“Nathan, San Antonio cyber security is doing fine… Rx Technology has a rider in your contract specifying you’ll be taken care of—”
“You took… m-m-mah-mmuuaah-my m-muh-muah-money!”
“Yes, well, I’m not a miracle worker, am I? Look, you’re talking better! Nathan, you turned that goat into lasagna at 160 miles an hour! You careened over a cliff, knocked a tree in two with your head, and turned a $250,000 lime-green Lamborghini into junkyard fodder! You’re lucky to be alive! And you’re making progress. Just… commit to your physical therapy sessions, okay?”
“N-n-no one ev-evvv-ever re-re-recover-re-re… got better… fro-from th-thrr-therapy—”
“Yes, but Nathan, you’ve made strides! Recite the services of the San Antonio cyber security company you used to work for— remember? Bein’ Mimi?”
Nathan Rizzo sighed, but complied— it wasn’t much, but it was something: “W-we o-offer:
Backup and Disaster Recovery Solutions
Education IT Services
Network Security Solutions
Managed IT Services
Municipal IT Services
…ANNNNGH!” This monosyllabic grunt at the end came because Nathan’s left leg was doing its tap dance that happened every time he said or heard the word “help.” No one had been able to tell him why.
“N-NNNN-N… Nnnnn— NO!” And Nathan threw a bedpan at him.
The Therapist’s Advice
The doctor ducked, barely restraining an expletive. He sighed brusquely, then: “You should see your therapist,” and left.
Nathan followed him with woeful eyes, but took his advice. After their regular session, the therapist said: “I’ve withheld this from you because I understand your pragmatism… but our Estranged File… it may help you.” Nathan started tap-dancing with his leg, grunting and beating the appendage with an arm he almost had full control of. The therapist pretended not to notice. “…maybe you can get some he— er… assistance here.”
“MMMMM!” Nathan replied, too excited to try anything approaching proper enunciation.
The therapist gave him a dossier with a picture of a man harboring a swollen head, and a story that even included a subconscious spasm response to the word “brains.”
Nathan found him under a bridge playing chess with flawless moves. He almost didn’t believe it was the man, but then he came lurching toward him with the spasm word and knew it must be the guy. Nathan said: “B-B-B-BRAINS!”
The man snapped back from the chessboard, knocking pieces everywhere, and immediately started doing disco moves, yelling: “Help! Help!”, which prompted Nathan to start tap-dancing his foot. The guy’s opponent took one look at the brain-damaged dancers and left.
Eventually their tics subsided. The man who had been playing chess said: “You have an injury in the b— head.”
The man squinted. “You were that guy who drove his Lamborghini off the cliff, right? You worked in San Antonio cyber security? Read about you.”
“You want help.”
Nathan growled and did his tap dance.
“Sorry— well… the universe is wide. But it isn’t all. Sometimes answers you seek are beyond the pale…” He gestured toward the sky.
Nathan stared at him, angrily grunted, then slouched his shoulders and trudged away. The man was indicating the supernatural. There could be no corporeal solution. But as he trudged off, the chess master shook his head and smiled, saying, “You’ll know soon enough,” then wrote down an address, tapped Nathan on the shoulder, gave it to him, laughed, and disappeared.