The Events in Lab B

“And thus we see…Hang on. Is the, um, the thingy recording?”

“Yeah, for like the fourth time, if the red light is on, it’s recording.”

“So, sue me. I’m a little nervous. There is a fair amount of precedent to be set and scientific foundation to be built in such an auspicious moment.”

“Right. Cause the town drunk said this giant cocoon came from a pulsating rock that fell from the sky, and totally isn’t a prop from a bad B movie.”

“Great. Just great. Now that’s on record. Barbara, if you can’t take this seriously I can find another lab assistant.”

“Nobody else with work with you, Dr Enright. You know that. I know that. My paycheck reflects that.”

“Okay. Okay. Okay. We are getting derailed. For the record, ahem, prior conversation is between myself, Dr Marcus L. Enright, PhD, and my current laboratory assistant, Ms Barbara G. Clobis. No degree. Yet. Grad student in molecular biology and zoology. Zoology dissection lab. Ten-thirty-seven in the PM on September tenth.”

“Thank you.”

“Moving right along, if there are no further distractions…”

“You’re the one triple checking if we’re recording.”

“Ahem! If there are no further distractions, we begin our dissection of the sack in question. The specimen is roughly cylindrical with tapered edges, not unlike a large grain of rice, measuring forty-seven centimeters in length and twenty-three centimeters in circumference at its middle. Weighed upon arrival, the specimen was five point three kilograms. Surface is roughly textured but wispy or striated, as though woven from fine fibers of unknown origin.”

“I’m guessing origin as The Dollar Store, bargain thread bin.”

“Ahem. Please disregard all further comments by Ms Clobis. As I was saying, the surface appears woven. Beginning circumferential incision with ten blade scalpel at midline. Texture is course, but the blade penetrates with a modicum of force, and I am…hmph…able to saw through with brisk action and not much more force than to cut stale bread. Proceeding all the way around, manually turning the specimen. Side note, both my lab assistant and I are taking necessary precautions, having donned eye protection, surgical masks, and elbow length surgical gloves for the dissection.”

“And we look ridiculous.”

“You look ridiculous. I look like a scientist. Continuing. Now, the moment of truth, as I have completed the cut all the way around and am gingerly prying the two halves apart to reveal…”

“Absolutely nothing! Nothing! You’ve won nothing! It’s like the end of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.”

“Shush! Just shush! Again, continuing. The inside of the specimen is smooth, appearing to be lined by a thin membrane of sorts. Some residue of moisture remains on the interior surface. Sterile swab.”

“What?”

“Sterile swab.”

“What about a sterile swab?”

“Sigh. When I say that, it means I’m asking you, my assistant, to hand me a sterile swab.”

“Oh. Why can’t you ask in a complete sentence like a normal person?”

“Because I’m not a normal person; I’m a scientist.”

“Douche.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Here’s your swab.”

“Thank you, Ms Clobis. Proceeding now to obtain a sample of said moisture and will have my assistant label the specimen container as Sample number 1. Ms Clobis.”

“Got it. I label it as Sample numero uno, because there are so many other exciting things to sample from the empty piece of…Dr Enright.”

“Yes, Ms Clobis?”

“Could you take your hands off the specimen for, like, a second?”

“Why would I do that? I’m inspecting it.”

“Um, please?”

“Fine. There. I have removed my hands from the specimen, standing back a pace so that my assistant can…observe unobstructed?”

“How much did you say it weighted on arrival?”

“Hmm, five point three kilograms.”

“Did you, you know, tare the scale or anything since then?”

“No. Why would I do that? Wait. Why would you ask that?”

“Cause now the scale says one point two kilograms.”

“What? That can’t be. A moment. Re-inspecting. Scale indeed reads one point two kilograms. Resuming inspection of the specimen. Smooth inner surface, with moisture as noted. Aside from the previously described incision than interior lining appears intact all of the way…shit.”

“Shit doesn’t sound very scientific, doc.”

“Roughly…um, seven centimeters from the incision, on the right half of the specimen there appears to be a hole that can’t be more than one fourth to one half centimeter across. Unable to visualize if this hole goes all the way through the outer lining as the woven, rough surface includes sufficient nooks, defects, and other disruptions that would and likely are masking the location of the hole. Perhaps if I move it thusly, repositioning such that the light comes through from the inside, and I look at the…aha! Yes! Confirmed. Yes, confirmed via the presence of illumination that there is indeed a patent hole from the interior of the specimen to the…uh, from the inside…to, um, to the…”

“To the community college laboratory where we are currently standing around like a couple of idiots who had no place whatsoever opening a space egg.”

“Space egg?! Space egg?! You were the one who said it came from the Dollar Store, so don’t get all holier-than-thou at this juncture!”

“Testy much?”

“I don’t have time for your petty jibes, young lady. Think, think, think. Where were we?”

“In a lab. Late at night. All alone. By my math, in a sealed room with about four point one kilograms of leaked space goo unaccounted for.”

“Maybe it’s just Dollar Store goo.”

“That’s not very scientific, doc.”

“Right. No problem. We remain calm. First step, activate the quarantine protocol, same as if this were a regular biohazard, which is the red button on the wall behind me. Locks the doors. Reverses air flow. Provides initial containment, as well as alerting local police and fire to a potential biohazard at this location. So, we just have to press the button. Which is right there. On the wall.”

“So, like, why aren’t you going to press it?”

“Why aren’t you pressing it?”

“It was your idea.”

“Assistant, go press the button.”

“Shit.”

“I thought you said shit wasn’t very scientific.”

“You’re a very petty, small man.”

“You’re a horrible assistant.”

“Debatable, but at the moment, um, I can’t move. Can you?”

“Sigh. No. No, I cannot.”

“But we can talk, and I can, like, move my eyes and stuff.”

“As can I, so not all voluntary muscles are affected, nor are postural muscled necessarily incapacitated. No sign of smooth muscle failure as of yet.”

“What would that look like, exactly?”

“Involuntary defecation, possibly urination.”

“Great. Something to be grateful for.”

“Ms Clobis, I want you to remain calm, focus on my voice, and do not panic.”

“Panic? Why would I panic? Do I have a reason to panic?”

“I can just make out that there is what appears to be a pink and orange…um, glob of something currently making its way up the back of your thigh.”

“What?! What?! How can I not panic? Shit. How do I panic? I can’t move!”

“I suspect the two things are connected, the mysterious glob and your inability to move.”

“Oh, and what gave you that inestimable bit of deductive reasoning, Sherlock?!”

“There’s no need for sarcasm. In all likelihood there is a similar glob somewhere on my person also ascending and rendering me immobilized.”

“Small comfort, but okay. What do we do?”

“I’m focusing very hard on moving.”

“I’m going to shit my pants.”

“Not what I would have thought to try, but it might elicit a response.”

“I’m not trying to, you idiot! It’s just going to happen, or something. It’s an expression, cause I’m scared!”

“Oh. Still, if you could, by all means proceed.”

“I am not crapping my pants for science!”

“Again, I would urge calm, Ms Clobis. My suggestion is not purely for science, but in truth our very survival may hinge on your defecation.”

“How about you poop in your pants?”

“Fine.  We shall both endeavor to defecate.”

“Are you trying? Cause it doesn’t look like you’re trying to…oh wait, I think I felt something!”

“Yes, the glob is on your posterior.”

“Eww, I think it’s damp.”

“Oh, oh god. That’s…ugh, that’s unpleasant. It’s on my stomach, and yes, it is very damp. Right through the shirt. Cold and damp as it continues to progress caudally.”

“Oh, oh, oh, I see what you mean. It’s on my shirt. It’s like a gigantic, cold booger crawling up my shirt.”

“Yeah, but not the dry, crusty kind. The slimy kind, like a fresh sneeze or a loogie.”

“Is loogie the scientific term?”

“You are the most impertinent…ulp, oh god. I think it sped up. It’s touching my neck. It’s on my neck! I can smell…oh god. I’m going to throw up.”

“Yes! Do that! Throw up! Can you throw up?”

“Horrrrk. Whelllllp. Hunnnn. Hunnnn. Nope.”

“Damn it.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault you couldn’t puke. I couldn’t crap my pants.”

“No, I mean I’m sorry for…well, all of this. Dollar Store or not, it wasn’t my place to attempt dissecting it. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, doc. Does this mean we’re going to die?”

“I’m not sure. It’s possible that…herrrrk. In my mouf. Iss in my mouf. Iss going in ma…”

“Doctor Enright! Doc! Oh, that is really gross. That’s just…oh, that’s really disgusting, like a Jello thick vomit in reverse and in slow motion. Doc, can you still hear me? Blink if you can hear me? Look left and right really quick if you can still hear me. No, not roll your eyes back in your head if you…right, that can’t be good. On the off chance you can hear me, it was me who keyed your car last week. There. I said it. It’s on tape. I’m not entirely sorry, but I said…errrrrg, phfffft, blegh…even worse than it lookth. The thmell! The thmell!”

[end recording]