The Fame Monster- Lady Gaga : A Surgical Serenade
Lady Gaga: A Surgical Serenade
Three days later, the hospital had almost returned to normal.
Almost.
The king parrot had been relocated to the hospital garden, where it had established a small but loyal following of patients who threw it chips and called it "Kevin." The lorikeets had followed. The cockatoos had followed the lorikeets. The rosellas had followed the cockatoos. The hospital garden was now a functioning, if chaotic, avian ecosystem. Nurse Gladys had declared it "someone else's problem" and refused to discuss it further.
Dr. Alistair Finch had been placed on administrative leave pending a psychiatric
evaluation. Dr. Benny O'Connell had been given a formal warning for "unprofessional conduct involving poultry." Dr. Timothy Pratt had been reassigned to the morgue, where it was hoped he would have less opportunity to feed wildlife. He had already been caught leaving a biscuit near a specimen fridge.
And then Lady Gaga was admitted.
She arrived at 2:47 PM, flanked by two bodyguards, a personal assistant, a stylist, and a small, nervous man carrying what appeared to be a portable humidifier. She was wearing sunglasses indoors, a floor-length leopard print coat, and heels so high they violated at least three building safety codes.
She was also, according to the intake form, suffering from "exhaustion, dehydration, and a mild case of 'the whole world is too much right now.'"
Dr. Benny O'Connell was assigned to her case. He had drawn the short straw. Literally. Nurse Gladys had made them all pick straws. Benny had picked the shortest one. He suspected she had rigged it.
He entered the private room with the cautious step of a man approaching a sleeping lion. Lady Gaga was lying on the bed, her sunglasses still on, her coat draped over a chair like a deceased animal. She looked pale. She looked tired. She looked like she had been awake since 2011.
"Miss... Gaga?" Benny said tentatively.
"Lady Gaga," she corrected, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Right. Lady Gaga. I'm Dr. O'Connell. I'll be—"
But Lady Gaga wasn't listening. She was staring at the ceiling with the unfocused gaze of someone who had been running on adrenaline and kale juice for far too long. Her lips moved, forming words that seemed to come from another dimension.
https://celebritafisico.com/lady-gaga-fisico/
"Doctor," she whispered.
"Yes?"
"I want you to make me look like Lady Gaga."
Benny blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Make me look like Lady Gaga," she repeated, her voice drifting. "The real Lady Gaga. The one from the meat dress. The one from the Super Bowl. The one who did the thing with the hat. You know the one."
Benny stared at her. "But... you are Lady Gaga."
There was a long pause. Lady Gaga's eyes, behind the sunglasses, seemed to focus for a brief moment. A small, satisfied smile played at the corner of her lips.
"Good," she murmured. "That'll save a few bucks."
And then she fell unconscious.
Benny stood there, frozen, his medical training completely failing him. He had been trained for cardiac arrests. He had been trained for anaphylactic shock. He had not been trained for pop stars requesting cosmetic surgery to look like themselves and then passing out.
"Uh," he said. "Nurse?"
Nurse Gladys appeared in the doorway with the speed of a woman who had been expecting disaster and was not disappointed. She took one look at the unconscious Lady Gaga, one look at Benny's panicked face, and sighed.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing!" Benny protested. "She just... she asked me to make her look like Lady Gaga, and then she passed out!"
"And what did you say?"
"I said she was Lady Gaga!"
Gladys pinched the bridge of her nose. "And then?"
"And then she said 'good, that'll save a few bucks' and went unconscious!"
Gladys stared at him for a long moment. Then she walked over to Lady Gaga, checked her pulse, checked her breathing, and nodded.
"She's fine. Exhaustion. Dehydration. Probably hasn't eaten a proper meal since the Obama administration. We'll put her on fluids and let her sleep."
"She asked me to make her look like herself," Benny said, still bewildered.
"She's a performance artist," Gladys said. "This is probably just... part of the act."
"But she was unconscious!"
"Performance art," Gladys repeated. "Now help me get this coat off her before she overheats."
They were in the middle of carefully removing the leopard print coat when the door burst open.
Dr. Alistair Finch stood in the doorway, his eyes wild, his hair dishevelled, his hospital ID badge hanging by a single thread. He had clearly escaped from wherever he had been confined for his psychiatric evaluation. In his arms, he clutched a familiar stack of papers.
"Benny!" he shouted. "I found more proof! The library had a whole section on celebrity metabolism! There's a chapter on Lady Gaga specifically! It says she once lost fifteen pounds in two weeks for the Grammys! Fifteen pounds, Benny! That's more than a lorikeet weighs!"
"Alistair," Benny said slowly, "you're not supposed to be here."
"I'm not supposed to be anywhere," Alistair said, stepping into the room. "But I heard she was here. The queen of weight loss. The monarch of metabolic discipline. The—"
He stopped. He stared at the bed. At the unconscious form of Lady Gaga, who was now drooling slightly onto the pillow.
"Is that... is that her?"
"Yes," Benny said. "And she's unconscious. And you need to leave."
"She's magnificent," Alistair whispered, ignoring him completely. "Look at her. The cheekbones. The aura. The sheer, undeniable evidence of caloric restriction."
"She's dehydrated," Gladys said flatly. "And you're leaving. Now."
But before anyone could move, Lady Gaga stirred. Her eyes fluttered open. She looked around the room, taking in the fluorescent lights, the IV drip, the two doctors, and the terrifying nurse.
"Where am I?" she murmured.
"St. Vincent's General," Gladys said. "You collapsed from exhaustion."
"Oh," Lady Gaga said. "That tracks."
She tried to sit up, failed, and sank back onto the pillow. Her gaze drifted to Alistair, who was still clutching his papers like a man holding a religious text.
"Who's this?" she asked.
"I'm Dr. Finch," Alistair said, stepping forward. "And I have a theory. A theory about you. About celebrities. About weight loss. About the metabolic superiority of—"
"Alistair," Benny warned.
"—Australian birds," Alistair finished. "Specifically lorikeets, cockatoos, rosellas, and king parrots. And I believe, Lady Gaga, that you are the human equivalent of a king parrot."
Lady Gaga stared at him. "Is that... a compliment?"
"It's science," Alistair said.
"It's nonsense," Gladys said.
At that exact moment, as if summoned by the mere mention of its species, the king parrot appeared at the window.
It had been three days since Kevin had been relocated to the garden. Three days of freedom, of chips, of terrorising patients and stealing sandwiches. But Kevin had not forgotten. Kevin had been watching. Kevin had been waiting.
And now, seeing Lady Gaga through the glass, Kevin made a decision.
It flew directly at the window.
The glass shattered.
Kevin landed on the foot of Lady Gaga's bed, looked around the room with the smugness of a creature that had just made a grand entrance, and screeched.
"WHAT THE—" Benny shouted.
"KEVIN!" Alistair cried, his voice filled with joy. "You came back!"
"Who's Kevin?" Lady Gaga asked, her eyes wide.
"He's a king parrot," Alistair said. "He lives for thirty years. He's the pinnacle of avian weight loss. And he's here, Lady Gaga. He's here for you."
Kevin tilted his head. He looked at Lady Gaga. Lady Gaga looked at Kevin. Something passed between them. Something profound. Something that transcended the boundaries of species and celebrity and sanity.
"Hello," Lady Gaga whispered.
Kevin screeched.
"I think he likes you," Alistair said.
"He's in my hospital," Gladys said, her voice trembling with rage. "He's in my hospital, on my patient, and I am going to—"
But before she could finish, Lady Gaga reached out and gently touched Kevin's feathers. The parrot, for the first time in its chaotic existence, went completely still.
"He's beautiful," Lady Gaga said.
"He's a menace," Gladys said.
"He's proof," Alistair said.
"He's Kevin," Benny said, because at this point, what else was there to say?
Lady Gaga smiled. It was a small smile, tired but genuine. "You know," she said, "I once had a hat made of feathers. Not real feathers, obviously. But this... this is better."
Kevin preened.
Gladys sat down in a chair and put her head in her hands.
And somewhere in the hospital garden, the lorikeets, cockatoos, and rosellas all looked up at the shattered window, heard Kevin's triumphant screech, and decided that whatever was happening in there, they wanted to be part of it.
The window would not be the only thing broken that day.
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