Akira Kanayama - Remote-Controlled Painting Machine, 1957
Fuck. This headache. What am I doing. I wasn’t even horny, I was just so excited from all those thoughts about Charvet and what not. I didn’t come yet but was close. Cleaned up anyways, put away my clothes locking them up in a gunsafe I used as a minicloset, changed into my black scrubs, took the morphine, a couple advil, placed my pill box and other valuables in a fireproof/waterproof safe with triple biometric and digital lock (though I only use the fingerprint scanner and digital lock). I was leaving the room until I looked back and noticed my phone. I rushed over and quickly dialed the numbers for the voicemail.
“Hi, this is Victor Irwin deRubertis the THIRD—and I am an Attorney for David Ezra. A former patient that was under your care and suffered immense suffering due to your negligence and poor …” I slammed the phone down. The way he emphasized ‘attorney’ was like a condescending little Jewish fuckshit. What kind of god-damn name is deRubertis? I guess he isn’t Jewish—perhaps some stupid Bostonian accent. Ezra. Ezra. My mind raced. The drugs were kicking in. The oxy was everywhere tingling and warm. I felt as if someone was injecting warm liquids through my cervical vertebrae. Calming. Ezra. David Gary Ezra? No. That was a professor I had in business school…Ezra. I can’t remember. I searched my phone quickly. Mario Ezra. No. Who the fuck—what. Ezra—we aren’t talking about Judea or Levittes or Babylon. My only association with Ezra was it was a book of the bible we always joked about not being able to find during the rare occasions it was mentioned at Sunday School.
I looked at the Ukiyo-e on my wall. My favorites (some—how can I possibly, even remotely choose) come from Tsuki Hyakushi by Yoshitoshi. What a wonderful name: Yoshitoshi. Quite unlike this bastard Ezra. I should’ve fucking kicked him down with some extra propofol. Dead bodies don’t file malpractice suits. I can’t remember anything about this Ezra though…Holding back a moment—I have another message. I did have another. I will have one. The headache. Knives into my skull, a spiked iron mace into the base of my neck; a serpentine bite of pain into the backs of my eye sockets. 60mg is not enough? I will just have to wait for the MS to kick in I suppose. My pupils were tiny pinpoints. My dick was limp.