by Richie Drenz
Clivey thought he had passed the worst but the sickness was just starting. Baxside! It was the next day Clivey truly got sick. Poor thing, he passed his stool for four days straight. Stooled until he lost weight. Got slim. He fretted more about his bladder.
He put on an adult pampers under his cargo shorts and went back to Dr. Meikles and cursed her off. Because he was a Christian, he didn’t use any real bad words to the doctor, instead he said red-clawt and blood-material, even though he really wanted to light her up with some colourful ones, he held his tongue.
Clivey was so pissed he could have burst a blood vessel in his tongue. She had given Clivey the wrong pills.
Two multi-symptom Panadols could have solved his flu.
And the wicked woman gave him one well strong prescription with some big blue pill that nearly killed off poor Clivey. Suppose you saw the levels to which Clivey was sweating. Although it was kind of, sort of, Clivey fault too, why would he choose to take seven of the pills, one go?
But she was still wicked to him, or maybe he was wicked to himself. But the gentleman only had flu. Clivey thought, police need to lock up this lady and let him give her the sentence.
Clivey told Dr. Meikles that she better lawyer-up, because he had his lawyer on cock. And he was going for his. He would pursue the matter in court. He was going to press charges against her. This would be a legal lawsuit battle to the end against her malpractices. She nearly made him pass out all his bowels.
He remembered how many long hours he spent in the bathroom, having no control over his bowels.
He was sure when he would state all of these things in court to the judge that he would win the case. He told her the truth about his plans on how he’ll proceed, telling her.
”Mi a go sue you fi all a wha you nuh have, even if the Lord give you likkle blessings, mi ago sue you fi get that too. And if your husband give you any type a problem mi a sue you fi get dem deh too. You think mi a ramp wid you? Buy mi a spliff man.”
When she refused to buy him the spliff he continued to lash her, saying
“Even fi mi nuh sue you, the Lord ago tek back your blessing you too redclawt wicked.”
At that moment, when Clivey said redclawt, Dr. Meikles recognized that Clivey’s head was a bit frothy; dysfunctional. She prescribed an antidote for his watery belly operations. It was a large pink pill. She carefully explained to him how to administer the pill twice.
CHAPTER 7
HOW BERT GET THICK OVERNIGHT?
“Di secret ingredients you want know?”-“Yeah. Wha a di secret ingredients?”
Dr. Arnold was taller than Bert. Well groomed, had tattoos and unlike Bert, had a six pack instead of a gut. He had chiseled legs and very sculpted arms and chest. Bert knew it must be those physical attributes why Marj was tritely attracted to Dr. Arnold and chose to cheat on Bert with Mr. Musclehead. Now Bert had two options either he got thick too or murder Dr. Arnold. So Bert did the only thing he could do to keep his wife.
He decided that he was going to get rid of his gut first. Then he was going to get thick.
A flat belly man Marj like, well Bert was gonna get some very killer abs. Thick man Marj want a thick man she gonna get, Bert thought.
By tomorrow. No joke thing about that. Bert had the perfect plan that would get him thick by tomorrow in the evening hours.
Plus him ago start bathe. A that Marj love then not even water ago stop mi from winning her back, he thought.
That night, Marj dreamt that Bert was getting crowned on stage for being a second place winner in a bodybuilding contest. He had way too much muscle showing off onstage, He was posing in a tiny green speedo brief, a greatly wide grin and one arm hugging on tightly to an oversized trophy. Somehow Dr. Arnold made it into her dream that night too. She had never dreamt about his body or of him before. His whole body was oiled down in baby oil on stage. Maybe she had him on her mind, maybe she didn’t. Like Bert, Dr. Arnold also only had on a speedo brief on stage. She tried not to stare past his chest.
He won first place in the competition against Bert. Did she like the results? She didn’t know. She couldn’t say yes and she couldn’t say no. What could the dream have meant though, she pondered.
Bert’s body was oiled too and his muscles gigantic, bulbous and scary. Nothing cute about it. Bert had overdone the muscle-building like he was double-overdosed on steroids. His muscles looked way too extra. He tensed with all his might and every single over-grown muscles in his body were about to explode and every single vein in his eyes were soon to pop blood. Bert tensed even more.
But that wasn’t the worst part of her nightmare. The other frightening half almost killed her in her sleep.
It could never have been reality and it would never be either. Although she was beginning to believe in her dreams about Bert now more than ever. Why now? Because they all proved to be premonitions rather than dreams. Her mother had that gift too. But the more man her Mom took the lesser her ability was to get premonitions. No way would this premonition be her near reality. Would it?
In the dream, Bert had caused her to lose every single dollar out her account. They were dead broke. Then her nightmare got far worse.
She had absolutely no where to live, because Bert had burnt down their house. The house was in full blaze with big flames racing to reach the sky. She was trapped inside with thick fogs of smokes clogging her nostrils, burning her eyes. She couldn’t open her water-filled eyes fully. She squinted; bearing the burn of the smoke in her eyes, needing to see her way through the grey smoke in order to escape out of the sea of fire she was surrounded by. Though it was way above her head, the crackling sound of the fire expeditiously eating away the wood in the architecture of her roof sounded like it was as close to her head as a wearing a cap would be. The orange fire was speedily coloring the entire roof in raw flames. It made some deathly-sharp prickly-popping sounds in her ears. Every loud pop made her jump in fright. To her, that meant that the roof of fire could cave down on her and bury her from head to toe in any minute, any second now. Her skin felt like it was melting off, not from the fire from the roof, but the flames bathing the furniture. The furniture was soaked in fire. Parts of the shingle roof wrapped in a furious blaze fell from above, almost landing on her head. It was at her feet. The fire was about to drown her. The entire roof fell. She screamed out Bert’s name in her dream and snapped up out of bed. She woke up lunging for air, sweating, throwing the sheet off her body and thanking God it was only a dream.
She went to pee for the third time that night. What a horrific nightmare, she thought, that must have been the worse one she have ever had of Bert. Yet. She prayed it wasn’t a premonition. Prayed.
Tomorrow came and Bert was enjoying his juice. He took a sip from a lime green sprite bottle that had a yellow-cream-ish thick juice in it. Clivey was curious and thirsty.
“A wha deh sup’n deh you a drink? Mi know a nuh sprite in deh enuh.”
“How you know?!”
“Mi can see the colour through the bottle.”
Bert moved over on the bench further away from Clivey, hid the bottle and said,
“Yes a sprite. And it taste bad like expire egg. You woulda wicked to yourself if you want some a this yah taste bad sup’n …” He squeezed his eyes together sourly and said, “Mm-hhm, This taste sour you see,” and made a quick peep to see if Clivey was watching. Clivey was staring right at him; he shut back his eyes quickly. “Mmm-hmm, this taste bad eeeh Man.”
He opened his eyes. Clivey was staring right in his eyes. He said,
“Mi did a watch you enuh, mi ketch you when you did a peep.”
“Mi never did a peep, a to how the sprite spoil and taste bad it mek mi affi peep pon you when mi sour up mi face.”
“A nuh no sprite that. Sprite nuh suh thick.”
“Mi seh this taste bad you see Man.”
Clivey slid over closer to Bert on the bench, his eyes fixed on the bottle, the juice was cold, it had a standing ic
e in the middle surrounded by the yellow-cream-ish juice and the bottle sweating some see-through tricklets on the sides.
“A bet seh that nice. It look nice, Man. Shake up the ice in deh and gi mi some.”
“Gi you some a wha? You not even know a wha and you a beg. You too beggy-beggy.”
Clivey still didn’t take his eyes off the green sprite bottle as Bert put almost the entire neck of the bottle in his mouth and took three gulps of the thick cold juice.
Bert gave a sound of quenching relief when he removed the neck of the bottle out his mouth, “Awhhhh!” He shook his head two sides trying to bear the frostbite that numbed his brain, “Awwwh!”
Clivey’s mouth started to gather water. His desperation doubled to taste what was inside, so beggy-beggy Clivey begged persistently,
“Mi can get a drink please mi friend? You not even affi tell mi a wha, mi will drink it same way, just lock mi yeye and drink it same way suh. No questions ask.” Clivey started to give bay argument to get some of the cold juice, “Shake it up and pass it mi friend. Jesus loves you. Mi thirsty you see Man.”
“A something fi mek mi lose weight off a mi belly. Jesus loves you too.”
“Suh a wha dat then?”
“You know seh, is a powerful fart tonic weh mi bill.”
Clivey’s eyes lighted up.
“Bombawt!!! A wha?! Like a magic potion?”
“A fart tonic. It ago mek mi fart till mi weak today. A from morning mi a sip it.”
Clivey put down his hand. He wasn’t so enticed to drink the fart tonic, but still curious, he asked,
“A wha inna it?”
Bert stood up, took out a tape measure and wrapped it around his belly to see if any inches went off yet. It didn’t move. He said to Clivey,
“You see how mi fart tonic bad? A eight inches gone offa mi gut already enuh. Eight.”
“Red-clawttt!! A suh dat bad, a wha in deh?”
“Clivey you know seh you well want curse bad-word, stop it, you a Christian. You a bruck out?”
“Red-clawt a nuh bad-word. Which part inna the bible list out the bad-word dem weh nuh fi cuss? Fork out a wha inna da juice deh?”
Bert folded up back the reel of tape measure and casually asked,
“Di secret ingredients you want know?”
“Yeah. Wha a di secret ingredients?”
Bert corked the bottle, wrapped one set of fingers in a fist and counted out the ingredients, beginning with pointing out his big finger as number one from out of the fist.
“Quarter over-ripe, softy-softy banana.” He plucked out another finger.
“Some half-spoil milk,” he continued counting on his fingers as he listed out the ingredients.
“Pear from round a Ms. Karen shop, a pinch a bruck lock.” He paused then asked,
“You know bruck lock, right? . . .The brown something like chocolate weh mek you do-do if you constipated.” He reached his fourth finger and plucked out saying,
“Two oil nut seed.” Clivey nodded, Bert reached his little finger,
“Half pound lotion.” He went over to the other thumb and struck it out to continue counting.
“Two teaspoon a engine oil mix wid white rum fi warmmm up your belly, and plus some sardine blend up.” He looked straight into Clivey’s eyes not laughing and said,
“A suh mi mek the fart tonic. Right now it mek mi bottom feel dizzy and gaseous.”
“You mean gassy? Like you have gas?”
“Boooo Clivey! Booooo! Booooo!!! Mi nuh waan hear no correction.”
“But a the right thing mi a tell you. If you seh you gaseous that mean seh you a gas. You a gas?” Clivey asked, “But gassy mean you full a gas, get it?”
“Same thing dem, but gaseous sound nice.” Bert said, “If you know weh mi mean weh you a correct mi fa then? You love argument? You well and know mi naaw go tek the wrong and you still a correct people. Hsst.”
Bert shoved the sprite bottle towards Clivey’s chest and insisted,
“Eeeh, tek a drink and cool off Man, it good fi your immune system too.”
Clivey furnished his face with twisting wrinkles of disgust and said,
“Mi lose mi appetite, you one drink it.”
“Jah know, mi bottom feel dizzy, like it out fi faint.”
“What?” Clivey asked.
“Nothing, nothing.”
Then Bert felt the missile coming. This was it. Bert didn’t want Clivey to know that it was him who was about to ease his bottom, so before it even panned out, Bert stiffened his face then said to Clivey,
“Don’t do it enuh Clive-o. Don’t buss it yahso. You too nasty.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t ease your bottom. Remember you’re a child of God.”
Bert then cracked a double fart and stared dry-eyed at Clivey. Bert could feel the warm steam in the seat of his tights escaping into the atmosphere. It was pollution.
With his eyes even drier than before he stared right into Clivey’s eyes, not blinking nor even smiling and said, “The same thing weh mi beg you nuh do and a it you stand up right yahso and do Clivey. You fart too much fi Christian enuh. Your bottom weak?”
“Bert a you fart.”
“Mi??? God kill mi right yahso if a me fart.”
Clivey looked around and there was no one even close to them. Bert continued,
“Weh mi woulda just get up and a fart suh fi nothing fa?”
“Weh you just seh you a drink from morning Bert?”
Clivey looked good at Bert’s chest and something wasn’t the same.
He thought, No Man, something was wrong wid Bert’s chest. From you look at it you could see it. It was severely obvious and it didn’t look cute.
“Hey Bert, who do your chest suh?” Clivey asked, “Satan?”
“Hmm. Weh you a talk 'bout?” Bert was totally lost like a needle thrown outer space. Nothing was wrong with his chest as far as he was concerned. Clivey made sure to clarify his sexuality.
“Bert mi naaw admire your chest enuh, but why it look like suh?”
Bert was still confused. He didn’t have a clue what Clivey was talking about. As far as Bert knew, this morning he was thick. He asked,
“A how mi chest look?”
“So puff up and shape terrible? It shape bad. You have flu?”
Bert’s chest was twisted and hill-and-gully. Clivey realize that is must be old clothes or sup’n Bert push up under him blouse. Clivey narrowed his eyes and examined Bert’s chest properly from where he sat. He saw something looking like a piece of the sponge peeping up at the neck of Bert’s tight blouse. But Bert totally oblivious to the hill and gully in his chest that Clivey was talking about, Bert indifferently said,
“A suh mi chest stay. Mi a get thick from morning. No pills.”
“No Bert, mi know a nuh suh it stay. Mi know a sponge under deh fi buff up your chest. Mi a nuh idiot.”
Bert slammed down his fart tonic on the bench and said,
“You chat too much. A mi chest. A mi so-so chest.”
“A nuh your chest. Lift up your blouse mek mi see if a so-so chest under deh.”
Same time Clivey spotted the piece of sponge shifted up at the neck of his blouse. It was obvious now. A piece a sponge Bert have underneath deh. Bert replied,
“Weh mi a tell lie fa!” He kissed his teeth and blatantly said, “God kill mi right yahso ten time if mi a tell lie. A mi so-so chest under mi shirt. Mi a get thick.”
“How you so lie? You nuh see seh piece a di sponge a show a your collar?”
“Hsst . . . Which part a show?”
Clivey’s finger, the lick-pot-so sweet-finger, pointed just below his own neck, indicating to Bert where the sponge was peeping from.“Under your neck part like.”
Bert looked down and saw it. He couldn’t deny it. The sponge did a show. It was obvious.
“Lef' it, mek it tan . . .A me set it suh.”
“Bert you too lie. It don’t look good.”
&nb
sp; “It don’t look good to youuuu…. Marj love thick man though. So mi thick now.”
“But it lean.” Clivey was getting upset at how stubborn Bert was, why won’t he just take out the piece of sponge out his chest because it couldn’t fool anybody, Clivey thought, especially Marj, she was gonna see him bare-chest and see the piece a string weh strap down the sponge pon him chest and the big rabbit ears bow tie dem weh the string tie. Worse Bert black and the sponge was a different colour from him body. She a go know. Or at least Bert can set the sponge good.
“Just set it good then nuh Bert.”
“You deaf or somebody thump you inna your ears hole. Mi seh, a mi set it so. A style.”
Clivey couldn’t stand to see it like that, it was irritating him, he suggested,
“Push it over likkle then.”
“Jesus Man, you annoying eeh. Mi seh a suh mi want it fi lean. You chat too much. You fi see and blind and hear thief.”
Clivey automatically corrected Bert.
“You mean hear and deaf?”
“Clivey you ever see the auto-type pon iPhone yet, you can look pon mine.”
“Yes mi know auto-type.”
“You see how it annoying when you a type sup’n and it a correct you every minute like you a idiot and nuh know weh you want type seh?”
“Hmm.” Clivey nodded, “But a nuh ‘auto-type’ it name a ‘auto-correct’ and mostly when mi a type inna patois but . . .” Bert cut off Clivey to tell him the truth.
“A suh you annoying. ‘Cause see you all still a correct mi. You annoying bad.”
Clivey’s face changed to a look of embarrassment or insult. Bert felt away about it, maybe touched and sorry for hurting Clivey’s feelings so he dressed it up so it doesn’t sound that bad.
“But not exactly like the Auto-type.” Cho Man, speak the truth yaaw Bert, his conscience told him, no bother lie, tell him how him annoying, so Bert did. “You worse than the auto-type by tongue and teeth and foot. ‘Cause you a walk and a talk and a argue wid people bout weh dem waan seh. You come like one Big walking talking auto-type. Stop look pon mi suh like you waan mi fi sorry fi you. You a auto-type? A might jook you inna your yeye.”
“No. Is auto- correct a the right word fi …” Clivey cut his words and didn’t bother to correct Bert again. It was the same thing Bert was warning him about. Bert asked Clivey,