it starts with a call, a call from his mother. sophia says ¡°come quick, macgyver¡¯s been hurt. he was just on his way home from saving the world again, he got jumped by some kids, he went down, now he¡¯s dying.¡± so i threw on my coat an ran out the door, sped through the night to the old hospital, where the doctors said to wait, so i camped in the ward, watching the clock as it haemorrhages time so slow. and i¡¯ve lingered here so long. the air in here so cold. the shallow breath so quiet. the shibboleth of macguiver laid bare, flat on a table, blackened by bruises he couldn¡¯t explain. and there was nothing he could build to save himself out of biros and blue-tack. they opened up his cavities in the operating theatre, but the doctors couldn¡¯t find a heart, his lymph glands running motor oil. his calloused fingers lie inert, their intricate ability punctured by the god-shaped hole in adolescent consciousness. he couldn¡¯t build a bomb to mend the splinters of his broken heart. his home-made radar couldn¡¯t find a way to make his weapons art. macgyver bleeds out all of his rationalism. isaac newton, your lever is not long enough. the scottish enlightenment a sinking ship. so i left the hospital with the bleep of life support machines a memory.
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Mae Gyver
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| Million Dead |
