Connecting the Dots
Lausanne, Switzerland
Clinique de Lavoisier – Private Medical Facility
When most people think of Switzerland they conjure up images of Bank Secrecy, the Alps, really good chocolate and people dressed in funny outfits blowing absurdly long horns in verdant meadows and hawking their amazing throat lozenges. Switzerland actually is better known throughout the world for its first class (and extremely expensive) concierge medical clinics that cater to the wealthy and famous. These elite institutions also deliver another service: anonymity. Patients can be admitted essentially by aliases or number – and they pay by encrypted direct deposits in Euros or Bitcoin through Credit Suisse or Bank Bayer. Even Deutsche Bank now has a piece of the action.
Rock stars, Presidents of Countries, Warlords, Arms Dealers – whoever can pay the freight (and the freight is steep) can get their triple bypass surgeries, bunionectomies, teeth implants, abortions, facelifts, kidney transplants and cancer treatments – any medical need attended to, no questions asked. The Doctors will start cutting once the funds clear. Quietly and confidentially. All records – referenced by alias or patient number only – are sealed under Swiss law and totally expunged after six months.
One particular American patient was recently dropped off – literally – by taxicab. His paperwork was completed in advance by a lawyer in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
This was Patient 089.
Patient 089 (registered under a numerical alias as per family request) was immediately strapped to a hospital bed in a private room overlooking some of the most majestic mountain scenery ever imagined by the mind of God. He was writhing and frothing at the mouth – obviously in significant pain. The middle-aged man was admitted for symptoms of sudden onset of tremors, unsteady gait and loss of coordination (ataxia). He rapidly developed severe shakes, muscle jerks and loss of appetite – and started laughing and vomiting uncontrollably.
Once his eyeballs rolled backwards in his head, Doctors began to suspect Brain Spongiform Encephalopathy. Blood tests confirmed the presence of strange anomalies – but also the Papua New Guinea variant of Kuru virus.
What puzzled his attending physicians, however, were the deep tear marks in his throat that had opened an artery. This wound was poorly repaired by someone who’d had minimal surgical skills. It was still bleeding and suppurating liberally when he was admitted. It looked like the patient had been a viciously attacked by a dog or large animal that tore out a sizeable chunk of neck muscle and flesh. The artery was significantly compromised. Whoever sutured the injury had thoroughly botched the procedure and admitting doctors at Clinique de Lavoisier performed immediate surgery to stabilize the wound site and blood flow.
Dr. Alexion Vernice, Chief Hematologist and Diagnostician at Clinique de Lavoisier, however, had a problem.
The family who admitted Patient 089 to their very private and discrete care did not want his medical records shared with any authorities whatsoever. Their instructions were clear. But blood tests had confirmed the Kuru virus – and he had a medical obligation under Swiss Law to communicate that fact to the European Union Health Agency in Brussels and initiate quarantine protocols immediately. He thought it best to call Jackson Barnhardt, Esq. of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania – the American attorney for the family of Patient 089 who processed the patient’s admission documents – and disclose his dilemma. Despite a six-hour time differential, the brief phone call did not go as badly as he suspected it might have. In fact, it was a Home Run.
Dr. Vernice: “Attorney Barnhardt, I am Chief Hematologist and Diagnostician at Clinique de Lavoisier in Lausanne, Switzerland. I am told I am told that we are to contact you about significant developments involving our Patient 089. Are you aware of this patient’s file? You are the only name we have on record to communicate with.”
Lawyer Barnhardt: Yes, Doctor. I am intimately aware of the arrangements your patient’s family made with your hospital – I handled all the particulars personally. How can I be of assistance to you?
Dr. Vernice: I’m afraid Patient 089 is dying. He has a fatal disease that he contracted – under circumstances that we are unaware of – a variant of the Papua New Guinea strain of Kuru virus. It is always fatal. Unfortunately, I am under a legal obligation to immediately report all instances of this particular disease to the European Union Health Agency in Brussels and impose immediate quarantine protocols.
Of course, I’m aware of the confidentiality that the family of Patient 089 is expecting from the Clinique de Lavoisier – we are renowned throughout Europe for our discretion – but I thought it best to consult with you first.
Lawyer Barnhardt: How long does Patient 089 have to live?
Dr. Vernice: I would estimate his remaining time to be measured in days. I think a week is a credible opinion.
Lawyer Barnhardt: Can we delay reporting this unfortunate diagnosis to the European Union Health Authorities for a month? To give you time, of course, to repeat your tests and make absolutely certain you are dealing with the Kuru virus? In the meantime, if Patient 089 dies, I can authorize immediate cremation and disposal of the ashes – and, shall we say, a generous anonymous charitable donation to your hospital. Is a Million Euros sufficient?
Dr. Vernice: Such a donation would indeed be appreciated by our hospital and facilitate matters. I will contact you again when everything has been resolved. You may rest assured that Clinique de Lavoisier will maintain the very highest standards of discretion. Thank you, Attorney Barnhardt.
Lawyer Barnhardt: I will forward the appropriate bank draft to your institution’s Credit Suisse account within the week. Goodbye, Doctor Vernice.
Burns Blueberry Farm
Hammonton, New Jersey
Burns Blueberry Farm comprises a thousand acres of Hammonton, New Jersey real estate. It’s billed as The Blueberry Capital of the World according to a banner prominently displayed on Route 206. That sign has been a noteworthy source of civic pride since bootleggers used Route 206 to run whiskey to Atlantic City during Prohibition. The famous television series Boardwalk Empire was based on this historical era and New Jersey roadway legends and lore.
It’s harvest time in Burns Blueberry fields. About one hundred seasonal workers are milling about, waiting for their fleets of box trucks to transport them to their respective Blueberry patch grids and start picking.
Juan Jalisco, a long-time Burns seasonal farm worker, is raring to go despite the sun being barely high enough in the sky to extinguish the Street Lights. He and his brother Albo start pulling the tarps from the enclosed trucks that will be filled deep blue succulent berries by the end of the week – ensuring their payday wages and future survival. The life of itinerant agricultural workers in the United States is brutal, spirit-crushing and exhausting. But Juan and Albo are lucky – Burns Blueberry Farm has always come through every year with gainful work and hard cash. They’ve returned home to Santo Domingo like heroes after most seasons.
Juan jumps up on the Dodge straight-job bumper and starts unlacing the tarp from its high enclosed truck bed. He throws his brother Albo the end of the loose rope to coil up and save for later. As Juan pushes back more and more of the back tarp, the sun starts to flood the back of the truck bed.
Suddenly, he hears a groan from inside the far end of the still obscured truck bed. He smells a strange stink – not the usual rotten fruit odor. This smells more like barnyard animals and dirty feet. Juan yells to his brother.
“Hey Albo! This truck smells like dogshit…. better get a hose. We gonna’ have to wash it out!”
Juan hears the groan again – louder this time. Concerned, he keeps pushing the tarp backwards, hoping the sunlight will show what’s making those noises.
“Hey Albo! I think there’s some angry animal in here…I’m comin’ down, man!”
Juan and Albo waive to signal their foreman there’s something wrong as they walk towards him. He’s an old Piney named Creedmore.
“Yo, Mr. Creedmore…there is something in the truck making noises and stinking it up real bad…. maybe some kind of injured animal. We don’t wanna’ mess with it.”
‘Ole Joe Creedmore has been living in the Pine Barrens his whole life. He knows animals – and even people – take shelter in closed-up recesses everywhere in the Pines. Nothing surprises him.
“Shit” He grumbles. “I’ll check it out…probably a goddamn dyin’ dog”.”
He approaches the truck and pulls a rake out of its tool stack behind the drivers’ cab and starts banging the side of the plywood truck bed enclosure with it. Creedmore keeps this up for a good five minutes then climbs up on the back bumper tail lift and starts pushing the tarp back even further with the rake handle.
Then he hears it. A low growl. Once. Twice. Three times – each time louder and more guttural than the last.
Creedmore jumps down and drops the rake. It’s a hurt animal for sure. Anybody raised in the Pine Barrens knows that sound. And it’s cornered. The worst of all situations.
“I’m calling the State Police. They’ll know what to do. I ain’t no Goddamn Animal Control Officer…”
It takes about a half hour, but The New Jersey State Police arrive just as the morning sunlight starts blazing over the blueberry farm. He’s a young rookie. Probably a trainee. But he’s a big boy and looks like he can take care of himself.
“I’m Trooper Burkin from Red Lion Barracks. You concerned about what’s in the back of that truck? County Animal Control is on their way – but I’ll take a looksee. ”
Trooper Burkin climbs up the back of the Dodge and stands on the tail gate, straining his neck down inside the enclosed box area to see what’s going on.
“Sure, smells in here……come alongside the truck here, guys, and see if you can pull this tarp back, off the top of the enclosure…. I think I hear something, but I need sunlight to see deeper in here…”
Juan, Albo and Creedmore start yanking on the tarp, pulling it down from the left side of the truck bed area.
Suddenly there’s a howl. Then a loud, combined growl and barking sound that is followed by moans – pathetic and almost whimpering. Then scratching and banging like an animal throwing itself against the inside of its wooden-box confines. Then more groaning and howling – louder and louder. Threatening, feral noises warning everybody to back off. The stench is now almost overpowering.
Trooper Burkin is so blindsided by the thunderous racket that he jumps off the truck bumper, his ears ringing and adrenalin peaking. Instinctively he unsnaps his weapon holster strap and draws his Glock 9 Millimeter handgun. His next words raise alarm.
“Stand back in case I gotta’ shoot. Goddammit! We need animal control…and we need it now!”, He barks out.
Whatever’s inside the truck enclosure is now banging itself harder and harder against the plywood side walls that imprison it. The old truck is no match for whatever’s inside beating its full weight against its wooden bed partitions. Juan, Albo, Creedmore and Trooper Burkin watch as the truck rocks back and forth – and splits start appearing in the plywood.
Animal Control is nowhere to be found.
What to do?
Creedmore says what they’re all thinking first.
“It’s gonna bust out…we gotta run, boys.”
He no sooner says it than a plywood side panel of the truck splits free and falls out, revealing the inners of the box enclosure and flooding morning sunlight inside its deepest recesses.
And there it is.
Crouched over is a what looks like blood-covered man in smoldering clothes, trying to shield his eyes with smoking, flaming hands screaming and writhing as he’s consumed in broad daylight by some kind of combustion that’s originating inside his body. As he howls in pain he collapses to his knees. Thick, viscous bloody slime runs down his neck from his mouth, bubbling and hissing as it makes contact with the man’s burning facial flesh and exposed skin. He’s aflame like somebody dowsed him in napalm.
They see his teeth as his lips burn away, curling upward and retreating back – melting like wax. Huge, pointed canine teeth. Animal teeth – not human teeth. They’re enormous.
Flames shoot out of the arms of his tattered, stained coat and torn pants legs as his arms and legs ignite, catching fire from the rest of his body. A red blaze erupts out from his chest ribcage like the business-end of a flamethrower, obviously propelled forward by the boiling pressure of his internal organs cooking and bursting inside his torso.
The thing emits a foul, rancid and poison-gas-like cloud around it forcing Juan, Albo, Creedmore and Trooper Burkin to cover their mouths with whatever clothing they can stretch over them.
Finally, it’s over. I putrid, fetid pile of smoking ash is all that remains.
The men just stare at each other.
Trooper Burkin is the first to speak.
“I’m not looking forward to writing this report…..nobody’s gonna’ believe me. Help me poke around that pile of ash and see if those fangs are left. At least I’ll have some evidence of this freakshow…”
*NONE OF THIS WORK PRODUCT IS AI
Copyright 2026, Jon & Jedediah Croft
www.bogironfoundry.com
Email: vlchek1@gmail.com
Post: BOG IRON FOUNDRY, PO Box 2017, Southampton, NJ 08088
