Doctors and Monsters

By Morgan Hobbs

While chief surgeon Derek Benway entertains the hospital’s wealthiest donors at a lavish wine and cheese party, a tactic proven to loosen the purse strings, his beautiful blond drug-rep wife Susan makes the rounds of the surgical suites and break rooms doling out product samples. At the party, the suave and sophisticated Dr. Benway circulates the room with a platter of hors d’oeuvres, topping off glasses and trumpeting the virtues of Beverly Hospital. He has them literally eating of his hand until ultra-rich philanthropist Wendi asks him about the status of the Goliath project, a venture backed by Chinese money to build the world’s most powerful MRI. The truth is that the costly MRI is nowhere to be found. At the same time the Goliath MRI goes missing, an inter-dimensional wormhole opens up in the trash room and begins transforming the hospital and its staff in unexpected ways. When a reanimated training cadaver with soap star looks begins courting the neglected, baby-crazy Susan and promoting a holistic vision of health care, Dr. Benway plots to return his rival to the wormhole from which he came.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgan Hobbs
• Release date: Jan 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005348762

Morgan Hobbs

Morgan Hobbs was born in Tidewater, Virginia and graduated from the University of Wisconsin – Madison with a degree in English and History. He has worked as a day laborer in Austin, Texas, a commercial fisherman in Kodiak, Alaska, and a reader and story editor for several motion picture production companies in Los Angeles, California. He currently lives in Tokyo, Las Vegas and Washington, D.C. His writing has appeared in PIF, Hollywood Dementia, Mississippi Review, McSweeney's, Jokes Review, Pindeldyboz and Juked.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

As the morning sun glinted off the hospital’s sensually curving glass and steel façade, a sickly looking boy with an enormous 70s-style Afro wig sat slumped in a wheelchair near the entrance in the shade of a potted succulent. A black Ferrari F12 Berlinetta convertible with the top down (and DR FLGD on the plates) tore into the drive-up and jumped the curb before coming to an abrupt stop. A handsome doctor with dark, slicked back hair burst from the car and ran through the automatic doors into the hospital, leaving the engine running. Perking up at the sight of the Ferrari, the sickly boy wheeled over and poked his head through the open window to have a look, whereupon the dashing doctor reappeared, shouting, Don’t touch! before disappearing back inside just as a lanky young man with long, stringy hair emerged from the doors and squinted against the sun. He had a guitar on his back, and his arms were covered in tattoos. Noticing the idling Ferrari, he calmly walked over, dropped the guitar in the passenger seat, slid behind the wheel and pulled away, leaving the boy in the wheelchair with his head protruding into thin air. The boy had barely finished slumping back into his chair when the dashing doctor returned.

What did you do with my car? he demanded. That’s a $300,000 Ferrari F12 Berlinetta.

I didn’t touch it. That junky took it, said the boy, pointing after the Ferrari as it turned off the hospital drive and vanished onto Beverly Boulevard.

The handsome doctor took out his phone and began tapping.

You calling the police? asked the boy.

The doctor rolled his eyes. Insurance, he said, then quickly turned away. "Hello, this is Dick Grayson. Dr. Dick Grayson."

Holding the phone to his ear, he walked back into the hospital. The boy looked up as a stoutly built nurse appeared and promptly wheeled him inside. As the doors slid closed behind the wheelchair, a pickup truck towing a small horse trailer pulled alongside the curb. The driver, a rugged looking man with a pompadour and long sideburns, plaid shirt open to the middle of his chest, got out and walked behind the trailer. A moment later, the truck and trailer pulled away, leaving behind a placid looking burro hitched to the post of a no-standing sign. A taxi cab pulled up on the heels of the horse trailer. A man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a wide brimmed Panama hat stepped out of the cab clutching a 24 ounce coffee in a Styrofoam cup with no lid. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth and he had a worn gym bag slung over his shoulder. Built like an ex-football player, he wore glasses and had a neatly trimmed mustache in the style favored by traffic cops. Turning around and finding himself face-to-face with the burro, he spat out a spray of coffee and clutched his chest, then proceeded to stagger toward the sliding doors. As the driver leaned out the window and yelled for his money, the man in the Hawaiian shirt reluctantly stopped and tossed a wad of bills inside the cab. He took a few more steps toward the doors, then stopped and removed his Panama hat, revealing a bald pate glistening with sweat, and set the hat on the head of the burro. He took another step, stopped, then took out his cigarette and put it in the burro’s mouth. After passing through the sliding doors, he stripped off his Hawaiian shirt mid-stride and hung it on the branch of a potted eucalyptus tree.

Morning, Dr. Anderson, said the weathered security guard, tipping his hat.

Dr. Anderson nodded, removing a wrinkled white button-down from his gym bag and working his way into it while continuing toward the elevators. Waiting there, he pulled out an electric shaver and turned it on, then offered the vibrating device to an elderly woman standing next to him. The woman, who had a bit of down on her upper lip, frowned dramatically. Dr. Anderson shrugged then proceeded to work away at the slender dark shadow that had developed around the corners of his mouth.

CHAPTER 2

Tall and handsome with a touch of distinguished gray at the temples, Dr. Benway set the bottle of pinot grigio on the bed of the CT scan. Always neat and nattily attired, the hospital’s chief surgeon looked particularly dapper on this occasion, in his white doctor’s coat with the blue silk knit Brooks Brothers tie and the bespoke black leather Monk-strap shoes, and if one looked closely enough, they might notice the silver skull cuff links peeking out every now and then from the sleeves of the white jacket, but nobody did. A group of around a dozen ladies holding hors d’oeuvre plates and glasses of wine stood in rapt attention as Dr. Benway, flanked by the twin doughnuts of the MRI and the CT scanners, paused to take a sip of wine before continuing with his talk. A sartorial mix of new money and old, the ladies mostly ranged from elderly to late middle aged, with the exception of Flavia, a beautiful raven haired daughter of a Brazilian plantation fortune in her early 40s, and the modish Wendi, a stunningly beautiful, and wealthy, émigré from Beijing, smooth and sleek in her late 40s. She was recently married to the billionaire hedge fund manager John Nance. The septuagenarian Nance had relocated the seat of his financial empire from London to the modest skyline of downtown Los Angeles to support his younger wife’s ambitions within the social whirl of Hollywood.

A young female server dressed in the French style, black shift and white apron with her hair in a ponytail, circulated among them with a silver platter of hors d’oeuvres, including pork-and-kimchi dumplings and bacon-wrapped rice cakes with jalapeno ponzu.

Dr. Benway gave the large doughnut shaped scanner of the CT machine a friendly pat.

Because of your generous donations, General now boasts two new top of the line Siemens scanners, the MAGNETOM Aera 1.5T MRI and the SOMATOM Sensation 64 CT, said Dr. Benway. "…in the same room."

They look exactly the same to me, said Mrs. David, with her immovable hive of aquamarine hair. What’s the difference?

Under the covers they are quite different, forgive the expression, said Dr. Benway with a wink that elicited titters from the ladies. Let’s start with the CT. Imagine the human body is a loaf of bread, and this marvelous machine here is a very precise and very expensive bread slicer. The patient is fed into the doughnut (usually of course it’s the other way around) and what comes out are these cross-sectional slices of the body. Pictures of course, we’re not actually carving up the patient, not yet anyway. He gave a wry little smile, eliciting more titters. By adding these slices together we can see 3-dimensional images of the patient’s organs, without ever taking out a knife. White canines glinting behind the easy smile, he turned his attention to the MRI machine. This jewel over here, the Aera 1.5T, introduces a redesigned total imaging matrix platform known as TIM 4G, which refers to the exceptional SNR enabled by the innovative cable-less coil technology. Combining TIM 4G with daytime optimization throughput allows us to customize scans for each patient, reducing scan times by up to 50%. MRI scans use powerful magnetic fields and radio frequency pulses to produce detailed pictures of organs, bone and other internal structures.

Noticing that Flavia’s glass was empty, Dr. Benway picked up the bottle of pinot from the bed of the MRI and topped her off. Her warm brown eyes went from his gray eyes to the wine rising in the glass and back to his eyes.

So to get back to Mrs. David’s question, which one to choose? Choices, choices. He paused to hand the empty bottle of pinot to the server. "The answer could be one, or both, depending on the patient’s condition. Bleeding on the brain and broken bones show up better on the CT, while you can’t beat the MRI for ligament and tendon damage. I’d swear by an MRI every time to get a good look at a torn ACL. Now, sometimes a patient has all of these problems and more. Take a certain infamous linebacker—can’t mention his name—who came in last night. Concussion. Bleeding on the brain. Fractured tibia. Torn ACL. He looked like he’d been in a train wreck, and that was just the first half. So it was in one doughnut and out the other. No waiting, no scheduling headaches. Within a short amount of time we had all the diagnostic data we needed to begin treatment. With the improvements in non-invasive surgical techniques, pain management strategies (cough Toradol) and accelerated rehab therapies (cough HGH), believe it or not that player will be back out on the field the next weekend. Dr. Benway waited for the applause to die down before continuing. Another advantage is that the two machines share the same costly HVAC system and specialized electrical circuits, the same costly electromagnetic shielding…"

Dr. Benway, said the voice from the back, in a tangy Chinese accent. If I might interrupt.

Wendi, please do, said Dr. Benway. I’m talking up a blue streak.

I wanted to ask you about the progress of the Goliath MRI, she said.

The Goliath MRI, yes, of course, he said, putting his hand to his chin. "I know some of you are already familiar with this project. For those of you who aren’t, in a nutshell, thanks to Wendi’s generous donation, the Goliath project, when complete, will give General Hospital the largest MRI in, not just Los Angeles, or even Southern California, but the entire world. He waited for the oohs and ahs to die down. As it turns out, I have some excellent news on that front and am happy to report that the project, despite some early hiccups, is progressing right on schedule. You must promise me that you will keep this under your hats, especially yours Mrs. Goolsby. Mrs. Goolsby grabbed the brim of her hat, an outlandish red felt thing with brass buckles and brightly colored bird feathers, and gave it a playful wiggle, causing a brief eruption of giggles. This project has not been publicized and is known only to our most trusted donors and a handful of administrators. Even the contractors doing the actual work don’t know the big picture. "

I look forward to hearing the latest developments, said Wendi. Is there a timeline?

I don’t recall the dates off the top of my head, said Dr. Benway. But at some point in the very near future, once conditions are more stable, we’ll arrange a site visit for the group. We are, of course, talking about extremely high levels of electro-magnetism.

Please let me know as soon as there’s something to see, said Wendi.

It will happen soon, said Dr. Benway, in a reassuring tone. Projects like the Goliath are just one of the things that make this hospital so unique. At General Hospital, we offer the broadest range of specialties of any hospital in the region, from plastic surgery to endodontics, LASIK and basic dermatological services, from heart transplants to hair transplants. General Hospital is a one-stop shop for all your health care needs, the only true total-health-care provider. At General Hospital, we treat the whole person.

I’ll drink to that, said Mrs. Goolsby, raising her glass of wine.

Dr. Benway raised his glass as well, beaming. He was happy to move on from the topic of the Goliath, since he had only the most cursory grasp of the details from the project manager’s recent status reports, which, although extensive, appeared to be no more than a jumble of arcane technical jargon. Dr. Benway employed the tactic often enough himself and knew a snow-job when he saw one. He had meant to pin him down (the man’s name was Peng) on a few things, some basic milestones and dates, but hadn’t found the time. There was also, to be honest, a bit of a language barrier, and whenever he’d engaged Peng in conversations on the matter he found himself nodding along uncomprehendingly and then walking away more confused than ever. The truth was he didn’t really know what was going on with the project and simply crossed his fingers that Peng would be able to pull it off, especially since he’d been recommended by Wendi in the first place. If things went south, he could always point the finger back at her.

Continuing with his sermon, he said, "In the past, you might go to one clinic for a gum graft, another to take that mole off and still another for a nip here, a tuck there. You might never see the inside of a hospital except for major surgery, or to experience the miracle of child birth. Now you can get all those services under one roof. General Hospital’s mission is to cultivate synergies between different disciplines to maximize value to the patient. That’s the visionary piece. There’s also a practical side to this. What happens if Aunt Daisy goes to an out-patient provider for a supposedly routine procedure and she goes into cardiac arrest? God forbid, but this happens all the time, more often than you’d imagine. By the time the ambulance picks her up and delivers her here, she’s already brain-dead, at best. There’s nothing we can do for her. Now imagine that she undergoes that same procedure here at General, and God forbid the same thing happens, because a certain percentage of the time this will happen. In this scenario, the difference is that Aunt Daisy is literally a minute away from emergency open-heart surgery. And this time she experiences a full recovery. So in a very real sense, this isn’t about consolidation or centralization or horizontal integration or whatever an economist would call it, it’s about saving lives. He smiled and poured a glass of wine for hive-haired Mrs. David. Of course, in bringing all these services under one roof, there are some very real efficiencies that directly impact the bottom line. I’m talking about overhead – those selling, general and administrative costs that choke the life out of the major players, not to mention the little guys. By leveraging General’s competencies in marketing, accounting, legal, human resources, information technology, etc., etc., over a broad range of disciplines, we can deliver higher quality services at a fraction of the cost. He paused to look gravely into each of the faces before him, and then smiled reassuringly, raising his glass. And I’ll drink to that."

There was a rally of applause and glass raising, and some here here’s, as Dr. Benway circulated with a freshly opened bottle of Riesling, providing refills all around.

"What about Eastern medicine?" said bouffant-haired Mrs. Strathmore, dazzling in her mauve panda-print silk muumuu.

All eyes turned to Dr. Benway, catching him mid-sip with his nose in a fresh glass of chilled Riesling. He choked slightly on the wine, and lowered the glass.

General Hospital doesn’t see a distinction between Asian, American, European, between East and West. New surgical techniques and drug therapies are being developed all over the world – Tokyo, Tel-Aviv, Montenegro…

I was talking about, you know, acupuncture, chiropractic, chakras, herbal remedies, that sort of thing, said Mrs. Strathmore.

This is a question that comes up from time to time. At General we are extremely open minded about any proven approach, even those that come from outside mainstream medicine. Of course, to be adopted at General, any approach would still need to receive validation from the scientific establishment, through clinical trials, coverage in peer reviewed journals, and the like. There will always necessarily be a distinction, a line drawn, between what is considered legitimate medicine and what is not. We must be mindful to protect our credibility and the strength of our brand.

I swear by my acupuncturist, said Mrs. Strathmore. That little man works miracles with those needles. And I’m someone who passes out from a flu shot. I have to get the mist. And he has glasses like Mr. Magoo. He can’t see two feet in front of him.

They can feel the energy, said Mrs. David. They don’t need to see anything.

"I just had the Palm Springs house feng shui’ed, said Mrs. Goolsby. The energy flows right through you, like a warm breeze."

Dr. Benway nodded to the server.

I’ve been saving the best for last, he said, as she handed him an antique looking bottle of port.

This is a particularly rare bottle. Because of the age, the cork is extremely brittle and requires a deft and delicate touch with the corkscrew, he said, setting the bottle on the bed of the MRI then checking the pockets of his white doctor’s coat. Looks like I must have left it in obstetrics.

As the server passed in front of the MRI with her empty tray, the machine suddenly whirred to life, producing a rather jarring and insistent industrial knocking sound. As if by magic, the metal serving tray flew out of the server’s hand, spun through the air like a Frisbee and decapitated the bottle of port before clanging to rest in the bore of the machine.

The whirring just as suddenly came to a stop. Behind the window of the control booth, dotty Mrs. Goolsby waved apologetically.

I guess we won’t have to worry about getting any cork in it, said Dr. Benway, picking up the bottle and inspecting the cleanly severed neck, nary a drop spilled. He raised his eyes brightly. Shall we proceed to the trauma room?

CHAPTER 3

The Gold Mercedes pulled to a stop, the door opened and two shapely tan legs came out, soon followed by a striking blonde in her early 30s, Susan Benway, wearing a snake print sheath dress and a string of pearls. She set a petite crocodile skin attaché on top of the car, flipping the latches and opening it up to reveal a well-stocked medicine cabinet’s worth of pharmaceuticals spanning the tried and true (your Xanax, Cymbalta and Lipitor) to the barely tested (your Blopoxis, Centrecore and Androjam). She unscrewed the cap from the bottle of Coatilicure, a newly developed fertility pill (still in the early stages of testing), and popped two of the pills into her mouth. She washed them down with the dregs of a Diet-Coke and closed the briefcase. She picked up the attaché, shut the car door with her hip, and headed toward the hospital, the effortless feline gait belying the concentration it took to walk like this in heels.

Helen, have you seen Derek? she asked, moving through the lobby.

Hi, Susan, Helen said enthusiastically. No I haven’t seen Dr. Benway recently. Have you checked the burn ward?

I think I’ll try his office first, Susan said, removing her hand from the reception counter.

Good luck, said Helen.

Susan pushed through the double doors and passed swiftly through the familiar corridors of the hospital, so swiftly that one might have assumed, perhaps while standing by quietly enjoying a cup of Mr. Coffee, that she had some definite place in mind. To the contrary, she was just a full-speed, hard-charging kind of gal.

She spotted Dr. Anderson. You try that Tronazepam I gave you last week?

The one with all the side effects? he said. Sedation, dizziness, weakness, unsteadiness, depression, loss of orientation, headache, GI bleeding, night terrors? Yes, of course, it was a wild ride to be sure. I mixed it with this, that and the other thing and washed it down with three or four bottles of Robitussin. At some point during the night I grew a third arm, which I later tore off when it became infested with centipedes. I meant to keep it in the freezer for further study but just before dawn I noticed it slithering out the back door. I dove for it but it was too late, the fucking coward.

I meant did you try it on your patients? she said.

Fuck them, there wasn’t enough to go around, and besides, it hasn’t been clinical tested yet.

There were dozens of clinical trials.

Where, Turkmenistan? Tajikistan?

Moldova, for one, and…what difference does it make? If it’s good enough for the FDA…

All I’m saying is it may require some further testing, at least until there’s enough supply to go around.

She handed him two bottles of the Tronazepam, which he quickly tucked away in his jacket pocket.

Make sure some of this gets to your patients.

What do you have for ED?

For you?

For a friend…a patient.

The usual, Viagra, Cialis, Levitra.

Do you have anything weirder?

Like red ginseng?

Stronger.

Susan popped open the attaché and dug through the plastic bottles. She picked one up, cocking her head to the side.

You’re in luck. This just came in. Six grams of white rhino horn.

Powder?

No, chunks. Of course powder.

Is it fine?

Super fine, like powdered sugar.

I’ll take the whole lot.

"How many friends…patients…do you have?"

I’m afraid that’s classified.

She reached into the attaché and produced six small envelopes of powder.

Now I’ve got something for you, he said, handing her a freshly mixed rum and coke.

Too early, she said.

Drink up, cracker, he said, popping the straw between her lips.

She sipped with a coquettish smile, then pushed out the straw with the tip of her tongue and licked her lips. She plucked the little bamboo umbrella from the glass and stuck it in her hair before turning on her high heels and walking on down the hall.

CHAPTER 4

Having checked in at the reception desk, Mrs. Lindstrom chose a magazine from the table then turned and lowered herself into a chair with a quick brush of the hand against the back of her skirt. The wall-mounted television played an episode of the long-running daytime soap opera Beverly Hospital. On the screen, handsome young actor Rodney Markle, wearing the white doctor’s coat, noiselessly delivered the bad news (the TV was on mute) to an attractive redhead. As the redhead burst into tears, Rodney Markle, with his expertly mussed blond hair, good bone structure and dark eyes that seemed too small for his face, gave her a comforting hug, which quickly turned into a teary kiss. Mrs. Lindstrom gave a disapproving frown and lowered her eyes to the magazine, a summer issue of Cosmopolitan. Casually turning through the pages of bright swimsuits, lean bodies, and the usual polls, surveys and advice columns, she suddenly raised her eyes, peering through her glasses at the distinguished figure just entered from a door behind the reception desk.

Good morning, Dr. Benway, said the receptionist with a bright, toothy smile.

And good morning to you, Helen, he said, giving her a wink. Do you have my charts?

Of course, Doctor.

She handed him some clip boards.

Excellent, Helen, said Doctor Benway. I think these are just what I need. I mean besides a stiff cup of coffee.

He broke up into a light chuckle at this, putting his hand on the back of the receptionist’s neck then exiting through the side door.

Mrs. Lindstrom recognized the handsome, graying figure of Dr. Benway as the hospital’s chief surgeon but knew little else about him except that he drove a silver Mercedes-Benz AMG and was reputed to be a scratch golfer. Resigned to the typically lengthy wait, she returned to her magazine. She decided to venture yet another article and soon found herself immersed in a history of the brassiere. While looking over an illustration of a medieval courtesan climbing into her harness, Mrs. Lindstrom became distracted yet again by the sudden presence of a second doctor leaning through the doorway behind the reception desk. It was Richard Grayson, hot shot pediatric surgeon and noted handsome devil whose jet black hair and pick-up-artist’s smile made him a hit with the hospital’s distaffers and the object of many a dreamy eyed pre-teen crush.

Can I borrow a screwdriver? he said, flashing the receptionist his trademark smile.

Certainly, Dr. Grayson. Help yourself.

Dr. Grayson now came fully into view as he entered the area behind the reception desk, his white doctor’s coat falling open in the front, the sleeves rolled up into a loose cuff above the wrist. The left hand was adorned with a state-of-the-art quartz diving watch, good down to two hundred meters but seldom tested beyond a quick scrub in the sink or the occasional dunk in viscera. After giving the secretary a light squeeze on the neck he disappeared below the reception desk. There quickly followed the hard clanking sound of one rifling through a tool box.

Mrs. Lindstrom narrowed her eyes behind her glasses, intently focused on the conspicuous clatter coming from beneath the reception desk. In a moment, Dr. Grayson emerged with a Phillips head screwdriver. He tossed it up then snatched it out of the air with a deft cracker-jack flash of the hand.

This should do just the trick, he said, gesturing with the screwdriver and showing the gleaming smile of an ardent brusher.

Thanks a lot, Helen.

Anytime, Dr. Grayson, said she, beaming up at him.

After a fractional pause that appeared to Mrs. Lindstrom as an odd glitch in his animation, Dr. Grayson turned at once with the initial, but seemingly continuous, movement of an automaton and left the room.

Mrs. Lindstrom’s stare lingered on the area behind the reception desk, keen was she to detect the next doctorly movement into the office. But as none was immediately forthcoming she returned to take in another of the magazine’s pearls of wisdom regarding, inter alia, the aphrodisiac properties of human body odor. Her interest piqued by the B.O. article, she delved in and over the course of it discovered that she was, like some base animal, a slave to the scent of man. Apparently it was the curious nature of the female to become addicted to her mate’s smell, craving it even long after a relationship has otherwise soured. To the contrary, Mrs. Lindstrom believed that she always preferred that a man smell exceptionally clean. It was probably just some French sensibility that didn’t hold water in the states.

Traditionally she was reassured by the medicated smell of those who tended to bodies. That of her husband’s barber. The family dentist’s. Too, of doctors. And Richard Grayson’s smell? No doubt cologned. Inappropriate in