Dr. Compunction, distinguished from his colleague Dr. Impetus by the pattern of dancing Mickey and Minnie Mice on his face mask, monitored the screen on the debiliscope closely.
“Well,” he sighed, putting his hands to his waist and stretching his aching lower back, “It seems only god can help him now.”
“Don’t use that tired cliché around me, Stanley,” Dr. Impetus snapped from his position near the patient’s left foot. His eyes never left the subtly pulsing grambesi vein between the second and third metacostal rifts: this was now his only clue as to the patient’s political affiliations.
A blob-like character in an off-white robe dominated the comatose man’s dreams. Could it be his wife’s chicken sandwich habit in symbolic disguise?
.
