Doctor Morthrod dreamed of a day when all the darks could dine with the lights at KFC, the way laundry should never be done. Then he woke up while being wheeled towards the emergency room. The ceiling seemed like a river flowing past his face, with the occasional island of fluorescent light. The back of his head was warm and wet. He reached his hands into his pants and fondled his floppy flaccid fuckstick, but couldn’t feel a thing. Since his wiener was numb, he knew that he must be fucked up on tussin and have fallen down. This was not his first fall, and unless the second coming of Christ came to Earth to massacre all the non-Christians tonight, it would not be the last.
“Are you all right?” Marty the medical student asked him. Marty was a Muslim with a maroon turban, tall and skinny with a long black beard. He was a new doctor and persisted in asking patients pertinent questions instead of silently using his stethoscope like a real doctor.
“Are the World Trade Centers all right?” Doctor Morthrod demanded.
“You know damn well that three towers toppled and only two planes hit them. What happened to World Trade Center 7? Don’t blame Muslims for what your government did.” Marty punitively punched Morthrod in his penis, forgetting the fact that his mentor was intoxicated every Tussin Tuesday. “How did you fall down?”
Doctor Morthrod saw the ceiling suddenly sink away from his face, meaning he was in the massive emergency room now. Billions of black people get shot in Detroit every day. Be afraid of Detroit. “The Earth loves me so much that it pulled me closer to give me a hug,” Doctor Morthrod slurred.
“Based on what you said and how you said it, the answer is clearly cough medicine. Come on Doctor Morthrod, I’ve told you ten times to date that being so high you can’t walk without smashing into the ground and bleeding buckets from your skull isn’t safe for the sickies.”
“Jesus forgives you for being a Muslim.”
“And he forgives you for being a drug addicted dipshit. If you weren’t the best damn doctor in Detroit I’d be telling the Dean of Doctors that you’re using performance-diminishing drugs. Y’all need Allah.” The two nurses guiding the gurney had reached their destination, a small room stuffed with strange machines and many cabinets. Marty started hooking up tubes and wires up to Doctor Morthrod while verbally abusing him with venomous words like “sobriety” and “Narcotics Anonymous”.
“Robitussin isn’t the problem, it’s the solution,” Doctor Morthrod said while bleeding from the head.
“Literally just shut the fuck up. I don’t care what you have to say,” Marty snapped. He used an electric razor to shave off the hair surrounding the head wound, then slowly stitched up the doctor’s skull while he sat with his eyes closed, watching the pretty colors dance inside his eyelids. A negro nurse with no nipples brought Doctor Morthrod some spaghetti.
“Food is for humans,” Doctor Morthrod ejaculated, waving away the unnecessary nutrition. “I’m an alien from the future, sent to be a nuisance to decent society. Bring me my mobile phone, so that I may watch porn and laugh at these pitiful monkeys making messes with their inferior genitalia.”
“You’re at work. You are on the clock. Shut your fucking god damn fucking mouth before I sow it shut,” Marty growled. Doctor Morthrod was immune to insults thanks to the power of dextromethorphan, so he didn’t mind. Nor did he feel the needle repeatedly piercing his skull.
Posted in: Shortened Stories