Dr Platypus and the Driverless Car by G J Hart

First I hated him. Fucking despised him. You wouldn't believe the cutlery I broke the day he changed his avatar, (perhaps you would).

 

I had --------#--- syndrome. Only I didn't. Not if no one was around. Leery face.

 

The first thing I noticed were the accreditations hanging on the wall. One from the Search Bar clinic, another from Turkey Hut.

 

Internet quack! Useless Asshole!

 

He clicked on some 8-bit oompah, 2 framed it to his desk and began reeling off what HE'D eaten. Mashed pebble mostly, with honey clouds and grilled Pooch. Like that ever helped. (IT DOES SOMETIMES)

 

I explained the lengths I'd been driven to ameliorate my symptoms: I ticked holidays, alcohol and of course, grilled Poch. He wet slapped his diagnosis straight back:

get some fucking perspective.

 

Next morning, Jason arrived with fruit. Nice touch. Click

 

Jason was the first person in town to see a driverless car.

 

“What's do you think it's like,” he asked.

 

“Like a taxi,” I replied, “but without a taxi driver.”

 

He laughed and slapped my back.

 

That night Dr Platypus was waiting, prone and propped on one elbow, glitching slowly across water the colour of yogurt. I ticked a, a, a, and finally a. My grandmother had died young of 'Dentin.' My grandfather had lived until 93.

 

I had his sour taste in furnishings and my grandmother's nose. His diagnosis was fast and crisp:

TWAT.

 

.......upstairs, the running water, always the running water. I checked my search history. 24 minutes ago someone had searched, 'best bb sauce'. I rotated the mauve book 38 degrees.

 

Outside I heard an engine and pushed a finger slowly through the curtain. The car had gone. Again. Every time I thought I had things figured this happened.

I rotated the yellow block 12 degrees and then checked my search history: 'strangest mammals.'

 

This was a game changer.

 

The buzzing had stopped. Maybe the poison had worked, I couldn't be sure, but I was sure of the maths: B - S always equaled 12 and always turned up green.

 

I rotated the block and realized I hadn't checked the oven.

 

The oven was big, big enough to climb inside. The griddle diddle could mean many things. I'd never dared turn it on!

 

I needed him.....

 

I was woken at 5 am.

 

I opened the porch door and Jason held up his hand.

 

“There are wheels,” he said, “beneath the skin. You need to open that shit up,” he said.

 

I chewed on my cereal and watched as he held his hands up to the morning sun. That night Dr Platypus demanded money. I immediately entered my bank details.

 

He appeared from behind a poorly rendered rock, his mouth crammed with dead pixels. I ticked c, then b, f, and e. His response was preternaturally swift.

 

Cut your jeans short. Always button to the neck. Oh, and go fuck yourself.

Next morning, as we walked out toward the fields, Jason panicked. He sprinted ahead I followed fast, past the glowing, polychrome walls of the cathedral, across the old Bridge and up time pastel steps.

He accelerated along the tow path, then dived down through brambles and stinkweed. When I caught up he was squatting and chewing on a stalk.

 

“I don't know what I feel about big butts,” he said.

 

By the time I sat down in front of Dr Platypus, my mind felt like a bagful of broken latches.

 

The pond was empty. His stethoscope undulated like eel over brick shaped ripples and I couldn't think straight.

 

I clicked panic. Anus, car insurance and French cheese.

 

The water began to bubble. The bubbles rose in the air like used condoms. One popped and there, centre screen, dripping in weed and suckled by leeches, his diagnosis:

 

Kill yourself.