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Parking in front of 1634 Racine in the Springs is for shit, so I park at a public lot two blocks away. I see some teenagers hanging out near the bus stop, and a nice deep puddle of half-coagulated slush-snow is resting death-still by the curb. I decide to Get My Splash-On and leap in with both feet planting firmly. I douse their "Twilight" t-shirts and emo haircuts with the surf-worthy curl of motor-oil slurpee I send up on impact. Normally I'd wait for one of them to give me some attitude and then I'd daddy-slap the first one to open their black lipstick lined mouth, but I was running late as it was.
My lateness was understandable considering the events of the previous evening. By all accounts I had lost close to $19,000 in home furnishings and electronics when I was robbed by my female companion whom I had met on Craigslist. A small price to pay, I reconciled, considering the insatiable craving for depravity I had been fighting since setting eyes on Veronica Winslow a few hours earlier. As far as I was concerned, any result that did not involve death, hospitalization, or imprisonment was a positive outcome.
I knocked on the door of Apartment 2B at 1634 Racine St. in downtown Colorado Springs. I was anticipating the door opening in a swirl of flowing negligee and eyes that would pull me in like tractor beams. My heart thumped in my throat as the door handle jiggled, and I pictured those delicate hands tipped in crimson nails grasping the handle, and that slight tug and push to pop the lock. Maybe she was anticipating me too, that radiant heat shooting to every nerve ending as she thought of me on the other side of that door, and this pause was to collect herself and ensure that she didn't do anything out of pure sexual propulsion. It would be my job to lower such guards and allow her the freedom to follow through on any instinct she may have to mindlessly, carnally, and savagely apply a sexual full-nelson on me.
Stephen Baldwin is not an unattractive man, so you must understand that when the door opened and I was face to face with as handsome a face as a Stephen, and my anticipations were already elevated to a critical level, it was not so unusual that I lunged forward and nearly consumed this face in a kiss meant for Veronica Winslow. It was still a good ten seconds into the lip lock, after a fair amount of mutual tongue play on both sides, that Veronica Winslow cleared her throat from across the room and I pulled away, taking stock of the situation. I simply looked at the vacant stare of this man who was sporting the Stephen face and said "oh", and then walked past him, my momentum broken and my desire regrouping.
"Well hello to you too." The beStephened man said, wiping his face off. I like to cover a lot of surface area when I kiss, so he'd most likely need some type of ShamWow to sop up the slobber.
"Veronica Winslow." I said sternly, standing in front of her as she lounged on a couch. She was dressed in that same black dress that she must have put on with a spray can. I folded my arms, striking a pose that gave off clear indications of my Ultimate Self Confidence. "I take it that handsome rube at the door is the Mr.?"
"He is, Dr. Boddicker. I'd like you to change him back." She held up a picture of an older, portly gentleman who, compared to the seductive visage of Stephen Baldwin, was just an embodiment of sadness and carbo-loading that almost made me cry if it weren't for the spasms of vomit churning to break free from my guts. I had no recollection of performing a Baldwinization on this man, but I was also lacking a great deal of memory due to my excessive drug use and an ability to purge less important memories to make room for the ever increasing spank bank within my mind.
"Well, I can't promise anything, but I'll give it a whirl." I took a scalpel from my pocket and wiped a smear of spicy mustard from the blade that was there from a sandwich I had cut in half the previous day. From my other pocket I emerged with a syringe of a special cocktail to put the patient to sleep. It was an old Boddicker family recipe mostly made of heroin and morphine with just a hint of cinnamon. I motioned to the dining room table. "Can I do this here?"
"Isn't this a little unsanitary?" The beStephened Mr. Winslow chirped in that hick accent that was unnerving me. That accent rang a bell in my mind. I must have heard it the first time I Baldwinized this loser.
"No, I'll be fine. I washed my hands in the crapper of the gas station down the block before I got here, so I'm read."
He made his way to the dining room table, and I cleared it off with one mighty swipe of my arm, sending expensive dishes flying in all directions.
"I'm not so sure abou-..." he began to say before I slid the needle of the syringe into his neck and gently laid him out on the gorgeous table cloth. A euphoric grin came across his face, and I envied him his sedation so I promised myself I'd give myself a quick injection after the procedure as a reward for a job well done.
With Mr. Winslow passed out on the table for the foreseeable future, I turned my attentions back to the Mrs. I approached her, cocking an eyebrow and motioning back to the dining room table.
"He'll be out until the wee hours," I smirked, "so I suppose we should discuss the matter of payment?"
Veronica stood up, coming within inches of my face with hers, before slinking over to the rubble of dishes from the table. She fumbled through a serving tray that had broken into pieces and emerged with a thin envelope.
"You do take checks, don't you, Dr. Boddicker?" She said, holding up the envelope.
"Well, actually, I've got kind of a tax situation, mostly in that I prefer to not pay them. Besides. What I'm charging can't be paid for with a check."
"If you're seeking some sort of sexual dalliance in lieu of a cash payment, I assure you I'm not interested. I love my husband, Dr. Boddicker, which is why I want him back."
"Well gosh," I shrugged, "I don't want to come across as shallow, but..."
"This check is for one hundred thousand dollars."
"Please step aside." I strolled over to the table and made the first incision, sending a river of blood from the cut that began to pool around his head.
"Should he be bleeding this much?" Veronica gasped.
"Sometimes you get a bleeder." I assured her as I began to peel back the skin of the face. I could tell she was getting queasy at the sight of so much blood and exposed muscled skull. "Tell you what... go grab some paper towels and maybe some ziplock bags... let's see if we can't fashion some kind of IV drip to keep him hydrated. Maybe some Gatorade?"
I found the process of de-Baldwinizing to be pure anguish. I had to subdue every impulse I had as the pioneer of the Baldwinization procedure to create beauty, and instead apply my skills to the restoration of mediocrity. At several points I felt the urge to walk away from the table, soaked as I was in blood and bits of face-debris. And of course, several opportunities arose for a medical "misadventure" which would stop the heart of my patient permanently, leaving the path clear to an unattached Veronica Winslow.
After seeing her reaction to an "accidental" nicking of an artery that shot a fountain of blood across the room, however, I decided that it would be too much work to fight through her grieving widow phase to parlay this into the intense sexual encounter that I wanted. Instead, I determined she would find her husband's original form to be repugnant enough that I could winnow away at those walls of fidelity with a greater ease than I could walls of grief.
I finished up around seven hours later, and advised the waking Mr. Winslow that he should avoid putting much stress on his face for a few days. Other than some initial puffiness, I determined that he was back to looking like Mr. Winslow: a fat loser.
"I can't thank you enough." Veronica said, leaning in to give me a hug. I responded, thrusting my hips forward and giving her a little "awareness tap" with my ever attentive Happy Hammer. She pulled back, her face blushing.
"Sorry, force of habit." I assured her.
"I'd like you to leave now," she began to usher me to the door, "I've a great deal of cleaning up to do." And she was indeed correct. Blood spatter and discarded face fragments textured the walls as if someone had stepped on a nearby land mine. A half-eaten sandwich that I had prepared myself mid-surgery was soaking up a puddle of blood near the patient. As much as I was convinced that, given the time, I could still segue to some form of physical intimacy with Mrs. Winslow, I also knew that her evening was going to be all about Windex and carpet shampooers.
"I'll be back to check on the patient later in the week." I said as she pushed me out the door. "Maybe I'll bring a bottle of wine? A couple of poppers? Some rufies to keep the ol' man from interrupting us?" The door slammed in my face with an echo that I still heard out in the streets.
Our Lady of Perpetual Desperation hospital was located about two blocks from 1634 Racine in beautiful downtown Colorado Springs, and it was near a gas station that was having a 2 for 1 sale on Red Bull, so that made it less of a burden to visit Gravy there. I loaded up on the enchanted beverage and scratch-off tickets and went to see my trusted travelling companion in intensive care.
I hadn’t seen Gravy in weeks. He was healing nicely, from what I could see of his bandaged face. Multiple surgeries had salvaged his eyes and his tongue. His sense of smell wasn’t going to be quite the same. And there was the possibility that the small bits of shrapnel that had found their way into his brain would cause a few personality “quirks”. That would help explain why he called me a “cock eating fuck sandwich” when he saw me enter his hospital room.
After spending a good twenty minutes or so playing the scratch off tickets, and turning a profit nearly as handsome as I am with a few lucky tickets, I turned my complete, undivided attention to Gravy, give or take a few compute cycles I spent ogling the buxom nurse that had come in to check on Gravy's head-hole.
“mm-a goona suuuuue yooooou…” He croaked out from the muffling bandages and wired-shut jaw.
“Easy there, buddy,” I said, patting his head, “save your strength. Don’t try to speak.”
After a few more mutterings in which Gravy had either asked for a turkey club to be pureed for him to drink through a straw that was inserted somewhere near his jaw, or he had accused me of ruining his life, I decided that it was just too depressing to be with him. I told Gravy I would see him later, and he either expressed undying gratitude or told me to go fuck myself. It was hard to understand him. Either way, I had things to do and I had double-parked the Hummer in a handicap spot outside the hospital.
Approaching the Hummer, my eye was on the two or three parking tickets slapped under the wiper that I would have to take the time to crumple up and dispose of. I got in the Hummer and checked the time. It was just past 9PM, and the night was young. I contemplated hitting Craigslist again to see what kind of strange I could scare up, but I realized that I was now quite tired. Having my libido stimulated so thoroughly yet it remaining unfulfilled left me with a tryptophan-like drowsiness.
I looked in the rearview mirror as I pulled away, I thought again of the words written on that ass-stained business card. "GROOVY LOADS" it said, as best I could tell through the smearing of the felt-tip ink . I had to stop the Hummer and stare at the sign in the rear view mirror to pull place what I was seeing.
Lady
Of
Perpetual
Desperation
The "P" in Perpetual could easily smear to an "A", especially when splashed with a combination of ass cooties and a thick, chunky salsa.
LOPD rearranged itself in my mind to say LOADS.
But what about Groovy?
Or was it Gravy?
"Awww fiddlesticks." I screamed, and threw the Hummer in reverse, narrowly dodging oncoming cars. I spun around and landed the Hummer in the same parking spot(s) I had just abandoned, after gently tapping a motorcycle out of the way, and I ran back into the hospital.
The night is young.
10:20 PM
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