September 10, 2007
Scraped Knees
Written by Girth McDürchstein on September 10, 2007 5:32 PM
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Cancer Crisis!
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My lawyer, Harcourt Abimelech Feinstein, set up a very important meeting regarding distribution. Since we recently reacquired our old recording studio, the Paint Shaker, but remain without a label, Feinstein set us up with a group that would print our CDs (both past and future) under the old Kelleystein name. Sort of a lo-fi version of the record label, without the overhead or the board meetings or the huge capital or the funneling losses into Cayman Island shell accounts. Essentially, these distributors will print our CDs for a nominal fee, and we can sell them ourselves.
Then, disaster struck. I parked on the street a few blocks from the distributors’ office, started walking along Melrose. I hit the intersection at Gardner, stopped by a red light. I looked both ways, saw oncoming traffic in both directions. I had just enough time to get across but, preoccupied as I was with the cars coming, I failed to see where my feet were heading. I tumbled off the curb, twisting my ankle and landing on the concrete. I howled in pain as my knees and right elbow hit the ground. Because of the heat, I made the mistake of wearing spandex shorts instead of the usual leather pants. As I staggered to my feet, I could practically feel the muscles and tendons surrounding the joint tearing apart. The cars in both directions were forced to stop, but when I got to my feet and got back to the curb everyone blasted on down the street.
I pulled out my portable and dialed 911, and within minutes an ambulance arrived. The medics gave me and my unit uncomfortable looks. I pointed to the blood gushing down my knees and screamed, “Take me to Cedars-Sinai!”
“Their ER is full,” one of the medics muttered. “We gotta take you to Good Samaritan.”
“I refuse to sit in an emergency room,” I roared. “I could die!”
“From scraped knees?”
The other medic held out his arm in a “cool it” gesture, then asked, “Are you insured?”
“I’m legendary rock star Girth McDürchstein,” I said.
After an awkward moment of silence, the second medic sighed, “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means of course I’m insured!” I lied.
“They’ll be able to admit you for non-emergency treatment,” the medic suggested. “Though it’ll be a bit more mon—”
“Do it!” I snapped. “And I’d like to be in room 20C in the oncology wing.”
“Oh Jesus, do you have cancer?”
“Of course not.”
The medics exchanged weary glances. “Sir, get in the ambulance,” the first one said.
The other medic helped me inside, cleaning my wounds and bandaging me as we rode to the hospital. I told him an obscene story about my arch-nemesis Owen Autumn, after which he asked who Owen Autumn is. I tried to explain, but Owen’s failure at fame or even infamy made it difficult.
Soon enough, we arrived at the hospital and the medics leisurely shoved me into a wheelchair and asked a desk nurse to have me taken to room 20C of the oncology wing. It took some convincing for them to admit me to that room, because Sarah had apparently paid for a private room. I convinced the nurses I was related by showing them my genitalia and asking them to do anything necessary to convince them; they merely asked me to put my spandex back on, then gave me a pair of loose athletic shorts to put over them.
Sarah’s room was dark, as usual. The nurse led me in and I forced her to man-handle me onto the bed. When she left, I looked at Sarah. The various computer monitors cast pale glows all over her body. She looked even worse than the last time I had seen her—the chemotherapy had ravaged her already-weak body. She lie still and unconscious, looking like she’d already passed from this mortal coil.
It made me feel awful. I’ve never felt such pain in my life—a constant throbbing and stinging emanating from each knee and one elbow, my inability to bend the joints, my twisted ankle. I wanted to wail in anguish, but when I looked at Sarah I realized she must feeling the same pain I feel, multiplied by a million. I’d promised to cure her cancer, but since Margo refuses to let me give my prescribed treatment, I had to lie in a hospital bed and watch her slowly die.
The doctor who treated me griped that Cedars-Sinai is not Club Med. I showed him my ghastly wounds and a forged insurance card, and he agreed to keep me overnight for observation. After watching some television, I struggled into the wheelchair and rolled to the cafeteria for dinner. Sarah was still unconscious when I returned.
I sat in my chair and watched her for what must have been hours. The golden rim of sunlight breaking through the cracks in the drapes faded, then disappeared altogether, then dusky street lights replaced it. In that time, she didn’t stir a bit. I wondered if all that kept her alive at this point were the ghastly machines. What if the chemo was killing her faster than the cancer? Was it possible—could my cure still affect her? And where was Owen Autumn during all this?
Slowly, I climbed from my chair, gripped the rims of her bed, and slid onto it. I removed the blanket, revealing her scrawny body, covered with nothing but a thin paper gown. I rubbed her in ways Owen Autumn could only imagine until she started to gush, then I slipped it inside. After only a few thrusts, her eyes opened, glassy and unaware—but she was awake. My cure was working! She let out a soft moan, then her hand moved down, the ball of her thumb slipping over her clitoris and gently rubbing as I kept going.
Eventually, as the fog in her brain cleared, she asked, “Girth…?”
“How’s it feeling?” I breathed.
“I think I’m gonna barf,” she whispered.
“Wait, I’m almost there,” I moaned. I let loose, and then I knew it—my manseed had penetrated the frontlines and destroy this tumor. It didn’t stand a chance.
“I’ve missed that,” Sarah muttered. “Now get off.”
I rolled off, wiping my glistening area, and bounded back into the wheelchair. Sarah and I shared a pretty intense stare for a few minutes. Finally she said, “Why are you here?”
“I fell down in the street,” I groaned. “Scraped my knees pretty bad.”
Sarah laughed. “Good going, dumbass.” It was nice to see a smile on her face.
“What’s it like?” I wondered.
Her smile faded. “I can feel it,” she whispered. “Eating me alive.” Sarah took a breath. “I want to die.”
“Unnecessary,” I said suavely. “I cured you.”
“Dude, Girth. How many times do I have to tell you, sexing someone up won’t cure anything?”
“But it—”
“No. I mean, it was nice to take my mind off it, but…this is bigger than your engorged man-muscle. Bigger than both of us. I’m going to die, Girth.”
“No—”
“Yes. And you have to help.”
My eyes bulged more than my unit.
To be continued…
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