Maniac Dawn -- The Surgeon

He only ever shows himself reflected on metal. Dwight Sanders reminds himself of this as he ignores the sweat trickling out from under his jade-colored cap and hesitantly reaches for the scalpel. His hands are shaking, and noticeably. Beside him, Ramirez -- that fuckprick of a doctor Wayne Ramirez, as Dwight thinks of him -- clears his throat and leans in, whispering, "I'm guessing you had a few too many glasses of scotch, a lot too many Winstons, and not nearly enough sleep last night, Dwight. You look like you've got DTs, and a surgeon with unsteady hands is like a male porn star without a cock. So cut it with the Parkinson's or I have to say something."

Dwight doesn't respond, but he agrees. He's even sure he's heard that crude axiom before, but he's not sure when or where. However much of an asshole Ramirez is (and in Dwight's opinion he's a big enough one to pilot the Nostromo into), he's right. Dwight knows he looks like a first year med school student and that all present in the OR are watching him, wondering how in Hell a cardiac surgeon of 11 years subtly but suddenly starts to lose his shit. Despite his utter terror, he picks up the scalpel from the tray, squeezing it tightly between his thumb and forefinger to lessen the trembling in his hand. This helps a little. Curling his toes inside his shoes does, too.

He looks at the blade and feels a cold tingle of relief in his abdomen. No face. No slicked-back black hair with a widow's peak and a pallid, sagging face beneath it. No black eyes with crimson pinprick pupil's in their centers. The scientific reality of reflection has again been restored to doctor Dwight Sanders's world.

"She's not going to give herself a double bypass, Quincy, so how's 'bout we start the show already?" Ramirez says, this time loud enough for those in the cheap seats to hear.

Again, Dwight doesn't respond; he gets down to business, both sides of his brain working in tandem. He cuts into the patient just above the navel. Like riding a bicycle. At the same time, he's trying to find an itch to scratch in the back of his brain. Something about what Ramirez said.

(A surgeon with unsteady hands)

She sucked his cock

(is like a male porn star)

She sucked his cock while your four-year-old son sat at the breakfast table

(without a cock)

She sucked his cock and swallowed his load in the living room while your son sat at the table and watched from the kitchen, tears from his cheeks dripping into his bowl of soggy Chex. Then she took the kid to daycare and came back home so she could taste in her pussy what was so decadent in her mouth. Twice.

This is truth to Dwight Sanders. This is reality explained from the corporeal. A demon reflected on a tin kettle or an aluminum baseball bat or a chrome bumper is madness, but this is Truth.

"Sew her up!" he screams, ripping off his mask, his cap, his scrubs, before storming out of the OR.

But not for long. His scalpel still in hand, he walks back in seconds before the rest of the operating unit have time to register what in damnation is going on and stabs Ramirez in that worthy's jugular. A sanguine geyser followed by a muted scream that maybe only dogs and Satan hears.

Now, my boy, I want you to steady those paws. We have further work to do.

But first I want you to plunge that scalpel in your hand into your brain. Trust me, it's easy work.

Just like riding a bicycle.