Dr. Bradstone has a moustache. What kind of quack wears a moustache? It’s dirty, archaic, malicious, sadistic. It’s a bad omen when a man wears a moustache.
When men don’t wear moustaches it’s bad omen too. They’re trying to convince you that they’re not the type to wear one, see? That’s why I don’t trust Dr. Young. Bright lights and late nights in the catbox...That's been stuck in my head.
While they sit staring at me, their arms are oh-so-unfriendly-ly crossed. They chained me up to this brain-sucking cone that sucks, sucks, sucks, at my ears and thoughts while I stare down, down, down through the floor to China. But I wouldn’t end up in China if I went that way… no I’d end up in Madagascar. I tried once, digging in the backyard diggity dig. I didn’t find Madagascar, but a landmine, which I tried to set on Aunt Sammy. They said that it was a rotted bone, left by some dog, but it was a land mine, the idiots. It didn’t blow though. I think it was old. I cried because Sammy won’t let me smash walls to make tunnels, and I very much wanted to blow her up.
“Mr. Donnoly--”
“Away with you.”….ringing phones and ice cream cones in the catbox…
“He is a doctor of medicine--” Dr. Young shakes a head.
“A doctor may still be a rogue. Rogueity rogue.” Yes, yes, men are a bad lot. “Well, mine’s not so bad.” Go down to Y-town from the catbox...What else?
“I’m glad that you think so.” He giggles over his fat.
“I wasn’t talking about you Dr. Young.”
“We’re your only doctors. And you must talk to us. Your wife said that you tried to blow her up with a bone the day after Yerevan, and given the nature of your work, we must complete an exam to ensure--”
“She’s my aunt.” Beard and beardless glance at each other in a hirsute conspiracy. Make little checks on big clipboards, they do. Wife. She tried to convince me of that too--had a photo doctored of our “wedding day.” As if I’d be stupid enough to marry that hag...Get the brutes, the hidden newts, out of the catbox...
“Tell me, where do you work, Mr. Donnoly?”
“The catbox.” .How did it go? Bright lights, ringing phones, go down, get the brutes, late nights, ice cream cones, in Y-town, the hidden newts out of the catbox.
“Where in the catbox?” Their eyes glint. No--a wet fish slithers against the flow of my digestive tract. I can’t talk. I don’t remember why; it was something about the ice cream--
“Donnoly, tell us. We know the code already--we want to see if you do.”
“Look, Donnoly: So you’re buying Kitty-litter in Y-town, Bradstone?”
“Yes. Fortunately there are only cats in my catbox. See Mr. Donnoly? You can trust us.”
Where’s the phone, numbers numbers, what do I say? The wet lizard shudders. No--if it’s an ice cream cone why is it attached to the brains--it’s not a lizard, idiot--
“There’s a newt--” Bradstone glances at Young again--
“That was when I hit the button. It stopped recording his thoughts, because, well, you know.”
“Well, Bradstone, you’ve salvaged it. Thank God they cracked him in Y-town or we’d be raining over the Atlantic.” Beard made a phonecall to the morgue to report the suicide, as he cleared the data banks and lowered the ice cream cone back into it’s hidey-hole.
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