Inside the Mind of Doctor X

Well, it is time to spout off some more lies in order to make people feel good about themselves and better serve my fellow man. My preference would be to pull out a Mossberg Maverick eighty-eight and unleash a magazine or two of steadily shot hollow points into the unsuspecting faces of the whore sheep that herd closer and closer together with their: cameras, tape recorders, notepads, and all the other mental masturbatory devices used to record falsities. I stand here, fingering the podium; shuffling papers; ready to hang myself. Press conferences bore me but you know what they say, "sometimes—" Well, you know how it goes.

Look at them. I have literally become God to these people over night. Just like the Hebrews in the day of Moses, these slaves of Western idealism and disengaged consumerism have been itching for someone to release them from their unnecessary bondage. The only difference between these twits and the Hebrews is that the Hebrews supposedly didn't deserve it. I wasn't there so I can't really say but I know this—these dolts deserve every bit.

Five till ten. All right man, pull it together. See, this is always my problem. I get so worked up thinking about the true purpose behind my endeavor that I become lost in my own world of genius. It's time to put on the dead smile and suck the souls out of this ignoramus crowd. My toe taps rhythmically—always a good sign. There must be at least a hundred reporters stuffed into this tiny lobby, staring at me like dogs tend to do. Look at that obtuse blob. He should paint himself white, add a couple dozen black dots, and change his name to Roley. And her—would it kill her to tame that frizz just a bit? I guess I didn't realize that this was an open invitation to fast food gluttons and creatures from the Black Lagoon. God help me.

Four till ten. I stare at the floor, trying to hide any tell that might give away my true intentions of destroying all of these worthless kumquats, their children, and their children's children. It's not that I wish any true harm to the youngsters of this world. It's more like I'm offering a gift of salvation—something that would deliver these kids from their future misery. As for the accursed adults, shame on them for bringing excess lives into their society of excessiveness.

Callahan, the organizer of the event and monetary provider of the cause, steps up and quiets the crowd. I wouldn't mind jumping on his back and grabbing that hideous imperial moustache with both hands. Then I could ride him like the ass that he is and spur him in the side until his kidneys fall out. I know it's not often acceptable to say such things about a well respected politician and former war hero that funds your project but come on, he's still a politician, which means I've got lines in the wrinkles of my scrotum straighter than Nietzsche over there.

Listen to him. He speaks like a constipated baboon. He can't even say "rhinovirus" right. I guess it could be "rheenovirus" if you're an autistic child playing checkers by yourself under a bridge. Sweet boneless Christ. How long does it take to explain the rudimentary processes I utilized to form the cure? It's not rocket science. It's just an answer to the oldest virus that has plagued man since day one: the common cold.

He's starting to wrap it up. Okay, focus. Whatever you do, just don't go mad and start blurting obscenities at every media rapist in sight. Keep cool, Doctor. But I ever so badly want to watch them spontaneously combust now. Six years after they take my vaccination seems entirely too long. I've never had a knack for patience. Oh great. They're clapping. I wish a band of Roman soldiers would just burst through the door and nail each and every hand of all these overwhelming charlatans to one giant blood-splattered cross. Okay, no more of that.

The claps stop and I swallow a nice pool of saliva that I've been saving a while to ensure my mouth doesn't dry out. Then, I switch it to autopilot and I start to speak. I don't even know what I'm saying. I just read as I imagine the audience being avid Fleetwood Mac fans, singing, "Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies. Tell me lies, tell me, tell me lies." What’s hurting them more—this or the truth? Honestly, I don’t care.