®ealising a BⒶiliwi©k

Zenith & Nadir

Part 1: Seethe

The Doctor solemnly held up a baked bean.

“This…was just inside your head”, he announced, with a voice of tired disinterest. Nadir did not mind – it was barely nine o’clock in the morning anyhow, so the GP’s indifference was understandable.

“It looks…so small. I can’t believe that was the lump…”

“Yes, yes, people always say it looks a lot smaller. Of course, with the epidermis around it, and a certain amount of retained fluid, not to mention the pressure it is putting on the nerves, it’s bound to feel larger. In fact, it reminds me of a story my friend told me about his time as a Medic in the Falklands…”

Nadir began to tune out. His head felt odd – the surgery, and the injection which preceded it, having an effect, he supposed. He glanced around the surgery. It was remarkable how much was branded with the logos of pharmaceutical brands connected to mental health; a Seroxat clock, a Lexapro book, even the cup – which the Doctor used to give Nadir some coffee to help recover immediately after stitching the wound – had Cymbalta emblazoned across it. Nadir Vohra grunted. Mental Illness was clearly a most lucrative industry.

The Doctor paused, misreading the grunt for input. “Indeed, you’re right to be cynical. The Brits wanted rid of them, and that nasty thuggish lot in Buenos Aires only invaded to distract their own people. Funny really; the Argies only wanted a war in order to stay in power, and Thatcher was desperately trying to avoid war for the same reason… Strange how things turn out, isn’t it?”

Nadir stood up and held his hand out. “It is, Doctor. You are so right. Thank you. Let me know if anything shows up when you test the baked bea – I mean, cyst.”

After the Doctor shook his hand, Nadir departed, lost in thought. Cancer would be just his luck. Bet Edward never had a day of illness in his perfect little life, he thought, bitterly. Except maybe for a time when he almost choked on the silver spoon in his gob. Or burnt his tongue on the gravy train. He smiled, momentarily delighting in the fantasy of his nemesis’ fictional misfortune.

The sight at the bus top wiped the smile off of his face.

His face was a cartoon of consternation. The woman reading the tabloid was oblivious to his barely-contained fury, but in any case his glaring ire was reserved for the words triumphantly bounding forth from the top of the front-page:

ZEN MASTER
E.Z. DOES IT!

Nadir’s hands balled into fists, his jaw clenched and his entire body tensed up…

“Are you feelin’ alright, dearie? You look a bit peaky. Here, I’ve got an orange if you want-”

“I’M FINE!… I mean, thank you kindly madam, I just…had a bit of a head-rush, that’s all. Thank you most humbly for your concern.”

The old lady, taken aback by his initial outburst, patted him on the arm and gave him a warm smile as she moved on. “Don’t you fret my dear. These things are God’s little reminder to look after ourselves…”

Nadir Vohra returned to giving the newspaper his most withering, enraged stare. Nonetheless, the words remained the same. As did the smiling visage of Sir Edward Zenith, ingenious detective, bronzed Thai Adonis, public hero and winner of I’m A Celebrity Copper, Get Me Out of The Nick. Oh, how Nadir hated him. He must pay a price for his privilege. He must be made to feel the suffering of the people. Of people such as I!

He sniggered manically. The woman with the rag-top uneasily shifted a little further away on the seat, but Nadir barely noticed. He was lost in his own fantasy of retribution once more.

I will have my vengeance!

Solidarity, brothers & sisters…

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About Seba Roux

Gooner, Socialist, Historian, Slacker. That's pretty much all you need to know.
This entry was posted in Politics, Short Stories and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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