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Bakamono · (This post was last modified: 06-25-2011, 03:54 AM by Bakamono.)

Planet Curacao:

Due to the numerous flu cases that had been reported from several of the Mega-Resorts across the planet, Cryer had dispatched discreet teams of six across the site continents to locate and treat those prestigious clients who preferred to venture 'off-radar'.

***

On a beautiful white beach reaching past the horizon Curacaos' elite basked and posed in the glorious sun. Some had come simply to be seen in the latest beach-wear: advertising their own excess, others simply craved the frivolities offered by such a scene. Bronze skinned, enviably athletic looking people eyed each other knowingly as they engaged playfully in volleyball and other beach-games.

The cryer team of six progressed slowly down the beach, laden with bags and equipment, they sweltered in their recognisable yet understated uniforms. Unaware of the excitement and danger that the others teams encountered, they had assumed their assignment to be an easy one since it contained the word 'beach'.

They were dead wrong: this was their eighth mile on this particular stretch of coast, with one hundred vaccinations complete: they had a depressingly long way to go. Exhausted and tetchy, they received little in the way of thanks from their would be patients.
Comments such as 'Nice one nerd-face: now I can do that three-way tonight; this is good for S.T.Ds too right?' and 'Ouch! You screwy-handed quack: are you trying to kill me!?' were about the level of appreciation afforded the doctors.

'Sir wouldn't this have been easier at a hotel or something?' a vexed technician spoke-up.
'Now, now Bolton: you heard the manager, they don't want the hotel to turn into a hospital or disturb the restful activities of the residents. Best we do it while they are more focused on other... things...' The co-ordinators words trailed off as he stood entranced by yet another pink-bikini-clad woman jogging.
'I guess it has other advantages too sir' the technician commented bitterly as he scanned yet another sunbather whilst his superior ogled.

Abruptly the co-ordinators trance was broken 'Alright, enough of this shiz: everybody strip!'
'Sir?'
'you heard me, down to your smalls: we'll bake out here otherwise!'
The team of six doctors shed their uniforms, visibly relieved by the escape from their attire and appreciative of the pleasant breeze. Four of the six still wore their cryer branded underwear, obviously fresh out of their Corporate Allotted Generic Environments.
A few heads turned to observe the motley-crew disrobing, including one of the statuesque 'life-guards'. The man jogged over, redundantly carrying his float-aid 'I'm sorry folks ' I can't let you walk around the beach like this ' you're just not... pretty enough.'
'How dare you! I'll have you know that I'm considered quite the catch in the Yukon. I was awarded most beautific beard 805 you know!' the co-ordinators words almost shook with indignation.
'That may be Sir, but this beach has a very specific policy on aesthetics. I can have suitable attire brought up, or you may provide your own: but your current exposure is...unseemly.'
'Very well, have some lighter garments brought up: we need to continue our work here.'
'Of course sir, four mediums and two extra-large coming right up.' The 'life-guard' stalked away, relaying his orders to an os&c pleasure droid who trotted off merrily.
'extra-large indeed!' the co-ordinator hissed under his breath 'I'm more of a 'generous large' wouldn't you say bertha?' A heavy-set woman looked up distractedly from a plate of seafood, raising a sauce covered thumb in agreement.
'What? Where did you get that? Where's mine?' the co-ordinator glanced around questioningly at his team, who all now reclined or sat sipping from elaborate glasses.
'Just a quick break sir? In honour of Max?'
the co-ordinator sighed 'very well, it's what he would have wanted after all. Ten minutes and then we're back on the crawl.'
A short while later, the Cryer team trod the white sand once more, adorned in their regulation os&c broad-hats and muumuus.

***

At the back of a freezer room in an outrageously expensive Curacao restaurant two cryer employees chatted whilst inspecting the organic produce.

'Just what I had planned: nothing I'd rather do on an a pleasure planet; than stand in freezer staring at imported beef for hours.' The doctors sarcastic tone belied her intolerance of their current assignment.
'look at it this way: no-one around here is gonna care if a side or two of this prime-rib goes missing now are they?' the technicians grin showed white through his frosty visor.
'maybe you missed operations one oh one toothy: we are not thieves, we are not stealing meat or anything else that reminds me of this place.'
'Well...it wouldn't be stealing exactly, just a little 'labour bonus'...'
'Cut the shiz ass-hat, do you wanna explain to the board how your stomach is the reason that they are BARRED from Curacao?'
'...no.'
'Well then shut up and pass me that magnifier noodle-brain'
'mmm noodle-soup...Um.. the glass magnifier?'
'Yes, I wanna see how pretty my gloves look.' the technician began passing a magnifying glass. 'No: The molecular one you foetus!'
With the look of a wounded puppy, Toothy passed her the correct device.
'Alright, now, get me a core probe would you? You remember what one of those looks like right? The big spiky thing with the number thing at one end.'
'Yes I know' the technician moaned 'the big spiky thing with the number thing at the end.' a mocking tone to his flawed repetition.
The doctor irritatedly stabbed the once-cow and took her readings 'alright, tag this one as clear. And don't push your luck technician: in the freezer, no-one can hear you scream.'
'Why you gotta be so mean to me doc? Is it because I'm prettier than you?'
The doctor froze in her task 'What did you just say...you're prettier than ~me~ ?' a terrible frigidity edged her words. 'That's it' she gestured widely around the freezer 'Choose your weapon.'

*

The pair stood at either side of the massive fridge, facing each other. The technician with a pizza-base and chicken, the doctor hefting a heavy, deadly looking sausage.

The technician nervously shifted his stance, the doctor cricked her neck.
'I hope you like hospital food brick-face.'
'Your ass is rockitt-salad bish.'

The two accelerated toward one another, their voices rising as was customary for battle. With a yell toothy launched an overhand swing with his chicken, even as the doctor spun to his side, narrowly missing the cauliflower flourets.

Landing and immediately spinning on his heel, toothy threw a wild hook at the doctor, his speed too great: the chicken flew from his hand to thud wetly against a hanging carcass. The doctor stepped in range repeatedly battering at the quailing toothy, the sausage slapping against the visor again and again.

Their momentous battle reached the discarded chicken, the two glanced to the technicians sole hope. Hurling the sausage into Toothys' face, the doctor immediately scooped up the chicken and deftly planted it over the head of the stumbling technician. Blinded, with a chicken for a head, the technician seemed to fall backward in slow motion smacking onto the floor like unwanted hors d'oeuvre.
'Okay...you win, sorry doctor.' the muffled voice of Toothy echoed from within the chicken.
'Shush your spoiling it!' the doctor snapped, and resumed her heroic celebration.

The doctor could almost hear her victory theme playing as she placed one foot on her defeated foe, and looked distantly at the wall. 'So you see, now I am the master.'

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