Guest Starring Jon Daly as the Medicine Man
Janet’s licking my hands while I drive Mandela’s car. It’s cute as shit.
Don’t want to think about what I just did. Don’t feel good about it. Not one bit. Murder’s not a fun thing, no matter how much you think the piece of shit you erased and sent to devil’s asshole deserved it. Mandela is still the sweetest trim I ever had, and I remember, somewhere in the rotted-out recesses of my brain, that we even laughed together a couple times. That’s nothin’ to snub. Who do you find that with? Not many. But the bitch had her lover—my fake son—shoot me, so she had to die.
Speaking of being shot: Fuck! I’m bleeding! Gunshot wound! This hole ain’t gonna fix itself. Not like I can go over to the Home Depot and ask for a bottle of wound glue. No, what I have to do is much worse. I gotta go see the Medicine Man. That’s what a crazy asshole in the desert calls himself when he practices medicine but doesn’t have a fucking degree. It’s this particular guy’s name, too. That’s how much he’s into his pseudo-herbal bullshit. And his only “patients” are people like me. Cocksuckers who were in the wrong place, and by “in the wrong place” of course I mean living the wrong life.
Don’t get it twisted. This Medicine Man ain’t no indigenous type. He’s as white as I am. But he’s read a couple books about the Mayans, and somehow that’s all the qualifications you need to call yourself a witch doctor, wear a bone necklace, and pop peyote like Tylenol. He’s a real fuckin’ asshole. Rumor is when he isn’t doin’ backdoor surgeries, he’s hangin’ out at the park and lookin’ for kids to molest.
Me and Janet pull up to the Medicine Man’s little house. Looks as shitty as any other place around here, except for the dream catchers—the fucking things are everywhere. How many dreams does this asshole need to catch, and once he catches them what does he do with them? To me a dream catcher has got to be a practical joke played on the stupid white man by some indigenous prick; trick us into thinking that we’re being spiritual when really we just got a bunch of dirty bird feathers hanging over our stupid fucking heads.
I walk in. “Hey Man!” I call him “Man,” because if he was a doctor I’d call him “Doc,” but he’s the Medicine Man so I call him “Man.” He comes out, and the guy’s fucking naked.
“You still owe me a blowjob for when I took your appendix out!”
Shit! Forgot about that. Don’t know why I promised him a blowjob. This old fuck would have gladly taken a hand job.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been busy, but look, I’m shot. I’m losing blood. Probably too weak to give you a solid one, so stitch me up and I’ll give you two in a row.”
“What if I don’t want two in a row? Maybe I want one now and save the other one for later.”
“Sure, that’s fine. However you want to do it.”
“Fine, but after I cum you gotta watch a movie with me.”
“A movie? What movie?”
“That Owl Ga’Hoole movie.”
I agree. I’d agree to anything at this point. Shit, I’d agree to getting shot again.
He puts me out. Janet’s sitting by the door. Little nervous about leaving her around this asshole, but she can take care of herself. I’m getting really sick of being unconscious.
I come to and, sure enough, the Medicine Man is beating off his weird mystical prick over my head. God knows for how long.
“Jesus, Man. Can’t you wait?”
He can’t. He wants to make sure I don’t back out on the deal. So yeah, I suck his dick.
His cum stinks like a rotting corpse. I’m covered in it. This guy must have been saving his nut for something special. I go to take a shower, and there’s a fucking dream catcher in the shower. I’m careful not to get water on the stitches, or his cum for that matter.
We sit down to watch the fucking cartoon owl movie. He puts his hand on my lap. I take it off. He looks at me.
“Thanks for that.”
“No problem.” Truth be told, I feel bad for the guy. Alone in his hut, poppin’ peyote and fixin’ gunshot wounds. He’s alone. We’re all alone. But at least I have Janet.
“I know who did it.”
“What?”
“I know who set you up.”
My stitches sting. I wince and look at Janet. She doesn’t like the fucking owl movie either.
Check here for previous installments of Toupee, Brett Gelman’s novel about baldness, disgusting depravity, and being on the lam.