The Cure

"I am the cure, yes," The Fellow said.

"And I am going to throw you into traffic if you don't stop saying that."

"Ah, but, you see, I am-"

"The cure. We know. We all are."

The Doctor let out a sigh and let his head fall a brief distance before being immediately startled alert at the resultant honk from the van. He took a hand off the wheel and brought it up to mask to lightly rub its tip, finding it in tact, and resumed his black-knuckle 10-2 grip.

"Fie! What raucus roar! Have thou no eyes?"

"You'll find I have exactly as many eyes as I need." He patted his bag. "However, I would appreciate less back-seat driving from you, Bartholomew. Especially because I don't think you even know how to drive."

"Ah! But I think you will find I, with precision surgical, drove the Plague Itself to its knees!"

"Not… not that kind of drive."









Silence filled the cabin.

All there was was only the steady hum of engine,

and bumps from potholes,

and a lunatic filling the air.

"I am a doctor."









At last, the vehicle turned left into a gas station, the squeal of brake-pads against wheels announcing the slowing to stop.

"I am going to enter the store and purchase gasoline and snacks. Are there any requests?" The Doctor unlocked the doors, turned to face his passengers, and found one missing seat with the side door wide open.

"I am going to enter the store, purchase gasoline and snacks, and retrieve our Fellow. Are there any requests?"

"Jerky and whiskey, if you would," said The Healer.

"Bread, cheese, and wine; more does a man ill!" said Bartholomew.

"Alright. How about you, D?"

Silence.

"Alright. I'll be back in a moment." He shut the door, paid and pumped gas, and headed inside of the gas station.

The Fellow jumped on a shelf, cracking it in half and riding the cascade of goods down to the floor before getting back up and doing a jaunty jig, his pointy stick straight in the air as he danced upon cans and loaves of bread. The clerk sat in the corner, already dead from The Fellow's ministrations consisting of running a stake up his nose.

"Good Lord, Fellow! I take my eyes off you for a second and you cure the poor gentleman behind the counter and wreck the place!"

The Fellow had, by this time, begun a tapdance routine, sending cans flying at The Doctor, who promptly dodged the onslaught, batting away those which were too close for comfort. He slipped behind a nearby shelf for cover, picking up a package of beef jerky while he was there.

"I've done it! I am the cure! Yes, yes!"

"Hell."

"[Incoherent shrieking]."

The Doctor dove towards the next aisle, being hit on the way by a bread loaf, which he proceeded to pick up once he was in cover again. He waddled over to the refrigerated section and took a package of Kraft singles. He also picked out a full ham, heaving it with both hands into the proximity of The Fellow. "Ah! I can't believe I let this patient escape! He's not properly cured!"

"Ah! I am a doctor most indubitably yes hmm I can smell the plague on this man! I am the cure!"

The Fellow crouched over the deli meat and The Doctor wiped nonexistent sweat from his maskbrow. He headed over to the alcohol section, picking the worst wine and best whiskey he could find, and placed everything into his bag before walking back over to the clerk's body. He looked to make sure The Fellow was still busy, which he was, poking many holes into the meat and stuffing them with salt.

And he set to work.

Meanwhile, outside…





"Give me your money."

The Healer held up her hands, bag next to her, two Glocks in her face.

"Woah, there. Take it easy. I don't have any cash on me"

"Bull fucking shit. You got a purse with you, huh?" one said. "Hand it over. Hand over the fucking purse," the other said.

"You… Ah. Yes. My bag."

She bent down and picked it up, holding it out with two hands.

The first took the bag, hastily looking into it.

"What the fuck? It's fucking empty?"

He opened the bag further, and his partner took a glance at the bag.

"What do you mean it's empty? Who the fuck would carry around an empty purse?"

The partner looked up just in time to see her prescription for him.

Bang.

One CC Lead at 1200 foot pounds passed through his eye socket, cracked his skull, and jellied his brain.

The remaining would-be-robber got an eyeful of blood and grey matter, startled back and sent a bullet flying wayward, punching through the vanside clean through. He fired again into the sky as he tried to get out his partner's vitals off his face right before

Bang.

Right through the chest. He sent one more shot into the night sky before he fell backwards, cracking his head against the cement and going limp.

She blew off the smoke from the tip of her Model 3 and wiped off the grey matter from her mask before collecting her bag and stepping back into the van.





Back to the lecture at hand…

He finished his work, and the clerk rose once more, going back to standing at the counter. Another patient successfully cured. He walked over to The Fellow and pointed to the van.

"Of course I can perform in the van. What do you take me for, an amateur doctor? No, I am a doctor doctor, yes."

The Fellow picked up the ham, exited the doors, and re-entered the van without incident. The Doctor followed suit, replacing himself in the driver's seat.

"Hear, hear! The Good Doctor has returned! Did thou procure our refreshments?"

"Ah, I almost forgot. Yes, I did." He opened his bag and doled out the respective snacks and beverages to his comrades before returning to attention once more, adjusting his rear-view mirror, and putting the car into drive.

"Aha! I've cured it!" said The Fellow.

"Verily, Good Fellow. I do say you've cured it much over." The ham sat in the middle back seat, next to Bartholomew, completely immersed in salt at this point.

"We almost there yet, Doc?" asked The Healer.

"Yes, yes. Please, have some patience."

"Patients?" D replied.

"Yes. Please have some patience."

"You do not need to rub this in to me. I know I am much out of practice."

"Out of practice? You wait until now to tell me you haven't even practiced recently?"

"Rub it in? Ah, yes! Yes, indubitably a proper curative measure!" the Fellow replied.

He began rubbing the ham and D once more fell silent, looking out the window.





And the silence enveloped the van.





The Healer fidgeted a bit before she reached to the central console and turned on the radio. "Like a Surgeon" by Weird Al was on. She quickly turned the channel. "Bad Case of Loving You" by Robert Palmer. Turn. "Your Love is My Drug" by Kesha. She gave an annoyed sigh and turned once more, finding a performance of "Messiah" by Handel, and sat back in her seat.

"Ah! We've tuned just in time for the Hallelujah Chorus!" Bartholomew exclaimed.

Classical filled the air, and the time passed.

Finally, they pulled into their destination.

Each left the van with their bag and headed into the building, guards letting them in. The Doctor breathed a deep breath and stepped into the theatre of their operation.

They each stepped into position, taking their instruments out of their bags, wielding them surgical. Each gave a nervous look to one another; they had never done anything on this scale. The fact that it needed all five of them itself was daunting, but they would have to execute everything perfectly for the operation to be a success.

"Are we all ready for this?" The Doctor asked.

"Ready as we'll ever be," The Healer replied, twirling her sticks between her fingers in anticipation.

"Verily," Bartholomew stated.

D simply nodded.

The Fellow simply stood holding an axe.

"Very well. Let's begin."

The curtains raised to an audience of hundreds. The Doctor leveled his microphone in front of him.

"Hello, and thank you for coming, everyone. How is everybody doing tonight?"

Uproarious applause met him.

"I can't hear you!"

Again applause.

"Thank you, thank you. Now, without further ado: we are The Cure!"