Davy Jones, Age 27, Endures Much Indignity
Lift the left one a little, and remember to please keep
this blue napkin over your penis. The woman operating
the ultrasound machine is visibly nervous in the presence
of a giant green sea-demon with his balls out. Davy rolls
eight eyes of various colors, adjusts his scrotum, covers
his dick with tissue paper. The liquid feels like Astroglide,
reminds him of his boyfriend, James, who he called an hour
or so before to say, I think I have nut cancer. Then, the wait
on a hard, plastic chair beside pregnant mothers, none of whom
recognized the devil of the sea, waiting silently, googling
testicular tumors on his iphone until the battery went dead.
And now, here he is: ten minutes of that cold, viscous gel,
and Davy is ready to drown every last soul in the hospital
until the woman says, Good news. It’s just a small cyst,
completely normal. He’s so relieved, he reaches up to wipe
a sweaty forehead with a tentacle, drops the napkin to the floor.
I don’t need to tell you how happy that makes me, Davy says,
and means it, even though he’s only vaguely smiling,
fishbone teeth protruding from his jaw, his every thought bent
once again on things that matter: vengeance, hell, high water.
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