Someone's In My Head (WATTYS AWARD WINNER 2015)

Chapter Twenty-One (Pt. 1)

"So based on one of my various hypotheses, by implanting Phil's consciousness into a brain-dead patient's mind, it would automatically purge the host's consciousness―which, because of its vegetative state, is dormant―out of its body and subsequently, assume control. However, the problem arose: when we started introducing Phil's consciousness into the patients' brains through electric impulses, they all rejected it."

I had heard this part before, but I wanted a deeper understanding on the matter at hand. "Rejected it how?"

An anguished expression flitted past Lenny's face, too quick for me to be sure. "They showed no signs of neural activity whatsoever, no matter how much I increased the intensity of the induced stimulants.

My heart skipped a bit. Stimulants?

Note to self: Do a blood check once this mess is over. I wouldn't wanna get apprehended by a street cop who figured that I must be a regular junkie just because some mad scientist fed me meth without my consent.

Lenny continued. "They died eventually. It might be the intrusion of a foreign consciousness, or the extreme level of electrical and chemical stimulations―both were just too much to handle for their vegetative brains."

He swallowed, and an aghast look appeared on his face. "I was incapable of saving them―I swear to God, I tried all my best―I just. Couldn't. Save. Them."

As I glanced back to the drama, I saw that there was yet another body on the surgical bed, but this guy didn't look so good. The heart rate monitor was emitting a continuous and piercing beep that reverberated throughout the room. Lenny Jr. had his head buried in his hands, his back heaving uncontrollably. He's crying. I thought, dumbly.

As I gazed at the remorseful expression on Lenny Sr. face, I knew that this was the turning point for Lenny Jr. This was it, the moment when his absolute, unconditional reverence for The Duke started to crumble.

Without warning, I heard a snap of fingers, and my surroundings started to spin. Caught in the moment, I nearly jumped out of my skin as the metal shelf did the slicing thing on my waistline again.

Lenny barely noticed my discomfort. Instead, he was glaring at me. Uh-oh. Glaring was bad. "I suppose you're familiar with the red agar theory too?"

"Yes." I gave a slight but solemn nod as I struggled to maintain a perfect poker face, not giving anything away.

"Good." He sniffed, almost in disdain.

Boy, the guy was furious! I cringed. I guess he wasn't a fan of red agars. Either that or he didn't fancy the notion of the 'highly-classified' Operation Athena being understood by such a lowly college kid like me. I think I'll go with the latter.

As abrupt as it started, the spinning stopped, and I found myself standing in a bar. Yes, I am serious―a late-night, whisky-serving, warm-but-not-cosy bar. Home to all inebriated drunkards.

You know what? I changed my mind; I think I'll go with the not-a-fan-of-red-Jelly-Beans option instead.

I was about to ask Lenny what are we doing here when he gave me a sign that said 'shut up and listen'. He then pointed at a discreet corner of the bar, where two men were sitting.

One of them―whom I recognized as Lenny Jr.―was clearly drunk. He was hollering something unintelligible whilst bellowing in laughter, froth and tears spewing out from his mouth and eyes respectively. The guy was a total mess.

The other guy was obviously closer to the shore of sobriety compared to Lenny Jr. There was something familiar about his face―blunt jaw, thin eyebrows, and an exceptionally short nose. Then the cloud of uncertainty cleared, and I gasped as recognition slapped me in the face.