Free Eyeheart Everything by Kevin Sampsell, Mykle Hansen, Ed Stastny, Kevin Kirkbride

equipment. Junior (as we learned he is called even by his many subordinates) wasted no time with introductions, instead beckoning that our party should hurry to observe through his well-oiled microscope a drama unfolding at the cellular front.
    “This will fascinate you,” the young inventor explained in boyish tones. “Dyed blue, and more to the right, you’ll see — here, I’ll adjust the lens — you’ll see a strain of the E. Coli bacterium that has been nurtured in a distillate of my famous namesake balm. Dyed red, and huddled on the left edge ... here!” He gestured with the tip of a pen as we attempted to maintain focus — “here is a colony of E. Coli bred in a dish of that nefarious autotoxin sold to the public as DMSO. You have no doubt heard the health and rejuvenative claims made for this stuff by an assortment of untrained chemists, country doctors and, ahem, herbalists. Now watch closely.”
    We did as the good doctor bade — for we do not recall if he holds an accredited Doctorate, but he seems on first encounter eminently worthy of the title — and we watched as, on the hair’s-width field of microscopic battle, the red and blue cells engaged in mortal combat cilium a cilium. As predicted, it was a rout. “I have staged many such experiments, and the results are uniform. I hope that when my aggregate findings are published in the Dermatic Events Monitor, an informed public will become less credulous of such swindlement.”
    While he conducted us on a topical tour of lab activities — an array of research and development projects too exhaustive to enumerate — we asked him how he came to the world of applied topiary theory.
    “My old Dad was the one who brought me my first jar of cold cream, back when I was a youngster. I used to race bicycles in those days, and I knew a lot of other racers, amateurs and professionals, who suffered from joint soreness. But at the time I was more concerned with keeping my hubs and chains lubricated, and dealing with the chafing and cracking, in certain sensitive areas, that are the mascots of professional racers and dedicated tourists alike. One day Pa suggested I try the cold creme for my chapped areas, and on that occasion I was by chance out of axle grease, having used it up not just on the axle bearings but also on my chain and derailleurs ... I’m afraid I’ve never been able to put things where they belong.
    “At any rate, I experimented with the cream, found it useful in a number of areas, and yet lacking in all of them. I wondered if I might gain added penetration by adding menthol; whether beeswax or paraffin might improve bonding, and so on. The formal study of chemistry came later, but it was there in my father’s shack —”
    Suddenly the great man’s reminiscences were fissured by a deafening blast from the far side of the hall. For a moment panic reigned amid the burning smells and flying glass. A fire alarm rang out as flames spread rapidly across tables and floors. A coughing older gentleman found us cover behind a nearby chemical vat as Junior, clearly a man of action, raced up the catwalk and opened the valves of an elaborate system of pipes and tubing that laced the ceiling. “Stay calm, everybody!” he bellowed, and with the twist of a final giant knob the room began to fill with a thick, creamy, aromatic rain. The flames, which seconds earlier had threatened to engulf us, were quickly extinguished, and the unpleasant acid smells were replaced with a cool eucalyptus flavour. The good doctor closed the hydraulic system and climbed carefully back down the hot, stiff and well-lubricated iron rungs.
    He winked. “Absorbine Jr. — just the thing for chemical fires! But gracious, your suit is coated ... please, let one of my assistants escort you to the baths and attend to your needs.”
    And he made good on that promise. After we paid a relaxing visit to the laboratory showers and sauna, our clothes were returned to us, dry and perfectly