This morning I watched twilight retreat from the sultry humidity before a ravenous black hole sun came to wash away the rain that didn’t participate in predicted precipitation.  I sat on my front steps eyeing the red-tailed hawks float through the ozone wearing WWII surplus gas masks as they hunted for rodents hung-over on Heineken. Two Eskimos paddled their Escalade past my front lawn telling me they were on their way home. I waived back, hearing what I thought might be a single bombardier beetle insist that burrowing into the ground is an occupation not a preoccupation. I Americanized my sign language, flashing the questionable bombardier beetle that I may trod him down in the very dirt, but still like the dust he’ll rise. The beetle huffed vexation, got all buggy and boogied into the green turf. I told him with my darting, flashing fingers, “Farewell, good-bye, although I'll cry… Ain't that a shame… my tears fall like rain. Ain't that a shame… you’re the one to blame.”  

The beetle, now looking like John Candy’s second cousin twice removed, scurried back up through the turf, avoiding two robins negotiating a truce with a worm; he kicked me in the ankle, screaming softly, “Get over it.” He then bit my left big toe. I smelled peppermint—with a hint of watermelon-lime chocolate.

Itching is a bitch in any language. My left big toe swelled; the worm laughed. “That could be a tic-tac-toe bite,” it said in a non-gender specific way.

“Nope,” said the robin wearing a purple fleur-de-lis on his orange chest. “Definitely Cicindela Hirticollis with a hint of raspberry.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” said his wife, robin wright.

“Internet marriage,” the male robin said rolling his eyes before taking flight to join a murder of crows cawing on cell phones testing the new 4 G network. The black hole sun followed submerged in a yellow submarine. I swear I caught a whiff of the Cinnamon Girl as my big left toe continued to swell; I pondered amputation, if not genetic mutation. Medical attention called me to attention. I got up, saluted and hobbled towards my front door knowing no pill's gonna cure my ill. This neighbor I know as Joni, sensing some dilemma within, yelled out to me, “My analyst told me that I was right out of my head.” 

“Yours or mine?”

“What's so strange when you know that you're a wizard at three,” Joni said retreating into a smoking camel.

Before I could reply, they paved paradise and put up a parking lot pleasing the Eskimos still paddling their Escalade trying to find their way home.

Inside my house with the AC blasting M-80’s, my plasma TV looked at my toe in HD; a consultation with the Animal Planet ensued as I began pacing around the room hoping maybe Joni would come back. But Bobby D. appeared. He was too rolling stoned, but managed a quick assessment. “Call the doctor, Mate, before you’re blinded by the light. I got Go-cart Mozart checkin' out the weather charts to see if it’s safe outside—incase you need a ride,” he said.

“A ride?”

“Ambulance.”

“Ambulance?” I began to panic. I sat down on the rug wondering what’s in a dream, just a dream. I had to know… It seemed so very real; it seemed so real to me. Crawling on the floor fighting back the urge to bark like a dog, I made my way to the couch—to the telephone. The panic increased to pandemic. My left foot became numb. My hair began to grow anew.

“If you need somebody, call my name,” a voice called out inside the plasma TV.

“What?”

“If you want someone, you can do the same. If you want to keep something precious, you got to lock it up and throw away the key,” said a cat, wearing a hat on Disney.

“You mean?”

“If you want to hold onto your possession, don't even think about me.”

I wanted to keep what I feared I was going to lose—my left foot. I dialed 911. The dispatcher dispatched my call to the Vatican where some Cardinal considered my condition, refused to accept the charges after suggesting I try my luck playing the Australian Lottery. Thank God, the under-seas operator understood my urgency and rerouted my call to Dr. Who. I thanked her, but she replied tersely, “I’m an apeman, I’m an ape, apeman. I’m an apeman; I’m a King Kong man… I’m a voodoo man; I’m an apeman.”  

Très kinky indeed, but I was in need. Dr. Who’s receptionist inquired as to why I was calling; Dr. Who was aware of my problem.

“How?” I asked.

“A properly maintained and piloted TARDIS can transport its occupants to any point in time and space.”

“Will I keep my foot? Will I survive?”

The receptionist laughed and she asked me up to her flat downtown of a fine soft day.

Before I could answer, she noted my insurance refused treatment in the future, which affected the past post-present.

I panicked; my left foot liked like two balloons. My health insurance carrier called me, warning not to submit a future claim that will be denied in the past pre-present. I detected a slight Punjabi vibe to the robotic voice. “The only thing covered for this preexisting condition is a band aid and Boniva.”

“Pre-existing?”

“Did not said beetle bite you with teeth he grew yesterday?”

“He did bite me… but…?”

“And is not the walrus, Paul?”

My plasma TV interrupted the conversation, “Hey dude.”

“What?”

“Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a color TV? Dialing For Dollars is trying to find me. I wait for delivery each day until three. So, oh Lord, won’t you buy me a color TV?”

A pretentious plasma TV on Haldol HD is a serious deluded device. I chose my words carefully. “Some people cry and some people die by the wicked ways of love; but I’ll just keep on rollin’ along with the grace of the lord above.”  But it wasn’t love; it was an insect’s invasion. I graciously pointed this out to my pompous plasma.

“Communication breakdown, it’s always the same… I’m having a nervous breakdown; you do drive me insane!” the plasma said aided by Homer Cicero Simpson.

I shook my head and limped into the kitchen to get high on moon milk. Lost is just another word for nothing left to lose; I so lost it.

This evening I sat on my front porch watching the setting sun with a B.B. King BB gun. That beetle was toast, my aim butter—salt free. Joni and the Eskimos stopped by asking, “What’s going on?” in three-part harmony.

I lowered my B.B. King BB gun and motioned with my thumb. “My plasma TV bled plasma blue, green, red and cyan. I shot it, but I didn’t shoot the deputy. But not to worry, my health insurance considers it to be a non-pre-existing condition.” I then aimed my B.B. King BB gun at my left foot intent on podiatric murder.

Daniel Day-Lewis pulled up in an old go-cart called Henry. “I have heard there are troubles of more than one kind. Some come from ahead and some come from behind. But I've bought a big bat. I'm all ready you see. Now my troubles are going to have troubles with me!” he said, meaning his me was my me—me!

My insurance rep didn’t consider malintent a pre-existing condition. She said her name was Borden, Lizzie A..

She don't allow deductible.