It had been a brutal
Halloween for Drunk Dave. He'd hired on as a bar-back at The Pussy's
Purr just two weeks prior, specifically to help with the holiday
rush, and the soulless managers were making sure he earned every
penny of his meager compensation. Many times as he was stocking the
ice chests or cleaning the vile bathrooms, he had thought of throwing
in the towel and joining in the debauchery with what little money
he'd managed to save. In these moments of temptation, only two
thoughts kept him going. The first was that he had to scare up enough
scratch to rent some kind of room. (Even a bunk at The Faubourg
Center would beat passing out at the Drop-In every day.) The second
was that there weren't too many jobs you could get with the words
“Drunk Dave” tattooed on your forehead.
His name wasn't even
Dave. That was the guy who had tagged him as he lay passed out on a
band-room floor somewhere in Key West. For years he had put up
resistance, insisting on being known by his preferred moniker, Phlegm
Wad, but eventually he gave in to the inevitable and accepted his
fate. It was not entirely arbitrary, for he was often very drunk.
He had just gotten
done mopping up some bum puke from the front entrance, and was taking
a break to watch the bouncers toss a guy dressed in a duck costume,
when one of the bartenders came up to him and said, “Hey, Drunk
Dave, we need two more kegs of Oktoberfest.”
“Aww Christ, just
let me breath for a second.”
“We need them
immediately! You can breath in November.”
“Fucking
automaton...”
“What?”
“Yes sir, I'm
right on top of it.”
Dave ambled into the
back and went over to the Oktoberfest kegs in the corner. He pulled
one off the stack and ran it out to the line, then grabbed the empty
and returned for the second keg. As he bent over to pick it up, he
felt a strange sensation in his groin area. There was no pain, per
se, but something out of the ordinary seemed to be taking place. It
lasted only a moment, and Dave promptly went about the business of
hooking the kegs to the line.
Finished with the
task, and stepping out on Bourbon to have a cigarette, Dave was happy
to see his friend Puke Face coming towards him down the street. He
was covered in Mardi Gras beads, and wearing a green visor with
plastic tits stuck on top. He had a huge frozen daiquiri that he'd
picked up off the ground, and was talking shit to every girl who
crossed his path. Dave laughed as he walked up and said, “What the
fuck are you supposed to be?”
Puke Face clasped
his hand and replied, “What, you can't tell? I'm a tourist. I come
from Podunk, Iowa to get shit-faced drunk and scream for tits. Do you
know where I can get a Huge Ass Beer and a penis nose mask?”
“Sure, just head
south down Rampart and take a right on Iberville.”
“Dude, that's the
projects.”
“That's where I
send everyone who asks for directions.”
“Hahaha! I love
you Drunk Dave. Hey man, why don't you ditch this bullshit job of
yours and come get shwilly? It's fucking Halloween in New Orleans!”
“I fuckin' want
to, but I've got to find a place to stay. I'm on thin ice at the
Drop-In ever since I threw up in the washing machine. Besides, the
cut off age is 23, and I'm 37. It's starting to get awkward. I can
hardly get to sleep in the mornings.”
“Sleep is for the
weak, Dick-Balls. Let's get fucked up and take out our agro
aggression on some street performers.”
“No, man. I gotta
get paid.”
“Alright then,
Drunk Slave, I see how it is. I thought we could have a bonding
experience, getting blindly loaded and wailing on clowns, but I guess
living inside is more important to you. Have fun eating off plates
and peeing in a toilet, you oogle motherfucker. You might as well go
back and live with your parents.” Puke Face stumbled off down the
street, leaving Drunk Dave to contemplate his inauspicious words. Was
he really doing the right thing?
As soon as he
stepped inside, the green-shirt was on top of him, “Where the hell
were you? We need two kegs of Amber, now!”
“I have to go to
the bathroom. I'll get them in a minute.”
“Hurry up!”
Dave went into the
foul bathroom and locked himself in a stall. He pulled down his
pants, sat on the toilet and, looking down, he saw that his testicles
had swollen up to five times their normal size. He was speechless.
Aghast. They were the size of a large grapefruit, and
had roughly the same consistency. Never in his days had Dave
experienced such stark terror. Not in the prison showers, not after
having unprotected sex with gutter punks, not after smoking salvia
divinorum on a Greyhound bus. He didn't know what was wrong with his
balls, but he knew he had to get to a doctor immediately. Barely
suppressing a sob, Dave pulled up his pants, buckled his belt
loosely, and slowly walked back into the bar.
“What the fuck is
wrong with you Dave? We need that Amber on the line!” henpecked the
vacuous manager arbitrarily. A gaggle of drunken girls dressed as
Charlie's Angels were on stage performing a karaoke version of “Play
That Funky Music.” As they warbled out the ghastly tune, Dave felt
like he was about to vomit. “Look dude, I have to got to the
hospital.” he said.
“Say, you don't
look so good, now that you mention it. Did you take some bad Molly or
something?”
“No, man. It's my
balls. They're all swollen up to, like, ten times their normal size.
I've never seen anything like it.”
“Oh, that sounds
like you have a hernia. Does it hurt?”
“No, it doesn't
hurt at all. I almost can't believe it”
“That's
surprising. You'd think your guts rupturing through a wall of muscle
in your abdomen and spilling out into your scrotum would be painful.”
Just then the girls
busted into the chorus of “Play That Funky Music,” and the room
started spinning. Dave could take no more. He ran out onto Bourbon,
blowing chunks of French Fry po-boy all over the sidewalk. From down
the block, he could hear Puke Face laughing, “Thar she blows!”
------------------------------
The waiting room at
Charity Hospital was packed elbow to elbow. Dave was working at The
Pussy's Purr on a strictly under the table basis, and needless to
say, they did not provide health insurance. They had been nice enough
to call him a cab, however, which took only two hours to arrive in
the festival traffic. He had wanted to call an ambulance, but the
manager said a hernia wasn't an emergency situation, “You can live
with one for years.” he assured him, “They're gonna be treating
trauma patients all night long. You'll be lucky if they get to you.
You should stay and finish your shift.”
“Are you kidding
me? I can hardly walk.”
“Hey, it's all
good bro. It is what it is.”
As Dave waited in
line to sign in, he looked around at the other patients. They were
all dressed in Halloween costumes, and each seemed to be suffering
from a malady that was somehow ironically related to their attire.
There was one guy dressed as a crab who had been scalded with boiling
water, for example, and a women dressed as an oyster who'd been
stabbed in the chest. It was a ludicrous spectacle. Dave despaired,
as he felt certain it would indeed be a long time before he saw a
doctor.
When he got to the
head of the line, he signed his name on the list, and a triage nurse,
looking tired and bitchy, asked him, “What's your medical
emergency?”
“Uhm, I think I
have a hernia.”
Without changing her
expression, the nurse handed him a clipboard with a form attached,
and said, “Go ahead and sign this form and have a seat. We'll be
with you as soon as pos...”
“Hey, did you say
you were in with a hernia?” It was another nurse, this one much
friendlier looking.
“Yes. It's the
worst thing that's ever happened to me.”
“Oh, don't worry
hon, we'll get you fixed up. Jacky, I'll take care of this one. Dr.
Parsons said he wanted me to let him know next time we had a hernia
come in. Trying to study up on them, I guess.”
“Suit yourself.”
said the indifferent nurse, as she turned her attention to a man
dressed as a conquistador who'd gotten his ass kicked by South
American natives. (Who just happened to be in town for a convention.)
“Step right this
way,” said the cheerful nurse, “We'll get you to your room and
have you change into a gown. I'll let the doctor know you're here,
and he should be with you shortly.”
She took him to a
small cubical divided from it's neighbors by blue curtains. He took
off his Exploited shirt, and his patched cargo pants, taking care not
to jostle his afflicted gonads, and put on the paper thin hospital
gown the nurse had given him. He sat down carefully, and waited for
the doctor to arrive.
It wasn't long
before he heard footsteps in the corridor. The doctor lingered
outside the curtains for a moment checking the chart, then stepped
inside. He was an older man with a shock of wavy white hair jutting
outwards, and a pencil thin mustache that marked him as obvious
eccentric, “Hi there Mr. Wherner, I'm Doctor Parsons. What's the
reason for your visit today?”
“My name is Drunk
Dave.”
“OK Drunk Dave,
what brings you to the emergency room?”
“Well, Doc, it's
kind of embarrassing, but there's something wrong with my testicles.
They're all swollen up. I think it might be a hernia or something.”
“No need to be
embarrassed, son, I'm a doctor. It sounds like you have a serious
problem, but you came to the right place. Why don't you hop on up to
the bed here and let me have a look at your groin. Nothing to worry
about, now. I'm a professional.” The doctor had a rapid, staccato
rhythm to his speech, much like newsreel reporters from the forties.
Dave sat on the edge of the padded bed and lifted his flimsy gown to
show the doctor his distended nut-sack.
“Oh yeah. Hmm,
yeah, that's a hernia, all right. Looks like a nasty one too. I'm
going to have to try and determine the extent of the damage to your
muscle lining. It might hurt a little, so I'm going to give you a
sedative to keep you relaxed during the procedure.”
“Now your
talking!” said Dave, relieved to finally be getting some good news.
The doctor took a syringe from the rolling medical cabinet in the
corner, and pulled a small vile of liquid from his pocket. Dave
thought it was strange that he didn't order the medicine through a
nurse, as he'd seen done in all his previous ER visits, but he was
not one to question the expertize of a doctor, particularly not one
about to inject him with drugs.
The doctor drew a
healthy looking dose into the syringe, and wrapped a large rubber
band around Dave's arm. “Alright, you're going to feel a little
stick.” said the doctor, jabbing the needle into his vein. As he
depressed the plunger, he said, “ZOMDV ASCHA BASGIM BOLAPE BASAGIME
NIIS ZOMDV BALLSACK GEMEGANZA ARP OIAD NANTA!”
“Whoa, what the
fuck are you talking about dude? You're tripping the fuck out!
Goddamn, this place is fucked up. I knew I should have gone to
Touro.” He got up and went for his clothes, but it was too late.
Dave crumpled to the floor, just barely managing to cradle his poor
testicles in the fall. His consciousness faded, as Doctor Parsons
loomed ominously above.
----------------------------------
For a long time,
Dave was passed out on one of the padded leather couches at the
Drop-In. He was planning in his mind how he would handle work that
night; what strategies he would employ to cope with the petty
political maneuverings of his bosses and co-workers. It was only the
gradually arrived at realization that he was, in fact, strapped to a
wooded board, that brought him back to reality.
And reality was
looking grim, as Dave found himself in a dire predicament. He was in
a different part of the hospital, a much larger room with unpainted
cinder-block walls, and dusty old medical equipment strewn
haphazardly about. As he regained his composure and took a closer
look, he could see, intermixed with the archaic devices, a subtly
intertwining network of barely visible wires that formed geometric
shapes of astonishing complexity. The machines themselves were
engraved with these exotic geometries, as well as some kind of
foreign writing. Seen in this broader context, the arrangement of the
machines was not chaotic at all, but instead seemed to adhere to a
deranged logic beyond his comprehension.
The board he was
attached to was suspended in the center of the room. He was
completely naked, with leather straps buckled tightly around his
wrists. He couldn't see down to his balls, no matter how hard he
craned his neck, but he could feel them clamped into place with cold
steel. “If only I had quit my job.” Dave thought, ruefully.
He called out wildly
for help, screaming with utter desperation, but help was not
forthcoming. Instead, he heard the doctor's voice from somewhere
behind him, “Say now, quiet down there son, there's no point in
making a ruckus. No one can hear you. Why, I doubt the hospital
administrators are even aware this place exists.”
Dave kept yelling,
“Oh Christ, you sick motherfucker! What the fuck is wrong with you?
I'm going to stomp your fucking guts ou...AAAAaaaarrrrrrrgggggghhhh!!!” A jolt of electricity shot
through his balls and radiated up through his entire body. It lasted
for only a few seconds, but was blindingly painful, leaving him
sweating and gasping for breath. “Keep it down, I said. How can I
calibrate this machinery with you carrying on like that? I'll be with
you in a second.”
There were some
clanking sounds, accompanied by the occasional muffled curse, then
the doctor walked into view, pushing a medical cabinet that had an
assortment of scalpels and other implements arranged on top. “Oh,
please just let me go.” begged Dave, hopelessly.
“No son, I'm
afraid that isn't going to be possible. Now, this probably seems like
a disturbing situation you're in right now, but I want you to
understand that you're about to be part of something big. You should
be excited to be involved.”
“I should be
excited to be tortured by a lunatic?”
“No need to get
nasty there, fella'. I assure you, I'm perfectly sane from a clinical
perspective. I know you're in a stressful position, but you are about
to take part in history.” said the doctor, as he picked up one of
his more gruesome looking tools and started walking towards Dave.
“There is a crossroads, Drunk Dave, where science intersects with
magick, and the two coalesce to create something greater than the sum
of the parts. You're strapped directly into the fulcrum of that
intersection.” The doctor applied the bizarre contraption to Dave's
long suffering balls, causing excruciating pain.
“Do you know what
a homunculus is, Dave?”
“AAArrrrrggghhhhhhhh!
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!! Christ Jesus, mercy!”
“A homunculus is a
magickal being called to this Earth through esoteric means. It was
thought by the ancient alchemists that one must be gestated in the
womb of a dead horse, but there's actually a much quicker way of
going about it. The key is in your balls, Dave. I've spent years
researching the rituals and building my secret lab, but I've needed a
subject to bring my studies to fruition. When you walked in here
tonight, on the eve of Allhalowtide, I knew that I had finally found
that subject. Life force energy flows freely through your balls Dave,
and I will use them to summon the Anti-Christ and foster a new age of
Babylon. Hahahahaha!”
As the doctor
explained his plan, he was busy working on Dave's balls, inserting
them with tubes and hooking them up to the wires and machineries that
encircled the room. Every now and then, he would give Dave a jolt of
electricity, causing him to yelp in agony. Finally, he finished with
his tools and started flipping switches on the machines. “Ok, well,
that takes care of the science angle.” said the doctor, as he once
again walked out of sight. Dave writhed in torment, unable to form a
coherent thought. He was on the verge of blacking out when Dr.
Parsons stepped back into view, now bedecked in a flowing robe and a
ceremonial head-dress. In his hand was an icepick with an elaborately
carved handle made of bone.
“Now, I'm sorry to
have to tell you this son, but I'm going to have to jab your balls
with this ceremonial ice pick. I'm sure that probably seems
gratuitous after all the tubes and electricity and whatnot, but it's
actually a very important part of the ritual.” The doctor got down
on his knees and chanted as he jabbed the ice pick multiple times into Dave's balls, “NIIS MADZILODARP DARILAPA BABYLON ADAGITA A
SALAMAN OL EOL LAP ELAZA!”
He chanted with
increasing intensity and resumed zapping Dave's balls with
electricity. All around the room, the machines buzzed and whirred,
and the wires seems to vibrate with energy. Through the chaos, and
despite the chanting, Dave began to hear a gurgling sound, much like
a small infant, coming from down in his nether regions. Dr. Parsons
shouted, “Yes! YES! It's working. The age of Babylon is upon us! In
mere moments you will be fully formed, and I will separate you from
your human host. Then I will nurture you on the blood of my enemies
until you grow strong, and together we will make all humanity our
slaves.” From under his robe, the doctor pulled out a long knife.
Dave was in a state
of full panic, straining at the leather straps with all his might.
The doctor put the ice pick on the tray beside him and began cutting
Dave's testicles, now a partially realized personification of evil,
from his body. In spite of the pain, Dave was
indignant. Host to the Anti-Christ though they may be, he still felt
a lingering attachment to his genitals. Dave pulled at the straps
wildly as he felt a great rage welling up inside him. With one last
savage tug, he was able to yank his right hand free. The doctor was
too preoccupied with the ritual to notice, and continued chanting.
Dave reached down and grabbed the ceremonial ice pick lying on the
tray, and with brutal conviction, plunged it down into Doctor
Parsons' temple, killing him instantly. As he was lunging forward,
however, his body twisted away from the board, tearing that remaining
bit of skin by which the homunculus clung to his body. He heard his
balls fall to the floor with a sickening plop.
Dave unbuckled his
left hand and looked down at the homunculus. It pulsated on the floor
making strange noises and spitting up blue liquid. It reminded him of
Kuato from “Total Recall.” He picked up the knife from the
doctor's hand and, steeling himself for bloodshed, he said, “I
can't believe that crazy bastard. Now I have to stab myself in the
balls.”
But as he stood
there preparing to murder his own nut-sack, he found that he did not
have the will to proceed. The homunculus was as helpless as a
new-born child, and Dave felt a paternal instinct nagging at the back of
his mind. To stab the creature would be almost like stabbing a part
of himself. He dropped the knife, and picked up the homunculus from
the ground, wrapping it in bandages, and stowing it in a green medical
bag. “I guess I'm going to have to start nurturing you on the blood
of my enemies, huh?” said Dave affectionately, as he tucked his
cursed progeny into the sack. Then he got down on his knees and began
stripping the doctor of his blood drenched robes, so he would have
something to wear on his walk back to the Quarter. It was the best
Halloween costume he'd ever had, and he felt like he'd earned it.
(If we are not already Facebook friends, I'd encourage you to send me a request at https://www.facebook.com/mad.mike.773 . I post lots of photos and short pieces over there, and it is by far the best way to keep up with what I'm doing.)
(If we are not already Facebook friends, I'd encourage you to send me a request at https://www.facebook.com/mad.mike.773 . I post lots of photos and short pieces over there, and it is by far the best way to keep up with what I'm doing.)
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ReplyDeleteSad to just have stumbled upon your blog. I'm not currently homeless, but I have been in the past. I'm also a writer (sort of) and a loner. It's difficult and I wish I could be as honest about my pain as you are.
ReplyDeleteHopefully, you write again ("millionaire" or not).