He needed his sense of humour. So of course that was the very thing they surgically removed from him. He could see it there, in a jar, on the shelf, pulsing quietly. He didn’t know why they had removed it, but he was really in no position to ask questions, strapped as he was to this gurney.
He was bound hand and foot, straps around his wrists and ankles holding him tight. Another strap crossed his chest, snugged up tight enough that it made it difficult for him to breathe.
The surgeon, the psychic surgeon, had left the room momentarily. The only other person in the room was the surgical assistant, and they were busy doing something on the other side of the room.
“Hey!” he croaked. His throat was parched, making his voice raspy. He tried again. “Hey!” he said again. “How did I get here? What are you doing to me?” The assistant flinched at the sound of his voice but otherwise didn’t respond.
He didn’t remember arriving here. He didn’t understand why they took his sense of humour. And he knew it was his sense of humour because normally he could find the funny in almost every situation. And this situation was definitely not funny.
Were they going to psychically going to strip him down for cognitive parts? Were they going to let him go once they were done with him?
“Hey!” he tried again. “Are you listening to me? What in the hell is going on?”
“Now don’t get all riled up,” the psychic surgeon said, re-entering the room. “We may have to remove that, too.”
“What have you done to me?” he asked.
“Oh, don’t worry,” the surgeon said. “We’re only borrowing it. You can have it back once we’re done.”
“And what are you doing with it?” he asked.
“Going to a comedy club, of course,” the surgeon replied. “You have a remarkable sense of humour. I noticed it at the party last night, and I just had to try it out. So I dosed you and brought you here. The rest you know.”
“You’re going to a comedy club,” he said, his shock palpable.
“Naturally!” the surgeon said. “Sorry I didn’t ask before I borrowed it. Those discussions don’t normally go well.”
Normally he’d have a sharp retort for a statement like that, but he was severely lacking in humour just now.
“Anyway, dear chap, I’m off,” the surgeon said. He took the jar off the shelf, lifted it to his lips and slurped the sense of humour into his mouth. Then he swallowed. “I’ll be back in a few hours, I promise.” And just like that the surgeon swept out of the room, the assistant on his heels.
“Holy shit,” he muttered to himself and settled in to wait. There was really nothing else he could do.
