Twisted City by Jeremy Mac Page A

please.
    Vincent
takes another strong belt of the God-awful bootleg from his bottle, squinting
as he swallows it down. He’s been laying up in bed since he got back yesterday,
drinking and smoking, trying like hell to deaden the pain in his hand. His
personal doctor bandaged it up and gave him some pills he called pain killers
that have not been working worth a damn.
    Vincent
lifts his bandaged hand to his face, considering how odd it looks. Like an
alien’s hand. It is now thinner than his wrist. He closes his fingers into a
fist – half a fist – and wonders if he will be able to throw a good punch
again?
    No
matter, I’ll still be able to wield a knife.
    A half hour later Madam Jizell M. D.
slinks into the room, looking most delectable, wearing sandals and skimpy
clothing; practically ribbons and threads. Great eye candy.
    “I
hope you brought me something good,” Vincent growls. “My hand is killing me.”
    “So
I’ve heard. The whole town’s heard.” She stands next to him and places a black physician’s
bag on the bed. “Now what did Doctor Frankenstein do and what kind of
medication has he already given you?”
    Vincent’s
face scrunches up. “Why do you call him that? He’s a good doctor.”
    “Mm-hm. Is that why you called for me ?
 Because of how good he is. Let me see your hand.”
    “My
hand is taken care of. It’s fine. All I need is something for the pain. So why
don’t you open up your little bag there and give me something that is going to
take me straight to the moon.”
    “Fine,
if you don’t want my help, I’ll just leave.”  She snatches up her bag and
turns to leave.
    Vincent
panics and quickly reaches out for her. “No no no no ! Wait! Don’t leave! Here’s my hand! Just don’t
go!”
    Jizell
slowly turns back around, cocking a hip out with a delicately plucked eyebrow
raised, giving Vincent a defiant gaze.
    Vincent
wags his hand out to her from a loose wrist, assuring her he will be compliant.
    Placing
her bag back on the bed, she takes his offered hand and jerks it to her, not
real hard but hard enough for him to know she is peeved.
    “ Ow ! E-zee. Half my hand’s been
chopped off for Christ’s sake.”
    “You’ll
live. Your bandages are soaked. I need to change them.”
    With
the bandages removed, his hand looks like the side portion of an uncooked steak
that’s been sliced in half, only nastier. The bleeding is stanched with no
apparent infection.
    “Looks
clean,” Jizell observes. “I’ll just need to put some ointment on it and wrap it
with clean bandages. What did he give you for the pain?”
    Vincent
plucks a bottle off the bed and tries to read the label. “I don’t know what the
hell these things are. Here.” He tosses her the bottle.
    She
snickers. “Regular Tylenol. Good for headaches and
mild pain, but that’s about it. I’m going to give you something a little
better.”
    “A little! How about a lot?”
    She
wraps his hand back up with fresh bandages and gives him a small bottle
containing forty pills.
    “ Dimorahl ,” she says. “Take them sparingly. I don’t have
very many.”
    That
puts a monkey of a grin on his face. He wastes no time opening the bottle and
tilting it up to his mouth, dumping three pills onto his tongue. He chews them
up and washes it down with a swig of bootleg.
    “ Ahh . Feeling better already.”
    “Then
my work here is done,” Jizell says, closing her bag.
    “What’s
the rush? Stay a while.” He pats the empty space of bed next to him. “It’s been
a while since we’ve enjoyed each other’s company.”
    She
notes the sexual innuendo in his tone with the eyes that seem to suddenly zero
in on her ample bosom, but she is far from titillated. Most women – actually,
all women – lie in Vincent’s bed when called upon for fear of what he may do if
he is rejected, but not her. Not anymore, anyway. She’s fully aware of how far
she can push Vincent before his patience crumbles entirely. Therefore when