Friendly Referrals

After the thirty-minute drive over and an hour-and-a-half wait in the reception area, Miranda thought it would be difficult to explain to the doctor what was happening to her.

Surprisingly enough, when her turn came she was able to spill it out to him in coherent sentences.

The doctor nodded quietly. He made the appropriate eyebrow arch at all the appropriate junctures in her long, sad list of complaints. He wrote furiously on an imposing metal chart. Miranda felt like a deflated balloon when the secrets she had been keeping were finally out.

“Well Doctor, what do you think? Am I a lost cause?” She giggled self-consciously, thinking maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

The doctor leveled a stare at her from across the desk. His demeanor suggested her condition was grave.

“Miss Moron, I’m afraid you have a very bad case here. If all you’re telling me is true, I’d venture to say you have a stage-three progression of Simian Dorsal Syndrome,” he said. The doctor paused, then continued, “Quite frankly, I’m not sure how to go about treatment from here. I’m surprised you haven’t sought professional help before now. Surely you had an idea?”

“Maroon,” said Miranda.

“I’m sorry?” The doctor was obviously confused by her strange answer.

“Maroon,” said Miranda. “My last name is Maroon, not Moron.”

“I apologize Miss Maroon. An office typo,” said the doctor. His pen grated across the metal chart, obliterating the mistake with a single line.

“Doctor, I don’t understand what you’re saying. What’s wrong with me? In layman’s terms, please.” Miranda realized the pleading nature of her voice and checked herself.

The doctor leaned over his desk. He pointed a long finger in the general vicinity of her right shoulder.

“Quite simply put my dear, you have a monkey on your back. And a rather large one, at that.”

Deep down inside Miranda had known it all along. She didn’t need a professional to tell her about the ailment. She only needed the confirmation of someone other than herself to make it real. She felt it, gripping her by the nape of the neck, pissing down her back, dirtying her sheets at night with foul feces. It was the reason she didn’t sleep well, the lump under her pillow, the monster in bed with her.

A goddamn monkey.

Miranda gathered up her purse and stood to leave.

“Thank you very much, Doctor Smug. I appreciate your time,” she said.

“Sums,” said the doctor.

“Excuse me?” Miranda was confused by his response.

“It’s Doctor Sums. Sums is my last name,” said the doctor.

“I apologize, Dr. Sums. Didn’t read it right on the card, my mistake,” Miranda said.

As she turned, Dr. Sums called out, “What exactly do you plan on doing about your ailment, Miss Maroon?”

“Dr. Sums, we have established that my name is not Jane Goodall,” said Miranda, “I’m going to do what any sane person would do. I’m going to kill it. I’m going to kill it, I’m going to wash my sheets and I’m going to sleep for a week.”

She opened the door to the world outside, refreshed and ready to conquer. Miranda made a mental note to herself to recommend Dr. Sums to all her friends.

It was monkey-killing time.

Eula Bell and Beauregard

(Please note: This is not like anything else you’ve read on my site thus far. This is my true love – weird, offbeat and somewhat terrifying fiction. Feel free to leave suggestions. Thanks!)

Pt. 1

Eula Bell’s tips for moist chocolate cake and goblin-killing.

This morning I made a rich and delicious triple-layer chocolate cake. I finished icing it right before I stabbed my neighbor, Beauregard Bagman, between the eyes with the very butter knife I used to frost my beautiful cake.

Not many people know this but mayonnaise is the secret ingredient in chocolate cakes.

I doubt anyone in the village but me knew my neighbor was a filthy goblin but I jabbed him between the eyes with a silver butter knife and began the process of allowing the goblin-gas to disperse from his human-like skin-bag anyway.

The butter knife and cake recipe were passed on to me by my grandmother, Alva.

The goblin intuition is my own.

As I wait for his screams to subside (which aren’t screams at all, but the off-gassing of a very angry goblin who has had their skin-bag pierced with a sterling silver butter knife) I’ll reflect on the times I’ve caught Beauregard in cahoots with the devil.

I’ve seen his tail with my own eyes.

I wasn’t spying, it was his own fault for shambling out to the end of the driveway in a flimsy bathrobe to retrieve his morning copy of the Manson Village News a month ago. I just happened to be taking my morning stroll with Mr. Fiddlesticks, my feline companion and the best judgement of character you would ever want to know, when we walked up on Beauregard in his less-than-properly-dressed status.

His response to my cordial greeting was to hiss at Mr. Fiddlesticks as he whirled away, off into the dim light of dawn towards his front door. And let me tell you, even the dim light of dawn couldn’t hide that scaly tail flapping behind him as he rudely raced off without so much as a, “Hello.”

Then there was the time Mr. Fiddlesticks brought home a rancid bat carcass and Beauregard retrieved it from my trash can in the dead of night. Apparently, goblins aren’t up on the latest ‘Ring’ doorbell technology that captures video of movement beyond the back door.

Of course, the crescendo of our relationship began when he had the audacity to come to my back door in partial goblin-form, right out in broad daylight. I had no other choice than to plant my butter knife squarely in the center of his grotesque forehead, immediately upon answering the door.

My goodness, it’s taking an awfully long time for all his goblin-gas to escape. I’m going to have a piece of cake while I wait. Later, I can burn the skin-bag and be done with this silliness.

Pt. 2

Beauregard Bagman’s tip on surviving butter knife attacks from crazy old women.

Did this bitch really just plant a butter knife into my skull? How the actual fuck can an old lady be that strong? I mean, she did have the element of surprise and a downward angle, but fuck, this butter knife is sticking out of my fucking skull.

Maybe she really is a witch.

She’s standing there watching me look cross-eyed at this fucking butter knife like she’s waiting for something else. Here’s an idea for something else. Help me, bitch.

I’m paralyzed from shock and possible brain damage – the only things moving are my eyes and my bowels. I’m actually glad I shit on your porch. If that’s the last thing I do in life, it was worth it.

Who the fuck is screaming? Is that me? Wow. You’d think she’d at least be alarmed by the screams.

Wait, what is she doing? Is she really putting that goddamn cat out here and closing the door? That cat is the reason I have to wear an asthma mask outside of my home. It’s the reason I came over here in the first place, to tell this crazy old bitch to keep that goddamn cat away from me.

That fucking cat prowling around my property is the reason I need a C-pap machine at night.

That fucking cat stole the model in my bat study that was part of a dissertation I’ve worked on for five fucking years. I had to dig in the crazy bitch’s trash can to get it back.

Fuck that cat.

Hold up, I think I can move again.

Oh yeah baby, I can crawl.

I’m crawling. Fuck that cat, I’ll punch him if he comes close to me. I’m crawling back to my house and I’m calling 911.

Fuck that cat.

Pt. 3

Eula Bell’s cake is so delicious, it brings visitors from far and wide.

Me oh my, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I make the best chocolate cake in all of Manson Village. There’s nothing more satisfying than a slab of delightfully rich cake and a tall glass of cold milk.

The screams stopped about half-way through my cake-break. Now that I’m done goblin-killing and cake-eating, I’ll invite Mr. Fiddlesticks back inside to finish my glass of milk. We’ll drag the skin-bag to the back of the property and burn it where we’ve burned the others.

We’ve been in Manson Village a very long time. We don’t like outsiders, especially when they’re goblins and such.

Oh look. The sheriff is here. He probably knows I baked a cake.

Photos by Polina Tankilevitch on