Commuter's Special
Susan puts down the serrated knife.
One half of the bagel drops to the floor in a pool of blood; the other, perfectly implanted.
Melissa's -- err, the patient's -- cheekbones reaching new heights, now arching above her eyes.
Susan's official gift certificate, valid for one online course in cosmetic surgery theory, proudly taped above the surgical table.
"Looks better this way," Susan decides, her tongue grazing the lox.
She lowers her bloody hand into the drawer, fingering the scalpels.
"Did you still want that manicure?" -- not waiting for the unconscious form's reply.
"Tickets!" the conductor screams, "this is a peak-fare train."
Susan feels her pockets --
"Fuck!" she yells, searching through Melissa's pockets for the difference.
She pulls the axe out of the patient's chest jamming the MTA door shut -- belly button piercing complete.
Susan peels the press-on nails off the cadaver.
"A nail transplant is a serious operation," Susan affirms to herself.
A few staples later -- transfer complete.
"Next stop, Croton-Harmon!" Susan cranks open the bathroom door with the axe,
Wheeling the stretcher out into the bar cart.
"2 vodka sodas! And your best malpractice coverage!"
Susan barks as she throws a grenade toward the the emergency exit, barely clearing the platform and catching her helicopter back toward the skyline.