Plastic Surgery Disaster (Short Story-Horror Scary stuff boobbitchcraft)

Plastic Surgery Disaster

By Alan McClary 3/7/7

When I awoke with the taste of cotton in my mouth, my cheeks felt as if they were still sated with the spongy fiber. The pounding in my head seemed to be making my oral cavity puff up and deflate ever so slightly. The element that unsettled my stomach beyond the irritation of a hangover, was the fact that I had an, albeit vague, stirring recollection of the previous night’s happenstance. I recollected doing some type of drug and being placed in a chair…no… I wouldn’t have done anything more than a pain pill or a bump of cocaine. All in all, I was convinced that the minor drug abuse explained my deficit of recollection. It would then reside as a secret blot in my memory bank. I would not let my husband see my distress.
 
Roy was awake already and cooking a typical nation state breakfast to replenish us. He had a way of teasing you for what seemed like hours will the smell of cooking bacon and sweet sausages. My hunger would bloat as my headache seemed to churn at rest, while Roy took his endearing time in the kitchen. Roy peaked in on me with a smile that faded suddenly as he assured me I did not sleep in too late for a Sunday. My eyes were so teary that I could barely see him and I seemed to be perpetually half-yawning so I simply nodded at him. He seemed eager to get back to his cookery. 

I went to the bathroom to fetch some pain-killer with codeine when a heart-learned dread flooded my senses. I was tempted to scream for Roy when I could scarcely see my reflection in the mirror, while opening the cabinet access. After downing two of ‘my favorites’ (Roy likes Vike) I wiped the snot out of my eyes. I should hope that no person should ever have to be singed to the bone by the flare of horror of seeing not what I saw then, but the way I saw it. My own face distorted to a mess of shock before my conscious mind was aware of the reality of my condition. When I saw my surrealist screaming face portending its creation, I could react only by attempting to bring it to exaggeration. When this came of no avail; I pushed a moan from my belly that emerged as a breathless grunt of defeat. I could not take my face from this mocking shape of almost droll surprise. If my husband would not have rushed to me to hold me and assure me I fear that I would have sustained self-injury.
   
He kept assuring me that it was normal and it would not last. I suddenly began denying his claims with a low but hissing voice that would function shaped by my throat muscles and my tongue. How could this be normal? He just said that it is and seemed distressed merely by my self-justified lunacy. I then decided to throw my hand. I asked Roy about what happened last night. He stated that: We drank, we talked, and you got a Botox injection from Sharon’s Godmother. I instantly demanded that he should have stopped me. He earnestly stated that he was in the basement with Carl, Sandbox, and Will playing Dry-Whisky Pong and Grand Theft Lawnmower 2. All that I could really say in my defense was that I would never really do such a thing, well not at 43 any way. Roy also denied the necessity of my facial time travel. The only logical explanation was that my haggish sun-pruned friends were too wussy to do it, so I had to step up to the plate.
I told Roy that I was calling Sharon, and I damn well did. Here is the conversation for you:

Me: Yo wassup hobag?
Sharon: Wuttup Dyke? Lena, you sound ridiculous. I barely recognized you.
Me: Yeah that’s because my face is fucked.
Sharon: I don’t need to know about you and Roy…oh you mean the Botox.
Me: Yeah, why did you let me do it? Is your Godmother their?
Sharon: No, umm she went back to Egypt to do more R&D.
Me: I’ve got some R&D all over my face. 
Sharon: Yeah, you suck.
Me: No, I am locked in a dumbfounded expression of idiocy.
Sharon: (Laughingly) Well it’s normal, relax hon. It will pass in a few days and you’ll look so good. Dr. Gorgon has stuff that lasts for years not months.
Me: Is this stuff even legal…Egypt, what did you do to me?
Sharon: Get a pen. Here is her colleague’s number: 7-5-4 677-4433, ok Call him; Dr. Esterlind
Me: Did you say Dr. Easter-ISLAND? What the hell, is this a joke?
Sharon: No Ho, Ester-lind, write this number down:
Me: I got it.

I sat down across the table from the asshole feeding his face and dialed some numbers on our cordless phone. Here is that frightfully odd conversation:

Mick: Dr. Mick Esterlind speaking.
Me: Doctor.
Mick: Call me Mick.
Me: Mick. Do you know Dr. Megan Gorgon?
Mick: Yes, lovely lady, a bit eccentric, but what is your name sweetheart?
Me: Lena Gerhardt. I took some bad Botox.
Mick: Lena. Pretty name. You did not take any bad Botox. If it was in fact in your bloodstream or stomach, we would not be having this conversation. Botox is a protein derivative of botulism. Botulism, simply put: paralyzes you. If it was free in your system as a result of ingestion, it is often found in the American food culture-high fructose corn syrup, you would be paralyzed temporarily until death or treatment.
Me: That’s all very reassuring but I have some type of freaky hybrid long-lasting Botox in my cheeks courtesy of Dr. Gorgon. Is she a quack? Is she Frankenstein? Better yet are her methods legal?
Mick: Good questions. She is closer to Frankenstein than to being a hack, but I assure you her methods are legal in context.
Me: Legal…as in uncontrolled? What is inside me? Do you know? Why Egypt?
Mick: She derives the Botulism from a rare breed of rabbit or sable that is actually dying out due to the plague of it. That is all that I know of it, other than the fact that standard Botox is derived from soil thus it has more controllable properties.
Roy: What can you tell us about this animal?
Me: Roy, get off the phone! 
Mick: Well little is known about it outside from ancient Phoenician legends.
Me: This is getting off track, but tell me about the legend.
Mick: Ok. The Phoenicians along with some other tribes believed that a great hare lived on the moon.
Me: Never mind.
Mick: No, wait. This hare was the creator of a matter that was believed to continue the life cycle for all beings.
Me: Was the stuff like ancient Botox?
Mick: No, I don’t know what it was, but I doubt it was as tangible if at all. I am neither historian nor scholar of primeval legendry though. I do know that the hare symbolized life.  I know that when the hare was stricken with the plague in more recent years it has lent way to a rebirth and correlation of the old legends coupled with new addendum.
Me: But every idiot and even a mongrel of crude culture know there is no bunny on the moon!
Mick: I wasn’t aware of that. Also, the legend has little to do with a hare or any entity giving life from the outer realms, but more with the vengeance of ancient sepulchral Gods and Goddesses whose resting places have been ravished by godless sultans of greed.

I was quickly growing annoyed by his sanctimony and peculiarity and just wanted the conversation to end. I was, however, genuinely shaken by the fact that I had a face-full of dying rodent contagion. I demanded Dr. Gorgon’s number, to which he insisted that there was no way to contact her at the time, and we said our goodbyes. I instantly felt a burn of regret for not pumping him for more information, but I simply could not stand his whimsical tone and mystic ramblings. My husband suddenly hit me with an oddball question: “Well if the moon-hare gives this stuff of life couldn’t he give a stuff of death as well? I mean, I don’t know why he would give it to the hare but, hold on. Ok, the Pharaohs are pissed right, at man. So they give a plague to the hare, from the hare-God, with the intention of killing the hare and ending life on earth?” I swore at him for listening to the entire conversation. I then stated that the dead mummies must have given the hare this plague because it knows that humans now can use plagues, funguses, and even diseases to their benefit. I stated that maybe the dead Gods were smart enough to know that we would be injecting our faces with their plague. Realizing fully well how absurd this was, I still felt a hatred for my laughing husband. He then suggested that perhaps the rabbit-juice would turn me into a rabbit. I fell back into laughter. 

When the phone rang I caught myself hoping that it was Dr. Esterlind calling.

Me: Hello
Sharon: It’s me. I just had to tell you that she may not be my Godmother.
Me: What? Who is she then?
Sharon: When she came to the door she said she knew my mother. I didn’t want to question it being that Mom just passed away so recently. I was drunk and I just wanted everything to be cool.
Me: Everything is not cool. I thought you trusted this woman.
Sharon: It wasn’t my idea, was it? I really don’t remember much at all after I let her in.
Me: Shit, I gotta get this stuff out of me. Have you talked to Rainey or Carol?
Sharon: Yeah…they don’t remember anything. Why don’t you call a doctor?
Me: Or the police, I could have them trace these numbers.
Sharon: You have Dr. Gorgon’s number? 
Me: No, do you?
Sharon: Uh, no. 
Me: Forget it. Call me later, bye. 
Sharon: Yes I will sweetie, bye-bye.
II
This is the point in my written capsulation of these horrid events where not only will the happenings take a turn toward the implausible, but I as well…
A typical hung-over Sunday morning consists of a hearty breakfast at noon and a series of false starts that culminate in a day on the couch watching the tube. This day only differed in that I entered into it willingly. The daytime programming was banal but childish enough to put me into enough of a kiddy trance to put everything else out of mind. On occasion we would put on a DVD of some classic Bisnie cartoon. We were intentionally silent but no bane seemed to subsist of or from it. It wasn’t until about suppertime that Roy appealed to run a few errands. I let him go with the stipulation that he would pick up mild flavored hot wings and sarsaparillas. As he left I watched him from the window cursing the waxing moon as night began to shade road visibility and I hoped it turned the slush to ice. While I did not question that these were my true thoughts, I assumed them to be the artifact of the morning’s looming trepidation.

While the living room was falling under the spell of a wintry distress, I did not feel a sense of loneliness or discomfort. I was relived more by this than when I watched the handsome prince cut the throat of the evil dæmon bitch. At least that is what I remembered viewing previously, although I knew it not to be true. The colors in my account of “The Amiable Little Prince” seemed to be that of pureed organs, a perhaps umbilical residue, and black vitriolic stucco. I turned to the TV where “Sonic Bee Man” was bustling emanate and mechanically toggled the power lever to off. I had to prepare for my husband’s return. 

I put my back against the silvery cross-stitch plated wall and examined my form in the adjacent wall mirror. The mirror only captured my thighs, tummy, and bosom against this primitive looking textile. I began to strip my body of its clothes riotously. I did not savor the look of my combatant abdominal definition or my draping warrior tits, so much as a longed for my shadow to become me. I felt like 90 pounds of sun-kissed muscle wrapping a spirit of earthbound flame. But my wavering flew in from the vascular blackness that was master of my muted form. This protean blackness was such that it could turn from a steady veining flow about my body, to a flash that encompassed the entire earth, to an aura-like outline of my visible figure; all this came with no order about its course. But amid my uncertainty, it began to glow to me. 

Upon the stark release of these, I desired to call them hallucinations; I assumed a need to facilitate my woe with idle prying and prodding. I sat my naked tush at the computer chair and connected my laptop to the internet. I used a search portal to read of some other’s individual experiences with Botox injections. Horror stories were actually few, but they did include the temporary freezing of the face into a strange contortion or unintelligent smile. The pictures here were reassuring, but when I was directed to a site dedicated to before and after plastic surgery images, my eye was keen to some modern day horror in and of itself. There was something maddening about the cherubic faces conjoined to the time-withered bodies.

There was one image that I found particularly displeasing; a torso and face shot of a topless middle age bodied woman with a face that lurked in the vicinity of pre pubescence. Her dreadful naked bosoms looked masculine in their compelled rubbery protuberance. It looked as if the severed head of a dead young girl had been sewn to the neck of an animate body. The point the where her head intersected neck into maturity was more horrible than any scene of gore or murder I could imagine.  I can only imagine that youth and beauty to her stood as a pillar of resistance to the horror of death and decay in her mind. For her to deface her body in this way illustrates to me that she must live under a blinding veil of fear and off beam associations with age. I felt a thousand years old-powerful, I lusted for the glory of this olden splendor that my heart did beckon. 

I was suddenly interrupted by the sound of music coming from the living room. I instinctively turned the study light off and obscured myself behind the partially opened door. I did not know the song but the lyrics somehow went from:
“I know the joys of steady sailing, ringtoss playin,’ hearts elevatin’ but I never thought I’d be on vacation with you… I know that beaches sing July-July, ski resorts take you up ever so-high, but I never thought I’d see Africa with you…”
-To a thousand grating voices Hailing: 
“Belial Belial Dog headed ANUBIS Exalt from the nameless ones to exhume the past-ever take the BLACK BILE be it, be of it, Lead them akin Anubis the undead vacate eradicate the un-world back-BACK BELIAL EVER-WORLD LEAD THE UNDEAD OVER THEM; Amerigo, Zeus, Estavt, Lucifer, Istoghadth, Allah, Gorgon, Mary-Christ, Zeull, Jehovah, perish to CREEN” 

This is when death completely became me-the enduring. I am LIVING-DEATH, RULER OF THE UNDEAD.