I will occasionally introduce a little truth into my stories in order to keep them fresh but this tale, I’m sorry to report, is a whole boatload of true. I’m not sure how to even introduce this story, that’s how true it is.
I awoke in the middle of the night, still slightly intoxicated I will admit, with some intestinal distress. Having digested nothing different from the norm that evening my mind swam as to why I was suddenly get the cold sweats and feeling the need to relieve myself of some tremendous burden. Without thinking I rolled to the edge of the bed and stood up, intent on making the trip to the bathroom and back without getting myself fully awake. It must have been this combination of stomach trouble and sleepiness that didn’t alert me to the fact that I couldn’t feel either of arms. They were hanging off my body like two dead things.
That’s when I felt the pain. I know you are, much like myself, sick to death of people comparing some pain to getting shot but I swear on all that is holy I looked down at my belly and was completely surprised to see that it was hanging open as a result of a gunshot wound. It was so obvious that the bullet had entered my back near my spine and passed through all the plumbing that a phantom ringing started in my ears. As evidence of the degree to which I was overcome with pain my legs both buckled and I crumpled to the floor.
I thought I was dying.
The only thing a reasonable man would do at a time like that would be to get to a phone and call 911. Being nothing if not reasonable I attempted to put that very plan into action when I realized that getting up off the floor without the use of your arms is damn near impossible. An inhuman cry left my lips as I tried to flop back on top of my bed like a spawning salmon but try as I might I couldn’t make it happen.
The grudging respect for snakes that was beginning to grow in my breast was interrupted nearly a dozen times by the feeling of a large sword being driven through my midsection. Not a dagger or knife, as sick as of those analogies as you are, but a great sword. The type usually associated with Vikings and other men of violence.
I’m being especially descriptive because these days it seems that what you read and what you get are sometimes two entirely different things. Take for instance clear plastic wrap. I usually buy a brand name clear plastic wrap and when I apply it to some dish that needs to be stuck in the microwave it clings with the enthusiasm of a drowning person holding on to a life preserver at sea. Not so the budget clear plastic wrap I recently procured. It was indeed clear and I assume that it was some sort of plastic but it didn’t have the slightest inclination to cling to anything. It sat on top of my dish in a relaxed posture that seemed immune to my attempts to mold it. As soon as my hands released the pressure it immediately resumed laying atop the dish in a very lazy, dare I say arrogant, way.
And if I am to be honest here, I am the closest thing you’re going to find to a budget writer. Hence the need for me to be as clear as I can: it was a great sword that was being thrusted in and out of my midsection … not a knife.
It was at this time that I felt certain that it was curtains for one Lance Manion. Unable to use my arms and being violated by some ghostly blade I began to sob to myself. I was now like the salmon you see sluggishly flopping around after it has delivered its payload and is now coming to terms with its own mortality. While I am no stranger to looking pathetic, it was certainly a low point.
And that’s when I farted.
I say farted, but it was no mere fart. I had never, nor will ever, fart like this again. It was more like a groan escaping my ass. Everything was wide open. From the right angle you could probably have looked into my ass and seen a little light from my throat. Papers slowly floated down on the other side of the room. And then I could feel my arms. And then, as quickly as it began, the great sword abruptly stopped its assault. All that was left to remind me of the incident were the tears slowly making their way down my face and a nose full of snot.
Well, that and the horrified-looking girl slowly getting out of my bed and collecting her things. No words were needed. She’d seen everything, which was ironic given that my first few attempts at finding love were with blind girls. Apparently I’d misunderstood the expression.
But that’s another story.