literature

Doctors and Nurses. 01

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When you buy a Mediterranean Twilight #2, emerald dusted, full body, pvc cat suit; the guy that takes your money, and wraps it up in the special non-stick paper- perv-paper Kink calls it- this guy, he tells you 'good choice'. He tells you 'thank you' he tells you 'come again'. He leads you to believe you just made a well thought out, sensible purchase.
               This guy with his too neat moustache and hedgehog spiky ears- what he doesn't tell you, is to make sure you talc the inside up before dancing away to the mojito tango. What he doesn't tell you is that the hidden zipper that runs from your shoulder blades round to the very front of your crotch is a bitch to find in a dimly lit bathroom stall at the back of that questionable little joint on 7th street. The one that plays the jazz meets hip hop meets bhangra meets nu wave funk all damn night long.
              What he doesn't tell you is, Oh Jesus, Mary and Guillermo, to make sure you scoop yourself back inside before wrenching that zipper back up. ALL of you.

*
             Kink says it's a good idea. Kink promises it will be fine. Kink purrs 'don't be such a fucking pussy' as she flexes her bicep and hones in with the needle. Kink says there's nothing more fanfucktastically healthy than a shot of Special K on a Thursday night.
             What Kink doesn't say as she climbs over-  taking your arm and forcing your hand into a fist- penetrating the curve below your bare shoulder, is that this is the worst fucking idea she's ever cooked up in that meth-lab cranium of hers.

              What Kink doesn't tell you is that you'll end the night knowing yourself more intimately than you ever would have liked.

          No. Kink, with her big blonde hair and shiny teeth so white it's like she only uses them to smile, Kink with her thick lashed doll-eyes and her leather lingerie set- so shiny it crackles as she leans forward to dump the ash flaking at the end of her fag- she tells you you can stick your K-hole theories up you're A-hole and chill the fuck out.
         People are so good at leaving out the negatives.
         Everyone's a fucking salesman.


          At around 4.30 that afternoon you're a med student slash delinquent slash on your last warning slash communal junky. As the clock strikes midnight you're not worrying about turning into a pumpkin or whose cheap-rate, peeling paint, sticky blanketed condo you've left your goddamned glass slipper at.
         You're slouched up in your living room, your fingers full of intestines.
          You're trying to keep your innards in.


          Looking back, you realise how pointless and downright retarded it was to use a scalpel to cut the long, skinny, white rails across the mirror lying on the table. A credit card, yes, a razorblade sure… a scalpel; now that was just you being a pretentious dunce.
           But it seemed so totally awesome the night before, you reason in your head as you snatch at a memory of you- eyes blood red, cliché nurse's outfit unbuttoned you, on your knees with something in your mouth that doesn't belong to you.
           However, you don't ponder this too long as memories have already become irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. Like how soft your face is and how orgasmically comfortable your chair has become.

           Kink, she's sitting bent over so far her eye-sockets have moulded onto her knees. They have become one. Kink, she's no longer Kink at all, but a human pretzel.
          Five minutes later she's gone. The Pretzel has left the building people. You recall her saying something about the rain and dancing and nuts, but the concept slips quickly into your unknown.

          Whoever decided to make scalpels so freaking shiny was a dick.

          At around 4.30 that afternoon it's just a scalpel; swiped from class while you were hacking open the small bodies of mice. Just another reminder of the night before during which you quite probably possibly maybe contracted herpes. What with your luck.
          As the hour hand creeps closer and closer to full erection it becomes your friend, Glinty.

          Kink says it will be fine. What Kink doesn't say is that in ten minutes or so you're going to be royally fucked.

          You don't really feel the first incision. The neat little blade slides easily along the flesh above your navel. It slips gracefully between your layers of skin, all seven of them and leaves behind a thin trail of black, that quickly webs out and ebbs and grows.
         Your blood, it only looks black until it spills down your stomach and stains your jeans. When it hits the denim it explodes out into living crimson flowers.

         The second incision- as you rake the blade through your rapidly gaping slit- you unearth some freaky yellow shit. You peer down with your nose wrinkled and you place the scalpel to the side. You finger the puckered edges of the gaping, menstruating mouth sliced across your stomach.
         The flesh there being white only a memory.
         You dig first one, then two fingers into the mess that's spilling out your abdomen, poking and swirling the yellow fat peeking out from your newly acquired hole; ugly and pimpled like citrus fruit.
         Its then, as you finger yourself that you feel it. That smooth, smooth snake. You try and get a hold of the serpent hibernating in the depths of You but it's like trying to grasp an eel with your hands covered in mayonnaise.
        Digging your hand in until you're up to your knuckles in hot blood and whatever that clear stuff that's beginning to leak under your fingernails is, you manage to lace your thumb and forefinger around the alien-slick tube.
You pull.



        By the time Kink comes back in, you've been pulling for quite some time.
What you've found, that tentacle with no end that's so damn slippery in your sticky red hands, that's your small intestine.
        The average human has a small intestine measuring 23 feet.
        In your lap- hamocking down in between your thighs like some obscenely long umbilical cord- you have about five feet of you.
       You've been pulling for quite some time. And you're beginning to feel it.

       Kink, she blinks a few times before turning round and retching into the cactus pot. She comes over and she tells you you're fucked.
        You say you know.

        The two of you, after several minutes discussion, your newly freed gastro-worm cooling and congealing all the while, you decide perhaps a phone call is in order. You agree an ambulance sounds like a pretty damn good idea right about now.

        Kink. She says it will look best- it will be less embarrassing- if you try and 'push that goddamn thing back in'. She's on top of you, straddling you, trying to  shove back the horrific rope you've birthed. She's prodding and shoving and the ketamine is starting to wear off.

        As you fade in and out of consciousness in the ambulance, Kink holds your hand in hers the whole way. When you get to the hospital and they go to rush you away- when you let her go- nothing happens. The blood coating your hands and hers, its congealed while she was sitting telling you not to scream so loud; she was getting a headache.
           As she peels her hand from yours there's an audible crunching noise as the crusted sticky stuff divides.

          At around 4.30 that afternoon you were a med student.
         As the doctors are pawing at you, shoving tubes and nozzles in every orifice imaginable, you're telling them- as best you can on the morphine- they should rethink their kit. You're telling them that dull razors are the future. You're telling them velcro's the way to go in the PVC industry.
        Even as you go under you're muttering some revelation. Some idea. Some plan. Some anti-home-self-DIY device….

         Everyone's a fucking salesman.
part one
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