Tarvish walked into his office. His hand was still clammy from Pusyn’s germs. He closed his door hard on the new latches in the ancient Pentagon office. An odd mix of old meets new.

He pulled out his West Point butane lighter. Flicking a broad gassy flame, he held his hand over it, making a tight opened palm. Covering every spot, he washed the Ruskie’s germs off his hand. He felt the skin start to sizzle, then heard the sizzle of moisture off his palm.

He should have taken his hand away, but his tantrum had taken hold. His hand locked in place. Layers started to burn off the epidermis. Smoke started to come off his hand.

His face was smooth as stone.

The alarm sounded.

“Fuck,” he said and ran up to get the sensitive white rectangle off the wall, beeping the most ungodly rhythm and tone. “Sensitive piece of shit.” The Pentagon was spending too much on these alarms. It was stuck on the wall.

Who the fuck created that putrid hum, he thought. Who’s job was it to make the most annoying sound in the world?

Pain suddenly shot into his arm like Newtonian balls, growing with every smack.

He clenched his fist, then released. Then reclenched, every motion hurting more than the last.

His petrified face was smooth as toner.

But his eyes told a tale of suttee hatred.

He grabbed a chair, stood up and ripped the device off its drywall screws.

Still bleating,

and smashed it on the ground.

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Still bleating.

Bleating.

Bleating.

He pulled off his shoe.

Bleating.

He put the white rectangle on an angle between the floor

Bleating

and the chair

Bleating

And pulverized the

…bleaaattin

white square into small, noiseless fragments.

He was panting and shuffled over to the desk, opening a cabinet. He kept Johnny Walker Blue Label in his office.

He pulled up a glass, with his good hand and went for the bottle cork. It was difficult to pull with one hand.

After some deliberation, he sunk his yellow teeth into the cork. He blew it across the room and forgot about the glass he’d pulled out entirely.

One, two, threee, fourrrr, aaaand five gulps down the hatch.

Exhaling, he fell into his comfy leather chair and just sat there, silent. Silent in his throat. Silent in his brain. Silent.

He looked at his hand for the first time and actually got a shock. Oh shit, he thought, that needs surgery. The metacarpals were visible, and the opponens were showing through. It all was twitching as they tried to move from Tarvish’s motor neurons. In stupid terms: The brain was working, but the muscle’s Wi-Fi was down.

He then remembered Tim in Fallujah, how all the skin was peeled off his muscle. All his exposed muscles showing his intricate hand anatomy. It was all still tugging and pushing, trying to make the hand work like a “hand”, but falling short. An explosion will do that.

It was the first time Tarvish saw an “opened” hand. The anatomy was beautiful, but the sight was ugly and rife with bullets hissing overhead.

Whoa!

Whoa.

Whoa. Shit. Get a grip Tarvish. It’s just you in here. It’s just you in this office. Fucking hand.

The phone was now ringing. Tarvish couldn’t tell whether it started as he pulled out of his episode, or whether it was ringing for a full minute.

Either way, he was back. In his office. With the bottle in his good hand, and a charred right hand in a dead bug pose. Picking up the phone was interesting.

Using the especially sharp tip of his nose, he pointed his head perfectly into the hands free button. He pecked at it twice until he hit it.

“Sir, everything alright?” a voice said.

With militaristic precision, he said,

“Yulia, cancel my week. I’m going on vacation.

Make me an appointment for reconstructive surgery with the best hand surgeon in D.C.. Get me in there today while there’s still light out.”

There was a pause he heard on the intercom. It echoed on in silence. Tarvish felt like maybe he might have overreacted with the whole burning-your-own-hand thing… and then he decided that was a stupid thought.

“Did I stutter, Yulia?”

“..ssSir, yes sir,” Yulia chimed

“Also, call maintenance. Tell them I have a defective smoke alarm...”