DOCTOR FUNNY JUNE PROMPT
My Lover, Baby Loan Shark, Left Me With a Nasty Scar
All I wanted to do was help him woo his OnlyFarmer.com fling
This is a response to Mark Suroviec, M.Ed.’s June Prompt.
He told us to roll some dice and write a story.
Here’s the result:
#5 Baby Loan Shark — doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo… #2 … meets Mr./Mrs. Wrong on FarmersOnly.com… #1 …releases a swarm of self-aware murder hornets trained to attack douche-pipe billionaires.
I’ve been a psychotherapist since before one needed “credentials”. You only needed a shingle with your name on it hanging across a dingy alleyway. You could charge an extra fiver if you wedged a louse-infested sofa between the dumpster and the dead hooker.
In my long professional career, I’ve never heard a tale of woe like the one I’m about to tell. One so visceral and emotion-laden that I have gone back to my old habit of snorting blow off bellies while listening to Wham songs.
Why tell it now? Truth be told, I’m dying…
…to tell you this story.
Did my word play deceive you? Let that be your lesson.
But I am actually dying. The trick’s on me.
It’s a Dark and Stormy night. Snoopy, not Daniels.
A scraping thump-thump-thump enters my alley. Along with Client. A potential one at this point.
“Well, helllloooo gorgeous,” stammers a small creature no taller than my 3-year-old embalmed chihuahua. “How’s my honey tonight?”
“Your honey?” Who the hell is this guy with a round-the-neck box chain thicker than my dog’s last bowel movement? Sidenote: My bestest furry canine kicked the bucket about 65 moons ago. But I still have Lulu’s last turd in a Mason jar on the mantle — right next to her.
Back to Client. The red light from the stairwell above reflects from his 3,000 teeth so brightly I am sure I’ve just entered Heaven. Or Hell. Or pre-AIDS Studio 54.
He’s humming some tune. Doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo…
It’s both annoying and catchy. Later I’ll find myself mumbling it during Lulu’s bedtime routine.
“Yeah, my sweet lil sea squid. You’re my honey!” He reaches into the pocket of his Armani knockoff suit and pulls out a crisp $1000 bill. Or at least he tries to. Instead the lump of a hand that resembles more of a fin flubbers and the cash emblazoned with Hamilton’s penis-nose tumbles to the ground.
“Excuse my forthrightness,” I try to sweeten my tone as I eye the moola and listen to him sigh a watery sigh. “But who might you be? And why visit me?”
“Well, Darlin’. Your sign says psychotherapist. I’m a psycho. And I need a therapist. You good with that, lemondrop?”
Doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo…
For four years he turned up every Tuesday at 10:00. He slides into the loveseat and leaves it stinking of brine. He fumbles a $1000 bill into my palm. And he tells me about his 7 days in and out of crime both in and out of the sea.
He never admits to his real name. I just call him Baby Loan Shark — which he likes enough that he pats his knee and chuckles — and hates enough that his guffaws are followed by a disgruntled sigh and a cross-eyed, fury-filled stare. In my professional opinion, he both wants to strangle me with his box chain and drool over my pencil-test-passing titties. Or both.
He scares and delights me.
Doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo…
“I’ve met the love of my life,” he informs me a few days before Valentine’s Day. When he asks for romantic holiday ideas I feel my insides twist into nervous knots. “I mean, really, My Lil Schmoopy, what do I get my Dreamboat? We met on FarmersOnly.com and Poseidon only knows I ain’t got a clue about agriculture.”
“Why did you sign up for FarmersOnly.com then?” I truly want to know. I stare at him over my bifocals and pretend to take notes. His fuchsia golf shirt brings out the dapper, fresh look of his gills.
“What can I say, Hot Lips? I like wide hips, overalls, and grits.”
I quit faking and make an actual note: Buy Overalls (that accentuate my wide hips), Call Granny for her grits recipe.
Doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo…
My recommendation sounded creative — and like something Baby Loan Shark would do. After all, a psycho isn’t much of a heart-shaped-box-of-chocolate gifter.
He thought my idea was brilliant, too. In fact, he leaned towards me, itched a few lice from his fedora, and touched the tip of his t-shape nose to my reddening cheeks.
“You’re an absolute doll! I love you like mad, Sweetums!” He dropped a few more $1000 bills in my lap. “Make it happen!”
Good thing I knew people. The right people. Within a few hours, I had adopted a swarm of self-aware murder hornets that had been specially trained to attack douche-pipe billionaires who berated farmers. For an extra few hundred I had them inscribe his love’s name in Baby Loan Shark’s very own handwriting. On the belly of every single hornet.
Doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo…
The only problem?
I didn’t realize Dreamboat’s medical issues included a long list of allergies. How many folks out there are anaphylactic to self-aware murder hornets that have been specially trained to attack douche-pipe billionaires who berate farmers?
Of course that wouldn’t cross my mind.
Doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo…
He lost his love.
And I lost mine.
Not to mention he was so heartbroken and peeved off that his “assistants” removed my shingle, my clientele, and my writing arm. All that I have left of my Honeydrop Schmoopy is a scar above my right eyebrow — one in the shape of a self-aware murder hornet that had been specially trained to attack douche-pipe billionaires who berate farmers.
I just needed to get this out. As I lie on my death bed — well a louse-infested couch stuffed between a dumpster and a dead hooker — I hum to myself…
Doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo…