There were those who would call Albert Pencilgrave a filth-digging reptile, and in many ways they were not far wrong. He didn’t blink, possessed a scaly hide that kept his liquids inside him, and his presence unnerved most mammals. But those were merely superficial marks against him – once anybody got to know the man properly they realized that he was actually remarkably cold-blooded, capable of eating his own young if it benefited him, and lethargic unless in the presence of prey.
But despite these passing, bone-deep flaws of character and soul, he was still mortal. Very, very, very mortal, as his doctor seemed suspiciously pleased to tell him.
“Absolutely fatal,” he said, holding back a grin that could’ve swallowed a cantaloupe. “One thousand percent.”
“You sure?” asked Albert.
“Utterly. Your ticker’s just about worn through, mister Pencilgrave. I give it a week before it snaps. I recommend a transplant. Maybe something from a homeless man, if we can’t find a legit donor.”
“I have lots of money,” said Albert. “There’ll be a donor.”
“True,” said the doctor. “That’ll cost you a couple million or something.”
Albert frowned. His face was already a spiral of fractured skin flakes and scowl-lines, and this action nearly turned him into a Magic Eye picture. “That’s too much. Much too much. Do you have something cheaper?”
“You could try a pig,” offered the doctor. “Very fresh, picked it out myself. And tender too, just the right thing to get your fluids pumping.”
“Too fatty,” dismissed Albert. “And anyways, I don’t like knives.”
“We use scalpels,” said the doctor. “And saws.”
“I don’t like those either. I think this whole surgery thing is a bad idea.”
The doctor’s lip twitched, on the verge of a sneer. “Oh, and I suppose you’ve got a better idea of what to do about your raddled old heart, eh? Dearie me, that MBA just PERFECTLY qualifies you to self-diagnose and problem-solve, doesn’t it? Just about pays for itself, really.”
Albert thanked him coldly, made a mental note to have him ruined, and had someone drive him home. The chauffeur was a cheery young man who whistled as he turned sharp corners, and Albert suspected he might be paying him too much. Maybe he should replace him with someone more desperate.
It was only until he walked through the door of his nearest condo that Albert realized he’d just thought of his solution. But that could wait until after he fired his chauffeur. He had a special red pen for it and everything.
The hardest part wasn’t finding a volunteer. There were millions. The hard bit was figuring out the job title. “Cardiovascular assistant” went into the wastebasket, along with “fitness aide,” “arterial officer,” and, in a fit of annoyance, “heart guy.” Finally Albert decided on “cardiological supervisor,” and had a small business card printed out that would go to a mister Emmanuel Ortiz along with the salary of two hundred dollars per month and a firm threat to keep quiet about it.
He knew the exact moment that it happened – right in the middle of an email he was preparing that would crush a corporation and 60% of its workers into financial dust. His heart sank, and didn’t rise.
He smiled to himself.
“Sir?” asked his secretary, hiding his astonishment poorly.
“It’s nothing,” he said. He felt his chest, making sure that there was absolutely no pulse, and chuckled a bit. “It’s nothing.”
And in Puerto Rico, Emmanuel winced a bit as his own heartbeat took up double-time, nearly spoiling the beer he’d ordered with the first of the new money.
“Something wrong?” asked the bartender.
Emmanuel shrugged, winced again, and thought about getting his son into the United States. “I’ll get used to it.”
In retrospect, Albert was amazed he hadn’t thought of it sooner. Within the first week of his outsourcing his heart he was more energized than he’d been in the past ten years, chewing through mounds of work with the zeal of a bookworm presented with a complete high fantasy trilogy. His middle management trembled before him, his colleagues stepped softly when he spoke, and he had a sex life for the first time in fifteen years, albeit not with his wife.
It was all going well. Too well, even, which was probably why he got the cough five years later. All those long nights out working, then drinking, then working a bit more (usually on something that would have to be done all over again next morning), then heading home late at night in the damp. And of course, as the doctor pointed out with satisfaction, all the six-inch cigars.
“Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease,” he said.
“What?”
“Chronic bronchitis and emphysema all over the place.”
“Is that even a thing nowadays?” asked Albert crossly.
“Absolutely. Smoker’s bane.”
“I thought it was for poor people with lousy tobacco.”
“No. And you’ve definitely got it. Your lungs are pretty much shot. I recommend new ones.”
“How much will that cost?”
“Oh, an awful lot,” said the doctor, licking his lips.
“No thanks,” said Albert. “I’ll work it out on my own.”
“Just like you did that heart disease, didn’t you?” said the doctor, as innocently and sweetly as a little old lady with an ice cream cone.
Albert gave the man his most sunny smile. He cringed.
“Yes,” he said. “Exactly.” He drove home, and the first thing he did was remember to properly ruin the doctor’s life this time, signing in the little notes on how to get his wife to leave him and his malpractice suits drawn up with his special red pen. The second thing he did was to draw up a business card for the position of “respiratory manager.” The third thing he did was to tell one of his people to get one of their people to make someone who worked for them go find a man low on money and hefty in the lungs to sign a contract without reading it too closely, on benefits of a shiny business card and a hundred fifty a month.
Mister Daw was annoyed by the new shortness of breath he’d acquired, but he was a stubborn man, and it would take more than that to make him give up jogging.
As the decades rolled by, Albert Pencilgrave appreciated more and more just what he’d discovered. The lengthier and more slimy parts of his digestive system began to fail, and he hired a man in Patagonia to break down his nutrients for him. His aging wife cheated on him with a kind-hearted poolboy – the ungrateful whore, after all he’d done for her – and when his liver failed during the divorce (it had only been a few gallons of scotch, he didn’t see why it couldn’t handle it), he handed its duties over to a seasoned and steady hand in India.
“I feel like a new man,” he’d say for the first week after each outsourcing. “A new man altogether.” And then he’d give that little smile that didn’t seem to fit on his face properly, like a slide designed by M. C. Escher placed in the midst of an otherwise normal playground. It unnerved people, though not nearly as much as his unnatural longevity. In a job where you retired early (and rich) or died of stress (if somewhat richer), he was still packing away the dollars full-time, apparently with the only loss being his ever-wrinkling and omni-spotted skin. Which he then handed over care of to a man in Beijing.
The only real worry was when he woke up and couldn’t remember what he was doing that day. Or what his name was. Or, shortly thereafter, why he was at the doctor’s.
“Alzheimer’s,” said the doctor.
“Who are you?” asked Albert.
“Dr. Susan Gilman,” said Dr. Susan Gilman patiently, for the fifth time in ten minutes. “I’ve been your doctor for twenty years. You have severe Alzheimer’s disease, and you probably won’t make it to the end of the financial year. Is your estate in order?”
“I’ll get someone to do it,” said Albert. “I have someone who can do that, I think. We’ll figure something out.”
“There’s not much that can be done,” she said. “I can prescribe some medication to ease the way, but…”
“No buts,” said Albert. “I can deal with it on my own, anyways. Keep your medicine and its costs.”
And he dealt with it that very evening, after four aborted attempts to write notes to himself and recall how to read English. With great effort, he secured the services of a man in Borneo, and successfully outsourced his brain. For the first time in more than fifteen years, Albert Pencilgrave’s mind was clear and uncluttered.
“Good god,” he murmured as he looked over reams of dusty, unread files and an inbox that had been transplanted onto its own 500-gigabyte hard drive. “Waste! Scandalous, frivolous, worthless waste!”
He did the math – without a calculator – and his mind reeled at the sheer volume of his hard-earned money that was being siphoned away by his lazy and parasitic employees. He gave this job his health for years – and that of several dozen other people in various countries over the past forty years – he gave it his care and attention every day, and this was the thanks he got? Worthless wastrels that begged for richer retirement packages, that demanded health plans when they went toothless? Why hadn’t they saved up like he had? Why weren’t they showing initiative and asking one of their grandchildren to handle vital functions or something? They were asking for PENSIONS of all things – where were their bootstraps?! Well, this would end now.
“I must’ve been more senile than I thought,” he declared. Opening his desk drawer, he found that little red pen. An email would be more efficient, of course, but his thoughts flowed better when he composed in print – and it was so much more satisfying to sign. His secretary could scan it anyways.
Writing the letter informing everyone whose age now qualified for pensions that their services were no longer required took half an hour. Sending it to his secretary was done in minutes. The transcription and delivery, plus the actual layoffs, took approximately six hours. Which meant that after putting in an early day, Albert Pencilgrave was at home on the toilet when five people at various locations around the world were told their services were no longer required, causing them, surprisingly, to feel much heartier and haler than they’d been in years. Especially hearty, in one case.
The results at Mr. Pencilgrave’s condo, though spectacular, were not recorded until after the fact. Thankfully, the pictures made excellent reference material for medical students. Including Mary Ortiz, whose grandfather suddenly was healthy enough to come visit.