The Return of Dr. Tyrone McLouvrengradstein

I wrote an absurd short story for my blog last year one time when my computer was broken. My computer's fine, but after struggling with my screenplay today, I decided on a sequel to the aforementioned story. It probably won't make any sense without first reading the original story here, but then again, it probably won't make sense either way.

A Curious Case

I pull up to the house around one. It rained this morning, but lucky for me, it stopped just as I was leaving my apartment an hour ago. Ahead on the pavement, a dry spot, larger car-sized. Possibly a Cadillac?

"Shit, I must've missed him," I say out loud. I've gotten into the habit. It helps with my decision-making. And my anger.

"Ah, might as well have a look around." A bird bath. Overgrown. Would've been perfect after this morning's little shower. "What a cruel fucking joke!" I spit onto the greying asphalt.

The upkeep of the exterior is shoddy at best. Crumbling brick, peeling paint. Queer enough, the hedgerow skirting the façade is impeccably trimmed. Like a girl who's trying to impress you. With razor skills? "I shave my face everyday, honey," I say to no one. I rub my fingertips along my jaw line. Bristles. I am impressed.

"I'm gonna check around back," I say. "Who am I talking to?"

No one answers. They never do. I suppose it's better that way. I ate a whole half-gallon of black cherry ice cream once. It took me a week. I've never been prouder.

The tidy row of hedges continues against the side wall, at least the side I'm on. Windows are shuttered. I can't see in.

"Why didn't you just knock?"

Not me this time. I turn to my left to see a male, 6'1", Caucasian. Flower-print dress. Sunbonnet. Metal watering can in right hand.

"Oh, excuse me," I apologize. "I didn't see a car so I thought you might not be here so I thought I'd just check around back and see if you were there and now I see you are but I feel I may have interrupted you and in the first place I should've knocked." He never interjects, and I have to stew with my mishmash of subjects and predicates.

"What is your name?" he finally says.

I race through my mental Rolodex of aliases and decide on the most realistic-sounding option. "John Doe," I reply, smirking at my cunning.

"I'm Dr. Tyrone McLouvrengradstein. I would normally extend you the courtesy of a handshake, but as you can see, Mr. Doe, my right hand is currently occupied," he says, lifting the half-full watering can.

"I've shaken hands before. I know what it feels like." Dummy. Real class act.

"Act what? Do you want me to perform?"

Blast! I'm saying the last word of my thoughts out loud again.

"Again?"

I thought Dr. Scrimshaw had cured this.

The doctor looks at me quizzically. I pause. When he doesn't question me with "This?" I assume the quirk has stopped or he's being unnecessarily polite after I've just trespassed.

"You have."

"What?"

"Trespassed."

Damn it! When will it end? Ah, that's it. End is the keyword. End.

"So, please, Mr. Doe, will you be so informative as to tell me why you have trespassed?"

"As soon as you tell me why you're watering plants when it just stopped raining an hour ago." Great. Back on top.

"I must look positively ridiculous," he says. "I was collecting rainwater with this pitcher, not administering it."

"Oh," I say, feeling stupid. Although he does look ridiculous in the dress and bonnet combo. "Collecting it for what?" I probe.

"Would you like to come inside and I'll show you?" An invitation. Just what I needed without the painstaking ordeal of a warrant.

"Yes, I would."

"Don't hesitate to come into my back door," he says as he steals away around the corner. This could be a trap. He could be waiting on the other side, ready to bludgeon me with his watering can. Cautious, I grip my sidearm tightly.

"Are you coming?" he calls, sounding halfway around the house and not sneakily waiting to give me my deathblow. Clenching my sidearm, I quickly round the corner to see the doctor twenty feet away at the back door. With a sigh of relief, I release the tiny arm that protrudes from my ribcage. Having absorbed most of my brother in the womb, my sidearm is all that remains of him. Perhaps he is the no one I'm always talking to.

The door leads into a laundry room. I look for clues, but see none that interest me, only shredded bloody clothes, a driver's license, and keys to a Cadillac. I need a body. The laundry room opens into the kitchen, where the doctor leans against a countertop. On the tile floor, I notice a small placard: LAB. "What's lab?"

"It's a breed of dog." The doctor seems okay with my snooping, so I have a look around.

A door with a sign on it. The lettering matches the LAB. "Where's this door lead?"

"It's where I practice my speeches. There's a mini-auditorium and I've created a crowd entirely composed of wax figures of celebrities. Would you care to see? There's a spare seat at H6. I never anticipate a full house."

"No, thank you," I say, being nice. That actually sounds a little too weird for me.

To my right, a refrigerator. Freezer on bottom. Two postcards held up by googly-eye magnets. One is titled Yellowstone at Night over matte black. I chuckle. The other is from Myrtle Beach and depicts several men in neon-colored thongs. "Have a good time in Myrtle Beach?" I ask over my shoulder.

"Never been," replies the doctor.

"You stinking liar!" I yell, pointing to the butts.

"That postcard was sent to me. Do you often purchase postcards for yourself?"

"No," I lie. I always opt to buy postcards of the places I've traveled. My photography skills have never been that amazing, at least one of my three thumbs always finding its way into the frame.

"That postcard was sent to me by a man named Jonathan Kreplark."

Bingo! "Dr. McLouvrengradstein, I'm a private investigator. This is my card," I say, offering one from my alligator-skin case. I watch the doctor struggle to read it, as everyone does. "Hold it up to the light," I suggest with a smile.

The words appear. "Invisible ink," I boast.

"Cute trick," he says, handing it back.

"I'm shocked at your refusal," I say, pocketing the card and case, secretly counting my blessings, as I have to make more and I'm running low on lemon juice.

"I'm shocked your name is Walter Ditmas and not John Doe."

"An alias."

"You had me fooled," says the doctor genuinely.

"I'm sorry."

"It's quite alright. But I also must say I haven't been entirely honest with you," he plays skillfully.

"Oh, really?" I egg on.

Gesturing behind me, he says, "Behind that door does not lie an audience of waxen stars of the stage and screen. It's just my basement."

"I figured as much. That seemed a little odd to me."

"I know. You told me."

How much have I been saying?

"Less than you think," he says.

"I just said that?" I demand.

"You did. But aside from your comments outside and just now, nothing else."

"Whew," I say.

"You just said that."

"I know." I'm getting testy. End. "Doctor, Jonathan Kreplark has been missing for two weeks. Do you have any idea of his whereabouts?"

"I wish I could help you, Mr. Ditmas, but that postcard was our last correspondence, and that was easily a month ago. You can check the cancellation date on the back."

"That won't be necessary," I say, immediately regretting my decision. How to recover? "May I see your hands?" I can tell so much about a person just by looking at their hands. Not anywhere on the level of palmistry, but type of work, hygienic habits, how many fingers they have.

"But of course," he says, proffering them.

Some left-handed writing required, washes after peeing, eleven. Damn. "Thank you. I'll be off," I say, defeated.

"It's an absolute shame you came all this way for nothing. Would you like to see my boudoir?"

Boudoir. Ladies dressing room. The photos. Karen was saving herself for marriage. She handed me a perfume-scented envelope the night before our wedding. "Don't open this until tomorrow morning," she whispered. I honored her request, and broke the seal over my morning granola. Karen nude on a bed. I had literally never seen such sexy curves. Ten photos, different poses, each one more suggestive. But who took them? I flipped one over to find a backprinting. Fred Biffman's Boudoir Photography. Fred Biffman laid his eyes upon Karen's naked body before I did. I waited until the reception to do it. Inserting the photos into the Power Point slideshow was easy; explaining that I had said, "I due," so therefore the marriage was void, was not. God, I hope he didn't hear any of that. End. "I would love to."

I follow the man and his swaying watering can up a spiral staircase. Noticing he's not wearing underwear, I avert my eyes to a rather strange-looking chandelier.

We enter the eighteenth door on our right. As suspected, a ladies dressing room. Even one of those folding dividers that I've only seen in the talkies. "Buffalo," I say, having never entirely understood the meaning of the word.

"Thank you. But behind this curtain is something even more buffalo."

Through with his games, I order, "Just tell me what it is."

"It's a true mirror. When you view your reflection in a normal mirror, it is reversed. This mirror does not reverse the image, and shows you how others regard you. Fancy a look?"

"No," I refuse, expecting some cruel parlor trick where I'd see the skinless, bleeding demon that resides within me.

"Why not? You're quite the handsome fellow."

Fearing he's coming onto me, I ask the question that's been on my mind. "Have you ever made love to a man?"

"No," he says, "but I have fucked a man."

To borrow a phrase from the French-Canadian, "Touché."

"Parlez-vous français?" he asks.

"Non, je parle canadien-français." I respond. "But..."

"That was before, of course," he explains.

"I noticed you were a eunuch on the stairs."

"Not just the stairs," he jokes.

We share a good rib-tickling laugh. I feel like I am halfway into my fifth drink at a comedy club, too sloshed to remember I only had to order two. Why am I here?

"The rainwater," he says. "You did that thing again."

End. "Yes, the rainwater," I echo.

"This way." There are two star-shaped doors on the wall. He takes the second and I follow him into darkness.

The stench is unbearable. I hear the door shut behind me. Another door opens and closes. I try the knobs. Locked. A spotlight shines down in the center of the room. A claw-foot bathtub containing a decaying corpse covered in cat fur. But where is that awful smell coming from?

A loudspeaker clicks on. "Walter Ditmas, P.I., your case is closed. Jonathan Kreplark is in the basin before you. I'm using the rainwater to dissolve his body."

I can barely hear his words. What is that fucking smell?

"Years of pollution have caused the rainwater here to go from a normal pH of 5.6 to a more acidic 4.2."

"That's only the acidity of tomato juice!" I blurt hurriedly, trying not to swallow any more of the putrid air.

"Very good," says the doctor, surprised by my chemistry knowledge.

They did call me Litmus Ditmas in high school.

"Litmus Ditmas, eh?"

"Shit, I'm doing it again."

"No, I already knew that. And if you haven't figured it out by now, there is another red fruit more acidic than that."

"You sick fucking scoundrel!" A strobe light flashes, illuminating the corners of the room in a macabre dance. Cherries.

"You felt you had bested your allergy when you ate that ice cream. But you should've read the list of ingredients more carefully. Artificial cherry flavor. You are locked in this room. The only way to survive is to eat the cherries or the deceased flesh of Jonathan Kreplark."

"Curses. Curses on you and your mother's grave!" I scream.

"You can tell her yourself. Her bones are at the bottom of that tub."

I vomit whatever's left of my lunch. Looks like half a burrito and a Daffy Duck Pez dispenser. I know I've been beaten. Grabbing a fistful of the wretched fruits, I shove them into my mouth, pits, stems, and all. As I go into anaphylactic shock, my sidearm sticks up its puny middle finger in a final act of defiance, and goes limp.

A Short Story

When my computer broke, I was forced into a neanderthal existence. Actually, it wasn't that extreme, but it allowed me to do some writing. Some of this writing, like what follows, should probably not be shared. At the risk of losing my millions of readers, I'm going for it. Film school killed a lot of my absurd creativity by forcing me to write things that could be easily produced on a shoestring budget. I used to write weird tales and poetry when I was younger, but I've essentially stopped. So here's a short story I wrote while my computer was being fixed.

House Call

I arrive at the doctor's manor, the semi-circle driveway enclosing a fountain long since overgrown with weeds. Birds no longer bathe in their designated bath, choosing rather to feed upon the worms in its soil. I ring the doorbell intercom and hear the gravelly voice of Dr. Tyrone McLouvrengradstein, a name of seemingly unrecognizable origin.

"Who is it?"

"Jonathan Kreplark," I reply, feeling simultaneously proud and demeaned at having to reveal my full appellation.

"Hold on," he says.

"Thank you," I offer, though the intercom has already signed off.

I look back to my Cadillac alongside the fountain, never wanting to appear too eager when about to be let into someone's home. Off in the distance, I hear a young girl scream. Instead of assuming the most probable scenario, that she is playing, I conjure up a rape case. The door opens before I can fully envision the assailant.

"Jonathan, my boy, I received your postcard from Myrtle Beach," he says as he envelops me in a hug.

"I'm glad you received it, sir. And please excuse the photograph of the scantly clad men; it was the only one they had left."

"I think to have rather enjoyed it," he winks.

Oh, you devil, you, I think to myself, remembering back to the racks upon racks of postcards available at the shop.

"Don't stand outside in the cold. Please come in," he says, pulling me inside. It is eighty degrees out, and a chill sixty inside. The grand entrance to the foyer is fairly standard: large spiraling staircase to the second floor, emerald-marbled columns, chandelier made of baby teeth.

We venture into the living room, which is called a den or study in a doctor's house, presumably because their extended educations grant them strange naming practices. It is not as if doctors actually watch cubs or cram for tests in this room. They live, like the rest of us, but as we are all inevitably headed towards death, they should more correctly be dubbed dying rooms. Perhaps the living room is referred to as such to serve as a place to forget about our imminent demise, usually with the aid of that soul-sucking idiot box, the radio. There is no radio in the doctor's den.

"Have a seat," he says, motioning to an overstuffed pink armchair, three times larger than average, with a gigantic baby's bottle on the cushion. "It's called the Big Chair. I saw it at a festival in Oslo, and knew I had to have it."

"I'm flattered, but may I just sit on the divan?"

"No!" he adds sternly, and I take my seat upon the Big Chair, resting the bottle on my lap, and feeling dwarfed and powerless against the doctor on his antique rocking horse. "How about a drink? Do you like brandy?"

"She had one good song in the '90s, but I wouldn't consider myself any more than a casual listener."

"Always the joker, Jonathan, that's what I like about you," he chortles as he slaps his massive knee, the reflex causing him to kick outward. Using the kick as a head start, he makes his way over to the wet bar, and produces two pint glasses. He drops an ice cube in each, unscrews the cap on a bottle of scotch (the tease), and pours the liquid onto the glassy stone with a satisfying crack. He adds a sprinkle of arsenic for flavor.

"To the start of a beautiful working relationship," he toasts, and we throw the drinks over our shoulders. We sit in silence for what seems like hours, but is really only four seconds.

"So tell me more about your fascinating research in the Andes," he says, running his bare ring finger along the rim of his glass.

"It's actually the Pyrenees. I have been studying the native tribe of..." I've been conducting my research for nine years now, and because it is so unorthodox, I am regularly asked to explain it. So much practice permits my mind to wander during my treatise. I watch the doctor nod his head in affirmation of every sentence, occasionally raising his goblet to his lips and returning it to his side whereupon he realizes it is empty. His hair is like salt and cinnamon, the old salt and pepper spice-to-hair analogy inadequate to describe fading chestnut hair. His face is salmon-colored and his ruddy nose is uncharacteristically shapely for a man his age. His eyes seem genial, watery, and hazel. As I picture his cheeks leaping out of a stream and into the waiting jowls of a Grizzly, I discover I am done with my dissertation. "And the women of the village continue to have difficulty urinating."

"Bewitching. Would you like to see my penguins?" the doctor inquires, putting me ill at ease now that I've finally begun to relax.

"Yes," I say, not wanting to sound rude, or even worse, unintelligent. We scientists never say, "I guess," preferring "I hypothesize," or when we have a great deal of evidence, possibly "I theorize," but never "I guess." "I guess" is for the buffoon.

He leads me into a hidden room behind the revolving bookshelf. The room appears just like the den, with the sole exception that it is inhabited completely by stuffed penguins. The most enormous penguin I've ever seen rests upon the Big Chair.

"Aren't they gorgeous?" he fishes for compliments.

"Quite. What is that one?" I ask, pointing to a relatively odd-looking penguin on the mantelpiece.

"Come, have a look," he says. "This is the jewel of my collection, an erect-crested penguin, known for its distinctive crests of yellow feathers.

I nod, but not seeing an ochre crown, I press on. "And where are this one's crests?"

"I murdered all these penguins myself, and the only clear shot I could get at this one was to the head. I had the taxidermist replace it with the head of a bat. He's a fine taxidermist. If you would like, I can give you his name."

"That's perfectly alright," I respond, abhorring interspecies creations, preferring only the most classic forms of taxidermy.

We walk over to another penguin, this one wearing a small pope's hat. "I call this one Melchizedek, after the first priest of the Most High," implying that I know nothing of the history of the Abrahamic religions.

"I understand the reference, Doctor," I lie through the gap in my teeth, as I have no knowledge of the history of the Abrahamic religions. I am a scientist for Darwin's sake.

"Perhaps you would like to see my ancient Egyptian bicycle helmets," the doctor persists.

"Listen, Doctor, you can continue to dazzle me with your pious penguins, and your big chairs, and your baby teeth chandeliers, or we can get down to brass tacks."

"I have a fabulous assortment of brass tacks from the Qin Dynasty-- I'm joshing you," he cuts it short, noticing my distemper with the word fabulous. "Let's go to my laboratory." He accents each syllable in a sinister fashion, but I've seen enough pornographic monster movies to not be alarmed.

We proceed through the revolving bookcase, and I take note of the book that is used: The Nanny Diaries, a somewhat obvious choice amongst the throngs of medical journals and art-fag magazines.

We pass through the kitchen, which is immaculate, save for an open microwave, glowing amber and caked with the radiated drippings of TV dinners. But are they still TV dinners if you don't watch the television whilst dining, preferring rather to stare into a mirror, not in vain, but to overly assess one's flawed, disgusting eating habits?

"Here we are," he pronounces as we arrive at a white door clearly marked "Laboratory." The acrid smell of smoke burns my nostrils. "Please, guests first." He opens the door, which reveals a stairway into the basement. It is completely dark. "It's straight down. Don't worry. There's a light at the bottom. I've still got to call the electrician to rig up the switch."

I nod, and embark downward. My footing is at best, unsure, but my camping experience as a Boy Scout and past life as a seeing-eye dog find me hitting the floor within twelve minutes. "Pull the string near your your nose," calls the doctor, sounding incredibly far away, as if only a memory. I find the tiny cord tickling my proboscis, and pull, materializing another door in front of me and a three-step ascent to my rear.

The doctor hops swiftly down the steps and inserts a key into the door. "What you are about to see may be very frightening, but I assure you, you are in no harm."

My eyes blink rapidly, the terror palpable on my face. "I'm ready," I muster meekly.

"Suit yourself," he says matter-of-factly, and turns the key in the knob.

KITTENS! There are hundreds of kittens, in every color permutation imaginable, climbing over each other, preening themselves, meowing, purring. "What do you do with all these kittens?!?" I yell excitedly, running out into the center of the room, careful not to step on any paws.

"Oh, different things," says the doctor nonchalantly. "I feed them, brush them, teach them how to use email."

"Incredible," I accede, looking down at the California Spangled brushing against my shin.

"Have sex with them," the doctor half-mumbles.

"What?" I can't believe my ears. Maybe a kitten meowed over him saying, "Have Chex with them." A common mistake.

"I fuck these kittens."

"You're sick!" I scream. "You're coming with me!" I shout, vowing to save these kittens from lives of sexual slavery and messages claiming they've won the UK lottery. I begin picking up as many as I can, stuffing handful after handful of tiny cats down my shirt and pants.

"Kittens attack!" yells Dr. McLouvrengradstein over the meowing din. The cats in my clothes begin viciously clawing and biting at any piece of flesh within paw's length. I feel my genitals burst open and my tendons snap. The only thing keeping me upright is the thriving mass of fur, slicing my body to ribbons.

"Retreat!" orders the doctor, and the cats immediately cease, leaping off of me and landing nimbly as only cats can. I fall to the ground, quivering in agony. Through blurry eyes, I watch a Cornish Rex daintily lick my blood from its hairless paws.

"I'd never have sex with a cat, you fool," condemns the doctor, a kitten pacing across his broad shoulders. "I like penguins, you know that."

I feel so asinine. Of course, he fucks penguins. He fucks penguins and then stuffs them for his penguin room. A pitiful "Why me?" is all I can manage.

"Your research, naturally. I've been trying for years to end your meddling in the urinary habits of those villagers. I'm afraid the only way was to kill you."

"I'm not dead yet," I stupidly ejaculate. Comprehending my mistake, I brace my shredded chassis for another feline onslaught.

"You are. You're dead inside. You've felt that way ever since you lost the first grade spelling bee to Judy Sommers."

"You're right," I screech, and the pain courses through my veins and out onto the concrete floor with the rest of my lifeblood.

"You probably have about fourteen seconds or so more to live. Do you have any last words?"

"The Nanny Diaries was a surprisingly entertaining read," I croak.

"Oh, no. What have I done?" The doctor crawls over to my body, scooping up armloads of tattered organs and muscles, and feebly puts them back into my torso the way you'd stuff ice cream into a cone. A doctor, of all people, should know it doesn't work that way.

I die, and Judy Sommers is still a cunt. C-U-N-T.