A droubble by EwanL
The Doctor gave him the news without anaesthetic. Not even a drink. That was brave of him the patient thought - he'd have liked a drink himself.
'Not curable, Comrade Doctor?'
'Not likely, Comrade Kovboi.'
The patient yawned. 'Does it have a name, this thing I am dying of, Comrade Doctor?'
The doctor picked at a stain on his white coat. The patient watched him suck the finger afterward. It might have been beetroot, of course.
'In the old days we called it Reactionary Thinking...'
The Doctor stepped back from the examinatory couch.
'That's what we...'
'Yes, yes, well what are 'we' calling it now?'
"It's a joke, Comrade Kovboi.'
He was quite sick of the Comrade Kovboi nonsense. But the Director of Soviet Health could not but check into a State Hospital incognito, could he?
'Well, sir.... I mean Comrade Kovboi... we think you are dying of Common Sense.'
'Don't be ridiculous man.'
The little man in the white coat stood a little more erect,
'Comrade, there is no cure. There are no medicines. Life is shit. We call it Common Sense. Anyone can catch it, even the Nomenklatura..'
'Get me a drink, Doctor,' the patient snarled.