Blink Fiction™

Steve McQueen was one of the biggest, highest paid movie stars of the ‘70s. His appearance in mega-hit movies like “The Getaway,” “Papillon” and “The Towering Inferno” brought him fame, fortune and global adulation. He had beautiful wives and great kids. He had many classic cars and motorcycles, which he adored. It was a hot, sweet ride while it lasted. But, by the fall of 1980, he lay dying of cancer in a Mexican clinic and none of that mattered.

Those who knew Steve, his friends, family, the doctors at the clinic, were impressed by his drive, his will, his life force, his desire to live.

In his hospital room, Steve grabbed the lapels of Doctor Jose Hernandez’s white jacket, pulling him close.

“If something happens, if I don’t survive the operation, save my brain, doc!” Steve whispered hoarsely.

With effort, Steve picked up a crumpled piece of paper off the night stand, on which were scribbled some numbers. Summoning his remaining strength, he raised his head up off the sweat drenched pillow.

“There’s a million dollars in this Swiss bank account,” Steve continued weakly, handing the piece of paper to the doctor. “It’s yours, for research or whatever. Just promise me you’ll preserve my
brain.”

“I promise, Senor McQueen, I promise,” the doctor said.

Steve was tough enough to survive the dangerous surgery, but not for long. He died shortly afterwards. The few who saw him said his sky eyes had never looked bluer.

********

Dr. Jose had never been greedy. He took half million and invested it wisely. He took the other half and used it to develop the finest technology to continue to maintain Steve’s brain. Steve had been a great hombre.

As the profits from the investments grew, Dr. Jose funneled some of the money into cancer research. Over the decades, the money grew and the cancer research continued. By 2048, with the expenditure of slightly under a billion dollars, Dr. Hernandez’s son, Jorge, found the cure for most forms of cancer.

********

In 2051, McQueen’s brain was transplanted into a lifelike, android body. Soon afterwards, there was rejection of the “donor” brain. Steve McQueen failed to regain consciousness. After a little less than twelve hours, McQueen’s brain was extracted and returned to its life support chamber. Dr. Jorge felt shattered at the failure. He wept for hours.

********

In 2079, some clever thieves entered the clinic’s brain preservation chambers at 3:33 a.m., armed with lasers, mini-blow torches and anti-alarm devices. All these items had been banned in 2066, but now, 13 years later, you could buy them at swap meets, on the cheap.

The thieves knew exactly what they were doing. When they severed the primary respirator, they simultaneously attached a portable, secondary respirator and gave it a smooth, laser seal. As long as they were stealing Steve McQueen, they wanted his brain alive!

Seven days later, the depressed brain-nappers sat staring at their videophone, waiting for it to ring. it had been a long week. Dr. Jorge claimed that he had made several clones of McQueen’s brain. He informed the thieves that they had stolen one of the clones, not the original. The clone was not worth a billion dollars. The clone wasn’t worth much.

The brain was eventually returned, no questions asked. Dr. Jorge breathed a huge sigh of relief. The thieves actually HAD stolen the one and only brain of Steve McQueen. Dr. Jorge’s bluff had worked. He tripled the brain chamber’s security system and made himself an atomic martini. Dr. Jorge didn’t drink often but it had been one of those days.

********

In 2222, McQueen’s brain was successfully transplanted into a blue and silver, three-wheeled, robotic motorcycle. McQueen “woke up.’’ He was informed what year it was and that he was now part of a futuristic motorcycle, which he could operate with his mind. It only took Steve McQueen several moments to grasp the reality of his situation.

“Sounds pretty cool,” Steve thought. “I always did love machines.”

Steve’s thoughts, turned into words, blared from a speaker built into the front of the trike, below the headlight.

“Gotta watch what I think, now,” Steve thought/said.

Dr. Jose Hernandez’s great, great grandson Jesse transported the Steve Machine to a row of sand dunes near the Pacific Ocean.

“Wanna take a ride?” Steve asked.

Dr. Jesse climbed up onto the long, black leather seat with the high back. Not a motorcycle man himself, Dr. Jesse tightly grasped the chrome hand holds located on either side of the bike.

Suddenly, the Steve Machine raced up a tall sand dune, then idled at the top. Below lay the beach. A group of seagulls were resting on the sand near the surf, chilling. At the horizon line, a bloated red sun was sinking into the ocean, taking its time.

Steve revved his engines. The sound, the vibration thrilled him as before.

“I’m gonna go spook those seagulls,” Steve said.

The Steve Machine, with Jesse hanging on for dear life, roared down the sand dune, scattering the clean, white seagulls in all directions. The royal blue ocean twinkled, bisected by a wind surfer grasping a lime-green sail. An old man in a yellow jogging suit plodded past on the wet sand, followed by a happy, brown mutt.

The Steve Machine stopped near the water line, his engine idling.

“I wonder where the single chicks are?” Steve thought/said.

“There’s a cool little bar right on the beach, about a mile to the right, that the college girls like,” Dr. Jesse said.

“Hang on,” Steve said.

The Steve Machine revved his engines, then raced off down the beach in the direction of the bar.

Steve and Jesse both “whooped.”

It was a perfect day.