Cereal 2: A Kick in the Liver...

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Breakfast of Champions
Two:
A Kick in the Liver is Worth Two in the Head

Ring… ring… ring… ring… ring… Goddamned ringing better just be in my head. Isn’t anybody going to answer that? Christ. I’ll get it.

"Hail grouper! Hail grouper!" What the fuck was that?

Paul was having trouble with simple tasks that a very smart monkey or a fairly dumb eight year old should be able to complete with ease.

He attempted to complete his task, only achieving success in the very first step: he opened one eye briefly. "Hail grouper!" His voice seemed muffled. He tried again. "Hail, grouper!" escaped his mouth again. Someone had tried to ram a pack of OG filters into his mouth and succeeded admirably. He tried to get up. He couldn’t. The restraints on his arms and legs seemed to be holding him down.

Paul tried yelling for someone to answer the goddamn phone. "Puking fencer ba gum-gum pone!"

"Ah, back in the world of the living, I see." Doc Newhall suddenly popped into Paul’s field of vision. He gingerly removed the OGs from Paul’s mouth with a gloved hand, wiping the bespittled pack dry on Paul’s hospital gown . Newhall stared at the pack for a moment. He seemed to be reading the surgeon general’s warning and vaguely wondering whether he should warn Paul about the dangers of smoking. Perhaps he was reflecting on Paul’s brand choice and wondering what it said about his lifestyle choice and demographic. He said nothing and smiled vaguely, putting the cigs on top of Paul’s nightstand by Paul’s dinner: tapioca, milk, and a tuna salad sandwich on white bread.

The phone was still ringing. It was really getting on Paul’s nerves.

"Could you answer it?"

"No. The phone’s in a locked office. Nobody has the key. Annoying isn’t it? There’s no answering machine and the ringer’s set on high. "

"Um. Yes. It’s really quite annoying."

"A Mister S Monkey left a note for you the front desk. You should pick it up before you leave. Paul, we have to talk about this mixing drugs thing. It’s really not good for you. We’ll have to talk later. I have to go. I got these tickets to see some of the ole members of the Dead play. Not gonna be the same without Jerry, but still… I got some killer weed." Newhall waved a plastic baggie scintillatingly close to Paul’s nose. Paul realized that the familiar bulge-let of his stash was no longer in his pants pocket. His familiar pants had also somehow migrated to Newhall’s body. Paul sobbed heartily. Sure he’d miss pants, but dammit, dope was sacred.

"Medical fee," said Newhall, his eyes shifting from side to side as he beat a hasty retreat from the hospital room.

Sloane wandered in. She looked confused. "Dude, you missed practice yesterday, what’s up? The band was totally worried you quit."

"Uh, apparently I’m in the hospital or something."

"Oh, right. That makes sense." She plonked down into the visitor’s chair, but not before grabbing the tapioca on Paul’s nightstand and downing it in one gulp. She tossed the empty plastic cup over her shoulder. "Must be white night. These fuckers never give you anything good to eat. My kingdom for a Hershey Bar. I remember when I got my tonsils out. What a nightmare…" Her words were slightly muffled by the presence of half a tuna salad sandwich in her mouth.

"Sloane?"

"Yah, what?" She finished the first half and was working on the second, eyeing the milk.

"I’m in a band? With you?"

"Yah, you play bass, right? Goddammit I’m thirsty"

"Uh, you tell me."

"Um…You play bass? In the Snow Monkeys? I think I’m the singer or play guitar or something. I’m not really sure though. I mean, I have a guitar, right? We talked about this. Unless I forgot to tell you. You’re the one with the bass?" She drank the milk. "Damn, I HATE two percent. You should talk to these people."

"Yeah. OK. Could you help me out of these restraints? I gotta pee like a banshee."

"Sure, sure, no problemo. Can I bum a smoke?"

Sloane grabbed the pack of cigs and took one out. She produced a wooden match from among her dreds and struck it on the no smoking’ sign above Paul’s head. She lit the cigarette and pulled a Sharpie out of her hair and crossed out the ‘no’ in the sign to bring it in conformance with reality.

She took a look at the cig package.

"What is up with the psycho writing on the package? That’s a pretty interesting way to quit." She took a look at the cig she was smoking. "DUDE… ‘Die motherfucker die…Love Doris,’ I don’t know man, that’s pretty harsh. It kinda makes the surgeon general look like a pussy." She took a long drag. "Mmmm. I’ve come a long way, baby. And I’ve gotta get back. To the library, I mean." She tucked the pack and the Sharpie into her pinned-up dreds. "I would thank you for dinner, but to be honest it was pretty crappy."

She undid the restraints. Paul sprang vertical like a character in a brand spanking new pop up book. He felt torn. He needed to pee, but he also needed a cig. He grabbed for the cigs in Sloane’s hair. He failed miserably, thwacking her head lightly like some geek kid trying to get the candy out of a stubborn piñata. He was in no shape to be moving at all, which is why he was in the hospital.

"SLOANE, GIMMEE THOSE BACK!" He tap danced shakily a little closer to the bathroom door.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." She rolled her eyes.

"I MEAN IT I’M HAVING A REALLY SHITTY DAY!"

"Y’know Paul, you gotta calm down. Lemmee explain. Possession is all in your head…"

"Fuck it." Paul made the decision before it was made for him by his testy bladder. There is, after all, nothing like a good piss. And nothing more embarrassing than urine all over the front of your hospital gown.

Paul sprinted as best he could for the bathroom doing a fine impression of the Tower of Pisa shakily roller-skating across a hospital room.

"Hey Paul"

"What?" Maybe she would take pity on him.

"Nice ass."

"Christ."