The Case of the Phantom Sample

It all began with a routine check-up. Dr. Billingsgate, suggested a urine test, just to be thorough, he said. “Pop the sample in the blue box on your way out,” he chirped, already halfway out the door. I obliged, carefully labeling the jar.

A week later, I called for results.

“Ah,” said the receptionist, her tone drier than a nutter’s knick-knacks, and a pause too short to be human. “Seems we’ve… misplaced it. Could you do another?”

I did. This time, I drew a tiny frowny face on the label.

Two weeks passed. No word. When I phoned, the receptionist sighed. “The fridge broke. Samples thawed. Unusable.”

“It was urine,” I said. “Why you freezing it?”

Third attempt. I hand-delivered the sample to Dr. Billingsgate himself, staring him dead in the eye as I placed it on his desk. “Guard this with your life,” I said, with a flourish of my own.

Of course, when I returned, it was gone.

“Power outage” he declared, palms up. “Backup generator failed. Priority was the vaccines, you understand.”

“Vaccines don’t evaporate,” I muttered, “they’re aqueous and in sealed containers.” Even though that made no sense.

By the fifth attempt, I’d started to suspect a conspiracy. I smuggled the sample in via decoy coffee cup, ninja-rolled past reception, and deposited it directly into the hands of a startled lab tech.

The next day, the receptionist left a voicemail: “We’ve, er… had a bit of a seagull situation. Flew in through the window. Very chaotic. Your sample’s… well, it’s in the North Sea.”

I stormed into the clinic, ready to declare war. The receptionist blinked at me.

“Look,” I said. “Is this a secret experiment?” I turned to my mate Marmite “Are they building a urine-powered rocket?”

Dr. Billingsgate shuffled out, clutching a clipboard. “Just your luck.”

“My luck?” I was confused. Marmite whispered, “At this rate, you’ll be dead before they figure out you’ve got a biotin deliciousness.”

That’s when I saw it. Behind him, in the staff break room, a shelf lined with labeled jars… each repurposed as a vase for watercress.

“You’re taking the piss” I said as I walked away from another British institution being sold off to bidders with gold-lined fists.