by Zoltán Komor

Aleksey Gil         

            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.

Zoltán Komor hails from Hungary and has just begun to translate his writing into English. He has been published in Caliban Online, Thrice Fiction, The Phantom Drift, Gone Lawn, Bizarro Central and other journals. His first book, Flamingos in the Ashtray, was just released by Burning Bulb Publishing.