rossmum
April 22nd, 2007, 11:33 PM
http://forums.facepunchstudios.com/showthread.php?t=320352
NOTE: The original was posted at a forum that censors 'fuck' with 'fluffy'.
God wants me dead. I pissed him off. Pissed him off good. I don't know what sent him over the edge. Maybe it was my off-colour, sac religious sense of humour. Maybe it was the bilby I drowned in a duffel bag. Whatever it was, one thing is clear - the great sky fairy wants hardcore vengeance, and he wants it now. Let's educate you on what’s happened so far. If you don't want to read, I'll summarise it for you in the next two words.
Get lost.
Wednesday 4th.
I wake up at 4:30am feeling like my kidneys hijacked bulldozers and went apeshit on my abdomen. I assume I am either really fluffy hungry, or constipated to the max. I stumble to the kitchen, grab a peach, take a dump, and go back to bed. I feel slightly better.
I wake up again at 6:30. Something's definitely up. My kidneys; unsatisfied with the carnage caused by bulldozers; have commandeered tanks and started burning down the Reichstag that is my middle half. I am in serious pain. In my infinite wisdom, I decide to ignore it, still thinking I might just be hungry or constipated.
It's now 10:30. Screw university, I'm not going; not while my organs are having a civil war. I drive up to the medical centre and take a seat. "There'll be a two hour wait - the doctors running late," she says. I'm in severe pain by now.
It's 11:30. Sitting up is getting unbearable. I ask to lie down on a bed somewhere, and the receptionist lady obliges. Angry geriatrics envy my special treatment. I feel powerful.
It's 12:00 or sometime, when bang. Holy mother fluffy of shit. Raw, intense pain. Someone just Nagasaki'ed my bowel. A doctor comes in and watches me writhe in pain. He asks, "Are you ok?" I reply, "My stomach is on fire." He pushes on my abdomen, then my lower right abdomen. I nearly go catatonic and grip his hand. Wup-wow.
Maybe ten minutes later I'm in an ambulance with a morphine needle in my bum. Morphine is great. I remembered the old people's faces of disgust at my special treatment. It makes me smile. All is good in the world.
I rock up to hospital. A doctor comes and assesses me. He is not happy. He has a monobrow though, so I need not respect him. I get more drugs. I go to sleep.
I wake up and its night. Monobrow tells me they've called in the surgeon from dinner with her husband to do emergency surgery on my appendix which has ruptured and caused perotonitis. 10% mortality rate in healthy patients. Good, I like a challenge.
I am prepped for surgery. Nurses wheel me into the operating theatre late that night. Just before my bed enters the operating room, an attending stops me. She says they haven’t done the pre-check on my details. She checks my wrist band. It says Mrs Finch, Jessica. "Mrs Finch, Jessica" has no allergies. Lucky her. I on the other hand, am deathly allergic to penicillin. Penicillin had been put on my treatment schedule. They take another ten minutes to correct things. My confidence is not great. My last words to the attending doctors is, "I'm glad someone knows what they're doing." I recognise a monobrow above one of the attending's masks. I smile. I don't even feel the anaesthetic. I go to sleep.
Thursday 5th.
I wake up early in the morning. It is around 5am. I feel sleepy as shit. Someone is standing above me. It takes me a few seconds to make sense of the face. It's an ex-girlfriend's mum wearing a nurses uniform. Then it hits me.
She's going to smother me with a pillow...fluffy
my eyes close again and I fall back asleep. I had survived. Boy was I on a roll.
It's 9am. The operating doctor comes to see me. She says she removed widespread infection covering my entire mid section with a particularly bad infection in parts of my abdomen and kidney. Apparently, my left kidney was displaced so as to be directly adjacent to the perforation where the infection originated. Smooth move God you cunning bastard. Luckily for me, my other kidney was having a picnic up north during the whole ordeal. You're fault for giving me two you sneaky son of a bitch.
12 hours from death she estimates. Groovy, I feel pretty good. "That's because you have morphine in your drip." Fantastic. Bring me some pie and I will be content.
The doctor leaves. I fall asleep.
It is mid afternoon. A nurse is changing my canular. A canular is the big tube in your arm that the drip connects to. I watch her take it off and replace it with a new canular. She then leaves. I turn away and fall asleep.
Woops. She didn't put the valve on. Bad, bad girl.
You see, veins have valves. This stops blood from flowing backwards in your body. Essentially, the liquid in my drip stopped going in and blood started coming out.
A good half hour later a nurse walks in. She wakes me and runs out the room. I have a quick look around and glance my bed. It is soaked in blood. It's soaked through my clothes, through my sheets, through the mattress. Everything. My left arm is stained entirely on one side. I lift my arm and leave an arm print of white. The nurses come back. Goodbye consciousness. To sleep again I go.
---
That's as much as I'll type for now. Things to come include psycho nurses trying to kill me, falling down in the shower, a near car crash, a run in with a different ex girlfriend's mum's psycho new boyfriend, a run in with a bicyclist on meth and a bus crash.
I shit you not, all of this will be explained. God wants me dead. Read at your own risk. You have been warned.
Friday 6th
I wake up. I am not bleeding or dying. This makes me happy. I look out the window. I shrink back into my pillow. God's just getting warmed up.
The nurses bring me jelly and only jelly. It is all I can eat. Jelly begins to become the nutritional equivalent of abortion. It is the disastrous mess of what was once sweet sweet glucose. I am taken off the morphine. This saddens me. I am given a different painkiller.
I have it in my hands and think to ask the nurse what it has in it.
"Penicillin."
Great. Why not arsenic? Maybe a dash of cyanide? Hey let's just fire an RPG point-blank into my cerebellum and call it a fluffy day. I once again remind them I will die if I have penicillin.
"But it says you're not allergic."
Really? Shit me. And to think I've been misinformed all these years. I'm glad the people who had me undergoing surgery as a married woman of 40 odd years are on the ball with their clip boards. In that case just put the tablet in my drip. Maybe I'll have a stroke, and maybe you'll have a stroke of common fluffy sense. Everybody wins.
It's night time. I have visitors. Visitors makes me happy. A queer and weird nurse enters the room and tells me I need a heparin needle. It's a blood thinner which prevents deep vein thrombosis. Sounds good to me. She interjects in the conversation with a god-awful joke. I comment, "Sorry, that one went over my head." She is not impressed and gives us all a funny look. As she's leaving, I make a comment about her strangeness. Out of the blue she says, "I heard that," and just stares at me.
Then she left without incident.
No, as if that could happen. God's fluffy aggro remember? She turns off the light and closes the door and says "fine". The whole room plunges into darkness. I'm serious. She left me in a hospital bed with my visitors in pitch black darkness like you'd expect an eleven year old would.
"Weren't you meant to get a needle?" says my friend.
Oh yeah. Lookin' forward to that puppy now.
My friend's stumble around and find the light switch, muttering about this nurse. My friend's girlfriend trips on my drip on the way out.
"Sorry"
No problem. Not like it's connected to the vein in my arm or anything.
About ten minutes later the weird nurse comes back.
"Your friends are so nice. So very nice," she says. She speaks in this sweet sarcastic voice. I am actually pretty scared at this point. She's so obviously not right in the head I can't begin to understand how she holds employment at a hospital.
I roll over so she can put the needle in my thigh. These heparin needles are small needles. "Painless needles". They are actually, when done right. Haha, God, you played this next card well.
She fluffy jabbed me with this thing and I jolted. She then pulled the needle out without injecting me and got up close in my face. "Don't move next time, if you do, and it the needle breaks off in there, you'll need to go into surgery again to get it out. Would you want that?"
I kid you not. She said that. I probably should have made an official complaint. But what the shit was I going to do. I nodded as she fluffy jabbed me again. I couldn't sleep on that side all night and it stung like a bitch for hours. I don't know whether she injected heparin into my blood or my fluffy bone marrow, but it sure felt like the latter.
I didn't see her again. Thank god. I asked the doctor that night how many more days I'd need to stay in hospital.
"4 more days," she said sternly.
I looked out the window. God had me on the back foot - trapped in this hospital. But if I could hold out, if I could hang on till Tuesday, I'd be free from his grasp.
I couldn't have been more wrong. Darker days were on the horizon.
Saturday 7th
It is lunch time. I am excited. I am getting soup. It may as well be RPA-Christmas. The boy scouts bring me an Easter egg. It's a nice gesture. I decide I'll save the egg until after the soup. It will be the ultimate Easter feast for one. I intend to enjoy every last moment of it.
Bad move.
My ex girlfriend's mum who works at the hospital comes in.
"No no, you can't have any chocolate whatsoever."
She walks out the door cradling my egg. It breaks my heart to see it go. It really does. I can feel the depression in the back of my brain.
But then, in comes the lunch lady. I sit up as best I can. She has a tray. On the tray is more abortion-jelly. fluffy that though, because underneath a heat bowl is some chicken broth. I can see it steaming slightly from around the edges. It is liquid ecstasy. I want it. I want it now.
I smile at the lunch lady setting up my tray as the nurse enters. It is here, at the eleventh lunch hour, that I fluffy up something terrible.
I joke, "Hopefully I won't die from the soup aye?" I smiled at this. I am happy. I am jovial. Life is good. I am, of course, referring light heartedly to the penicillin incident. Note to self: never assume nurses will understand anything, including their nurse training.
"Wait, has your doctor cleared you to eat heavier food?"
I am still calm. The soup is still on the tray. It is steaming away, just waiting for me.
"She said I could."
The nurse walks over and picks up my file attached to its clip board.
"She hasn't written anything down."
Everything changes. I am not smiling anymore. My soup is in jeopardy here. I would do anything to have it. I can't have any more jelly. I just can't.
"I'm sure it'll be fine. Please?"
The nurse tries to ring the doctor. I beg her to pick up, but she doesn't.
"We'll have to keep you on your current diet until we can get in contact with her."
I eye the soup still on the tray. The lunch lady wants to get a move on and finish her rounds. I consider making a dive for the soup and ingesting what I can in an orgiastic display of chicken-flavoured self satisfaction. The pain in my abdomen dictates otherwise.
"So you'll call in a few hours?" I ask.
You conniving bastard God. You absolute conniving bastard.
"No, we won't be able to contact her until Monday morning."
I wanted to scream. I watched my soup as it was taken away on a cold steel tray. The stolen generation of soup. The smell would linger in the air for hours. God's cruel reminder of what I could have had.
I rolled over to my other side. The half finished cup of jelly that had been resting in my lap spilled onto my canular.
That was it. Enough was enough. God wanted me dead and buried. I had only one course of action to take.
I looked out the window.
"Bring it."
I rolled back over. I was full of rage. There was some hardcore religious retribution to be had.
Then, a voice. Eerily familiar. I heard the distinct words, "Don't mind covering you for tonight."
It was the unmistakeable peachyness of psycho nurse.
The bitch was back.
Sunday 8th
It's 3am. Someone is waking me. It is dark. I am afraid. It's psycho nurse. She touches my shoulder. I think I want to die.
"I thought I'd come check on you."
Oh sweet deal. I too wake others up at ridiculous times of the night to check on their state of mind. Maybe next time bring a fluffy air horn. Entertain the whole ward. I tell her I'm fine and just want to sleep. She just looks at me. There's a screw loose in her brain, that's for sure. I close my eyes for sleep again.
"We've restricted your visitors so you can rest easier," she says.
You can't be serious. How can the hospital restrict who I can and can't see? I am still calm. I ask who it is restricted too.
"Hospital staff only."
No way. No fluffy way. Psycho nurse smiles again and leaves. You sly son of a bitch God. In cutting off my supply line to the outside world the situation becomes painfully clear. My room has become Stalingrad. Shit is definitely going to hit the fan. There is going to be a domestic. It takes the anger a long time to fade. I fall asleep.
I wake in the early afternoon. A nurse is standing over me. She holds in her pudgy hands 3 jelly cups. She is not happy. She has more chins than fingers, so I need not respect her.
"I found these in the cupboard."
I tell her I put them there. With my hands. All by myself.
"Why didn't you eat them?"
I tell her I don't like the jelly. I tell her I would rather eat my infected appendix than the nutritional effluent they call jelly. I tell her I would rather poison a beaver, shit down it's neck, and lash it with the infected bowel tissue they took from my cold unconscious body, than eat the aborted Downs syndrome substance they call jelly.
This was an unwise move.
She leaves and returns with the head of the ward.
"The nurse tells me you're being uncooperative. This is the second complaint we've had."
It doesn't take much imagination to figure out who made the first complaint. The Duchess of fluffy'ed-up-something-fierce herself. But God should know better than to fluffy with me in the afternoon. I can fight back in the afternoon.
"Stop trying to send me to the morgue and maybe I'll play dice with the pirate ship you call a hospital."
This was the second unwise move I made. Boy did I feel big for about .2 seconds.
"We've taken away your visitation rights. Eat what's given to you or there will be consequences."
I try roll over to show them the massive bruises psycho nurse gave me two nights prior, but they are already gone. The jelly cups sit on the lunch tray like wobbly green demons. I take out the permanent marker I found in the bedside drawer. On one cup I write "Return to sender", and on another I write "Auschwitz is the other way, silly". I am hilarious. I can see the medical world falling to its feet laughing. Sadly, the healthcare system went Nazi-Germany on comedy's ass and destroyed laughter in the Clown Holocaust of 1945.
Good times.
It is night, I must've fallen asleep. The jelly cups are gone. So is my permanent marker. In fact, most of my stuff is gone. All that's left is my mobile phone. I pick it up. I am happy. I have survived. I have only two more nights before freedom. Two more nights before I can drive the hell outta here.
Or maybe not.
I have a single message. It's from my sister.
"Hey I cant visit you bcos its restricted. I forgot to tell you this before, but when i was following the ambulance I pranged your car on a concrete pole in the carpark. It's in the smash repairers. I will pay too fix it. Sorry. Please don’t be mad."
A nurse walks in. It's heparin needle time. She holds a jelly cup in one hand.
I am in medical Stalingrad, and a cold Winter lies ahead.
God is pissed off. Royally pissed off.
And he's coming across the Volga.
Part 2:
I wake up. It is morning. My priorities are in order.
Contact doctor.
Get soup.
Survive.
Psycho nurse walks in with the ward head and the lunch lady. They are the three medical musketeers. Angry, angry musketeers.
"We phoned the doctor."
Fantastic. Progress towards a goal that won't put me six feet under. That's a first. I ask about the soup.
"We told her about your behaviour."
I ponder this for a moment. I try hard to think of an answer that would most benefit my situation, and maybe even improve my relations with the nurses.
Instead, I ask about the soup. There is me, and there is soup. Nothing else matters. I want this made clear.
"Yes, you're allowed to have soup."
I smile. I am happy. I have waited so long for this day. A food with smell. A food with warmth. A food with personality. I consider making sweet love to the soup. I drop this consideration immediately.
"But you'll have to compliment your diet with jel-"
Her words mean nothing. The soup rests on my lap. It steams away. I close my eyes. To taste it is thrilling. Absolutely mind-blowing. I moan the sensation softly. I hum and shuffle and exhale. It is orgasmic.
I open my eyes. The musketeers are still watching me. Not awkward. Not awkward at all. I figure I may as well be polite. I hold the spoon up to psycho nurse.
"Want some?"
I smile. She is unimpressed. I know she's jealous. Harpies love soup.
"I'll be your care-taker for tonight."
The head nurse chimes in to finish psycho nurses' sentence. Nurses arn't capable of individual thought. They rely on a chattering hub of ineptitude and disinformation to make decisions. Natural Selection turns a blind eye. God has them on his dirty pay roll.
"Until then, behave and don't leave your ward. Your visitors are still restricted. We've stored your stuff in another room until you are ready to leave."
Wait, where's my phone.
"We've placed it with your other things."
Oh no you don't you dirty scoundrel. My phone is my personal property. Get fluffy'ed.
"You can collect it tomorrow."
I protest. I threaten to call King Louis. I threaten to call D'Artagnan. But I get nowhere. The musketeers walk out together. As one, they are vulnerable. As three, they fear nothing. I finish my soup. I will need the strength. Medical Stalingrad is in dire straits. Every line of communication has been cut. Higher nurse echelons have me sorrounded. Sporadic food drops will not sustain me.
One more night. One more.
I wake up. It is night time. Just before eight o'clock. It is silent. I can hear the nurses scurrying about. Perhaps they are searching for cheese. One of them asks another nurse if she's done the heparin rounds.
"Doing them now."
It is the chirpy, sinister voice of psycho nurse.
"67 should enjoy it."
They both laugh. I think nothing of it. I am oblivious. You devilish bastard God. My complacency is to your advantage. I leave my defense ill-prepared. Precious time is lost.
I glance the sign above the door.
67.
Oh no. No fluffy way. Not this fluffy shit again. I remember the last heparin needle this psycho bitch gave me. I remember her getting up close and personal - blood-tipped needle in hand. I shift into overdrive. I weigh up my options. I am scared. I am afraid. Shit's about to hit the fan, and I'm still in my fluffy pyjamas.
Then, sitting up, I eye something poking out from behind the adjacent room curtain.
Jackpot.
But I didn't think I'd go that far.
Then again, God goes as far as he fluffy wants.
My room is dark. The light is off. I see light emanating from the hall way. It is foreign territory beyond the darkness, but there is no time for caution. My needle is already one minute overdue. Slowly, I edge toward the door. I glance around the corners. My eyes sting. A nurse walks with her back towards me to the West. To the East, a family heads to a set of elevators. The elevators will be closely guarded. To the North lies an empty hallway. My decision is made for me.
I gun it.
I have never commandeered a wheelchair before, but by fluffy did I haul ass. If there was a Nascar for cripples Id've taken pole position. I get past one room. Then another. And another. I am getting tired. Half my energy goes to keeping the stupid thing straight. The other half goes to keeping the thing moving. I realise it is fluffy hard to use a wheelchair for the first time. My arms are aching already. I'm running on soup from 8 hours ago. I come to the next room.
Patient Lounge.
Holy shit I've hit Switzerland - neutral territory. I wheel myself in there. I bang myself on the door on the way in. Two men; one in a wheelchair himself; look at me as I roll into the corner. I've bought myself some time.
But not enough.
I hear psycho nurse's voice. She is not happy. She has only killed 2 patients today.
"67 isn't in his bed."
Another nurse has the answer.
"Check the patient lounge."
fluffy. I am royally screwed. The only exit is the entry, and there is no time to escape. I shift into over-over drive. I don't fully understand the implications of my brain's over-over drive. It is a risk I must take.
I roll to the table in the middle of the room and grab a magazine. It is a Woman's Day. Excellent. There is hope. My arms are burning. I make a final push toward the door, just as psycho nurse - needle in hand - comes around the corner. She stands in the doorway. Her shadow fills the room.
Enter shit. Enter fan. Commence'th the shitten'ing.
I throw the Woman's Day at her feet.
"YOU SHALL NOT PASS."
I stare into psycho nurses' black eyes. Katie Holmes glares at psycho nurse from the floor. I am touched by her gesture. Holmes is a hero. Her sacrifice will not go unheralded. The man in the wheelchair is frightened at the unfolding events. I want to take his hand. I want to tell him he is safe. But I cannot leave my post. The patient lounge is at stake. Someone must defend these people, and that someone is me.
A second of time passes.
Psycho nurse is pissed off. Beyond pissed off. Her face turns red. The head nurse appears behind her. I grip the handles of the wheelchair. I am getting scared. Beads of sweat pool on my brow. Miss Holmes looks to me for help. I see fear and uncertainty in her eyes.
Too much shit. Too small a fan.
I wake up. It is around midnight. My thigh hurts from the heparin needle psycho bitch gave me. I am now being closely monitored by the nurses who check me every half hour. They have been instructed not to let me leave my room. The head nurse stood next to the bed as I ate my jelly dinner. She made certain I ate it, and then removed the tray.
My spirit is close to breaking.
I look out the window.
"Tomorrow, God."
Light from a passing street car strafes the room. Shadows move across my face.
"Tomorrow, the fight comes to you."
Tuesday 10th - VH Day.
I wake up. It is early morning. Tuesday 10th. It has been one week since my incarceration. One week since the outbreak of war between God and I. Each day has been longer than the day preceeding. The great skyfairy has been cunning. He has played his hand in direct assaults and convenient accidents; nutritional and psychological warfare; and foiled my attempt to break out via Switzerland.
Worst of all, he killed Katie Holmes.
fluffy bastard.
I am nervous. There is no doubt that today God will present his most challenging situation yet; but I am hungry, I am tired, and I am afraid. The nurses' continual checking has disturbed my sleep. My soup privileges have been revoked. My possessions have been repossessed. My only celebrity friend has been slaughtered by a psychotic wilderbeast. Her compatriots have become equally obsessed with my destruction. I have only one solution. It is sly. It is cunning. It is hot.
I'll take a shower.
A shower is the ultimate problem solver. Rheem, unknown too many, was a genius among men. It is the facilitator of all solutions in life. I will take one, I will think, and I will prevail.
With great effort, I walk hunched over to the enclosed bathroom. I open the door and shut it behind me. I take a seat, grab the shower hose, and commence showering.
It feels degrading to have to shower sitting down, but boy is it comfy. Too bad the water is heat, pressure and time limited. They could've just given me a bucket. Then again, the hospital knows better than to give me a bucket.
I could do awful, awful things with a bucket.
The shower shuts off and I get up. I am refreshed. I am happy. So far, the morning has run smoothly and without incident. Sadly, I have not yet learnt the lessons of my complacency. God plays his hand. He pulls blackjack.
fluffy.
Stepping out of the shower I slip on the plastic lid of a jelly cup - the contents of which I fed to the toilet some days ago. I fall back, grab at the curtains, and land on my back. My shoulders take the brunt. My head taps the tiles lightly. The bulldozers in my kidneys go on a joyride. A morphine burrito would go down so well right about now. I lie on my back. I will wait for the pain to subside. I will carry on with my normal duties. The nurses will be none the wiser. I cannot; will not; give them a reason to prolong my stay. My sanity, and my life, depends on it.
A few seconds pass. I notice an orange glow from the shower corner of the ceiling. It has never shined before.
Once again I am oblivious. Once again I lose precious seconds. Once again the septic system is poised to assault my fan.
It all comes together. The light is connected to a long string reaching all the way to the ground. Above the light is a plaque.
“Pull for assistance.”
There are only two nurses now assigned to my room - psycho bitch and the captain.
And one of them is coming. Now.
I assess the situation. I am lying immobile on the floor. I am cold. I am wet. I am naked. There is a jelly cup lid on my heel.
God has played his hand, so I play mine: I pull a 3 of diamonds and an expired discount voucher for Civic Video.
I am so fluffy.
Then it happens. An angry bang on the door. It is psycho nurse. The hospital bouncer. She is not pleased. She has not yet consumed her morning meal of baby.
"What do you want?" she snaps.
Wow. Such hospitality. Where'd they find this gem of a worker. The abattoir? I think fast. I tell her I'm just getting dried. I reach for the towel and rub it through my hair to mimic the sound. This was a mistake.
My head hits the tiles and I grunt in pain. Psycho bitch realises something’s up. For all she knows, I could be training a Golden Retriever to don a balaclava and attack the medical staff. I wouldn't put it past her.
"Do you want me to come in?"
Do you want a mastectomy?
"I'm going to come in."
The fluffy you are. There's only one option. I outstretch my foot and jam it up against the door. Psycho nurse pushes hard. I will hold. I must hold. If they find I am injured, they will hold me longer for observation. If they find I have hit my head, they will hold me overnight.
This can not happen.
"What's going on. I can't open the door."
Over-drive time. I tell her my drip stand is up against the door.
"YOU'RE DRIP STAND ISN'T BLOCKING THE DOOR. IN FACT, I CAN SEE IT FROM HERE. IT'S NEXT TO THE BED."
Damn. The psycho nurse is smarter than I thought. Her vision isn't based on movement at all. Last time I trust Jurassic Park to help me escape from a hospital bathroom naked.
"Open the door."
I tell her I can't. I continue making noise with my towel. I plead she will go away.
"Why not."
I have three words for her. Drip. Door. Jammed.
"WE JUST WENT THROUGH THIS."
I slip into over-over drive for the second time in two days. The result is instantly regrettable. I will never understand the thought processes involved. I have doubts as to whether any thinking took place at all.
I sing to the tune of Banana Boat. Loudly. Many seconds elapse. I am cold. I am shivering. I am paining. I am lying naked on the bathroom tiles of a concentration camp hospital with a towel around my head.
And I am singing.
"I'M GETTING THE HEAD NURSE."
Finally, she leaves. Here is my opportunity. The pain has subsided just enough for action. I struggle back onto my feet. I throw a singlet on and a pair of pants. I fling open the door and throw the towel behind me. I cripple-jog to my bed. I lift myself onto it. I pull the covers up to my chest. My heart is beating. My pulse is racing. My escape hinges on this action.
Seconds later, psycho nurse arrives with the head of the ward. They check the bathroom first. They find water, soaked pyjamas, and a twisted towel. They do not find the drip or patient 67.
The head nurse exits the bathroom and spots me. She marches towards the bed. She is in a controlled rage. Her pupils are dilated. Her cheeks are flush. Her very being quakes with fury.
I am not a smart man. I am still in over-over drive. A smart man does not stay in over-over drive. I am half-smiling. My voice is feeble.
“I don’t suppose you like Jurassic Park?”
Nice.
It is late morning. My belongings have been returned. The doctor has visited me. I inform her that my stay has been uneventful. She laughs. I exit my room on my feet. I head East to the elevators. On my way, I pass by Switzlerland. The man in the wheelchair stretches his arm out, begging me to take him. But I cannot. I leave him to his fate. It pains my heart. It truly does. He was here when I arrived. He is still here as I am leaving. I promise to myself that one day I will liberate the captives here. I will be the hero facing the darkness and heralding the dawn. Until then, I must survive. God is still pissed. And I know it. Boy do I know it.
I exit the elevator. Ground floor. Sunlight streams in through the double glass doors. I am smiling. I am warm. I am happy.
I sign out at reception. I am free. Free from heparin needles, psycho nurse, jelly, the pirate ship captain, and seated showers. A cloud passes over and softens the sunlight.
I am not free yet. God is not accustomed to failure. His vengeance will be swift. Today is VH day. Victory-in-Hospital day. But the war is not over. It is in its closing stages, but there are still more hands to play.
Then, a friendly voice. The voice of someone not trying to kill me. It is harmonious.
“Over here!”
It is my friend. He has come to pick me up. I walk over to him. He dangles car keys from his hand. I ask him if I can drive.
“Oh man, hahah, far out man, shit no, no fluffy way.”
He turns around and walks out the door, still laughing. It was worth a try.
I approach the doors and take my first step outside. Storm clouds loom on the horizon.
The words form in my mind. I know he can here them.
“If you want me.”
A boom of thunder resonates in the distance.
“Come fluffy’ing take me.”
Wednesday 11th - VH Day +1
I wake up. I am in my bed. My bed. It is the morning after VH day. I have escaped medical Stalingrad as the Wermacht surrendered next door in a blaze of morphine-induced fury. Tens of thousands have laid down their arms and crossed over to the other side; abandoning me to my fate.
fluffy the Wermacht. I will fight on alone.
I look out the window. I am not smiling. God's offensive - brilliantly planned, yet poorly executed - has been repulsed by a unit of his own creation. The unit has successfully withdrawn from behind enemy lines; across rivers of heparin-fuelled flames and miles of antibiotic jungle; to safe territory. It is time to think. Time to consolidate. Time for action.
It is time for the counter-offensive.
It is time to realise the paradox of an antibiotic jungle.
I assess the situation. It is grim. Bleak. Jelly remains in world-wide circulation. New hospitals are under construction all over the globe. In Switzerland, clowns lie dying in the streets. Cripples everywhere rally to avenge the slaughter of Miss Holmes. A confused and PMS-suffering Woman's Day launches an offensive into New Idea. Five celebrities become fat in the subsequent gossip dead-zone. Two more are wed. The world is outraged. Tensions reach boiling point. A shit the size of which the world has never seen is about to hit a fan no larger than a toaster. Worst of all, I somehow caught the flu.
This is what happens.
This is what happens when you piss off God.
Compounding the dire situation is one simple, harrowing fact: God is immortal, I am not. In the absence of a work-around for this I am royally fluffy'ed. I could be a martyr. I could sacrifice myself to appease God and set things right. But suicide is a sin. I would go to Hell. I have been to Hell. It is not peachy. Not peachy in the slightest. I would prefer to prolong my stay on Earth. I will survive.
I rise to shower. I will pray to Rheem. I will need his strength. While undergoing this steamy meditation, God's progression becomes clear.
God created the Earth, and man, in 7 days. I had spent 7 days fighting against man and his creations. And man, unto God's order, is governed by the 10 commandments.
Creation and the ten commandments. God is a big fan of symbolism. This will be no exception. His offensive hasn't stalled at all. It has quietened. Time to think. Time to consolidate. Time for action. On the tenth day, Saturday 14th, it's go-go time for God's retribution against me. No fan is big enough for the shit about to come. With a thousand years, and a trillion men, no fan could be made big enough. There is only one solution.
I must dismantle the shit itself.
From the inside.
This leaves me with 3 days. If God is going to rest today, than so will I. I am exhausted. I am receiving soup, but I am still weak. My mid section still pains. I am restricted to light activity only. fluffy that, I have a war to win. Does inter-ethereal war count as light activity? For America perhaps, but for me, no chance.
It is lunch time. I have had soup. I am happy. I am content. I decide to go for a walk. Walking is important after staying in hospital because the lungs become congested from disuse. While I might not be on speaking terms with my bastard child kidneys, I happen to enjoy a mutual friendship with my lungs. Therefore, I will protect them. I will walk.
I walk in the nature reserve often and without incident. Today however, I would encounter God's auxiliary units, from which I would learn one thing.
God still wants local man dead.
I am ten, maybe fifteen minutes into the walk. I'm walking through the big nature reserve near my house. It's pleasant, but the reserve has somewhat of a bad reputation. Today though, I am just happy to enjoy the quiet of nature and the sunshine. The track narrows to a small rock-crossing over the remnants of an eroded creek. One person crosses at a time.
I walk down to the creek. A kid, maybe 17, maybe 18, sits on a BMX in the centre of the crossing. He has acne everywhere and a shit haircut. I was once told bogan's love rust, but inner-city bogans are of a different variety. They like chrome. Anything chrome is the bomb. The shinier, the better. They are Chrome Bogans.
This BMX was shiny. I figured it was stolen. Chrome Bogan's can't afford bikes. That bogans have adapted to ride them is a marvel of evolution unto itself.
"What the fluffy do you want."
Yeah, this is going to be pleasant. I tell him to step aside. I add ", kid" to the end of it.
Chrome Bogans don't like to be belittled. They are the Adam and Eve of psycho nurse - all traits inherited.
"fluffy you dickhead."
Chrome Bogan looks at my tee-shirt. He's looking for an add-on to his own insult. He's doing a shit job. My shirt reads "O-week," as in university O-week.
"O-week. What fluffy gay shit is that."
I would kill him if I could. Shame I can't. My next move defies logic, and is not one I would take again. I have reason to believe my kidneys had already boarded flights to Fiji at the time of the incident. My brain most likely had detached from my spinal cord; dug a fox-hole, and bunkered down. Wherever the fluffy the three of them were, they weren't with me at the time. I speak flatly.
"fluffy'ed if I know. But the O reminds me of the face c*unts like you make when you're sucki-"
I never did get to finish that sentence. Shame. Twas' snappy.
I get king-hit in the back of the head, off-centre by someone I didn't realise was behind me. I go straight to the ground like a dead weight. Chrome Bogan dismounts and kicks me in the upper back. fluffy hurts. Agony. White flecks are filling my vision. I don't want to pass out. I feel rustling in my jeans pocket.
A few minutes later my vision is fixed and I get up. My head fluffy pains. My back is OK though. I'm just glad they didn't kick me in the stomach. One-way trip back to Stalingrad that would've been.
My wallet is lying about ten metres away. My cards are strewn in the trees and shrubs around it. The fifty bucks worth of notes that were in there is gone. Luckily, my car keys and my phone were in my other pocket, which was pushed against the ground and covered when I fell. I call my mate.
He gets there in five minutes and helps me back to the car. I ask him if I can drive. Guess.
He takes me to the police station and I give a statement. I decline the offer of medical help. fluffy God, be a little more cunning would you.
It is night. I am in bed. My bed. It is the night after VH day, and I continue to survive.
"I’m coming for you God."
I look out the window. Dark clouds diffuse the moonlight. A lone star shines in solitary defiance.
"Bigtime."
---
Note: the "king hit" had little force to it, and the kick I barely felt, which is why I'm so light hearted about it. In fact, I told the entire story to the police and they laughed along with me. All in good jest.
NOTE: The original was posted at a forum that censors 'fuck' with 'fluffy'.
God wants me dead. I pissed him off. Pissed him off good. I don't know what sent him over the edge. Maybe it was my off-colour, sac religious sense of humour. Maybe it was the bilby I drowned in a duffel bag. Whatever it was, one thing is clear - the great sky fairy wants hardcore vengeance, and he wants it now. Let's educate you on what’s happened so far. If you don't want to read, I'll summarise it for you in the next two words.
Get lost.
Wednesday 4th.
I wake up at 4:30am feeling like my kidneys hijacked bulldozers and went apeshit on my abdomen. I assume I am either really fluffy hungry, or constipated to the max. I stumble to the kitchen, grab a peach, take a dump, and go back to bed. I feel slightly better.
I wake up again at 6:30. Something's definitely up. My kidneys; unsatisfied with the carnage caused by bulldozers; have commandeered tanks and started burning down the Reichstag that is my middle half. I am in serious pain. In my infinite wisdom, I decide to ignore it, still thinking I might just be hungry or constipated.
It's now 10:30. Screw university, I'm not going; not while my organs are having a civil war. I drive up to the medical centre and take a seat. "There'll be a two hour wait - the doctors running late," she says. I'm in severe pain by now.
It's 11:30. Sitting up is getting unbearable. I ask to lie down on a bed somewhere, and the receptionist lady obliges. Angry geriatrics envy my special treatment. I feel powerful.
It's 12:00 or sometime, when bang. Holy mother fluffy of shit. Raw, intense pain. Someone just Nagasaki'ed my bowel. A doctor comes in and watches me writhe in pain. He asks, "Are you ok?" I reply, "My stomach is on fire." He pushes on my abdomen, then my lower right abdomen. I nearly go catatonic and grip his hand. Wup-wow.
Maybe ten minutes later I'm in an ambulance with a morphine needle in my bum. Morphine is great. I remembered the old people's faces of disgust at my special treatment. It makes me smile. All is good in the world.
I rock up to hospital. A doctor comes and assesses me. He is not happy. He has a monobrow though, so I need not respect him. I get more drugs. I go to sleep.
I wake up and its night. Monobrow tells me they've called in the surgeon from dinner with her husband to do emergency surgery on my appendix which has ruptured and caused perotonitis. 10% mortality rate in healthy patients. Good, I like a challenge.
I am prepped for surgery. Nurses wheel me into the operating theatre late that night. Just before my bed enters the operating room, an attending stops me. She says they haven’t done the pre-check on my details. She checks my wrist band. It says Mrs Finch, Jessica. "Mrs Finch, Jessica" has no allergies. Lucky her. I on the other hand, am deathly allergic to penicillin. Penicillin had been put on my treatment schedule. They take another ten minutes to correct things. My confidence is not great. My last words to the attending doctors is, "I'm glad someone knows what they're doing." I recognise a monobrow above one of the attending's masks. I smile. I don't even feel the anaesthetic. I go to sleep.
Thursday 5th.
I wake up early in the morning. It is around 5am. I feel sleepy as shit. Someone is standing above me. It takes me a few seconds to make sense of the face. It's an ex-girlfriend's mum wearing a nurses uniform. Then it hits me.
She's going to smother me with a pillow...fluffy
my eyes close again and I fall back asleep. I had survived. Boy was I on a roll.
It's 9am. The operating doctor comes to see me. She says she removed widespread infection covering my entire mid section with a particularly bad infection in parts of my abdomen and kidney. Apparently, my left kidney was displaced so as to be directly adjacent to the perforation where the infection originated. Smooth move God you cunning bastard. Luckily for me, my other kidney was having a picnic up north during the whole ordeal. You're fault for giving me two you sneaky son of a bitch.
12 hours from death she estimates. Groovy, I feel pretty good. "That's because you have morphine in your drip." Fantastic. Bring me some pie and I will be content.
The doctor leaves. I fall asleep.
It is mid afternoon. A nurse is changing my canular. A canular is the big tube in your arm that the drip connects to. I watch her take it off and replace it with a new canular. She then leaves. I turn away and fall asleep.
Woops. She didn't put the valve on. Bad, bad girl.
You see, veins have valves. This stops blood from flowing backwards in your body. Essentially, the liquid in my drip stopped going in and blood started coming out.
A good half hour later a nurse walks in. She wakes me and runs out the room. I have a quick look around and glance my bed. It is soaked in blood. It's soaked through my clothes, through my sheets, through the mattress. Everything. My left arm is stained entirely on one side. I lift my arm and leave an arm print of white. The nurses come back. Goodbye consciousness. To sleep again I go.
---
That's as much as I'll type for now. Things to come include psycho nurses trying to kill me, falling down in the shower, a near car crash, a run in with a different ex girlfriend's mum's psycho new boyfriend, a run in with a bicyclist on meth and a bus crash.
I shit you not, all of this will be explained. God wants me dead. Read at your own risk. You have been warned.
Friday 6th
I wake up. I am not bleeding or dying. This makes me happy. I look out the window. I shrink back into my pillow. God's just getting warmed up.
The nurses bring me jelly and only jelly. It is all I can eat. Jelly begins to become the nutritional equivalent of abortion. It is the disastrous mess of what was once sweet sweet glucose. I am taken off the morphine. This saddens me. I am given a different painkiller.
I have it in my hands and think to ask the nurse what it has in it.
"Penicillin."
Great. Why not arsenic? Maybe a dash of cyanide? Hey let's just fire an RPG point-blank into my cerebellum and call it a fluffy day. I once again remind them I will die if I have penicillin.
"But it says you're not allergic."
Really? Shit me. And to think I've been misinformed all these years. I'm glad the people who had me undergoing surgery as a married woman of 40 odd years are on the ball with their clip boards. In that case just put the tablet in my drip. Maybe I'll have a stroke, and maybe you'll have a stroke of common fluffy sense. Everybody wins.
It's night time. I have visitors. Visitors makes me happy. A queer and weird nurse enters the room and tells me I need a heparin needle. It's a blood thinner which prevents deep vein thrombosis. Sounds good to me. She interjects in the conversation with a god-awful joke. I comment, "Sorry, that one went over my head." She is not impressed and gives us all a funny look. As she's leaving, I make a comment about her strangeness. Out of the blue she says, "I heard that," and just stares at me.
Then she left without incident.
No, as if that could happen. God's fluffy aggro remember? She turns off the light and closes the door and says "fine". The whole room plunges into darkness. I'm serious. She left me in a hospital bed with my visitors in pitch black darkness like you'd expect an eleven year old would.
"Weren't you meant to get a needle?" says my friend.
Oh yeah. Lookin' forward to that puppy now.
My friend's stumble around and find the light switch, muttering about this nurse. My friend's girlfriend trips on my drip on the way out.
"Sorry"
No problem. Not like it's connected to the vein in my arm or anything.
About ten minutes later the weird nurse comes back.
"Your friends are so nice. So very nice," she says. She speaks in this sweet sarcastic voice. I am actually pretty scared at this point. She's so obviously not right in the head I can't begin to understand how she holds employment at a hospital.
I roll over so she can put the needle in my thigh. These heparin needles are small needles. "Painless needles". They are actually, when done right. Haha, God, you played this next card well.
She fluffy jabbed me with this thing and I jolted. She then pulled the needle out without injecting me and got up close in my face. "Don't move next time, if you do, and it the needle breaks off in there, you'll need to go into surgery again to get it out. Would you want that?"
I kid you not. She said that. I probably should have made an official complaint. But what the shit was I going to do. I nodded as she fluffy jabbed me again. I couldn't sleep on that side all night and it stung like a bitch for hours. I don't know whether she injected heparin into my blood or my fluffy bone marrow, but it sure felt like the latter.
I didn't see her again. Thank god. I asked the doctor that night how many more days I'd need to stay in hospital.
"4 more days," she said sternly.
I looked out the window. God had me on the back foot - trapped in this hospital. But if I could hold out, if I could hang on till Tuesday, I'd be free from his grasp.
I couldn't have been more wrong. Darker days were on the horizon.
Saturday 7th
It is lunch time. I am excited. I am getting soup. It may as well be RPA-Christmas. The boy scouts bring me an Easter egg. It's a nice gesture. I decide I'll save the egg until after the soup. It will be the ultimate Easter feast for one. I intend to enjoy every last moment of it.
Bad move.
My ex girlfriend's mum who works at the hospital comes in.
"No no, you can't have any chocolate whatsoever."
She walks out the door cradling my egg. It breaks my heart to see it go. It really does. I can feel the depression in the back of my brain.
But then, in comes the lunch lady. I sit up as best I can. She has a tray. On the tray is more abortion-jelly. fluffy that though, because underneath a heat bowl is some chicken broth. I can see it steaming slightly from around the edges. It is liquid ecstasy. I want it. I want it now.
I smile at the lunch lady setting up my tray as the nurse enters. It is here, at the eleventh lunch hour, that I fluffy up something terrible.
I joke, "Hopefully I won't die from the soup aye?" I smiled at this. I am happy. I am jovial. Life is good. I am, of course, referring light heartedly to the penicillin incident. Note to self: never assume nurses will understand anything, including their nurse training.
"Wait, has your doctor cleared you to eat heavier food?"
I am still calm. The soup is still on the tray. It is steaming away, just waiting for me.
"She said I could."
The nurse walks over and picks up my file attached to its clip board.
"She hasn't written anything down."
Everything changes. I am not smiling anymore. My soup is in jeopardy here. I would do anything to have it. I can't have any more jelly. I just can't.
"I'm sure it'll be fine. Please?"
The nurse tries to ring the doctor. I beg her to pick up, but she doesn't.
"We'll have to keep you on your current diet until we can get in contact with her."
I eye the soup still on the tray. The lunch lady wants to get a move on and finish her rounds. I consider making a dive for the soup and ingesting what I can in an orgiastic display of chicken-flavoured self satisfaction. The pain in my abdomen dictates otherwise.
"So you'll call in a few hours?" I ask.
You conniving bastard God. You absolute conniving bastard.
"No, we won't be able to contact her until Monday morning."
I wanted to scream. I watched my soup as it was taken away on a cold steel tray. The stolen generation of soup. The smell would linger in the air for hours. God's cruel reminder of what I could have had.
I rolled over to my other side. The half finished cup of jelly that had been resting in my lap spilled onto my canular.
That was it. Enough was enough. God wanted me dead and buried. I had only one course of action to take.
I looked out the window.
"Bring it."
I rolled back over. I was full of rage. There was some hardcore religious retribution to be had.
Then, a voice. Eerily familiar. I heard the distinct words, "Don't mind covering you for tonight."
It was the unmistakeable peachyness of psycho nurse.
The bitch was back.
Sunday 8th
It's 3am. Someone is waking me. It is dark. I am afraid. It's psycho nurse. She touches my shoulder. I think I want to die.
"I thought I'd come check on you."
Oh sweet deal. I too wake others up at ridiculous times of the night to check on their state of mind. Maybe next time bring a fluffy air horn. Entertain the whole ward. I tell her I'm fine and just want to sleep. She just looks at me. There's a screw loose in her brain, that's for sure. I close my eyes for sleep again.
"We've restricted your visitors so you can rest easier," she says.
You can't be serious. How can the hospital restrict who I can and can't see? I am still calm. I ask who it is restricted too.
"Hospital staff only."
No way. No fluffy way. Psycho nurse smiles again and leaves. You sly son of a bitch God. In cutting off my supply line to the outside world the situation becomes painfully clear. My room has become Stalingrad. Shit is definitely going to hit the fan. There is going to be a domestic. It takes the anger a long time to fade. I fall asleep.
I wake in the early afternoon. A nurse is standing over me. She holds in her pudgy hands 3 jelly cups. She is not happy. She has more chins than fingers, so I need not respect her.
"I found these in the cupboard."
I tell her I put them there. With my hands. All by myself.
"Why didn't you eat them?"
I tell her I don't like the jelly. I tell her I would rather eat my infected appendix than the nutritional effluent they call jelly. I tell her I would rather poison a beaver, shit down it's neck, and lash it with the infected bowel tissue they took from my cold unconscious body, than eat the aborted Downs syndrome substance they call jelly.
This was an unwise move.
She leaves and returns with the head of the ward.
"The nurse tells me you're being uncooperative. This is the second complaint we've had."
It doesn't take much imagination to figure out who made the first complaint. The Duchess of fluffy'ed-up-something-fierce herself. But God should know better than to fluffy with me in the afternoon. I can fight back in the afternoon.
"Stop trying to send me to the morgue and maybe I'll play dice with the pirate ship you call a hospital."
This was the second unwise move I made. Boy did I feel big for about .2 seconds.
"We've taken away your visitation rights. Eat what's given to you or there will be consequences."
I try roll over to show them the massive bruises psycho nurse gave me two nights prior, but they are already gone. The jelly cups sit on the lunch tray like wobbly green demons. I take out the permanent marker I found in the bedside drawer. On one cup I write "Return to sender", and on another I write "Auschwitz is the other way, silly". I am hilarious. I can see the medical world falling to its feet laughing. Sadly, the healthcare system went Nazi-Germany on comedy's ass and destroyed laughter in the Clown Holocaust of 1945.
Good times.
It is night, I must've fallen asleep. The jelly cups are gone. So is my permanent marker. In fact, most of my stuff is gone. All that's left is my mobile phone. I pick it up. I am happy. I have survived. I have only two more nights before freedom. Two more nights before I can drive the hell outta here.
Or maybe not.
I have a single message. It's from my sister.
"Hey I cant visit you bcos its restricted. I forgot to tell you this before, but when i was following the ambulance I pranged your car on a concrete pole in the carpark. It's in the smash repairers. I will pay too fix it. Sorry. Please don’t be mad."
A nurse walks in. It's heparin needle time. She holds a jelly cup in one hand.
I am in medical Stalingrad, and a cold Winter lies ahead.
God is pissed off. Royally pissed off.
And he's coming across the Volga.
Part 2:
I wake up. It is morning. My priorities are in order.
Contact doctor.
Get soup.
Survive.
Psycho nurse walks in with the ward head and the lunch lady. They are the three medical musketeers. Angry, angry musketeers.
"We phoned the doctor."
Fantastic. Progress towards a goal that won't put me six feet under. That's a first. I ask about the soup.
"We told her about your behaviour."
I ponder this for a moment. I try hard to think of an answer that would most benefit my situation, and maybe even improve my relations with the nurses.
Instead, I ask about the soup. There is me, and there is soup. Nothing else matters. I want this made clear.
"Yes, you're allowed to have soup."
I smile. I am happy. I have waited so long for this day. A food with smell. A food with warmth. A food with personality. I consider making sweet love to the soup. I drop this consideration immediately.
"But you'll have to compliment your diet with jel-"
Her words mean nothing. The soup rests on my lap. It steams away. I close my eyes. To taste it is thrilling. Absolutely mind-blowing. I moan the sensation softly. I hum and shuffle and exhale. It is orgasmic.
I open my eyes. The musketeers are still watching me. Not awkward. Not awkward at all. I figure I may as well be polite. I hold the spoon up to psycho nurse.
"Want some?"
I smile. She is unimpressed. I know she's jealous. Harpies love soup.
"I'll be your care-taker for tonight."
The head nurse chimes in to finish psycho nurses' sentence. Nurses arn't capable of individual thought. They rely on a chattering hub of ineptitude and disinformation to make decisions. Natural Selection turns a blind eye. God has them on his dirty pay roll.
"Until then, behave and don't leave your ward. Your visitors are still restricted. We've stored your stuff in another room until you are ready to leave."
Wait, where's my phone.
"We've placed it with your other things."
Oh no you don't you dirty scoundrel. My phone is my personal property. Get fluffy'ed.
"You can collect it tomorrow."
I protest. I threaten to call King Louis. I threaten to call D'Artagnan. But I get nowhere. The musketeers walk out together. As one, they are vulnerable. As three, they fear nothing. I finish my soup. I will need the strength. Medical Stalingrad is in dire straits. Every line of communication has been cut. Higher nurse echelons have me sorrounded. Sporadic food drops will not sustain me.
One more night. One more.
I wake up. It is night time. Just before eight o'clock. It is silent. I can hear the nurses scurrying about. Perhaps they are searching for cheese. One of them asks another nurse if she's done the heparin rounds.
"Doing them now."
It is the chirpy, sinister voice of psycho nurse.
"67 should enjoy it."
They both laugh. I think nothing of it. I am oblivious. You devilish bastard God. My complacency is to your advantage. I leave my defense ill-prepared. Precious time is lost.
I glance the sign above the door.
67.
Oh no. No fluffy way. Not this fluffy shit again. I remember the last heparin needle this psycho bitch gave me. I remember her getting up close and personal - blood-tipped needle in hand. I shift into overdrive. I weigh up my options. I am scared. I am afraid. Shit's about to hit the fan, and I'm still in my fluffy pyjamas.
Then, sitting up, I eye something poking out from behind the adjacent room curtain.
Jackpot.
But I didn't think I'd go that far.
Then again, God goes as far as he fluffy wants.
My room is dark. The light is off. I see light emanating from the hall way. It is foreign territory beyond the darkness, but there is no time for caution. My needle is already one minute overdue. Slowly, I edge toward the door. I glance around the corners. My eyes sting. A nurse walks with her back towards me to the West. To the East, a family heads to a set of elevators. The elevators will be closely guarded. To the North lies an empty hallway. My decision is made for me.
I gun it.
I have never commandeered a wheelchair before, but by fluffy did I haul ass. If there was a Nascar for cripples Id've taken pole position. I get past one room. Then another. And another. I am getting tired. Half my energy goes to keeping the stupid thing straight. The other half goes to keeping the thing moving. I realise it is fluffy hard to use a wheelchair for the first time. My arms are aching already. I'm running on soup from 8 hours ago. I come to the next room.
Patient Lounge.
Holy shit I've hit Switzerland - neutral territory. I wheel myself in there. I bang myself on the door on the way in. Two men; one in a wheelchair himself; look at me as I roll into the corner. I've bought myself some time.
But not enough.
I hear psycho nurse's voice. She is not happy. She has only killed 2 patients today.
"67 isn't in his bed."
Another nurse has the answer.
"Check the patient lounge."
fluffy. I am royally screwed. The only exit is the entry, and there is no time to escape. I shift into over-over drive. I don't fully understand the implications of my brain's over-over drive. It is a risk I must take.
I roll to the table in the middle of the room and grab a magazine. It is a Woman's Day. Excellent. There is hope. My arms are burning. I make a final push toward the door, just as psycho nurse - needle in hand - comes around the corner. She stands in the doorway. Her shadow fills the room.
Enter shit. Enter fan. Commence'th the shitten'ing.
I throw the Woman's Day at her feet.
"YOU SHALL NOT PASS."
I stare into psycho nurses' black eyes. Katie Holmes glares at psycho nurse from the floor. I am touched by her gesture. Holmes is a hero. Her sacrifice will not go unheralded. The man in the wheelchair is frightened at the unfolding events. I want to take his hand. I want to tell him he is safe. But I cannot leave my post. The patient lounge is at stake. Someone must defend these people, and that someone is me.
A second of time passes.
Psycho nurse is pissed off. Beyond pissed off. Her face turns red. The head nurse appears behind her. I grip the handles of the wheelchair. I am getting scared. Beads of sweat pool on my brow. Miss Holmes looks to me for help. I see fear and uncertainty in her eyes.
Too much shit. Too small a fan.
I wake up. It is around midnight. My thigh hurts from the heparin needle psycho bitch gave me. I am now being closely monitored by the nurses who check me every half hour. They have been instructed not to let me leave my room. The head nurse stood next to the bed as I ate my jelly dinner. She made certain I ate it, and then removed the tray.
My spirit is close to breaking.
I look out the window.
"Tomorrow, God."
Light from a passing street car strafes the room. Shadows move across my face.
"Tomorrow, the fight comes to you."
Tuesday 10th - VH Day.
I wake up. It is early morning. Tuesday 10th. It has been one week since my incarceration. One week since the outbreak of war between God and I. Each day has been longer than the day preceeding. The great skyfairy has been cunning. He has played his hand in direct assaults and convenient accidents; nutritional and psychological warfare; and foiled my attempt to break out via Switzerland.
Worst of all, he killed Katie Holmes.
fluffy bastard.
I am nervous. There is no doubt that today God will present his most challenging situation yet; but I am hungry, I am tired, and I am afraid. The nurses' continual checking has disturbed my sleep. My soup privileges have been revoked. My possessions have been repossessed. My only celebrity friend has been slaughtered by a psychotic wilderbeast. Her compatriots have become equally obsessed with my destruction. I have only one solution. It is sly. It is cunning. It is hot.
I'll take a shower.
A shower is the ultimate problem solver. Rheem, unknown too many, was a genius among men. It is the facilitator of all solutions in life. I will take one, I will think, and I will prevail.
With great effort, I walk hunched over to the enclosed bathroom. I open the door and shut it behind me. I take a seat, grab the shower hose, and commence showering.
It feels degrading to have to shower sitting down, but boy is it comfy. Too bad the water is heat, pressure and time limited. They could've just given me a bucket. Then again, the hospital knows better than to give me a bucket.
I could do awful, awful things with a bucket.
The shower shuts off and I get up. I am refreshed. I am happy. So far, the morning has run smoothly and without incident. Sadly, I have not yet learnt the lessons of my complacency. God plays his hand. He pulls blackjack.
fluffy.
Stepping out of the shower I slip on the plastic lid of a jelly cup - the contents of which I fed to the toilet some days ago. I fall back, grab at the curtains, and land on my back. My shoulders take the brunt. My head taps the tiles lightly. The bulldozers in my kidneys go on a joyride. A morphine burrito would go down so well right about now. I lie on my back. I will wait for the pain to subside. I will carry on with my normal duties. The nurses will be none the wiser. I cannot; will not; give them a reason to prolong my stay. My sanity, and my life, depends on it.
A few seconds pass. I notice an orange glow from the shower corner of the ceiling. It has never shined before.
Once again I am oblivious. Once again I lose precious seconds. Once again the septic system is poised to assault my fan.
It all comes together. The light is connected to a long string reaching all the way to the ground. Above the light is a plaque.
“Pull for assistance.”
There are only two nurses now assigned to my room - psycho bitch and the captain.
And one of them is coming. Now.
I assess the situation. I am lying immobile on the floor. I am cold. I am wet. I am naked. There is a jelly cup lid on my heel.
God has played his hand, so I play mine: I pull a 3 of diamonds and an expired discount voucher for Civic Video.
I am so fluffy.
Then it happens. An angry bang on the door. It is psycho nurse. The hospital bouncer. She is not pleased. She has not yet consumed her morning meal of baby.
"What do you want?" she snaps.
Wow. Such hospitality. Where'd they find this gem of a worker. The abattoir? I think fast. I tell her I'm just getting dried. I reach for the towel and rub it through my hair to mimic the sound. This was a mistake.
My head hits the tiles and I grunt in pain. Psycho bitch realises something’s up. For all she knows, I could be training a Golden Retriever to don a balaclava and attack the medical staff. I wouldn't put it past her.
"Do you want me to come in?"
Do you want a mastectomy?
"I'm going to come in."
The fluffy you are. There's only one option. I outstretch my foot and jam it up against the door. Psycho nurse pushes hard. I will hold. I must hold. If they find I am injured, they will hold me longer for observation. If they find I have hit my head, they will hold me overnight.
This can not happen.
"What's going on. I can't open the door."
Over-drive time. I tell her my drip stand is up against the door.
"YOU'RE DRIP STAND ISN'T BLOCKING THE DOOR. IN FACT, I CAN SEE IT FROM HERE. IT'S NEXT TO THE BED."
Damn. The psycho nurse is smarter than I thought. Her vision isn't based on movement at all. Last time I trust Jurassic Park to help me escape from a hospital bathroom naked.
"Open the door."
I tell her I can't. I continue making noise with my towel. I plead she will go away.
"Why not."
I have three words for her. Drip. Door. Jammed.
"WE JUST WENT THROUGH THIS."
I slip into over-over drive for the second time in two days. The result is instantly regrettable. I will never understand the thought processes involved. I have doubts as to whether any thinking took place at all.
I sing to the tune of Banana Boat. Loudly. Many seconds elapse. I am cold. I am shivering. I am paining. I am lying naked on the bathroom tiles of a concentration camp hospital with a towel around my head.
And I am singing.
"I'M GETTING THE HEAD NURSE."
Finally, she leaves. Here is my opportunity. The pain has subsided just enough for action. I struggle back onto my feet. I throw a singlet on and a pair of pants. I fling open the door and throw the towel behind me. I cripple-jog to my bed. I lift myself onto it. I pull the covers up to my chest. My heart is beating. My pulse is racing. My escape hinges on this action.
Seconds later, psycho nurse arrives with the head of the ward. They check the bathroom first. They find water, soaked pyjamas, and a twisted towel. They do not find the drip or patient 67.
The head nurse exits the bathroom and spots me. She marches towards the bed. She is in a controlled rage. Her pupils are dilated. Her cheeks are flush. Her very being quakes with fury.
I am not a smart man. I am still in over-over drive. A smart man does not stay in over-over drive. I am half-smiling. My voice is feeble.
“I don’t suppose you like Jurassic Park?”
Nice.
It is late morning. My belongings have been returned. The doctor has visited me. I inform her that my stay has been uneventful. She laughs. I exit my room on my feet. I head East to the elevators. On my way, I pass by Switzlerland. The man in the wheelchair stretches his arm out, begging me to take him. But I cannot. I leave him to his fate. It pains my heart. It truly does. He was here when I arrived. He is still here as I am leaving. I promise to myself that one day I will liberate the captives here. I will be the hero facing the darkness and heralding the dawn. Until then, I must survive. God is still pissed. And I know it. Boy do I know it.
I exit the elevator. Ground floor. Sunlight streams in through the double glass doors. I am smiling. I am warm. I am happy.
I sign out at reception. I am free. Free from heparin needles, psycho nurse, jelly, the pirate ship captain, and seated showers. A cloud passes over and softens the sunlight.
I am not free yet. God is not accustomed to failure. His vengeance will be swift. Today is VH day. Victory-in-Hospital day. But the war is not over. It is in its closing stages, but there are still more hands to play.
Then, a friendly voice. The voice of someone not trying to kill me. It is harmonious.
“Over here!”
It is my friend. He has come to pick me up. I walk over to him. He dangles car keys from his hand. I ask him if I can drive.
“Oh man, hahah, far out man, shit no, no fluffy way.”
He turns around and walks out the door, still laughing. It was worth a try.
I approach the doors and take my first step outside. Storm clouds loom on the horizon.
The words form in my mind. I know he can here them.
“If you want me.”
A boom of thunder resonates in the distance.
“Come fluffy’ing take me.”
Wednesday 11th - VH Day +1
I wake up. I am in my bed. My bed. It is the morning after VH day. I have escaped medical Stalingrad as the Wermacht surrendered next door in a blaze of morphine-induced fury. Tens of thousands have laid down their arms and crossed over to the other side; abandoning me to my fate.
fluffy the Wermacht. I will fight on alone.
I look out the window. I am not smiling. God's offensive - brilliantly planned, yet poorly executed - has been repulsed by a unit of his own creation. The unit has successfully withdrawn from behind enemy lines; across rivers of heparin-fuelled flames and miles of antibiotic jungle; to safe territory. It is time to think. Time to consolidate. Time for action.
It is time for the counter-offensive.
It is time to realise the paradox of an antibiotic jungle.
I assess the situation. It is grim. Bleak. Jelly remains in world-wide circulation. New hospitals are under construction all over the globe. In Switzerland, clowns lie dying in the streets. Cripples everywhere rally to avenge the slaughter of Miss Holmes. A confused and PMS-suffering Woman's Day launches an offensive into New Idea. Five celebrities become fat in the subsequent gossip dead-zone. Two more are wed. The world is outraged. Tensions reach boiling point. A shit the size of which the world has never seen is about to hit a fan no larger than a toaster. Worst of all, I somehow caught the flu.
This is what happens.
This is what happens when you piss off God.
Compounding the dire situation is one simple, harrowing fact: God is immortal, I am not. In the absence of a work-around for this I am royally fluffy'ed. I could be a martyr. I could sacrifice myself to appease God and set things right. But suicide is a sin. I would go to Hell. I have been to Hell. It is not peachy. Not peachy in the slightest. I would prefer to prolong my stay on Earth. I will survive.
I rise to shower. I will pray to Rheem. I will need his strength. While undergoing this steamy meditation, God's progression becomes clear.
God created the Earth, and man, in 7 days. I had spent 7 days fighting against man and his creations. And man, unto God's order, is governed by the 10 commandments.
Creation and the ten commandments. God is a big fan of symbolism. This will be no exception. His offensive hasn't stalled at all. It has quietened. Time to think. Time to consolidate. Time for action. On the tenth day, Saturday 14th, it's go-go time for God's retribution against me. No fan is big enough for the shit about to come. With a thousand years, and a trillion men, no fan could be made big enough. There is only one solution.
I must dismantle the shit itself.
From the inside.
This leaves me with 3 days. If God is going to rest today, than so will I. I am exhausted. I am receiving soup, but I am still weak. My mid section still pains. I am restricted to light activity only. fluffy that, I have a war to win. Does inter-ethereal war count as light activity? For America perhaps, but for me, no chance.
It is lunch time. I have had soup. I am happy. I am content. I decide to go for a walk. Walking is important after staying in hospital because the lungs become congested from disuse. While I might not be on speaking terms with my bastard child kidneys, I happen to enjoy a mutual friendship with my lungs. Therefore, I will protect them. I will walk.
I walk in the nature reserve often and without incident. Today however, I would encounter God's auxiliary units, from which I would learn one thing.
God still wants local man dead.
I am ten, maybe fifteen minutes into the walk. I'm walking through the big nature reserve near my house. It's pleasant, but the reserve has somewhat of a bad reputation. Today though, I am just happy to enjoy the quiet of nature and the sunshine. The track narrows to a small rock-crossing over the remnants of an eroded creek. One person crosses at a time.
I walk down to the creek. A kid, maybe 17, maybe 18, sits on a BMX in the centre of the crossing. He has acne everywhere and a shit haircut. I was once told bogan's love rust, but inner-city bogans are of a different variety. They like chrome. Anything chrome is the bomb. The shinier, the better. They are Chrome Bogans.
This BMX was shiny. I figured it was stolen. Chrome Bogan's can't afford bikes. That bogans have adapted to ride them is a marvel of evolution unto itself.
"What the fluffy do you want."
Yeah, this is going to be pleasant. I tell him to step aside. I add ", kid" to the end of it.
Chrome Bogans don't like to be belittled. They are the Adam and Eve of psycho nurse - all traits inherited.
"fluffy you dickhead."
Chrome Bogan looks at my tee-shirt. He's looking for an add-on to his own insult. He's doing a shit job. My shirt reads "O-week," as in university O-week.
"O-week. What fluffy gay shit is that."
I would kill him if I could. Shame I can't. My next move defies logic, and is not one I would take again. I have reason to believe my kidneys had already boarded flights to Fiji at the time of the incident. My brain most likely had detached from my spinal cord; dug a fox-hole, and bunkered down. Wherever the fluffy the three of them were, they weren't with me at the time. I speak flatly.
"fluffy'ed if I know. But the O reminds me of the face c*unts like you make when you're sucki-"
I never did get to finish that sentence. Shame. Twas' snappy.
I get king-hit in the back of the head, off-centre by someone I didn't realise was behind me. I go straight to the ground like a dead weight. Chrome Bogan dismounts and kicks me in the upper back. fluffy hurts. Agony. White flecks are filling my vision. I don't want to pass out. I feel rustling in my jeans pocket.
A few minutes later my vision is fixed and I get up. My head fluffy pains. My back is OK though. I'm just glad they didn't kick me in the stomach. One-way trip back to Stalingrad that would've been.
My wallet is lying about ten metres away. My cards are strewn in the trees and shrubs around it. The fifty bucks worth of notes that were in there is gone. Luckily, my car keys and my phone were in my other pocket, which was pushed against the ground and covered when I fell. I call my mate.
He gets there in five minutes and helps me back to the car. I ask him if I can drive. Guess.
He takes me to the police station and I give a statement. I decline the offer of medical help. fluffy God, be a little more cunning would you.
It is night. I am in bed. My bed. It is the night after VH day, and I continue to survive.
"I’m coming for you God."
I look out the window. Dark clouds diffuse the moonlight. A lone star shines in solitary defiance.
"Bigtime."
---
Note: the "king hit" had little force to it, and the kick I barely felt, which is why I'm so light hearted about it. In fact, I told the entire story to the police and they laughed along with me. All in good jest.