Doctor Doctor told me the newz

I got a little bit of sleep at woke up to a doctor in my room around 11AM giving me the 411.  They wanted to move me to the university campus, to which to my delusional poisoned state, I told them the university campus could go pleasure a syphilis ridden donkey. 

Either because they were afraid or relived that I really didn’t want to go back, they started to make arraingements to do the procecdure there.  The cyst in my throat I had spoken about in a prior installment had become infected and caused an abcess.  They swelling in my neck was a big ball of poison which according to the test had slowly started to leak and left me poisoned. 

The first part of the procedure consisted of essentially slitting my throat, tearing it open, and letting as much poison as they possibly could drain out.  Then, I would have a few weeks of recuperation with my neck as open as my fly generally is; healing open so all the poison could leak out.  It was fairly scary but not quite as scary part 2, which consisted of re-opening my throat after it healed and cleaned up, and cutting the cyst off of my voice box.  Even if this went perfect, they still had to move a lot of stuff I need to use to do what I do to get at my voice box-things like my tongue and my vocal chords.  And while they were confident that I would bounce back, after I healed and had a few months of therapy, I didn’t share their confidence. 

I felt like fate was trying to send me a message.  The Lucky Dog closed, our recent financial woes, and the clone debacle that left me ill and immune compromised and was beyond the shadow of a doubt the reason I found myself in the situation I was in. 

Anyone who knows anything about me knows that I am stubborn.  I’d never call it quits on my own accord.  But if I couldn’t sing, wasn’t well enough to move, couldn’t afford to set up a show, and didn’t have a place to play, I really didn’t have a choice.  I tried to push those thoughts of out my head, but it didn’t work.  I tried to think of all of the people that would be hurt, both as a fan and a potential victim that hunt the night, if the Twilight Society packed up and called it quits.  That didn’t work either.  I thought of all the people who were going to be excited about it, my enemies, my detractors, people who just didn’t like me.  People who had a reason to not like me, and people who didn’t like me because they were just on the wrong side of our brand of right.  And there was a spark.  Like the fluttering erection of a 90 year old man remembering his past pornographic preferences, something small and weak stirred in me when I thought of how many people would be happy if I left this hospital for the crypt. 

After thinking about it for a few minutes, I was up and pacing the halls of the hospital, dragging about 300lbs of medical equipment on that crazy medical coat rack that beeped and buzzed.  It’s amazing that anyone slept in the hospital.  I was going to fight like hell.  Maybe my motives were backwards, but never let it be said that Mrs. Mars’ Elvis boy wouldn’t go to great lengths to irritate people.