❓"Who is This 'Handsome' Dr. 2?" The Story of Angel Doctor 2

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Up high in the sky, there is an afterlife utopia named Heaven. In this undiscovered country, most deluxe restaurants close at nine. Parking tickets have triple digits. Pollution tints the clouds gray.

It is still, however, the most Heavenly place above Earth.

(Shäre) Another Day

A receptionist sits, hard at work, looking hard at work. While feigning an analysis of the check-in sheet for the umpteenth time, the phone rang to rescue him from his boredom.

“Daemonix: Temptation Department.”

“Hello! I’m Heaven’s Heavenly Dr. 2.”

The receptionist checked his agenda, “Who?”

“Angel Dr. 2.”

There was a beat. The receptionist caught up, “Hello!… I don’t… Did you check in at the lobby?”

“I Heavenly did.”

“Alright!… I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“Heaven’s Heavenly Dr. 2.”

“Okay. Please hold.”

Mr. 2 stood outside of the building with a stupid smile on his face. He was laughing about some silly internet meme he’ll never think about again. He’s already not thinking about it.

While he waited, he double checked his bundle of office supplies to-be delivered. He counted the items against his list within his StapleShäre app: his employment via smartphone that sends him on delivery dispatches. He just clicks the button on the phone app to start receiving “independent contracts.” These gigs start at a base pay of three Anglish pounds sterling, per delivery. Mr. 2 chains about twelve independent contracts per day with StapleShäre.

Today, Mr. 2’s “brokers” gave him a sweet gig of delivering 300 pounds-worth of rubber-band balls across town for the blue-chip company, Daemonix. He was to receive the upsurge of nine pounds sterling for this independent contract. That’s three regular independent contracts combined.

As he waited for a reply from the receptionist, Mr. 2 carved his phone into his ear to pick up the conversation, “Ooooh, right. It’s because he called himself a ‘doctor’: That’s why. I was looking for, like, a sentence of a name. Thaaaaaank you.”

Mr. 2 blinked. “I am a doctor.” He was halfway through medical school. He didn’t perceive himself as jumping the gun by calling himself a full-fledged doctor. “How can an actor enter their role, without first taking up its name?” He stepped onto the empty elevator with his delivery rickshaw.

He thought bad thoughts about the upstairs people.

“They must be a not-nice person to their spouse. They must be physically ugly. They must not receive good pay…”

The young doctor remembered, that his hearty hellos on behalf of StapleShäre, were not paying him well, either. This brought Mr. 2 down as he went up.

He arrived at the floor, then shortly to its front desk. “Angel 2,” he told the kinda-ugly receptionist.

“Every contract is the same,” Mr. 2 reminded himself. “Sign in at the lobby desk incase you’re a murderer; wait in the tall building elevator until your retirement; sign in at the floor’s front desk incase you’re a murderer who got past the lobby desk; small-talk-small-talk-small-talk; unload, then escape before the cute drudgery murders you.”

While waiting for the down-going elevator, Mr. 2 swiped through his StapleShäre app to mark the job as completed.

Now was the moment of truth: the tippity tips. Would Halo City’s big-brand Daemonix leave Mr. 2 a luxurious tip for wheeling in their heavy rubber-band balls?

The elevator arrived.

“Base Pay: £3.00

Taximeter: £1.57

Customer tip: £5.00

Order Total: £9.57

Searching for Offers”

Mr. 2 pointed the sign of the cross on his chest.

The elevator almost left without the young doctor. He held the door open with his foot, then briskly dragged on the rest of his rickshaw. 2 was content with its compact size, but viable load capacity. It can hold one person, about 160 calculators—he checked—or a Hell of a lot of paper. He reset its straps to get it ready for the next independent contract.

The lazy gaze upon his rickshaw was soon spoiled. Something had scratched the interior red and blue paint. “It was the damn water jug cap.” An earlier gig had eviscerated his rickshaw’s name tag, “The WEE-U X2.” It was auto-dynamically named after a full-sized ambulance, “WEE-UUU-WEE-UUU.” Now it’s unfit for professional service.

Mr. 2 caught his contorted face in the elevator’s reflection. “I literally repainted last weekend. I can’t afford the downtime to let any new paint cure correctly. Why did I even bother repainting?… Because WEE-U X2 deserves it.” That rickshaw is one of the only things making Mr. 2 any money: along with its axis of capitalization, the Wunder Wheel.

From the cabin of WEE-U X2, Mr. 2 dragged out a single wheel with pedals attached. He booted up the gyroscope to stand it upright. He clicked up the handlebar he uses to walk the wheel while indoors.

Wunder Wheel is the electronic unicycle of Mr. 2’s delivery enterprise. Mr. 2 has a flycar, but to make money on nine pounds an hour, he had to ditch gas, mechanics, insurance, and paying his Christian taxes to his misclassifying, Heavenly government.

They exited the elevator. When the cellular connection returned, 2 was alerted of a new dispatch by his StapleShäre brokers, “New Order: Base Pay £6.00 Before Customer Tip.”

Mr. 2’s heart raced. He had to check the time to budget his shäring: It was 3:20 PM. He had to be at class by four, then to theater rehearsals by seven. He had to turn his brokers down; though they would mark his account as delinquent for not gig shäring for at least four hours that day.

With one foot on Wunder, and two hands on WEE-U X2, the young doctor leaned forward on the electric unicycle to accelerate to class. The spring scene was one of the only reasons Mr. 2 dealt with nine pounds per hour. When he wasn’t sterilized by medical texts, or locked in a dark theater, he was cruising Halo City’s garden by the sweat of his brow.

ILY, Darling.

The tired 2 dragged his rickshaw down the hallway to his apartment door. He grabbed his satchel from under the seat; he locked his vehicle on the pipe next to the floor’s trash shoot.

While walking Wunder by his handlebar, Mr. 2 entered his apartment. He yearned to ditch his chores of brushing his teeth or changing his clothes. He’d rather die on the couch. “Darling, are you home?” he said to fetch his beloved.

No response. Mr. 2 heard a running faucet and the rattling of headphone music coming from the kitchen. When he entered, he saw his boyfriend shirtless. Angel 911 was doing the dishes in a rubber ducky apron 2 bought for him. Seizing the element of surprise, 2 gave a half kiss on the cheek to 911 from behind while tickling his wings.

911 shrilled and jolted at the mysterious kiss, rather than reciprocating sweetly as a sane lover ought. 2 cackled as he cranked open his daily aperitif. “Darling, put on a shirt. I hate seeing you so joshie before bed.”

911 smiled, “NO!” He flexed a joust toward the dishes with his sponge wand.

This pleased Mr. 2. He’s a homosexual. He met 911 during a class confluence of patient checkups: 2 was shadowing the doctor, while 911 was shadowing the nurse. As young men among adults, they quickly became friends. When 911 revealed he was homo, and single, 2 shot to kill.

As they presently kissed on the lips, 2 shoved 911’s shirt into the ducky apron. 2 moved into the living room with his beer to then fall on the couch.

Mr. 2 wanted to shut his eyes to end the pain, but he knew he’d put off calculating his personal finances long enough. With the last of his will, he entered zombie mode to finish his work. With an angry and dizzy passion, he pulled out his laptop and StapleShäre app from his phone. The theater script for The Thinkers fell from the fold of his laptop.

He’d forgotten his theater homework. “Tomorrow,” he promised his guardian angel.

Of Serpents & Scooties

Mr. 2 pulled up to the St. Augustine’s Hospital drop-off lane with 911 on-board WEE-UX2. As cool as a cucumber, 911 was finishing his thermos coffee in his pimpalicious, French fry patterned scrubs. Mr. 2 buys his 911 cute scrubs 911 doesn’t/does enjoy. They have a flycar, but Wunder is so energy efficient and green, that both opt to take the slower route, together.

As 2 slowed down, his phone started bip-bop-bibbity-beepin’. His StapleShäre brokers were calling. If he didn’t accept the next dispatch soon, they weren’t going to let him be independent for at least another hour. 2 frantically unsheathed his phone, clawed through the login screen, then instantly accepted the independent contract without bothering to read its Terms and Conditions set forth by his brokers and the counter party.

911 stole 2’s attention with a big hug and a loud kiss. A smoking, nearby angel chuckled at them, but averted his eyes as not to claim his humor. 911 left for his volunteer work while 2 prepped his route for his dispatch, “825 N. Sedgwick St.” It was time to go a’wheelin’.

“—Wait,” said 2. He popped on WEE-UX2’s rotating ambulance light.

Now, it was time to go a’wheelin’.

The drop-off is for Überger: some expensive, five-star, burger place. The pick-up is StapleShäre’s north-side, shäring facilitation station.

Mr. 2 merged into the nearby bike lane where his rickshaw is allowed to ride. He turned on some poppin’ techno beatz to flow through his headphones. Candycane Lane was downhill going north.

“Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” said Mr. 2, Wunder, and WEE-UX2.

There is plenty of professional fun to be had for delivery boys and girls. With Wunder’s compact motorization, Mr. 2 never broke a sweat. Taximen are stuck in traffic. Airplane pilots are stuck in safety protocol. Mr. 2 delivers non-human items; therefore, there’s no pressure in the bowling-alley of the bike lane. There is only, “Weee.”

On a terminally misshapen street, 2 arrived at 825 N. Sedgwick. There was a black tent attached to a windowless warehouse. 2 locked his rickshaw to a signless post, then walked Wunder by his extendible handle. When inside, he clocked in on their computers. It reported the status of his independent contract, “Getting Ready for Shipment.”

There was a row of benches for other independent contractors to wait for their end clients’ orders. An easel chalkboard stood next to a free food cart, “We Thank You, Partners, for Delivering with Us!” Mr. 2 poured himself some over brewed coffee.

Nobody else was in the shäring facilitation station except for an impersonal shäring facilitator, hiding behind a tall desk and tablet screen, and a fellow prole, wearing a motorcycle helmet for his folded, electric, kick scooter. “Hey, I like your scooty-scoot,” said 2, with java joy. “Do you even need a helmet for that thing?”

“Forty miles per hour,” said the young man, never breaking from staring at a lunchbox, “Tube wheels. Dual brakes. Dual shocks. Aluminum.”

“What are you looking at?” said 2, as he caught a peek of the lunchbox. There was no food, but a jungle of wires, wood blocks, and small lights, creating what seemed to be a mini pumping station. “Wow, wow, wow, what is that?”

The helmet looked at 2. “I’m fuckin’ snatchin’. With a fuckin’ snatcher.”

“What.”

The snatcher took the heart of the device out of the lunchbox. Everything was connected to a smartphone that had the StapleShäre app open. Robotic fingers grasped, twisted, swiped, and tapped the phone, all over. It was as if a techno spider was rapidly groping and humping the helmet’s phone.

Mr. 2 laughed, “What the He*k are you doing?”

“Do I have to fuckin’ repeat myself?” The helmet bobbed.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“I’m fuckin’ snatchin’, bruh. Got this shit hooked. When you see me here, without you, now you know fuckin’ why.”

“Oh.” The device steals independent contracts before any fellow proles can manage to take them.

“Heh." 2 swigged his broker coffee. "We need unions."

"You gotta git' fuckin' on it, bruh. If you ain’t snatchin’, where you at?”

It makes sense. Mr. 2 has seen many lucrative independent contracts taken instantly on the StapleShäre app. Some were as ludicrous as seventeen pounds, base pay, per shäring induction.

He’s a pretty fast independent contract swiper, but he has yet to nab any of the golden ones. 2 assumed, eventually, that they were all fake: an occasional fish the shäring facilitators pretend to toss to the hungry gaggle to keep them on their toes. Now he’s acquainted with the chief, fuckin’, prole-of-the-hill who gets ‘em all.

By the time Mr. 2 chose his next music playlist, his client’s order had arrived on a dolly. “Where’s your car?” said the shäring facilitator.

“It’s the rickshaw.” Mr. 2 helped the shäring facilitator load the supplies onto WEE-UX2. “What’s in the boxes?”

“Who’s gotta know?” said the shäring facilitator.

“I just want to know how to handle them.”

“It’s tech: laptops. Don’t drop them.”

“Okay, God bless.” 2 strapped about 16 laptops to WEE-UX2. “Not sure why a burger place needs so many laptops. Are they doing unchristian things with their business credit cards?”

2 paused for a second to recover from being ethically violated. He tried to dismiss his possible muling because he needed to make nine pounds this hour. He mounted Wunder, turned on WEE-UX2’s ambulance light, then bumped up the street. He took a right to get onto the next street’s bike lane.

“Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”

Stopped by a traffic light, Mr. 2 checked his phone. It is necessarily strapped to its charging cable at all times. The StapleShäre app is oddly inefficient as it burns his battery. If he turned off the app, launched competitor apps, or hid his GPS location, his brokers have stated, that it would be impossible to send him any more independent contracts.

The young doctor was almost at Überger. A mystical creature pulled up to his left: a guy on a black ellipticycle. Someone had put the elliptical workout machine, on wheels.

It’s exactly what it is.

2 was profoundly stupefied. At the green light, the man booty strut his ellipticycle into the horizon. The electric unicycle was no longer the weirdest mode of transport in Halo City. 2 was not moved to have a vehicle affair from Wunder: He will always be a uni man. Since his roadside career, however, he has grown a diverse fondness of all, differing vehicles in the bike lane.

Überger is on a street corner. It was easy for Mr. 2 to merge onto the sidewalk to park his rickshaw where city motorists won’t nag. He locked WEE-UX2 to a light pole. He mustn’t always bring it inside to lounge while he gets information, lest the aristocrats be stifled with the plebeian street wagon blocking their chic hallways. Wunder, meanwhile, is so elegant and mute, that he may be rolled indoors. The aristocrats adore Wunder’s curious, well-behaved design.

The hostess helped Mr. 2 find the manager who could clarify what to do with the load. After squeezing through a dim restaurant, they arrived at a fluorescent lit room. A cute, brown skinned woman with flat hair was eating her lunch at her computer. “StapleShäre,” said the hostess as she bobbed her head in and out.

The woman stopped eating to look at Mr. 2 as if he were Santa Claus about to deliver a bag of free toys. He stuck out his hand to shake hers. “StapleShäre!? This quickly?! I usually have to take a double shift because you guys are so slow!”

Mr. 2 understood her pain. Nine pounds an hour attracts a crowd of desperados. They aren’t always as Christian with other peoples’ things as Mr. 2.

She grasped his hand with both of hers, “Kidding!”

Mr. 2 didn’t get it. He knew efficiency was an ongoing customer complaint. He smiled.

“I need oooooooone sec,” she said. She closed windows on her computer. “How was the ride out here?”

“Pretty good. The weather’s perfect, God bless.”

“Yea!” she affirmed with infinite girlishness. “Oh my gosh. What phone is that?!”

Mr. 2 was checking his StapleShäre app. “Uh, I don’t remember.”

“It’s soooooo old!”

“Heh.” The young doctor can’t afford a new phone.

“Okay. It says on the app, that you’re a ‘doctor’?”

Mr. 2 lit up. Someone read his stupid, little bio StapleShäre forced him to write for his “Business Profile.”

“Yes! I’m Heaven’s Heavenly Dr. 2.”

“You’re in school, right?!”

“Right. Second-to-third year.”

She whipped her head at Mr. 2 as if she were posing for a photo, “My ex is a doctor.”

“All for the better,” said Mr. 2. “No hospital will tell you they have enough doctors.”

“Hold on. Let me get you a drink.”

“Aww. Thank you!” Mr. 2 was thirsty from unicycling. He waited in the office. He was also hungry for an Überger…

When she returned, she stood at the doorway in shock, “No! What is that!?” She was looking at Wunder. Her intensity reminded him of how exhausting it was that everyone wanted Wunder’s life story.

“This is my electric unicycle,” Mr. 2 introduced. “He can go up to 15 miles per hour, up to 25 miles on a single charge.” He has to give the whole salesman spiel when they ask.

He was rubbing Wunder as he spoke, while the manager left him a canned cocktail on the table. As she moved back to her seat, she caressed his earlobe then glide her nail tips across his neck.

“I know you have to go; but, can you deliver something big for me?” she said.

As suave as the swindling Devil, 2 pulled out his StapleShäre app. “No, I’m sorry. I have just 16 laptops. Where do you want them?”

There was a beat. Her petite face wouldn’t give up its smile, but Mr. 2 could feel the temperature drop in the room. “Bring them here,” she said.

“Alright!” said 2.

It took about four trips to deliver all of the laptops to the manager’s room. After the last trip, 2 got the manager’s electronic signature, grabbed Wunder, then grabbed his canned cocktail. “Have a good day!” he said.

“You too!” she said.

2 concluded that she wasn’t the type to be traumatized by rejection. It wouldn’t matter, inversely, if Mr. 2 was traumatized by her sexual harassment. Only employees get recourse for workplace sexual scandal. Independent contractors, pay for independent lawyers. On nine pounds per hour.

When outside, Mr. 2 rested his elbow on WEE-UX2. Once again, the moment of truth has arrived: the tippity tips. How much was the elite Überger going to leave Mr. 2 in gratuity for delivering a veritable £25,000 in electronics across two city miles?

“Base Pay: £3.00

Taximeter: £0.78

Customer tip: £0.00

Order Total: £3.78

Searching for Offers.”

“What a fuckin’ cheap ass weaselette.” Mr. 2 said. “Not fuckin’ worth half of Wunder’s gumption: half his battery gone this shift for nothing.” It’s independent contracts like these that hurt Mr. 2 the most. What’s worse, is that they happen at least once a week. 2 wanted to go inside to give the manager some constructive feedback, B2B; but he couldn’t afford StapleShäre discontinuing his independence because of his company’s voice.

He grabbed Wunder’s extendible handlebar. He grabbed WEE-UX2. He walked it off while dragging the two down the sidewalk.

Halfway down the lane, 2 remembered something. He stopped to dig into WEE-UX2’s underside. He retrieved his theater script from his satchel.

The least he could do during his down time was make his director hate him less by keeping up with his Thaddeus Thinkerton lines. Mr. 2 recited his role to Wunder while they both relaxed in WEE-UX2, “Audio diary #3: The Seer, Thaddeus Thinkerton. Mister Thinker, a miracle of modern machinery, promoted to the public as a common commercial appliance.”

2 cleared his throat, “Audio diary #3: The Seer, Thaddeus Thinkerton. Mister Thinker, a miracle of modern machinery, promoted—”

2’s phone started bip-bop-bibbity-beepin’.

All Good Doctors Go to Heaven

Mr. 2 was staggering within the halls of his apartment building. It was too unsafe for him to ride Wunder. His mind was absent. It had been totally robbed by the theater.

It was not the ordinary pangs of artistic birth that stole him. This evening, when he reported in to the co-director, she handed him a letter. The director made the decision to shift him to Thaddeus Thinkerton’s understudy. The previous understudy was promoted to the lead.

The curtain was one month away. Mr. 2 was still making promises to nail down the third scene’s lines by next week. He half knew his dysfunction, but tried to cheese it by overacting at rehearsals. The strong spirit won him the part, but it didn’t maintain it. “The theater is not a show of promises, but of action,” said his director in the letter.

Mr. 2 was shattered and embarrassed. Leading roles are bloody difficult to snag, even in small colleges. A leading role means a ship owner chose a captain to navigate their ship for the season. Now the lackey steers the boat.

Mr. 2 just went home after the letter. He already knew the chorus’s easy, walk-on blocking. They’ll call him at the eleventh hour if they need him.

“Understudies are not indignant,” Mr. 2 told the echo of his apartment building. “It’s just… freshmen understudy.” Friends of the theater understudy. “Number twos understudy.”

2 heave cried, “NO!” He released the handles of his friends. Wunder tipped onto the wall as WEE-UX2 dived down. Mr. 2 ran down the hallway while weeping into himself to keep the commotion down. He kept waving his hands to shake off the dilettante.

He plugged his misery by gagging himself on the bottom line that understudies still receive a good place on the playbill, of which his director ensured at the end of the letter. He was still to be an actor. The show was still to his benefit. He brought himself together to lock up his rickshaw on the vent by the trash shoot.

As he threw away some garbage stored in the rickshaw, 2 remembered the helmet honcho with the snatching mod on his smartphone. What if 2 could bring home more money by snatching lucrative, independent contracts from the other proles?

All of a sudden, he saw the solutions to his life through spider humping: What if he could pull his weight with rent via spider humping? What if he had more money to take days off, to audition, to rehearse, by spider humping? What if he could afford more sleep before medical classes, thanks to spider humping? What if he could take his boyfriend to nice restaurants, after some spider humping? What if he could finally live his life as a competent man—with spider humping?

“I don’t even… know where to... how to make one. No. Stop capitalizing this life. My debut is a day away.”

The apartment was dim. 911 was watching his comedy animation, #justmortalthings, in the living room. “Hey, Twoling. Twolicious. Twoundoooo.”

“Hello,” said Mr. 2. He was still bogged by tragic inaction. Where was he going to rip open his schedule to better himself as an actor? “Less sleep? Again?” Mr. 2 thought. “Maybe I can lie about being the lead for my next show, until the previous curtain makes it officially false. Wait. Who’s casting right now? Did I miss something? Again?” 2 pulled out his phone to do research on the door mat.

911 came to 2’s rescue. He already sensed something was wrong via the empty space 2 was leaving on the living room couch. 911 had the emergency cure for his sickly patient. Just one a day kept his patient, more than okay.

Hubby Wubby is Melting

The alarm didn’t go off on Sunday, something Mr. 2 could barely consider a “day off” on the Lord’s Day. He had to induce in shärings within a few hours, but did have more time to spare.

911 was gone. He was on his daily work out regimen in the next door work out room/twin office/guest room/storage room/there-was-once-an-aquarium-with-fish-but-no-more-but-the-aquarium-stays-just-in-case room.

Visceral from a night of love tumblin’, Mr. 2 entered the kitchen shirtless with his laptop. He started the kettle to begin his morning coffee. He unfolded his laptop to do some e-chores. After checking the fart chat on his social networks, his desktop’s to-do list reminded him to check his grades.

His results for the last textbook quiz came in. He barely passed.

He remembered, distinctly, going over the material at least twice. Perhaps Wunder had glid over a few details. Failing medical school was out of the question. He was always a 95% student. Things started to slide when he attended his college theater.

What could he do? It was his concrete fate, as ordained by God: Angels are not serially born, but given numerical purpose, as consecrated by their Heavenly Social Security Card.

The kettle was screaming. Mr. 2 heard a thud from the work out/etc. room. 911 was dropping some weights even though 2 tells 911 he should know better. 2 forced 911 to buy sponge mats for the home gym, but 911 plays with so much heavy metal, it still causes an earthquake.

"Why did God make me 2 if I can’t even pass two tests in a row?” Mr. 2 ground the coffee beans. “Angel 4 is Heaven’s chief farmer and landscaper.” His angels harvest and clip all of the green in the great Garden of Eden throughout all 4 seasons. Angel 5 could create n’ bake 5 Meals in 5 Minutes on her national television show. Angel 12, the Angel Attorney, knows his way around twelve angry men.

Angel historians have publicly debated why God had ordained this mutt, or “commoner,” the single digit “2.” This bequeathed mojo scored Mr. 2 a few public interviews for him in the past, but none to debut as either a doctor, or an actor.

“It doesn’t matter what they think.” Mr. 2 was sure of his destiny: theater + medical = 2. He was to be as handsome onstage as he was to be heavenly to the weak in physicality.

The understudy incident seemed totally objectified to him now. It would not define his transcendent future. “At least I’m still in the playbill for the lead role.”

“No,” it eventually bit him. “Off-Broadway understudies don’t matter.”

Mr. 2 plunged the French press, then cleared its grounds in the trash. “The trash is full.” While he wrapped it, he planned his chore route. He saw that Mr. 911 had left the flycar keys on the hook, exactly where 2 had left them. That translates to 911 not taking the flycar around the block to refill as 2 had asked him to.

The both of them keep the flycar bone dry to economize gas usage. “It’s graying Heaven’s clouds,” 911 cranks. Their gas jar n’ funnel method typically works out, but today, the jar was empty.

“Get gas for the flycar. Get coffee. Get mango juice. Wait,” Mr. 2 remembered. “WEE-UX2 needs his his tires refilled. Wow. Why haven’t I bought a pump already? I can keep it in his cabin, too” Mr. 2 took the garbage to the trash shoot. When he approached it, he inspected WEE-UX2’s tire pressure by pinching both sides of the tire. “Yea, it’s time.”

The garbage shoot was releasing an intense stench. Mr. 2 looked in before tossing his garbage. He didn’t see anything, but the miasma was inexcusable. He tossed in his garbage. He looked around the room.

Did he accidentally leave his lunch to rot in WEE-UX2? “No,” Mr. 2 concluded, “The smell is feces.” He opened up his rickshaw’s side compartment. There was a bottom-stained, white bag that marked “MOVE FAGGOTS.”

“What.”

Mr. 2 scanned WEE-UX2. He always kept him locked on the nearby vent, out of the way of the trash chute. “What disabled idiot needs a warehouse of space to throw away trash?”

2 was tickled to show his boyfriend the bag-o-shit shtick. “Darling, look what the Christian neighbors left me,” he planned to say. The bag was soggy and about to give up. “Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.” He left the poop pouch on top of a few paper plates in the kitchen. He left to go get 911.

2 knocked briefly, then entered. “Darling,” Mr. 2 called. On the workout bench, 911’s face was scrunched with a pool of blood drizzling from the left side of his viciously disfigured jaw. He was motionless and supine; his halo had lain detached and flickering on the floor. His dumbbells were behind him: one past his head, the other bloodied to his left side.

“He dropped a fly.” 911 typically displays good form. Only God knows what was the case for dropping one hundred pounds on his face.

Mr. 2 swiftly crouched, “911.” He pushed his index and middle finger to the top of 911’s trachea to check his carotid pulse. While 2 shifted his feet, his Sunday slippers crunched 911’s fallen teeth. “No rhythm, no intensity. How long has he been under cardiac arrest?” 2 asked 911’s guardian angel.

The patient needed a performance of CPR and an AED bolt from almighty Zeus. 2 could barely recognize 911’s mouth in the knot of blood. The area needed a clean up. 2 dashed into the bedroom for supplies.

The Doctor returned with a donned shirt, towels, pillows, and his medical kit that was on-call. He pulled out his AED, rubber gloves, and gauze. He turned on the AED; its charging light blinked.

With all of his nervous might, the Doctor was able to heave his horse-heavy patient off the bench, then onto the spongey ground. He cut off the patient’s tough and sweaty jersey with scissors. The body and wings were dried with a towel before the shock pads were applied. With gloved fingers, 2 briskly scooped out as much saliva, bone, and blood he could dig up from the mouth. The AED’s discharge-ready alarm went off.

He forgot one thing: to remove 911’s rhodium, crucifix, dog tag. 2 pointed the sign of the cross for 911, then kissed it, before taking it off.

The Doctor discharged the AED. 911 jerked. 2 checked again for a pulse while palming 911’s lower ribs. “The rhythm is average, faint. The lungs are sporadically convulsing.” 911 was choking.

2 replaced the gauze in 911’s mouth. “Darling, please tell me you’re choking on blood clots. Choking on teeth will gouge your trachea.” He began CPR chest compressions. During the procedure, the Doctor recited the possible complications to the patient in formal language, “Angels and demons, or rather, Immortals, do not ‘die’ in the mortal sense: immortals collapse. Their physicality is reduced to a soul crystal. The soul’s recharging can last anywhere from a decade to a millennium, depending on the injury or curse, and the recovery or blessings.” 2 stroked 911’s short hair back, “Not even a day, darling.”

After thirty compressions, the Doctor checked 911’s mouth, then lifted his chin up to deliver two rescue breaths. He couldn’t break the blockage in the windpipe. 2 wagged his head rapidly in denial. The AED’s discharge-ready alarm suggested another shock. 2 bounced the AED and 911.

Another round of CPR was administered to the patient. 2 wondered how he was going to get to the hospital with no gas in the flycar. “Did I waste precious time by pretending to be a medical professional?” Upon the rhythmic palm pressing, the Doctor’s tears fell irresponsibly onto the patient. While padding them up, 2 checked 911’s mouth: There was new blood chunks. Was this the blockage?

Only a rescue kiss could tell. He scooped out the bio matter, then yanked out the gauze. In the quagmire of death, 2 returned the rescue breath his husband had given him from the night before.

The air went through.

On the second breath, 911 matched 2’s rhythm by exhaling himself. With intimate breathing, the Doctor maintained the undulation until the patient was breathing independently.

“How do I get to the hospital?” 2 said. He dashed to the bedroom. 2 unplugged Wunder from his charging wire, extended his handlebar, then started the gyroscope. He went outside to unlock WEE-UX2.

Upon their entry to the work out/etc. room, 2 noticed how red the scene was. “Blood loss. IV.” The Doctor doesn’t bring IVs home. The Nurse, does.

2 picked up a salt sack in 911’s supplies, but the needles and tubes were a symphony of confusion. Venipuncture was not the Doctor’s forte. “Stick stickin’ to the nurses,” 2 wished. “What needle site is safer for transport: the cubital fossa, or the dorsum of hand? Elbow? Hand? Elbow? Hand? Elbow? Hand? Uh, I don’t know how he’ll shift. Hand is safer.”

The Doctor checked the patient’s viability. 911 was still breathing alone. After bringing WEE-UX2 around, the Doctor loaded the patient on-board. He secured the IV in the rickshaw’s top cabinet. After tightening the tourniquet, 2 squished all over 911’s fingers and knuckles to locate a vein.

911 squished back. His eyes were still closed.

Holding firm, 2 taped down the IV’s needle, then strapped 911’s wrist to the rickshaw with a belt.

Once the Doctor shifted on his ambulance’s light, Wunder glid them down the hallway. St. Augustine’s was a few miles to go. Dr. 2 would not be stopping at the hospital’s drive thru, but rather, at the emergency room itself.

Man and Man

Wunder’s yellow recharge light blinked in the dark hallway. The Doctor was showering in the nearby room. He had asked the nurse if he could use the surgeon’s locker room that 911 had mentioned before. “I went there to pee,” said 911 once. “It looks like a murder scene. Bloody scrubs. Everywhere. Making everything bloody.”

The shower creaked off. 2 stepped out.

2 looked at 2 in the mirror to remove his contacts. He rinsed them with water in the sink. His phone sent him a checklist reminder that he was over a week late to refilling WEE-UX2’s tires. He slipped into his wretched clothes.

2 headed back to the PACU. “Mostly plastic surgery,” 911’s surgeon had told 2.

WEE-UX2’s toplight shone as a lighthouse to relocate 911’s room. “He was revived right away, God Bless you. There will be no collapse. With a face like his, I had the technologist bring in his temp urn.”

Dr. 2 sat next to his patient. He caressed 911’s big hand. Most of his face was finally recognizable. His halo flickered only occasionally. He slept as if he were an angry babe: His knot brow was fighting his dreams. He’s an ugly adult, but safe and precious in bed.

2 noticed a crinkling box of chocolate under his butt. He threw it on the pile of presents stacked at the other side of the bed. Dr. 2 wasn’t as proud as he thought he would be. He dismissed the melodramatic celebritism gifted to him by the nurses, staff, and journalists, who couldn’t believe the swift service of the “Healthy Husband.” The story was cute on paper, even in the Good News Tribune, “Handsome Doc Saves His Less Handsome Husband.”

2 rubbed around 911’s fingers with his. For the Doctor, the entire procedure was merely a means to an end: to steal back what was already his. The cloy altruism pleases him. Insofar, as he will treat every patient as his dying husband: with an urgent mission to snatch them from the after-after life.

2 raised 911’s hand. “Is this the same IV peripheral I planted? My God, let me redo it with a spoon… Nurses.”

Good Guy With a Rickshaw

”He’s next to this one.”

“Thanks… Excuse me.”

Someone kicked Dr. 2’s toes to wake him. “Are you the ‘Healthy Husband’?” A police officer with a six star badge stood close to the snoozing doctor.

2 smiled himself awake, “Yes, sir.”

“May I have your autograph? I left my pen at the station.”

“Heh.” 2 took his time stretching before getting up.

“Mr. 2, you’re under arrest for grand theft.”

911 gargled, “Whrr?!”

“What did I do? How could I do?” said 2.

“Theft of missing property: 16 laptops and more.”

2 looked away, then scoffed at the floor. “That canned cocktail was gnarly and sour. Hardly worth half of Wunder’s gumption.”

Dr. 2 debuted from the hospital in flashing lights while handcuffed by Sheriff 6. “The Healthy Husband” was quick to headline across Halo City as “The Sticky Hubby.”

“16 laptops, a desktop computer, printed currency from the safe, and all of the frozen patties in the freezer,” said 6 to 2. Dr. 2 laughed as he ducked his head into the cruiser. Could he even fit Überger’s daily shopping list into WEE-UX2?

In the sheriff’s rear mirror, Dr. 2 gazed at his slouched, greasy face the media had caught him with. 2 cried silently with 2 in the mirror. Who was going to swing in to be the understudy’s understudy?

With a lazy scan of the rear mirror, 2 noticed WEE–UX2’s toplight from 911’s window. “The only thing left for the Devil to have are my vehicles,” 2 thought. “At least He couldn’t take 911.”

Sheriff 6 manually turned on a few devices. The technology in the caged car beeped, growled, and flashed.

Dr. 2 jerked up. “What brand of car cam is that?”

Evidence of Handsome Things Seen

“Guess what?”

“What?”

“Chicken butt.” The cartoon’s studio audience roared.

911 laughed out loud, almost screaming at the TV. He seized with a choking cough. “Nrrrsh!”

Dr. 2 entered on cue. “Who needs another IV of applesauce?”

“Trrlrrng!” said 911.

The clean n’ crisp Doctor boosted up the patient to make sure he could breath better.

“Hrrw!? Yrr grr frrckrn’ brrstrd frr drr frrckrn’ prrlrce.”

“I bailed, sweet Pete. Ain’t no po-po keepin’ this One Plus One chained.”

“Drr yrr strr thrrs lrrptrrpsh?”

“Darling, we’re too Christian for mass larceny. I’m ready to prove it for trial. Remember, half a year ago, when I convinced you that I should paint my rickshaw?”

“Yrr.”

“Remember when I said, ‘I also need an authentic ambulance light.’ Then you said, ‘That’s gay.’”

911 chortled, “Hrrh hrrh hrrh hrrh hrrh. Yrr. Rt rrs grr.”

“I insisted, to protect my dorkalicious pimpmobile, I needed more than a bike lock.”

“Yrr wrrntrd thrr mrrst rxprrsrrve rrne.”

“I was in the higher price range, so I decided to also buy interior cams. I was inspired by the taxi cab drivers who I share the lanes with.”

911 smiled with his eyes while rubbing 2’s arm. 2 showed 911 his phone. “I have it recorded online that I emptied the rickshaw, then went into the restaurant. The bitch will say I forged her signature. In addition to my cam’s video, StapleShäre forces me to have audio recording on at all times, in case I ‘misrepresent the quality of their passive platform with my independent enterprise.’ My lawyer is waiting for audio files from StapleShäre now.”

911 nodded his head enthusiastically. He slowed down, then cough cried.

“Whrr hrrprrnrr trr mrr?”

The Diagnosis After Dawn

“Don’t ride that in here,” said the hospital receptionist.

2 hopped off of Wunder. “Sorry, Charlie! The singular coffee machine available at 3 AM is on the other side of this hospital.”

She gave him, the Look: the “I went to nursing school,” look, the “I’ve handled old, trickling pee and smeared diaper,” look, the “I’m done with that literal shit; they pay me enough to be behind this desk,” look.

2 nodded, then yanked up Wunder’s handlebar. Sobriety: The Enemy.

The Doctor slipped into his sleeping patient’s room. Beyond the PM caffeine, a primal yearn goaded 2 with the instruction to continue the bad habit of loitering around his beloved, incase of another emergency, or the unlikely polar bear attack. He opened up his laptop, ready to tackle the to-dos he’s been avoiding well before the emergency, “Due One Month Ago.”

First on his list: “Solve the problem of work.” The Doctor has skipped out on inducing in shärings with his fellow proles. The hiatus was casually granted, but financially suicidal. 2 was already living three pound independent contract, to three pound independent contract. How was he going to afford 911’s emergency?

2 checked his phone. “I can’t login to StapleShäre for work, anyway. My brokers won’t respond to me about anything.” 2 clicked his laptop’s trackpad. “Their website says, ‘Use the app to contact support.’ They’ve banned me from the app with no prior notification, no email confirmation. The only way I can talk to them is through my lawyer, but they forced her to download the ‘StapleShäre Contractor Litigation’ app. Her login is pending approval.”

Wunder’s charge light was blinking. “Maybe I’ll finally get a boring temp job within four walls. Learn a script, a menu. Yap to customers from the same spot for over eight hours a day.”

The Doctor’s head wilted in exhaustion. “StapleShäre wasn’t a job. It was a flight. Because of 911, my workload has doubled: theater and medical, now nursing and breadwinning.”

2 laughed a huff. “Is that my fate?” 2 rubbed around 911’s fingers. “He has no large family. Just he, plus me, equals we.”

For the millionth time, the Doctor opted to analyze the patient. This time, 911 appeared smaller. 2 reached under the sheets to rub 911’s bare chest to make sure. The Doctor’s eyebrows knotted, “His muscles are thinning.”

With a look of soft panic, 2 sat. Was the Doctor being cliche: His monsieur’s mountains were no longer voluptuous? “No,” said 2. He rubbed 911’s large fingers.

2’s amigas always applauded him for his “juicy” male pickings. From the first date’s coffee cup, however, 2 made sure he could, and would, love the baseline man underneath the cologne and muscle. “Doesn’t everyone make that promise?”

911, unfortunately, is a purebred macho at his “baseline.” His handsome habit was not the symptom of luxurious, modern living. 2 did not fall in love with a body builder, but rather, a man who builds his body. Thus, the recession on 911’s chest is bankruptcy.

2 sprung up to discharge his nervousness. He paced around to recite his favorite scene-ending soliloquy, “This is My Artistic Debut,” followed by its Act 2 first liner, “Except This Time It’s Different.”

What springboard did the young actor have this time? “Thaddeus Thinkerton? …’s understudy? I’m still in the media. I can play up the good doc/bad doc dynamic. After a shower. I’ll tip them that I’m breaking up with 911.”

2 kissed 911’s hand to promise that he was joking.

After a pause, his head violently wagged. He had to force himself out of these transcendent fevers. “That’s. Not good enough. For solid work. Right away. Or for the next year. Or however long it takes to make 911 look Christian again. I would also have to… medical school. And theater.” 2 repeatedly rubbed his front hair back. “I can’t even do that in the baby crib of my college theater. But! If I’m being paid well to act in the theater, I’ll have more time for medical.”

2 mock wept, “Heh, ‘being paid well to act in the theater.’ I can do it, though. I will do it. Who are the equity theaters again? Hopefully they watch the news.”

After enough pacing, the Doctor sat on the bed, then clasped his patient’s hand. He let his thoughts argue. He prefers this intrinsic friction, as opposed to writing ideas down, then systematically reaching a conclusion. In the realm of drama, the loudest voice has something to say.

WEE-UX2’s light rode around the room. It moved precisely to the pulse of 911’s heart. 2 curled up to spoon, but his patron conscience couldn’t afford to sleep. Someone needed to make sure the patient would continue breathing. He couldn’t trust the breathing machines, the nurses in the next room, or 911’s brain stem.

After a few hours, 2 noticed the sunrise. He got up.

The young actor exited the room, stage right. The Doctor, crossed to the receptionist desk, stage left.

Man of the Patients

“Hold-it-open-hold-it-open!” said 2. The janitor held the elevator door with his mop handle. “Thank you. Four, please.”

“What are you doing!?” said the janitor. “You’re in scrubs! I saw you a month ago weepin’ like a bitch for your man.”

“They liked me! They gave me this,” 2 displayed his red bucket.

“I hate cleaning those. I got stung by a needle once.”

“Wow, that shouldn’t have happened. I don’t know why Ms. Wretched couldn’t move her hand two inches to throw it away in the right container. She didn’t even cap it?”

The elevator opened, “It happened.”

“I’m sorry. God bless!” 2 power walked down the hall. His booty was strutting faster and firmer than a man on a runaway elliptical machine.

St. Augustine’s Hospital was not hiring handsome, five-star, doctors-in-training, at the moment. They were, however, looking for phlebotomists. With 2’s love of needles, he immediately stepped into the accessible position. “I’m lower than a nurse, if that’s possible. At least I has a bucket. The Sting Bucket. The Porcupine Pail. The Blood Bucket.”

2 loved his bucket. “What will I name her? Bloody Betty. Or just Betty. The Bloody.”

The Doctor had been injected with vitality: He got more sleep; he met his commitments; he was alert at class; his paychecks weren’t toyish; above all, the hospital had excellent healthcare benefits for his beloved.

All at the cost of the bloody crucifixion of his theatrical career. The 2, was not to debut as Thaddeus Thinkerton’s understudy.

Every day felt like the first day he gave it up. During his morning rituals, he plans as if he were going to instantly retreat into yesterday: The full-time medical profession was his dirty affair from the theater he would eventually reconcile at Confession. One day, he will stop living in denial. For now, he has a red bucket.

One more class, one more semester, one more volunteer gig, one more internship, all translated into one more season away from the curtain.

“Nice bucket,” said the receptionist with her morning coffee.

“Thanks!” said 2. He entered his favorite patient’s room.

“Twoling,” said 911 with a bored smile.

“I brought you coffee, darling,” said 2.

“YES.”

“But it’s crap, machine coffee.”

“YES.”

“After the draw.” 2 selected the lavender tubes from Bloody Betty for today’s complete blood count analysis, then tied a tourniquet around 911’s arm. “My lawyer called.”

911 laughed. “What’s gunna happen?”

“StapleShäre gave her the round-a-bout within the app about getting those audio recordings. We decided we had enough evidence for a lawsuit against StapleShäre as well: for facilitating the shäring of workplace sexual harassment via negligence and self censorship.”

“What about Überger?” said 911. 2 finished the blood draw with a patch, then kissed it.

“We’re still countersuing. It’s going to take time, but get ready to collect, darling. Let’s go on holiday somewhere real fuckin’ nice with their money, but not before ordering Überger for take-out.”

911 scream laughed while capturing 2 in a hug.

The Doctor Demands Satisfaction

“You’ve been a naughty wheel, Wunder,” said 2, as both angel and uni walked out of the hospital. “I needed you to stay charged all week.”

Wunder’s charge light blinked in shame.

2 rubbed Wunder’s shell, “I’m kidding, darling. We’ll fetch a taxi with the money you saved me on gas for just one week.” 2 laid Wunder flat on his lap.

The Doctor diagnosed his wheel by opening multiple shell flaps. “Do you need more air? Do you need a new battery? I think so… Yea. You’ve needed a new battery since my last StapleShäre delivery near a year ago. You went from four hours of wheeling per shift, to two. I thought I needed to get a new uni instead. No. Never a new uni. I remember I wanted to try a foldable bike because of the convenience. Heh, bikes are for sober people.

The Doctor continued to rub Wunder’s shell while waiting for a taxi. “I’ll order a new battery tonight. I couldn’t afford to give you a new heart back then, because… I’ve gotta’ pimp you out now. Superglue some ghetto lights to your underside. Zip ties.”

A taxi flycar descended from around the corner. While hailing for it, the Doctor pondered its taxihat advertisement. It was for a recherche play: The Burning Train. The ad hosted a group of obscurely posed demons: angels who hide their wings. They were caught in a tableau of lurching aggression. 2 entered the cab.

“Hi. Where to?” said the taximan.

“I’ve been good,” 2 thought. “Get 911, or don’t get 911?” 2 looked at Wunder. “Let’s just go. I’ll ask if I can charge you there.”

The Doctor rolled down the window, then craned out onerously to see the taxihat, rather than simply stepping out of the vehicle.

“Let’s go to where the devils dance.”

The 25/25 Absurdity Show

“Have you auditioned here?” said the director to 2, as she handed him a ticket. “You look so young.”

2 smiled. “No, not yet.” He ordered himself a drink, then sat down. “Ten Christian pounds for a glass of pagan box wine? God bless the struggling theater.”

It was a small theater. 2 had to enter through a gangway, barely visible from the sidewalk. The place was super-duper small. “We literally perform in a closet,” said the director. “It’s a big kitchen closet, but it’s, yea, a storage. We hosted a cotillion in here!”

2 sat with no one but his polite smile. The actors were already revealed, preparing upon the thrust before the show. “This is the actors’ exposition: pre-living before the living on the posters. Yet, the show hasn’t begun! By tucking themselves up, chatting leisurely, flipping their wigs, and tightening their mics, the audience is slowly entering a chasm into a new world.”

There were only six people in the audience. The house was closing in five minutes.

“‘An anniversary show of many acts.’” said 2 from the playbill. “Look at all these disgusting, horrible, disgusting actor bios, ‘Actress X joins us from theater A, B, and C with awards D, E, and F.’ Where is the artistic mission of these philistines? Is their next director, with his money bags, sitting within the audience? Why not just leave copies of your full resumes underneath the seats? Filth. I don’t want to read filth—good. A pizza coupon.”

The lights dimmed. The first scene was a psychiatric hospital where a mortal woman was begging a psychiatrist to know the diagnosis of her husband’s mental health, prior to his unexpected death. The psychiatrist killed the husband to be with the woman; he then blamed the heinous act on suicide via the man’s dissatisfaction with his marriage. “The plot’s good. The actors are either still warming up from stage jitters, or this ham sandwich will last me longer than I thought.”

The lights changed drastically in color while actors shifted across the stage. A female psychiatrist was diagnosing her patient, a nun, who was trying to confess to the psychiatrist that she was a homo: by seducing the psychiatrist. “Absurdists love psychiatric wards,” said 2. “Great energy from these women, out the door.”

The miserable melange shuffled with every scene: crackhouse parties, spooky corn field montage, grown man seducing barely-legal girl with trumpet, weeping, barely bilingual prostitutes, more weeping, hard drug injections via butt cheek. “I enjoyed the soliloquy, technically a monologue, of the woman who doted upon the dog.”

The headline show from the ads had finally set upon the thrust. The actors immediately shape-shifted into the mid-context of The Burning Train. They posed as various pieces of furniture surrounding one woman with a book on a bed. “Crisp and adroit. Great transitions,” said 2. The dialogue was dense; too much to instantly understand. “I’ll have to read it.”

The woman on the bed started screaming the contents of her book, presumably a journal. As she exorcised her doubts at the top of her lungs, the actors slithered into each other to form an abominable, dangling mass. It wheeze-whistled as it chased the woman around the room.

The house lights came on. The demon actors took their bow. Dr. 2 empathically gave them his broad n’ sharp clap.

2 snuck into the coat room before everyone else. He unplugged Wunder from his charger then booted up his gyroscope. “It was good,” 2 told Wunder, “I just. There’s a lot that makes it a four star show. I don’t know.”

The two paced toward the trash. “I understand it was a medley show, but many scenes were flat. Some writers were flat. Some actors were flat. A dude painted his eyebrows. Too many unchristian blips brought a five star show down to four.”

After 2 threw away his box wine cup, he saw a glittering box next to a poorly dressed mannequin. The box had two holes with a pile of envelopes, papers, and pencils next to it. One hole was named “Donations,” the other “Suggestions.”

“Poor stipend actors. Can’t believe I tried to feed myself with this.” Dr. 2 left them a check for one thousand pounds in an envelope. “I’ll give them money AND advice, as I do with God’s homeless.” He leaned Wunder against the wall to write.

“‘First thing, the staging. Cheap.’ Next, the costumes. ‘Less cheap, thank you.’ No, darling, you gotta’ tell ‘em why, or else they won’t know how to improve. ‘Cheap costumes beyond the humble socioeconomics of the play’s time.’ Good!”

The Doctor sat within the abandoned audience seats, expanding his critique, “I GET the quirky mannequin, but it’s still a hot mess.” He kept borrowing more small papers from the pile to continue his magnum opus, impromptu. Half of him didn’t want to go home, where endless medical homework was stacked high for him. The other half misses the call to action that resonates from an acute stage light.

Abstract Rubes

The tea kettle whistled, but Dr. 2 continued to peck his laptop in the kitchen. “Darling?”

“You’re right next to it,” said 911 from another room of their apartment.

“But it’s your turn,” stated 2.

“I don’t drink your coffee.”

“But it’s your turn. You drink tea all day.”

911 rumbled from the workout room. He was sweaty and pulsing. He looked at 2, briskly snapped off the oven, then waved his hands up and down. 2 smiled. 911 left.

“Do I have time to go shopping with WEE-UX2?” said 2, as he finished his coffee pour-over. “But I have to gas n’ wash the flycar. Since 911 is staying home today, I’ll dump it on him.”

A Sunday afternoon email assassinated 2’s mood with its ring-a-ling. “It better be spam. Or food delivery coupons. It costs too damn much to have those proles bring food to me.”

“Your Legal Action is Required,” said the email.

The Doctor received notification that he was violating copyright laws. That night a month ago at the absurdist show, 2 expressed his review of the theater on his blog and social networks. His friends always relied on him to give an honest opinion of Halo City’s theaters to plan a night out. Thus, the post promulgated with likes.

“Cease and Desist,” said the email.

Dr. 2 laughed out loud. “Are they expecting money out of me? How is my review, someone else’s copyrights?”

“Your negative review must be taken down because the script is distributed on a private website.”

“What are they talking about, ‘private’?!” said 2, “I bought a ticket to see a show! What are these Upside-down Land accusations?!”

“The show was classified as a ‘live, peer-to-peer workshop, with audience feedback’ thus not public. Your review is an unauthorized expression of licensed ideas and key concepts.”

“I bought a ticket,” said 2. He retaliated on his laptop.

911 entered the room with clean clothes. “You’re angry typing, babe. The building handyman can’t do anything about the pigeons pooping on your flowers.”

“Darling, we’re going to the theater,” said 2.

“When?” said 911.

“Tonight.”

Scenes for a Mean World

“Twoling, I’m chilly,” said 911.

“Then hold my hand,” said 2.

“I’m chilly all over.”

“We’re almost there, darling.”

“Why did I have to wear short sleeves? You say it’s vulgar for me to show my arms in dressed public.”

“Incase we need them.”

911 laughed. He feigned an accent, “Aww we gon’ tussle tonigh’?”

“We shouldn’t have the need,” said 2. “Don’t worry. Playwrights are weaklings. They don’t even have unions.”

“What are we doing? Are we watching a show for a few hours, or what?” said 911.

“We can do whatever you want after I have a word with the director.”

“I literally want a bucket of cheese fries.”

“Don’t say ‘literally’ just for sentence syllables,” said 2.

“I literally want a bucket of cheese fries,” said 911.

2 rubbed his boyfriend’s chest, “Here’s the tunnel to the theater. Imagine that everyone inside, is a cheese fry.”

“Okay,” said 911.

911 and 2 entered into the theatrical cubby. No one was at the ticket desk. The players were preparing upon the thrust. “This mise-en-scene is distinct from the one I saw. They’re already rotating into their next show.”

They sat down in the audience seats. 2 grabbed a playbill from the next seat, “Look, they’re doing another absurdist show through the same armpit aesthetic. Banal.”

“Yea, wow.” said 911.

“Are these shows winning them some career-building, chocolate medal awards? What’s with the genre addiction?” said 2.

“These guys,” said 911.

“Look, read their actor bios. They’re cliche little resumes.”

911 took the playbill. “Demon Starskat specializes as a bad boy. He surprised the… troo-pay, however, when he flawlessly upheld the role of a tender father.” 911 scream laughed. “What a bitch!”

2 picked up another playbill, “‘…She’s the troupe’s newest princess…’” said 2. “‘He yearns to write the absurd, rather than just act it.’ ‘She has a cat who saw the show.’ Hmm. Their playbills used to just drone. Now it’s just art, purpose, and spirit in the descriptions.”

2 slowly nodded at the actors from his seat, “Good. I guess. Maybe they took my suggestions… seriously.” He looked to the donation/suggestion box by the entrance. The mannequin next to it was now tastefully gaudy, rather than fashionably drunk.

“Is that her?” said 911. He pointed to the director who had walked in through the front to sit at the ticket desk.

2 rubbed 911’s thigh, “Wait.”

While the actors were doing their breathing and stretching warm-ups, the Doctor diagnosed them from afar, “They could have used their old, crap costumes. Now their men wear custom, gilded stripes that didn’t come from the cheap thrift store. Their women wear fuller bows that weren’t handed down from the theater’s earliest daughters. Their stage has three walls made out of wall, rather than the scrappiest of scrap wood layered in chalky paint.”

2 got up with 911’s hand. They went for the door.

“Are we going to fight with her about your copyrighting?” said 911.

“It wasn’t her. It wasn’t her troupe. It wasn’t her theater. The fool who’s litigating me for a blog review must be one of the writers. I got so angry, darling.”

“Yea,” said 911.

“Let’s go get some cheese fries and alcoholic beverages soon. We have St. Mary’s in the morning.”

911 took 2 under his wing as they left the theater.

Wheel Me In

Wunder bounced over a bottle, almost shattering through it. “Sorry, Wunder,” said 2, “Let’s stop for my flashlight.”

After they slowed down, 2 lowered WEE-UX2’s bar to the ground. No cargo was on-board except for a twelve case of beer, with one opened. The busy Doctor looked for any excuse at night to ride with his old friends again. Tonight, hubby needed beer.

“It’s not Christian to unicycle while drunk. That’s why I’m only drinking a little, then waiting. I can do it, though, probably better.”