Dr Jew

sweat. Empires shrivel like gonads because of a drink of tea infused with walrus-tusk. A laser in the eye means death, or even blindness. So pardon me for using some metaphors when discussing Lise and her ailment. I meant to convey the circumstances in an epic Nice Nazis sort of way –"
    "I 'm done with those films!" said Sergio. Very knee-jerk.
    "I 'm sure you are," I said. "But their influence lingers. And to use a man's own language is the best way to reach him."
    "No, tell me exactly what you did," said Sergio.
    "No," I said, "lest we distort the narrative flow. Onward!"
    "Damn you," said Sergio.
    "The major hurdle had been leaped. All that remained was to stitch up the female's abdomen and let God on high do the rest. The body wants to heal."
    "Okay, s ome part of this isn't true," said Sergio. "You said you stitched her up. Lise doesn't have any scars on her chest or back, only on her wrist and face. How do you explain that?"
    "True, true. But I spoke no lie. Lie? Me? Simply: why? I have nothing to hide. No, Serge, your objection is overruled. Allow the tale to continue and reach fruition, and be not so quick to shoot it down. Patience, I have heard, is a virtue.
    "Now, where was I? Ah yes. She lay there, the major work accomplished. All that remained was the sewing up. I was ready to get to it, my energy and focus renewed, newfound enthusiasm coming from my success. The only impediment was a bodily request – from my body, not hers. We had been at it, this surgero-alchemical mandate, for so, so long, and though I had replenished myself with liquid serum in a can and sweated off the aftermath, I found I needed the other kind of relief, the backside as it were, and would have to create a pause in the action to defecate and lighten my tubes.
    "I informed my mute Mexican assistant – assigned by you or someone workin g under you, I might point out, Serge – I informed him of the situation and that I'd return from the toilet-eria within an hour, possibly halting for a margarita to sooth my splintered nerves and steady the stitching hand, and most likely getting the drink to go . I left this silent fellow with explicit instructions on what to do and when, how to act and respond, and precisely the needs needed by a woman needing a good sewing up from my bony, gentle hand. He moved his head in something like a nod and I only prayed that in Mexico a nod translated as it did in America. I cursed my humid bowels and the Mexican diet for parting me from the great work and postponing the inevitable smile on your dear female's face. I cursed the limits of my humanity, and so on. But what can you do, eh?
    "Outside on the street the sun made my vision smarmy. I found a beggar boy and gave him a Canadian nickel – that old joke – and asked for the nearest baño . He pointed back to my hotel, which I found ridiculous. Imagine! Plumbing in Mexico! Riiight. What kind of fool did he take me for? I pushed the lad aside in my desire to handle my urgency. I wandered a little, got lost, and finally found a ditch by the road where I did my frothy business. Relieved and light as a ballerina, I began to make my way back to the hotel. That drink? Bah! I was high on life! Who needed it?
    "I did, however, recall a travel article in Boy's Life I had read that recommended regular doses – very medical – of hard liquor when traveling in third world countries as a means of assassinating bacteria that might want to hive within you and make your festibrations anything less than perfect by repetitive and peevish trips to the little boy's room – or ditch by the side of the road, what you will , as Shakespeare so bluntly put it, obviously having this scenario in mind. I had never tried this 'alcohol therapy,' and what better time to test it, I reasoned, than that very day, that very hour, when I needed to be my sharpest, healthiest, best.
    "I sauntered down the avenue a ways and found a suitable looking establishment and sat down. A drink or ten, whatever I could squeeze into a friendly chunk of time. No more. The bartendista rolled over to my stool after a bit and inquired in that forked Romance tongue what my poison was – at least I assume that's what he said. I asked for gin and juice (in homage to Snoop Dogg, a popular children's rapper you probably haven't heard of) and he brought back after several minutes a fizzling toxic waste boat of liquid with fireworks and all. I thanked him and he left me to my liqui-meal. It was actually