Dr. Ass sighed. He’d been saving this kick for twenty years. He spun on his heel and delivered a perfect, spinning heel-kick to Mr. Cross’s posterior.
So he came home to Mulberry Creek, set up a trailer behind the Cherokee Stop-N-Go, and hung a hand-painted sign: The first patient was old Man Crutcher, who’d been complaining of a "funny taste in his mouth" for three years. Three different clinics had given him antacids. cherokee dr ass
“YOWCH! My gallbladder, you son of a—” a Dr. Ass patient would reply. He spun on his heel and delivered a
Cross didn’t yelp. He didn’t confess. He shattered —like a mirror falling off a wall. Shards of black suit and bone-white fragments clattered to the floor. And from the pile rose a thin, reedy voice: “I’m… the curse.” Three different clinics had given him antacids
THWACK.
Dr. Ass wiped his boot on a copy of Gray’s Anatomy . “That’ll be forty dollars. And stop licking nails.”