Kidneys to Portland
It was very important, the doctor said, that I get these kidneys to Sean. He needed the kidneys.
I was about to start the drive up to Portland to meet with Sean for the concert.
Then I got a phone call. The person on the telephone said he was a doctor, and he needed to talk to me. He was in the lobby, so I let him up. He looked like a dentist, but he carried with him one of those grocery store coolers made of unfinished Styrofoam.
It was very important, the doctor said, that I get these kidneys to Sean. He needed the kidneys.
I looked into the cooler. There were kidneys in it, all right. They were wrapped in plastic bags with the Fred Meyer logo, and rested on a large block of dry ice. The kidneys looked a lot like kidney beans, actually - they were very red and shiny.
I figured that Sean must have pulled some strings; most people only get one kidney.
I drove up to Portland with the kidney cooler in the passenger seat. Outside of Salem, I picked up a hitchhiker and moved the kidney cooler onto the back seat. The hitchhiker was a dirty bearded old guy, as they generally are, and I was just watching the road and ignoring him when I looked over again and saw that he was eating Sean's kidneys! The bastard!
I didn't say anything, though; that would have been impolite. At the next rest area I told the hitchhiker that I had to use the bathroom, so I stopped the car and we both got out.
The tire iron was in the driver's side pocket. I picked it up. I recently bought a new one; this was it, proud and shiny. As the hitchhiker lit up a cigarette, leaning against the car, I came up beside him and hit him over the head with the tire iron.
Again and again and again and again. His skull deformed within his head, but the skin didn't break very much. For a hot afternoon, the rest area was pretty deserted. A family passed me, but they were on the other side of the car, which must have obstructed my actions. Now and then someone walked to the bathrooms fifty yards away.
I rolled the hitchhiker on his back and slit him from groin to neck with, oddly enough, the can opener on my swiss army knife. It was pretty easy to make the slit, like using an open pair of scissors on stiff paper. Then I made sideways slits, the whole incision resembling an I or a sideways H. The kidneys were surprisingly easy to find, and I removed them and wrapped them in the plastic the original kidneys had been so recently wrapped in. They were very hot, and steam rose when I put them on the dry ice.
I threw the remains of the original kidneys in the hitchhiker's abdomen, and dragged his body into a nearby ditch. A few inches of brown water were not enough to make his body float, just to help it sink a little into the mud.
I got back into the car and drove the rest of the way to Portland.
When I found Sean, I was surprised to see that he didn't look like he needed new kidneys. He was looking rather sharp, in a smoking jacket, fez and blue-tinted granny glasses. I brought him the cooler with trepidation - I knew that he didn't like me picking up hitchhikers, and this hitchhiker had eaten his kidneys! I didn't tell him what happened.
Sean reached inside the breast of his jacket and brought out a produce knife with a mother-of-pearl handle. He deftly snapped it open, unwrapped a kidney and cut off a neat cube of flesh, which he speared with the knife and brought to his mouth.
He looked pensive as he chewed the kidney chunk. I nervously awaited his verdict. Finally, he sighed and spoke:
"Anna, if you're going to kill a hitchhiker, at least bring me his heart while you're at it."
I was glad that Sean didn't need the kidneys for a transplant after all, as the hitchhiker probably wasn't his blood type.
Then I got a phone call. The person on the telephone said he was a doctor, and he needed to talk to me. He was in the lobby, so I let him up. He looked like a dentist, but he carried with him one of those grocery store coolers made of unfinished Styrofoam.
It was very important, the doctor said, that I get these kidneys to Sean. He needed the kidneys.
I looked into the cooler. There were kidneys in it, all right. They were wrapped in plastic bags with the Fred Meyer logo, and rested on a large block of dry ice. The kidneys looked a lot like kidney beans, actually - they were very red and shiny.
I figured that Sean must have pulled some strings; most people only get one kidney.
I drove up to Portland with the kidney cooler in the passenger seat. Outside of Salem, I picked up a hitchhiker and moved the kidney cooler onto the back seat. The hitchhiker was a dirty bearded old guy, as they generally are, and I was just watching the road and ignoring him when I looked over again and saw that he was eating Sean's kidneys! The bastard!
I didn't say anything, though; that would have been impolite. At the next rest area I told the hitchhiker that I had to use the bathroom, so I stopped the car and we both got out.
The tire iron was in the driver's side pocket. I picked it up. I recently bought a new one; this was it, proud and shiny. As the hitchhiker lit up a cigarette, leaning against the car, I came up beside him and hit him over the head with the tire iron.
Again and again and again and again. His skull deformed within his head, but the skin didn't break very much. For a hot afternoon, the rest area was pretty deserted. A family passed me, but they were on the other side of the car, which must have obstructed my actions. Now and then someone walked to the bathrooms fifty yards away.
I rolled the hitchhiker on his back and slit him from groin to neck with, oddly enough, the can opener on my swiss army knife. It was pretty easy to make the slit, like using an open pair of scissors on stiff paper. Then I made sideways slits, the whole incision resembling an I or a sideways H. The kidneys were surprisingly easy to find, and I removed them and wrapped them in the plastic the original kidneys had been so recently wrapped in. They were very hot, and steam rose when I put them on the dry ice.
I threw the remains of the original kidneys in the hitchhiker's abdomen, and dragged his body into a nearby ditch. A few inches of brown water were not enough to make his body float, just to help it sink a little into the mud.
I got back into the car and drove the rest of the way to Portland.
When I found Sean, I was surprised to see that he didn't look like he needed new kidneys. He was looking rather sharp, in a smoking jacket, fez and blue-tinted granny glasses. I brought him the cooler with trepidation - I knew that he didn't like me picking up hitchhikers, and this hitchhiker had eaten his kidneys! I didn't tell him what happened.
Sean reached inside the breast of his jacket and brought out a produce knife with a mother-of-pearl handle. He deftly snapped it open, unwrapped a kidney and cut off a neat cube of flesh, which he speared with the knife and brought to his mouth.
He looked pensive as he chewed the kidney chunk. I nervously awaited his verdict. Finally, he sighed and spoke:
"Anna, if you're going to kill a hitchhiker, at least bring me his heart while you're at it."
I was glad that Sean didn't need the kidneys for a transplant after all, as the hitchhiker probably wasn't his blood type.