by Zoltán Komor
I notice a strange symptom, so I decide to consult my doctor. My urine smells like gasoline. The doc doesn't believe me, so I have to produce a sample in his office. Puckering his brows he tells me: "Well, I admit. This really smells like fuel. But I'm gonna send this sample to the lab, we should wait for the results to come back."
A few days pass, and I'm still waiting. Then the doc calls, and tells me that the sample was lost, and I should bring another one to his office. More this time. Then this happens again. And again.
Later, the doc takes off for a few days, and I start to suspect that all the piss I gave him landed not in the lab, but in his car's fuel tank. I call his cell phone. He denies it, of course.
My friends are beginning to act weird too. There's not a day, when one of them doesn't ask me to come over for a drink. And when I ask them about the bathroom after a few beers, the answer is always the same: "Sorry, bro, broken pipe, use this can instead."
I stop visiting them, but I also can't go home anymore. Someone broke into my apartment last night, and packed my fridge full of drinks. I'm sauntering in the streets. Not drinking a single gulp. But strangers come to me, asking if they can buy me a drink. I must escape from the city. Faceless people follow me all day, catheter tubes quiver between their fingers. I woke up drunk. Someone must have poured beer down my throat, while I was sleeping in the alley.
I totter to my doc's house, spitting profanities and I piss down the corner of his house. A few drops land on my trousers too. Then I light a cigarette.