Category: somebody bleeding


For Kindle Edition

For Kindle Edition

 Chapter Thirteen

DOWN GOES WESTPHAL

Be Seeing You

Westphal awoke in his bed. Sammy was there, looking on with concern.
“I was dreaming of kittens,” he told the ghost. “There were dozens of them and they were eating me.”
“I don’t know about no cats,” Sammy told him, indicating all the bandaged wounds on his thighs, belly and chest, “But somethin’ sure as shit was biting da fuck outta you. What was it?”
“I got in over my head, don’t worry about it,” Westphal replied, sitting himself up in bed. “I went over to Steele’s and got dosed.”
He looked down at all the bandaged bites. They hurt like crazy, but they looked clean. Sammy did a nice job of first-aid.
“What time is it, anyway?” Westphal asked.
“It’s early afternoon, Westie,” Sammy replied.
“Early afternoon, then why the fuck you wake me up, Dad?”
“Because when they dropped you off, it was yesterday, Son,” he explained. “I woke you up cuz I know how you feel about yer job.”
What?
“I’ve been sleeping for a whole day?”
“Yeah, kid,” Sammy told him, “A whole day.”
“Shit, man, I gotta go to fuckin’ work?”
“Yeah, if you still want it.”
Of course he still wants his gig at Harborside District. They would all be lost without the money.
“Did you see a package when they dropped me off?” he asked, and then: “And my car?”
“They’re both here, Westie,” Sammy replied. “The car’s in yer spot and da package I put under da sink where yous keeps yer medicine.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Westphal replied with great relief.
He had to get ready for work and needed the extra extras. He asked for the coffee. While Sammy went to put the pot on, Westie gingerly stood up from the bed and made his way over to the bathroom.
He kneeled with a painful grunt and found the bundled package under the sink. God bless, Sammy!
Westphal opened the bubble wrap lined manila envelope and saw the goodies inside. All the powders were labled and the pills as well. And on the top of all the drugs he ordered, Westphal saw a syringe with a note wrapped around it.
He unwrapped the package and read the note: “Take me with you. Save me for later. You’ll need it! Shirk.”
Shirk. Now he was beginning to remember the film and the demon and Shirk. But he was on his feet, with his crazy memories of getting sucked by a beautiful demon. He also had a big, even generous buffet of powerful and dangerous drugs. Coffee was brewing and he still had his job to go to.
So Westphal grabbed some percs and popped them for the pain. Knowing they would make him sleepy, he went to his desk and snorted up some pre-work enthusiasm.
Then he showered, having Sammy re-do his bandages.
When he walked out to the popcan, he thought the bullshit was behind him.

Westphal’s boss, Mr. Whistlebottom, was waiting for him when he walked through the entrance to Harborside District Hospital. Oh, shit.
“What’s up?” asked Westphal as soon as he saw him.
“Let’s go to my office,” he said and Westphal followed him as they wound their way around and down to Mr. Whistlebottom’s office, next to their department in the basement.
We’re always underground, huh Westie?
Once they were in and seated, Westphal let his boss get started.
“You won’t be taking care of Mr. Mandiddle anymore.”
“Why’s that?” Westphal asked, hoping not to show his exultation.
C’mon, Westie, you know why.
“The patient is deceased.”
Westphal felt a punch to his gut, remembering the filthy scrubs he had Sammy burn. He began to wonder why he really did that, instead of washing them.
“Did you need to go over my notes, or?” he let it hang. Mr. Whistlebottom looked at him a moment.
“No,” he replied, “We already did, but you weren’t even here, were you?”
“No,” Westphal said a tad to quickly, “I mean; when did the patient expire?”
Expire. Just like milk gone bad.
“Day before yesterday,” he was told, “but it wasn’t due to his illnesses.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Mr. Mandiddle did not die of natural causes. He was murdered in a horrific way,” Mr. Whistlebottom stated flatly.
“Murdered?” Whestphal replied, the fear beginning to balloon in him. “Murdered, how?”
The boss picked up a piece of official looking paper. It looked like a coroner’s report. Mr. Whistlebottom read from it. “The patient was strangled to death by purposeful and forceful placement of a foreign object, occluding the trachea, leading to anoxic death.”
“Somebody strangled Mr. Mandiddle?” Westphal asked in a squeak. He nervously shifted his position and felt a panic coming on. “Who did it?”
“The police don’t know yet,” he said, staring at Westphal, watching him begin to shake a little. “Are you alright there, Westphal?”
“Yeah, sure, of course,” he told him. “Umm, uh what was he strangled with?”
“Well now, that’s the really strange part of the story,” he said, “It was with his own diseased rectum.”
“What?” asked Westphal, “Are you playing with me?”
“Not for a minute would I joke about something like that,” he replied, “don’t make that mistake again.”
“Yeah, sure, I’m not joking either, Mr. Whistlebottom,” Westphal tried to explain, “It’s just that I guess I don’t understand how that could happen. I mean I knew he had the necrotizing bug in his rectum, but how could he have been strangled by it?”
“The authorities claimed they found a pair of those long, curved forceps they use for tube placement on the floor, under his bed.”
“Okay.”
Yes, so they initially determined that someone rather strong used the forceps to literally grab onto and forcibly removed his rectum and then, still using the forceps, forcibly stuffed it down Mr. Mandiddle’s throat.”
He shouldn’t have been mean to you.
“Well, uhm, uh – that would certainly do it,” was all Westphal could think to say. He was already thinking about how he could ask if there were any prints on the forceps without ass-squeak here getting suspicious.
“So, that’s why you won’t be taking care of that gem, anymore,” his boss replied, showing just a hint of humanity. But then: “The other longer-term care patient we would normally assign has specifically requested to not be cared for by you.”
“What? Specifically me? Who is it and what did I do to shit in their oatmeal?”
“First, you are not to use that language with me, ever.”
“Sorry.”
“Yes, you are,” he agreed, getting far too steamed up for just that comment, “Have you taken care of a,” glancing down at another piece of paper he didn’t really need to see, “Mrs. Fussbudget?”
She’s a beauty.
Westphal stared at him a moment, their eyes meeting. Westphal was getting dangerously near to panicking, but sucked it up.
He said: “No, I’ve never taken care of her.”
“Ever been in her room?”
“No.”
“Not even as part of an Urgent Response Team?
Why would I lie, why would I lie?
“No, sir,” Westphal replied, eyes starting to twitch uncomfortably, “Never taken care of her in any situation. I have never been in her room, and frankly, before now I doubt if I had even heard her name.”
“Well, that’s what I thought,” he said, putting that piece of paper down and picking up another one. “But the family is quite insistent after she picked out your picture as the one who assaulted her.”
“What happened to her?”
“The police and in-house consul made it clear that I was not to say, just that there is now an ongoing investigation.” He looked closely at Westphal. “They also suggested that you be monitored closely.”
Oh, fat-ass, did you just make the list!
“What the fuck does that mean?” Westphal asked, incredulously.
“What did I just tell you about that kind of language?”
“Just tell me what the hell is going on here, Mr. Whistlebottom.” Westphal demanded, thoroughly red-faced and getting loud. “I suggest you come clean.”
Mr. Whistlebottom was dumbfounded and his own faced darkened. It was with a considerable dose of effort that he kept his cool, Westphal could tell. He almost felt sorry for the paper-pushing fat fuck.
“You are hereby placed on suspension, dependant on the outcome of the police as well as our own in-house investigation.”
“Starting when?”
“Immediately,” Mr. Whistlebottom replied and stood. “You can go home now. You will be paid 2 hours for coming in. Thank you.”
Westphal waited a moment for more, but that was all there was. He was suspended, without pay, and for what? Just because some wig-wearing old battle-axe that’s behind on her eyeglass prescription picked him out of a group of photos? Are they fucking serious? Well, fuck them, then, he thought, and the horse they all rode in on. I am out of here.
“I guess I’ll just leave then,” Westphal replied and high-tailed it to the office door.
“The hospital will call you to schedule time with the police,” he shouted after Westphal.
“Fine,” he said and opened the office door, where he was met by a large dude in civilian clothes.
“Are you Westphal?” he asked sweetly.
“Yes,” Westphal replied, and even before he could inquire as to what the motherfucker wanted, the dude punched him in the gut and then landed a good one on Westphal’s cheekbone.
Normally, that would have been the end of the fight. Westphal was more of a junkie than a fighter, but he was pissed all the way off.
He surprised even himself, and jumped on the dude and began wailing away on him. He had the dude pinned down and was trying to beat him into the floor when he was pulled off by security. The dude got up, bleeding and all, and got in a solid kick to the chest which spelled the end to the confrontation and Westphal’s employment at Harborside District Hospital.
You ain’t-uh workin’ here no mo’.

Bloody Dertie Philthy Wee Hoor ...

Bloody Dertie Philthy Wee Hoor …

For Paperback Edition of 'YMW'

For Paperback Edition of ‘YMW’

Available in Paperback and Kindle. ‘Click’ the book cover to see for your own damn self…

 

Chapter Ten

“PAY DAY”

Knick Knack Paddy Whack

Westphal awoke some time just after noon in his bed. He sat up, panicked because he could not recall what had happened. But a quick peak over to the side showed Chip nestled snug as a dead bug and Sammy he could hear singing to himself somewhere on the other side of the bedroom wall. Then he looked down and surprised the fuck out of himself, for he was wearing his hospital scrubs and he had no business doing that.
He climbed out of bed, noting the blood and dried filth and fluids, disgustingly ripping them off and tossing them to the ground. They were so bad; he might very well have to get rid of them.
It’s more complicated than that. You know you have to burn them, Westphal. Prison is a bad place to have to kick, bitch, bad dreams all up in my head, no lie…
To throw them away, at least, and he made a bee-line for the shower. Once inside the dirty stall, he doused himself with soap and shampoo, brushed the dog-fuck out of his teeth, making them bleed, rinsing with super strong peroxide, swishing and spitting foamy blood between his feet. And then finally trimmed all his nails, cleaned his ears, shaved until his skin bled, and then showered once the more. He still felt unclean, like something particularly bad had happened, but he didn’t know what. But there was nothing he could do about something he could not remember.
Westphal figured that he probably just woke up in the middle of his sleep, thought he had to go to work, got dressed in his scrubs, and then vomited on himself. It’s happened before, but he never felt like this. Westphal felt like he just jerked off in a confessional.
That’s because you knicked and knacked, and paddy-whacked. You sure as shit gave that dog your bone.
As he began towel drying himself, Westphal called out to Sammy to start the coffee pot, deciding to drop it and get the fuck on with his day.
The ghost made the best cup on the planet, and never complained doing the little things around the house to make Westphal’s life that much easier. He even cleaned up a bit, without asking, from time to time, but could not figure out how to use the fucking washing machine. That would have been a real boon.
“Got it goin’, Westie,” Sammy called out.
Westphal went through the ever-growing pile of dirty clothes, smelling each item to see which was the least offensive. He finally settled on some jeans, undershirt and a thick, warm flannel. He slipped on and tied the laces of a pair of well-worn hiking boots and sat at the adjoining desk.
Ask Sammy to do it, he won’t mind.
“Hey, Sammy,” Westphal called out, thinking, “Do me another favor, would ya?”
“Sure thing, whatcha need?”
“Looks like I puked on myself again and the scrubs are too far gone to salvage.”
“You want I should take ‘em down to the basement furnace and give ‘em the old heave-ho?” He asked as he came in.
Westphal looked up at him. “Appreciate it,” he told him.
Sammy scooped them up and dropped through the floor, ghosting his way, quick as you please, down to the basement.
Now you will be safe. Always listen to me, buttercup. Morbid is good and Morbid is wise. Dope now.
When Sammy left, Westphal pulled open the sliding top drawer of his desk and pulled out his plate of breakfast. He put it on the blotter in front of him, moving the computer keyboard a bit to the side and out of his way.
He mixed a little speed and a lot of cocaine together. Westphal turned the internet provider on while he chopped up the mixture, loving the ritual.
Sammy was back in a few short minutes, announcing his return from the kitchen. Moments later, he brought Westphal his perfect cup of coffee, saying the same thing he always did:
“I take my coffee the same way I like my women, Westie.”
“Peurto Rican,” Westphal finished; matching Sammy’s smile with his own. “Thanks, Dad.” Sammy pat him on the shoulder and left, singing about a girl from Nantuckett.
Westphal sipped at the cup. It was perfect. Then he bent down to suck up two fat lines, which were also perfect. He held his head back to let it soak in. He pinched shut his nose while he brought up his bank account. Westphal needed to see how much money he had available before he could ascertain how much and what kind of drugs he could get today from Steele.
This was always a little nerve-wracking for him. He had all his monthly bills on an auto-deduct, so he didn’t accidentally find his addict-ass homeless. This was a good thing. Mistakes are made a lot when you are stoned all the time and Westphal long ago accepted the necessity of this pragmatism.
The worrisome part came when he had to log-on to find out how much money was left for drugs. He was getting a little on the low side, especially the glass. It was going a lot faster lately and he couldn’t really put his finger on why. But he was stoned all the time, in one way or another, so he probably just did more than he realized.
Westphal looked at his bank’s page and almost choked. The account balance was huge. Okay, well not huge by the standards of most, but there was a lot more than normal for Westphal. He checked out the computer screen closely, making sure he was really seeing this and then it hit him.
Fuck, yes!” he hissed, “Score!”
He sniffed his shit back severely and blinked his eyes. This means he can get everything he wants from Steele, not just fill in the cracks.
Westphal thought a minute, tapping his happy fingers on the desk, and going mentally over his wish list.
It was much more varied than his usual order and in larger quantity. He even added one extra item he normally never can afford, you know as a treat. Westphal felt like he was Christmas shopping for himself.
The extra money came from the double deposit he got this month for Sammy’s After Death Insurance and his third paycheck from work. He had forgotten all about it. They just happened to have both come in a few days apart and that meant money to spare!
Westphal scrolled down the paid side of his bank account, just to make sure none of it wasn’t going to get sucked up by bills. He smiled and pumped a fist skyward with delight, because nothing was due. He snorted up a little more dope and got Steele’s e-mail ready.
“Oh, baby, daddy’s gonna get stupid high,” Westphal told Chip.
“Good news, there, Westie?” Sammy asked.
“Hells, yeah, Dad,” he replied, “Both of my extra checks came in this week.”
“At the same time?”
“Oh, yeah!”
“Well, good for you, buddy!” Sammy called back with enthusiasm. “And that reminds me of the time we mistakenly got our housing allowance when we were already under way, so we hit this port off da Horn and found this Black gal dat had da pinkest snatch this side of Heaven!”
Westphal tuned out Sammy’s latest tall tale and began his mental list. It didn’t take longer than two shakes, because he could see the sugarplums as they danced in his head. He decided to help himself to a nice sampling of just about everything Steele had in his arsenal.
Westphal pulled up his mail and started writing out his order to send to Steele. He wanted some percs, comas, a lot of bitch, a taste of boy (this was the extra, he’d never tried heroin before). He also wanted a half ounce of meth, some phens, T-3s, a couple dozen rolls and some more MDMA powder (Steele’s shit is so clean), a handful of zans and vans, and more morphine tablets if he’s got ‘em. And top it off with a fat sack of mean green. He was happy because this shit should last him a good long time.
This made Westphal securely and supremely happy. He had his rent and utilities paid, enough available on his gas card to scoot the popcan around The Harbor, fresh bone marrow for Chip and even a little left over for some food.
He figured he could stock up on drugs and then he wouldn’t have to go to the motherfucker’s big, old rambling house for a while. Westphal did this whenever he could, with the certainty of dread that all real dope fiends had of getting eventually popped by Johnny Law. That would seriously fuck up his employment options….

Scary-Stuff

 

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 735 other followers

%d bloggers like this: