The Lich towers over the infectious disease doctor. The skeletal demon’s eyes are blazing with fire and its torn lips curled back in rage.
WHY IS THERE FILTHY LOVE IN MY HOSPITAL? DISGUSTING HUMAN SICKNESS. WHERE DID IT COME FROM?
The infectious disease doctor flickers his forked tongue over his lips nervously, trying to escape the torment of the Lich’s voice. The Lich's rage echoes through his skull like the sound of a village massacre, a cacophony of bloodcurdling screams and splintering bones. In his mind’s eye, the doctor sees vivid images of severed heads on pikes, of fungal rot invading dead trees, of entire cities melting beneath a black sun.
"I don't know where it came from?" He responds, unsure why he is asking a question. "We, we eradicated all traces of Love one hundred years ago..."
SO WHY DO I HAVE AN ORDERLY HOLDING HANDS WITH A NURSE? IT’S LOVE! A PERVERSION IN THE FACE OF YOG.
"Love is a troublesome disease. Most difficult to eradicate."
YOU'LL DO IT THOUGH, WON'T YOU? YOU'LL GET RID OF IT ALL, SCOUR EVERY TRACE OF THIS FILTH FROM OUR HOSPITAL BEFORE THE COMMISSION ARRIVES.
The infectious disease doctor licks the warts on his chin. It's a nervous tic, this licking thing, but Yog knows he has reason to be nervous. For good measure, his long tongue unfurls and licks his bare feet. Best to lick it all, right? As far as he knows, the only way to become an expert on infectious disease is to acquire them all. And he’s running quite the list already, isn’t he? Plague, scurvy, neurosyphilis and just last week, a new strain of HPV. The scrofula is coming in nicely, and his buboes are positively throbbing with pain.
So why, oh why, is the Lich bearing down on him like this? Can't the administration see he's doing everything he can to spread the right kind of germs—the good kind, that make people sick?
"The thing about Love is, it spreads quickly," he says. "Faster than the common cold, even. It transmits through eyesight alone and slithers into the brain. Makes you euphoric and disinhibited. Compulsive. In severe cases, completely encephalopathic. I remember when the Janitor fell in love with--"
The Lich's empty eye sockets swell with darkness. QUIET. DO NOT SPEAK. DO YOUR JOB. QUARANTINE THESE PEOPLE.
"Of course. Right away."
IF THIS THING GETS OUT, I WILL SKIN YOU ALIVE.
"Please, there's no need for threats."
THERE IS ALWAYS A NEED.
"Hm, I'll be going then?" He is desperate to escape. Already he can feel the blood pouring down his nose, and he knew it isn't the neurosyphilis in his brain, but rather the Lich's telepathic fury that is liquifying his brain.
OFF YOU FUCK THEN, the Lich dismisses him. AND STOP LICKING THE DOOR.
He scurries out the room, needing no further invitation to leave. He'll need to institute a quarantine, tracing all contacts to Nurse Wretched and Timotheee Gargantuan, and that will take time. But he will be patient and diligent, because he is an infectious disease doctor, and there is no detail he will overlook.
Not even that little string of pus on the doorknob outside the Lich's office, that catches his eye on the way out.
Of course, the Lich said not to lick the knob, but the Lich can't see him out here—and what's the harm, really?
The doctor wipes the oily sweat from his scaly brow and wets his lips.
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