A Million Versions of Right (30 page)

As predicted, the gas built rapidly within Patrick and the intense desire to let it out overwhelmed him completely. Just before he passed out, a small squeak escaped from his rear.

“Bastard! That will most definitely smell!” yelled Monsieur.

* * * * *

With Patrick lost to induced unconsciousness, the procedure could begin. Armed with what looked like acupuncture needles, Monsieur Vladimir surrounded the wound.

“This should halt the healing. I use them on my balls.”

Next up, Monsieur Vladimir retrieved what appeared to be a clamping device fashioned from wood and opened the minute wound as much as it would allow. In the opening he sprinkled what looked like pepper.

“What are you sprinkling on Patrick?” asked a worried Stephan.

Without looking back Monsieur Vladimir explained, “It’s a regenerative resin extracted from the common gibbon. It acts to reverse the healing. In basic terms, it regenerates the injury process and allows us to start afresh. I often use it on my balls.”

“Can Patrick feel anything?” asked Lucille.

“Not a chance! He is out like an army of lights. When he awakes he will experience only the most rudimentary discomfort.”

With a wrench the size of tweezers, Monsieur Vladimir began to poke around in the wound.

“Living creatures have a series of what approximates bodily pipes. My task is to rejoin the pipes damaged in Patrick’s arm and restore them to optimal capacity. With the area in question optimised, I can then proceed with the band-aid installation. In the case of exceptionally mild injury, such as what we’re facing with Patrick here, the process is wonderfully redundant, carried out none-the-less to the utmost precision.”

* * * * *

The longer the process dragged on, the more agitated Monsieur Vladimir became.

“This lamp you found me is too fucking hot! What wattage are we working with here? It’s certainly more than I’d recommend. My god! It’s like a miniature sun and an affront to anything remotely decent.”

“I’m terribly sorry Monsieur Vladimir – it’s the only lamp I have” said Lucille. “I found the bulb under a chair.”

“Ah fuck! Don’t listen to me, Lucille. I’m becoming agitated. I really ought to focus on the procedure at hand. I think I’m ready to begin the installation of the band-aid.”

* * * * *

As Monsieur Vladimir retrieved the band-aid from his handbag the heat from the lamp bore down upon his forehead. His pores were slowly filling with reservoirs of sweat that threatened the success of everything.

“Oh no! It’s starting to happen! Sweat! I’m starting to sweat. This could potentially derail the whole operation.”

“You must work like the wind, Monsieur!” cried Stephan with pathos.

The band-aid was artfully removed from its wrapping and moved into position. Sweat began to wriggle down Monsieur Vladimir’s forehead.

“If it gets into my eyes we’re ruined!”

“It can’t end like this!” screamed Lucille, covering her eyes with tear-stained hands.

The band-aid was placed into tentative position and Monsieur Vladimir examined the area with what he called a ‘squarest cubing wedge’.

“This wedge will help me align the band-aid with utmost precision. It was devloped in France. It works well on my balls.”

The worms of sweat began to circle Monsieur Vladimir’s terrified eyes, his mascara smudging into racoon-like rings of dishevelry.

“I AM DESTINED TO FAIL!!!”

Lucille collapsed on the ground in distress.

“PLEASE, MONSIEUR!!!” screamed Stephan, “YOU MUST WORK LIKE THE WIND!!!”

* * * * *

These words,
work like the wind
, cycled ceaselessly through Stephan’s head. He glanced about the chaotic scene: Lucille passed out on the ground, Patrick dead to the world on the kitchen bench, and Monsieur Vladimir with his petrified racoon eyes on the verge of nervous collapse.
I simply must rectify the wretched situation… but how?

The answer struck Stephan like semen in a whore’s eye.

“OF COURSE!!! THE ‘POWER BLINK’!!!”

* * * * *

Stephan ripped away the sweet potatoes and immediately fetched a belt from the belt closet. He tightened the belt around his pink, naked body and entered into the sumoesque stance. From the corner of his sweat-threatened eyes Monsieur Vladimir caught sight of the display.

“What the devil, Stephan? You look appalling! This procedure’s done for by the way.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, Monsieur. You will finish this procedure admirably.”

Stephan strained once more to the point of defecation, allowing his eyelids to gently drop. The flatulent sound resonated throughout the kitchen as the gentle wave of air travelled artfully to Monsieur Vladimir’s brow. Stephan fell backward from the exertion.

“My word that
is
refreshing!” exclaimed Monsieur as the sweat threatening his eyes dried.

“The sweat has dried. I proclaim that manoeuvre of yours as something rather special indeed. The procedure will be completed on this day!!!”

* * * * *

As an ordained minister, it was Monsieur Vladimir who wed Stephan and Patrick and Lucille on a warm autumn afternoon in the backyard, next to Lucille’s tyre. The band-aid on Patrick’s arm had been installed with unheralded expertise and would eventually disintegrate into his arm after several years, leaving behind a fairly well conditioned area.

Following the exertion of two ‘Power Blinks’ in one day, Stephan lost significant motor control and was confined to a wheelchair. Paralysis had affected a good two thirds of his body. Given the extent of Stephan’s condition, Patrick agreed to pay for half of the band-aid installation bill. Lucille beamed with pride as she draped her arms over the shoulders of her new husbands-to-be.

“I now pronounce you husband and husband and wife. You may all kiss each other!” said Monsieur Vladimir proudly.

Patrick and Lucille bent down and gave Stephan a kiss on his drool-spangled lips. Although never to be performed again, the ‘Power Blink’ was never forgotten.

THE BOOKMARK THAT WOULDN'T WORK

Life was a trial for Amanda Dink. Amanda dreamed of being an avid reader but suffered from ‘Slow Eye’. It was a debilitating condition that slowed the movement and perception of the eyeball to an unworkable degree. Ever since racism was abolished for being ‘unprofessional’, ‘Slow Eye’ provided an easy target in which former racists could pour their scorn. It was as if Amanda’s eyeballs dragged across each sentence like an overweight corpse. Her brain was so much faster than that and it was a constant source of bother that she should be made to dwell on each word, ruining the intended flow.

Amanda’s bookshelves buckled under the immense weight of her large collection and what really stung the most was that each and every book remained unfinished. As a result of her slow eyes, Amanda never managed to get much further than a few meagre pages. This affliction was exacerbated by a poor numerical memory. Amanda was able to count to seven without too much trouble but everything after that scabbed her brain over in hardened frustration. 

Amanda would see fellow commuters on her morning train blissfully lost in whatever book they were reading and marvel at how far some of them had progressed. It wasn’t uncommon for some to have surpassed the halfway point. Some were even tantilisingly close to that magical last word on that magical last page. The jealousy Amanda felt was all-consuming. One time she actually saw a passenger close a book, having just finished it and stare contentedly out the window, having just finished it.
How is it possible?
she would often think, cursing her wretched slow eyes.

* * * * *

It surprises many to learn that bookmarks are a relatively recent development in history. Many advances in science and technology occurred well before the first inkling of the modern bookmark took shape. It was a chap by the name of Earnest Titswaller who stumbled upon what is commonly believed to have been the first bookmark. While reading a book on how to win at Nintendos he found himself growing decidedly weary. He was seconds away from closing the book – and praying he’d remember where he was up to – when a wayward bird torpedoed in through his open window. In a state of confusion, the bird flew directly into the book, knocking it from Earnest’s hands. The book landed on the floor with the poor bird wedged between the pages. Feeling tired, Earnest thought little of it and promptly fell asleep. It wasn’t until the next morning when the import of the serendipitous events of the night prior hit home.

Earnest awoke in a well-rested and enthusiastic state of mind. His first thought related to the desire to win at Nintendos. He reached down for his trusty book and was initially startled to find the dead bird nestled within. Eventually he recalled what had happened and was readying to dispose of the bird when it dawned on him: the book had fallen in such a way that the bird remained stuck between the pages. After carefully removing it and wiping away the visceral smears, he was delighted that he didn’t have to rely on his memory in order to resume the book. He continued to utilise the dead bird until the book was finished, never losing his place once. Needless to say, he successfully managed to win at Nintendos.

An entrepreneurial spirit now infused Earnest and he recruited several friends to hunt for birds. Via some well-executed demonstrations, he convinced many thousands that his dead birds would ensure no one had to lose their place in a book ever again. Earnest developed and honed his technique by pre-flattening the birds and draining them of fluid. This made it easier for the consumer to wedge the bird and ensured books came away from the experience with fewer stains.

For the next few years, Earnest’s ‘Birds for Books’ business boomed and he made significant amounts of money. There were those who mimicked his success, hunting their own birds and accumulating large financial reward themselves. Millions across the world were now using birds to help keep their place in books. This boom could only go so far however as the increased demand for Bookbirds saw a devastating decrease in the bird population. It wasn’t long until all bird species were officially extinct. New methods of book place-holding were soon explored.

* * * * *

“Read anything good lately, Amanda?” asked a sniggering group of co-workers at the steel mill where she worked. It was a question that had been posed to Amanda on numerous occasions, simply to get an entertaining rise. She had long ago decided not to let their bitchy words deflate her although it didn’t help that all of Amanda’s co-workers were avid readers and, more importantly, book finishers.
No one can help having ‘Slow Eye’. Surely they have some smelting to do
, she thought as the co-workers formed an imposing ring around her. The shoving soon commenced followed by fevered speed-reading; all at Amanda’s expense.

Penny Needlescrapes watched the mass bullying as she smelted rods. She had a deep affection for Amanda that went well beyond typical male fantasy lesbianism. Penny also suffered from the debilitating ‘Slow Eye’. She admired Amanda’s strength and multitudinous breasts (of which there were roughly forty). Penny wished she had the courage to admit her affliction but knew it wouldn’t happen. Prejudice was abundant, like pus in a blister store. Penny’s ‘Slow Eye’ needn’t be revealed however. Penny was now the proud owner of a brand new bookmark.