Brain Transplant

Brain Transplant

  By

  Mario V. Farina

  Copyright 2016 Mario V. Farina

  All Rights Reserved

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  Mario V. Farina

  Email: [email protected]

  I'm talking about a brain transplant," Dr. Thorne stated calmly. He paused letting what he had said sink in.

  Ten minutes before he had made this statement, Dr. Wendell Thorne had leaned back in his leather armchair and contemplated his visitor leisurely. Robert Moore had waited for the older man to speak. "Now that the preliminary groundwork has been laid," Dr. Thorne had begun, "we can get down to business." Robert had gazed at the distinguished looking doctor. He had had the uncanny feeling that this meeting was going to change his life.

  The two men were seated in the doctor's tastefully, but inexpensively, furnished office at the State Prison. Several framed certificates on the walls mutely testified to the fact that the gray-haired man was qualified to practice medicine at the prison. There was a pause. Robert waited patiently.

  "Because of the work done by intermediaries, you and I finally dare to meet in person," Dr. Thorne said. "I won't waste any words. You are a very wealthy man, but are sentenced to death within six months because of an insidious disease in your body that cannot be controlled." He looked for Roberts reaction.

  Robert Moore slumped. Even as they spoke, he could sense the slow erosion that was taking place deep inside his body. Within a matter of months, perhaps only a few weeks, Robert Moore would cease to exist as a human being. Initially, he had resisted the ravages that were taking place, but he now had accepted the inevitable.

  He nodded. It appeared that Dr. Thorne had done his homework.

  "I'm offering you a possible way out," the doctor had said. "For a sum of money, which I'll mention presently, I can give you a new chance. In a sense, I can renew your life beginning at about age twenty-five."

  Robert had never been married. He was fifty-eight. The idea that he could be transported back to an earlier age spurred his interest to an immediate peak. He wanted to ask a thousand questions all at the same time, wanting immediate answers to all of them.

  Sensing Roberts impatience, Dr. Thorne raised his hand as if to bar questions, and continued with, "Please don't ask questions. You will learn quickest by letting me explain, step-by-step."

  "Benny Harris, who used to be a prizefighter, is on death row." Dr. Thorne had begun quickly making every word count. "He's due to receive death by lethal injection on January 23. He's guilty of the crime of which he was convicted. He admits to beating a man to death with his fists and awaits death serenely. But he wants his death to serve a useful purpose. He wants to leave his family ten millions dollars. If you begin to see where I'm going, do you have any problem with what I've said so far, Mr. Moore?"

  Robert quickly shook his head negatively. "No, no, of course not." He exclaimed. His heart had begun to pound wildly.

  "There are expenses, Mr. Moore. There are people who will certify that Benny died of a heart attack, others who will keep quiet about a special operation that will take place in the prison hospital. There is, of course, the cost of a suitable fee for…, well, for me." The doctor flushed a little. The cost to you will be ten million for what Benny wants to leave his family and five million for me. A good deal of my fee will go for quiet expenses.

  "I understand what you're saying, Dr. Thorne," Robert blurted. "Let's say that cost is not important. But please, tell me what this is all about!" Robert Moore could not control the trembling in his voice.

  "I'm talking about a brain transplant!" Dr. Thorne had paused letting what he had just said sink in.

  "God! Do you mean that…" Robert didn't know quite how to finish the sentence.

  "A brain transplant," the doctor. repeated "I propose removing your brain from the diseased body, your body, in which it is entrapped and placing it into the head of a healthy man – the head of Benny Harris, to be specific. Benny agreed to all of this for the welfare of his family. There are no guarantees, Mr. Moore. None!

  "I assume there is a reasonable chance for success?" Robert stammered.

  "Yes, most assuredly. We have done brain transplants on animals for several years. The operations have been uniformly successful. Amazingly, in mice and chimpanzees, the body does not attempt to reject the brain of another animal. I feel that a transplant on a human being, at this time, would be successful. This procedure is illegal, you understand, but for the sake of science, and for a suitable fee, I am willing to chance it. The final decision is yours."

  Robert knew that his ultimate answer would be yes. But several questions nagged his mind. "After the operation, who will I be?"

  Dr. Thorne smiled at the question. "You will still be Robert Alfonse Moore, the Wizard of Wall Street. You will continue to think like Robert Moore, act like Robert Moore, even write and speak like Robert Moore. You will, of course look like Benny Harris because every part of you will be Benny Harris except the part that makes you uniquely you – your brain. Yes, there will be a period of transition. You will have to go undercover for a while, grow a mustache and beard, have your barber shave off some hair at the front of your head to give you a higher forehead, spray gray color into your hair. You will need to gradually change your appearance until you are fully accepted in your new appearance. This is easier than it sounds, Mr. Moore. You will be surprised at how little people actually know about the faces and physiques of other people that they see every day."

  Robert wasn't convinced, but what did that matter? He was being offered a chance to rid himself of this grisly disease that had made itself an unwelcome guest in his mortal body, and he was being offered an opportunity to relive many years, benefiting from the experiences of many right and wrong decisions he had made over that period of time. He might even get married this time around. He was not going to be deterred by the possibility that some persons would question his sudden changed appearance. He could handle that.

  "Besides that, what's the worst thing that can happen to me?" Robert asked.

  "I can't answer that question," Dr. Thorne responded cautiously. "Needless to say, we are exploring new ground. You might die on the operating table; you might become a vegetable, in which case, we would not allow you to survive. You might find that you could not use your new brain. We just don't know. But based on what we've learned from laboratory experiments, I believe that you will be you accept that you will reside in a far more satisfactory physique than the one that you now inhabit."

  Robert Moore eagerly gave his ascent.

  Over the next several weeks, Robert's body was racked with pain as he took care of the several transactions that were needed to transfer funds from long-term investments to this one most important investment of his life. It seemed as if a demon within his frame was attempting to do away with him before he had the chance to undergo his unprecedented act of transformation. The demon lost.

  The operation was performed on December 6.

  Robert Moore awoke in the prison hospital. After a moment of questioning as to where he was and what was happening, he began gratefully accepting his new role in life.

  There was not a great deal of pain. He felt remarkably well, as if several sacks of gravel had suddenly been removed from his chest. There was a bandage around his head but this did not keep him from moving about examining every part of his body that was in sight and reach.

  Earlier, he had seen a pict
ure of Benny Harris and had been informed about Benny's physical attributes, but now, for the first time, he could see what Benny was really like. There were freckles on his arms. This came as a surprise. There was hair on his chest, bristles on his chin. Somewhat self-consciously, he felt himself under the covers, and was not displeased with what he discovered. Robert felt that he had made an extraordinarily good decision in exchanging a prizefighter's body for his old dilapidated one. He congratulated himself profusely.

  Robert crawled out of bed and stumbled to the dresser. He stared at the ruggedly handsome face in the mirror. "Hi, Benny," he muttered. Then in a stronger voice, he cried out, "Hi, Robert Moore!" The voice sounded like his but was stronger and more vibrant.

  The door opened and Dr. Thorne walked in carrying a newspaper. "I see you're up," he said. "Everything went extraordinarily well, even if I do say so myself." He opened the paper and pointed to a story buried deep inside. The headline read, "Convicted Murderer Cheats Lethal Injection." The two men smiled at each other and shook hands.

  The next several weeks went pretty much as Dr. Thorne had predicted. Robert went under cover and began transacting all his business by phone. He passed the word to servants and close associates that he had just undergone a facelift and did not want to appear in public for