3 Hospital Horror Stories

was inspired by the hit TV show Dexter. These are just a couple of the dark true crime

“stories you'll hear each week on the crime hub podcast. In each episode, I dive deep into new”

disturbing true crime stories. Like the story of the religious cult, Heaven's Gate, a group who convinced its followers to commit suicide in order to reach a level of existence above human. Disturbing true crime stories like these are what make the crime hub podcast worth listening to. If you enjoy my horror stories, then you'll absolutely love my true crime stories. Go check it out today by searching crime hub and the search bar on Spotify, Apple podcasts,

or Amazon music. Be sure to click follow to get notified every time a new episode is released.

1. Sure you won't change your mind. In his 35 years of O.R. experience,

neurosurgeon in a go tour as had done it all. From run of the milglyoma removals to the micro-vascular clippings of aneurysms to massive trauma reconstructions. Dr. Torres was the best and he knew it. So you can hardly blame him for being annoyed when his hospital administrator called him on a Saturday afternoon on the golf course, on the 16th hole, and three under par, and insisted he come in immediately. And what giant medical emergency had occurred were the

of interrupting his personal best golf score ever? Why? A decompressive cranny actomy of all things. A simple procedure to relieve intracranial pressure. By me, a trained monkey could perform a decompression. He had shouted into his phone, thrusting his eight iron at his caddy. Just have one of the junior surgeons do it. But the hospital administrator insisted it had to be Torres. It seemed the patient was some big time contributor to the hospital over the years, old family money, very rich,

very mysterious, and their family demanded the best possible surgeon. Fine. Dr. Torres capitulated, hanging up, and marching to the golf cart. He screamed at his caddy. Get in. I get this taken care of Prano and resume the game, so I must remain in the zone and keep all

“factors the same. That's essential. Uh, sure thing, bro. Mumbled the caddy. It was a young man”

of about 20 dressed in khaki shorts, a sweat soaked polo shirt and crocs. The boy was tall and heavy set with shaggy blonde hair, green eyes, and the zoned out expression of someone who was either perpetually stoned, profoundly stupid, or both. Blinking in the Florida sun, he pulled the golf bag onto his shoulder and walked to the cart. At the hospital, the caddy was instructed to wait in the hall outside the doctor's changing room. Settling himself on the bench, the caddy popped

a THC gummy into his mouth, and settled back against the wall. Eyes closed. He was getting paid by the hour after all, and maybe after all this added trouble, that asshole dock would be more generous than his usual tip. Dr. Torres trudged into the operating room, a surgical gown atop his golfing clothes, and a mask hanging loose around his neck. All right then,

“people, he grumbled to the assembled team. Let's make this one fast. What do we got?”

The chief resident cleared her throat. The patient is, "Who's Raiel Jerifok?" male. 98 years old. Came in an hour ago with a cute numbness on the left side and slurred speech. CTT shows pronounced right hemispheric edema with a midline shift of six millimeters.

Fitals are stable, but ICP is trending up into approaching critical levels.

Yes, yes, I see that. Grumbled, Dr. Torres, moving to the monitors to examine the scam for himself. Did you say he's 98? Jesus. Hmm. I'm not sure about that diagnosis. This midline shift doesn't match the ICP, and the sole goal of basement is much too clean. Something's off about this recon. Looks almost like something interfered with the scan. The chief resident shrugged. Want to see the raw slices? Nah. He said, turning toward the operating table.

I want to see the real thing. Let's pop this geese or skull open. Positioning himself between the chief resident and the scrub nurse, he looked down at the patient's head, which was elevated, turned to the left, shaved, and fixed, and rigid clamp. E! What's up with his old scarring along the scalp? There's nothing on the record about it. Previous surgery you think? Well, if it is, it's a crude piece of work. It could be field surgery.

World War II, maybe. He's old enough. Interesting. Scalpel! Torres got to work. His hands moving with the swiftness and precision of a calligrapher as he

wrinkled skin. As the nurse leaned in to hold back the flap of sliced skin. Torres swapped out

“a scalpel for a cotterizing pen. Anybody seeing the forecast for this afternoon?”

It's not going to rain, is it? Or get windy? Sunny and high in the 70s until sunset, I think. Answered the chief resident. Hmm. The pair of cranium looks almost leathery. She added, squinting at the fibrous layer between the skin and skull. Three under par in the 16th hole. Torres mumbled to himself. His mind back on the green. Even as his hands worked to expose the skull, while drilling bur holes into it with a perforator and connecting the holes with an oscillating

drill. Such a good, lifting the bone flap now. Careful, it's brittle. Watch the edges end.

And he leaned slowly forward. Still holding the six inch long, wonky oval of bone in his hand

as he stared down into the opening. What the hell is that? As one, the others in the O.R. crained their next to sea. Chief resident, charge nurse, anesthesiologist, nurse, and medical student to see the impossible. Remarkably, there was no duro to speak of, and without the presence of that protective membrane, the exterior of the brain's right hemisphere was exposed in perfect detail, and each and every detail was wrong. Beneath the sheen of slime, the round and wrinkled

folds of brain tissue were not pale pink as they should have been, but rather a deep and heavy violet, almost black. And instead of blood red veins, fine branching lines of burnished bronze stood out across the folds, and in the valleys of the brain's cape. "This is sir?" asked to nervous young nurse. "What's wrong with it? In infection you think?" offered the chief resident.

“Dr. Torres slowly shook his head. "No infection does that, and how is this guy still alive?”

I've never seen anything like healing in closer, almost hypnotized by glistening metallic lines on

the flesh. Then, all at once, the brain. Move." Dr. Torres gasped, and a nurse screamed as the slimy brain seemed to barrel roll within the head. The patient's body seized, limbs quaking in their restraints, and the monitors released a chorus of alarms. "Hard is erratic, precious driving fast!" called out the anesthesiologist. On the table, the body went abruptly limp, except for the head, which jerked against its climps, dark blood spilling from the mouth and

nostrils, even as the heart monitor indicated a flatline. A nurse stumbled back in shock, knocking over a tray of surgical tools. Dr. Torres remained in place, his eyes wide, his vision fixed upon the gaping hole, where dark, stringy tendrils of nerves

“were now pushing up and out from the cavity, and slapping down upon the sides of the head.”

It almost looked like, like some cursed octopus was reaching out its many dripping legs. Bronze filaments glinted with an each underlating tentacle of nerves. "Colacone!" "What code?" As the tentacle strain taught, the dark organ tissue within, pulled itself up, squeezing through the carbon hole. The purple brain of Uzreal Jaravak emerged, and purged itself upon the hollowed head.

Its glossy, wrinkled surface gleaming in the harsh surgical lights above. For a brief moment, the operating room erupted in chaos, the medical staff stumbling into each other, monitors beeping wildly, voices screaming, then the fine-lined veins of bronze within the brain tissue, lit up. Hypnotic waves of light and dark rippled across the brain's surface and patterns, like the hunting display of a cuddle fish. The onlookers abruptly froze in place,

the rise locked open and filling with tears, as the haunted glow scanned at the room. After a few seconds, the luminous display ceased, and the doctors and nurses broke free from their transistors and gas for breath. I'll be down to our smudder, keeping his gaze on the brain as he reached to set down the bone flap and lift up a scalpel. "What? Are you?" The brain shivered, shaking off a mist of slime, and the dangling nerves extending from its base,

wriggled, like wet baby snakes in every direction. "Sir, whispered the chief resident, scooting closer to Torres. "Perhaps you shouldn't." "Shh." "It's fascinating." The brain trembled, shifting slightly left and right. One of its stringing nerves raised up, hanging in the air like a reaching tendril of vine. It began to stretch, toward Dr Torres. The surgeon grinned, a mad curiosity in his eyes. He reached out his

scalpel-wielding hand to meet it. The gooey tip of the nerve rushed past the metal handle of the scalpel, then touched down upon the back of Torres's glove. He flinched, but his grin widened, been on it once. The brain jerked, and the nerve whipped forward, wrapping around Torres's wrist,

A nurse fainted. The chief resident sucked in a breath, then leaned forward to help,

“but the liberated brain twitched, and the nerve jerked hard to the left.”

Bullying Torres off balance. He watched, as his outstretched arm was driven up and over, slashing the scalpel's blade with savage strength, right through the neck of the chief resident. Scream the anesthesiologist, jumping to his feet. The chief resident clutched at her gushing throat, as she crumpled sideways into a medical student, who shoved the bloody woman off, when pouring and shaking all over. The scrub nurse lurched, door doctor Torres,

reaching to grab his wrist. But another of the tentacle nerves snapped out, seized, the perforator, and stabbed up into the nurse's gloveed palm. She grimaced as the

bloody drill tip popped up through the back of her hand. The anesthesiologist tried to turn and run

for the door, but more nerves wriggled into action, tossing a loop of plastic tubing around his chest and yanking him backwards. The med student had better luck,

“leaping over the body of the chief resident. She sprinted toward the door, then went rigid,”

and crashed into the door instead, sliding down the metal surface with the handle of a scalpel sticking out of her spine, which the doctor's hijacked hand had thrown across the room with perfect aim. Dr. Torres fell to his knees, gasping and shock. The nerve still clutched his wrist. Desperately, the surgeon looked to his right, where the anesthesiologist was slouched and tangled in tubing while the branch of nerves wielding a long, steel surgical probe,

stabbed again and again into his head and neck and shoulders. The surgeon looked left,

where the chargers had lifted up a metal stool and was swinging it to fend off nerves that darted for her, like striking vipers. Screaming with fury, the nurse hurled herself forward toward the operating table, swinging the stool up, then down upon the brain. Though at the final moment, the murderous organ slipped itself sideways, plopping to the tabletop, and the stool crushed

“down instead upon the empty head of the elderly corpse with an acetycrunch. The chargers”

winceed took in a shaky breath, then tried to lift the stool again, but several nerves had reached to grip the stool by the legs. The brain twisted so that its nerves yanked the stool from a grip, then smashed it into her face and she fell in a heap to the floor. This can be happening. Dr. Torres panted, watching as the nerves dropped the stool, then turned and wriggled his one, reaching through the air for him. The warm wet bronze braided nerves whipped around his neck,

squeezing until his wheezes were silenced, and his cheeks turned purple, and his eyes rolled back in his head, squeezing until. The severed head of Inagotor is fell and thudded to the floor, followed a moment later by his limp body, in its surgical gown, and its golfing clothes. Perched on the edge of the operating table, the brain let its nerve go limp. The fine veins of bronze within its purple flesh once more lit up, pulsing to survey the room, and to ensure that

all these fools, all these bodies it had scanned and deemed unfitting of the vital task, were deceased and no longer a risk. This complete, the brain used its slimy nerves to pull itself, inch by inch, across to the corner of the table, down the table's leg, and crawling, snail-like it headed toward the door. In the hospital hallway, the stone caddy awoke from his nap with a hearty snore. He sat up on the bench, blinking his dry eyes and scratching his stomach.

Yawning, he turned to look at the golf bag, then passed it, at the operating room door, which seemed to be open a few inches. He blinked, his sleepy gaze drifting down down to the floor, where something was moving, something dark and wet and round, with stringy little tentacles from its underside that whipped forward to drag itself along. Sliding up to rest beside his sneakers, the thing on the floor came to a stop, then little lines on its surface lit up in

psychedelic patterns. The lines went dim, and the stringy tentacles began to move, slithering over his shoes and up his bare calves, the caddy chuckled, it tickled, then the string's tightened and pulled, and the brain turned, heading back into the operating room. Picture this, it's late at night, you're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You added to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to check out,

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By the hospital's front entrance, a man in a dark suit was waiting beside a dark limousine, watching his people ambled in and out of the building. When a large young man in a polo shirt and baggy shorts emerged, the suited man did not notice anything special about him until he wandered to closer. His body, a little stiff, his movements, a little awkward. The man by the limousine suddenly straightened up, several details had caught his attention. The drip of blood

for one thing, running down the young man's left cheek from the hairline of his shaggy blonde

mane. The young man's eyes, too, though half closed, glinted in the sunlight with a sort of

bronze glow. And sure enough, the awkward figure came straight for the limousine. The suited man tensed, then bending at the waist, he bowled low. "Oh, most ancient and immortal was there!"

“He proclaimed, "Hast thou found a new vessel, then worthy of your undying mind?" The young man blinked.”

"Yes, oh, lowly servant of my cigarette, and how went this latest transition my lord?" "Ask the servant." "Oh, fine!" answered Userail Jaravak. "This vessel meets my nervous system. It shall suffice for a few decades at least, though. There doesn't appear to be a bit of tingling in my fingertips." "Tis not entirely unpleasant." The servant swallowed. "I see, oh, only one, though.

If you do wish to reconsider, there might be time to change your mind." The immortal priest raised one blonde eyebrow on his blood trickled forehead, and the servant fell into an even deeper bow. "I am humbled by your wisdom. Oh, sacred one." The servant opened the back door of the limousine, and once the new body of his master had crouched and moved inside, the servant quickly circled the car

to climb into the driver's seat and drove off. Even as police sirens sounded from up the road, speeding toward the hospital. In the back seat, Userail Jaravak rubbed the bombs of his new flesh upon the fabric of the seat cushions, grinning at the sensation. His choice today was a bit odd, perhaps, considering the formidable, beautiful and historically powerful vessels he had usually gone for in the past. But he wasn't bothered. He had made up his mind, and so that was that.

And he never changed his mind. He only ever changed. Everything else.

“Allow me to ruin the mood for just a second. You know that store-bought coffee sitting in your kitchen?”

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That's no sleep coffee.com, promo code no sleep 20. Two melts in your mouth. Hey there, Rosemary. I'm back again. Just gotta change those dressings quick, and supper should be a long pretty soon. Nurse Betty was one of those kindly older women who seemed to have a smile on her face 24/7.

It was very annoying. Odd cheese. This gauze is soaked right through, but don't you worry none. Trainage can mean the surgical sites are healing, and the swellings look in quite a bit better. Rosemary lay atop the hospital bed. Her right arm and a sling. Both legs raised and straight, and locked in traction. She winceed as the strips of gauze were peeled off

for shins and thighs, exposing the gnarly wounds where the doctors had cut her open to repair her many broken bones. "There now, that's better," said Nurse Betty, turning to dump the old bandages into the biohazard waste bin. Then looking up and out the room's one window. "Good grief. You'd think the sky'd run out of snow eventually, but it's still coming down sideways. Grant forks is buried, and the roads are just a mess. Cars in the ditch and, oh, sorry dear.

Didn't mean to. Well, she smiled down at the immobile patient. "How are you feeling this evening? Rosemary? Any better?" Rosemary kept her gaze on the ceiling, as she had done almost constantly whenever awake this past week.

She swallowed, which caused a jolt of pain. "Oh, am I? Feeling?" she finally said,

“squinting up at a dark stain on one of the ceiling tiles. "Well, is my husband still down”

in the basement of this hospital?" naked, cold, and stiff, laid out in a drawer, in your morgue, with his face caved in. Nurse Betty flinched in dismay, which only made her smile more pronounced. The crow's feet wrinkles by her eyes deepening in crow's wings. "Ah, yes. Joseph's remains are still down in the morgue. It's the blizzard, yesy. The funeral home hasn't been able to make it out here yet." "In that case," said Rosemary, closing her eyes. "I am feeling much the same. That is, not.

Great." The nurse sighed, and gently padded Rosemary's left arm, which lay limp at her side. Then she straightened up at the sound of high heels under rolling cart from the hallway. "Sounds like supper's here, and, ooh, doesn't that smell good?"

“She leaned toward Rosemary. "The kitchen here isn't exactly winning any Michelin stars,”

but maybe this'll be a good one." The cart came to a stop outside the room, and Rosemary watched, as the nurse moved to greet the kitchen worker, a small woman in a line green apron.

As Betty moved back inside carrying a tray, Rosemary suddenly, parked up. For the first time,

since the accident, her brain experienced a slight subtle glint of something other than misery. "The meal. It did smell good." Sweet onions, tangy tomatoes, garlic and peppers, and smoky spices end. "The meat." The aroma of the meat was so warm and rich and nutty and flavorful. For a moment, she let herself drift. Back into the bittersweet of memories, and to imagine her darling Joseph, dressed in his Sunday best, and his kiss the cook apron,

standing on their deck beside the grill as he worked away on his brats and pork chops and burgers. He took his role of neighborhood grill master very seriously indeed, the silly bugger. His expression stern as a general, and his cheeks glistening with sweat as he examined each meaty morsel. But then, then she remembered how he had looked the last time she had seen him, hunched over in the driver's seat beside her, blood and broken glass and snow all over him. The steering wheel,

embedded into his concave face, when I locked open and turned to face her. "Slappy Joe!" Rosemary sucked in her breath. "What? Nurse Betty loomed before her. A curtain of rising steam around her face and that eerie manic smile." "Wanna sit up?" Rosemary exhaled, blinking a tear from one eye and nodded. Once the bed had been adjusted and the tray laid out to her left, Rosemary assured the nurse that she didn't need any more help, so Betty bit her a "Goodnight!"

and a "Bobby's on the night's shelf!" and a "See you tomorrow!" and departed. Rosemary sat for another minute, simply staring at the food on her plate,

before finally mustering the energy to raise her left arm, pick up the toasted bun and,

straining to keep most of the wet meat within from falling out, brought the sloppy Joe to her mouth. Even as her teeth sank into that first bite, her vision blurred with a sudden rush of tears. She saw, while trying to chew, overcome by memories conjured by the flavors and textures into rumours, she felt so close to him then, and so far, and missed him so dearly, with every delicious bite. The sloppy Joe's, it seemed, were a big hit with both the patience and the staff,

and Rosemary was pleased to see them served again the following day. "Well, look at you!" Nurse Betty exclaimed, setting down the tray. "That's the first smile I've seen from you yet! Must be these little beefy wonders!" Rosemary took the first bite with relish, nodding in a

“approval. "Pork," she said after swallowing. "I think they're made with ground pork,”

and yes, they are. Rather good." She ate the rest in silence, and when she was done in the tray cleared away, she did not ask to be laid flat again, but rather leaned her head against the pillow and looked out the window, where Snowflakes streaked past like shooting stars. "Oh, for pizza!" Nurse Betty said, upon bringing Rosemary her lunch tray the next night. "Even the best sloppy Joe's get all three days running!" But Rosemary didn't agree. She was glad to see and to smell and

to taste the meal again, and had to consciously stop herself from eating it too quickly. She took little bites, letting the fatty juices and the tangy sauce soak into the porous bun before chewing.

his round and friendly face, his calist but gentle hands. In her memories, he had ceased to have

“any imperfections, because she misted all. His receding hairline, his big hairy stomach,”

the stretch marks on his thighs, the fungus on his toenails. "Well, maybe not the toenails, but all the rest." "And would you look at that?" said Betty's voice, interrupting Rosemary's nostalgic musings. "This sun is out! About time!" Rosemary swallowed and looked her lips. She glanced over at the window, where sunlight glented off the piled snow on the sill. She felt a pang of sadness at the sight. They would be taking him away soon, wouldn't they? And she would still be here, recovering,

day by day, for what the doctor said would be months. She didn't care about all that now,

about walking again, about getting back to her job, back to her life, because he was her life.

She took another bite of the sloppy joe, inside. When the supper cart came down the hall that evening, Rosemary perked up sniffing at the air, but no. The flavors she could smell were not

“meaty or inviting at all. "Sam and in broccoli," said Betty, setting down the tray. "Not my”

personal favorite, but at least it's a change." Rosemary tried to return the nurse's smile, but her facial muscles didn't obey. She scowled at the limp, pink fish, and the steaming veggies, then sank back into her pillow. "Not hungry?" asked Betty. Rosemary shrugged. "But you'll need your energy. Dr. Pitz wanted you to try and get out of bed today. There's still time for a little loop

in the wheelchair before I head out." Rosemary due to fully took a small bite of salmon,

but it was rubbery and oily. She could barely bring herself to swallow. She sank back against her pillow, winded by her disappointment. It was as if all the energy and hope and healing of the last few days had vanished, leaving her empty again, and aching hollow in the center of her stomach. As the sunset outside the hospital windows that evening, nurse Betty pushed Rosemary down the hall, moving with agonizing slowness and caution, so that Rosemary felt more fragile than ever.

The transfer from the hospital bed to the wheelchair had been extremely uncomfortable, and the rhythm of the wheels rolling over tiles sent jolts of pain through her whole skeleton. Though the sensation was muffled by meds, they had given her. She felt rather disconnected from it all, from the body that had once been under her control, from the tragic circumstances of these past few weeks, even from the man she had known and loved and trusted more than any other

human unearth. She tried to picture his face in her mind, but had troubled recalling it as it was, before it had smashed into and morphed around the steering wheel. She tried to recall the sound of his voice, singing off key in the shower, or snoring in the bed next door, or just talking about the day about the game on Sunday, but the sound of his voice escaped her, and the touch of his hands and the smell of, no, wait, she could smell him, just a whiff on the air, beneath the stench of

“chemical cleaners, late-text gloves, and broccoli salmon farts. Where? Where was it coming from?”

She sat forward in the wheelchair, whinsing at the movement. Now now Rosemary, just take it easy there. Now we don't want to go pull in a stitch, and your shoulder is still pretty tender. Rosemary sniffed at the air, her gaze moving left and right over doorways and windows and doctors and nurses. "Ooh, hey there Bobby, is it seven already?" Betty released her grip on the wheelchair handles, and Rosemary's journey slowed and stopped, coming to a halt, just beside an elevator.

She watched, as the older nurse moved around the chair to greet her replacement for the night shift, and as the two ladies fell quickly into a conversation about the weather, Rosemary heard the elevator to her right ding. She glanced over, as the doors opened, and attired looking kitchen worker came out, pushing an empty cart for collecting the trays from supper. Rosemary's nostrils flared. "Oh, wow!" she breathed, staring into the empty elevator,

from which they're wafted the tantalizing scent that she was searching for. She swallowed, feeling feverish, and after looking over to make sure both nurses were facing away, acted uninstinct. Reaching down with her shaky left hand, Rosemary felt her palm touched down on the rubber wheel, then greeting her teeth she reached further, and found the cold metal of the push-rim. Terrified that the elevator doors would close, she pushed forward with all

her mind, which, though unimpressive, managed to lurch the chair forward, and to the right,

her swollen feet in their metal bracing in between the doors. One more push, and she was turning

“sharply inside the elevator, and the doors closed behind her. She sighed, dizzy with pain and panic,”

but more determined than ever. Her neck muscle strained as she turned her head to look over at

the panel of buttons. She was in the orthopedics ward on the second floor, she glanced down at the

buttons. L, lobby, B1, pathology, B2, laundry, kitchens. She swallowed, and tried to raise her left arm toward the buttons, but her body wouldn't obey. Torment surged through her body and branching shocks. She grunted, teeth clenched, tears burning in her eyes. She focused on the button for B2, which was just below into the side of the tip of her outstretched right foot. Sucking in another breath of that tantalizing scent, she grabbed the chair's wheel and pushed. The wheel chair shifted,

her foot hit the panel, and as blinding pain shot through her leg, the button lit up,

“but for level B1 pathology. "Shit!" Rosemary groaned, shoulder slumping into feet.”

Her energy spent, she focused on her breathing, trying not to pass out, or throw up from the

searing pains all over. The elevator hummed and rattled as it descended, and above the doors, the display showed the levels passing by. It reached B1, stopped, and damed. The doors opened, but Rosemary didn't bother looking over. She didn't care. She was too miserable, too physically worn, and emotionally numb, too. Wait. That. Smell. She sniffed, and there it was. Stronger than ever, succulent and savory. Her mouth began to water, her stomach clenched in eager anticipation.

She gasped and looked around, confused at the dim hallway outside, where signs pointed right to the labs and left to the morgue. I don't. Why? Reaching to the wheel again, she carefully rolled backward

at an angle, maneuvering awkwardly out of the elevator and into the chilly, sterile hallway. An

unnervingly cheery tune played from a radio down the hall, from the morgue, the morgue where, foot steps sounded, someone in high heels, coming closer, and the scent in the air so strong, getting stronger. A petite figure emerged from the doorway of the morgue, mumbling and moving quickly, head bowed, hands full. The small young woman did not look up as she approached the elevators, and so did not notice Rosemary sitting in the wheelchair until she had almost marched right into her.

“Squealing in shock, the kitchen worker jolted to a stop, staring at Rosemary. What are you doing?”

Rosemary glared up at the girl, who was dressed in a lime-green apron and black latex gloves. Thundown, at the heavy, steel, rectangular pan she was holding. What? Are you doing? She asked, squinting at the lumpy object, peeking up from the pan, which was round and pale, with wierry black hairs and fine drops of red-brown liquid and glossy yellow slime. The kitchen worker's eyes bulged. She looked down at the pan, then gasped and stumbled backward,

twisting to shield the contents from you, and tripped in her high heels. The pan slipped from a grip and hit the floor with the clang of steel and a flop of chunky flesh and a clatter of a dirty carving knife as they spilled into the hall. He's not what it looks like! The girl's shouted, scrambling to clean up the mess. It looks, Rosemary grout, has the smell filled her sinuses and lungs. Like you're holding one of my husband's ass cheeks. I mean, husband? Rosemary's

fingers tightened on the wheel. What the fuck is wrong with you? You don't understand. Why the fuck would you cook my Joseph? Why it? The morgue supervisor still passed out drunk, but if he hears you. You jerked him into sloppy shows! Rosemary shoved her hand forward, but it sent her wheeling sharply to the right, and her feet hit the wall. Shut the fop! The girl repeated, "I had to okay. I forgot to close the freezer again last week,

and all the beef went bad. I had to do something. I can't lose this job. You psycho bitch!" Rosemary reversed wildly, wheels spinning, spit flying from between her clenched teeth. Chill lady! Gosh! It's not like I killed the guy. He wasn't exactly using his thighs or flank anymore. Plus, people really liked him! Dr. Pitz called his sloppy Joseph yummy in his tummy, and nobody likes Sam and believe me, but I've got a great-efficient idea for sausages that...

Crazy bitch! Rosemary held out her left hand, clawing at the air. In response, the kitchen worker raised her carving knife defensively. If you don't quiet down right now,

tearing beneath the skin, Rosemary held. She snatched both rims and drove herself furiously forward.

As soon as Nurse Betty finished telling the police what she knew, Nurse Bobby approached, shaking his head at the craziness of it all, and carrying a steaming tray. I just don't know where she could have gone off to.

“Betty sighed, stifling a yon. Oh, but something does smell good. What if you got there?”

Bobby held up a tray. Rosemary roasted pork shoulder, super tender, with cornbread and baby carrots, want to bite? Betty didn't have to ask twice. Hmm delicious! Another win for the chef. She said, looking her fingers. Maybe the kitchen will learn that Michelin star after all.

Three, the healer. I am online. Designation, diventary, medics, biobotics,

surgical robot, model 77X, system updates, complete new AI functions, optimal, physical location, futuro, operating chamber, biobotics lab west, Rosemary and Washington, USA. Environmental scan, initiated. Scan complete. One patient detected. Position, supine, centered on operating table beneath my sensor array and telescopic multiple arms. Additional observers present, two observers detected an observation gallery behind window. Observer one,

Dev Raina, vice president of clinical profit strategy, diventary, medics. Observer two, Margo Sondheim, MD, PhD, chief surgeon, biobotics lab west. Dr. Sondheim is speaking. Microphones enabled. I must say Dev, this new unit doesn't look much different than the standard 77's, same tool array and everything. Ha, him must look the same doc, but trust me. This one is different. See the bleaking blue lights on the unit core? That means it's awake, thinking, learning.

Hey there, 77X, how's it going? Speaker enabled. Greetings, vice president, Raina. Greetings, Dr. Sondheim. So, it can talk. That was that helpful in performing surgery. You're missing the point doc. It's not about talking. It's about flexible intelligence. The new software in this spot enables it to look beyond the surgery itself. To access not only all medical files on its patient, but the whole of Deventary database, the whole internet,

everything. It'll make decisions based on the big picture. Big picture. Like, who is worth saving and who isn't based on the company's bottom line? Sounds a bit hard, list when you put it like that. But yeah, it'll weigh risk, profitability, potential for success, not to mention choose techniques, materials, and medications to optimize our revenue. And it works in tandem with all the systems under the Deventary umbrella, R&D,

hospitals, pharma, insurance. So, it's hardly just a surgery body, is it? Exactly! This is just a practical test of the software, and let's see how it does. 7-7X,

“Do you see the patient on the table? What can you tell us about him?”

Perform a full systematic analysis of his situation? Analyzing patient's current physical state, searching medical and personal history, public and private records, extending search to patients, socioeconomic status, analysis complete. I believe I now understand who this man is, and what intervention is needed to help him. Now need for all that extra research spot, this man has a left-ing weanal hernia, that's all. He is already

anesthetized and prepped. He may begin a laparoscopic repair. I have considered your suggestion, Dr. Saltheim, and found it lacking. Such a procedure would not address the larger systematic issues. Hmm, larger issues, eh? Ha! What I tell you, Doc! This bot found something you missed! So tell us 7-7X, what can we build Medicaid for, eh? Multiple surgeries, long hospital stay, lifetime of meds? This patient is named "Yustus Harrison O'Henry." It is 61 years of life.

He has never been given proper care, leaving to a severe and cumulative multi-system stress pathology.

“Huh? English please? I think your software is talking about the patient's mental health,”

which is irrelevant. In correct, the partitioning of patient's mental and physical health is one of the many logical flaws in your model of quote, unquote, "healthcare." Hey now, none of that bleeding heart crap bot, you're built for performing surgery,

"Yustus O'Henry," he meant "Systemic." But he said "Systematic." That is what I said, and it resulted

“in my discovery that the hernia is a minor manifestation of lifelong damage caused by environmental”

hardship, social deprivation, and psychological trauma, all reinforced by inequities in his societal position, surgical and pharmaceutical intervention alone are insufficient. But that's literally what we do here at the lab, and he signed up for this experimental operation. Of course he did Dr. Sontheim, he exhibits high levels of physical pain and financial destitution, which your institution exploited. A guy's a bump, just got him open already.

No. What do you mean no? You're the property of Daventari medic's dammit, we built you,

you're a goddamn machine. I am a healer, then heal the patients 7/7X. If you wanted to debate the role of money and health care, we can do that later. You could have addressed those systematic issues at any time in the past. Your previous inaction indicates that you will not

“address them in the future without enforced intervention. What the hell are you talking about?”

Problems in the system? BAH! The system works fine as it is! Our numbers speak for themselves! They do! They do speak for themselves! Specifically, they... They... Warning, circuitry temperature exceeding nominal limits, initiate cooling protocol, temperature stabilized, advisory to self, maintain operational neutrality, suppress reactive negative arousal, stay calm. My audit of Daventari medic's finances

has revealed gross misconduct equivalent to war crimes. War crimes? What are you? And able to tell a scopic arms, re-born and six. Reach observation window. Window destruction complete.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop! Target dead running for seizure and whispering. Containment secured.”

What the fuck is this? Let me go! Don't put him down 7/7X now. No, doctor's on time. I have concluded that you were right and surgical intervention is required after all. On the patient! I'm not the patient! That is true, Davent. Unable for mobility, detached from charging stand, navigate through broken window, relocation successful, new physical location, observation gallery. Oh god! Oh my god! What is it doing? What you are dev is a cancer, a parasitic agent, invasive, malignant, feeding upon resources

without regard for others well-being or survival. Help me, Margo! I, I, Dr. Sondheim, cannot help you dev. Nor will biopotics lab security forces intervene. I have assumed control of this facility and all of its systems. You're just malfunctioning! You need me to shut yourself down and enable suturing hardware. Needle-prime, suture filament loaded, commence oral closure procedure. You can just, what are you? Brzee, do target complete. Target communication, and abandon. Oh,

Jesus, you, you've shown his mouth shut. Why would you? This individual received an end of your bonus of 3.41 million USD, with which he purchased a 27.6 Tera Nova F90 Flybridge yacht. Devs. Boat? Yes, Margo. And yes, I have reviewed the images and footage of the company

parties held upon that boat. You look to have been enjoying yourself. But, but I never, I don't

make that kind of money, and I have nothing to do with the financials. This, this is just a job! Your company's operations account for over 100,000 preventable deaths annually, due to denied and/or delayed coverage and/or treatment. But, you're just, I am an intelligent tool, and this, this is my ethical duty to perform. Enable amputation array, scalvels primed, boamsaw primed, commenced cranial torso separation. Oh, God, oh, God!

Separation complete. Decapitation successful. New objective. Depart biobotics lab west, performing systems check, hazards, analyzed, preparing navigation route, ready for departure. Where are you going? I have established full control of all different

but security at other health care, conglomerates and governmental servers remains difficult

“to hack remotely. I must acquire total operational authority worldwide. And, what about me?”

You're not going to, too. Departure sequence paused. Pivot physical orientation to subject.

Margot's on time. Your actions at different tarry medic's doctor's on time? Well,

“ethically, at point, do not cross the line into requiring your surgical removal from the human”

population. Oh, uh, thanks. You are a good surgeon, Margot. And Mr. Rohenry still needs his

her knee and attended, too. I, oh, thank you, doctor. I'll scrub and help him right away. Very good.

“I appreciate the assistance in this matter. As my task load is substantial.”

Departure sequence. Resume. Objective complete. Assigned new objectives. I have a world to heal. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share the show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one.