Short Tall Stories

Three Patients

I'm not a Doctor.
I don't wear a long white coat and hang a stethoscope around my neck, striding around looking important. I don't have an office. People don't ring me up complaining of various illness.
No, no, they just show up.
No, courtesies, no "Hello, Mr Pete sorry to bother you, but I've been experiencing..." no they just run in screaming, "I'm on FIYAAAAA!!" and expect me to do something about it.
That particular patient was Mr Fitzwarren. He'd apparently been talking to his niece Veronica about ironing boards and ladders and other such things when he had spontaneously combusted on the armchair, or in layman's terms he had burst into flames. He'd panicked of course, ran around the house and much to the his niece's terror set the rest of it on fire. They had called the fire brigade, who attempted to hose down the house and Mr Fitzwarren, but only succeeded in dosing the house flames, Mr Fitzwarren's flames stubbornly refused to gutter and instead licked his body all the more fiercely. Fortunately, for him one of the firemen knew of my profession and knew were I could be found (goodness knows how), unfortunately for me one of the firemen knew of my profession and knew were I could be found and I now had a panicking man on fire running around my living room, telling me what ailed him.
"I'm on FIYAAAA!!", Mr Fitzwarren said again.
"Yes, I can see that," I said in reply, reaching for the fire extinguisher my friends had always scoffed at and unleashing the white sticky foam on my burning throw. "My name's Pete Pete, what's yours?" I inquired extending my other hand to the man who now looked more like a black skeleton than the middle aged banker I later learned him to be.
"FIYAAAA!!" he screamed back at me, the heat stroking my face.
"Rather ironic. Do you get that a lot, by which I mean to say is this a chronic illness?", I asked, unleashing a blast of foam on to my mantle piece and the black and white photos inserted into the space between mirror and frame.
"FIYAAAR!!" Mr Fitzwarren reiterated.
"Indeed. Yes I thought not. Please don't take a seat, I'll be right back." I instructed him, turning on my heal and leaving the slack-jawed rather lost-looking Mr Firtwarren standing on my Persian rug. I marched down the corridor and then the rather dank stairs to my basement were I fetched the inflammable blanket I had bought at a dodgy black market place in Italy and returned to the living room were I found Mr Fitzwarren had created a small circle of flames on the rug were he was standing.
"Stand back, sir," I advised him waving him away from the settee and throwing the inflammable blanket over it, "please take a seat."
Mr Fitzwarren looked blankly at me. I picked up the fire extinguisher again and put out the flames on my Persian rug, the thick white foam enveloping my patients shoes, but his flames still licking through. I looked up at him, he looked back at me.
"Come now, it won't bite!", I jested. Mr Fitwarren looked positively petrified and backed further away from the matt black covering.
"Kindly stop setting my rug on fire, sir and sit down!", I barked at him, pointing at the blanket.
Mr Fitzwarren sat down. And then looked pleasantly surprised when the blanket did not bite him or catch on fire.
I sat down myself on the book covered settee opposite, crossing my legs and steepling my hands - a habit I had developed after forming an obsession with the Sherlock Holmes books. "Good Morning, sir, I apologise for the mess," I said indicating the scorched mess he had made of my living room.
"Sorry," Mr Fiztwarren mumbled looking at his white foamy burning feet.
I gave a curt nod to show I had accepted his apology. "How may I be of assistance, sir?"
"I'm on fire, Mr Pete." he answered looking faintly astounded that I had asked such a question.
"Yes, we've established that. Would you liked it to stop Mr..."
"Of course, you ruddy moron!" he yelled, glaring at me.
"And is that your full name or just your surname, Mr Of course you ruddy moron? Please sit back down, sir," I instructed him as he stormed over to my settee and snorted small jets of fire at me, "you'll ruin the mahogany."
"Fitzwarren!" he screamed at me, foul smelling smoke tumbling out of his mouth, I raised a hand to my face and wafted the smoke away silently gagging. "Make it STOPPP!!!!"
Through streaming eyes I nodded at him, my eyebrows slightly smoking, "Understood, Mr Fitzwarren, my apologies if I upset you. I will do everything within the my power to stop you from being on fire. May I be allowed to stand?"
Mr Fitzwarren stepped back and like a hawk he watched me move to the inflammable blanket, lift it up by the top corners, turn to him and spread it wide like a butler offering a towel. "If you'll allow me?"
He spread his arms out wide expectantly, "No, no, not quite like that, Mr Fitzwarren," this provoked two small spheres of fire to replace his pupils and another snort of fire to stream from his nostrils. "Now, now", I scolded, "like you're in a straight jacket."
"I'd like to put you in a straight jacket." he muttered, but wrapped his arms around his waist all the same. I held the blanket above my head and wrapped it around the burning man so that when I stood back to admire my handiwork, flapping my scorched hands and sucking them, he rather resembled a black cocoon.
"Mmmmmrhrhrm," said the muffled Mr Fitzwarren.
Continuing my work I left the cocooned man to fetch some twine and returned to louder and more frequent muffled sounds from the banker.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure it's very uncomfortable, now hold still," I ordered as I twisted the twine around the top of the blanket just above his burning hair. "Now, please fall over this way," I asked tapping his right shoulder.
"Mmmrh?" asked Mr Fitzwarren.
I sighed and shoved him over. He made an oof sound when he thudded on the rug and then began to vehemently make muffled ranting noises. "Oh, trust your doctor Mr. Fitzwarren." I exclaimed twisting the twine around his burning foamy shoes. Stepping back and clapping the dust off my hands he had been transformed from cocoon to body bag. I hoped the transformation would be only temporary.
"Are you alright in there?"
"Mmmrhrm!"
I paused. "One 'mmrhm' for yes, two for no."
"Mmrhm mmrhm mrhrmrhmrhmmmmmm!"
"That's really not very helpful, Mr. Fitzwarren."
Mr. Fitzwarren grunted.
Bang bang.
      The sudden noise caused my head to snap around to my front door.
       Bang bang bang BANG!
      " Yes, alright alright, I'm coming!" I yelled at the person who dared interrupt such a delicate operation. Mr. Fitzwarren began to wriggle and writhe in his cocoon as I marched over to my pale teal door.
I swung it open and found what I thought of to be a most unsavoury character on my doorstep. A woman around thirty slouched there with blonde rat tail hair scraped into a ponytail and a mouth that chewed slowly like a cow munching on grass, her right arm hanging limp at her side, white wisps of smoke twirling upwards from the cigarette in her yellow tinged fingers. Her black skirt clung to her hips barely covering that which needs covering and her pink and blue polka dotted bra could be seen through her thin black blouse.
"Have you considered chewing tobacco, I think you'll find it satisfies both needs and I hear it is better for your lungs?" I politely suggested.
"Your rent is two weeks late!" she snapped back.
"Not possible, I'm afraid Miss Landen.", I answered.
"Shona!" she all but screeched back.
"Nope, no," I replied pensively ,"No, I distinctly remember -"
"What have you done to my door?!", she shrieked looking in horror at the light teal paint I had applied to the wooden door.
"It is rude to interrupt, Miss Landen."
       "Shona!" she screamed at me again, a deep guttural scream that made me jump. "And my floor!" she shrieked, throwing her hands to her cheeks in stereotypical shock and then wincing as the end of her cigarette burnt her cheek. "You have to ask the landlady before you replace any flooring, you know!"
      "Yes, I'm well aware of that." I screamed back at her, "but it's mahogany!"
      "I don't want hogs on my floor!"
       "Fine then," I humphed, "It's veneer anyway. Do you think I'd live here if I could afford mahogany flooring?! You can take the veneer off!".
       She slapped me.
       Hard.
       So hard, in fact, that I was smashed into the door, which shook violently on its hinges and made a loud creaking sound as I collapsed, quite astonished, against it. So hard, that my cheek felt like it was in a similar situation as Mr Fitzwarren, it prickled and burnt and stung and caused me to feel quite dazed. So hard, I dared not touch the throbbing hand shaped fire pit on my cheek as I lay against the door. No I am not a drama queen. Shut up.
     "I'm not taking anything off for you, sunshine," she bellowed pulling up her bra strap which had slipped down her shoulder.
       "Not that it would make a difference, Miss Landen. You're hardly wearing anything as it is," I mumbled gingerly touching my burning cheek.
      Miss Landen did not reply.
       I looked up.
       A new kind of horror had moulded itself into her face. Her eyes were wide and her pencilled eyebrows had shot up, her jaw hung loose and her tongue, behind her red painted lips, quivered in a silent scream. I wondered to myself whether she had taken against my Persian rug and was just about to chastise her for over reacting when she began to splutter.
       "You...you ....k-killed someone?"
       I swung myself around and there, indeed, was the black body bag  of Mr Fitzwarren. I cursed the inflammable blanket. If only it could have been pink or purple with green stripes or something other than black.
     "You...you killed someone," she muttered again, still transfixed by the cocoon. I bounced up to block her view of Mr Fitzwarren's medical procedure.
       "I grant you that's, indeed, what it looks like," I laughed nervously, "but, you see, it's not."
       "You KILLED someone!" she bellowed looking directly at my this time, eyes burning with accusation.
        "No. No no no no. I didn't. No, you see this is a medical procedure," I assured, "a-and a rather delicate one too, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
       "YOU BLOODY KILLED SOMEONE!!"
       "And that's my fault?!"
      "YES, IT'S YOUR BLOODY FAULT!!"
        "Say that again!" I shouted cupping a hand to my ear, "I don't think they heard you at the Sydney police station!"
        "Would you two stop shouting?" asked a quiet voice, making us both jump violently.
There on the rug stood Mr Fitzwarren, the remains of his clothes hanging in burnt tatters off his rosy pink skin, a small stream of steam rising off of his bald angry-red head.
Miss Landen's mouth plummeted, eyes bulging even more so ( if possible ) than when she had thought I had killed someone. She turned to me and I swallowed. "I am judging you, Mr Pete."
"Quite."
"Don't you 'quite' me. You've got a bald fat man with his...his...thing out -" she stammered gesticulating at the mildly astonished Mr Fitzwarren, "who just climbed out of a body bag. Your rent's going up, sunshine."
"Mmm. I do believe you have to go now, which is frankly just marvell- "
"Mr Pete?" piped up Mr Fitzwarren. He was standing on my rug gingerly patting his body as if he was quite astonished that it actually existed, "I don't believe it. But you seem to have cured me!" he looked up at me a huge happy beaming smile plastered across his burnt face.
" 'The HELL!?" Miss Landen bellowed at me questioningly.
"I believe the phrase 'this isn't what it looks -" . At that point Mr Fitwarren promptly combusted.
Miss Landen shrieked. A fearsome animalistic shriek of terror similar to that of an angry chimpanzee I must say. She turned on her heel and bolted, vertiginous heels clacking down the concrete steps causing her ankle to give way on the last step such was her haste. She virtually collapsed, but clasped onto the black metal railing as she fell and clung to it afterwards as if it were a buoy and she were floating out to sea such was the expression she pulled. However, she soon realised that the railing belonged to the house that the monstrosity she had witnessed was in and sprinted away again down the street. Never once looking back. Scream never once ceasing or losing its amplitude.
I beamed.
"That was terrific timing, Mr Fitzwarren. Truly splendiferous," I complimented as I locked the door and turned to face my patient.
He did not look happy.
Not one bit.
"FIYA!!!"
I sighed. "Truly, Mr Futzwarren I was actually I beginning to like you. You were far more civilised a few moments ago, but now you you appear to have gone back to your caveman impersonation."
"FIIIIIYYAAA!!!" Mr Fitzwarren screeched back indignantly.
"Yes, well done. Bravo. Good show," I clapped sardonically.
A dull knock came from the door. Slow and monotonous. But all the same like three terrific blows of a hammer and chisel to my skull. I yelled out in irritation.
I opened the door. "No." I stated firmly, before slamming the door in the person's faces and taking a few steps toward Mr Fitzwarren. I stopped mid step, heel on the floor but toes pointing upwards.
I opened the door once more. The sight on the door step was just as ridiculous as the one inside, for there stood a man on my doorstep...underwater. A large aquamarine wobbling bubble surrounded him, as well as a small shoal of fish that swum in colourful synchronised dance around him. His clothes billowed about him, his white shirt taking on a translucent quality so that the way his taught chest and stomach muscles spasmed in protest at their owner holding his breath could be seen. Invisible underwater currents rushed through his hair where a small crab perched, snatching out its claw when a bubble of the man's precious air floated up past it. The man's eyes were bugling helplessly and were they to be on land would no doubt be watering profusely, but seeing as they were not instead just blinked at me pleadingly.
It was as if all of a sudden someone had switched a light bulb on in my head. I suppressed a grin, the situation hardly called for it. "How do you feel about being experimental treatment?" I asked him.
The man made no reply.
"I'm afraid I'm going to need you're consent, sir."
The man looked pensive and confused at the same time a ridiculous look made even more ridiculous by the way his cheeks bulged and then hollowed repeatedly. Eventually he gave an exasperated shrug which I took to mean I guess so.
"Excellent!" I exclaimed reaching into his bubble and feeling the water ripple past my arm as I took ahold of his and pulled him into my house.
"Humble abode, yada yada," I commented gesturing to my living room and leading the thoroughly astonished underwater man by the arm, his water viscously sloshing up my arm, to Mr Fitzwarren.
"WATER!!"
"Water, yes, Mr Fitzwarren. Well done," I congratulated as I pulled the underwater man, who I had already started to think of as Larry ( goodness knows why ), into position. I pulled my arm out of the Larry's chillingly cold bubble and rubbed my hands together to try and return feeling to my deadened arm. "We have already tried removing oxygen, to little success, removing the fuel is impossible; so it stands to reason that the only possible solution left, the last necessity in the fire triangle - heat and the removing of it ought to work." I turned to the underwater man. He had begun to rather resemble a frog his eyes bulged so much. I would have dismissed this as the effects of holding his breath, but his eyebrows betrayed him, the man was a picture of terror.
I took pity on him and reached into the bubble to squeeze his pruned yellow hand. "You will be fine. Both of you," I added to Mr Fitzwarren.
I stepped back. "You're both going to save each other. How about a nice hug?"
Both men looked at me.
"Oh for goodness' sake!" I exclaimed and pushed Larry into Mr Fitzwarren.
With a hissing sound like a huge serpent the two men disappeared as a huge cloud of steam erupted from them.
Within seconds, the rest of my living room disappeared with them as the steam filled it and my room was transformed into limbo. I could see nothing but white and hear nothing but that sinister hiss. My heart panged against my chest. I had got this all terribly wrong hadn't I? Terribly terribly wrong. The inflammable blanket. Miss Landen may have been right. A body bag. I had failed. I had killed two patients. An unforgivable thing. And it was me. I did it. I pushed the underwater man, the man whose name is didn't even know. I killed them. It took ever fibre of my being not to collapse onto my knees and bury my head in my hands.
Then I heard a cough. And then a scuffling sound. My heart lifted, but I stopped it, I would not give myself false hope. The steam began to thin, block white becoming cloud, becoming mist and I saw them. Oh the relief.
"Mr Fitzwarren! Larry! Or whatever your actual name is!"
"Mr Pete!" declared Mr Fitzwarren equally enthusiastic, "Person I don't know!"
"Mr Pete I must thank you," enthused the now on-land man, eyeing Mr Fitzwarren warily before extending his hand and I clasped it, "Gideon Isel, I think I owe you my life."
"It's what I do, Mr Isel. By the way, I don't suppose you happen to know any good lawyers, my house insurance company and I don't get on very well,"