|A TASTE OF QUEEN CITY AND OTHER DIMENSIONS . . . . . . : There are satyrs in the book, too; if you like satyrs.
From the comedy/satire QUEEN CITY AND OTHER DIMENSIONS
V’s story about Dr. Fuzzlbum usually begins with her telling about her hospital job. V had volunteered once a week at Saint Joseph’s hospital. She performed many valuable services to and for the ill. She helped them with pillows and blankets, ice and magazines, tea, coffee and good cheer.
BUT! V had an especial way to care for the goldbrickers who were working on getting themselves Workers’ Comp. They were mostly stupid, ugly, unpleasant and with a fuck-everybody attitude. For them, she served coffee that she had boiled until bubbles rose and broke in the air of the microwave. "Oh dear," V said after 'accidentally’ spilling the bubbling brew onto their private parts. "Hot damn! That must have hurt. Sorry." She had many of these accidents.
V honestly tried to make a valiant attempt at spreading joy, but that was not something that came easily for her. It didn’t fool the infirm even when she gave it her best. "Do I look like a candy striper to you? How long is your arm? You can’t reach it for yourself!?"
One morning, her last day at Saint Joseph’s, V was in the linen closet gathering no-ass gowns from behind a rack of towels when Doctor Fuzzlbum barged into the closet, locked the door behind him and swiftly removed every bit of his clothing before masturbating like a monkey. V could not hold back a cough to clear her throat. At the moment he began to moan and writhe, she coughed. Loudly!
“Who’s there?” Fuzzlbum was hoping he was mistaken and the coughing sound came from somewhere else.
V hid her scrambled egg and tofu burrito between a pile of no-ass hospital gowns and came out from behind the towels, still coughing, “I’m sorry to have interrupted, but I tried to hold it back. I see you couldn’t either, Doctor Fuzzlbum.”
“Do we know each other?”
“We do not, but everybody knows of you, Doctor. You are famous,” she said while trying to clear her throat.
“Let me take a look,” the naked neurosurgeon said as he rubbed against her to look down her throat. “You need bread and water.”
“I know," V swallows. "Hey, I think it went down.”
After a spate of uncomfortable silence, Fuzzlbum spoke. “You wouldn’t want to hurt my reputation, would you?”
“What? No. Of course not.”
“I’ll give you anything you want."
“Never heard that before. I always wondered how that would feel——an offer like that. Nope. I don’t want anything. Do you satisfy yourself often, Doctor? The floor does seem a little——gamey.”
Fuzzlbum smiled, feeling an instant camaraderie with V and answered, “Before surgery.”
“It calms my nerves. Keeps me from thinking about sex while I operate.”
“Too much fun,” she beamed. “I like that. I don’t know why, but I really do. There is a certain amount of poetic irony; oui, je ne sais quoi.
“Yes. Perhaps you’re right. There must be something I can do for you,” reading her badge, “Victoria.”
Fuzzlbum knew this chance encounter could destroy his career. He certainly didn’t want to jeopardize it, nor destroy his family. Paranoia was taking hold of him. It grabbed him by the throat and scared the bejesus out of him. He began to think of ways to murder her. Maybe . . . how about——
"How about no doctor’s fee? For you and yours. If you ever need a neurosurgeon.”
“Not likely, but if one is ever needed, I will remember to call you, Doctor Fuzzlbum. And, don’t you worry about . . . you know . . . mum’s the word. Honest.”
“Perfect, Victoria. Thank you. I feel a lot better.” Fuzzlbum graciously said before suggesting, “You wouldn’t want to——”
“Not today,” and V opened the door and left. She hasn’t seen him since.
Fuzzlbum, after giving V enough time to arrive at somewhere else, slinked out of the linen closet and casually walked towards the operating room——choosing each step according to the design on the corridor’s floor.
Today’s surgery involves removing a foreign object from the thick skull of billionaire media whore, Donald Trump, who came to Queen City especially to have the esteemed Doctor Fuzzlbum perform the operation. If I do murder her, what was her name, Victoria, it can easily be blamed on the Queen City Hacker.
The Queen City Hacker is Queen City’s first serial killer. One dozen victims within thirteen months murdered with an unrelenting hatchet; and nothing yet to tie the victims together, other than the same brutal means used for each murder.
Astonishingly, the object in Trump’s skull was bigger than his brain. It took over six and one-half hours to disengage the giant ego that was smothering his intellect, getting in the way of his ability to reason, or to make the least bit of sense. For instance, when The Donald was rolled into the operating room, drowsy and babbling something about pinky and the putin. No one in attendance could make sense nor reason. Gibberish. Sometimes patients say the most outlandish things; especially those in fear of ego removal. He did say more ‘I’s than on a fly. That’s one shitload of ego!
The ego was so tightly embedded in Trump’s skull, Fuzzlbum had to remove it with a quarter inch chisel and a rubber mallet. What remained in his skull after the ego removal was something the size of a chicken’s egg which might have been his atrophied brain. His assisting nurse weighed the slimy ego. Fifty pounds! A fifty friggin’ pound pink slug! That surely had to weigh more than anything ought weigh that is taken out of a man’s skull.
There it was, the pink ego stuff looking like an escapee from McDonald’s. It growled, slid off the scales, growled some more, bounced around the room, hung from a florescent light fixture and sang the title song from "Gilligan’s Island." Fuzzlbum coaxed the ego with open arms and as it got within hugging distance, he gave the nasty beachball a whack. The ego screamed profanities in Russian, then slithered its way under one of the styrofoam ceiling tiles, disappeared, leaving trails of pink goo behind.
Fuzzlbum quickly finished working on Trump. He installed a hinged door on the top of Trump’s skull for loose change and condoms. Billionaires never carry money, so Fuzzlbum threw in three pennies, a dime and a quarter. Trump’s hair weave and weirdly laughable combover finally had a legitimate reason——to hide the hole in his head. Remarkably, the patient lived. Although he did complain about his feeling lightheaded and not responsible for anything he says.