HOLLYWOOD—Below the lovely soft skin and serene face of Suzanne Katselas, a savage battle was being fought. Unseen and unsuspected by the naked eye, Trojan soldiers, battalions deployed by the elliptical blue pills now dissolving in the pit of Suzanne's stomach, stampeded through the bloodstream. They tracked down GABA gateways in the brain, the very thing which TV viewers, persuaded by Suzanne's ditzy persona, were convinced she lacked. Of course she had a brain!
And when these soldiers commandeered the gateways, brigades of GABA-producing neurons, the body's natural sedative, to fire and charge down the nerves and spinal column. They began shelling against body's own messengers that commanded the lungs to keep breathing and the heart to keep pumping. To the contrary, Suzanne's speech slowed and slurred, when she left a third message for Jason, her ex-husband. “I'm sorry I ever hurt you” became “I.... mm..... zorro...... iffff..... I........ eeeveer.... hurd..... youuu,” and she clumsily tilted the wine glass and stained her bed sheets. Now a second army, GABA GABA DOO!, the battalion of Mouton Cadet Rothschild brought up the flanks through the intracellular forest, and met up with the platoons of General Xanax, and when these two armies joined forces in Suzanne: it wasn't really a battle at all, it was a massacre.
Nursing her hurt and self-pity, it had seemed like a fine idea to wash down a few more Xanax with
Bordeaux and finish off the amber vial. Suzanne had never had much of a head for math or numbers, for that matter. She flunked algebra when she was in the seventh grade, so she was not apt to conceive of the exponential effects of Mouton Cadet and the pills she was taking: major biochemical mojo multiplied the medication's force ten-fold and, like a video game hero, Xanax gained super powers.
Suzanne left three more samples of incoherencies for Jason to riddle out and polished off the wine. Her knees buckled and she blacked out. The twin armies—under leadership of Field Marshall Mouton Cadet and General Xanax—were out of their minds with overconfidence, enslaving the brain's neurons, they fanned out and overran the pieces of her heart—devastated after Bruno Panini called off their engagement—and tightened the noose: they plundered oxygen, the lifeblood of blood, the lights dimmed in the heart's ballrooms and alcoves and the biochemical soldiers raped, looted, and lay siege to the precious organ, severing the transmission lines of the body's central nervous system.
The marauding soldiers found an unlikely ally in the cash-strapped Los Angeles Fire Department, spread thin due to deep cutbacks of 300 medics, took its sweet time responding to Candy's 911 call; they had to attend other matters of life and death before they could deal with saving Suzanne Katselas, a personage whose importance extended far beyond the borders of her soft, lovely skin to the employ of screenwriters, hair dressers and psychiatrists. As she waited, unconscious and unaware of the wait, the lungs languished, the blood pressure lowered, and a nurse, had one been present, and a thermometer may have verified already a few decimals' drop in temperature. It was dark and getting darker for Suzanne.
Now the pharmaceutical armies seemed unstoppable, poised to wipe out the kidney, the liver, as well as heart and lungs, and had wrought irreversible damage. It was as if the victory-drunk troops held above a priceless Ming Dynasty vase a hammer poised to smash it to smithereens. Very soon the classification of organ donor on Suzanne's
California license plate would be rendered moot, and her organs would be fit only for a morgue. At last the medics arrived, and a miracle glimmered on the horizon of this one-sided battle. The stomach tube had brought up a few mushy remnants of blue pills, lying in her stomach pan. She had not consumed the whole vial, as had been feared, but still enough to worry about. Suzanne's young resilient body gained the upper hand—her drugged, dismembered heart slowly began to beat faster.