The Doctor Is Out

Monkey see, monkey don’t pick up that gun it’s loaded; oh shit the little bastard’s armed and dangerous and on the prowl. They told me an ape wouldn’t be a good pet, but I was too fucking stubborn to listen, as usual. Now the furry little degenerate is loose somewhere in a quiet town in Wisconsin, wandering the streets with nothing but an AK-47 assault rifle and somewhere around thirty rounds of ammunition. God help us all if that chimpanzee ever figures out how to reload.

After Dr. Stinkfinger got away with my AK I decided that immediate corrective action was in order. So I sat on my couch and quickly snatched up my bong and the cigar box where I keep my weed. Furiously cursing Dr. Stinkfinger and his anti-social actions – things that he certainly didn’t learn from me – I loaded a nice fat bowl and filled my cluttered apartment with the bubbling sound that only comes from a quality glass bong. Soon enough I was no longer angry at Dr. Stinkfinger. In fact, I was beginning to sympathize with the simian plight. Damn, but this weed is fantastic. As the living room became inundated with smoke I valiantly tried to keep a fading sense of urgency about the whole armed and possibly homicidal ape thing, but right about that time I turned the TV to Jerry Springer. That idea went out the window. He’s got nymphomaniac strippers from the Ukraine on, give me a break.

I was idly playing with my stiffening cock when I noticed that my front door was still open from the Doctor’s abrupt exit. I noticed this because one of my neighbors was standing in my kitchen with the fridge door open, his head buried in the chilly innards. Surreptitiously tucking my dick into the waistband of my favorite jeans so as not to cause a scene, I cleared my throat loudly. The neighbor, bovine calm, straightened up to look at me over the smudged surface of the fridge door.

“Sup dude, got any Dew?” he asked with no hint of irony.

My refrigerator contents at this time consisted of: two mostly empty bottles of ranch dressing, an empty bottle of ketchup, a mostly full bottle of mustard, a container of horrifyingly spoiled mayonnaise, assorted leftovers in Tupperware and tinfoil with a lot of visible mold and some gnarly drippings puddling down below, two curdled mostly empty milk jugs, and about forty or so cans of Miller Genuine Draft. The crisper drawer was taped off and sealed with duct tape bearing a biohazard logo crudely drawn in Sharpie with the legend: Do not open unless you plan on cleaning this shit. The reason for this would be obvious if anyone were ever stupid enough to open this cursed portal to a terrible netherworld filled with alien life and new scents not yet catalogued by modern science. I’m pretty sure there’s some oranges down there from when I moved in two years ago, as well as about a half gallon of a fragrant piss and rotten milk mélange that was added to the fermenting orange pulp during a particularly boisterous New Year’s Eve party. Combine that with the mystery liquid that dripped from a crack in the fridge interior’s top and slid in through the gap between crisper drawer and bottom shelf and what you have is a festering stink pit unsafe for all but the hardiest forms of life.

So the answer to the Dew question should’ve been self-evident, but this was coming from a man who voluntarily went by the name Cheese. A man who has ingested more drugs than the majority of lab rats. My awesome neighbor.

“Nope, grab a beer and join me, Cheese. I’ve got a problem that’s right up your alley.”

Cheese grabbed two cans – he’s a considerate guy – and sat next to me on the secondhand shit-brown couch, barely disturbing the cushion with his scrawny frame. We cracked our beers and both took long swallows, enjoying the antics of the blond nympho strippers for a silent moment. Cheese sat his beer down in a clear spot just large enough for it among the many magazines, books, empty food cartons, and overflowing ashtrays on my coffee table. Pushing his mess of curly brown hair from his eyes he looked at me seriously, “Gonna close your door?” I glanced at the offending fixture, “Nah, I’m committed to telling you my problem right now.” Cheese just nodded sagely as he cast a meaningful glance at my bong. I offered it to him and he wasted no time killing off the current bowl. After a brief interlude of coughing he asked, “Where’s Doc Stinkfinger? I was hoping for a rematch.”

Cheese and my simian roommate had an ongoing tournament of Street Fighter 2 that neither side seemed willing to ever declare finished.

“Well, Cheese, therein lies my problem. The good doctor has absconded with my AK, and I no longer remember if the safety was engaged or not.”

Cheese sucked air between his front teeth and reloaded the bong in what I can only describe as a contemplative fashion. He handed it to me along with a lighter he took from his pocket which I instantly recognized as one I had “lost” last time he was over.

“Seems to me something oughtta be done.”

With that he muted Springer and turned on the stereo, bathing us in the soothing sounds of the Ramones. For a time all was right in the world as we passed the bong back and forth and finished our beers while the Ramones transitioned to the Suicide Machines. Once or twice I swear I heard the distinctive clatter of an AK-47 set to burst fire, but I’ve always been told I have an overactive imagination. Some time later the smoke began to clear and Jerry had long since gone off the air.

On the television the six o clock news was just starting. Bewildered, I looked through the bent and dust-streaked blinds to verify this seeming occurrence of time travel. The sun does not lie, at least most of the time, in my experience. And right now it was telling me it was indeed somewhere in the vicinity of six PM. I looked down at the congregation of empty and somehow sad-looking beer cans that had spontaneously appeared all around us and began to get an inkling of where the time may have went. The stereo was repeating a Descendents song about being a bear for maybe the twentieth time.

“Fuck. Did Dr. Stinkfinger come back?” I asked in the general direction of Cheese. Turning, I found him unconscious, a beer perched in his hand and the bong emitting a single wavering ribbon of smoke from between his legs.

Feeling a powerful thirst I detached my ass from the couch and went to the fridge to get a fresh beer. On the way back I shut and locked my front door, since you never know what type of weird twisted motherfucker might be lurking out there. Sitting down amid a clatter of shifting cans, I happened to glance at the silent TV. There, staring at me in glorious high definition was a shot of Dr. Stinkfinger, standing atop an electric pole waving my AK at a breathless reporter; the word LIVE blinked in one corner in a deceptively calm manner.

Something told me I had a certain civic duty in this most unprecedented of situations, but for the life of me I couldn’t think of what that could be. If only my roommate Dr. Stinkfinger were here to help me figure this out.