A money sucking blood pit, that's all it is Mylin. You walk in there
and there's no fuckin way you're getting out in one piece. Not without a
new lampshade asshole cavity. Buy em up ship em out. You've got no
choice but to listen, I am your boss after all.
He was right. Brusque but to the point. A doctor was what he should have become,
barking orders at nurses and surgeons and people on their death beds.
Put a scalpel to his cranium wave, he might say, pretending to know
what the hell he was talking about. I knew a guy who pulled the
doctor con for sixteen years in small town Ontario. He drank his milk
out of a measuring cup and pissed on the nurses. Set up a practice
and pulled out before the heat could drop on him. It was a lot easier
to do that back then, before all the cameras went up everywhere. Some
might say you had a small piece of life to yourself, one that you
didn’t have to invent in order to survive. People were even free to
take advantage of it, bend the rules, improvise a bit. It’s just
how it was back then. A lady could run a modest drug ring while her
cousin might be turning tricks in an alley way. A rural guy might
have started something up in his field, a grow op, something simple
like that. The cops stayed away. They were more interested in
political crimes, things that jeopardized the sanctity of the state.
Of course, the doctor was apolitical, he told people it made his dick
soft. Nobody believed him. He was just too hated to muster anything
remotely political. He relied solely on his charm – which many
people saw directly through, some even said it disgusted them – and
the naivety of newcomers, of which there was a steady stream thanks
to the Landing Docks just a few clicks down the road.
By this point I was
powerless. I’d wasted my time on a piece of shit scheme with
nothing to show for it but this lowsy brass ring and a couple of mild
STDs.
This is part of an ongoing work of non-erotic autofiction outlining the real life and times of the author.
-Glen Davis
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