Running With Scissors

Save the Whales, or Something

For those unfamiliar with the concept of death, like the immortal and all-knowing Squid Overlords of Alfa Centauri, here is a rundown of how it goes down: Your lungs fail to pump oxygen into your bloodstream, which, in turn, fail to pump through your body due to your heart stopping as the brain fails to receive enough oxygen to make your lungs or heart work properly. It's a real "Catch 22" situation.

It's a rather unpleasant affair that we personally recommend avoiding unless extremely necessary, or if you're a gimp, and therefore, into that sort of things. No kink-shaming in here. Whichever the case may be, always make sure you're around qualified personnel who can help you not die, like a doctor. Unless that doctor happened to be named Kevorkian.

Lucky for Peter Katz, he was around qualified medical personnel who were not named Kevorkian. Unluckily for him, it was Dr. George.

His' is not the face one would want to look upon after returning from death, with zits and boils and that stupid pushover look on his face that begged to be punched. Thank God his' was not the face he got to see first. It was Sarah's.

And what a face it was! Peter was dumbstruck: shoulder-length, raven-black hair, angel-like facial structure with icy-blue eyes and a button-like nose, and a bunch of other hyphenated features that were very pleasing to him. He thought he was in heaven, except, as you know, heaven smells like Kentucky Fried Chicken, not rank feces.

As biological functions begin to fail, like your lungs, heart, or brain, your muscles also begin to fail. One of the most interesting muscles in the human body is called the sphincter. Humans have about fifty or so sphincters in their body, the most known of those being located in the anus. Sphincters work like pressure valves that control the flow of liquids and solids in the body, or in this particular case, feces. So when the human body begins to perish and the sphincters malfunction, what you're left with is a torrent of feces sputtering out of your anus.

Everyone shits when they die. Remember how you were with grandma in her deathbed and she sweetly said that she was proud of all your achievements as she drew her last breath? She was shitting herself at that moment. Fun!

It wasn't as fun for Peter, who was being swaddled like a baby by an underpaid nurse-in front of the raven-haired angel, might we add. She had the best seat in the house.

He tried to speak, but he felt his tongue like sandpaper. His muscles ache and hurt all over.

"Is he awake?" an unknown voice asked just to his right. Peter couldn't turn his head around, but he somehow knew that voice came from someone both very fat and incredibly foolish.

"Yes, he is," answered another voice. A very dull voice. He immediately knew it was Dr. George's voice. He knew that because his voice, just like his face, was extremely punchable. "Can you hear me, Mr. Katz? Do you know where you are?"

Peter wanted to say that his mouth felt like a kitty litter on fire, but he couldn't. He managed to moisten his mouth enough to form a word. "Water," he whispered.

"We are not in water, we are in a hospital," said the woman with raven hair, which we know to be Sarah. "H. O. S. P. I. T. A. L. Can you say hospital?"

Yet again, Peter wanted to convey to the nice angel lady that he could, in fact, say the word hospital. He also wanted to say other words like, "I'm okay" or "What happened?" or "I know a nice restaurant near Time Square that serves this wonderfully deconstructed French onion soup, and I would love for you to join me, and maybe later go to my place for a little amuse bouche?" But all he could say was "Water".

Sarah clicked her tongue in frustration. "This man has brain damage. As your Administrative Assistant, I suggest putting him out of his misery."

"I believe he only wants a glass of water, " said the fat and foolish voice who we know to be James Truman-Conelly, Esq.

"Quite so," said Dr. George. "Nurse," he said as he motioned to the nurse, who shall remain unnamed as she will only appear in this chapter, "fetch him a glass of water and a straw."

The nameless nurse went without saying a word. Not without a word was James Truman-Conelly, Esq.

"Praise Sobek, he's awake. I was afraid he wouldn't. It was a nasty fall, I tell you," said James Truman-Conelly.

"You never answered my question, why are you here?" asked Sarah. "Visiting hours are still over, and only family can visit."

James Truman-Conelly fiddled nervously with his crumpled Wendy's bag. "I wanted to ask him to repay me for damaging my nuggets. The ones he fell on."

"Sweet Jesus," said Dr. George in outrage. "The man is on the brink of death, and you pretend to charge him for nuggets that you already ate?"

"That weren't that damaged, to begin with," added Sarah.

"They were emotionally damaged," said James Truman-Conelly. "And so was I."

It clicked for Peter. He knew that fat and foolish voice. He was in the presence of James Truman-Conelly, the man who married a Baconator. Oh, how Peter wanted to tease him. He wanted to say "which meat was the freshest? The beef patty or your own sausage? Did your 'special sauce' also tasted like mayo?" and other clever, and nasty words not fit for human or burger ears. But once again, all he could say was "Water".

"Are you sure he's not brain damaged?" asked Sarah.

"The man only needs some water," said Dr. George.

"I'm not talking about Katz, I'm talking about nugget boy," said Sarah as she pointed in the general direction of James Truman-Conelly in a way only perverts and ugly kids making a tantrum are pointed at. "They cost like a buck. Go away."

"I'm not crazy, ma'am. I'm merely broke."

At that moment, the nurse came back with a cup of water and a straw. Cardboard, of course. Remember to save the whales, or something.

The first few sips of water felts as if his mount was being caressed by a particularly frisky mermaid. The later were tainted by an ugly, cardboard aftertaste. He really hoped that whales could find a way to thank him for not killing them. A card would be nice.

Alas, Peter's thirst was quenched, and his voice was back. There was only one thing to say.

"I'm okay. What happened? Also, I know a nice restaurant near Time Square that serves this wonderfully deconstructed French onion soup, and I would love for you to join me, and maybe later go to my place for a little amuse bouche?"