“Okay. Dear Duke’s junk, you suck. After all the masturbation, I’m surprised he hasn’t pulled you clean off entirely. Love, Dove.” She had a nice pinch of skin in her hands.
“I said nicely, you evil, sharting shrew.” Duke gave up separating his farts. They stopped having individual identities altogether and became one solid, never-ending ass scream.
Dove stopped and stared at him, obviously waiting for the awful background noise he was creating to dwindle down.
Duke shrugged and shouted over the din, “Nerve gas doesn’t stop.”
Amidst the noise and Dove’s angry face, he couldn’t help but notice that his endless fart smelled kind of good. As soon as Dove was done getting his junk pimped-out, he was ordering Moo Shoo pork to go with his Debra Anastasia flavored sushi.
“Soon, I’ll be taking a dump. I can only keep nerve gas up for so long.” Duke made the hand gesture for her to wrap it up.
The farting background got even louder and meatier as Dove lined up the gun with his skin.
Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was his acrid fartnado. Dove sometimes had horrifying allergies, and the amount of air coming from Duke’s ass was kicking up quite a bit of dust. As she counted down her intentions and tried to build up her bravery, Duke stood still, his ass endlessly scream-farting. And yet, after all her good intentions and dick nightmares, Dove sneezed violently as she pressed the trigger.
Duke’s screams tangoed with his fartnado, and Dove realized that the whole procedure had gone horribly wrong. Duke was flailing around with his dick taped relentlessly to the fake wood. She couldn’t stop sneezing, feeling like a buttload of pepper had flown up her nose.
From the pathetic research she had done on the computer, she knew that she had to keep the wound clean. From hours of watching M*A*S*H with her father during her childhood, she knew the best cleaner for any wound was booze. She sneezed her way over to the fridge and grabbed Duke’s vodka from the fridge.
She chased Duke around, splashing his farting, bleeding, and cursing body with icy cold vodka. When he turned to face her, his eyes were rolled back into his head, and he looked like an angry bull.
Dove attempted to see his wound under his hands, but the blood was so much she just fainted like a boneless asshole onto the floor.
The last person Duke ever wanted to see was Prick-ston, but the Faux-man strolled into the scene of the accident like he was paying rent for it.
“Le stupid American. Pénis is wasted on you. Viens ici.” Preston motioned for Duke to come barreling over. “The la pute stupide bit your dick?”
Duke tried to beat the tray off himself while Preston tsk-tsked at the injury.
“I vill call ze 911 for your le pecker.” Preston picked up Duke’s cell phone and slapped him across the face to quiet his screams as the line connected.
“Yes, can I please have an ambulance sent to the Brushever Apartments? There is a white male with a violent penis injury.” Preston nodded at whatever he heard on the phone.
Duke growled around his pain. “Faker. I knew you were a faker. That was perfect English.”
Preston rolled his eyes and told the dispatcher that he would wait for the rig by the front doors.
Dove moaned from the floor. “Not the dick nightmare again. God, it felt real this time.”
Duke peeked over the couch and hissed at her over his nerve gas, “Oh, it’s real. And you fucking sneezed!” He went back to screaming horror-movie-girl style, and Dove fell back to the floor, limp.
The paramedics attended to Dove first because she was unconscious—no matter how many times Duke hollered, “She’s fine!”
The girl with the hair-trigger finger woke to the smelling salts and immediately pointed to Duke. “His man business needs attention.”
The paramedics decided it would be best to remove the tape and tray at the hospital and loaded the very ungainly contraption carefully into the ambulance. The lights and sirens, which had not quieted during the ruckus, had drawn a crowd. Duke found himself waving to all sorts of neighbors.
“Yup, that’s my penis. Taped to a tray. Get a load of it.” Thankfully, the paramedics had mercy on him and gave him a powerful painkiller en route to the hospital. Through the fog, Duke was assured that his girlfriend was in the car behind them, being driven to the hospital.
“Don’t worry, the Frenchman is driving.”
Duke tried to scream, “He’s not fucking French!”
But his new, rubbery lips just made more spittle. Soon the world faded to black, and he was pretty sure his heartbeat was only located in his dick.
Dove pretended to pass out again. Preston wasn’t one to be fooled.
“Americans and their penises. Always taping them to trays. You all le suck.”
“Can I talk you into letting me out here? I’m not his girlfriend. We’re barely acquaintances.” Dove pulled her hair in front of her face like Cousin It.
“Oh, no, ma cherie, you have hell to pay. You will talk penises to cops, le robbers, people’s moms. It is as you deserve. Maybe you vill learn a much-needed lesson, yes?” Preston turned on his radio and tried to drown out the noise of the ambulance in front of them.
It was very French and had a lot of backbeat. Dove hoped Preston might forget which side of the road he was supposed to be on and kill them both before they could get to the hospital.
Answering the questions of clear-thinking, possibly sober, human beings was making Dove’s phantom penis hurt.
What am I going to say? Oh God, will they call the police on me?
Dove was pretty sure what she had been forced to do to Duke was illegal in at least a few states. Maybe all of them. Who the fuck knew the piercing laws anyway? Preston seemed to be personally affronted by the whole situation. He came around to Dove’s side of the car and opened her door. After an awkward period of time, it was obvious Dove was going to be far from normal about getting out. Without saying a word, Preston tried to pull her out.
Equally silent, Dove did the best impression of rigor mortis she bet the fake Frenchman had ever seen.
Preston was as determined to deliver her to Duke’s side as Dove was to get into his glove box and die there. Finally, after a ridiculous amount of wrestling time, Preston stopped.
“Get out.”
Dove hung her head and climbed out of her penis-popping-free cocoon. She didn’t want the police to add trespassing to her long list of genitalia misdemeanors. Or felonies.
Oh God.
She tried to bolt, but Preston was expecting that and grabbed her arm.
She tried to soften him up with small talk. “You’d make one hell of a bounty hunter. Ever think of taking up a career in that?”
Dove tried to duck and jive, but she only managed to dance stiffly with no music playing while Preston maintained his hold. When they walked into the emergency waiting room, a nurse with an official-looking clipboard and a normal-looking face commented, “Oh, good. The girlfriend. Please have a seat. We need to go over a few things before we operate.”
Preston stood behind Dove and pushed her into a chair. The waiting room was packed. There were very few chairs available at all, so Dove had an audience for her responses. After stating her name and some basic information, the nurse got to the good stuff.
“So, did your boyfriend partake in any hallucinogenic drugs during your sexual deviant role playing?” The nurse’s voice was very loud, and she was excellent at enunciating.
Dove put her hand over her mouth. Her blush was more like a fifth-degree burn, and it covered her whole body.
She looked at her shoes and squeaked out an answer. “No drugs.”
The nurse nodded and checked off a box.
What the hell was on that clipboard?
“Can you please list all the orifices you penetrated on his body to gain sexual gratification during your role play in your alternative lifestyle?” The nurse was only half interested in Dove; she must have had a very interesting day if these questions didn’t fluff
her feathers at all.
Dove, on the other hand, felt the eyes of everyone in the waiting room. Mothers ushered their children to the far side of the room, giving up their precious seats to protect their children’s innocence.
Dear God, I’ve become a monster. Look away. Look away.
“Just his, ya know, man dangler.” She bit her lip.
By trying to avoid saying the clinical, appropriate name of Duke’s penis, she was now aware that “man dangler” prompted inappropriate giggling. Out of her own mouth.
Oh, no. Not the giggling.
Dove had next to no coping mechanisms when it came to social interactions gone awry. When all else failed—the running, the hiding, the dying—all that was left was the giggling.
The moment she thought about trying not to laugh, it became one hundred times worse. Soon she wasn’t giggling; she was cackling, which turned to snorting, which then evolved into wheezing breathing that made the nurse look alarmed.
The nurse got stern. “What are you on? Tell me now.”
This of course was the worst time to melt to the ground, laughing even harder than before. Dove smacked the floor, trying to catch a breath, after she did indeed end up there. The nurse checked her pupils.
She was able to spit out a few words to try to explain her situation. “I’m… not… on drugs… I’m just… awkward.”
The tears started then. The hysterical, crying laughter was so complete the people sitting around just had to laugh, even though they were not in on the joke.
Dove flopped on her back and took deep breaths, trying to calm herself when she was suddenly very, very sober.
Johnson loomed over her, looking completely confused. “Dove, are you okay?”
Before she could answer, the nurse filled him in. “Oh, she’s here because she mauled her boyfriend’s penis in a sadistic, possibly satanic, ritual.”
Dove’s world crapped its pants. Shit the bed. Waffled in its cone.
Because Johnson looked like someone had slapped his beautiful face.
Dove thought he looked beautiful, even upside down. If she closed one eye, she could even take Preston out of the picture, just like Photoshop. Johnson leaned down with a tight expression. Dove accepted his helping hand and tried to make her body lighter than it was. She didn’t want him to guess her weight like a carnival barker.
The rude nurse was still grilling Dove, saying mortifying words like “penis,” “urethra,” and “testicular trauma.” Each embarrassing health textbook word reflected on Johnson’s face. Like they were little rocks thrown by cruel, naked trolls.
Dove’s tongue became thick and stupid. She tried to use American Sign Language to explain the reason she’d been rolling around on the floor of the hospital. As her fingers tangled themselves in a hard knot, she remembered she didn’t actually know how to form words with her hands. Her little pinky was turning purple, which reminded her of Duke’s penis when it was peeking out from under the duct tape on the tray. Johnson nodded at her mess of nimrod fingers and worked them out of their Twister style position for her.
“Listen, Dove, as long as you’re okay, you don’t have to tell me anything. I mean, you’re not here for a GYNECOLOGICAL emergency or anything? As your pharmacist, I could tell the doctors what medication you were taking for your past INFECTION.”
Dove twisted and looked at the crowd. They were stone cold quiet and watching intently. This spectacle would be witnessed by many. If she just went ahead and took off her clothes, she could re-create one of her least favorite nightmares.
Preston spoke up. “Le twit did not injure her le pussy. She’s… how you say it? Dumb ass. Yes. Oui. An ass that’s dumb. She was playing with his le pecker? Elle est mauvaise.”
She looked at her shoes and tried to melt. Or spontaneously combust. Surely mortification could ignite her insides.
Johnson was too handsome. He would never be with her. She knew this, and tears filled her eyes. She tried to take a peek at him, to remember what he looked like this close to her. Before the restraining order he would surely file because she was freaking crazy took effect. He was all blurry, so she dropped her gaze. Johnson’s shoes moved closer to Preston’s.
His loud voice spoke harshly, but Dove couldn’t understand a word he said. “Si jamais tu reparles de cette fille de cette façon, je te casserai la gueule jusqu’à ce que tu pleures comme la mauviette que tu es.”
Preston’s shoes stepped backward as if he’d been burnt. “You are le bossy and le stupid, pharmacist.”
“And you’ve never had an accent at Save-Mart.”
Dove remembered that Preston was the manager the day she and Duke had arrived in Save-Mart to bargain for Johnson’s job back. She looked at the fake Frenchman and shook her head, the one bit of sign language she was actually sure of. The last thing she needed now was Johnson finding out how Duke bullied Preston and Save-Mart. The brisk head motion set her tears free.
Preston sneered at Dove, obviously remembering all too well the coup that she had been involved in. “Dis girl you are fond of? Did you know she came with that big, pulsating le buttloaf and blackmailed me and my company into giving you your job back?”
Even the nosy nurse fell silent as Preston laid the accusation out like a picnic blanket in the waiting room.
Oh fuck.
After a moment, it was like the revelation in a soap opera complete with gasps and tsk-tsk noises in the waiting room. She had to say something. She had to try to hold her head up but her neck was a wet noodle. This was life for Dove. Disappointment and pussy rashes. Hot pharmacists handing out yeast infection medicine.
A tear fell on her shoes, and she sniffled. Wiping her eyes, she tried to speak loud enough to make a difference. She needed to lasso some meaningful words, but they weren’t her friends, never would be.
“His penis. Yes, I tried to pierce it. I sneezed and it went sideways; then I passed out.” Dove cringed at her own voice.
His long fingers grasped her hands that were trying to choke each other to death. Then one of his hands came all the way up to her face and tilted it until she had to look at him.
“Close your eyes.” Johnson reached into his pocket with his free hand.
She did as he asked but shamefully wondered if her tongue was long enough to reach his hand.
Just a quick lick.
He was cupping it gently, like her chin was a boob. It was a boob chin. Dove wished she had a pimple down there to simulate a nipple, knowing this touch would be their last. She didn’t even wonder what he was doing while her eyes were closed. She could feel the stares of the spectators; there might even be polka dots from where they were burning holes into the fabric of her shirt. Her heart was stupid, just like Preston said she was. It insisted on being happy, wagging its tail and focusing on the fact that he was touching her.
“Okay, open them.” Johnson’s delicious, minty breath baptized her face.
She tried to drink it as she sexily—she hoped—fluttered her eyes open. He had a keychain flashlight inches from her pupil.
He went from one eye to the other. “Equal and reactive. How are you feeling? Did you hit your head when you fell?”
Preston walked away, muttering “flaccid” and “le Americans and their le blackmail.”
This close to Johnson’s face, she had to tell him the truth and let him know she’d never wanted to hurt his feelings. She looked in his green eyes and let him mesmerize her.
“You. I saw you on the video—you know where you got slapped in the nuts with the cock ring?” She bit her lip.
Probably could have left the cock ring out.
Johnson nodded. Despite the murmurs from the crowd, she continued. “Well, they said you lost your job, and I couldn’t let that happen. You love being a pharmacist, and you saved Duke’s sausage-eating life. It wasn’t gay porn. I mean gay porn has cock rings, maybe, it’s not like I’ve seen a lot.”
Sometimes when Dove closed her eyes at night she saw the image that was bur
ned into Duke’s TV like a negative on the inside of her eyelids. She was pretty sure Fordicks had a shadowy outline of a cock ring.
That’s neither here nor there, asshole. Stop talking about porn and cocks.
“And I suck at talking, obviously.”
Someone in the chairs had the nerve to shout out, “Amen!”
She resisted the urge to turn around and glare at them. Johnson was still listening. Granted, his eyebrows were raised in alarm, but he was still here. Still touching her boob chin.
“So I asked Duke to come with me. And to get him to do that, I had to give him something.” Dove took a moment to swallow.
She leaned her head a little heavier on Johnson’s hand. Trying to hug his palm with her boob chin.
The nosy nurse piped in with her ideas. “Bondage? Oral sex? Flatulence for deviant gratification?”
Dove knew her cheeks where red as the nurse dreamed up some serious weirdness.
What kind of hospital is this?
“I agreed to pierce his horrible pecker if he helped you out. And he did. God damn it. I was so shocked, but he spoke when I couldn’t, and Save-Mart gave you your job back. So I owed him. He put a smile on your face, inadvertently, so for that I was grateful. So grateful that I tried to pierce his junk with a free gun he got off Craigslist.” Dove tried to feel encouraged as Johnson’s eyebrows went from alarmed to puzzled.
The crowd piped up with disgusted noises.
She reached around his hand, careful not to knock it out of the way, and wiped her eyes. The next moment was everything.
What would he do? Could he even possibly think of speaking to her again?
He dropped his terrific hand and sighed. He turned to leave, not saying a single word. Dove’s hands were shaking, so she let them fight with each other again. She looked at the floor. The tear from earlier had created its own little path and rolled off the side of her shoe.
She was sure she’d get over his leaving her here, maybe someday, a million years from now, but she kept her gaze down. She didn’t want to have the memory of his back as he left her in disgust.
Fire Down Below Page 14
