I felt like I was a puppet in one of those Japanese anime movies where the main character steps onto a bus, or into an abandoned building or through a gate and is spirited away into a world of ghosts, imaginary creatures and magic.
In my case, it was a building, though hardly abandoned. The living dead circled: some staring at this alien, human intruder and others lying on their backs, floating across the floor on squeaky wheels. The air felt centuries old and, I swear, I saw some of the mops scrubbing the floors without a handler.
Yes, it was my annual check-up at the small-town hospital.
First, they filled a syringe the size of a large, straightened plantain with my blood. (“Hey!You thieving, living-Dead cunts,” I wanted to scream. “stop! There's a really good reason that red stuff is in my arm and not in your alchemist's plantain!”)
Then they attached diodes and wires to my legs and arms and little octopus tentacles to the flesh covering my major organs. (“Wait a minute… this isn't a check-up offered free to Junior High School employees… It's the result of Neptune's new legislation to up the 2005 status quo for abductions!”)
Then an old woman (who I'm fairly certain had a bulging, third eyeball on her left breast) took my hand and placed it on a joystick. I played an exceptionally boring video game for two minutes, and the woman then cooed at me like an eerie dove at midnight (“Per-r-r-r-rfect eye site”, the Third Eye added in ghetto dove dialect).
“Now, pee in a cup, and we'll lock you in a small torture box to check your hearing.”
And that was that.
(For the record, I'm healthy as vegetable juice with good hearing, perfect eye site, regular heart beat, and diabetes-free. Just an abnormally high blood-alcohol level and an engorged, psychological understanding of the Living Dead.)