Sawbones
By @Za
Chapter Three
9:15 AM. I’m still winding down from the euphoria of torturing Scooter. I don’t have another appointment until 10:00 AM, so I have time to enjoy myself for a bit. “I Want a New Drug” by Huey Lewis & The News plays, a song of theirs I have never heard. It’s clearly a love song, but to me it symbolizes something much greater. I’ve found a new drug, something that has given me a greater high than anything I’ve ever felt. Guts. Gore. The power to play God to a helpless victim. I’ve never been one for romance or passion, yet I would go so far as to say I’m in love with the taste of fluffy. It’s a curious sensation, and one I wish I could replicate. However, the only places that eat fluffies are peculiar East Asian countries. I considered the practice unseemly until today. Now, I’m salivating at the thought of the creature’s flesh. I must experience that flavor again.
I take some time to review the chart for my next patient, Goldie. She’s an especially fat little fluffy. White fur, golden mane, sparkly blue eyes. This fluffy would certainly fetch a hefty price. The only thing Goldie loves more than eating is her owners, and maybe having her mane braided. As I understand it, she’s coming to the office today for her little weight problem. The notes section simply says “no treatment preference.” That leaves me with a surplus of options. Gastric bypass, gastric band, sleeve gastrectomy… or something a bit more unorthodox. I feel my stomach growl despite my lingering fullness from breakfast.
Let’s see what her likes and dislikes are. She’s notably vain, fond of fettuccine alfredo rather than spaghetti, and likes to count. She is upset when her appearance is insulted, she has a fear of the dark, and… oh, how interesting. Her chart has a section for allergies.
So it appears that she’s allergic to our usual anesthetic. That’s no trouble, we have a secondary method of anesthetic for patients with allergies. The only issue is that it has to be administered via two shots, one to put you under and one to properly numb you up. Well, that’s an issue for Goldie. I have no issues stabbing her twice.
9:30 AM. I make idle chitchat with Dr. Park. He’s a kindly older gentleman of Asian heritage. Vibrant Valley Animal Hospital is actually his practice, and he was kind enough - or foolish enough, depending on your perspective - to allow me to work for him. But he does not know me. He does not know Joseph. Only Dr. Lane. And it shall remain that way.
9:45 AM. I prepare my instruments and operating table for Goldie’s arrival. I hear a commotion in the other room. Two sets of crying, and a frantic mother. There you are, my next victim.
I waltz out into the waiting room, once again enshrouding myself in that detestable facade.
“Well, hello! You must be the Carmichael family.”
I shake the mother’s hand. She seems pleasant enough, a homely thirty-something blonde with too-tired eyes. I look down to see Goldie sitting and hugging her equally-chunky owner, a little girl no older than nine.
“Ah, this must be Goldie. And what’s your name, miss?”
The sniffling girl wipes her tears away, introducing herself as Makenzie. I tousle her hair with a reassuring smile.
“You’re not gonna hurt Goldie, are you?” she asks. Goldie buries her eyes into Makenzie’s shirt, not daring to look at me. What a pathetic creature, unworthy of even the slightest bit of contempt.
“Of course not! I’m going to do a very safe procedure that will allow Goldie to live a longer, happier, healthier life!”
I pat her on the shoulder, looking at Goldie as she finally turns to face me. Her innocent blue eyes shimmer with trust yet unbroken.
“In fact, she’ll be able to run and play more than ever! You two will have a blast, I’m sure.”
Goldie gives a shy smile, getting down onto her hooves from a sitting position.
“Otay nice mistah doctow,” she speaks up. “Gowdie wan pway wif mummah Kenzie 'gain.”
I grin, clasping my hands together.
“Wonderful!”
I speak quickly with the mother. I explain my chosen procedure, a sleeve gastrectomy, and the few associated risks. She seems contented with this, and I take Goldie back as she waves to Makenzie.
9:55 AM. Goldie is placed down on her back, wiggling her legs as the cold of the steel table permeates her fluff.
“Brr, tabwe am cowdies,” she complains.
I do not even regard her with a nod. Her legs are buckled down as she squirms fearfully.
I shave the fluff on her stomach, collecting it all neatly in a garbage bag. I wash my hands again. I refuse to have this filthy substance contaminate my sanctuary. The shaving is necessary, but I shaved more than was required just to see her cry over it.
“NUUUUU! Nu take pwetty fwuff! Gowdie hatechu!”
I prepare my musical selection while she sits there, straining against the straps and shouting.
“Dummeh doctow! Gowdie nu wike! Nu wan suwgewy nu mo-”
“Quiet.” The demand comes sharply, silencing her instantly. “Or I’ll shave you completely.” I jab a syringe into her hindquarter, pushing the sleeping agent in slowly. This will knock her out soon. I’d better get on with my presentation.
My symphonic accompaniment arrives through the speakers as I bop slightly to the beat.
“Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear,”
Goldie looks me over with trembling, fearful eyes as my lips unfurl into a devious grin.
“And it shows them pearly white,”
“M-mistah doctow?”
“Just a jackknife has old MacHeath, babe,”
“Wai gib Gowdie huwties? Gowdie am… sweepies,” she yawned. “Nu am dawk time, nu wan…”
“And he keeps it, ah, out of sight,”
She doesn’t know what awaits her. I’m concealing a scalpel behind my back, if only for theatrics.
“You know when that shark bites with his teeth, babe,”
My mouth begins to salivate simply imagining the initial bite into Goldie’s tender flesh.
“Scarlet billows start to spread,”
I slice her stomach open in one swift motion, causing her to scream. Very well, I can explain that away as her getting scared by the tools. I suppose I knew this would happen, but my heart just couldn’t bear to put her under without an ounce of fear.
“Fancy gloves, oh, wears old MacHeath, babe,”
I wouldn’t call nitrile particularly fancy, but… oh, how peculiar. I haven’t put my gloves on. I’ll do so after Goldie is asleep.
“So there’s never, never a trace of red,”
That… is what the gloves are for, yes.
“Now on the sidewalk, huh, huh, whoo sunny morning, un huh,”
It was actually a bit overcast today.
“Lies a body just oozin’ life, eek,”
Goldie was certainly bleeding a bit. Being cut open does tend to cause bleeding.
“And someone’s sneakin’ 'round the corner,”
I show her my knife, twirling it carefully between my fingers.
“Could that someone be Mack the Knife?”
10:00 AM, sharp. Goldie is on the table, her bulbous form splayed out and unconscious. I’ve queued a selection of music from Weird Al Yankovic, after that classic from Bobby Darin. I’m not the biggest fan of comedic music, but even I like Weird Al. First up on the docket is Fat, a parody of Michael Jackson’s Bad. Very befitting of Goldie.
I scowl at the sight of this worthless, lumpy, formless freak of a fluffy. I hate how unshapely she is. It bothers me. In contrast to my perfectly organized instruments, she is a stain upon this operating room. She will pay for it.
Behold, the delicate entrails once again. I reach in and fish around a bit, coating myself up to the wrists in her blood. It’s liberating, bathing in the life essence of a smaller, weaker beast. Small lungs to breathe in the air, to help her run and play. Tiny intestines and kidneys, likely explaining why fluffies have terrible bowel and bladder control. And up in that fragile skull, a little brain full of innocence ripe for destruction.
Her organs. Her flesh. I crave it. I require it.
I grab her stomach and hastily hack off a piece, popping it in my mouth. Such flavor… the chew is like that of calamari, but the flavor is more akin to pork.
What’s coming over me? I need to focus.
I proceed with the rest of the surgery, still chewing the savory bit of Goldie I stole away. I slowly and deliberately remove another portion of Goldie’s stomach. I’ll be leaving a small sleeve rather than a large stomach, hence the name. Each chew of Goldie’s stomach sends a tingle from the base of my spine throughout my body. Once I’m done, I’ll be closing up the stomach with staples and sealing her chest cavity back up similarly.
I push her legs away from me as I make slower, more precise incisions. It’s a pain trying to keep my hand steady when she’s kicking at my arm, but- wait, what? Kicking?
Oh shit, oh fucking shit.
I forgot to properly sedate her.
I drop my scalpel, scrambling to find my anesthesia.
Oh Christ, this isn’t good.
Underutilizing anesthesia, as I did for Scooter, is one thing. But not administering anesthesia at all can cause serious psychological trauma. For which I would be culpable. I need to get this fat freak properly put under, and quickly.
Fat, worthless cunt and her goddamn allergies.
I dig through my surgical tray, tossing aside all manner of implements. Scissors, gauze, stapler, various things. There it is!
I stab the second syringe into her, albeit a bit less gracefully. The gentle kicking of her unconscious mind reels back into silence and stillness.
I look now at everything that’s happened. The cut in Goldie’s stomach is crooked and uneven. I never remembered to put my gloves on, so there’s bloody handprints all over everything. Half of my instruments are on the floor.
I finish the procedure without any further incident. I’m too rattled to even eat Goldie’s stomach. I throw the pieces away with little hesitation.
I look down at the fluffy unconscious upon my operating table. I grab her by her fat fucking throat and punch her in the face, eliciting nary the slightest reaction. I feel far better now, though.
I push out the door of the OR as Eliza looks me up and down, confused and frightened.
“Wh-”
“We had a mishap,” I interrupt. “The fluffy is okay. Give the owners my best regards. I have to go. Get that mess cleaned up.”
I begin to rush away, stopping quickly to append a “please.” Then I barrel past her and into the employee restroom, washing my hands and face until no blood remains. Until no bloodlust remains. For now.
My reflection was no longer any kind of facade. There was hardly a shred of Dr. Lane left. Joseph stared back.
“Pull yourself together, man. We can’t falter here.”
In my career, I have performed over 800 successful procedures. I am a well-respected fluffy veterinarian with accolades from animal rights societies and medical facilities alike. I am beloved in my community, despite my lack of a real personality.
I have worked hard for this.
I deserve to do what I do.
11:30 AM.
Almost lunchtime.
I need to relax.
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