From the Case Files of Simon Kevalas:

The Case of the Talkative Turd

Of all the orifices in all the world, she had to crawl out of mine. I was really quite exceptionally unlucky when I think about it, in the normal passage of events I could easily have produced a talking shit and never known about it, since, by and large, in my defecations I am as much as possible, a creature of habit as I can manage. Simply put, I usually use the ensuite toilet in my office, which is situated in a rather scrungy Art Deco block that was once a small hotel in Sydney’s Potts Point. In this age of increasingly liberal social attitudes towards sexual infidelity, the rather poky office is the best that Kevalas Private Investigations can afford, while still holding  any reasonable expectations of continuing to eat. So I, Simon Kevalas P.I., shit at the office as often as possible and let Cedric Rosten my wholly repugnant Landlord, pay for every flush. The thing is, the toilets at the “Howard” are the same vintage as the building – impressive antique china units with at least ten inches of water waiting under the arse to smother the smell of every plop; so I am inclined to think if I had dropped  this bitch of a turd on any normal day, she would have drowned and I would have flushed her away, forever unknowing. 

Sadly however, that was not to be that day. I was in hospital. I had had reason to check the after-lunch whereabouts of a married gentleman who worked in an office on the seventh floor of the Dymock’s building on the upper end of George street. As it happened the gentleman in question was not at his desk, which explained his husband’s frequent failure to reach him on the office phone and confirmed, by inferential logic and a realistic dose of cynicism, that he was in fact at Randwick racecourse putting the mortgage money to what he considered to be a better use. The confirmation of everyone’s suspicions took only a handful of minutes by questioning his workmates and almost before I knew it I was back on the crowded footpath mentally debating the best way of getting back to the office and rewarding myself with some sorely needed sleep. A train meant riding to central and changing trains. It was an unattractive prospect, but since there was no applicable bus and a taxi was quite beyond my means, I decided to walk, and was almost instantly run over by a bicycle courier and his load of pizzas.

Before you ask, yes it hurt. The impact broke my right shin, my left collar-bone and chipped a bone in my left elbow. I bit the tip off my tongue, there-by putting my brand new dental implants to productive use. And to think if I hadn’t spent nearly twenty thousand dollars getting “cut- price” dentistry in Thailand, I would merely have gummed my tongue and saved myself months of misery with my new prosthetic flapper which is thoroughly inferior to the original flapping device. In any event the idiot pizza delivery rider handily solved my dilemma of how I was getting back to the office – the ambulance took me, siren howling straight to Saint Vincent’s hospital Darlinghurst, which is less than a minute’s limp, by crutch from the office. 

In the hospital I soon learnt the golden rule, first everything is crazy rush so that you have longer to wait. To give them their due, I was given Morphine in the ambulance because the girls didn’t like seeing grown men crying but the Morphine also meant I didn’t mind the wait at X-ray as much as I would have if I wasn’t drugged. I even somewhat enjoyed lying on the gurney wearing nothing but a paper nightgown in a corridor outside X-ray. It was interesting. Everyone was a character and everyone was in a heightened emotional state, or whacked out of their minds on drugs, or both. There was the guy the Police brought in. He was off his head on ice and god knows what else. The Emergency room staff locked him in what was basically the ”dangerous nutcase observation room.” Which was a small walled box with one door and a very big bulletproof-glass window. They went away, so I observed as he tore his hospital nightgown off, (his was a rather nice pale pink whereas mine was a rather naff blue I didn’t care for at all). Once he had the nightgown off he did his best to tear it into small squares; he then set about eating it. Then he threw himself bodily at the window and squeaked down it. Then he started masturbating very fast, like he was on the verge of coming, the head of his penis so close to the glass that I could occasionally hear his thumb knuckle bang on the glass. He didn’t have an orgasm but he went through a cycle of amusingly extreme facial expressions as if he was just about to. I and the nurses observed him. We didn’t have much choice and that was what he was in there for.

After awhile, if I may venture a small pun, he started to give me the shits. Of course there were a variety of reasons for the state of my bowel, from the Yeeros I had had for lunch on Illawarra Road Marrickville which, at the time, I had suspected contained more than the legally acceptable amount of the owner’s back hair. Then of course there had been the “accident” itself which had been no small impact, taking me from the rear quarter and throwing me bodily across the footpath to drape me violently across the wheeled luggage of Ms Yasuko Emory, a wholly blameless tourist from Osaka, who had the last day of her week in Australia and her luggage, sullied by her encounter with my misfortune and the blood from my scalp wound. Then, of course, there was the morphine in the Ambulance, (and the Endone in the Emergency  Room) both of which, being opioids, constipate the blissed-out recipient better than a long-distance plane flight.

So, I lay on the gurney, both before and after my X-Rays and I watched the mad wanker in the observation room and I endured the rippling spasms in my poor  tummy and to pass the time I wondered what the wanker would do if he somehow got out of the observation room and into the larger and rather more interactive world. After a few more minutes of fun I snatched at a passing nurse and told him that I was going to need a toilet, soon; and I must admit the fantasy of a nice ruminative shit in a quiet toilet somewhere away from the wind-up monkey pounding his cymbals and the general ongoing drama of the Emergency Room was an enticing one. The nurse, who had two rings in his right ear and perhaps half a barrel of Arabian crude oil in his short dark hair, spiked me with his emerald eyes and asked efficiently, “Number Ones or number twos?”

I was aghast. In my experience this is simply not the kind of question one asks a grown man, particularly not one to whom the answer matters. I forced myself into another crash course of life-readjustment. ”After all, I reminded myself, you’re a *patient* now. In hospital. You have to be patient! thats why they call them patients!”

He wasn’t. “Well? Which is it? Ones or Twos?” he started lifting at the sheet near my waist as if he might be able to tell by sight, “And God help me, he might!” I wibbled to myself and crumpled the paper sheet tighter around me.

I surrendered. ”Twos; I think.”

He almost smiled. “I’ll get you a bedpan.”

He must have expected the response he saw in my face, “oh come on! You’re too injured to be lifted onto a toilet and it’d take two people!” He cast a glance at the observation room where, as far as I could see everyone was doing their best to ignore the cymbal-bashing activities available for our perusal.

“Its not so bad; really. I’ll get you some privacy, so you try. Just for me.”

Privacy sounded nice. In return I was prepared to try. ‘Privacy’ turned out to be a parking spot in one of the bays in emergency, surrounded by a vile ochre curtain so light that it billowed every time someone outside bustled past. But I minded that a lot less than the people who stood just outside the curtain and had long, and sometimes intensely personal and interesting conversations as if they were in a lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

So my day slowed again in the disconcerting way that shock and the drugs seemed to think I should find entertaining. One second I was in a bit of a dither on the footpath on George street the next, I took off, and flew like Superman(C) to land on my hospital gurney where I covered myself with my crackly paper cape and tried to shit in a bedpan. At first I was convinced that the whole sorry business would be an abject failure – that my turd (if there was one) would somehow miss the pan and end up in the bed with me and I would then drop off into an highly energetic sleep and roll around in it. I would wake, as brown as a walnut, be thrown out of the hospital  and be forced to roam the world alone, disconsolate, a pariah to my own species. In short, I was tired and emotional as well as being physically damaged and heavily drugged. Weirdly enough, it was all actually quite pleasant. Of course it became a lot more pleasant when I felt a large greasy cigar slide out of my arse and drop directly into the bedpan with a distinctly splatty noise on the paper the bedpan was lined with. My stomach immediately felt glorious relief.

At first I thought it was someone’s abandoned headphones or perhaps a phone that had been put down and abandoned mid-call. A small voice high- pitched, at the outer edges of hearing. 

“Hello?” ”Hello?” Hey ya big arsehole, ya just going to lie there?” 

Truth be told, I was. The paper sheet and nightgown rattled quite loudly and interfered with my ability to separate individual sounds and voices from the now comparatively muted but still very busy new environment that I was in. 

“Hey, yah fat arsehole, down here! Doncha know its rude to ignore a lady?” 

For no reason I could fathom I was sure that the voice was directed at me. I was quite sure that it was not my mobile, which was the first explanation that had occurred to me, because firstly I keep my phone not in my pants pocket as many do, but in the left lapel pocket of whatever jacket I happen to be wearing, and I was naked except for a paper nightgown and lastly because I could see my phone on the bedside table – it was looking rather strange to be sure – rather grainier than it usually did and the reflections in its shiny surface made it look less flat than I knew it to be. The longer I stared at it, the more it appeared to change shape very slowly, like plasticine being modelled by invisible fingers towards shapes that would adhere to some unnatural geometry; and still the squeaky voice squeaked on at the periphery of audibility, becoming increasingly like a kind of musical tinnitus, that existed in tandem with my thoughts, simultaneously antagonistic and contributory, I was hearing the voice as a kind of music rather than regarding it as an attempted communication, until I realised that the voice had just squeaked,

”Hey Cunt! One of those ‘roids of yours is the size of a motherfucking grape! If that fucker bursts, you’ll probably bleed to death and I’ll probably drown! I’d appreciate it if you were careful when you wiped your fucking arse! Hey! Arsehole! Listen to me!”

At a point midway through this tirade I shifted my body slightly to relieve the stress on my back and a most disconcerting thing happened; the voice increased markedly in volume and clarity, and as luck would have it, on the words “wiped your fucking arse.”  Which started me thinking, of the un-wiped status of my own as it lay draped over the bedpan, since due the sudden increase in volume of the voice when I’d shifted on the bedpan I had instantaneously developed the theory that a mobile phone – not necessarily mine, might be in the bedpan, and  whats more, mid-call to someone who liked swearing a lot. The idea filled me with purpose. I used my button, a high-technology nurse summoner to summon a nurse; explained the most easily understood portion of my dilemma and was given a plastic container of moist towelettes to wipe my “bottom” with and a pump-bottle of alcohol-based hand scrub to disinfect my fingers. The nurse left, looking somewhat insulted when I rejected her offer that she wipe my clacker for me. After a moment the curtain wafted to a standstill and I surreptitiously started dragging the bedpan out from under me. 

”Oh thank God! Thats better!”

It wasn’t. The reek of shit was criminal in the small area. I couldn’t resist. I was still under the belief that the bedpan had a mobile phone in it, and since I knew where my phone was, and consequently wasn’t, I wanted to know what brand this one was, because, well, I have an interest in such things and if it was an interesting one I would’ve played with it for awhile before working out how to return it to it’s owner. Specifically I would have searched out the porn, and the pictures of the owner’s genitalia. Every phone I’ve ever had access to has had a few of those, and they are fantastically similar, always taken on a lonely night in a bed with ugly sheets, using the phone flash so the penis looks like a Catholic Cardinal in his hat, or the vagina looks like a hairy Yeeros. I was bored. I was looking forward to cracking this phone, to take my mind off my misery. 

I rudely grabbed the  bedpan from the nurse, placed it on my bed and rolled around like a walrus so I could see into it. I’d rehearsed the movement in my head over the last few minutes since I was well aware that I was way too physically mangled to expect my body to function in the “old” way. Anyway, I grabbed the pan, thereby apparently terminally offending the nurse, who, it occurred to me had probably already had her sensibilities somewhat abraded by the ‘Wanker At the Window.’ And flopped around to look, which brought my face low over the pan and caused the nurse to scream ”No! Don’t!” – apparently under the misapprehension that I was about to take a big bite out of the huge, lumpy somewhat hairy cigar-shaped shit less than a centimetre from the tip of my nose. The combination of unexpected events resulted in me getting a fair quantity of shit in my ear. As this happened a voice screamed loudly, directly into my ear, “Oww! Be careful, you fuckwit! While at the same moment that the nurse, with a presence of mind and reaction speed that I would definitely not have associated with hair colour, attempted to help but made matters rather worse by dragging  my shoulders in the wrong direction.

This was the moment that Doctor Ballinger, the head of the Emergency Room entered and politely enquired at a volume loud enough to be heard over the ruckus; “What the Fuck is going on in here?”

“Mr Kevalas” said the nurse, indicting me with a nod of her curls.

“Nurse. Why is the patient covered in excrement? It looks like warpaint!”

“Get fucked you pompous booby!”

“Who said that?”

“Who said that?”

Both of them were staring accusingly at me, as if I had suddenly learned to talk out of my ear. As a matter of fact the two body bits are connected, as I  could taste shit, I lay there, practically naked except for my warpaint. If you happen to be interested it doesn’t taste very nice – I imagine even the addition of special sauce or secret herbs and spices would help much.

“Sir this hospital will not tolerate offensive or threatening behaviour towards its staff. If you don’t calm down I’m required to call security!”

“You don’t frighten me you dozy bloodnut bitch!”

“Are you some sort of fucking ventriloquist? Your lips didn’t move?”

I’ll give him credit, Ballinger may have looked like a morally corrupt hunchbacked ferret, but he was an observant fucker.

“Haven’t you got beady little eyes, cunt?”

Apparently my hairy shit agreed with me. Ballinger bounded across the bay in one pounce, snatched the bedpan from me and stuck his very impressive hooter into it. I could imagine his eyes crossing.

“Fuck!! Who the fuck  do you think you’re looking at, Woody Woodpecker?”

”What the fuck is this?” Ballinger’s voice sounded slightly hollow, reflecting out of the pan.

“Help! Get this fucker away from me! He’s gonna eat me!”

“So far as I know, its a shit, it came out of my arse.”

“It talks.”

“So do you you bird-nosed cunt!”

“What *is* this?” Ballinger stuck the nose so close under my face. I thought for a millisecond that his plan was a kind of custard-pie splat joke. I recoiled briskly to a reasonable distance and got another chance to examine my progeny up too close.

I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Bristol chart and at the time, I wasn’t either, but since the business described here I have studied it closely. She was a perfect number two as it happened, albeit with some number of short curly hairs projecting from along her length, the hairs festooned with tiny wet globules the same colour as the main lump, but somehow at the angle Ballinger was holding the pan under the lights I saw what I had failed to see on my first, admittedly brief glance, that this turd bore a marked resemblance to a crudely fashioned sculpture of a woman, classifiable either as the purposefully inept modern school or someone trying hard to copy the primitive impact of the Lady of Willendorf. As I was coming to some kind of terms with this idea the top of the turd split, assumed the shape of a mouth and shouted; “Who the fuck are you gaping at, Arsehole?”

“I- I’ve never seen a talking shit before.”

“Never seen one? Don’t you fucking vote?”

“So why me? Why am I graced with your genteel presence?”

“Yeah!” Ballinger piped up from his spot near the gap in the curtain.

“You still here, ratty? And you, arsehole, you want me to spell it out for you?”

This was hard going for someone in my weakened condition.

“I suppose you’d better.” 

She snorted, “Call yourself a fucking detective. Alright Arsehole, yesterday you ate a Yeeros. That was me. That creepy malaka who cooked me and served you, ran me over the night before, when I was minding my own business and shooting up on a bench in a park in in Bexley. Cunt. She was off her face, and she figured that the Yeeros disposal method was better than explaining how she’d accidentally ran over someone who owed her drug-money. So she tied my feet to a see-saw, drove the car off me, Boompa, Boompa. Over my ribs. Finished me off with the jack handle and took me back to to the shop to make Yeeros out of me. You ate the Yeeros, shit me out. Thats it.”

“So she killed you on purpose? Are you sure?”

“See these hairs? They’re off her back – I’ve got all that putana mooni’s memories. The Maggot cunt!”

“Mind your fucking language. And anyway, why? What was her motive? You seem like such a nice person.”

“Fank you for saying so dear – I am. Just very misunderstood. It was money. Its always money. Me’n Jadon, Jadon’s my eldest – he’s nearly thirteen, I think, between the two of us we’d run up a bit of a bill, for party-ice. Nearly twelve fucking Fousand. It was her fucking fault -we were selling on consignment and just kept stringing us along ‘an pulling numbers out of her arse. Anyway, one day Jadon was off his face an’ he told me she’d been letting him pay for the stuff by him shagging her! I went spare! Jadon’s me fucking kid! He’s me bubee! I tole her either she wipes out the debt, or I pay her from the money fucking Ray Martin gives me for the story!”

“You told her that? That was pretty fucking stupid that was.”

“You know when you talk you sound like a fucking water buffalo, arsehole? The piece of tongue I got was the important bit.”

“Fuck you.”

“ Uck yourself! In fact- take a flying Uck at a rolling donut, Take a flying Uck at the moon! It’s off to Speech therapy for you, Uckwit!”

“Its pretty fucked up to make fun of someone’s handicap, you know that?” 

“You watch, it, or one night when you’re asleep I’ll slide back up your arse and refuse to come out!”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Well, I admit, I’m not fucking homesick.Your pooing machinery is in a pretty shitty state, so to speak, the wallpaper is hanging in flaps and the floor is squishy. You need a good clean out. More fibre.”

“less Yeeros especially.”

“ Yeah? Fuck you Malaka.”

Maybe I’d take my doctor up on his offers of a colonoscopy. At the very least, the process would clean any last vestiges of this bitch out of my premises

“That’s not very nice, Arsehole!”

“What? You can read my mind?”

“Its not *your* mind, arsehole, Its *Ours* We’re each other.”

“Fuck that, as far as I’m concerned, we separated when my arsehole snipped you off.”

“Thats not how the universe works, arsehole – we’re linked, even when we become flies – then birds, we’ll probably even still be able to talk when we’re both cat-shit.”

“An One way and the other, cat-shit is very communicative. That’s why its so smelly. probably.”

Just like the shit to get the last word. Fuck.

© Alex Rieneck 2018

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