The Money Womb: Chapter Five

Like a wayward canine, Gastric bypass tracked a line of mud and grass through the hospital hallways. It had been a long, long couple of weeks.

His wife, a closet dictator and pedantic woman, hid behind martyrdom, practicality, and strained congeniality. On most occasions, she spent her evenings glowering at the world from their home’s secret window. From here, she recorded the foibles and faults of wandering, hapless underlings in a little notebook she kept on the sill. As the book grew, so did her fantasies of persecution and insufferable itch to control.

She called him “Poopsie”.  Like a distressed, mating goose, she’d saddle up to the kitchen counter and horn-blast dicta with such g-force, Gastric had to retreat behind the nearest cupboard. Her guilt-laden diatribe, usually called for more buttressing and fortification of home and land.

“They were gawking at us,” she warned, “they were just standing there – LOOKING.”

Poopsie, resigned, would slog to his car and drive to the hardware store for more stuff to put between themselves and the world.

Now extricated from her fortress, she implanted herself like a fungal outgrowth in the hospital room corner.  On her lap, she opened a new notebook. A stolen copy of hospital rules and regulation stuck out from her purse.

Gastric Bypass entered the room to find her lemon-faced. “Are your panties full of Sriracha? Why don’t you get yourself something to eat, it’s been DAYS.”

“I’m busy,” she said returning to her notebook.

Plotting a graph, she compared hospital staff uniforms, task times, and hand-washing habits. Little snippets of overheard dialogue peppered the margins.

Sighing, GP rolled himself into bed.

“I need to hook up my suction again,” he said, “wonder where that nice nurse went to?”

“The one with the slutty skirt who carries a picture of her unkempt preschool son? I saw her chatting at the station, missed the call bell when I rang it.”

“Why’da ring the call bell Mara?”

“You’re out of water.”

“I can’t drink.”

“Doesn’t matter, she’s costing us time and taxpayers’ money. I want our money’s worth Calvin.”

Calvin looked to the window. In the reflection he saw the nurse, buxom and generously bottomed. He felt himself flush and dropped his toothbrush on the floor.

“I’ll get it,” she smiled. Mara choked as the nurse leaned over to pick it up. Calvin grinned.

“I’ve got some news for you Calvin. Labs came back normal. Your biopsy shows no sign of cancer. Doctor’s are saying it’s a miracle. You’re completely healed. I can take out the tube now.”

Calvin felt a wave of strength pass through his body. A miracle indeed.

The Money Womb: Chapter Four

The spontaneous combustion gig, I promise you, does not arise out of any particular desire to avoid intimacy with my inherited family.  If I am to compete with the two one-celled organisms for attention and obviously, food, going up in a momentary raging hellfire might preclude me from the usual disgusting, cutesy, infantile strategies designed to wrangle coos, goochie-goos and soggy snacks from gesticulating onlookers.   My own personal summers singe my surroundings despite an internal temperate climate, and thing is, the accompanying emotional catharsis drains me of any perturbation. It’s a mood stabilizer. Added bonus, Jesus appears. I’m set. How to brand myself – that is the question.

The two standing before me in existential bliss, fail to connect the epic musical maelstrom to the cell phone in the couch. Moments prior, in the back of the car, while feigning newborn unconsciousness,  I set the ring tone to Carmina Burana’s opening movement. Karma anticipating my birth, downloaded a Barnie-the-purple-dinosaur playlist, along with the top forty. “I love you, you love me..we’re a great, big, happy fam-ily..” Size challenged maybe, but love? Save me.

Jesus of the Shag delineates a perimeter in which I immediately designate as a personal bubble of safety. I piggy-squeal vault from Karma’s arms, diaper smoking, and claim my holy throne.

Shaking and plunging herself prostrate into a pile of pre-digested Pop Tarts, Karma attempts to speak in tongues and serendipitously creates complex, ancient Greek political rhetoric. In the other corner, Du remains upright, waits for Jesus’ ordinance, crosses himself with the cellphone and answers while looking ceiling-wise for a heavenly manifestation.

“Yes. This is Du. I have not had a drink in five years and I did not have sexual relations with that woman.”










Chapter Three: The Money Womb

Du grabbed a two liter bottle of cola and doused the flaming Asshole who sat melting a hole in the center of the orange shag carpet. Asshole grinned through the steam as Karma ordered the two fraternal amoebas to their rooms.

If you nurtured kindness in your soul you might look upon the amoebas’ ciliated heads and flagella limbs and establish a charity based upon children such as these.  However, the urgency of their plight would not instill lasting charitable inclinations or calls to action within you. Regretfully, and instead, with dark, self-indulgent, secret enthusiasm, you would cheer for Asshole’s victory under muttered breath.

Karma picked up Asshole to find the face of Jesus burned into the carpet.

“Blessed be Karma! It’s a miracle! Like that piece of burnt Jesus toast in the news last week!”

“..Or the Jesus bruise on that woman’s toe –  it’s a sign Du, it’s a sign!”

Karma iced her hand. Deep in reptilian musing, a single coherent thought percolated like a primordial swamp burp and landed on her lips.

“Du, I’m on a new spiritual path.”

She looked at her latest vocab builder crossword and whispered “…I’m on the precipice Du.”

Before Du attempted a reply, as if from a break in the clouds blasted Carl Orff’s “O Fortuna“. Karma and Du locked eyeballs and in unison stood erect to see if Jesus spoke from the shag.
Asshole in hysterics plunged his brass-knuckled hand into the couch and shot-put the phone
across the room.

Ever hyper-vigilant, each looked to the moments unfolding as grand intervention, steeped in prophetic foreshadowing of preternatural happenings.

Du caught the phone coinciding with the opera’s dramatic climax. A voice hollered from the speaker.

“Du?! I’m looking for Du Nothing!”





The Money Womb: Chapter Two

I was born with a full set of teeth and bit my mother’s flesh exiting into the new world. I didn’t yell because of the bright lights, cold room or the  hurly-burly threatening to shatter my zen. I yell at the first  glimpse of my father, a monstrous and sweaty man, with a Neanderthal forehead that eclipses a weak and pathetic nose. My future looks dismal.

Forceps dig deep into my temples, a final yank to my arm and I slip artlessly into the doctor’s hands. A vitriolic stench of mother and antiseptic sting hot and blur my vision as I move from person to person, each poking and jamming instruments into my vernix caseosa anointed body.

Then the unveiling; my mother, equally horrific, her eyes, two yellow, lugubrious, protuberances overhanging baggy, purple festoons of skin comes in for the kill. She makes a sucking sound and aims her fleshy pale orifice at my tender cheek and I yowl. Fighting the clumsy grasp of her purple-mottled, jello arms, I scream for a nurse but mother greedily pinches the tender underside of my upper arm bringing me to a state of resignation. I play dead. No one takes heed so I hold my breath and hope for rescue. Blue with effort, I try to kick the nurse who plunges me face-first into a fleshy mound, its dusky brown, nipple shoved unceremoniously into my tightly pursed lips.  I protest and bite down hard. Mother grunts with slobbering disapproval. It is hate at first sight.

Five hours later we arrive at home. I hang on to a dream that the parents are an anomalous turn of misfortune, a Darwinian aberration to test the limits of human evolution but my peachy face turns to ash when my father drops my car seat in front of two genetically challenged, despicable specimens I deduce are my siblings. Slugface surrounded by Oh Henry wrappers, scarfs down hamburgers and fries slathered in mayo. Stinkfest hangs upside down from the couch cleaning the jam from his belly button. With accidental forethought straining to direct limb movement, they come at me like moulting, seal maggots clambering over rocks to find their mother. I am held hostage, strapped into a thrift store car seat smelling of rancid milk. My life? Doomed.

As soon as the twins reach my seat, I feel myself heat from within; a fiery, fierce rage that forces the blood from my heart to my brass knuckled fists.

And then shouting.

And then smoke.

I peal into a raucous laughter.

“Fire!” mother yells.


The Money Womb: Chapter One

He was born with the face of an asshole and came out like any fighter would, fist first. “That’s my boy!” sputtered Du; a man with a face like a slapped ass and whose acrid stench suffused the hospital room.


The nurse gagged.


Pressing his face between his wife’s porridge thighs, he wiped his bristle-brushed, womb-broom on his stained undershirt, grabbed the kid’s fist with his grubby, calloused hands and pulled.“Jesus Christ! He looks just like me! Bring it on Karma, hurry up and crap that boy out!” Somewhere in a sea of breast and flesh, Asshole’s fist and shoulder made an audible crack and broke Karma’s pubic bone.


“Du, Can you see him? Is he out yet?”


A rush of fluid gushed out drenching the scrubs of the attending doc.

“It smells like alcohol! Nurse, get a sample for the lab.”


Du stuck his grimy finger in the puddle of effluent on the floor and licked it clean. “Tastes just like Southern Comfort… Well, I’ll be damned Karma! Were you sneaking shots? What the hell were you thinking?” No sooner did he say this when a cigar butt popped out smouldering, igniting the alcohol and setting the doc’s pants on fire. Oblivious, Du looked at Karma while the nurse tossed a bedpan full of urine to extinguish the flaming pants. In the background an alarm went off, “Code Red, Code Red, room 666.”


Du looked down at the doctor’s hands perched ready to catch the baby. “What the? Karma, he…” Asshole’s head slid out with a belch and on his neck was a tattoo that read “little asshole”. His left fist decorated with brass knuckles immediately met with his slug-lipped orifice. “Damn it Karma, he’s beautiful! He’s our little slugger baby!”


Karma didn’t respond, her apnea temporarily cut off her breathing. Once the nurse put her upright, her piggy pink skin returned. “Pass me the Big Gulp Du, I’m dry.” The nurse gingerly wrapped asshole in a mustard yellow hospital blanket and passed him over to Du. Asshole managed to pitch snot rockets straight for the nurses eye. Du reached out to cradle him in his arms only to meet with a swift crack to his jaw from Asshole’s knuckles. Karma smiled. “He’s got your strength Du, just like his papa-daddy.”


Du grinned. “What do you want to name him Karma?”


“How ’bout Asshole?” said the nurse. The doc nodded. A flood of fireman pour into the room.

“Du!! The baby’s hanging off your switch blade!

“Jesus, Gin and Mary, Karma, I’m thinking. I’m thinking on some business plans.”

“Come on little guy.”

“Damn, he nicked my gut.”


“Du, give’m to me, he needs the boob. Poor little slugger hasn’t had much of a chance at the latte makers.”


The nurse with the burnt scrubs came back into the room, her legs bandaged, the burn’s seepage already showing through. A small plume of smoke trailed from her pant cuff.

“Where did you put the pain killers you brought to the hospital?” the nurse said as she lost her balance in a puddle on the floor. She grunted and squawked, grabbed the pills and headed for the door.

“Hospital rules say these need locking up, besides, they’ve changed your prescription.”

She took a toothpaste spit cup filled with water and downed four capsules.

“What are you looking at? It’s a long shift! If it wasn’t for you and my last-minute assignment change, I would’ve had four comatose patients and time to practice my Tai-chi.”


Du wasn’t listening, he yanked off his du-rag and mopped up the rest of the womb booze carefully squeezing every drop into his shaving kit travel bottle. “Taste-testers for later. I need a cigarette.”


“You mean a fag Du?”


“No Karma, and you might want to consider looking up woodbine as I don’t much like what you’re implying. You need to start improving your vocabulary as our boy will need a mother who can edify his intellectual prowess.”


“Du? Been studying my crosswords?”


“Karma…with this baby we have arrived. Karma screamed then cooed. Asshole bit her nipple.”


“I think he pierced it. Can you get me some hoop earrings from the gift-shop? I want to honor this piercing and bless the birth of our first son.”


“Sure, I gotta get some air first.”


Passing the nursing station he tried to rouse the nurse, but she was non-responsive, so he wrote on the whiteboard next to their doctor’s name an extra column titled “family” and scribbled “gone for a smoke”.

 If he was going to get his plan going he’d have to start now. The smoking area was a designated patch 100 feet from the hospital entrance. A soggy section of moss sucked at the stiletto heels of a hospital administrator.  Tripping, she latched onto the shoulders of a gastric by-pass patient in a wheelchair and walloped the man’s head with her purse.


“Sounds like my wife’s …” Du trailed off as he dropped his pack sac on the ground next to him. He pulled out some tiny cups he’d pilfered from the hospital washroom. Two others joined them, a deaf, 70-year-old man and another visitor he recognized from the maternity ward. The woman in heels aerated the rest of way through the sod and flicked her still lit cigarette in Du’s direction.


“Asshole” she said.


“Who’s the asshole?” the old man snapped. Every time he moved, his bones cracked causing him to moan in pain.


Du poured a sample into four cups. “Here’s to the birth of our children and the women who push them out.”


“Mine had a c-section.”


“Too bad, that means you never got to taste the mother gush. Kinda like the gold rush, come to think of it.”


“Yah, I guess,” The father tipped it back spilling some on his cheek and chin. “it stings a bit, guess it’s my psoriasis.”

Gastric Bypass put half of it for good measure in his feeding tube.

The old, deaf man took a deep drag of his cigarette, downed the shot and choked on his own sputum; the projectile landed like a basketball in his cup.


“He scores!” Du yelled.


Gastric Bypass looked vacantly at Du. Unfortunately, he’d left his glasses back somewhere in the hospital lobby where another patient with dementia picked them up. “Up a bum” he said, and drank the entire shot.


“Exactly,” said Du, “that’s the perfect toast.”



“So what line of business are you in?” said the father.


“Product development and research.” Du reached out and shook their hands. “I’m Du Bad, my wife’s name is Karma, here’s my card.” He passed out three pub coasters he had in his jacket pocket handwritten with his name and phone number, part of his latest effort to reuse and recycle everyday objects.

“Unusual card, each design is different, and the card-stock, impressive. I wouldn’t mind talking to you later about creative marketing.” said the psoriatic-faced father.


“Yah, you can reuse them as drink coasters, kinda like the idea behind business card magnets.” Du’s phone rang. Karma yelled on the other end something unintelligible, something about Asshole choking the nurse. “Poor Asshole, sorry, gotta go, my old lady’s horror-mones are in need of my calming presence.”

“Don’t feel sorry for me, just because I’m an old, deaf man, doesn’t mean I need sympathy, dickhead.”


“That’ll be my next kids name.” Du left Psoriatic to push Gastric Bypass out of the mud, while the old man struggled to find his hearing aid in the grass.


“Asshole!” the old man yelled.


“Yes! You got it old man! Here, here!” With tears of joy in his eyes, Du raised both fists and disappeared behind the automatic doors.

When he entered the room, baby Asshole had the nurse in a choke hold with her stethoscope.


“Du! Tickle Asshole, maybe he’ll loosen his grip.”


Du tickled the baby up his thorny spine until Asshole broke into laughter and released the now spewing nurse.

WHAT a fucker! God-damn it! WHAT is with you people? I’m getting your discharge papers. Pack up and be ready to leave stat.”

The nurse massaged the bruises on her neck and tripped on Karma’s IV line. Karma squealed and the nurse scoffed. “Good. Now I don’t have to remove it. Put pressure on it, you don’t want to bleed to death. Just wish it had been your kid Satan. Looks like I’ll have to call the hospital priest to exorcise the room.”

Asshole smiled and raised his fist with pinky, index and thumb protruding. Du sparked his lighter acknowledging his new-found brotherhood with his son. Over the loud-speaker boomed the nurse’s voice. “Dr. Harry Hunt, OBG-YN, please come to the nurses station, we are in need of a signature.”