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Pat scanned the wall of her cell and saw it coming out of the side of her head. Like chasing a blood vessel in the off-centre of an eyeball, the more she focussed, the less she caught sight of. Pat wrote faster.

The genie had to be put back in the bottle. Always an arduous task. Men's work. The men say. She would harangue the orderly to help. Strong wrists don't maketh the man. But it worked in here.

The orderly burst in, as expected, but donned in a fez, which was not. Pat wanted the fez. She had already thought about killing him, even before she had created him. She could kill for that fez quite easily. She aspired to own the fez. Her mother had worn a fez and moustache every day that she had philandered her way across Europe as an international sociopath. Pat wrote even faster.

The orderly needed a name and his own neurosis before the slaughter. No self-respecting orderly would share Pat's. She craved his crisp clean whiteness, his orderliness, his antiseptic good looks and the ease with which he wore chinos and aped humanity. She hated his control. He controlled his hate. Pate hated that.

The fez flashed red around the edge of the door frame. Pat quit writing. It was time for meds. Yum yum.

Story by:

Phil Doran

submitted at 8:16pm

23 April 2010

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