You Morbid Westphal

by Reverend Steven Rage

  “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’.

  Westphal drove home from the hospital, nursing his beaten, swollen face. His bite wounds were bleeding out and leaking through the bandages. The tip of his bit dick hurt like fucking crazy.

  He stopped briefly at a red light and sat there with his head spinning and not even remotely in a good way.

  The tears were slow at first and then fell easy as you please. They fired him. The hospital finally gave him his walking papers and all because he tried to defend himself. But he engaged in a physical altercation with a male member of Mrs. Fussbudget’s family and the dude beat the shit out of him right there in the hallway outside of Mr. Whistlebottom’s office. And the irony is that Westphal had never taken care of her.

  I’m a back door man, you fucking liar.

  He’d never even seen her before, but she accused Westphal of abuse and her family bought it. The fist fight was enough to spark what the hospital had been itching to do for a while now. They just needed the fire to be lit.

  The licensing board will, most likely, pull his card and now he has no income to take care of Sammy and Chip.

  The light turned green and Westphal put on the gas, trying to get home fast. He had an emergency plan which should give them some room. He was hoping to call Steele and see if he would be willing give him some cash for Westphal’s film debut. He somehow doubted it, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

  Baring that spontaneous and dubious plan, Westphal would then try to get Steele to buy back most of his drug buffet package. He’d never in all the years he bought from the dealer tried to sell anything back. He was hoping on his good nature and his understanding of extenuating circumstances to let him cut a motherfucker a break.

  Even if Steele insisted on a wholesale buy-back, Westphal figured he could still accomplish two important things. Namely to get cash for rent, food and whatnot for the couple of months his license will be inactive and to drastically cut down his drug use to regain his health and to pass the inevitable piss tests that were sure to follow.

  Yeah, he could still make it, he thought. He would just need a couple of lines when he gets home to, you know, let him think and plan his attack. Sobriety should not be taken lightly or without much forethought.

  Westphal pulled into his parking spot; killed the motor. He went as fast as the mounting pain in his entire body would allow to his front door. At which point he was stopped cold. Westphal’s front door was busted right off of the hinges.

  He went tentatively inside and the place was a fucking wreck. Sammy was there in an instant, begging forgiveness, looking like 95 kilos of raw shit. Westphal couldn’t believe it. He could hardly see his Dad, because Sammy was barely there. It was if he’d been killed, which was really saying something; being that he was already dead.

  Sammy was literally shredded to pieces with big gouges missing and his lingering life force was leaking away at an alarming rate. The ghost was trying to keep all of his remaining life force together by constantly scooping up the spilling essence and trying to paste it back onto his center.

  “Jesus, Sammy,” Westphal asked, stopping right inside the front door, “what happened?”

  Sammy told him in fits and starts, looking tired and ragged, “I tried to stop him, kiddo, I swear, but he was Dark and he just beat da tar outta me, Westie, couldn’t stop him,” he said, crying now and almost faded completely from view, “I’m so sorry, Son, I know how much you loved da little guy.”

  Westphal’s heart nearly stopped then.

  “Loved?”

  Past tense, dipshit: As in no mas.

  He turned from the remnants of Sammy and his hand-wringing and looked at the message on the living room wall. It was from Shirk. It read:

  “BE SEEING YOU!”

  And it was written with the crushed remains of Chip.

  Westphal could see, as he stepped closer, fingers and eyes, bits of tissue, tiny organs, fuck oh fuck oh no…

  Westphal collapsed to his knees and howled and howled until he went all the way dark and black and mute and nothing mattered at all any more. Then he pitched face first into the floor, and began crawling as best he could, to the bathroom and the medicine cabinet.

  I’m coming, Westie!

  Sammy didn’t know what to do and there wasn’t anyone else to answer for him. He didn’t know how t
o help Westphal, but when he heard the big box that his son kept under the sink get ripped into; he figured correctly what was next. He did his damnedest to dial 911, but he couldn’t drum up the life force to dial out the emergency number.

  It would have been deadly, save for Morbid. He came into the apartment at a dead run. He surveyed the damage and then found Westphal. He was the one who was able to call for help. He heard the sirens as they neared, Westphal having swallowed countless pills and snorted the whole baggie of heroin.

  Sammy watched this scary looking guy try to save his son’s life and that was good enough for him. He let himself wink out as the sirens got closer, having nothing else to give, crying still as he dissipated into nothingness.

  Westphal stopped breathing and only Morbid remained. He grabbed the loaded syringe gift from Shirk as it lay on the bathroom floor. He stuck it in his pocket. Morbid went digging into the medicine box and prepared a little kit of goodies for himself. Now, he was ready. He knelt down beside Westphal and opened the dying fuck’s mouth, just as wide as you please.

  Then Morbid dove, head-first right down Westphal’s vomit filling throat. His feet clicked past Westphal’s teeth and disappeared, just as the first fire truck arrived.

  Chapter Fourteen

  MORBID UNLEASHED

  Here Comes The Train

  Morbid stayed put until Westphal’s resuscitators vanished down the hall of Harborside District Hospital. He made damned sure they were far from the room before leaving his impromptu womb. Morbid waited inside his body, deep down in the gastro-intestinal tract, curled up in Westphal’s stomach.

  God, he couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of this junkie loser piece of shit and now it was time. Imagine: trying to commit suicide like he was a fifteen year-old girl who was just dumped by the star quarterback. Jesus, Westphal was such a fucking pansy.

  He stretched open the esophagus and slowly crept carefully past the breathing tube sitting securely in his trachea. The mouth was taped all to fuck, so Morbid was forced to seek the exit through Westphal’s nose, specifically the left nare. He squeezed ever so painful slow out of his nose, almost choking the new life out of himself in the process, but made all the way out.

  He then sat cross-legged and winded on Westphal’s chest, trying to catch his breath, taking the air in mellow and deep, thinking now only of her. Westphal may not be allowed to see her, but Morbid can do whatever he pleases and God help anyone trying to stop him.

  She was all that remained, all he had left to accomplish before the three of them came together and commenced the final act of their atrocious play.

  After placing Shirk’s syringe down in one of Westphal’s pockets, Morbid climbed off of him, over the bed rail and went again into the bathroom. Time bent its back in its unending circle, this time to clean the vomit and snot instead of fecal filth off of him.

  Morbid cleaned as quickly and as thoroughly as his limited time allowed. He untied Westphal’s physical retraints and turned the intravenous sedation down way low. Morbid will need Westphal awake soon. Once he was, the junkie-fuck will know just where to go and just what to get. And then Morbid will let him know what he must do to square his debts and balance the books.

  Having accomplished his self-cleaning and prepping Westphal, Morbid had his own agenda to satisfy, and fuck me was she gonna get the full-pull, I shit you not.

  Morbid was all ready to seek out his quarry. He went to the door to Westphal’s hospital room, opened it just a touch, and looked carefully all around, making sure the coast was clear. After making sure it was so, Morbid crept down the long empty hospital corridor with one of your useless IV bag poles dragging behind him.

  Whenever he encountered a staff member he made sure he looked strong on his feet, but mumbled nonsense to himself. The staff smiled absently at him, resuming their focus on whatever brought them his way.

  He found her room, way down at the end of the long hall. He pretended to take a long drink at the water fountain there, waiting for a couple of technicians to quit yapping about their respective weekend exploits and move the fuck on. When they finally did, Morbid was at her door and finally alone. After spying no one about, he spun into her room.

  Mrs. Fussbudget lay sleeping. He was so very happy to see her again.

  Leave her alone.

  Morbid knew, without a doubt; that she wouldn’t be.

  Please, make him leave her alone.

  Morbid saw the old woman, lying still and unmoving in her hospital bed. She was completely alone, no relatives anywhere to be seen. Since Westie got shit-canned from her room, they all thought that their precious grand-mama was as safe as a virgin in a nunnery. Oh, well: the best laid plans of mice and men.

  She had eyes closed, a tube in her throat. Mrs. Fussbudget’s face was soft, sleeping peacefully. She was recovering marvelously now, her breathing triggering the machine, augmenting her placid flow of air.

  The vast network of deep wrinkles attested to her longevity, her hard fought time on this Earth. They ran from under salt and pepper wig. Morbid longed to touch them, to run his fingertips down through the grooves. He wanted to trace them down from her eyes to her cheeks and further to the jowls. Follow them down to her blow-hole and circle it around, around again and around.

  Instead, he just stared at her. Morbid thought she was just lovely. He was tempted to rush in, but not yet. Not before it’s perfect. Morbid must first ready himself.

  He went quickly out, while Mrs. Fussbudget was still snoozing peacefully, and checked the hallway one more time. It was quiet, none about. He re-shut the door to her room and made a bee-line for the bathroom. Morbid shut and locked the door.

  The light was so harsh and the mirror unbecoming, but both were necessary. Morbid brought out his small kit. He laid out the vials of powders he got from home, and his multi-dose bottle of normal saline and a short syringe with its tiny, ultra-sharp needle he took from work.

  Morbid knocked out a bit of both white powders, added a third bit of finely ground blue powder, and put them all in a wide-mouthed empty vial. He squirted a couple milliliters of saline onto the three powders, prepping two, maybe even three doses. Morbid sealed the top and shook the holy hell out of it.

  Morbid knew the potent mixture would not completely dissolve and there was no time or opportunity to provide the melting powers of heat. Instead, he rolled up a ‘two-by-two’ clean gauze pad and stuffed it into the opening of the mixture vial.

  Morbid removed the cap and stuck the needle into the impromptu filter. He pulled back on the plunger, sucking up light blue liquid into the syringe. Then he turned back to face the mirror and the bright light.

  Morbid shook with longing. He knew Mrs. Fussbudget lay sleeping and waiting. He needed to step it up a bit. He opened up his mouth wide, lifted the furry fungoid tongue. Morbid saw the blue veins, leaning into the mirror. Morbid slid the sharp needle under his tongue, through the pink flesh and into a waiting vein. Morbid pushed in his medicine. He pulled out the needle, held his head back.

  Here comes the train…

  With ears ringing and doll eyes growing, Morbid packed up his goody bag. He worked through the rush, humming through his noise, happily swallowing blood, the horrible pain fading, crawling back under its rock. He put all the necessaries neatly away and was ready to do the light fandango, takes two to tango, dance of morbid love.

  He turned off the light and left the bathroom, closed the door.

  She was still sleeping as he came to her.

  “Mrs. Fussbudget,” Morbid whispered in quiet honey croon. His jingling fingers a-tingly, “I just want you to taste me.”

  She awoke and blessed Morbid with a quickly fading smile. She vigorously shook her head in the negative, reaching for the nurse call button.

  “Looking for this?” Morbid asked her, holding it just out of her reach.

  Mrs. Fussbudget began to cry and the way she defiantly balled up her arthritic fists made Morbid joyfully soar on eagle’s wings.

>   He showed her what he held in his other hand. It was a big suction hose line and the negative pressure was sucking on full. Morbid, with a viper’s speed, attached the suction to Mrs. Fussbudget’s open trachea tube and began to suck the life right out of her.

  “I think I love you, madam,” he admitted to her as she punched and flailed at him with all of her might. “I’m going to show you just how much.”

  Mrs. Fussbudget finally quit flailing and carrying on so. She was turning blue and cold and still. Morbid removed the suction from her airway.

  With one quick tug of the string, his scrubs dropped to the floor.

  “Now that you decided to behave yourself,” he told her, “we can begin.”

  Morbid lifted himself up over the rail and into Mrs. Fussbudget’s bed. He lifted her gown. He ran his fingers upward. Morbid was glad that she was still warm. He began to work her over.

  Oh my God, you sick fuck.

  Chapter Fifteen

  COMING TO TERMS

  No Joke

  The sound of Westphal’s two-way snapped him back to center. He was standing at the front entrance of Harborside District Hospital. It looked to be late at night, with hardly a soul around. He was dressed in an odd combination of a patient gown, his uniform scrub bottoms and an old sweat shirt from home. He looked down at his feet and they were bare.

  Westphal knew instantly where he was, but he couldn’t figure out for the life of him why. He knew he shouldn’t be here. Westphal didn’t work here anymore.

  Westphal remembered that the management of this hospital had finally fired him after an incident with a patient and a family member. His face still hurt from the confrontation and he remembered being sent home. They fired him and he became despondent when he saw what Shirk did to Chip, he remembered that. And then didn’t he open up his shoe box at home and take a ton of dope all at once? And then he got sick. Yes, yes, he was sure of it.