The Orphan of Awkward Falls (3 page)

The head of surgery at the Asylum for the Dangerously Insane, Dr. Herringbone, had tried his best to discourage the governor’s visit to the institution. The cautious doctor could easily imagine many a thing that might go wrong in such a hastily planned event featuring his most notorious patient. But, once the mayor had gotten wind of the wondrous new procedure pioneered by the doctors at the asylum, he had called to arrange a visit right away. A demonstration was scheduled, complete with photographers and lots of fanfare. The mayor was anxious to claim credit for a groundbreaking achievement in criminal rehabilitation during his administration. Dr. Herringbone had been left with little choice but to grant the request. A mere doctor did not say no to the mayor, after all.

Preparations for the event began when aides from the mayor’s office arrived and began setting up the asylum’s drab old surgical theater as if it were going to host a Broadway musical. Programs were printed featuring Stenchley’s ugly mug shot on the front. Fancy
red and blue letters above the picture read “See insane killer receive amazing new treatment!” The press was notified. Festive bunting was draped here and there. A buffet of questionable snacks, utilizing several tub-sized cans of the local sauerkraut, was set up in the rear of the surgical theater.

Since no one would willingly have chosen to come to the Asylum for the Dangerously Insane for an afternoon’s entertainment, the mayor’s staff had had to use their influence to fill the theater. A number of prominent doctors from other mental institutions were whisked away from their duties and put on a bus to the asylum, as was a chemistry class from Awkward Falls University. A group of vacationing orthodontists from Florida, lured by the promise of free food and a show, piled into the bus as well, and they all made their way to the outskirts of town, where the asylum loomed ominously.

The uneasy crowd, now wondering what it had gotten itself into, was ushered into the dismal gray fortress. Inside, smiling hostesses handed them each a program and a paper cup of punch. An adventurous orthodontist picked up a sauerkraut hors d’oeuvre and tossed it into his mouth, realizing his mistake too late to do anything about it.

The mayor entered next, smiling as if he couldn’t imagine being anywhere more fabulous than an insane asylum. Photo-graphers’ cameras clicked and flashed to record the moment. The governor’s wife, who never missed anything that took place inside a theater within three hundred miles, had come for the presentation as well, along with Lulu, her hairless Egyptian spaniel. After the
mayor had shaken a sufficient number of hands, he and the first lady made their way to their seats, which was the cue for everyone else to do the same.

The seating was arranged in a steep semicircle above the stage, allowing everyone a perfect view. The house lights dimmed, and a spotlight shone down on center stage. Unsure what to expect, the audience gaped when Fetid Stenchley, strapped to a wheeled gurney, was rolled into the circle of light. The little man, with his enormous bug eyes and hunched body, was so oddly repugnant as to be almost comical. Surely this wasn’t the infamous murderer they’d heard so much about. Was he wearing some sort of costume? Several students giggled at the absurd figure, munching popcorn as if they were at the movies.
Maybe this will turn out to be an interesting afternoon after all,
they thought.

They had no idea.

Fetid Stenchley had never been on a stage before. In fact, he had been inside a theater only once, as a boy, when he had paid a stolen penny to see a man wrestle a bear. To the audience’s delight, the bear won the contest by tossing the man into the fifth row and eating his hat. But this stage, and whatever show was about to take place, was clearly of a different sort. Stenchley was not a mighty bear and was strapped down so tightly he could scarcely breathe, much less wrestle. Surgeons and hefty orderlies surrounded him and were
watching him closely. If this was a contest, careful precautions had been taken to ensure that the madman did not win.

Stenchley had little choice but to lie still as the masked surgeons of the asylum milled about, prepping him for the Treatment. It was just as well, since he had learned the hard way that fighting the surgeons was useless and only prolonged the horrid ordeal. Instead, he had developed the helpful habit of imagining a buffet table crammed with platters of roast doctor, fried doctor, sautéed doctor, curried doctor, doctor puree, doctor pie, and doctor tea. His jawbone worked back and forth busily now, as he grazed through the medical smorgasbord in his mind.

Stenchley’s intelligence was more on a par with that of the simian race than the human one. As a child, even the third grade had proved too advanced for his scholarly abilities. Yet his addled brain was somehow capable of almost photographic recall. As a result, he had memorized every step of the Treatment process down to the smallest detail and could predict exactly what would happen next. This had the odd effect of allowing the madman to think he was actually in control.
Shine a light in my ears,
he thought, and a surgeon shone a light into his ears.
Take my pulse,
he thought, and another took his pulse.
Temperature,
he thought, and a third stuck a thermo- meter into one orifice or another.

Behind him, a complicated-looking machine the size of a Dumpster made whirring and hissing noises, its rows of small
important-looking lights blinking off and on. Technicians made final adjustments to various knobs and dials, plugged in hoses, and arranged trays of gleaming tools near the gurney, all in perfect accordance with Stenchley’s “orders.” When everything was ready, the surgeons took their places and waited as Dr. Herringbone stepped onstage.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the doctor began. “Wel- come to the Asylum for the Dangerously Insane. Ten years ago, the patient you see before you, Mr. Fetid Stenchley, entered our institution a cold-blooded murderer. He was known not only for killing but, pardon me for saying it, for consuming portions of his victims as well.”

The audience became very quiet.

“As many of you may recall, Mr. Stenchley was responsible for the death of one of Awkward Falls’s most famous natives, Stenchley’s own employer, the renowned Professor Hibble. Obviously, the patient was a perfect candidate for the advanced rehabilitation treatment pioneered here at A.D.I. Through the miracle of modern science, he has become a model patient. His violent nature and taste for human flesh have been virtually erased.”

Stenchley’s wide, bloodshot eyes roamed the auditorium as the doctor spoke. The madman hadn’t been in the same room as this many people since entering the asylum.

It was true that he had not indulged his appetite in a while, but it had very little to do with the Treatments he had been receiving. In fact, a rotten tooth had kept him from feeling much like biting
lately. He was much better now, however, after having wrenched the throbbing cuspid out of his mouth with his bare hands several days ago.

“And now,” Dr. Herringbone said, clasping his hands together, “we will demonstrate for you the innovative procedure responsible for the transformation of Mr. Stenchley. It is known simply as the Level Three Treatment.”

With that, the surgeons and technicians began bustling about the stage like ants at a picnic. One eagerly stuck a tube down Stenchley’s throat, while another attached an array of wires to various points over the length of his body. A third filled a long hypodermic needle with the contents of a bottle of blue liquid. Stenchley jerked as the needle was jammed into his neck.

“Observe,” Dr. Herringbone said. “First we lift the scalp flap to access the skull-release panel.”

A surgeon ripped back a large flap of scalp from Stenchley’s forehead, which had been held in place with Velcro. Then, with a power drill, he loosened two small screws at the hairline and lifted open the top half of the skull, as if he were opening the lid of a charcoal grill. The madman’s brain was now fully exposed.

“As you can see, there is some minor discoloration of the patient’s temporal lobes,” Dr. Herringbone said, using an ink pen to point out the areas. The brain was greenish with fuzzy black blotches, like a moldy avocado. “Just a bit of bruising here, a harmless side effect of daily treatment,” he said, reassuringly. While the doctor spoke,
another surgeon inserted wired spikes into Stenchley’s putrid brain, plugging the loose ends into a flashing console.

Stenchley, having endured the procedure hundreds of times, looked only mildly uncomfortable, as if he were getting an extremely vigorous haircut.

“Now we simply bring the generator up to speed and let the device work its magic.” A surgeon pushed a fader switch up the face of the console as high as it would go. The machine kicked into a higher gear, rattling noisily.

Dr. Herringbone and the team of surgeons stepped back from the gurney. Stenchley’s body began to twitch and jerk. Little wisps of smoke curled up from the connection point of each wire on the madman’s quivering body. A smell not unlike Gorgonzola cheese filled the theater.

In the audience, one of the orthodontists fainted into the lap of his neighbor, but the students and visiting doctors, who were less queasy by breed, leaned forward, watching even more closely.

A surgeon shifted gears on the machine once more, and Stenchley’s cerebellum began to glow from within. His brain was now pulsing in and out like a slimy green lung, and his eyes looked as if they were going to blast right out of his head.

The doctor lectured on blandly. “To the untrained eye, the patient may appear to be experiencing some discomfort, but I can assure you the Treatment is not only painless, but even somewhat soothing.”

After ten more minutes of this, the machine began to cycle down again. The brain’s pulsing slowed, and it gradually settled back into its cavity. Stenchley’s body went limp on the gurney as the contraption hissed and jerked to a stop, steam shooting from its joints and connections. A colored lightbulb blew out and shattered on the floor.

Applause broke out across the theater. The mayor and first lady stood and led the crowd in a standing ovation. The unconscious orthodontist came to, looking relieved that the whole thing was over.

“Most impressive, doctor,” called the mayor, in his booming politician’s voice. “But I wonder if we might hear from Mr. Stenchley himself? I’m sure we’d all like to get his perspective on this wonder cure.”

“Yes, Dr. Herringbone,” agreed the mayor’s wife. “Unstrap the little fellow and let him speak!” The pampered spaniel in the plump woman’s arms gave a little yip.

The audience applauded the suggestion enthusiastically, but the doctor waved them off, shaking his head.

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, madame. You see, Mr. Stenchley has never been without restraints since being admitted to the asylum. It’s standard policy. If anything were to go wrong—”

“Oh, come now, doctor,” said the mayor. “What could possibly go wrong? You just told us your procedure has rendered the man harmless. Does the Treatment work, or not? If your program is all it’s cracked up to be, prove it, man!”

“Well, I, I…that is, we…” He looked around at the other surgeons for support, but found them all suddenly staring at their shoes.

The doctor squirmed for a moment, the color rising in his face, then finally shrugged and gave in. “Very well, Your Honor. Gentlemen,” he murmured, “release the patient.”

The static fizzing and popping in Stenchley’s ears had kept him from hearing the doctor’s words. As the technicians went about disconnecting the probes and screwing his skull shut again, Stenchley was just starting to return to something like a normal state of consciousness. With stars still blossoming in front of his eyes from the enormous electrical current that had been coursing through his brain for the last twenty minutes, he had no idea that his restraints were about to be removed. He assumed he would now be straitjacketed and wheeled back to his cell as always. He was already looking forward to his usual post-Treatment reward of protein paste, delivered via a tube in his nostril.

The last thing Fetid Stenchley expected was what happened next.