The Westminster Animal Hospital wasn’t much of a hospital. It was an old building parked between two Starbucks stores. As Harold entered through the crimson doorframe, he heard faint barking and metal clanking.
“Hello,” he called out. “I’m looking for Mister Franklin.” The only response was the same faint barking. “Is anybody here at all?” Harold asked to the entire building. Again, a woof was what he heard. Curious to see the dog he’d been talking to, Harold went past the empty waiting room and into what appeared to be the animal storage area. Barren cages lined the walls, their screen doors hanging open.
WOOF! The barking was louder now and was coming from the next room. Harold burst through the two metal swinging doors that lead to the operating room and saw the dog, strapped down on the giant slab of silver table. The dog was massive. Its thin black coat illuminated its profound chest and enormous paws. Brown leather straps held the dog down to the table. It let out a bark and struggled to free itself; straining its neck around to see Harold.
Carefully, Harold approached the front of the table where the dog’s head lay. It was the size of a soccer ball. Maybe a basketball. Harold hadn’t played either of the sports in a while and wasn’t exactly sure how the scale of the head and a spherical ball would match up. But he felt they were close. The eyes of the dog were like a horse’s: enormous ink wells of black. They darted around nervously at Harold and the rest room. Harold hovered over the animal, reaching across its body to loosen the leather straps holding it to the table.
“You’re not going to bite me now, are you?” Harold asked as the first strap fell to side of the table. The dog began struggling more and pulled himself out from under the second strap before Harold could get to it. The dog leaped off the table, slammed its basketball or soccer ball head into the swinging doors and bolted down the hall. The doors swung back in and out for a couple of moments before coming to a stop. “You’re welcome.”
Harold wandered around the animal hospital, looking for anyone or anything to help with his leg. In the operating room, he found some gauze and iodine. He applied the iodine heartily to his wound. Leaving the nail inside his thigh, he wrapped it completely in gauze. Only the top of his buttock was visible now. In the upstairs of the hospital, Harold had found a bed and dresser. The veterinarian must have been living on the top floor. Mr. Franklin wore pants that were two sizes too big for Harold, but Mr. Franklin also had an assortment of leather and fake leather belts.
Equipped with new pants and a covered rear, Harold descended the stairs and exited back out through the crimson doorframe of the Westminster Animal Hospital. At the bottom of concrete steps leading to the hospital, the large dog from inside was sitting. Its big horse eyes were looking right at Harold. Under the sun, fully visible, Harold could see the dog was a great dane. The same as Scooby-Doo, he thought. For moment, the two stood still, looking each other in the eyes. Harold took a step, and the dog’s tail began to wag.
“You all alone too?” Harold asked the great dane. The dog stood up, its tail wagging robotically. Harold put his hand on the dog’s thick neck and rubbed along the length of its back. “I’m feeling a bit peckish. Are you hungry?” The dog barked and licked his hand.
Harold began his hobble down the sidewalk. The great dane was inches behind, tail continuously wagging as he followed him. The two were in no great hurry. They passed a number of restaurants that were boarded up. They pass fast food joints that had been destroyed by looters. They passed a number of grocery stores lit up in engulfing flames. They passed the apartment where a hooker with a nail-gun was waiting for her money.
“We’re not ever going back there, Swan,” Harold said, pointing to rundown motel he’d left earlier that day. “We’ll find food soon.” He held out his right hand. Swan quickened his pace to catch up to it and licked it with his massive tongue. Harold scratched behind Swan’s ear. Harold and his black Swan left the city.
Smoke billowed out of the doors, enveloping Harold as he crutched out of the clinic, coughing. He crossed the street, proceeded to the end of the block and around the corner, leaving the burning clinic out of sight. Out of mind. The entire right leg of his pants was now soaked in blood. His leg was throbbing and his right buttock was covered in goosebumps. Hasty plywood patch jobs littered the windows of the shops; owners having prepared for the end of the world.
Apocalypse. The end of days. Rapture. Harold thought about the things he would like to do before the end finally came. He could think of nothing better than a blonde prostitute in a Ramada Inn, Presidential Suite. He actually could think of something better, but his attention had been drawn elsewhere.
Like a peacock with its tail feathers fanned out, a pimp stood on the corner, twirling a cedar cane. A bright, purple mess in an empty kid’s coloring book, the pimp surveyed the area for prospective clientele. He spotted Harold on the sidewalk and began to wave. Harold tried to ignore him, but the purple musketeer was a fast walker and was next to him before Harold could hobble away.
“Yo, my friend. How was your night? Sugar treat you right?” Harold was confused by the man’s familiarity with him. “What, you don’t remember me?” Harold shook his head. “Last night. You and me came to a business agreement last night.”
He suddenly remembered a small man with a slug for a mustache. The pimp wore a blue, pinstripe suit and sat at the end of the bar with a gaggle of women around him. They were rubbing his shoulder, caressing his crotch, and licking his neck. Harold had approached him and asked about the blonde woman with the hand in his pocket. She was one of his best he told Harold. Top of the line he said. Harold now wished he would have told him she came with a nail-gun.
“What’s with the outfit?” Harold inquired. The pimp put the cane through his belt like a samurai sheathing his sword. He put both hands on his hips, leaned back, let out a hearty laugh.
“Have you ever seen a pimp dressed like this?” Harold looked him up and down for a moment.
“Just in the movies.”
“Exactly!” the pimp proclaimed, unsheathing his cane and twirling it around in front of Harold. “That’s why I’m taking full advantage of this opportunity to dress however I’d like. People judge you when you dress like this.” Another look at the fur trim around the suede purple jacket, mismatched purple, velvet pants and platform shoes the same height as the stilettos his hookers wore, and Harold knew why people would make such judgements of the pimp.
“So where’s Sugar at anyway? Girl hasn’t come back yet. She better not have run off with my money.” Harold imagined what the woman would be doing in his hotel room. Rummaging though his briefcase? Walking around the hotel in the nude? Aiming at the door with her nail-gun, waiting for Harold to enter? Harold didn’t like the last thought.
“Why are you out here? Not much business today is there, what with the end of the world and all.”
“Are you kidding? This is magic hour!” Harold was perplexed. “Imagine that you have a final day to live on this planet.” Harold imagined it vividly. “How would you like to go out? Knee deep in women, of course!” the pimp called out before he could respond. Harold agreed.
“Any takers yet?”
“No,” he said, nodding his head with confidence, “But it will happen. So how about it? You want another go with one of my girls?” Harold turned around and pointed to his hip. “Dayum! You should get that checked out. Tetanus shot or something. How’d it happen?” he asked, reaching out to touch it.
“Sugar,” Harold said and turned away from the pimp’s prodding fingertip, “she’s still in my hotel room waiting for me to get this taken care of, but the hospital turned me away.”
“Politics,” the pimp proclaimed with wisdom. Harold didn’t see the connection. “Whenever one of my bitches steps in some shit like that, I take ‘em somewhere special.”
“Where’s that?”
“Westminster Animal Hospital, three blocks that way,” the pimp said, pointing down the empty street. “I know a guy who will stitch anything up for the right price. His last name is Franklin. Tell him Timmy O’Head sent you and he’ll help you out. If he hasn’t left the city yet, that is.”
Harold thanked him and told him he’d have Sugar back as soon as he could get the nail removed. The pimp thanked him and told him goodbye. Harold liked the pimp. He seemed like a nice man. He was also the only white, Irish pimp that Harold had ever met. In fact, he was the only Irish anything he’d ever met. That is of course, if he was even Irish. Harold had his doubts.
The doors were wide open and Harold could hear the faint sound of elevator music and talking heads on a TV coming from inside. The halls were empty leading up to the waiting area. A black sign with white lettering and arrows pointed the way to various segments of the clinic. The noise got louder, and Harold could now hear the mild buzz of a crowd waiting.
The room was filled with all sorts of people. They all looked sad, uncomfortable, and angry; your typical waiting room group. The receptionist window was filled by a large woman with white hair. She looked even more sad, uncomfortable, and angry than the people waiting. Harold approached her, half of his ass exposed and smiling.
“Hi there. I’ve got a problem.”
“We’ve all got problems, honey. Here’s a form I’ll need you to fill out and then you can wait until we call you,” she said, pointing at a clipboard with a chewed pencil attached to a string hanging from it.
“It’s kind of an emergency,” Harold said, leaning in and pointing the nail jutting from his hip.
“Everyone’s got emergencies. Please fill out this form and wait for your name, sir.”
“I could bleed to death waiting,” he said, again, pointing to his the nail. “Someone would be very upset if I died.”
“Excuse me, sir. If you haven’t heard, we’re in a state of emergency. The city is all but shut down. We have one doctor trying service a room full of people with emergencies. Fill out the paper,” she rambled on, getting louder with each word, “and wait in the goddamn waiting room like everyone else!” Harold decided to fill out the paperwork.
After filling in all the lines concerning what type of injury he’d sustained, he began to scan the seats filled by the other patrons. A woman in blue maternity pants and white smock sat directly across from him. She watched a toddler in nothing but a diaper stumble around the waiting room, practicing his new ability to walk. Other men and women stood around the room looking into their palms or cellphones. Two men sat diagonally from Harold, holding hands. They both stared at the TV hanging in the corner of room, watching political analysts argue about who was at fault for the current situation. Harold couldn’t pay attention. The half-naked child was wobbling towards him, and he felt an overwhelming fear wash over him.
It wasn’t that he was afraid of children. He just didn’t care for them. How could that come from something so beautiful as sex? The child stumbled closer and Harold’s grip on the gnawed pencil tightened. Its mouth as covered in what was either spaghetti sauce or blood, both equally terrifying to Harold. The child began swinging his arms, reaching out towards Harold’s knees.
“Don’t,” Harold said, pointing at the child. He adjusted himself in the seat, pressing the nail against the wooden armrest of the chair. In reaction to the pain, Harold kicked his leg out, bulldozing into the stomach of the toddler. The woman across from Harold immediately stood up out of her chair.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she screeched. “You just kicked my little boy!” The two men turned from television and glared at him.
“It was an accident. I have this nail in my—” he tried to explain, but the woman was already swinging at with both hands, yelling obscenities. The child was crying, laying on its back after being kicked three feet from where he previously stood.
All the people in the waiting room surrounded the woman assaulting Harold. He couldn’t move. When he tried to shield himself, the nail pushed into the chair again. All he could do was raise his arms to cover his face. As the volume of the woman escalated and the child continued to scream, a gun shot rang out.
“Everyone get on the ground!” a masked individual yelled, pointing a submachine gun into the air. The mother ignored the order, continuing to strike Harold on the cheek, temple, chin, and whatever other part of his face he failed to cover. “Hey, I’m talking here!” the man yelled louder, shooting the gun into the ceiling.
The woman relented, ran to her child and picked him up. She cooed to him, trying to halt his crying. Three more men and women, all wearing black ski masks and equipped with the same submachine guns, entered the waiting room from the hall.
“We,” the man started, “are the CRC. Christian Radio Correspondence. We have taken it upon ourselves to liberate you of your sins.” Harold looked up. Those in the waiting room had all huddled into the corner into a single mass. The two men were holding hands even tighter, and the mother was still cooing at her child, trying to stop him from crying.
“The end of the world is nigh. When the rapture occurs, we need to show the Lord Jesus Christ that we have chosen the righteous path.” Harold noticed the masked female was shaking. She had a small frame. He decided she couldn’t be any older than sixteen or seventeen. Harold was quite aware of the female form.
“We need a clean slate. One that we can all be proud of. What we have here is an abomination. This clinic,” his voice strained, “this clinic has committed the ultimate sin. They’ve taken the life of a child.” At that sentence, the mother glared at Harold from across the waiting room. “Abortion is murder. Abortion, is, murder!” He shot the submachine gun off again, sending pieces of the ceiling to the floor. One of the other masked men slung his backpack around from his back and began rummaging through it. “God helps those who help themselves. We’re here to help all of you.” The rummaging revealed a white brick of wrapped in clear plastic. Red and yellow wires ran from the brick and into the bag. Plastique.
“Just sit back and embrace the word of God,” he commanded, and held both his arms out. The masked woman— no— girl was still nervous. She wouldn’t be able to aim the gun even if she wasn’t shaking. The recoil would send her arms in all kinds of directions. Harold smiled her. She looked back, but he couldn’t tell if she was smiling back or not. She pointed the gun at him. Déjà vu. The man with the plastique was in the room with the waiting room receptionist. She protested at first, but the accompanying masked male silenced her with the butt of his gun. They were wiring the explosives. Sheepishly, Harold raised his hand.
“Yes? Are you ready to accept your fate and the Lord?” Harold looked around the room.
“Yes. I am. But first, I’d like to use the bathroom.” The masked man lowered his arms. He looked Harold over. His receding hairline, pug nose and chapped lips disgusted the man.
“You won’t have to in just a few minutes. You’ll be in a better place soon.”
“But I’d like to be comfortable before I go. You see, I’ve got a nail lodged into my leg.” Harold tried to stand up, but the girl shook her submachine gun at him. “Sorry, I was just trying to show you.” The speaker for the group motioned to her that it was alright. Harold stood straight up and turned in a circle, showing the entire situation. One of the individuals in the crowd let out a chuckle.
“You won’t feel any pain soon.”
“But I’d like to be clean at least,” Harold insisted. “I’ve never been much of a religious person. So I’d like to make my first impression a good one. That is, if you don’t mind.” The man seemed to think it over for just a moment. Pointing at Harold and nodding his head towards the hallway, the girl stepped towards him.
“Hurry up!” she shouted, again rattling the gun in her frail hands. Harold hopped into the hall and towards the restrooms. He followed the signs.
The restroom was a mess. Puddles of toilet water flooded and soaked the toilet rolls on the floor. A single shoe was in the corner. Harold surmised it was a size twelve. Or eleven. The girl was behind him, prodding him in his back with her gun. Harold came up with a plan in that moment.
“I love you,” he confessed, turning around to face her. Immediately, her eyes grew soft and she lowered the gun. Harold knew the easiest way to confuse a woman is tell her that you love her in a men’s restroom. He took the opportunity to shove her into the wall. Her head crashed into the hot air dryer and she fell to the floor, limp. He looked at her delicate frame on the ground. Poor girl, he thought, as he dashed out the door and towards the exit. He heard a commotion in the waiting, and a subsequent explosion.
Looking up and down the street, Harold panicked. The streets were empty. No cars. No pedestrians. No noise. He could see only loose flyers and papers floating by like tumbleweeds in an asphalt desert. His panic slipped away as the thought of nobody being able to see his bare butt and nailed predicament. Harold placed the bundle of the prostitute’s clothes inside the door of the motel. He didn’t think it would look appropriate for a man to be carrying around a whore’s effects.
There were two ATM machines within walking distance in either direction. But the trek down Walter Street would yield a medical clinic, and Harold could think of nothing better than getting the nail from out of his thigh. He dragged his leg along the sidewalk as if it were made of stone, keeping it stiff and straight to avoid any pain. Blood had trickled begun to change from a trickle to a miniature deluge, soaking the side of his pants down his leg to his ankle. The cool wetness was comforting to Harold as he began to sweat. Hobbling was more physically involving than he’d thought.
“Move it!” a voice shouted from behind him. A cyclist sped by him, just missing a collision between the two, and darted around a corner. Harold followed but in a much slower fashion. As he turned the corner, he saw the bicycle, propped up against a fire hydrant. The cyclist was standing in front of the ATM machine Harold was seeking. As he approached the man wearing a helmet, adorned with aluminum foil antennae. He was mumbling something and clenching his fists.
“You were going pretty fast back there,” Harold said, trying to start a conversation with the second person he’d seen all day. The cyclist ignored him and continued mumbling. He was swearing under his breath.
“Empty.”
“What? The ATM?”
“Yeah. It’s completely out,” the cyclist concluded and tossed his bank card on the ground. “This is the ninth one I’ve hit. They’re out all over the city.” At the news, Harold imagined the response from the hooker. A second nail would find a comfortable home in his temple.
“Where have you tried?” Harold asked, hoping for a low number.
“Everything from here to the East Side. About a 10 mile radius in both directions.” His face was noticeably sweaty, as if he’d been biking all day. “They planned this. Fucking government. Hadron collider. Garbage,” he continued saying things like this as he fetched his bike and began pushing it back the way he’d came.
“Hadron collider?”
“You know, that big laser gun in Europe. It’s set to go off in three hours. World’s gonna’ end. Blah blah, you know the deal. Fucking scientists.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you watch the news? The world’s ending. It got turned on then they couldn’t get it off. Like a loose cannon. A giant cannon. Pointing at us like we’re ants under a magnifying glass. Bullshit I say!” he said as he hopped onto his bicycle. “Good luck, brother. We’ll all need it,” the cyclists said, waving without looking back and circling around the corner.
Perplexed, Harold looked at the ATM. It stared back, its green and black screen flickering. He tried his card in the machine. It claimed it was empty. She wouldn’t be happy. Harold decided he should at least get his leg taken care of. Dropping his ATM card on the ground, he started toward the clinic on Baltic Avenue.
A shooosh. A fleshy thud. Compressed air launched a nail into his leg, stopping only once it hit bone. He clawed madly at the sheets, pulling himself across the bed like a dog dragging its ass on a carpet. His right leg stiff with pain, he jumped off the bed yelping and clutching his thigh. Nude and flaccid, he hunched over and looked across the bare room at the naked prostitute holding a nail-gun in one hand, and his wallet in another. She squinted, trying to line up the nail-gun with her client’s head.
“Your wallet is empty, you stupid son of a bitch!” she screeched, her hanging breasts swaying as she stomped her foot. “Thought you’d just get a freebie, huh?” She flipped open his wallet and looked at the driver’s license in its leather pocket. “You don’t even carry any credit cards, Mister…” she paused, “Harold Fleischer?” Harold slowly erected himself, raising his hands into the air. He stared back at her vacantly. “You gonna’ say anything? Or do I have to shoot you again?”
“NO!” his voice cracked. “No, don’t. Look, I was going to go to an ATM before you woke up. I didn’t think,” he gulped, “you’d shoot me with a nail-gun.”
“A girls gotta’ protect herself. Especially in this business.” Harold thought the word business funny in this context and a smile slipped through his painful grimace. “So, how are you gonna’ pay me?” she demanded.
“Look, I’ll run to an ATM right now.”
“So you can leave me in this hotel room and take off? I don’t think so!”
“All my things are here. I’d have to come back.” Harold pointed to a black briefcase next to the nightstand and the scattered clothes on the ground beside it. She looked around the otherwise empty room. “Can you put that gun down now? Please?” Satisfied, she lowered the nail-gun and stepped towards the bed and plopped down. Her bulbous gut became apparent when she sat. Spots of Harold’s blood on the sheets matched the red thigh-high fishnet stockings.
“Well, I’ll just wait here until you do!” Harold lowered his hands and hobbled to where his clothes lay on the ground. He picked up his white underwear, looked at his wilted manhood, the nail sticking out of his leg and contemplated how to achieve a more clothed state.
“This is awkward,” he muttered, leaning on the nightstand for balance. The prostitute put the battery powered nail-gun in her purse and stretched out on the bed.
“I don’t see any ATM cards in here,” the prostitute said, digging through the contents of his wallet. “How are you gonna’ withdraw the cash?”
“I keep my personal belongings in there,” Harold said, pointing at his suitcase. He pulled the underwear up to where the nail was lodged. Unwilling to cause himself additional pain, Harold pulled the elastic up over his left hip only. The band stretched diagonally across his rear, leaving his right cheek bare.
“You should probably get that looked at, too,” she said, pointing at the nail. Might need a tetanus shot or something.”
“Thanks.” Harold continued to dress himself in the same fashion as his underwear, the right hemisphere of his buttocks still in plain view. The white, buttoned shirt didn’t extend any further down than his waist. Harold opened the briefcase, grabbed a wad of receipt paper and a silver ATM card. “Can I have my wallet?”
“No. I need something to make sure you’ll come back. I’ll keep your briefcase here, too,” she said, propping herself up on her elbow. A scar ran from her armpit and curved down and around to the underside of her breast.
“How do I know you won’t run away with my things? I have some valuables in that briefcase.”
“You’ll have to trust me,” the prostitute said, smiling through her red lipstick. Harold didn’t. He sprung into action, stuck his injured leg out straight and bent down with his left, as if he were stretching. As quickly as he could, he grabbed the prostitutes articles of clothing into his hands. The prostitute dived over the edge of the bed to grab him, but a greasy clump of his brown hair slid through her hands. She went crawling after her purse for her nail-gun. Harold sprung back to his feet, almost falling backwards. Whore’s clothes in hand, he hobbled speedily towards the door.
“Collateral!” he yelled as he fumbled with the door knob.
“I’m going to kill you!” she screamed, ripping open her bag. The door shot open and Harold bolted into the hall as fast as he could.
“I’ll be back,” he yelled over his shoulder. Like a pogo-stick, he hopped down on intermittent steps. He could hear a wretched howl and the door being slammed over and over as he descended the stairwell.
