It came as an immense shock to Titch when a water rat
crawled up the toilet flume in his apartment and bit him on the ass. And could Titch later explain why he had
teeth marks in his ass to the doctor, and why he might need a Tetanus jab? Could he ever! Titch told the doctor he and his girlfriend
had been fooling around with an empty can of sardines. The doctor asked about the teeth marks. Titch said it was his girlfriend's finger-nails. What an over-elaborate lie! Thought the
doctor and prescribed Titch anti-inflammatory cream, as well as pills against
rat bite fever. ‘Your girlfriend must have
needles for nails’, was the doctor’s parting remark.
But about ten days later Titch was back at the doctor’s
surgery complaining of sore joints and a red rash on his feet. ‘Have you been taking your medication?’,
asked the doctor. Titch said yes he had
– the anti-inflammatory cream. The doctor
asked about the pills. ‘No’, said Titch,
‘it says on the label they are for rat bite fever’. ‘I see’, said the doctor, ‘do you think I
made a wrong diagnosis?’ Titch said he
didn’t know. ‘How is your girlfriend?’
the doctor continued. Titch said she was
fine. The doctor asked why she hadn’t accompanied Titch in the first
instance. Titch replied she worked
nights at the local fish factory. ‘Ok’,
said the doctor feigning satisfaction, and told Titch to take his pills as
well, and come back in a week’s time.
A week later Titch returned to visit the doctor. By the wonders of modern medicine his joints
were no longer sore, and his rash had all but disappeared.
‘How’s your ass?’ asked the doctor. ‘Fine, I think’, replied Titch. ‘Good’ said
the doctor. ‘I took the medication,
pills and all’, replied Titch. ‘Good’
said the doctor, playing with his desk tidy.
And then he fixed his gaze on Titch.
‘Your ass’, said the doctor, ‘It ever talk on your behalf?’ Titch looked down at the carpeted surgery
floor. ‘Your ass got teeth and a tongue?
Vocal chords?’, the doctor kept on, his beady eyes shining with delight at his
tease, knowing these were leading questions.
‘I ain’t a ventriloquist, if that’s what you mean?’, said Titch
defensively and the doctor smiled at this surprisingly witty riposte. But he hadn’t had his fun just yet. Rubbing his manicured hands together the
doctor told Titch he was probably in need of another subscription. Titch was looking shiftily at the doctor now,
like a cornered rabbit, or indeed, a cornered rat thought the doctor and snorted
a quick laugh.
There had been a spate of rat attacks in the last three
months in the city, and the doctor had already seen at least five cases similar
to that of Titch. But Titch had been the
first, though not the last in the doctor’s thirty seven year career, to pretend
something else did it, or something else really happened.
About ten minutes later Titch left the doctor’s surgery
sucking on a sherbet lemon, nursing his battered pride, and carrying with him a bottle
of the doctor’s finest Scotch. The
doctor’s prescription, folded into Titch's back pocket, simply read: ‘Truth Serum. Take daily after visiting the rest
rooms’.
No comments:
Post a Comment