DP Tool Club 19/CD_ASCQ_19_010295.iso/vrac/rubyv39.zip/RUBY39-6

Text File | 1994-11-24 | 7KB | 125 lines

Copyright 1994(c)

                        THE SECOND COMING
                          By B.J. Higgs

     Stella's new medication made her feel better right away.
Suddenly, she had more energy than ever before. It showed in her
accomplishments, in her diet, (she lost seven pounds the first
week), and even in her attitude. And the best thing about it was
that it was an all natural herbal mix.
     Her friends and co-workers noticed, and wanted to know what
new beauty secret she'd discovered, so Stella told them about Dr.
Smiley and his test drug.
     "Neurologic Intensive Stimulant," said Stella. "They call it
NIS," she said, pronouncing the drug's name as 'nice.' It's
experimental, but it seems to do the trick."
     "Is he on the company insurance?" asked Bertie Macland.
     "No, I found him when I went to Kinko's to pick up copies of
the prospectus last week. He has an office upstairs and he's just
starting out. He already applied to be on our insurance, he said,
so he only charged me the $10 contribution. I think he's trying to
build up his practice.
     "And the prescription?" Bertie asked.
     "It's $3.00 for a six-month dosage with your insurance card,"
Stella said. "I bet he'd only charge you $10 for an office visit,
too, but you can give him a call and check," Stella said, handing
Bertie the doctor's card so she could copy down the number.
     Soon, most of the clerical staff of Bascomb Industries was
losing weight, bicycling to work and volunteering for evening and
weekend assignments. Production was up 25 percent in the second
quarter, and senior company officials began to notice. And then to
comment. And then to call Dr. Smiley for their own prescriptions.
     "It's almost like Brave New World, isn't it?" a slimmer, more
radiant Bertie Macland commented to Stella at the company's July
4th picnic, and Mr. Bascomb, himself, thanked her for her
contribution to the company's improved production.
     "Your Dr. Smiley has guaranteed everybody a good Christmas
bonus, if this keeps up," he said, and Stella nodded and smiled.
     "My family doctor, Bert Fischer, got tired of me beating him
at golf that he looked up Smiley's credentials and tried to tell
me the guy doesn't exist." Bascomb guffawed and nudged her in the
ribs. "What do we care about his credentials, huh? Besides, he's
only dispensing natural herbs. Bert's just jealous because he
didn't think of it."
     Bascomb winked at her, as though they'd both known this, all
along, but it was the first she had heard. "As far as we're
concerned," Mr. Bascomb added, "Dr. Smiley could be Santa Claus."
     Stella was not so sure. Lately she'd begun to experience
subtle mood swings. She'd never taken cocaine, but from what she'd
heard and read, her moods seemed to emulate the intense highs and
the brief, but increasingly frequent, bottom-lows of cocaine
addiction. Of course, it was probably just her metabolism. She
decided to make another appointment with Dr. Smiley, perhaps adjust
the dosage.
     "That number has been disconnected, and no forwarding number
is available," said the recording. She dialed the number again,
more carefully; listened to the same recording.
     She called information but they had no new listing for Dr.
Smiley. She called the AMA.
     "Dr. Herbert Smiley?" asked the voice. "We have no such doctor
in our roster, ma'am."
     "Of course you do," Stella insisted obstinantly. "He was
located on Beach Boulevard just last month. He must have moved, or
something."
     "I'm sorry...," said the voice.
     Stella wondered what would happen when she ran completely out
of the prescription, and felt a chill of apprehension.
                               ***
     Almost simultaneously, in another clime, a strikingly
beautiful woman manually adjusted the central air conditioning to
a precisely chilled temperature as she dropped into the crushed
velvet of a recliner, breathing an audible, "Ahhhh."
     She pulled the lever to lift the footrest as she used her toes
to slip out of red-satin heels, noting the dark, unsightly scuff
mark on the heel of the left one. Something would have to be done
about that. These were the shoes she customarily wore with the
little nothing black cocktail dress. The outfit was too chic, right
down to the exact match of red lipstick and nail polish, and far
too well-suited to her for her to change anything about it.
     She knew herself to be a stunning looker who could have worn
a potato sack with elan. Her dark, finely-arched brows over the
wide, gray eyes with sooty lashes; the perfect, seashell ears and
tip-tilted nose in her heart-shaped face comprised the kind of
cosmetic perfection that caused suspicion that she was on a first-
name basis with an excellent plastic surgeon. She wasn't, of
course, although there were a number of them among her
acquaintance.
     These business trips was exhausting. It would be weeks before
she would recover totally and feel like herself again, and by then,
it would be time for another trip; another Dr. Smiley encounter.
     Her housekeeper appeared on silent feet, inquiring whether
Madam would care for refreshments. She nodded, and sipped the
Manhattan Iced Tea that magically appeared, along with a bowl of
fruit, dismissing the servant with a wave of a hand. She reached
for the remote control, and turned on the television, selecting an
apple from the bowl at her fingertips. Its tartness freshened her
palate, and, she thought, complemented her favorite cocktail.
     Her business, like any other, was a slave to spreadsheets and
the bottom line. A group presentation was always more rewarding
than individual negotiations, but it was also the most difficult
aspect of these business trips.
     She hated the glass ceiling and American business's resistance
to the successful female entrepreneur. It was primarily responsible
for the necessity of the Dr. Smiley 'front man', and a necessity
she continually resented, but she had yet to come up with anything
that might conceivably produce the successful membership growth
which customarily resulted from Dr. Smiley's practice.
     She scooched back against the velvet upholstery and turned up
the volume when she recognized the face on her television screen
as that of one of her favorite talk show hosts, Geraldo.
     She smiled in contentment as she watched him eulogize the
former Vice-President of the United States, who'd been
contemplating running for top office before his untimely death from
a heart attack the preceding day. She allowed her mind to wander
...
     First, she had to do something about that nasty stain.
     She silently thought: "Harpie!", and the harpie reappeared as
silently as before. Eve indicated the stained shoe.
     "What is this mess you've stepped in, now?" asked the harpie,
with the natural familiarity of one who has been with her mistress
since the dark ages.
     "Dan Quayle," said the sometime Dr. Smiley, sexy mistress of
hell.
                               END