Bad Doctor Read online

  “Oh yeah! The guy you fucked last night. Thanks for reminding me!”

  “We didn’t fuck anyone last night,” Willow says.

  “Well, like I told the doc last night, after you confess, I’m gonna cut his dick off and sew it in your mouth.”

  “What are you doing?” Willow says.

  “This here’s called Black Toad. I’m rubbing it on my dick. You girls are gonna love this! It’s…holy shit!”

  He yelps.

  “What’s wrong?” Willow says.

  “Burns! It burns like fire! My dick’s on fire! Jesus, my dick’s on fire! I’m in flames! Oh, the humanity!”

  “Why would you do that? What’s the matter with you?” Willow shouts.

  “Shut up! Take your clothes off, both of you.”

  “No way!”

  “Are you kidding me? Look at the size of this cock! I’m gonna get my money’s worth out of you and Stringbean.”

  He suddenly screams like he’s in excruciating pain. It makes sense the pain would come and go as the bufotenin gets absorbed deeper into his penis.

  “Get naked, whores!” he yells.

  “No!” Willow says.

  “I’m dead serious, bitch. Right now.”

  “Fuck you!” Cameron shouts.

  I hear a gunshot.

  Cameron screams like she’s in pain.

  Willow screams like she’s freaking out.

  Bobby screams like his dick’s on fire.

  The rest is hard to make out.

  But when Willow screams, “She’s dying! Get the doctor out of the trunk!” it’s pretty clear Cameron’s been shot.

  20.

  “STAY WHERE YOU are!” Bobby shouts.

  “Shut up, Bobby! She’s dying! Open the trunk.”

  I hear him scream, “Oh, God!” then he falls to the ground and vomits violently.

  Seconds later the trunk opens. It’s nearing dusk, so my eyes have no problem adjusting to the light.

  “Get out!” Willow shouts. “Cameron’s been shot!”

  She tries to help me, but Bobby staggers up behind her and grabs her by the hair. He pulls her backward and throws her to the ground. Tries to kick her but misses and nearly falls down. His chin and chest is covered in vomit.

  There’s no avoiding his penis.

  It’s black from powder and purple from pressure. It’s not only erect, but enormous, and maintaining an eighty-degree angle, which is to say, practically vertical. It’s also pulsing and throbbing, as if ready to explode.

  Bobby sees me looking at him and shouts, “You bastard!”

  He staggers toward me, but is forced to squat and shit a thick, wet stream that splats on the dirt beneath him, creating a little puff of steam.

  “You think that’s funny?” he says.

  “I think it’s hilarious! Do it again!”

  As if on cue, he groans and shits a quart of black water in the noisiest manner possible.

  “How’s that Black Toad working for you, fuckhead?” I say.

  “I’m gonna kill you!” he shouts, seething with fury.

  “Before you do, shit again, like the baboon you are.”

  Still squatting, Bobby aims his gun at me and says, “You’re a dead man!”

  “Maybe so, but at least my corpse will have balls.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I point at his crotch. “Your nuts disappeared.”

  He looks down and frowns.

  “You’re a dead man!” he shouts.

  “You said that already.”

  He sneezes, and a pint of black water spews and sprays from his ass.

  He stands upright and stumbles toward me. He’s furious, in agony, but he’s not going to shoot me. Not before finding out if I slept with Willow.

  Turns out I’m wrong about that.

  We’re twelve feet apart when he pulls the trigger.

  I have to look down to be sure he actually missed me from that distance.

  He did.

  Willow comes up behind him and kicks the back of his knees as he’s firing the second shot. Bobby hits the ground, writhing and blubbering, and I realize he’s shot himself in the upper thigh. He waves his gun around in the air, firing indiscriminately. A hundred yards away, on the main road, I hear something that sounds like a car crash. I look up instinctively, but Maggie’s house is blocking my view.

  When Bobby’s gun is empty, I work my way out of the trunk and try to stand, but my legs are asleep. I fall back onto the edge of the trunk and sit there, rubbing my legs to get the blood flowing.

  Willow yells at me to do something about Cameron.

  “What about my leg?” Bobby whimpers.

  “Throw the gun toward the house and I’ll see what I can do about your leg,” I say.

  “You’ll kill me.”

  “He won’t kill you,” Willow says. “He’s a doctor. He took an oath. He has to help you. It’s the law.”

  She runs to Cameron’s side.

  “That true?” Bobby says. “About the oath”

  I sigh. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Hurry, Dr. Box!” Willow shouts. “Cameron needs you!”

  From somewhere behind me, Cameron hears her name and starts moaning.

  To Bobby I say, “Throw the gun away and I’ll help you.”

  “You swear?”

  “Often.”

  He throws the gun twenty feet away and moves his hand so I can see the wound.

  As I approach he says, “Oh, my God!”

  “It hurts, huh?”

  “Yeah, sure, but what the hell is that stink?”

  “I think you know.”

  “I did that?”

  “You did.”

  I’m moving slowly, as if crossing a minefield. Stepping carefully, doing my best to avoid the pools of excrement he’s left in the dirt. But there’s no avoiding the smell. It’s drifting with me, toward Bobby.

  “Oh, man!” he says. “That ain’t right.” He shakes his head and repeats, “That ain’t right.”

  “No it ain’t.”

  “You’ve got no medicine,” he says.

  Now that I’m beside him, I take a knee, which causes me to gasp in pain as my ribs shift.

  “Smells terrible, don’t it?” he says.

  Bobby’s given himself a nine-inch flesh wound. Bullet went in shallow, cut a gully a quarter inch deep, exited cleanly, without hitting the knee.

  “You’re in luck,” I say, removing the plastic baggie from my pocket.

  “What’s that, Willow’s nutmeg?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “It’s a coagulant. It’ll stop the bleeding.”

  “Will it hurt?”

  “Not much.”

  A look of sadness crosses his face as he looks at the nutmeg.

  “You fucked my girlfriend, didn’t you?”

  I pause. Then say, “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  I sigh. “Because I’m an asshole.”

  He nods.

  I say, “If it makes you feel any better, she hated every minute of it, and only did it for the money.”

  “I believe that,” he says. “She’s a good girl. I love her.”

  Feeling charitable, I say, “She was probably going to use the money to buy you something special.”

  “I wish. Truth is she’s been trying to sneak money into another account for the past two months, to pay for the cancer treatments.”

  “Cancer treatments?”

  He chuckles despite the pain. “But I put a stop to that shit,” he says. “Or so I thought.”

  I pour the entire packet of nutmeg into the palm of my hand and work it deep into Bobby’s cut, packing it.

  “Damn!” he shouts. “That hurts like hell!”

  “All done,” I say. “Now press both hands tightly against the wound to keep it from bleeding. You okay?”

  He nods.

  “I’ll be back as soo
n as I check on Cameron.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  The one thing you want to know about nutmeg is you never apply it to an open wound. I don’t care who you are, the smallest amount of nutmeg in your bloodstream will kill you quickly.

  How quickly?

  Cameron and Willow are only twenty yards away.

  Bobby will be dead before I reach them.

  21

  CAMERON’S BEEN SHOT in the back. She’s out cold, lying on her side, her head in Willow’s lap.

  “Is Bobby okay?” Willow asks.

  “He’s resting quietly.”

  I take a knee and wince for the second time in two minutes, wedge my fingers in the hole in her blouse the bullet created, and tear it open enough to check the wound in her shoulder.

  “How bad’s your cancer?”

  She frowns. “Who told you about that, Bobby?”

  “I’m a doctor. I’m trained to notice the slightest symptoms.”

  “Really? Then what type of cancer do I have?”

  “Breast.”

  “Guess again.”

  I prod the area around the entrance wound. “Leukemia.”

  “You really suck at this. Are you even a doctor?”

  “I’m a world-renowned surgeon.”

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” she says.

  “Do you have a cell phone?” I ask.

  “Why? You need to call a real surgeon?”

  I smile. “I like you.”

  “Bobby’s got my cell phone,” she says. “But it doesn’t work out here.”

  “How’d Cameron get this far from the car?”

  “She made a run for it. That’s why he shot her.”

  “Nice guy you hooked up with.”

  “Spare me the lecture, Dr. Asshole.”

  “Okay.”

  “Dr. Breaking and Entering.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Doctor Identity Theft. Doctor Crook.”

  “Got it. So who taught Bobby how to shoot?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He hit Cameron in the shoulder, and missed me from twelve feet away.”

  Willow glances at my face. “Who taught you how to fight?”

  “I did all right.”

  “You think?”

  “If you look closely, you’ll see a bruise and a cut on Bobby’s mouth.”

  “Cameron did that.”

  “She did?”

  “You look like Bobby’s punching bag. Why’s there so much blood?”

  “On my face?”

  “On Cameron’s back, dumb ass.”

  “Well, she’s been shot, for one thing.”

  “That’s your professional opinion?”

  “I really do like you,” I say. “Maybe I can help with your cancer.”

  “Just fix my friend, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I rip Cameron’s blouse enough to check her chest for an exit wound. There isn’t one, but there is a little ridge protruding slightly from her skin that tells me the bullet came within a hair of getting out on its own. I touch it with my finger, and Cameron gasps.

  “Bobby’s gun’s a piece of shit,” I say.

  “How bad is she?” Willow asks.

  “It looks worse than it is.”

  “Will she live?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will she be able to dance?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I mean, she couldn’t dance before,” I say. “This won’t change things.”

  “I heard that,” Cameron says, through gritted teeth.

  “She’s in a lot of pain,” Willow says.

  “She should be. A molten bullet ripped through the meat of her shoulder at approximately 385 miles per second, leaving a channel of boiling, bloody tissue in its wake. Her body’s trying to bring the temperature of that bullet down to 98.6 degrees. As it transfers heat to the surrounding blood and tissue, the result is exactly what you’d expect.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Pain.”

  “What can we do?”

  “There’s a small leather handle on the floor of the trunk that accesses the spare tire compartment. My medical bag’s in there. If you bring it to me, I can fix her up. There’s some bedding in there, too. Are the sheets clean?”

  “Yes. And the pillow cases and bedspread.”

  “Bring the bedspread.”

  “Okay.”

  Willow gets up and sprints to the car.

  Then screams bloody murder.

  For a moment I figure she’s found Bobby’s dead body.

  Then I realize she’s screaming for a completely different reason.

  22

  I GET TO my feet and turn to find two men holding a gun on Willow. When she stops screaming, they start.

  “What the fuck’s going on here?” one of them shouts.

  They see her look at me and the other guy yells, “Sir? Stay right where you are, and don’t move a muscle. I may not look like it, but I know how to use this gun.”

  He’s right. He doesn’t look like a killer. He looks like a conjoined twin.

  “You,” the first twin says to Willow. “Put that shit back in the trunk and go stand beside the battered husband.”

  “My friend’s been shot,” she says. “That’s Dr. Box. This is his medical bag. He needs it to help my friend.”

  “Fuck your friend!” the first one says.

  “Oh, stop being such a Clint Eastwood,” the second twin says. “What’s your name, honey?”

  “Willow.”

  “Your full name, dear.”

  “Willow Breeland.”

  “Nice to meet you, Willow. I’m Charlie, and this is—”

  “Don’t tell him our names, you moron!” the first twin says.

  “Oh, like she needs our names to identify us?” Charlie says. “She can’t just say, ‘the Siamese twins held a gun on me?’ Because there are too many of us shuffling around the greater Dayton area?”

  Willow suddenly notices Bobby, lying dead in the dirt, ten feet behind the twins.

  And shrieks.

  The twins angle their bodies to see what she’s looking at, and Charlie says, “Omigod! Look at that penis! It looks like the space shuttle!”

  “He’s dead,” the first twin says.

  “If he is, he’s got petrified wood for a penis. Omigod, I made a joke! He’s got a petrified woodie!”

  They shuffle to Bobby’s body for a closer look while keeping an eye on me and the gun on Willow.

  “Well pardon me!” Charlie says to me. “What are you doing?”

  “Pissing,” I say. “What’s it look like?”

  “It looks like you’re pissing,” he agrees.

  “Who’s this?” the first twin asks Willow.

  “My boyfriend, Bobby.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Charlie says.

  “He was a piece of shit. I hated him,” she says.

  “Men!” Charlie says. “Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.”

  “I can live without him.”

  “You go, girl!”

  “Who shot him?” the first twin says.

  “He shot himself.”

  “Then where’s the gun?”

  She points toward the house. “He threw it over there after running out of bullets.”

  “One of those bullets hit the window of our van,” he says. “It caused me to run off the road. We blew a tire and hit a tree.”

  “I’m sorry,” Willow says.

  “Why’s he naked?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “It’s a long dick is what it is,” Charlie says, giggling. “By the way, this is my brother, Carlos.”

  “I can’t believe you told her my name!” Carlos says.

  They shuffle ten feet closer to me and notice Cameron on the ground.

  “He shot her, too?” Carlos asks.
<
br />   “He did,” I say. “And I need to get the bullet out of her shoulder before it does further damage.”

  Charlie angles his head toward Willow and says, “You can take the bag to the doctor, honey.”

  Willow rushes to my side and hands me the medical bag. She looks at my eyes and says, “Can you even see?”

  “I could perform this surgery with my eyes closed.”

  It’s a true statement, and a good thing, since my eyes are so swollen, I’m looking through slits the width of spaghetti noodles.

  I give Cameron a shot of morphine and use my scissors to remove half her blouse. It takes less than five minutes to cut out the bullet, clean the wound, and stitch her up. When I’m finished, Willow wraps the blanket around her.

  Behind us, the twins are laughing.

  “For the love of God,” Willow says.

  “What now?”

  “They’re playing ring toss.”

  I turn around to see them standing a short distance from Bobby, trying to toss necklaces onto his enormously erect penis.

  “Two to nothing!” Charlie squeals. “I’m winning!”

  23

  WILLOW HOVERS OVER Cameron while I walk over to the twins.

  “Are you done already?” Charlie says.

  “I’ve done what I can, but we need to get Cameron to a hospital. Unless you plan to shoot us.”

  “We need a ride home,” Charlie says. “Right, Carlos?”

  “Are you serious?” Carlos says. “You plan to show him where we live?”

  “Try to remember. We’re Siamese twins. If Dr. Box wants to know where we live he could simply ask around. How many conjoined twins live in the area, do you think?”

  Carlos says, “We held a gun on him!”

  “So?”

  “We played ring toss with a dead guy’s dick.”

  “Well, who wouldn’t?” Charlie says.

  Me, for one.

  Charlie says, “Dr. Box, when you report these events to the police, are you going to mention us?”

  “Not if you let us go. Assuming you can get your car off the property before the police show up.”

  “Mom can change the tire. But our cell phone doesn’t work out here. We’ll need a ride home.”

  “How far is that?”

  “Less than eight miles. It’s not out of the way if you’re heading to Dayton.”

  “Why would I go to Dayton?”

  “That’s where the closest hospital is. You did say you were taking Cameron to the hospital, right?”