A BRAINY TALE, some truth in the fiction; some fiction in the truth

At 10:30 PM there were no pedestrians on this particular street but then why would there be; no such thing as a convenience store or bar nearby, just airport fencing at the beginning of the airline flight path for incoming jets, appropriately named Airport Boulevard, 41st and Airport to be correct; convenient though to his nearby house. One thing, not found on other streets, was an availability of stray dogs and that's where you'll find Randolph with a bagful of varied treats several times a month, with his SUV tricked out to support his four footed guests.
Snow was percolating pretty good, coming down out of a snow blowing machine, it seemed. There had definitely been no flying this day. Randolph closed his patio door dejectedly. The weekend plans were down the toilet, was his only thought, crowding out any other errant musings that tried to enter. Except for one other matter:
The subject on his specialized OR table was a fine, excellent specimen; discard or not to discard, that was the question. No, if there was flying tomorrow he might refrigerate, then again, that might not be a wise choice and if anybody could make a wise choice, it was me, Randolph reassured the voice in his head! But he had cut through the dura only, not wanting to disturb the cerebellum yet. This exemplification model was simply too perfect for what he was trying to accomplish and he did not want to chance destroying the architecture with so few hours in the day left to spare. He needed a block of unopposed time. He had achieved third nerve palsy on one study to date, but specifically his new study was the optic chiasm, requiring the subject to remain viable, to observe optic reflexes. His stray subjects were not always so matchless for his requirements. A Dog. You little beauty he said! A Golden Retriever. Too bad for Randolph that he could not demonstrate his abilities on real subjects; Humans.
It gave him great pleasure to announce himself to himself as the master architect, one who could enter the seat of knowledge, the brain, remove submicroscopic particles and a repair would leave no identifying pathway. Randolph C. Mann was just such a Mann.
Morning gave him a much more acceptable weather outlook so he hightailed it to the airport with guns, equipment and supplies. Nothing like financial success to grease the wheels allowing a comfortable existence. He wasn't hard to please...house with the amenities he desired fitted in, plus his in-house lab and surgical suite, guns for hunting, an enviable medical/surgical practice (his extracurricular home practice was a deep, dark secret SO FAR) and his aircraft allowed access to all points east and west and don't forget north and south. "The aircraft is ready doc," the mechanic informed him. "You wanna do the preflight check now?" "Sure sure, get me outta here, like two hours ago."
Randolph never hunted alone as a rule. Dangerous you know. This trip had to be the exception, complications of snow snarling up original plans, the hunting partners dropping out, as he expected. "Nuts to those fruit flies , I'll damn well keep my date with myself. Not often I can break loose!" Well it had proven some axioms about hunting alone can be wrong , if his arm had been longer he would have patted his back!
His hunting success this trip had been perfect, a word, when pertaining to his activities, he often employed. PERFECT, everything is just PERFECT! A large buck, a mature 8 point, hauled and packed in the plane. He was in a celebratory mood so he allowed himself another "No No" sip out of the bottle, more like a quarter cupful…An appropriately aged scotch. Quite satisfying, so he said "what the hell" and had another, a much MORE satisfying SLIP… I mean SIP, he corrected himself, getting a little thick-tongued. When he got home he planned finishing up some reading material on a new subject called "Quantum Entanglement" explaining the interconnectedness of subatomic particles, a hypothesis which seemed improbable, preposterous; not yet a theory, but it fascinated him. He had earlier decided on dispose instead of repose for the dog, no sense leaving unfinished business lying around, with the fire finish, ashes tell no tales. His little beauty! With strays you had to take what you could get and what you got was not usually up to standards so he mostly just disposed, not reposed.
An hour near to Austin the snow started again with a vengeance, not just blowing but exhibiting a blizzard-like ferocity. Never snows in Austin Randolph grumbled "except if I happen to be flying!" He had deviated his flight plan somewhat but hadn't altered his flight log. Well he'd see the landing lights soon. His neglect at amending his log put him coinciding with a 737, a commercial flight which was ahead of him, and he had to waiver his own flight path and drop behind..
The jet wash bounced him like a rubber ball. Was it the Scotch or just foolishness that made him decide to draft off that 737? The last thing he saw was the maw of one jet engine and wait, A DOG, running in the snow. Dreaming? Scotch dreams? A DOG?

The dog's muzzle was moving "I'm your little beauty, I'll see you Disposed, not Reposed! But interconnectedness was now so complete it was impossible to tell ashes one from the other, intermixed in the snow and wind, some ashes still drifting in from 41st and Airport and some, newly created, on the glide path.

That which you sow, so shall you reap

ther

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