The Diary - April 17 2010 or I Do Not Know What the Fuck is Going On

It was morning, and no one was putting their balls on my head.

Josh and Dave jerked back in alarm as I sat straight up, arm out as if I was about to karate chop.

'Jesus christ, Mike,' said Dave. 'You scared us.'

'If you didn't want me to scare you, you shouldn't have traded 20 cents for your balls on my head,' I said. Josh looked down shamefully, and I think it's a pretty telling sign that Dave merely grinned.

There was a red patch on his shirt, I realised. It was just where his appendix would have been if he had one. 'Your scar's still bleeding,' I said.

He looked down and shrugged. 'Oh, yeah, but I wouldn't worry about that.'

'It shouldn't be bleeding anymore,' I said. 'You really need to see someone about that. Maybe your stitches have come undone.'

Alex's head poked around my door. She looked tired, but she didn't seem to look all that bad. She still hadn't mentioned that night a few nights ago. The girl kept her cards pretty damn close to her chest.

'Did you know it was Easter and we didn't even notice?' she said.

'What? When?'

'12 April. The day we decided to go and do this whole thing.'

I turned to Dave. 'Did you know it was Easter?'

'No,' said Dave.

'I didn't either,' said Josh.

'Well that's pretty retarded, I guess,' I said.

'We owe each other Easter presents,' said Alex.

'There's no such thing as Easter presents,' said Josh. 'That's just Christmas presents because Jesus was born that day.'

'There is no such person as Jesus,' said Alex.

'If you believe that to be true,' said Dave, 'then why the hell do you want to celebrate Easter?'

'Because Jesus died on Easter,' said Alex.

'That's callous, Al,' said Josh.

'Besides, if Jesus didn't exist, how could he die?'

'He came into existence,' said Alex, 'right before he died.'

'So, what, he was just all "Hey, let's get existing so I can die immediately"?'

'Sounds about right to me.'

'We're not celebrating Easter by giving out presents,' said Dave. 'That's stupid and you're a big stupid-head. The only presents acceptable on Easter are chocolate eggs.'

'Well, let's give each other chocolate eggs,' said Alex.

'What?' cried Dave incredulously. 'Why the hell would we do that?'

What could she say? The death of Jesus of Nazareth was no reason to give out chocolate eggs. That was an absurd way to celebrate Easter.

Dave was fingering at his appendix scar. It was staining his fake doctor's uniform red.

'You should take that to a hospital,' I said.

'Along with the rest of my body?' asked Dave. 'No thanks.'

'What are they gonna do?' I asked. 'Arrest you? They're a hospital, not the police.'

'Ever wonder why the police and the ambulance are the same number?' asked Dave. 'It's not a coincidence, Dave. They're together.'

'You're insane. We're not even criminals.'

'If we're not criminals, we're insane. You just said that yourself. If we go in there and they check our criminal records and see we're not criminals, they'll lock us up.'

'They won't lock us up,' said Josh. 'They don't lock people who aren't criminals up. That's how prisons work.'

'They'll lock us up for being crazy,' said Dave. 'They'll lock us in the loony bin.'

'There is no possible reason why they should do that,' said Alex.

'They'll lock us up because we're crazy,' insisted Dave. 'We're madmen.'

'That's insane,' I said. 'We're the sane ones.'

'See!' said Dave. 'It's insane! It's all insane. We're insane.'

'We're not insane,' said Josh. 'You sound like a madman talking like this.'

'You're a madman too,' said Dave. 'And you, Alex. Oh, and you, Mike. You're the craziest bastard in here.'

'Stop with this crazy talk,' I said.

'I'll stop with the crazy talk once you stop talking crazy,' said Dave.

'I'll kill you,' I said angrily. 'I'll rip open your stupid infected appendix scar and pull out your insides.'

'You're mad!' said Dave. 'You're crazy!'

'Call me crazy again and I'll cut your tongue out,' I said.

'Hey,' said Josh, 'let's not get crazy here.'

'We're already crazy,' said Dave.

'Speak for yourself,' said Josh. 'I'm as sane as I was the day I was born.'

'You were crazy the day you were born,' said Dave. 'You were born a madman.'

'You're obviously pretty stressed right now,' said Alex. 'Just let us take you to the hospital and we'll fix up your scar.'

Dave turned and punched me in the face. I felt my nose crack and wetness spread through it. 'What the hell, Dave? What the hell?'

'I panicked!' he shouted. 'I panicked and punched you in your stupid Steve Buscemi face!'

'We're taking you to a hospital,' I said, my voice slightly strained, holding my hand to my bleeding nose.

'A psychiatric hospital?' asked Dave.

'No, not a psychiatric hospital.'

'But I'm crazy,' protested Dave.

'You're not crazy,' said Alex. 'You may be an idiot, but you're not crazy.'

'I'll go to the hospital,' said Dave. 'I'll do it. Just promise me one thing.'

'Okay?'

'You'll promise me whatever I ask?'

'I will,' I said.

'Promise me you won't let them take my liver,' he said, his face strained, his eyes watering. 'Please.'

'I promise you I won't let them take your liver.'

*

'We'll need his liver,' said the enthusiastic young doctor with a clean shaven face and good shoes.

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I'm afraid I can't let you do that to Dave.'

'Well, then, what are you doing here?' demanded the doctor, and threw us out of the hospital.

'One of these hospitals will have to take us,' said Alex. There were more than twenty hospitals in Brisbane, but not one had allowed us in; most of them threw us out for having Teddy Kennedy with us, and once we put a fake moustache on Dave, they threw us out for trying to conceal the fact that we had Teddy Kennedy with us. The other hospitals just wanted all our livers before we were allowed in.

'My stomach hurts,' said Dave. 'My stomach fucking hurts.'

'It's your guts falling out,' said Josh. Dave shrieked in alarm.

'But I like my guts!' he said. 'If there's one thing I would like in my body, it's my guts.'

'I'm sorry, but if we don't get into a hospital soon, they'll just be spilling out all over the pavement,' said Josh.

'That's true,' said Alex. 'I've seen it happen.'

'It's nasty,' I added helpfully.

'Get me to a hospital,' said Dave. 'I can feel them. They're pushing against my stomach.' At that, I thought of Tandy Smith, and spiders, but cast it from my mind.

'We should go get a coffee,' said Josh.

'I dunno, I'm kind of hungry,' said Alex. 'I think we should go to a restuarant somewhere.'

'That's a stupid thing to think and you're stupid for thinking it,' said Dave. 'We should go to a hospital.'

'What?' I said. 'Why would we go to a hospital? I know you broke my nose, but we cleaned that up, and I hardly think we have to go to the hospital for it.'

'I can feel my intestines!' shrieked Dave. 'They're coming out through the scar, you granny-bashing, thunder-tossing, butt-licking sons of bitches.'

'You're mad,' said Josh. 'That's madman talk.'

'We'll have to take you to a hospital or something, you're so mad,' said Alex.

'Yes! I'm mad. I'm crazy. I'm crazier than a bag of fucking angel dust.'

'He sounds pretty mad,' I said.

'Pretty mad,' agreed Josh.

'Quite mad,' said Alex.

'We'd better take him to a hospital.'

'We'd better do that.'

'We've tried all the hospitals in Brisbane,' I said. 'None of them want him, or do and want his liver.'

'Take me to a street-surgeon,' said Dave.

'A street-surgeon?'

'You know what I mean!' said Dave. 'Some guy good with a knife. I want to fix up this stupid scar.'

'I'm presuming, judging by that idea, you also want HIV,' said Josh. 'Jesus Christ, Dave, a street surgeon?'

'Better than a real surgeon,' said Dave. 'At least these guys get the job done without fucking around.'

'Tigers get the job done without fucking around, as well, Dave,' said Josh.

'I'm not getting surgery done by a god-damn tiger,' said Dave. 'What do you think I am, an idiot? No, it's the dodgy street surgeon for me.'

'Did someone say "dodgy street surgeon"?' said a voice behind us. We turned. There, standing in front of us, was a dodgy street surgeon.

You could tell he was a dodgy street surgeon because he was wearing a black coat with lots of pockets and he had the kind of hungry look that either a drug dealer or a dodgy street surgeon would have. Also, he'd just stepped out of a dark alleyway and was inquiring whether someone had said something about dodgy street surgeons. That was a pretty big clue.

'Oh, good,' said Dave. 'A dodgy street surgeon. I think I'd like some dodgy street surgery, dodgy street surgeon.'

'No you wouldn't,' said Josh firmly. 'If there is any one thing you don't want, it is dodgy street surgery.'

'Don't lie, you liar,' said Dave. He turned to the dodgy street surgeon. 'What would be the price for some dodgy street surgery?'

'Depends what dodgy street surgery you want,' said the dodgy street surgeon.

'I just want you to re-do my stitches,' said Dave. 'They're coming out and my guts are going to fall out the hole.'

'That's a fact, actually,' said the dodgy street surgeon. 'I've seen it happen.'

'He's seen it happen,' said Dave to Josh. Josh turned to me.

'He's seen it happen,' he said. I turned to Alex and informed her that he had seen it happen. She turned to the dodgy street surgeon and told him that he had seen it happen.

'Who's seen it happen?' demanded the dodgy street surgeon suspiciously.

'Some dodgy street surgeon,' said Josh.

'He sounds shifty,' said the dodgy street surgeon.

'I don't trust him a bit,' said Dave.

'Neither would I,' said the dodgy street surgeon. 'So when do you want me to re-do your stitches?'

'Right now, if you can,' said Dave. 'I've heard that if your stitches come undone, your guts come spilling out. I know a guy who's seen it happen.'

'He sounds shifty,' said the dodgy street surgeon.

'Dave doesn't trust him a bit,' said Josh.

'Neither would I,' said the dodgy street surgeon. 'Now come into my alley.'

*

It was the cleanest street surgeon's alley they had ever seen. It was the only street surgeon's alley they had ever seen.

A festering heap of garbage lay sprawled against the wall, rats scurrying from it to the table that surgery presumably took place on, which was covered in cigarette butts and had a dark red stain that the dodgy street surgeon told us was tomato sauce. Dave tasted it and discovered that it was, in fact, tomato sauce.

'It's tomato sauce,' he told us.

'Of course it's fucking tomato sauce,' said the dodgy street surgeon. 'What else would it be? Blood? What do you think I am, a barbarian?'

'I don't think you're a barbarian,' said Dave kindly. 'I think you're a dodgy street surgeon.'

'Damn right I am,' said the dodgy street surgeon. 'Now, lie down on my table.' Dave pointed out that it was covered in cigarette butts, so the dodgy street surgeon brushed them off and told him once again to lie down on his table. Dave lay down on his table and complimented him on the fact that it wasn't covered in cigarette butts anymore.

'I keep a clean table,' said the dodgy street surgeon. 'I would never allow cigarette butts on my table.'

'You allowed cigarette butts on your table before,' pointed out Alex.

'That was before I met you,' said the dodgy street surgeon. 'I'm a changed man now.'

'You're a liar,' said Josh. 'I'm only letting you do this since Dave wants you to.'

'I'm only doing this because I thought you wanted me to,' said Dave.

'What? I'm the one who said you shouldn't do this!'

'I thought you were doing that weird sarcasm thing you do!' cried Dave. 'God damn, you didn't want me to do this?'

'I never wanted you to do this,' said Josh. At that, Dave leapt up off the table.

'Let's go,' he said. 'And be a little more clear next time, Josh.'

'Yeah, let's go,' I said.

'We should go,' said Alex.

'No,' said the dodgy street surgeon, 'we shouldn't.' There was a small click of metal that sounded as loud as a gunshot in the silent alley. He was aiming an old revolver at us. It was probably a Colt or something. I didn't know much about guns.

'I'd say "not so fast", but that'd just be cliche,' said the dodgy street surgeon. 'So I'll just tell you that if you try to leave, I'll shoot you in the knees.'

'Please don't shoot us in the knees,' said Alex.

'If you won't leave, I won't shoot you in the knees,' said the dodgy street surgeon. 'That's my offer.'

'I think we should leave,' said Dave confidently.

'I think I should shoot you in the stomach first,' said the dodgy street surgeon. 'I won't even bother with the knees.'

'Shoot me in the stomach,' said Dave. He fluttered his eyes towards me and made a small clandestine wink that had no discernible meaning to me.

'Okay,' said the dodgy street surgeon. He aimed the gun, held it for a second, then shot Dave directly in the stomach. Dave dropped to the ground and moments later I was sprayed with blood as the dodgy street's surgeon's head exploded.

*

He introduced himself as Dusty Jim, and he was a rotund, stretched man who wore a hat that was too tight for his head and socks up to his knees. He looked like an old explorer ready to venture into the Amazon, and he held a rifle in both hands like he was cradling a baby. He looked stark-raving mad. He was the one who had shot the dodgy street surgeon in the head.

'I shot him in his stupid head,' he said. 'He was mad.' He reloaded his rifle. 'How's your friend?'

Dave groaned, and coughed up a little bit of blood.

'I know a doctor,' said Dusty Jim.

'Is he an official doctor?' asked Alex. 'Or a "doctor" doctor?'

'He's a "doctor" doctor,' said Dusty Jim. 'But he's a good doctor doctor.'

Alex looked to us and shrugged. No hospitals would have Teddy Kennedy, because necromancy was illegal, or Josh wouldn't let them because they wanted his liver. This doctor doctor was as good as any other.

'I think Dave would like that,' I said. 'He just better not be crazy.'

'He's crazy,' said Dusty Jim. 'He's a madman.'

'Is he a good doctor, then?'

'Who the hell said he was a doctor?'

'You.'

'Who the hell is "Yu"?'

'I mean you did. You. Your personage.'

'I doubt I'd say something like that,' said Dusty Jim. 'When did I say that?'

'You said you knew a doctor,' said Josh.

'I know that,' said Dusty Jim. 'When did I say I knew a doctor?'

'You said before that you knew a doctor. "I know a doctor," you said.'

'How far before?'

'Moderately far.'

'How far is "moderately"?' said Dusty Jim. 'Moderately could be 20 seconds to a million years, depending on your perspective.'

'My perspective is that fuck you,' said Josh.

'Hey,' said Alex. 'Let's not get angry here. This is the guy who's taking Dave to a doctor.'

'A doctor doctor,' I corrected.

'Does that mean he's double as good at being a doctor?' asked Josh playfully, and chuckled.

'No,' said Alex sombrely. 'No, that's just silly.'

Dave groaned again, probably to remind us he was still there and with a bullet inside of him. I turned to Dusty Jim. 'How far away is this doctor doctor?'

'We could get there in ten minutes, running,' said Dusty Jim.

'Pick up his head,' said Josh, who was already grabbing Dave's legs. 'Alex, just run with us. And don't get shot.'

'I won't get shot,' promised Alex, 'if all of you promise not to shoot me.'

'I promise not to shoot you,' I said.

'Same for me,' said Josh. 'Once I learn how to even work a gun, I promise to not shoot you even then.' He looked to Dusty Jim, who shrugged.

'I can't promise anything,' he said. 'Because, well, shit happens and I don't know who I'll have to shoot. But I promise I won't be happy about it.'

'Oh, that's good,' said Alex. 'You promise not to be happy about it.'

Dusty Jim grinned and stroked his gun like a baby.

*

The doctor's office was an old abandoned warehouse and the only other patient there was an old man riddled with bullet wounds who wouldn't stop moaning in pain as the doctor, who wore a fedora and an eyepatch and a white coat, extracted bullets from him with a pair of long metal tweezers. He moaned so long and with such a torturous whine in his voice that he soon set off Dave moaning in the same way, who moaned because he was worried his guts would soon fall out and spill across the dusty wooden floor.

'My guts'll fall out,' he moaned to Josh, clutching at his elbow with one hand, his eyes rolling madly. 'My fucking guts'll fall out.'

'Your guts won't fall out,' assured Josh.

'That guy,' said Dave. 'The guy who shot me. He said he saw a man's guts fall out.' And he moaned once more, and clutched at his bleeding wound with his free hand, as if to stop his guts slithering out and spilling out bloody and ragged across the floor. The doctor with the fedora and the eyepatch just continued his job, not looking at us, but slowly and surely using his long metal tweezers to pick bullet after another out of the old man and place them in a dirtied yellow container next to him. The old man's abdomen was peppered with so many bullets that, from what I could see, all his clothes, which had been ripped off and discarded, were stained red. Every individual bullet hole was a bloody, ragged entrance into the old man's body that wasn't meant to be there, and he moaned desperately that his guts would fall out through them and spill out and slither on to the floor.

'See?' shrieked Dave, then curled up in pain. He added, mumbling, 'He said his guts'd fall out. And he's old. He's wise.'

'He's a madman,' said Josh, his face stricken with deep worry lines. 'He's stark-raving mad. And the guy who shot you, too. He's stark-raving mad too. He's never seen anyone's guts fall out.'

Dusty Jim sat in the corner of the room, quiet, calm and composed, like an ancient statue regarding the scene. The whole thing could be a piece of art: the old man spread out, his ragged, bloody clothes beside him, the doctor with the fedora and the eyepatch over him with his long metal tweezers; the three friends in the corner cradling a moaning peer, and big, bloated Dusty Jim, wearing a hat too small for him and polishing his gun, regarding the whole scene impassively.

'Get Dusty Jim,' said Dave weakly. The doctor in the corner continued picking bullets out from the old man. There seemed to be an inexhaustable supply of them; they came out, one after another, like they were being produced in a factory line, each one followed by a pained moan and a declaration from the old man that any moment now his guts would come spilling out of his body and on to the floor. I turned to Dusty Jim and told him to get over here. He looked up from polishing his gun and walked over, his face still blank.

'Get Dusty Jim,' deplored Dave once more.

'He's here,' said Josh. 'Dusty Jim is here.'

'I'm here,' said Dusty Jim.

'Get Dusty Jim,' continued Dave, his arms clawing at nothing, his feet kicking with the pain, 'get Dusty Jim.'

'He's here,' said Josh. 'He's here.'

'Get Dusty Jim,' wailed Dave. 'Get Dusty Jim.'

'I'm here,' said Dusty Jim in his rough, deep voice. 'I'm here.'

Dave looked up, saw it was Dusty Jim, and grabbed at him weakly. Dusty Jim leaned down, and Dave grabbed his collar tightly and looked Dusty Jim in the eye.

'Dusty Jim,' whispered Dave. 'Dusty Jim.'

'I'm here,' said Dusty Jim. Over at the doctor's table, the old man moaned once more and told the doctor his guts were going to fall out. The doctor didn't say anything; he simply deposited the last bullet in the dirtied yellow container and continued on to the next bullet hole in the old man.

'Dusty Jim,' said Dave. 'Have you ever seen a man's guts fall out through a hole in his body?'

Dusty Jim stared at him, and brushed his hair behind his ears. Always his face remained passive and emotionless, and it was with no expression that he told Dave that he had once seen a hole blown in a man straight through his stomach and out through the other side with a cannon, and he had seen the man's guts come out and collapse on to the ground while the man screamed in pain and died minutes later.

'It was my father,' said Dusty Jim bluntly. 'It was my father that screamed while his guts came out. He'd been a business man, and he'd owed some money to . . . some people. And they practised inventive ways of killing. But this is not a cannon you have been shot with. I am sure your guts will not come out and collapse on to the ground.'

'How sure?' demanded Dave.

'Very,' said Dusty Jim, and departed back to his corner to polish his gun and regard the whole scene with no emotion at all. Another bullet was pulled out of the old man and deposited in the dirtied yellow container with a faint clang. Dave now stared at the ceiling in silence, and we all regarded him. We had nothing to say, so we didn't say anything. To tell him his guts would not fall out and collapse on to the ground would only remind him of the whole issue, and trying to distract him from the guts issue would only remind him of why we were trying to distract him, so we remained in silence and tried not to stare at the slow spread of blood from Dave's wound, which he clutched at with one white, clenching hand.

Another bullet came out of the bullet dispenser that was the old man and was transferred to the dirtied yellow container. Dusty Jim had already polished his gun and had now took off his hat and was polishing that too, all the while as he stared at the scene still without any expression. All three of us looked fixedly at Dave.

After a few minutes, I noticed the caustic smell of piss in the air, and an absence of any moans that his guts would soon spill out of his body and on to the floor from the old man. I looked up to the doctor, who had stopped his surgery on the old man. The old man was dead, and without anything to control his bladder muscles, had pissed himself. The doctor regarded him for five, maybe ten seconds, then dragged him across the floor to a place that was presumably far enough away so as to not smell the piss so badly. Then the doctor with the fedora and the eyepatch turned to the four of us and gestured for us to come over. We picked Dave up carefully and carried him over to the doctor's table, which was a simple, white, scrubbed bench.

'Problem,' barked the doctor.

'He got shot,' said Josh.

'Location.'

'In the, uh, stomach. The wound is pretty obvious.'