Dr Jew

that warmth in his tummy. This one's quick. So often the problem is in the system, not the person. A pill for now and the greater labor partaken tomorrow and tomorrow.
    No. This would not wait. Before the drowsiness took over and he drank from the river Lethe, he would pay his last respect and put it on ice till morning, when the real work would begin. Until then he would press a switch on his desk and do something he had not done in years: lock his door. For his home was always open to the tired, the poor, the ill, for he was the world's doctor, and a locked door meant a moment's delay in excising a tumor or formulating a concoction for an exotic flare-up. That kind of delay was unthinkable.
    Tonight, however, his door was barred.

XXXIX.

    From the depths came softness and nectar-lined halls where mead and mutton were poured directly into the mind and joy was had by all, by all.
    "Another round," someone said, perhaps him, perhaps the clouds, perhaps not at all, perhaps. And it came and it came, anyway and without. A wall of 50,000 breasts yonder and the mere thought took him to it and he squeezed all 50,000 at once with 50,000 hands generated just for the task and each one felt special and uniquely squeezable and with its own personality.
    "BZZZZZZ."
    From the depths this sound – here? – this sound that did not belong and served to bring emotions he'd rather not acknowledge and the 50,000 breasts disappeared as easily as they came and he was left with 50,000 hands holding 50,000 nothings.
    "BZZZZZZ."
    Again. Really? And with it came a return to linear thought processes and words with boring meanings that held nothing and wore no masks. Thoughts no longer as waves of personality but as wretched tools that did their work and went home.
    "BZZZZZZ."
    All that he saw went away and he was left in the dark feeling too tired to be awake – so why…? Who was he this time… ah yes, the doctor. And who had found the means to disturb his slumber when he was here, here, in his home a'nesting. He was in his home, wasn't he? Not some tourist-fattened Mexico or other mired bog. Yes in home, in home.
    "BZZZZZZ."
    So why this sound from outside. The door, the door. So why had Arnie failed to turn off the doorbell when the doctor went to sleep? Was there something – ah, memory brought it back. There was something. Something wrong. With Arnie, with his house, his world. A crack had snuck in and it promised to tear him from his even slumber and force open his eyes to the work that remained.
    Up and into the darkness he rose and knuckles cracked and bones uncurled, heart rate rose, thickening with beats the pools of his body. His throat dusty cracked, he searched for his mug of water, failed to find it, hit the light switch, flinched his eyes into creakly sphincters to keep the light away, and put on his robe.
    "BZZZZZZ."
    This persistent person, so consistent. Who could it be? Simpatico. Yes, let me see my wife etc. What have you done with her? Did you fix her? Ad nauseam ad astra . I will beat you to a pulp, you scientific swine.
    How old was Simpatico anyway? Somewhere in his forties, but in good shape. Best get a weapon. The revolver, aye.
    In the kitchen he found his glass and sipped. Amazing how water could make you feel good. Then from a cabinet he took the small gun and placed it in the pocket of his robe, keeping his hand on it. He looked in a mirror to see how ordinary that looked – to keep his hand casually in his robe pocket. Keeps that hand warm he would say when questioned by the normal police. Or Simpatico, his only audience. But it would pass, or Simpatico would be belligerent and the game would be up and that would be that. And kill a man? A great director, at that. In cold blood? Yes, just as Truman Capote had slaughtered Harper Lee. To kill a mockingbird. Us and them. Down to the wire. Just do it, Hollywood-style. Move on. But then… his film autobiopic would never be made…
    Yes, he could be content with posthumous fame. But fame in this life sounded sweeter. The fame of NOW was the only fame you could feel, really wrap your nuts around. He had to do it though. If Simpatico provoked. Pushed him. He was no natural born killer and detested the animal instincts to maim, kill, and infiltrate the pornological substrata of the human infrastructure, his fellow beings. Yet you push his back against the wall and he's a cat. Not Dr. Jew, Dr. Cat!
    "BZZZZZZ."
    Jesus F. Christ it's like three in the morning.