burroughs doctor Birdway TO TALK FOR JOE THE DEAD Doctor Fisher read the article carefully, his face formed into an appraising mask. "Double slaying...32 revolver...since the woman's purse and the man's wallet were missing...robbery...a witness reprted seeing a 'very tall figure fleeing from the scene.'" The witness, Uriah Grunt, who is confined to a wheelchair, explained that he amuses himself by surveying the city with his telescope. "I can read a paper over someone's shoulders at twenty blocks," he boasted. "I'm right snoopy," he added smugly. "Nothing else to do 'cept observe what other folks is doing. Don't mind saying i've seen some strange things." (TO BE CONTINUED...) 010127 ... Dr Birdway When pressed for a description: "Ah, yes," he said, "the fleeing felon, alleged felon at least, or do you call them perps? Well, this presumed perp was very tall. Had his coat collar turned up. Couldn't see the face, but i did catch a flash of his hands: white, slender, agile, Young. He wasn't wearing an overcoat, just a windbreaker. Likes cold weather, I guess." Uriah Grunt is a real scene-stealer, the doctor surmised. Well of course...other tall youths around...even in the coldest weather his patient never wore an overcoat. Hmmm. Should he call the police without more ado? The therpist's oath? And suppose there was no proof? Then he would be in the middle. He opened a drawer and took out his H&K P-7 9mm squeeze-cock, cycled the action and eased a round into the chamber. He strapped it to his right hip under his coat. Unprofessionally, he hated his patient, young Guy Worth -- a typical sociopath. The world owed him everything. A natural born fuck-up. FU's the doctor called them. He hated FU's, and he knew he was wasting his time with them. Once a FU, always a pain in the ass. In fact he was disenchanted with the whole profession of psychiatry. He had about decided to quit and get a job as a ship's doctor, or maybe a nice practice with the American colony in Tangier, Athens, Beirut, Lima...general medicine with a bit of laying on of hands. It could be a nice thing. The doctor was young, slender, handsome, and gay as a carnival. Fuck working with referral cases, or fuck going to New York and building up a Madison Avenue ad exec and publisher practice. One day he would say, "You know something Mr. Granfield? There's nothing wrong with you but self-indulgence and an inflated ego. You think your fucking ME is the most important thing in the universe. Well, believe me who knows; it's boring beyond belief. Besides which you are basically stupid and ill-intentioned. Besides which i hate your stinking guts." This, Doctor Fisher deciced, looking at his watch, would be his last psychiatric interview -- with a murderer, there was no real doubt in his mind, and a murderer who had come to kill Him. It was all there in his notes and on the hidden tape recorder. All right, let it come down. The bell rang. He looked out. There was the insufferable twerp, his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, a crooked smile on his face. The gun wasn't in the windbreaker pocket -- probably in his waistband. "Hello, Guy, come in, I've been expecting you." The youth stepped in. He looked insolently at the doctor, who looked back, stone-hard. "This way." He opened the door to his consuting room. (His receptionist had quit a week ago: "Well, Doctor. Frankly your practice is a joke. And jokes don't last") The youth walked in and pivoted. He was chewing gum. "Sit down, Guy." The boy sat down and spread his legs. "And how is your good health?" The boy looked startled. The doctor had never said anything like this before. The doctor leaned forward with a lewd leer. "Had any good dreams lately?" "Well yes, as a matter of fact, I have. I've been dreaming about you, Doctor Fisher." "How exciting. And what did you dream?" "This." He dropped his hand on the gun butt. Give him time to get his prins on it, the doctor thought. The boy whipped the gun out. A rain of bullets threw him back in his chair, blood spurting from his mouth. A look of utter disbelief on his face, he slumped from the chair, dead. The doctor reached for the phone... The bullets matched. The doctor was even a local hero, but not to the clinic administrators. An Old West shoot-out, in his consulting room...killed a patient...unthinkable. They were more than prepared to accept his immediate resignation. Doctor Fisher felt good. 010127 ... interzone birdmad A half-hour later, Lee pulled down his sleeve and looked out into the garden from his room at the back of the house. He had just injected a half-grain into his upper arm. The pain in his stomach was disappearing in throbs of warm comfort. He opened a drawer and took out a little black book. My Grimoire. My book of shadows. A few calls to make, a few scores to settle...Nobody ever did him a favor or an injury without being fully repaid. That was Sulla's epitaph. It would do for Lee Ice as well. 010128 ... birdmad "Don't expect me to be here when this shitbox goes up!" (The seven souls) The road to the western lands 010215 what's it to you? who go blather from