I'm Y.Z. Newell and I'm here to tell you about proper safety techniques when it comes restraining a madman. No, I don't mean the patients at our hospital, who are all pretty nice and not a really crazy one among them, except maybe a few, but not really that bad, no, not at all. I mean restrain Dusty, who has got Fourleg Fever, meaning he never did fully recover from life in the burrow. Me, I'm not like Dusty, despite my own years in the wild. Maybe it was all that solitude, as Ki wasn't real sociable and my family was, for coyotes, that is. I chalk it up to Ki's artistic talents, her poet side, and maybe being a little off. I don't know. I'm basically a cop with a fancy job title, Director of Security and Community Relations, and I act more than I think, if you know what I mean. You don't? I'd sooner taser your ass than dialogue with you. That help you understand? Does it?
I thought so.
But we are a hospital, of a kind, so we don't want to hurt anybody, except maybe that idiot, Durwood. Why we keep that methdog hanging around I'll never get it, other than Whiski Rae's his sister, and a finer woman I'd never want to meet in my life. Dusty's crazy in love with her, as she is with him, I envy them both that kind of closeness. Sure, Miz Thibodeaux and I have our moments together and I admire the boudin out of her, swamp raised as she was, by the worst pack of slobbering halfwits, whacked-out inbreds and damnable polecats in all of Dixie, and that's saying plenty. But Miz Thibodeaux isn't the settling down kind, and I'm all jangled inside from my days as a member of the Coast Guard Special Forces, or the Zodiacs, as we're better known, after the inflatable boats we favor on missions. I spent time in Grenada during and after the invasion, and it wasn't very pretty down there, except for the beaches, the nude ones especially, where wealthy young Brazilian women tended to vacation, Yowza! But I mean those dunderheaded medical students, the ones we rescued, some went out by chopper, but we Zodiacs took a dozen out of the anatomy lab, where they were hiding out pretending to be cadavers, they were so scared, some even partially dissecting themselves to further their disguises. I guess they feared retribution by the Marxist overlords who wished to redistribute the island's wealth, all $37 of it, not that we ever found a true Red, worst goddamned excuse for a war I ever seen. I got a helluva sunburn and they wanted to give me a Purple Heart for that, I shit you not! I turned it down and left the Coast Guard as soon as my tour was up, after 16 years, my plan was to be a lifer but hell, not if the next war took me to Little Diomede Island or some other goddamned place.
See, I'd left the Sourdough County sheriff's department back in 1974, shortly after I met Dusty and took him to Dr. Ken's clinic in North Dakota. I'll let Dr. Balzac tell you that story, if he chooses to, which I'm sure that lovable blowhard will. I think of him as my kid brother—I'm ten years older than him. I realized on the long drive being a county mountie wasn't for me, and after I dropped Dusty off at Dr. Ken's place, I drove back to Sourdough, resigned my post, and drove back to the Great Plains in my jeep, where I hung around on the prairie for a month or so. Yes, yes, I stripped down for a while and ran with the coyotes, but unlike Dusty I lost my edge, maybe my desire as well, I wasn't feral anymore. Plus I was sick of all the land. Water preoccupied me, and not just the Missouri River, though that wasn't bad, the big reservoirs in particular I liked. I bought a row boat and paddled around Lake Sakakawea, trailing a line in the water. Sometimes I'd catch perch or walleyes and if nobody else was around to see me, I'd eat them raw. Nummers, as Whiski Rae likes to say.
Anyhow, I got the idea one day to join the Coast Guard, and once there, to try out for the Zodiacs. I was a few years older than the average recruit, but that was no disadvantage, my past ferality giving me extra strength, speed and endurance—so much so, in fact, that I had to dial these attributes down considerably so as to call less attention to myself. And until we went to war with Grenada, being a Zodiac wasn't a bad gig. Broadly speaking, my specialty was busting drug runners, though I also spent time at both poles aboard an icebreaker as a marine mammal wrangler (memo to all: never flirt with a female leopard seal), and was a special observer for the U.S. government during the Falklands War, concealing myself as a sheep. Which was a hoot: me, a coyote in sheep's clothing! The Deenkera clan still gets a laugh out of that.
Well, here I am telling you a shaggy-dog story, though when you think about it, what other kind is there? Nah, don't worry, I won't get all existential on you. I have read Sartre and Camus in French, and can smell the amphetamines in the former's writings. Camus I like, especially "The Plague," as I've lived through epidemics on the prairie, including, most dramatically, the terrible virus that wiped out 99% of all black-footed ferrets.
So suppose a madman, somebody like Dusty, charges you with serious hurt on his mind. Hurting you, I mean. What would you do? Most people would try to land a punch, which is the single dumbest thing you can try, as people generally aren't used to punching anything, another person in particular. Basically what usually happens is a person swings hard, doesn't connect, falls off balance, and is stomped or crushed or shot or stabbed by their attacker. None of these outcomes is especially desireable, you'd have to agree, and if you don't, God help you because I sure won't.
So again, a madman charges. Today's madman is unweaponized, beyond his limbs, his head and his teeth. With weapons present you've got yourself a whole new deal. This madman has none, but he's madder than mad, his face is red and the steam's billowing out from his ears like in the cartoons, and he's grinding his teeth. Simply do this—if he charges you from at least two body lengths away. Closer than that and I can't help you right now because I'm talking about the first situation. So, you're charged. All you need to do is to wait until he's about six feet away (if he's running), drop to the ground and roll towards him. You'll almost surely trip him up, as we won't have time to react. Then you scramble over to him and sit down on his head, hard, facing away from him. And stay there. And stay there longer. You could suffocate a man this way if you wanted but that isn't the goal. The goal is to settle him down.
And he'll settle. You tell him he's got to settle if you're going to let him up. Once he's quiet, lift a cheek a little to make sure he can breathe. He starts to rile up, you sit back down. Call for help however you can.
I didn't learn this technique, I'm proud to say, I invented it when I was a Zodiac. I used it to quiet a cow leopard seal, a creature much stronger than your average man, and even stronger than me, a badass fourleg Special Forces operative. And while that story didn't end very well (the cow's bull came by and blindsided me), I'm still here and the only part of them you could still find would be my sealskin long johns, which are very warm and indestructable. Kind of like me, once you know me better.
Yours in self-defense,
Y.Z.
28 November 2007
27 November 2007
Butterflies and Raw Liver
Dearest friends,
I'm still weak from my recent illness, ably described by my dear sweet wife, Dr. Whiski Rae Shamrock, and owe my survival to her love and quick thinking, as well as the love and dedication of my staff. The CBI (Coyote Bureau of Investigation) is hunting for the perpetrators of this foul (in all senses of the word) deed, and I am determined to bring these malefactors to justice, whether that be meted out by twoleg courts or dealt with directly in fourleg fashion. I have my preference as to the method, but vowed my dear coyote mother, Ki, to bridle my strong need for personal vengeance which, regrettably, I've not always contained (viz., my parents and Claude).
Anyway, I'm too indisposed to write much, so I'll share with you two of Ki's beautiful poems, translated by me from coyotespeak, and soon to be published along with ninety-nine other stunning works by Ki. The volume's title is, tentatively, "Butterflies and Raw Liver," after the names of two my favorite poems written by my mother.
Butterflies (After Rumi Olaf Petersen)
As dawn is to day, so butterflies are to sky,
As colors are to light, so butterflies are to bugs,
As birth is to gestation, so butterflies are to pupation,
As angels are to demons, so butterflies are to mosquitoes,
As right is to wrong, so butterflies are to moths,
As perfume is to stench, so butterflies are to vultures,
Now I must hunt and eat and sleep till noon,
As butterflies dance to soundless tunes.
Oh that you understood coyotespeak and could have heard Ki singing this beautiful poem! Now:
Raw Liver
For dinner,
Raw liver,
Slides down,
No sound,
So slick,
And quick,
To eat,
This treat,
Raw liver,
It quivers,
Swallow whole,
Then roll,
In guts,
In smuts,
It teems,
With heme,
The blood,
Will flood,
A Nile,
Of bile,
Spurts out,
In gouts,
So sweet,
This meat,
Like life,
Sans strife,
An orange,
Is....
Now excuse me as I go off to rest and to weep at the memory of my coyote mother, Ki.
Dusty
I'm still weak from my recent illness, ably described by my dear sweet wife, Dr. Whiski Rae Shamrock, and owe my survival to her love and quick thinking, as well as the love and dedication of my staff. The CBI (Coyote Bureau of Investigation) is hunting for the perpetrators of this foul (in all senses of the word) deed, and I am determined to bring these malefactors to justice, whether that be meted out by twoleg courts or dealt with directly in fourleg fashion. I have my preference as to the method, but vowed my dear coyote mother, Ki, to bridle my strong need for personal vengeance which, regrettably, I've not always contained (viz., my parents and Claude).
Anyway, I'm too indisposed to write much, so I'll share with you two of Ki's beautiful poems, translated by me from coyotespeak, and soon to be published along with ninety-nine other stunning works by Ki. The volume's title is, tentatively, "Butterflies and Raw Liver," after the names of two my favorite poems written by my mother.
Butterflies (After Rumi Olaf Petersen)
As dawn is to day, so butterflies are to sky,
As colors are to light, so butterflies are to bugs,
As birth is to gestation, so butterflies are to pupation,
As angels are to demons, so butterflies are to mosquitoes,
As right is to wrong, so butterflies are to moths,
As perfume is to stench, so butterflies are to vultures,
Now I must hunt and eat and sleep till noon,
As butterflies dance to soundless tunes.
Oh that you understood coyotespeak and could have heard Ki singing this beautiful poem! Now:
Raw Liver
For dinner,
Raw liver,
Slides down,
No sound,
So slick,
And quick,
To eat,
This treat,
Raw liver,
It quivers,
Swallow whole,
Then roll,
In guts,
In smuts,
It teems,
With heme,
The blood,
Will flood,
A Nile,
Of bile,
Spurts out,
In gouts,
So sweet,
This meat,
Like life,
Sans strife,
An orange,
Is....
Now excuse me as I go off to rest and to weep at the memory of my coyote mother, Ki.
Dusty
24 November 2007
A Miraculous Recovery
Hi folks,
Dr. Whiski Rae Shamrock here to let you know where we've all been for the past few weeks. Illness struck the Balzac Institute of Partial Recovery, affecting yours truly, our chef extraordinaire, Miz Gator Ethel Thibodeaux, our director of security and community relations, Y.Z. Newell, my brother, Durwood Del Monte Sherwood, assorted staff members, all of our patients and, most critically, my husband, Dr. Dusty Balzac. Simply put, we were quarantined because of treachery, or, more accurately, treachery's effects. Here's the story: everyone who knows him knows there's nothing Dusty loves to eat more than Andorran Jellied Eels mixed with Count Chocula cereal, and sprinkled with fried chipmunk paws, sweetbreads and brains spiced with cloves and nutmeg, and topped by a meringue crown whipped from fresh turkey eggs. Well, what pulls up to the gates of the Institute one fine fall day than a delivery van bearing a gift for Dusty. Yes, you guessed right, the present turned out to be an enormous tureen overflowing with Dusty's favorite repast, which he calls "Eel Surprise 3.0." Durwood was manning the entrance that morning and suspected nothing unusual about the transaction, though a review of videotape from a safety cam revealed that the van bore the familiar brown colors of a UPS truck but was emblazoned with the Fed/Ex logo. Still, an honest mistake, and one we all could make, particularly if strung out on Jaegermeister spiked with Coricidin and Adderall, as was, unfortunately, Durwood's case.
But whatever: forgiveness greases the world's axis and permits it to spin more smoothly. Back when I poled my way through Tulane University as a Welsh studies and cell biology major, I indirectly killed five Shriners at one go when they took a break from their conventioneering and enjoyed a river boat cruise. I'd just finished my senior thesis (a translation into medieval Welsh of Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer") and was exhausted and intellectually spent. To revive myself, I elected to launch into a primitive and unrestrained artistic celebration of the female orgasm. I was very sleep deprived and undernourished, and as I danced I felt a giddy delirium sweep over me. The Shriners sat at a distant table, their fezzes tipped nearly to their eyes in an apparent effort to conceal themselves. I was wearing a tiny g-string no larger than a silver dollar, and ruby colored pasties with little propellers on them I twirled through shake-my-booty power. I concluded my regular performance with a variation of my customary signature dismount (leaping off the stage with legs apart, then twisting in the air until I faced backwards as I landed on some happy patron's heaving lap), this time springing from a small trampoline, thus allowing me to fly across the room and onto the Shriners' table, knocking over their beer bottles and upending their chicken baskets.
They seemed not to care, as I jumped to my feet and continued my dance atop their table, moaning and howling and shaking my love nub and mercy mound just inches from their bespectacled noses. I wailed and writhed and groaned and shuddered as though I was possessed, then taunted the men to come and have me, demanding they sate my deepest desires, and acting out what effect their ardent thrustings would have on me. The old boys really started to steam, and one got a little goofy with lust, he actually dropped his trousers and drawers and tried to climb onto the table, which was a serious breach of etiquette aboard our ship, the "Crescent City Crawfish," where the firm policy regarding the artistes was "look but only touch yourself." Not that the Shriner could have done much harm; he was a stalagatite, not -mite. Still and all, our bouncers took this offense seriously, and two of them, Bruiser and Ray Ray, hurried to my defense.
Here's where things start to blur, the confusion a welcome balm whose anodyne effects include sparing me from recalling the worst of the ensuing violence. But Miz Gator Ethel, who was also dancing that night, remembers the follwing: Bruiser and Ray Ray grabbed the Shriner and dragged him to the door, only to be pursued by his pack of friends. One old codger withdrew a .45 semiautomatic pistol from a hidden shoulder holster and pressed it against Ray Ray's neck. Bruiser yelled "Gun!" and Ray Ray wheeled around and grabbed the Shriner's arm. Nobody suspected that the other Shriners were packing heat, and in a flash they'd pulled out their guns, including the pantless offender, who shot both Ray Ray and Bruiser in their chests, dropping, and killing, them both. Meanwhile, our other bouncers, Terrence, Sam-a-lam and Kudjo, ran to their own comrades rescue, shotguns in hand. The Shriners formed a defensive circle like a herd of musk oxen and proceeded to fire coolly. Their pistols were no match for shotguns, however, and all five men fell in less than a minute to head shots. Sam-a-lam lost his testicles to a bullet but survived. Terrence and Kudjo were unscathed.
So, in many ways I was the proximate cause to this carnage, since I should not have danced on their table, as my boss reminded me sternly. But he also forgave me, for he hated Shriners and said that all secret societies were nothing but trouble, attracting the desperate and depraved; and that the Shriners were worst of all, for as a child he underwent a series of painful orthopaedic surgeries in one of their hospitals, enduring many failed attempts to correct a congenital problem where his feet pointed backwards. Infections came and went, and one morning he rolled over in bed and both of his feet fell off. He stole a wheelchair, wheeled himself out of the hospital around midnight, and hitchhiked to New Orleans and its renowned Jean Lafitte Pediatric Polyclinic, where he was fitted with peg legs and given a pet parrot and offered a job as a cabin boy on the "Crawfish," which he later captained and then owned. "Only in America, Whiski," he'd often say. "An America where one day the sun will set finally on all Shriners."
Forgiveness, then, comes honestly to me, and I forgave the scamp Durwood for his drug-addled inattentiveness. The special treat bore a card for Dusty, and said only "Enjoy. Your secret chef." We were in his office when he lifted the cover off the tureen. The smell was hideous, as is the case with Andorran eels, which are pickled in goat urine; it is literally impossible to tell by their odor if they are tainted or not. Gator Ethel warned Dusty against eating this treat, as we didn't know its origins, but he abandoned his customary good judgment, reminding us that his digestion was far better than ours owing to his ferality. He offered bowls to the core staff, but even Y.Z., a fellow fourleg, declined, begging Dusty to consider that an enemy might have sent over the "delectable," Claude Balzac being the most likely suspect, who still could be relied upon to occasionally attempt to kill his twin brother. But Dusty would have none of it, and excusing himself, he placed the tureen on the floor, stripped off his clothing and gobbled up most of the pottage, abandoning knife and fork for the coyote style of burying his snout deep into his food and practically inhaling it.
We left Dusty's office upset at his stubborn refusal to follow the common sense precautions he'd expect everyone else to abide. Ten hours later he clung to me in our bathtub, where I was washing him after he'd uncorked the most spectacular GI explosions I've ever seen in my medical career. The crew had gathered for the Friday at Four meeting we held each week to decompress before the coming weekend. Y.Z. was discussing the need for additional security cameras and new check-in procedures, and at one point blew up at little brother Durwood, who was coming down from his special libation and did seem a bit dazed and disoriented. Perhaps this accounted for Durwood's charging Y.Z., who easily side-stepped him, then grabbed Durwood by the arm and wrenched it up and back into a submission hold, forcing my brother to the ground, and stepping lightly on his face while screaming "I could rip your fucking arm out of its socket and cram it up your arse!"
You can imagine the commotion, particularly with Gator Ethel in the room, who cut her teeth wrestling bobcats in carnivals when she was only five years old. Before she could pounce, though, Dusty, who was still nude from the morning save for the breechcloth he favored on Casual Friday afternoons, jumped onto the conference table and unleashed his piercing "coyodel," a ululating, yipping, tremunckulizing cry you could hear over the roar of a 747 thundering towards take-off. Dusty rarely coyodeled at work unless he was truly upset, so we all stopped what we were doing and regarded him closely. He looked terrible: his skin had the bluish-grey hue of old asphalt and he trembled like Pat Nixon on her wedding night when she first beheld what the late president invariably referred to as "The Great Nixini" (this from her underpraised memoir, "Thank God for Booze, Billy Graham and Barbs: A First Lady Copes").
The mess...the mess...the mess...
Dusty shat. And puked. And shat and puked and shat and puked. And shat some more and puked some more. And groaned and strained and retched. I've seen—and suffered from—dry heaves many times, but I've never seen nor had the dry shits. Dusty had them, after liters of fluids had shot from both of his alimentary orifices, then dribbled, then seeped, then stopped. Yet peristalsis persisted, no increased, wave after wave of deep abdominal contractions rippling through him, the cramping horrible, like a herd of charlie horses galloping through his colon. And though the room reeked worse than the foulest Andorran eel, a stench such as could not even emanate from the rankest charnel house on the hottest day in August, compassion filled us all, even as we had to scrape the thick film of excreta from our exposed skin, and knowing then that we'd likely fall ill in a few hours, which, as I've already noted, all of us did at the Institute, staff and patients alike.
I trained for one year at the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, researching bubonic plague, and before I fell sick I placed a call to a dear friend who worked on one of the Center's emergency response teams. Within hours, nearly twenty physicians, nurses and epidemiologists rappeled out of hovering black helicopters into the Institute's courtyard. By then everyone was ill, and larger helicopters lowered four inflatable field hospitals that technicians set up in less than two hours. It was in these facilities we spent the next four weeks, Dusty drifting in and out of a coma. Fortunately his greedy appetite meant he consumed the lion's share of the pestilence, as it were, sparing the rest of us the worst of the toxins the stew contained.
And what were these poisons? Nobody knows. None of us was obviously infected by any known viruses, bacteria, fungi or protozoa. I use the word poison figuratively, for no evidence emerged to pinpoint any of the thirteen thousand known poisons with whom contact can sicken or kill. Leaving what?
"Voodoo," Miz Gator Ethel insisted. "It's th' only thing, cher, what does this to healthy folks like we all is. What happened is we done all been hexed."
Who's to say we weren't? Lacking another explanation, I'll go along with some serious hexing. Who hexed us, and why, also remains a mystery, but I've got my suspicions. When we went back and reexmained the morning's security tapes, we noticed that the delivery van was escorted to and then from the Institute by several middle-aged men on little motor scooters.
Yes, they were befezzed.
Yes, they were Shriners.
Love,
Whiski Rae
Dr. Whiski Rae Shamrock here to let you know where we've all been for the past few weeks. Illness struck the Balzac Institute of Partial Recovery, affecting yours truly, our chef extraordinaire, Miz Gator Ethel Thibodeaux, our director of security and community relations, Y.Z. Newell, my brother, Durwood Del Monte Sherwood, assorted staff members, all of our patients and, most critically, my husband, Dr. Dusty Balzac. Simply put, we were quarantined because of treachery, or, more accurately, treachery's effects. Here's the story: everyone who knows him knows there's nothing Dusty loves to eat more than Andorran Jellied Eels mixed with Count Chocula cereal, and sprinkled with fried chipmunk paws, sweetbreads and brains spiced with cloves and nutmeg, and topped by a meringue crown whipped from fresh turkey eggs. Well, what pulls up to the gates of the Institute one fine fall day than a delivery van bearing a gift for Dusty. Yes, you guessed right, the present turned out to be an enormous tureen overflowing with Dusty's favorite repast, which he calls "Eel Surprise 3.0." Durwood was manning the entrance that morning and suspected nothing unusual about the transaction, though a review of videotape from a safety cam revealed that the van bore the familiar brown colors of a UPS truck but was emblazoned with the Fed/Ex logo. Still, an honest mistake, and one we all could make, particularly if strung out on Jaegermeister spiked with Coricidin and Adderall, as was, unfortunately, Durwood's case.
But whatever: forgiveness greases the world's axis and permits it to spin more smoothly. Back when I poled my way through Tulane University as a Welsh studies and cell biology major, I indirectly killed five Shriners at one go when they took a break from their conventioneering and enjoyed a river boat cruise. I'd just finished my senior thesis (a translation into medieval Welsh of Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer") and was exhausted and intellectually spent. To revive myself, I elected to launch into a primitive and unrestrained artistic celebration of the female orgasm. I was very sleep deprived and undernourished, and as I danced I felt a giddy delirium sweep over me. The Shriners sat at a distant table, their fezzes tipped nearly to their eyes in an apparent effort to conceal themselves. I was wearing a tiny g-string no larger than a silver dollar, and ruby colored pasties with little propellers on them I twirled through shake-my-booty power. I concluded my regular performance with a variation of my customary signature dismount (leaping off the stage with legs apart, then twisting in the air until I faced backwards as I landed on some happy patron's heaving lap), this time springing from a small trampoline, thus allowing me to fly across the room and onto the Shriners' table, knocking over their beer bottles and upending their chicken baskets.
They seemed not to care, as I jumped to my feet and continued my dance atop their table, moaning and howling and shaking my love nub and mercy mound just inches from their bespectacled noses. I wailed and writhed and groaned and shuddered as though I was possessed, then taunted the men to come and have me, demanding they sate my deepest desires, and acting out what effect their ardent thrustings would have on me. The old boys really started to steam, and one got a little goofy with lust, he actually dropped his trousers and drawers and tried to climb onto the table, which was a serious breach of etiquette aboard our ship, the "Crescent City Crawfish," where the firm policy regarding the artistes was "look but only touch yourself." Not that the Shriner could have done much harm; he was a stalagatite, not -mite. Still and all, our bouncers took this offense seriously, and two of them, Bruiser and Ray Ray, hurried to my defense.
Here's where things start to blur, the confusion a welcome balm whose anodyne effects include sparing me from recalling the worst of the ensuing violence. But Miz Gator Ethel, who was also dancing that night, remembers the follwing: Bruiser and Ray Ray grabbed the Shriner and dragged him to the door, only to be pursued by his pack of friends. One old codger withdrew a .45 semiautomatic pistol from a hidden shoulder holster and pressed it against Ray Ray's neck. Bruiser yelled "Gun!" and Ray Ray wheeled around and grabbed the Shriner's arm. Nobody suspected that the other Shriners were packing heat, and in a flash they'd pulled out their guns, including the pantless offender, who shot both Ray Ray and Bruiser in their chests, dropping, and killing, them both. Meanwhile, our other bouncers, Terrence, Sam-a-lam and Kudjo, ran to their own comrades rescue, shotguns in hand. The Shriners formed a defensive circle like a herd of musk oxen and proceeded to fire coolly. Their pistols were no match for shotguns, however, and all five men fell in less than a minute to head shots. Sam-a-lam lost his testicles to a bullet but survived. Terrence and Kudjo were unscathed.
So, in many ways I was the proximate cause to this carnage, since I should not have danced on their table, as my boss reminded me sternly. But he also forgave me, for he hated Shriners and said that all secret societies were nothing but trouble, attracting the desperate and depraved; and that the Shriners were worst of all, for as a child he underwent a series of painful orthopaedic surgeries in one of their hospitals, enduring many failed attempts to correct a congenital problem where his feet pointed backwards. Infections came and went, and one morning he rolled over in bed and both of his feet fell off. He stole a wheelchair, wheeled himself out of the hospital around midnight, and hitchhiked to New Orleans and its renowned Jean Lafitte Pediatric Polyclinic, where he was fitted with peg legs and given a pet parrot and offered a job as a cabin boy on the "Crawfish," which he later captained and then owned. "Only in America, Whiski," he'd often say. "An America where one day the sun will set finally on all Shriners."
Forgiveness, then, comes honestly to me, and I forgave the scamp Durwood for his drug-addled inattentiveness. The special treat bore a card for Dusty, and said only "Enjoy. Your secret chef." We were in his office when he lifted the cover off the tureen. The smell was hideous, as is the case with Andorran eels, which are pickled in goat urine; it is literally impossible to tell by their odor if they are tainted or not. Gator Ethel warned Dusty against eating this treat, as we didn't know its origins, but he abandoned his customary good judgment, reminding us that his digestion was far better than ours owing to his ferality. He offered bowls to the core staff, but even Y.Z., a fellow fourleg, declined, begging Dusty to consider that an enemy might have sent over the "delectable," Claude Balzac being the most likely suspect, who still could be relied upon to occasionally attempt to kill his twin brother. But Dusty would have none of it, and excusing himself, he placed the tureen on the floor, stripped off his clothing and gobbled up most of the pottage, abandoning knife and fork for the coyote style of burying his snout deep into his food and practically inhaling it.
We left Dusty's office upset at his stubborn refusal to follow the common sense precautions he'd expect everyone else to abide. Ten hours later he clung to me in our bathtub, where I was washing him after he'd uncorked the most spectacular GI explosions I've ever seen in my medical career. The crew had gathered for the Friday at Four meeting we held each week to decompress before the coming weekend. Y.Z. was discussing the need for additional security cameras and new check-in procedures, and at one point blew up at little brother Durwood, who was coming down from his special libation and did seem a bit dazed and disoriented. Perhaps this accounted for Durwood's charging Y.Z., who easily side-stepped him, then grabbed Durwood by the arm and wrenched it up and back into a submission hold, forcing my brother to the ground, and stepping lightly on his face while screaming "I could rip your fucking arm out of its socket and cram it up your arse!"
You can imagine the commotion, particularly with Gator Ethel in the room, who cut her teeth wrestling bobcats in carnivals when she was only five years old. Before she could pounce, though, Dusty, who was still nude from the morning save for the breechcloth he favored on Casual Friday afternoons, jumped onto the conference table and unleashed his piercing "coyodel," a ululating, yipping, tremunckulizing cry you could hear over the roar of a 747 thundering towards take-off. Dusty rarely coyodeled at work unless he was truly upset, so we all stopped what we were doing and regarded him closely. He looked terrible: his skin had the bluish-grey hue of old asphalt and he trembled like Pat Nixon on her wedding night when she first beheld what the late president invariably referred to as "The Great Nixini" (this from her underpraised memoir, "Thank God for Booze, Billy Graham and Barbs: A First Lady Copes").
The mess...the mess...the mess...
Dusty shat. And puked. And shat and puked and shat and puked. And shat some more and puked some more. And groaned and strained and retched. I've seen—and suffered from—dry heaves many times, but I've never seen nor had the dry shits. Dusty had them, after liters of fluids had shot from both of his alimentary orifices, then dribbled, then seeped, then stopped. Yet peristalsis persisted, no increased, wave after wave of deep abdominal contractions rippling through him, the cramping horrible, like a herd of charlie horses galloping through his colon. And though the room reeked worse than the foulest Andorran eel, a stench such as could not even emanate from the rankest charnel house on the hottest day in August, compassion filled us all, even as we had to scrape the thick film of excreta from our exposed skin, and knowing then that we'd likely fall ill in a few hours, which, as I've already noted, all of us did at the Institute, staff and patients alike.
I trained for one year at the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, researching bubonic plague, and before I fell sick I placed a call to a dear friend who worked on one of the Center's emergency response teams. Within hours, nearly twenty physicians, nurses and epidemiologists rappeled out of hovering black helicopters into the Institute's courtyard. By then everyone was ill, and larger helicopters lowered four inflatable field hospitals that technicians set up in less than two hours. It was in these facilities we spent the next four weeks, Dusty drifting in and out of a coma. Fortunately his greedy appetite meant he consumed the lion's share of the pestilence, as it were, sparing the rest of us the worst of the toxins the stew contained.
And what were these poisons? Nobody knows. None of us was obviously infected by any known viruses, bacteria, fungi or protozoa. I use the word poison figuratively, for no evidence emerged to pinpoint any of the thirteen thousand known poisons with whom contact can sicken or kill. Leaving what?
"Voodoo," Miz Gator Ethel insisted. "It's th' only thing, cher, what does this to healthy folks like we all is. What happened is we done all been hexed."
Who's to say we weren't? Lacking another explanation, I'll go along with some serious hexing. Who hexed us, and why, also remains a mystery, but I've got my suspicions. When we went back and reexmained the morning's security tapes, we noticed that the delivery van was escorted to and then from the Institute by several middle-aged men on little motor scooters.
Yes, they were befezzed.
Yes, they were Shriners.
Love,
Whiski Rae
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