This piece was written for the weekly Six Sentence challenge, with the prompt word of ‘treatment’.
Rufus Hornblower, the ‘it’s only the flu’, ‘it’s your sovereign right not to wear a mask’, ‘vaccination’s a plot’ shock jock, was bewildered when he woke up on a hospital trolley in a warehouse, after he’d gone to ER about his severe breathing difficulties.
A doctor wearing full PPE was observing him closely and taking copious notes before noticing Rufus was awake.
‘Ah, Mr. Hornblower, you’re back with us; are you feeling better?
‘No, I’m getting worse by the minute, maybe even dying from that plague thing, so why aren’t you giving me any treatment?’
‘Oh, Mr. Hornblower, you can’t die from an imaginary disease, so we’re moving you to the big circus tent we’ve set up on the waste ground behind the hospital, or as we call it, the Centre for Observing Victims of Imaginary Diseases, or COVID for short. You’ll enjoy your time there, what with the clown school, the acrobats teaching backflips, tightrope walking lessons and, of course, lyin’ taming.’