The Department of Corrections, Book One

Sasha Malyj awoke nauseous, his right eye throbbing with migraine. A brainstorm of painful thoughts like a thousand lightning strikes per second. He was lying naked as a jaybird on the cell’s cold, sandpaper-like concrete floor—lying horizontally, face down. He realized he was “free,” no longer strapped vertically onto his painful stainless-steel chimera. His hazel eyes were bloodshot-dry and his blistered mouth (and throat) were herpes-sore from having been forced open by rusted metal clamps for so long. A feeling as if gagging on a wooden tongue depressor. Suddenly, his drugged mind grasped he was inside of a very different cell: Dissection Cell A (according to the rusted metal sign bolted onto the ancient concrete block wall). It was an empty dissection cell: except for a stainless-steel wheelchair centered in the dark, rectangular lockup glinting like a chromium-plated jewel beneath a single stream of focused, dust-filled, piss-yellow light. The DissCell had a powerful fragrance, like embalming fluid, which seemed to burn the delicate lining of his broken nose. Glad he was alive, but wishing he were dead, he collected the scattered fragments of thought that burned like hot shrapnel inside of his goggled head:

Dissection Cell A . . . ? A feeling like a thought within a thought had just occurred.

The silvery stubble on his battered head felt longer, he had a short beard like sharp frayed wires of silver, bronze, and black, and his dirty fingernails needed to be trimmed—desperately. His body odor was a whiff of his own bodily functions. He was dying of thirst, starving, extremely thin, and exhausted. Pale, bruised, wrinkled skin hung from tired bone. To move, excruciating pain, like zillions of pins and needles skewering bruised flesh and bone: a tight composition of pain as mathematical and compressed as if Bach had scored it himself. A linear chunk of time was missing, electroshocked dead from some now smoldering brain cells; he feared he may have said or done something now beyond recall. But, Malyj retained, knew, he was still an individual, still anti-State.

The front concrete block wall: (centered) a windowless, gray-painted-and-peeling, graffiti-keyed steel cell door with a lockable, rectangular, ventilation/medication-tray/food-tray slot; and (to the right of the rusted steel cell door) four aged, elongated copper nozzles attached to four dry-rotted, retractable rubber hoses hidden within the ancient concrete block wall hissing: the four jutting nozzles were labeled O (oxygen), N2O (nitrous oxide), H2O (water), and SUCTION. To the right of the patinated nozzles, an antiquated electrical outlet was locked inside of a rusted metal lockbox. Above that, a bank of ancient meters with plastic digits flipping and clicking wildly, and four, round, clear-glass valves with crazy-spinning, faded-red needles, reacting like they were all measuring Malyj’s consuming fear.

The rear concrete block wall: (centered) a long, horizontal mirror sheepishly watching a shivering, mummified-gray skeleton (with sunken, hazelnbloodshot eyes; a bloody, brokennmisshapen nose; bloody, blisteredncracked lips; and three yellowedn chipped incisors missing from a shrunken, goggled head) gazing at its naked and emaciated and dehumanized reflection—horrified.

Recessed into the left-side and right-side concrete block walls: (centered) dimly-lit, lockable, glass display cases; each one protected by an additional, lockable panel of indestructible, transparent, zero-crystallinity polymer: the two protective panels were out of place, too futuristic for the dated DissCell.

The concrete slab: (underfoot) four corners sloping unnoticed, cold and sandpaper-like, toward the center of the rectangular DissCell where a tarnished, perforated, circular floor drain awaited only God knows what.

The concrete ceiling: (overhead/centered) a single, piss-yellow spotlight, like some bulbous, golden alligator eye popped from its swampy socket, protruded from the surface of its waterlogged, tear-dripping, algae-green cementitious membrane. Dripping sounds echoed like a primitive form of torture.

Struggling to stand on meatless bones resembling trembling legs, then walking hunched over like someone evolutionarily handicapped, he made it to the glinting wheelchair facing the front concrete block wall. He sat down bone-weary within its piss-yellow puddle/cone of light that transmuted dreary dust into sparkling flakes of gold. Timidly looking around, building up his strength; he eventually stood up, then explored the space of the clockless and timeless DissCell A.

The four, unfinished concrete block walls, the unfinished concrete slab, and the unfinished concrete ceiling were all dusted with a grayish, cementitious powder reminding one of dead skin cells. Trapped within this claustrophobic morgue’s thick epidermis, which seemed to be rapidly closing in on him like death itself, he rasped:

“Help!”

DissCell A’s six planes formed a solid . . . echo:

“Help!”

On display (left side), on dusty glass shelves, clear E-numbered and E-graded Equality specimen jars. Each wide-mouthed jar labeled by the KTA (Karpian Tissue Authority). Each sparkling jar filled with raw human brains and other various raw human internal organs, some still twitching. The raw human pieces and parts were all floating in a thick, yolky, limpid liquid. Each room-temperature jar oozing the clinical-sweet smell of Karpian BM (black market) organ-preservation solution.

DissCell A suddenly a surreal human slaughterhouse. Panicking. He felt like a giant, gasping specimen trapped inside of a tiny, airless specimen jar chock-full of concrete.

Give me a break! Malyj thought. He read the KTA labels to himself: E061666: Brain, Male, Grade-D+ (estimated intelligence), $300,000.00 US; E012569: Ashes (Phosphorus Pentoxide), Male, Grade-U (unknown intelligence), $50,000.00 US; E121867: Brain, Female, Grade-B- intelligence, $400,000.00 US. Panicking that Sylvia Black may be dead; he kept reading to himself: E112731: Brain, Female, Grade-C intelligence, $350,000.00 US; E022234: Brain, Male, Grade-B+ intelligence, $500,000.00 US; E020600: Brain, Female, Grade-D intelligence, $250,000.00 US (Age discounted: YOB 1900). Ignoring all of the other clear-glass Equality specimen jars that contained various raw, pinkish-colored organs—only focusing on the raw, dull-pewter-colored, gangrene-green-tinged, probably still thinking brains; he thought to himself: All of these pickled brains happen to be from E-numbers, impounds I am already familiar with, except for the last two. Statistically, the odds are astronomical, but not impossible. Am I suppose to accept this farce as fact? I pray this is a stratagem. My best calculus: psychological warfare. He spun around slowly, his sore muscles and tendons and ligaments stretching and twisting and creaking like rotten lynch ropes, then gingerly, he paced across the DissCell while holding his pierced right-side ribcage. A total of six normally spaced, but excruciatingly painful steps to reach the opposite-side display case (approximately twelve feet): both ankles sprained from previous restraint, each encircled by the memory of a heavy pain as if he were wearing GPS ankle bracelets. Hot beads of sweat were dropping from his naked body like spent bullet casings.

On display (right side), on recently dusted glass shelves, ten empty Equality specimen jars—all Malyj’s. The first empty jar was KTA labeled: E30541: Brain, Male, Rare Grade-A +++ intelligence, $1,000,000.00 US. He quit reading the KTA’s labels on the awaiting, gut-churning, clear-glass jars to himself, one was more than enough to convey the DOC’s “subtle” symbolism prophesying his dissection (hopefully as a corpse—not an alive, conscious, and feeling guinea pig undergoing human vivisection without one drop of anesthesia).

Thinking to himself: Definitely psychological warfare.

There were also numerous, hand-held surgical-steel surgical tools on the lower glass shelves: scalpels, serrated knives, scissors, saws, punches, drills, pincers, hammers, and syringes. Some primitive-looking, some alien-looking, all sharp-and-painful-looking. Each well-worn instrument of dissection extremely exaggerated: rusty blades too long, teeth too jagged, tips too pointed, bits too thick, jaws too crustacean, ball-peen heads too deformed, and dull dirty needles too kinked—each like a diseased insect’s zigzagged proboscis.

No longer sure of his reason, he prayed: Please God, let this be psychological warfare, nothing more.

Naked Malyj collapsed in the front-right corner of the DissCell, mentally and physically exhausted: his bare back against two rough concrete block walls intersecting; his bony ass on the cold, sandpaper-like concrete floor; his chafed knees pulled to his hollow chest; his shrunken, battered head hanging between his bloody knees; a pinching headache like a crown of thorns; his vision blurred by steamy Karpian goggles; his dirty body’s stench irritating his broken nose; his teeth hurt; his dry mouth tasted of rusted metal and coppery blood and salty tears; his ears were filled with his loud sputtering heartbeat; a hot-becoming-cold clammy sweat was forming on his defiled, purple-bruised, trembling flesh. For a moment he felt like giving up, like his spirit had been broken. His weakness had raised its ugly head: craving vodka and heroin. His strength: faith in Jesus Christ, cut off its ugly head. He started to sob hysterically, like a terrified child. He screamed hoarsely through his flowing tears and hot bubbling snot a garbled:

“WHY?!”

“WHY?!” A garbled echo answered his question with the same question, as if mocking his dignity.

Behind the trick mirror stood a flock of white-coated, clipboard-holding psychiatric intern technicians. All silently watching and listening and scribbling down notes with high-tech styluses from within a hidden observation room. Ten pairs of cloned sheep eyes watching, all wildly noting Malyj’s verbal and nonverbal tells on their thin, metallic, computerized clipboards.

The steel cell door clanked! shanked by a skeleton key, then groaned open like it was wounded. A corrected, black-clad impound, lobotomy scar visible, entered DissCell A carrying a plastic food tray piled high with: pierogi; halupki; kielbasi; kapusta soup; cucumber salad; and a bottle of horilka (Ukrainian vodka). The food and drink of Malyj’s Western Ukrainian heritage. Also on the food tray: a Ukrainian Orthodox Bible; a Ukrainian Orthodox Prayer Book; a Russian-style, 33-knot, wool prayer rope; and a small, laminated prayer icon of the Holy Trinity. All sacred items from Malyj’s Christian faith. The CorImp handed Malyj the heavy orange tray, and without saying a word, turned around and exited the DissCell. Returning almost instantly, he brought Malyj a small, sit-on port-a-potty, and again, without saying a word, the CorImp exited the DissCell. The wounded steel cell door groaned . . . slammed! shut behind the CorImp . . . then cracked! like someone’s skull being struck by a truncheon as its heavy-duty lock was engaged. Malyj’s brain turned to caviar, thoughts of death row/roe:

Is this my “last meal” before dissection? His fear rising like disturbed incense.

Malyj sat down in the glinting stainless-steel wheelchair, under the piss-yellow spotlight, the heavy orange tray in his bony lap. He couldn’t believe his bloodshot, hazel, sunflower-like eyes—a miracle. His heart suddenly filled with the warmth and glow of an icon lamp, suddenly filled with hope, forcing all fear from it. “Thank You, Jesus!” he praised loudly, then crossed himself (right thumb and first two fingers together, last two fingers in palm) right-to-left three times, followed by a slight bow.

VIL-EN watched and listened silently, data logging the holy fool’s prayer violation.

The tray’s sights and smells were overwhelming him, memories and emotions of better times surfacing. He began to sob hysterically, again. Picking up a fried pierogi with his bony hand, dipping his favorite food in some sour cream—bony hand shaking like an alcoholic or drug addict in withdraw—he raised it toward his starving, incisor-reduced mouth and . . .

Again, the steel cell door clanked! shanked by a skeleton key, then groaned open like it was wounded. White-coated Dr. Burgess entered DissCell A abruptly, like a zealous cop executing a nocturnal home raid, like a desperate criminal perpetrating a diurnal home invasion. Malyj’s sentimental heart was horrified, rapidly draining of all hope while filling back up with fear.

Smiling demonically at the skeleton E30541—who was once a two hundred and fifty pound man, who had yet to take his first bite of pierogi—Dr. Burgess lisped:

“Isth everything to your liking?”

“It’s—it’s just like one of my paternal grandmother’s meals—or a church . . .”

Interrupting. “Yesth! Yesth! Of course it isth!” Then Dr. Burgess commanded:

“Ivanov!—Now! Now!”

A massive, armed corrections officer rushed into DissCell A brandishing a long steel rod in an enormous iron hand. He was wearing a black-leather cap, a black-leather trench coat, a black-leather uniform, black-leather gloves, and black-leather jackboots. A black-leather blackjack, a black-leather whip, and a black-leather-holstered pistol hung from his black-leather belt. An AK-47 was slung over his huge shoulder, dangling down his wide back by a black-leather strap. His pores ejecting giant silver beads of sweat like spent cartridges. He smelled like sweaty black-leather.

Corrections Officer Nedgob Ivanov—a pale, horrible looking, bald, scarred-faced, dead-eyed, monocle-wearing, rotten-toothed, giant of a man: towering around seven feet tall and weighing over three hundred and fifty pounds—brutally smashed the orange food tray with his long steel rod. Its entire contents now scattered across the dirty concrete floor like trash. He made sure to savagely stomp his black-leather, knee-high jackboots on the odd food and State banned Christian paraphernalia as if compacting a noxious landfill. Then, sweaty black-leather uniform creaking, Ivanov ferociously smashed the small, sit-on port-a-potty with his long steel rod, leaving a foul-smelling blue-liquid bleeding toward the tarnished floor drain.

“No!” Malyj screamed terrified, his hazel eyes struck wide and round as gold hryvnia.

Malyj’s goggles flashed a neon-orange message: THE DECLARATION OF KARPIAN INDEPENDENCE. A color image of what appeared to be a computer-generated legal document appeared for only a split second. Then, a mind-whisper only he could hear: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are forced to be equal, and since there is no Creator, there are no unalienable rights: including life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That to force these truths upon all men, the Karpian State must . . . Malyj ignored the rest of the twisted mind-whisper.

The sudden shock of the horrible-looking giant and his violent actions, on top of everything else E30541 had recently experienced, made sobbing Malyj suffer a nervous breakdown.

“Enough! Enough!” Dr. Burgess ordered. Ivanov was now towering out of breath in the front-left corner of the DissCell, his long steel rod still clenched in an enormous, black-leather-gloved iron hand.

“This whole series of events has been a successful attempt to buildup, then breakdown, E30541s spirit and hope. Stress, anxiety, and fear heighten a subject’s suggestibility, helping implanted suggestions become a permanent part of the organism under the right environmental conditions.” Dr. Burgess said to his flock of white-coated, clipboard-holding PsychIntTecs who were watching, listening, and learning from behind the rear concrete block wall’s trick mirror.

Dr. Burgess reached into his white lab coat’s front-right pocket, then threw a handful of ImpKib onto the cold, sandpaper-like concrete floor: Ivanov’s Pavlovian reward for desirable (conditioned) behavior. The giant, salivating corrections officer, now squatting and grunting Cyclops-like, was eating the stinky human kibble from off of the dirty concrete floor; his one eye huge under the monocle’s magnification, watery and bloodshot like it had been pickled in vodka, was jerkily searching the DissCell with a glint of food aggression. Then Dr. Burgess blurted:

“Dnarnya!”

“Dnarnya!” A cold, hollow echo mimicked effeminate Dr. Burgess.

White-coated PsychIntTec Dnarnya entered DissCell A, hurriedly pushing the portable TPlant01 (Thought Implanter One) in front of her—a concealed machine pistol in a black-leather, triple-locking shoulder holster momentarily visible, eager to implant E30541s mind with . . .