...October 25th. . . 2015 . . .

. . . New York City . . . 11:28 PM. .

Honestly, people do not like bad news.

So do I.

George Bitterman is the British man who smokes a lot.

"It'll take another three hundred years to get rid of this abnormality in your brain," George said. "We got rid 99% of it."

"What about the other percent?" I asked.

"If we removed it; it woulda killed you," George said. "It is around your brain stem, Quarty."

I closed my eyes then reopened them.

"I am going to be a walking fish in a year, is that it?" I asked.

"Yes," George said, with a nod. "Memory wise. It'll grow slower this time. If you want to get rid of it then you must get to a docto--"

"Doctors of my era don't have the CD disks your era has," I said. "I need a sample of this strange being you tell me of."

George sighed.

"Your friends have been poking around this facility," George said. "And instead they have been trying to steal it!"

"There is nothing you can do for me, George." I said.

"We feel useless unable to help you." George said.

"Maybe I am suppose to live out my life that way." I said, softly.

George lit up another cigarette.

"Don't say that, Quarty." George said, flickering flames off the cigarette.

"It is the truth." I said.

"We found another entry point; but it is very old." George said.

"I would know if I had a injury." I said.

"It was in your neck, Quarty," George said. "It is rounded and big. It is a scar like the one on your shoulder."

I closed my eyes briefly then open them.

"So you are saying I have a alien kind of brain cancer," I said. "One that has been administered through the needle two times."

"Yes,I am." George said.

"I have to go home with the evidence." I said, in a low voice.

"I will arrange for your departure," George said, lightly putting one hand on my shoulder. "It is the least I can do."

I looked up toward George.

"Thank you." I said.