Cutpurse

The operating room rings with silent anticipation, the interns watching me eagerly like young

vultures. They heed my guidance for now, gazing with open mouths, but at any moment

ready and willing to thrust a blade into my neck and advance the rankings of medicine in my

place. They will wear my flesh over their shoulders in a savage display of hierarchy, and out

of respect for the mentor who sculpted them into their final form. When the time does come, I

will accept my death and replacement, and, with grace, allow the blade a passage into my

flesh; I will have nothing but respect and admiration for the intern who finally cuts me down

and takes my place in the operating theatre.

My scalpel remains momentarily poised over the unconscious body of Mr Roland Baxter, a

primary-school teacher from a small village on the East coast of Scotland who enjoys a cold

bottle of white wine on a Friday after work, nature documentaries (primarily those narrated

by David Attenborough) and being with his wife Sheryl, who in my opinion looks like an

older version of Marilyn Monroe, had the actress and pop icon survived past her thirties. In

this position, with my scalpel hovering above his vital organs, I find myself experiencing a

pleasurable sensation linked with being in control of this man’s life, of perhaps ending it

intentionally should I see fit, and diagnosing the murder as an accident. Becoming such a

prolific figure in medicine has its perks, such as being able to do what I want without being

questioned by anyone. If I wished, I could plunge my scalpel into his beating heart and report
that the cause of death was due to ‘complications in surgery’, and no one in the room would

bat an eyelid.

I cannot help but grin as I gaze at the exposed tissue before me, for I am in the fortunate

position of operating on a tumour - another perk of the job; my favourite procedure by far.

The sight of a living tumour evokes a sensation in me that is most pleasurable, although

completely non-sexual. It is an internal massage, a soothing trickle that runs around my head

and down my neck in delightful splashes, akin to the sensation I experienced when my first

and only child was born. With the ribs broken and flesh peeled back, the tumour lies exposed

like a faun, and we, the surgical team, are a circle of wolves descending upon it. I take a

moment to regard its bulbous shape and mass, and its vitalic glaze, and for a moment I find

the idea of cutting such an alluring organism - a blatant gift from God - from the body an

atrocity. Still, regardless of personal opinion, I am a professional and will operate against my

will in order to put food on the table, the same way a criminal defence lawyer will defend a

child molester or rapist despite overwhelming and inarguable evidence against him. Only too

aware of the juvenile gazes of the interns, I mumble at a nurse to wipe the milky sweat from

my forehead, and manage to pull myself together with enough sufficiency to operate.

The tumour is located in the lower lobe of the left lung. It carries with it the appearance of a

wad of coral chewing gum from the mouth of a beautiful woman, each crushing blow from

the teeth delivered with a degree of precarious calculation, culminating in a jarred but

poignant shape, contemporary art to a tee. Aware of the danger of infection and spread that a

tumour can bring to the surrounding tissue, I decide to cut sparingly into the lung, removing a

large portion of it, a forkful, which I narrowly avoid putting in my mouth. Regardless of any

impulses urging me to swallow the fleshy lump, I place it into a wad of tissue where it will no
doubt be binned, a senseless waste of life, identical to an abortion in a thousand senses.

The double doors to the operating theatre slam open, evoking images of a lone cowboy

storming into a saloon. “Silence in the O.R.!” I cry angrily, trying to close up the wound over

the racket. A figure in my peripheral vision watches me in complete stillness. He begins to

stutter, and before the pathetic man is able to string together a single sentence the doors burst

open again under the heavy palms of two policemen. “Don't even think about it.” I say as the

officers near. “In my hand I hold a scalpel which is more than capable of severing this man's

aorta. Since you are simple grunts and not men of an intellectual capability, I will explain to

you that the aorta is one of two major arteries that carry blood away from the heart, and the

largest artery in the human body. Severing it will have irreversible and terminal

consequences, so stay your ground if you value this man's life. Now, someone get a notepad.

I'm going to make some demands. Go on.”

The interns watch eagerly from behind the glass, my children, still learning with gusto

regardless of the change of consequences, relishing this unprecedented lesson. As a nurse

rushes off to find a pad and pen, I can feel their eyes on me, and can feel the awe emitting

from them like heat. A new responsibility blooms in me, a responsibility to teach these young

pups all I know before I am taken down by Authority. The nurse returns, handing me the pad.

“No, you idiot! It's for you, keep it. I'm going to make my demands and you're going to write

them down. And if I'm killed by a overzealous police officer before they are met, then it can

act as a kind of document of the situation. For the magazines.”

The pen trembles in the nurse's fingers. Her surgical mask hangs from one ear. She begins to

weep, her face a contortion of confusion and terror, a single question running an eternal
circuit in her mind: why does this have to happen to me? “It had to happen to someone.” I say

coldly, turning from her.

My surgical crew stand in silence, their expressions unreadable under their masks. The two

officers watch me, their teeth grinding like primal machinery. Unable to help; unable to

perform their duty. I feel sympathy for them; the day my scalpel is taken from me is the day I

spatter across a pavement. I can feel the interns fighting over another for the best view of me,

a mess of grunting limbs smearing across glass in sharp squeaks, an orgy of admiration. I

hope they are taking notes, in ink or mentally, or perhaps in semen and vaginal fluids smeared

across the observation window.

“First, I want a vehicle to transport me and my patient to the airport. Something large enough

to fit this surgical table. And red – my favourite colour. I want a private jet ready to fly as

soon as I arrive, manned by two - and only two – pilots, and able to go to a destination of my

choice. If there are any delays then I will assume you are cooking up some elaborate rescue

plan. I will take the life of both Mr Roland Baxter and myself at that very moment, so no

funny business. Full stop. When I reach the plane my patient and I will require a food.

Something simple will do, perhaps a burger or a sandwich. We will also require plenty of

water. These demands will be waiting for me as I enter the plane, in clear view. If I do not

spot the food and water within twenty seconds of boarding I will assume something is wrong

and will draw my scalpel across Mr Baxter's aorta, and then my own wrists. I also want ten

thousand pounds – I'm not greedy - waiting for me in a briefcase, beside the food. When I

enter the plane the cockpit door will stay closed and the men will stay inside. If I spot anyone

else on the plane, or if the pilots leave the cockpit, I will, once again, execute Mr Baxter and

myself without further consideration. Have you gotten all that down? Good. You will present
this to the FBI once they arrive. All they need to know is on that paper, I will do no more

talking.”

The police officers glare at me with razor eyes, their imaginations no doubt filled with images

of torture: of my naked body, alive with crimson ribbons from a thousand visceral wounds,

and my face, twisted in mutilation and screaming for mercy. I smirk at them, intentionally

provoking the beasts in a gesture of good-will; to intensify their will for revenge, thus

intensifying the imaginary torture taking place in their minds. Their sharp glares inform me

that I have been successful, the torturous fates I am suffering almost visable through their

burning eyes. I turn from them; mission complete. There is no real antagonist in this story; we

are all simply victims of society. I wish them Godspeed in the rest of their lives, however

long that may be.

A keen fan of the American Old West, I cannot help but compare my current situation to that

of a Western standoff, the kind that few walk from. For a moment, I feel the iron of a revolver

underneath my surgical gown, cold and heavy against my waist. A chambered phallus, ready

to go off and implant its seed inside the body of a partner of my choice. I run my gaze over

the nurse, examining her soft skin and quivering eyes, admiring both her beauty and her

familiarity with her own mortality. Almost as alluring as my own wife, before the cancer

withered and blackened her soft flesh. At least through her fear I can be certain this nurse

values her existence as a human, which is much more than I can say for most people,

ceaselessly complaining and queueing up at their G.P.'s office by the thousands for more

drugs to make each day a little more bearable.

The man who rudely pushed through the doors of the operating theatre still stands in the same

place, soundlessly frozen to the spot. I recognise him as the hosital administrator, Dr

Alexander Kristof, a usually faceless man who mostly conveys his orders through someone

else. I am angered to find that he is not wearing a surgical mask in the operating theatre,

despite being of a higher rank than me. This kind of betrayal is akin to a police chief thieving

narcotics from the evidence room of his own station. His high position in the hospital is

clearly undeserved. I shake my head at him. He carries on watching soundlessly, his feeble

brain incapable of dealing with this sort of situation, clearly waiting for someone of lower

rank to resolve this unmitigated misconduct for him.

I do not expect the blow to my head. As I crumple to the floor in a clattering of surgical

equipment, I am almost certain that it originated from nowhere, a malicious and otherworldly

manifestation. As I gaze upwards, my attacker is revealed: one of the police officers, unable

to contain his rage, rupturing professional conduct with a single blow, and coming at me like

a great primal beast. In his hands, a silver tray glints in the light of the operating room like a

golden monolith. The other officer tries to contain him, but is sent reeling by a frantic arm. As

the man steps over my body to finish me off, tendrils of saliva hanging from his lower lip,

there is a sudden explosion of noise and it seems for a moment that all hell has broken loose.

The observation window, unable to contain them any longer, caves in under the force of the

interns, bursting into a rapturous explosion of slivers that spray across the room like liquid.

Transparent splinters connect with the flesh on my face and blind me in one eye, but I feel no

pain. Through the crimson blur that clouds my vision, I watch the interns pour through the

window frame like a relentless flood. I hear two gunshots, then only the sound of tearing and

snapping and slavering. Soon the operating theatre is doused in a clinical silence, except from

the quivering moan of the nurse who, in terror, has not moved an inch from where she stood
before. A chromatic pool of chartreuse has emerged from her trouser leg and spread across

the tiled floor. A most unprofessional attitude. I am pleased to see that behind the nurse my

surgical team have stood their ground, unlike the hospital administrator who has either fled or

met the same fate as the officers.

A figure stands over me. I focus on the young face of one of the interns, a beautiful boy with

sandy blonde hair and an ambiguous grin. I recognise him as Malcolm, superior to the other

interns in both skill and personality – both equally important traits in a surgeon. Behind him,

the rest of the interns watch intensely, many of them topless and daubed in crimson hues, a

single female naked, her silken underwear coiled around one foot. I regard their bare flesh

curiously, for it has been a while since I have witnessed exposed female flesh with my own

eyes, aside from that which has lain across my operating table.

The young surgeons stand behind Malcolm, a new leader, their faces full of pride. He smiles

at me in reassurance. I speak my final order: Let me see your hands. He shows me. They are

soft and delicate, but also strong and full of vitality. They do not tremble even the slightest,

despite the recent excitement. A smear of arterial carmine runs from the back of his wrist

down to his elbow. Minute scraps of skin hang from under his fingernails. I nod in approval

at the boy.

From the floor, he retrieves my scalpel, still red with the blood of my patient. I allow my

eyelids to flutter closed, dreaming of the eternal peace that death will no doubt bring, a

formless landscape of white. I feel the first sting of pain as the intern cuts into my back, but

he is merciful to his mentor, fulfilling my expectations. Full of respect for his leader and the

lessons I have given, he severs my spinal column just below the neck, rendering me immobile
with paralysis. A blissful numbness floods over me like an anaesthetic wave, an irreversible

morphine. I watch as he begins to cut into me, working his way over the contours of my body

until he has carved a satisfactory shape. I smile wearily, one of the only actions that I am still

able to perform.

Death's arrival is imminent, and I am ready. I only wish I could be alive long enough to see

the youth dressed in my flesh, to witness him wear my face like a hood and my blood like

warpaint. To watch my new son advance through the ranks of medicine the way I did so

many years ago.