A Million Versions of Right (29 page)

“Can you describe the wound?” asked Monsieur Vladimir to Patrick over the phone in an accent that approximated a Mexican poorly attempting to speak German.

“It’s a very standard looking wound. There’s a mild coagulation peppered with a faint hint of elementary scabbing.”

“The healing process has begun. It is gravely important that this procedure be performed on this very night.”

“Tonight? Is there room enough in your schedule?”

“Patrick, Patrick… there simply
has
to be room in my schedule. I don’t think I need to tell you the danger we’re facing. If we wait until the dawning of a new day, you may very well find that wound of yours gone – vanished!”

“That is a fate I certainly intend on avoiding, Monsieur. When shall I see you?”

“No, I will come to you. Stay inside – the refreshing outdoor air may heal your wound beyond any possible chance of the installation taking place. I will endeavour to make your acquaintance by 10pm.”

“I will be waiting, Monsieur.”

* * * * *

Patrick hung up the phone gravely and glared in Stephan’s direction.

“You fucking cad! You’re responsible for this chaos. I doubt I need to tell you that I expect you to cover half of my medical bills.”

“Of course, Patrick, in fact I would feel deeply uncomfortable and offended if you didn’t allow me the honour of paying the total cost of your bills.”

Patrick smiled warmly, “Oh, Stephan, how in the world could I stay mad at you? I feel as if I could marry your wife.”

“Who knows – perhaps by this evening’s end we’ll both be marrying my wife!” said Stephan jovially. The two fine men embraced warmly, Patrick making sure that his injured hand was kept at a safe distance.

* * * * *

Lucille was Stephan’s wife. She lived in a large tyre and only came inside the house on rare occasions for the purpose of unsatisfactory sexual intercourse. Stephan ran to the back yard yelling, “LUCILLE! LUCILLE!! I have a proposition for you. Where in the devil’s name are you, Lucille?”

From a large black tyre toward the far end of the backyard emerged a strikingly beautiful, fair-haired woman wearing a milkmaid’s dress and matching bonnet.

“Oh, there you are my love,” said Stephan as Lucille approached.

“Where the hell else would I be, Stephan? I’ve been living in this here tyre for ten years – I’m a creature of habit and it’s not logical to assume I’d be anywhere else.”

“You are a doll, Lucille. I have a wonderful proposition for you.”

Lucille’s eyebrows arched with interest, “What sort of proposition?”

“Before I dive headlong into propositions, Lucille, I must provide you with the context surrounding my proposition.”

“Get it over with,” said Lucille with arms crossed.

“Yes, quite. You remember my very good friend, Patrick?”

Lucille rolled her eyes, “Yes, of course I remember him. I find him to be an incessant bore!”

“Be that as it may he has very recently been through a rather unpleasant experience. I was demonstrating a new manoeuvre.”

“A new manoeuvre, hey?” opined Lucille with a knowing tone, “and what is this new manoeuvre if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s called the ‘Power Blink’ Lucille, but that really is by the by. I implore you to let me finish what I’m trying to say.”

“Go on.” Lucille’s arms were crossed tighter than ever.

“Well you see, Lucille, my demonstration of the ‘Power Blink’ caused such a tremendous response from Patrick that he began flailing his arms this way and that. The next thing the poor chap knew his hand had slammed into a nearby doorframe.”

A spike of concern crossed Lucille’s face, “Oh my, is he alright?”

“Debateable, Lucille, extremely debateable. As we stand here talking, Patrick is inside nursing a mild injury.”

Lucille’s eyes welled with sympathetic tears, which she made no attempt to stifle.

“That’s not even the worst of it! Upon injuring his hand I noticed several droplets of blood. His injury broke skin, Lucille!”

Lucille was sobbing quite uncontrollably, repeating, “Poor Patrick, poor Patrick,” over and over.

“Try not to worry, Lucille, an appointment has already been made for a band-aid installation this evening.”

“Who’s installing the band-aid? There’s so many band-aid installation hacks out there.”

“No need to concern yourself with that. Monsieur Vladimir is coming here to perform the procedure himself before the wound heals.”

“Thank heavens for that!” Lucille looked a little calmer and her breathing slowly returned to normal. “Now, what was this proposition of yours, Stephan?”

“It started as a throwaway comment but the more Patrick and I thought about it, the more it began to make sense.”

“The more sense what began to make?”

“Would you, Lucille, consider marrying both Patrick and myself?”

There was a moment of ambiguous silence. Stephan had no idea what was running through Lucille’s mind. That was until an enormous smile spread across her face and she hugged Stephan with all of her might.

“Oh Stephan, I’d be honoured to marry the both of you!”

* * * * *

The long wait for the arrival of Monsieur Vladimir was excruciating. Patrick and Stephan passed the time by staring intently at the mild wound on Patrick’s hand, which was showing ever more signs of healing. Lucille remained in the back yard, yelling occasional questions that went unheard from within the house and as such, went unanswered. This didn’t bother her.

“I do hope Monsieur Vladimir arrives soon. I distinctly feel the itch that often accompanies the healing of a mild scratch.”

“Calm yourself immediately, Patrick. Those negative thoughts won’t help your condition. We have to believe with conviction that your injury can be appropriately dealt with before any major healing can take place.”

“Yes, you’re right, Stephan. My mental state must remain healthy. Why don’t you go fetch Lucille? I’m sure she would greatly enjoy witnessing Monsieur Vladimir at work.”

“Sterling idea, Patrick, I’ll fetch her post haste!”

In Stephan’s haste, one of the sweet potatoes he was wearing fell to the ground rendering him slightly more naked.

* * * * *

During Stephan’s short absence, Patrick threw himself about the room in a most melodramatic fashion. He stared skyward and repeatedly screamed, “WHY ME!?” His faith in a higher power had been severely tested after the day’s miserable events and his weaker parts doubted his ability to go on. His weary eyes bulged like a million Rodney Dangerfields and tears stained his cheeks.

* * * * *

Stephan and Lucille entered the room together in a synchronised crab walk. Patrick stared glibly at the display, trying his best to suck the tears up.

“Yes, you’re quite right, Patrick,” said Stephan, “This crab walk hasn’t turned out nearly as amusing as we’d hoped. On behalf of us both I’d like to offer sincere apologies.”

Lucille sheepishly exited the crab stance and pouted at Stephan before turning to Patrick.

“It’s all his doing you know!” said Lucille, pointing at Stephan with an accusatory finger, “I wanted to enter the house normally but Stephan roped me in to this ludicrous crab walk.”

“That’s enough, Lucille! Patrick doesn’t need to hear this.”

“I beg your bloody pardon? I have a right to save face don’t I?”

Patrick sacrificially threw his arms into the air, “Please! That’s enough people. Let us not get bogged down in this unfortunate quagmire. Don’t worry, Lucille. Not for one moment would I ever dream of harbouring the thought that you were responsible for that worrisome display.”

Stephan scrunched up his face like a confused Muppet.

“Don’t you worry either, Stephan. In happier times I’m sure I’d be crab walking right there with you and really, I do appreciate the effort. Right now however, there’s only one person who can lift me from these horrifying doldrums…”

* * * * *

In an act of suspiciously perfect timing, there was a knock at the door…

* * * * *

The perfect timing was indeed suspicious. As it so happened, Monsieur Vladimir had been waiting on the porch for a good hour with a comically large ear-horn pressed to the keyhole, readying himself for the perfect entry. He understood the risk he was facing by not proceeding with the procedure at his earliest convenience but he really was rather fond of a dramatic entrance.

* * * * *

Stephan threw open the front door and fell at Monsieur Vladimir’s feet in veneration.

“Thank heavens you’ve arrived, Monsieur Vladimir!”

Monsieur Vladimir stared down at Stephan in confusion.

“My word man, you’re dressed in nothing but sweet potatoes!”

“I’m sorry,” whimpered Stephan with genuine shame.

“That’s not for us to worry about now. Where’s Patrick? What is the current state of the minor wound?”

“I’m over here, Monsieur!” whined Patrick in a pathetic voice.

Monsieur Vladimir ran to him with long, crotch-tearing strides.

“We need a kitchen bench and a sturdy lamp. Everything else I require is right here.”

Monsieur Vladimir was holding up a large lady’s handbag, which triggered a stunned awe from his small, not unattractive audience.

“The process of band-aid installation is rather complex,” began Monsieur, feeling he should provide some context, “There are very few of us qualified to perform such a task, and of those few, even less perform the job well.” He scratched at his jowls with a penny whistle before continuing. “For starters, you must be well-skilled at surgical procedure. This surgical skill must be combined with a thorough understanding of organic mechanics – not an easy field to master and certainly not for hobbyists. Furthermore, in cases of mild abrasion the process must be performed in haste due to the tendency small wounds have of healing quickly. Band-aid installations are frequently cancelled due to wounds healing of their own accord. Many practitioners face financial ruin as a result. I would describe my own success in the field as a happy accident.”

Stephan gave Monsieur a small clap before running into the kitchen and clearing the bench of all debris. Meanwhile, Lucille retreated to her backyard tyre to fetch a lamp. The area was prepared in a very short amount of time and they all combined their strength to lift Patrick and place him gently on the bench. Patrick remained rigid and awkward throughout, as if the exercise had imbued him with the soul of a dead weight.

“Get that lamp turned on and aim it at the wound,” barked Monsieur Vladimir, “And could somebody please tell me why it smells like a tyre?”

“The lamp is mine. I retrieved it from my tyre,” dribbled Lucille in embarrassment.

Ignoring Lucille’s answer, Monsieur Vladimir commanded anyone who wasn’t Patrick to: “Stand back and brace yourselves for some sickly potty mouth.”

This order was obeyed without question.

* * * * *

The lamplight shone warm yellow on the rapidly healing wound.

“Don’t heal on me you fucking bitch!” screamed Monsieur Vladimir as he opened his handbag to retrieve the tools. The first was a hypodermic needle filled with a brown substance simply labelled ‘Biological Agent’. Monsieur turned to Stephan and Lucille and said, “I use this on my balls,” followed by a wink. He immediately turned his head back around and drove the needle into Patrick’s shoulder.

“You’re going to feel an intense desire to expel gas before you drift off into unconsciousness. I’d ask you politely not to. It’s a truly disgusting thing.”