X-ray Myers Poker Phenom

By Mark Lange

When family man Casey Myers undergoes chemo-radiation for a brain tumor, he gains the psychic ability to know when people are lying. But in order for his bizarre “Vision” to work, he must be in unbearable pain. Forgoing his Oxycontin, Casey uses his polygraphic perception to gain fame and fortune as a poker player. Unfortunately, he also uncovers the fact that everyone in his life is a liar—including friends, family, and the doctor who says he isn’t going to die. When a series of truth-based decisions lead to his moral collapse, Casey must overcome psychos, strippers, STDs, and suicide to save his loved ones and himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Lange
• Release date: May 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458022196

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X-ray Myers Poker Phenom

A story of rags to riches through radiation

by

Mark Lange

Copyright 2011 Mark Lange

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced by any method, in any form, or by any means without the express written permission of the author.

This book is fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are either used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual locations, events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Please purchase only authorized electronic editions. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Cover photo and art: David Shough

Chapter 1: FU-47

There’s a joke that goes like this: I wondered why the baseball was getting bigger. And then it hit me. Well, I was that joke.

Before my adventure began I was a fairly successful realtor living in a nice home in sunny Phoenix. I had a loving wife, two enthusiastic sons, a tail-wagging dog, and good friends. I was living the dream. Or so I thought.

My story started on a spring morning on a grade school baseball field. My boys, Jeremy and Jason, were playing their first little league game of the season. Their coach, Jake Hanson, a good friend of mine, had asked me to set up the electric pitching machine. It was basically just a motor attached to a large bucket of balls with a programmable interface, but I had no idea how it worked. After a few minutes of deliberation, I pushed some seemingly appropriate buttons and the machine fired three balls across the plate—thwump, thwump, thwump.

It appeared to be working, so I went to retrieve the balls from behind home plate. On my way there I could see my wife through the chain-link backstop talking with other parents in the bleachers. With her golden hair glistening and her oversized sunglasses reflecting the sun, Jessie was just as radiant as when we met in college twenty years ago. I waved. She waved. I took a moment to admire her beauty then busied myself with retrieving the baseballs inside the backstop.

It was when I bent down to pick up the last ball near home plate that I heard that peculiar thwump sound again. I jerked my head toward the pitching machine just in time to see the hard leather baseball slam into my forehead. Everything went black. When I came to, what seemed like seconds later, I was surrounded by a blurry mob of people, mostly third-grade boys judging from the comments:

It’s Jeremy’s dad.

Dude. He’s dead.

I bet he’s brain damaged.

Daddy, are you okay?

You’re supposed to use your mitt, Mr. Myers.

That’s gonna leave a mark.

Epic fail.

I heard that peculiar thwump again.

Ouch! said some third-grader—hopefully one of the smart alecks.

Whoa! It’s still on, called a man’s voice. The machine’s still on.

Shut it off! Pull the plug!

All right, everybody clear out, let us get in there.

Case, are you all right? my wife asked. Her sunglasses were off and the only thing I could see through the blurry glare was her penetrating green eyes.

Yeah, I’m fine, I said, though in truth I was dizzy, my vision was fuzzy, and my head was pounding.

You have a huge red welt on your forehead, she winced. Ugh, I can see the ball stitching in your skin.

I think I’m okay, I said and then puked oatmeal onto home plate.

I was immediately taken to the emergency room of St. Claire Hospital where they ordered a CT scan just to be safe. Two days later I received the good news and the bad news. The good news was I didn’t have a concussion. The bad news was I had a tumor the size of a golf ball inside my brain. After that, it was nothing but bad news and more bad news.

*****

The next week was a gauntlet of MRIs, CTs and PET scans that blurred into one non-stop, three-day procedure requiring my naked butt to flash out of a flimsy gown. First I fasted for twelve hours before a nurse wearing a lead vest injected radioactive glucose into my veins which sent a flush of warmth up my arm, caused a phantom feeling of urination, and filled my mouth with a bitter metallic taste. Then I sat perfectly still in complete darkness for an hour before I was laid on a table, on my back, knees elevated, arms strapped to my side, and held my breath as I was slowly drawn into a man-sized sewer pipe, like a mouse being swallowed head-first by a snake. Inside the pipe, my ears were blasted by painful buzzes, clicks, and whirs: Tacketa-tacketa-tacketa, wahhh-wahhhh-waaahhh, ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk, bllaaat-bllaaattt-blaaaat. Throughout the process, an itchy eye or ear would cry out for a scratch as mucus ran un-wiped out my nose and down my cheek. Afterwards the same nurse would inject me with some other substance and the whole process would start again.

In the end, the scans culminated in a fine-needle biopsy of the tumor. As it turned out, my self-employed insurance didn’t cover any of it, so I had already incurred $40,000 in medical bills just getting the diagnosis. Then came the treatment.

Once the results were in, Jessie and I met with Dr. Alfons Korzeniowski at the Arizona Radiation Oncology Center. Short with thinning hair, thick bottle-bottom glasses, and a sort of haphazard goatee, Dr. Korzeniowski looked too nerdy to be the renowned neurosurgeon and radiation oncologist that he was.

Mr. and Mrs. Myers, the doctor explained, focusing his attention on Jessie as if she were the patient. What you have is a glioblastoma multiforme. It’s a malignant tumor, fairly round, about an inch and half in diameter, located in the back of your head between the occipital and temporal lobes. I’m afraid it’s inoperable.

Oh God, gasped Jessie.

Can it be treated? I asked.

Well, Mr. Myers, we’ve seen this type of cancer a few times before here at the center. Nationally it presents about a hundred times a year. It’s a very aggressive cancer that grows and metastasizes rapidly. And there’s no easy way to say this: No one has had much success treating it.

Oh, God, exhaled Jess.

Oh, crap, I lamented.

Is there anything you can do, Dr. Korzeniowski? my wife asked.

Please, call me Dr. Korzi, he said, placing his hand on her exposed knee. Most of my patients do.

Okay, Jess agreed. Dr. Korzi.

There is some hope, because we caught the tumor before it spread.

Thank God, Jess sighed.

A month from now, there would be nothing we could do. He was still focusing most of his attention on Jessie. And as it stands now our standard treatments could only prolong his life a few months.

So is there any kind of new treatment that might work? I asked, hoping to redirect his attention toward me.

Yes, Dr. Korzi explained. There is an experimental brachytherapy that might cure you.

Brachytherapy, repeated Jessie, who had been doing her homework on the internet. That’s where they insert radioactive pellets next to the tumor?

Exactly, Mrs. Myers, confirmed Dr. Korzi. We would start by drilling a small hole, about a quarter of an inch in diameter, through Casey’s skull. Then we would cut a small but deep incision into his brain and into the tumor. We would then push a dozen radioactive B.B.s into the tumor one at a time. The B.B.s are a blend of fluorine and uranium-47.

Fluorine and uranium? I repeated, as if it meant something to me.

That’s right. FU-47, for short.

FU? I repeated, hearing the irony in my own tone.

FU, he confirmed. The FU-47 radionuclide combination can be precisely adjusted for its intensity and range. Basically, fry the tumor, provide controlled damage to the immediate surrounding tissue, and minimize damage to the rest of the brain. In addition, we would start a regimen of IMRT three days a week.

IMRT?

Intensity-modulated radiation therapy. Basically we shoot a precise 3D dose of radiation directly into the tumor. We would also add a weekly chemo-cocktail consisting of cisplatin, cetuximab and probably temsirolimus.

Sis-blat… sexi-mab? I tried to repeat.

Toxins, Mr. Myers. Very potent toxins.

The only thing I really understood was drilling into my head and FU. That seemed to sum it up pretty well.

And you have reason to think this will work? I asked.

Well, it’s just entering phase three testing, so we have very little empirical data, but it has shown some impressive results with pigs.

Pigs? Jessie and I said simultaneously.

Yes, pig cerebrums.

Well, have any humans had the treatment?

No. You’d be the first.

Oh.

I’m not going to lie to you, Mr. Myers. It’s not proven. It’s a more powerful radiation. It could have dramatic side effects, including cognitive impairment, paralysis and blindness. It could conceivably cause a different cancer later on. The operation itself could put you in a permanent coma. But all that said, I like your odds.

What are my odds, Dr. Korzi?

With treatment, I’d put your chance of surviving one year at about fifty percent.

Only fifty percent? I asked, And you like those odds?

Without treatment, said Korzi, I put your chances at zero.

Oh.

With your permission, said Korzi, I’d like to operate this Friday.

This Friday? I repeated.

Your odds of survival decrease every day we wait.

All right, I said. Friday it is.

There is one other issue, said Dr. Korzi, now addressing me.

What’s that?

Money.

I have insurance, I explained.

Yeah, said Dr. Korzi with a tone more serious than his morbid prognosis. Not very good insurance, as it turns out.

What do you mean?

We checked with your provider. The treatment isn’t covered.

Well, how much are we talking?

Well, because this is a protocol, the pharmaceutical company will cover most of the cost. However, you will still need to cover about $380,000.

Three hundred and eighty thousand dollars? Was he trying to induce a seizure?

Dr. Korzi, Jessie said, We don’t have that kind of money.

Jessie was right. At this point we were already broke. As a self-employed real estate agent, I had done fairly well for 15 years. But then the housing market collapsed, and I was basically working six days a week just to stay afloat. Jessie also had a part-time job as a sales rep for a local lifestyle magazine—along with her full-time job of raising our two young boys—but her company was failing as well, and she wasn’t seeing any commissions either. Lately, we had been surviving by depleting our meager savings.

It’s not my place to advise you financially, Mrs. Myers, said Dr. Korzi. But when it’s a matter of life and death like this, patients have been known to borrow from anywhere they can: family, friends, banks. Worst case scenario, they just don’t pay it back.

You mean because they die? I asked.

No, he explained. Because they file for bankruptcy.

Oh, I was relieved.

Or they die.

Geez, I looked to Jessie. Either way, we’re screwed.

Of course, you could save the money, Mr. Myers, and forego treatment altogether. But you’ll be dead within three to five months.

We’re gonna do it, Jessie told the doctor.

After talking it over, Jessie and I decided not to borrow from friends and family. First, because they didn’t really have that kind of money to spare. But mostly because we didn’t want to stiff them for the money in the event things didn’t work out.

The next day I cashed out my measly IRA and took out a second mortgage to help finance the treatment, applied for two new credit cards, and planned to max out all our credit cards for cash as soon as I received the new ones. I would still be $150,000 short.

Two days later, I was wheeled into surgery.

*****

Sometime after the surgery, I woke up to a pixilated vision of Jessie, like her identity was being concealed on a TV news show.

Hey, my fuzzy wife said. How are you feeling?

I vaguely recalled going in for surgery. And being in a hospital. But I didn’t know where I was, what had happened, or what time it was. I’m pretty sure the words came out Wherma? Whabba? Whabba?

You’re in the hospital, Jessie said. Your surgery went well. How do you feel?

I feel fine, is what I tried to say, but it came out Ibe feeble fah. And the truth was, I wasn’t feeling anything.

Dr. Korzi says there’s nothing to worry about, she said. You’re gonna be fine. She was still blurry, but now there was a strange blue glow all around her as well. I tried to blink it off, but I couldn’t. I wanted to tell her she had a blue glow around her, but it came out: You ah bwue.

Honey, my wife said, you’re slurring your words. Just relax.

You ah bue, I pointed directly at her, pulling on the IV in my arm.

Go back to sleep, she said. And I did.

My next memory started with a dream about my wife, my mother and Barney the Dinosaur. Freud would have a field day. They were singing, I love you. You love me and tossing a giant beach ball with a bunch of kids. Like I said, it was a dream. But then it turned into a nightmare.

Just pull the plug, said my mother’s voice. I can’t take it any longer.

I’m just not sure we should, said Jessie’s voice.

Well, we can’t just let it keep going like this, said my mother. Please, put an end to it.

The music went dead and I felt the urgent need to wake up—but I couldn’t. It was one of those dreams where you know you’re dreaming, and you want to wake up, but you can’t. I wanted to yell: DON’T PULL THE PLUG! JESS, DON’T PULL THE PLUG! But I was trapped inside my head. My heartbeat was racing. I could feel a cold sweat. My eyes were darting behind my eyelids, but I couldn’t make them open.

He’s making noise, I could hear my wife outside my head.

Call the nurse, said my mother.

Don’t! I finally blurted out loud, breaking free of my dream state. Don’t pull the plug! I jerked my head up from the pillow to see blurry visions of Jessie and my mom.

Casey! said Jessie. You’re awake!

Don’t pull the plug, I said. I’m alive.

What? asked my wife. What are you talking about?

Oh for God’s sake, Case, said my mom. We were talking about the TV, not your life support.

Oh my God, gasped my wife. You thought?

You’re not even on life support, my mom added.

We just couldn’t take any more Barney on the TV, Jessie explained. There’s no remote, and we couldn’t reach the buttons, so we pulled the cord out of the wall.

Oh, I said in relief.

So, how are you feeling? Jessie put her hand to my forehead.

Dizzy. Sick to my stomach. And my head hurts.

You’ve been out for two days, Jessie said.

Two days? I asked. Is that normal?

Yes, Case, that’s normal, said my mom. And suddenly a blue glow formed all around her, but mostly on her forehead. I blinked. I rubbed my eyes. The blueness got lighter and disappeared.

No, Case, my wife said. It’s not normal, but it’s an experimental procedure, there is no normal. They said it was possible... That there was a chance… that…

What?

There was a chance you would go into a coma. A chance you wouldn’t come out of this surgery at all. You knew that.

Yeah, I knew that.

But you made it, Case. The pellets are in place. We just have to let the radiation do its work.

I wanted to ask, What day is it? What time is it? How are the boys? Where are the boys? But I just lay there.

Well, you probably need some medication. But trust me, Case, you’re gonna be fine. With her last few words, a blue aura appeared around her head and down her chest area. It then disappeared. And, Case, I love you. The boys love you. Everybody is praying for you.

I love you too, Jess.

I’m going to get Dr. Korzi, she said. Is there anything I should tell him?

Yeah, tell him there’s something wrong with my vision. I keep seeing a blue glow around everyone.

You mean everything has a blue glow around it?

No, just you and my mom. And it comes and goes.

Well, I’m sure it’s nothing, but I’ll see if I can get the doctor. I’ll be right back.

Casey, Honey, my mom started as soon as Jessie left. You know your father and I love you very much.

I love you guys, too.

You were always our favorite, she said, and now the blue glow was around her again. I knew it was a vision problem, probably caused by the radiation in my brain. But it seemed like whenever anyone was trying to console me, they turned blue, and it only happened on people, not objects.

Well, I know that’s not true, I said. Stacy was your favorite. Followed by Tracy. Then me.

You know that’s not true, she repeated, still glowing blue.

Mom, you favored Mr. Puddles over all of us.

Well, now you’re just being silly, she said, glowing bluer than ever. Listen, if there’s anything your dad and I can do while you’re going through this treatment, just say the word. We’re sending our healing vibrations out to the universe… She was beginning what would have been a long diatribe on New Age religion when Jessie returned with Dr. Korzi.

Well, how is my favorite patient, Dr. Korzi asked, checking his radiation badge before he sat down.

I’m doing okay, I guess, I said. I have a headache… I’m dizzy. I feel like I could throw up. Also my vision is blurry, and every once in awhile my wife or my mother appear blue.

Let’s have a look at your eyes, he said. Is anyone blue now?

I looked all around the room, at my mom, Jessie and Korzi. They were all normal skin tone. No.

Well, the radiation does penetrate the occipital lobe. This is the part of your brain that processes your vision, so this is not surprising. It’s probably just a temporary side effect. I wouldn’t worry about it.

Now, Dr. Korzi.

What?

"Just now; you turned blue."

Interesting. He said and checked his radiation badge again. I’m not sure what it is, Casey, but in any event don’t worry about it. I’m gonna turn up your meds, and you’re gonna go back to sleep for awhile.

Jessie and my mother left with the doctor as a nurse came in.

All right, Mr. Myers, the nurse said. Let’s crank up your morphine a little shall we?

Thank you, I said.

I must say, Mr. Myers, from what I hear, your operation was a big success. I think you’re gonna beat this thing. Suddenly she turned blue, just like the others.

Right before I drifted into my drug-induced dream-state, a troublesome thought occurred to me. Maybe these people weren’t turning blue when they were consoling me. Maybe they were turning blue when they lied.

Chapter 2: I See Blue People

So Case, Jessie said while driving me home from the hospital. You don’t have to talk but there are some things I should probably mention.

Okay, I said, as we drove through downtown Phoenix. Judging by the number of business people walking the streets, I guessed it was lunchtime on a workday, but I was just too numb to ask what day it was. My vision seemed very clear and focused, but oddly a handful of the pedestrians were sporting the blue glow—not many of them, maybe one out of twenty. Usually, the blue people (Smurfs, as I had started to call them to myself) were in a conversation, but not always. Whatever this phenomenon was, it wasn’t a vision problem. My eyes wouldn’t discriminate between people and objects; nor would they distinguish one person from another. Plus the blue wasn’t all around the Smurfs, it was usually just the head and chest area, and concentrated on their exposed skin. It seemed as if these were blue auras I was reading, like I had some kind of psychic power.

You’ve been in and out the hospital for two weeks now, Jess explained. I haven’t received all the bills yet, but I know they’re already more than we borrowed, and there’s still twelve more weeks of chemo-radiation. Also, you can’t go back to work for at least a few months, because you’re going to need plenty of rest if you’re going to beat this thing. And you are going to beat this thing.

I heard everything she said, and I understood what she was saying, but I wasn’t really listening.

"My parents have volunteered to help out. So have Jake and Kathy. Blah, blah, blah…" Okay, now I wasn’t even hearing her words. Now I had to put my theory to the test.

Jess, I said. I want to ask you a question, and I want you to answer with a lie.

What?

I know it sounds weird, but just do it, please, I explained. "I’ll ask you an obvious question, and I want you to answer it un-truthfully."

Do I have to? she asked.

What’s your name?

You know my name.

I know I know your name. Answer me with a lie.

Case, I’m really starting to worry about you.

Just do it.

Fine, she sighed. Karen Carpenter. My name is Karen Carpenter.

Karen Carpenter?

"You know I love The Carpenters."

Yeah, but… She was treating it like a joke, and hadn’t turned blue. So you’re telling me your name is Karen Carpenter?

Yes, she confirmed, still no blue.

Say ‘my name is Karen Carpenter,’ and say it like you mean it, I said.

My name is Karen Carpenter.

And there it was—blue. I was right!

Okay, that was a lie.

Really? You think? What are you trying to do, Case?

I think I can tell when people lie.

But, you just told me to lie.

I know. Now do it again. Tell me another lie.

Do I have to?

Just tell me something about yourself that isn’t true. And try to make me believe it.

I’m secretly in love with our pest exterminator, she turned blue.

Lie, I said.

Sometimes I pee in the shower. Blue again.

Lie.

I once shoplifted an ice cream sandwich in my underwear, and it melted before I got out of the store. Again, she was blue.

Nice detail, I noted. But that’s a lie, too.

No kidding, she retorted, losing her patience with me. Can we stop this now?

Just a few more. Just say a few more lies.

Okay, I’m really enjoying this little game. She turned blue.

I wish we could do this all day. She turned blue.

I think there’s something wrong with you. The blue went away.

It was time to stop. I had my answer. People turned blue when they lied. I was a human lie detector. A wave of exhilaration washed over me that was stronger than the pain, the painkillers, and my depression combined. This was exciting. I had a superpower, like x-ray vision or mind reading. I didn’t know exactly how I could use it, but I couldn’t wait to try it out.

*****

Intoxicated with pain pills, I slept all day Sunday. Then Monday I started my treatment schedule. On Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday mornings I would receive ninety minutes of radiation. On Thursday mornings I would receive a chemo infusion, then Dr. Korzi and his nurse would review my progress and test the radiation levels of the FU-47 inside my head. Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays were recovery days.

First thing Monday I took my morning dosage of eight prescription pills. I would take the same dosage again after dinner. The pills all had big names like fluovoxamine, fexofenadine, and fluconazole which all blurred into one big fluo-fexo-fluco-zole so I never used their real names. Instead I called them by their look and what they did. (1) The blue round pill was a non-nauseator. (2) The white round pill was a mucusitis-minimizer. (3) The gold gelcap was a saliva-stimulator. (4) The green oblong was a bacteria-buster. (5) The purple triangle was a de-constipator. (6) The red-and-white split pill was an anti-allergistic. (7) The two-tone pink capsule was a mild attitude adjuster. (8) The orange bowtie was a spasm-suppressor. The ninth pill was a pain-pacifier—the Oxycontin—which I took on more of as-needed basis. It was a big round white tablet. I took two 60-milligram Oxys and they quickly dissipated most of the morning pain, allowing me to drive myself to the clinic.

As instructed, I arrived an hour early to the clinic, and waited in lobby along with a handful of other patients. I sat in a padded seat next to an end table with old magazines, and under a wall-mounted TV that was playing some lame cooking show. Checking out the other patients, I didn’t see any blue auras, no blue-ification at all. At first, I thought that no one was lying, but after awhile it occurred to me that I had lost my psychic power, and my disappointment bordered on depression.

Casey Myers, an attractive young brunette in pink scrubs called my name and I approached the mysterious swinging doors.

And how are you this morning, Mr. Myers? she smiled sweetly.

Very good, I lied. And you?

Very good, thank you. She looked at her clipboard as she escorted me past the swinging doors and into one of the IMRT studios where an attractive young blonde in pink scrubs was waiting. She also smiled sweetly.

Well, good morning, Mr. Myers, said Beautiful Blonde. Looks like you’re gonna be our guest for twelve weeks.

You’ll want to remove everything except your pants and t-shirt and place them in this tub, said Beautiful Brunette.

As instructed, I snapped my smartphone holster off my belt; removed my belt, watch, wedding ring, and shoes; and pulled my keys, coins, and wallet out of my pockets. I placed them all in the plastic tub.

Then if we could just have you climb up on this table, said Blonde, we’ll lock you down.

I climbed onto the plexiglass table and lay flat on my back. Brunette and Blonde worked together in a perfectly choreographed process to lock my head inside a form-fitting mold and screw the mold down tightly onto the tabletop. The mold was a mesh of plastic strings, like a very small weave of chicken wire, that had been cast from my own head, so it fit snuggly and allowed no room for any movement. Blonde fixed a pillow of some kind under my knees. Brunette strapped my arms in place at my side. The table then automatically slid under a big futuristic laser-gun device. The Beautifuls left the studio, and for the next ninety minutes, the radiation gun made one painfully slow rotation around my brain. It stopped nine times at ten-minute intervals—like