Not In My Lab by @SirEviscerate


I’m not a violent man. I would just as soon settle an argument with a discussion over a cold beer than with a fight. If was going to be completely honest, I’d say that unless my opponent was a nine year old girl, any kind of fisticuffs would almost certainly end with an instantaneous beatdown for yours truly.


However, like every red-blooded American male my age, I grew up watching action films starring Bruce Willis, Steven Seagal, and Jean-Claude Van Damme. I know that under extreme circumstances, ordinary men can perform extraordinary feats of badassedry in the name of vigilante justice. Regardless of age, race, or creed, every man has a fantasy of single-handedly taking down a band of armed gunmen.


This one is mine.




I’m working in my hospital laboratory, a mild-mannered everyman scientist, performing vital but routine blood work for my beloved patients. An announcement comes over the PA system:


“Code Lockdown: There are five armed assassins roaming the hospital with clear murderous intent. Anyone would be justified in killing them on sight, and would even be considered a hero deserving of many sexual rewards.”


Then, gunfire. They’ve breached the lab. My boss immediately pees his pants, and everybody sees it. I only take a moment to appreciate how hilarious this is, then get down to work.


The first bad guy tries to sneak up behind me, but I catch his gun arm and pull a judo reverse move, using his momentum to smash his face into a microscope like a wrestler into a turnbuckle. The eyepieces penetrate deep into his sockets, killing him instantly.


“Looks like I blinded you with science,” I quip.


A gun cocks, and I look up to see a man pointing a .45 at me from 12 feet away. I smoothly grab a microscope slide from the bench and throw it like a ninja star, severing the carotid artery in his neck.


“Enjoy your SLIDE down to hell,” I quip.


A third villain appears and gives chase. My eyes scan the lab as I run, looking for something to use as an improvised weapon. I consider distracting him with a nearby urine specimen, but a good laboratory scientist would never waste a patient sample. Also, I couldn’t risk him reading personal information from the label, because it would be a serious HIPPA violation, and I could lose my license.


Instead, I pull the handle on the chemical safety shower as I pass. The terrorist slips and cracks open his skull on the wet tile floor.


“I didn’t mean to let that SLIP,” I quip.


The fourth guy doesn’t see me. He stands nearby a lit bunsen burner. I take a big mouthful of reagent ethanol from an erlenmeyer flask, and spit it at him across the burner’s flame. He is immediately consumed by an enormous fireball, and dies in screaming (and throughly deserved, remember) agony.


“That looks super hot,” I quip, clearly running out of clever catchphrases.


The last gunman is the biggest and baddest of them all. He’s on the Most Wanted list of over two dozen countries for all his heinous crimes. He laughs and approaches holding a really big knife. I grab a 1000 microliter pipettor, and engage in hand-to-hand combat.


He’s one tough customer, and he gets in a few punches and flesh wounds before I finally get the upper hand, disabling him with a vicious leg sweep. Then, filled with adrenaline and righteous rage, I start a centrifuge and rip off the lid.


“Care to take this for a spin?”, I quip.


I slam the 200 lb centrifuge down on his head, the whirling arms reducing his stupid face to a pulp at 25000 rpm.


The nightmare is over. My co-workers come out from hiding and applaud my bravery. My boss cries like a girl, further humiliating himself. A cadre of super hot nurses take me to an unoccupied patient room to show their “appreciation”, if you know what I mean. (Sex.)


Fade to black. The credits roll as an awesome electric guitar laden 80s song plays.


Sir Eviscerate has not received any martial arts or weapons training, and is not even 100% sure what kind of gun a “.45” is. Follow him on Twitter at @SirEviscerate

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