Knocking Around Inside My Head: Weekend Write-In

Is He Fast? (#fast)

"How bad is it?" ask Clyde, his voice weak and hoarse. He lay on his back on the dusty trail, his hair matted to his head, his face streaked with grime.

Abe tried not to let his voice waver as he pulled off Clyde's boot, but the stench overwhelmed him and he fought back nausea. "It's not good brother, I'm not going to lie," he said. The foot was black. Something white squirmed where the second toe should have been.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," whined John peeking at the foot while lifting his water canteen to Clyde's dry lips.

"How long have you been here?" asked Abe pulling up Clyde's pant leg to reveal a red and massively swollen ankle.

"I'm not sure," answered Clyde, "two or three days? I've been fadin' in and out."

Abe rose, looking resigned. "I'm going to get the surg...help," he quickly added glancing down at Clyde and John. "Give him as much whiskey as you can," he said giving John a nod.

John turned without a word and started digging through his pack for the flask. 'He didn't complain about sharing the whiskey,' thought Clyde, 'Oh God it must be bad.'

Abe returned three quarters of an hour later with the surgeon who wore a darkly stained leather apron and carried a wooden case. He knelt down beside Clyde's foot.

"No," screamed Clyde, whiskey dribbling down his face. "No, no, no!" He attempted to scoot back on his elbows. John held his shoulders and tried to hush him.

"You were right," said the surgeon brusquely to Abe as he glanced down at Clyde's foot. "Sit on his knee and hold it tight," he instructed Abe without making eye contact with Clyde. "You," he glanced at John, "lie across his chest."

"Is he fast?" whimpered Clyde. His voice was barely audible, and his eyes pleaded with John as John leaned his weight across him.

"Fastest in the state," replied the surgeon without looking up while he opened his case. "My record is twenty-seven seconds." Saw in one hand, he handed John a stick. "Put this in his mouth." John's hand shook but he did as he was told.

A scream filled the air.

"Unch...e...out," Clyde cried, eyes bulging from their sockets.

"No need, all finished." The surgeon was already cleaning his saw with a dirty rag. He placed both back in the case and closed it. "See." He held up the gangrenous extremity by the big toe.

The disintegrating tendons elongated and the blacked digit slowly separated from the foot which landed in the dirt with a dull thud. It was followed by a second and third thud as Clyde and John's heads hit the ground. Abe turned and vomited.

The surgeon stood, picked up his case, and turned to leave. "I know you boys don't have any money to pay me," he said as he walked away. Not waiting for an answer, he continued, "Come when the pigs are ready for slaughter...you can keep some of the sausages." Abe watched him disappear around the corner and glanced down at his friends, both passed out cold. He picked up the flask and desperately shook the last few drops of whiskey in his mouth.