by Eric Robinson
“I love you Laura,” he said, lips puckered, leaning in for a kiss. I’m sitting still on the park bench trying not to look at him, testing to see if I have an ostrich complex. His hand reaches behind my head and he tries to remove my red suede fedora. Ostrich complex is a no go.
“Laura,” he whispers again.
“Stop calling me that!” I replied and avoided his smooch. I wish and close my eyes. When I open them my stalker turns into a large paisley. I call the authorities and two weeks later the keystone cops arrive on the scene and arrest him.
“Glad to be of service, Laura,” the chief says as the other officers cuff the paisley and throw him in the back of a clown cop car.
“That’s not my name!” I protest. The chief says I should get some serious mental help. I close my eyes and wish. When I open them the chief turns into a harmless wombat. I kick it hard and send it over the setting sun. The other cops chase me. I lay on my back and at my whistle my zoot suit sprouts wheels. I peel out and drive away. The coppers chase after me.
Two more weeks pass and the keystone cops catch up to me. They tackle me and beat me with spatulas while reciting my rights. “You have the right to be named Laura!” they yell as they bludgeon me. I close my eyes and wish. When I open them the policemen beating me turn into fuzzy kitties and toasted almonds. I stroke the kittens and smile fuzzily, then eat the almonds, all while bleeding profusely. Then I run/limp away.
I hide out for two weeks, and soon regret eating the toasted almond cops.
They change back to their original state in my stomach as I’m driving to my hideout- a nonchalant vacant old farmhouse located on the roof of a sketchy high-rise apartment complex in the lower eastside. My zoot suit handles like a ’57 Chevy. I’m nearly there and I feel what I assume to be a massive gas bubble brewing when all of the sudden my abdomen explodes. I swerve like a madman and hit a pole. My whole lower half has separated from my upper, the clown cops roll lifelessly down the street covered in gore. I manage to crawl back to my legs and naughty bits. A crowd gathers. I hear sirens approaching from far off. A Boy Scout duct tapes me back together and I leave the scene of the accident walking awkwardly, zoot suit covered in blood.
Two weeks later I make my way to a hospital for fugitives. You have to pay upfront, I’m out of currency. I ask the doorman if I can pay in hugs, he says sure. We hug for several tender moments. He lets me inside.
I sit in the waiting room for two weeks then pass out from blood loss. The last thing I see is the furry spider sitting next to me in a typical waiting room plastic chair. It’s massive, fangs the size of bananas. He has a cigarette in his mandible, he asks me for a light. I tell him I don’t have one and if he would be so kind as to not eat me. His response is an insulted glare. Blackness.
Coma for two weeks.
When I wake up I’m seeing myself from the third person. Very odd.
My body is totally wrapped in thick bandages and all manner of tubes and hoses protrude from the massive cast. They’re all hooked into a refrigerator. A doctor walks in, his body is a life size Ken doll. Its joints move rigidly, face frozen in a suave plastic smile.
He checks my vitals for two weeks and then says: “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, Laura-“
“That’s not my name!” I discharge angrily, not quite sure how I can vocalize under all the bandages though.
The doctor turns and faces where I’m seeing myself from. “Look, I don’t know what this ‘Laura’ business is all about, but if you’d let me speak…”
“The damned Laura business is that everyone keeps calling me Laura!” I’m slowly steeping into a rage. “You can’t just stand there and deny that you called me Laura!”
The Ken doll stares at me, a question mark atomizes above his head.
“Well, anyway, unfortunately your body got pretty badly beat up, which is a shame because you had such a nice zoot suit. So we performed emergency surgery and disembodied your face and brain, you’re currently resting on an oak bookshelf preserved in fluid.”
“What kind of fluid?”
“Guinness.”
“Will I ever be able to wear a zoot suit again?”
“Not in your current condition, no. What we need to do is get you a new body, Laura.”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Calling you what?”
I wish and close my eyes, when I open them… nothing. I need my zoot suit.
“Fine, just get me the hell outta here as fast as you can, ok?”
“I’ll see what we have lying around.” He leaves and doesn’t return for two weeks. When he does he tells me he’s found a suitable replacement body. He preps for surgery.
Operating room for two weeks.
When I wake up again I find my face has been grafted onto the left breast, and my brain implanted inside of the breast of a rather attractive female. We get acquainted and the doctor examines us. We’re clear to leave.
“Do you like zoot suits?” I ask her.
“Why, I find them to be absolutely dashing, why do you ask? “
She buys a zoot suit in the fugitive hospital gift shop. I approach the Ken doll doctor. I close my eyes and wish. When I open them he turns into a tiny moth and flutters listlessly into a bug zapper. My lips curl in a sinister grin- it makes my host’s left breast stretch awkwardly. We run out of the building.
“What’s your name anyway?” I ask her.
“Laura.” My jaw drops, making her boob sag.
A giant man-sized spider leaps from behind a dumpster and attacks us. It has fangs the size of bananas.
“That’s what you get you bastard!” he says, before delivering a deadly poisonous bite.
