Friday, October 27, 2006

I Have To Do A Faustian Bargain For The Magic Mafia Or They'll Cut Off My Johnson

It's been roughly half a year since I began this whole journal thing, and in that time I haven't had a week so unbearably horrific that I wasn't able to get it all down in one go.

Until now. I'm going to hurl myself at this one as a tribute to my ex-shrink and hated enemy Dr Robert Amersham Willis, who's still in the lowest pit of Hades attempting to get jiggy with Emily Dickinson's eternally-wandering spirit, but the events of the past 168 hours have been so horrible that I'm going to make a Halloween Special out of it and spread it over a couple of days.

As regular readers will know, I started the week in hospital after being worked over with baseball bats by a bunch of ghostly Native American mobsters from somewhere beyond the grave, which was kind of unusual. Anyway, that unpleasant debacle left me with fractured ribs, arms, legs and head and no pancreas worth mentioning, so I was pretty sure that my seemingly-endless quest to get myself beaten to a bloody pulp by magic goombahs was over and I could now look forward to spending the rest of the year, and quite possibly the rest of my life, taking it easy in the luxurious confines of the Star City Extreme Physical Trauma Unit.

Oh, how untroubled that world seems to me now! How pleasant the friendly banter with the chummy, laugh-a-minute Doctor Grimsilence as he told me how I would never walk again! How soothing the gentle trickle of my bodily wastes into the colostomy bag that was now my companion for eternity. If only I could once again return to that world! Perhaps at the time I might have said unkind things about the staff at the hospital - I may even have begged them to shoot me - but I didn't realise I had it so good! Yes, I was crippled for life and unable to even crap myself without help, yes I was trapped in a state of unending agony, misery and despair, but say what you will - Doctor Fate was not in that building.

Whereas now he's hovering right next to me reading every single word over my shoulder. Well, I hope you like what you see, you golden gimp.

Anyway, Dr Fate obviously decided that I didn't owe enough favours to the Magic Mafia, so, having watched me spend a couple of painful and unnecessary days learning how to pee again, he breezed in superciliously and healed all my wounds before conjuring me a particularly horrible blue polyester shirt. Dr Fate doesnt have expressions as such, but he was smirking like a little bitch, believe you me. Especially when the hospital refused to remove my catheter in case I had a sudden relapse. I still have a bag of my own piss strapped to my leg and I can't get them to take it off of me no matter what I do. I called Dr Mid-Nite but he said that urinology wasn't his field, which frankly sounds like some sort of pee-avoiding cop-out to me.

So anyway - Dr Fate whisked me off to yet another hellish zone of infernal torment, to teach me yet another lesson about not disrespecting the Godfather, and frankly by this point I'd had enough. Mustering my most witheringly sarcastic voice, I asked Dr Fate how long I'd been traipsing about after him. I should have known better - passive-agressive behaviour like that is meat and drink to the little turd. That was his cue to launch into a giant speech about all the interesting people that he knew in Hell, and how the only person there that I remembered was completely rubbish and crap and couldn't even sell his soul to Satan because it was made entirely of plastic like a toy out of a Kinder Egg. And at the end of this hugely long speech he managed to make me even more indebted to the mob than I was last week, which is ridiculous.

Apparently someday - and this day may never come - I'm going to make a bargain. Almost a Faustian bargain, if you will. And if I welsh on that bargain like I'm some kinda rat, Mickey No-Nose is gonna fit me up wit' a concrete overcoat. A Faustian concrete overcoat. And then he's gonna send me for a swim inna river. The river of Goethe. And if I turn it down, they'll cut off my Johnson. Dr Fate was all "If you end up here, nobody will mourn you. Ever. And nobody will mourn your Johnston if you even think about crossing me. Ever ever." It would have been pretty creepy if he didn't look kind of like the end of a Johnson himself.

So I get home and I wait for the opportunity to make an ill-conceived and bitterly ironic transaction with my soul as currency. And that's when the Phantom Stranger bursts through the window.

More on that tomorrow.

1 Comments:

Blogger Hal Jordan said...

Well, that's sad. Man, why do you let other people get into your life like this? You should get back to Gingold or look for Kyle to get some help about it. Hell, Kyle could teach them not to screw around with your life... so much. Anyway, why do you hate me?! Everything I did was only to help you out, man!
Besides, (I'm sorry for the intrusion in your personal business, again) I think Sue would've hate to see you doing weird things with cults and stuff. She admired you and thought of you as the strongest man on Earth. You don't need no cults or golden bitchin' helmets or afterlife entities messing around with you! You're goddamn Ralph Dibny!!!
But, then again, she supported everything you do, so... well, there's no point in any of this, really.
Ralph, don't hate me. I did it for you because you're my friend and I care about you. You have to do what's right... do what's right...
do... what's... right...
be a hero... the hero...
a hero...
...
Ralph just stop it.

7:54 AM  

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