear it, dear reader, but this seemed to return the Reverend to his passive state.
The Reverend and I discussed religion for a short-while, I played the devils advocate against his fanatical hatred of all the major religions, his own included. The only belief system I detected even a mild appreciation of was Confucianism, although I was unable to ascertain why.
We continued playing cards until my companions decided to leave. They were adamant that somewhere on this ship there was a possessed girl in need of a good old fashioned exorcism, vomit and all.
The last thing I remember is searching the cabinets for something to eat. I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten, before the disaster at the Institute no doubt. Maybe it was that bucket of Southern Fried Chicken I got from the drinks (and chicken) machine on Operations Deck 4, I remembered having a discussion with Dr Hendy why using water to plump up a chicken breast is bad but water in fruit is seen as an inherent sign of quality. Oh Dr Hendy! Why do the good ones die so young?!
Disappointed with the lack of food and the overwhelming reek of child's urine in the Kitchenette I decided to leave myself on a foraging mission. If only I could of found one of those fancy replicators they have in Star Trek, then I could have tucked in to a delicious Tiramasu.
Cold, alone and acutely aware I may never taste an Italian dessert again I left the confines of the room and entered the corridor. A rather out of place grandfather clock chimed twelve noon.
Written by Dave Randall, Edited by Jay.