Dr. Dickson pulled his hand out of Valentine’s vagina. “Looks fine,” he said, as he removed his latex glove. “No polyps or cancers, I’m sure of it.”
“Oh God, that’s great news,” Valentine said, with a sigh of relief. She was calmed by the doctor’s confidence and cool demeanor. “Everything seems normal?”
“I’d say so. I can’t really find anything wrong with you.”
Valentine’s girlish, eyelash-bordered green eyes fixated on Dr. Dickson’s devilishly handsome blue eyes as he stuck his hand into another latex glove. There was a minute of silence, with only the sound of rubber stretching around the doctor’s hand.
“I need you to lie on your stomach and put your butt in the air,” he said. “I’m going to check your ass.”
Valentine smiled. “Finally! I thought you’d never ask.” She turned over and stuck her ass in the air, laughing as the doctor eased his rubbery fingers in.
* * *
“I need to set up my next appointment,” Valentine said to Dr. Dickson’s secretary, after she left his examination room. “He said I should come back in like a month.”
“OK,” said the secretary, a foxy woman with silk skin and marshmallow insides. She set up an appointment for the young woman, and said goodbye to her and wished her a good evening.
“Ms. Muffson,” Dr. Dickson said, as he walked out of his examination room and stood by the secretary’s desk, “I believe that’s my last appointment today. Correct?” He looked at his golden watch – the short hand was on the 5, the long hand was on the 3. He knew that meant the day was over.
“Correct you are, sir!” Ms. Muffson replied, typing Valentine’s appointment into the computer. “Got Valentine an appointment in early February.”
“Sounds good. May I walk you to your car?”
“But of course!” Ms. Muffson said with reserved excitement, but excitement all the same. “I just need to…” she shoveled some items from the top of her desk into her purse, closed it up, turned off the computer, and looked at the doctor. “There. I’m ready.”
Ms. Muffson and Dr. Dickson walked from the office out to the parking lot where their cars waited.
I wonder what her first name is, Dr. Dickson thought. Mary? Mary Muffson. Nah. Margaret? Margaret Muffson sounds nice. But so does Madeline Muffson. And Mandy Muffson. Mandy kind of sounds too young, though. Ms. Muffson’s at least thirty-five. She can’t be a Mandy. But she’s beautiful.
“How was your Christmas?” Ms. Muffson asked. “Did you get everything you wanted?”
“It was fine. My girlfriend got me an iPod and I got her… well, what she wanted was a little unusual. She wanted a threesome.”
“Wow! That sounds wild! So you got her… wait. I bet she wanted another guy, right? Not another girl? Aww. So how did you arrange that?”
“Two other guys, actually. She wanted a threesome with two of my handsomest friends.”
“What? You weren’t in the threesome? Are you kidding?”
“I told her I’d never have a threesome. I don’t think highly of myself, and I don’t think I could please two women at once. I’d likely leave them sad and upset with me. People think because I’m a gynecologist that I’d be good with ladies and their private parts, but really, I’m not at all. I’m good with vaginas in a professional capacity only. When I try to handle them in a romantic capacity I just make everything die.” Dr. Dickson noticed he was rambling. He always rambled when he talked to Ms. Muffson, because she was too beautiful. “But she really wanted a threesome this year, so I had her go through my Facebook to see who my two handsomest friends were. She told me their names and I offered them six dollars each to come over and have sex with my girlfriend.”
“That’s really strange, you know. That’s some relationship you’ve got there. What did you do while they, you know, fucked?”
“I lied under the bed listening to California Dreamin’ on my iPod, over and over again. Nonstop.”
“Just one song?”
“Just one song. I was California dreaming the entire time. I let the Mamas and the Papas carry me away to another place. When my friends came over, John and Michael, I told them the rules. The rules were basically that they could only fuck my girlfriend for something like twenty replays of California Dreamin’, and after that, I’d pop out from under the bed and make them leave. They agreed and my girl agreed. But I got lost in the music and stayed under that bed for hours.”
“Did you fall asleep?”
“No, I was just in another place. Another world.”
“But really, your girlfriend was banging two of your friends just a foot above you. You couldn’t hear them through your headphones? Or see the springs in action from under the bed?”
“It was dark down there and I had my eyes closed. I heard some of it, but I jammed the little fucking earbuds deep into my ears and turned the volume all the way up. Couldn’t hear anything but the music after a while.”
“How did it end? Did you make them leave?”
“Yes. My iPod died because I hadn’t charged it all the way. I got out from under the bed and the three of them were just sitting around talking, laughing at the birds outside, still naked, still sweaty. The bed was a mess. I said, “alright John, alright Mike, it’s time for you guys to go.” They got dressed, and right before they left my girlfriend said, “you know what? I think I’m gonna go, too.” So she left with them.”
“Are you serious?” Ms. Muffson asked, stopping in the parking lot next to her car. “She left?”
“Yes. She hasn’t come back.”
“That’s… oh my. I’m sorry. Have you tried calling her?”
“It’s OK. No, we haven’t talked. Maybe it’s for the best. Hey, before you go – are you going to James’s New Years Eve party tomorrow night?”
“James who? I don’t think I know- ”
“My friend James. You don’t know him.”
“Umm, was I invited?”
Dr. Dickson gulped, the kind of nervous gulp a young boy might do before asking out a girl at recess. “Yes. Just now. Do you want to go?”
Ms. Muffson blushed the nervous sort of blush characteristic of a girl who had just had her first period while wearing a white dress. Or the blush of a girl who’d been asked out by a boy she fancied. “Of course!”
“Fantastic. I’ll pick you up at six?”
Ms. Muffson smiled.
“Wait, eight? You think eight?” the doctor asked.
Ms. Muffson didn’t know what to say.
“Maybe seven, right?” the doctor said. “Seven is a good time?”
“I don’t know,” she said, still smiling. “Whatever time is best.”
“OK. Seven.”
“I can’t wait,” she said, getting into her car.
Dr. Dickson walked to his car, and smiled as he did so.
As Ms. Muffson pulled out of the parking lot, she thought about Dr. Dickson. I wonder what his first name is, she reflected. David? David Dickson. That’s a strong name. Maybe it’s Dick. Dick Dickson. It’s not unheard of. I can’t imagine his parents doing that to him, though. Donald Dickson doesn’t sound right. Dmitri Dickson is unlikely. He doesn’t strike me as a Dmitri. Daniel Dickson, maybe. That does sound kind of nice. He might go by Dan, or Danny. Danny Dickson. I bet he went by that as a little boy. How cute.
* * *
The road was dark and covered in enough snow to make Dr. Dickson’s car spin out of control and land in a ditch where he knew he might not be found for days, weeks even, if he hadn’t been careful. But he drove carefully and a little bit under the speed limit so he’d get to Ms. Muffson’s house in one piece. He’d left early so he could drive slow and safe and arrive on time. Thinking ahead was a really great idea, he told himself. From time to time he turned on the ceiling light in his 2005 Lincoln Town Car to check his face in the mirror. He slicked down his eyebrows, poked his finger into his nose to make sure nothing was sticking out, and checked his teeth to assure himself that no food had become lodged between his front teeth over the course of his drive. It was the same every time he checked – no food in his teeth. It would have been strange if some had just appeared, because he wasn’t eating anything. He hadn’t eaten since lunch. He wanted to keep his breath fresh, preserved for the night, so that on the chance that he and Ms. Muffson shared a kiss at midnight, she’d be met with the breath of mint, the clean tongue of a saint.
Dr. Dickson’s GPS alerted him that he would be taking a sharp right turn very soon. He slowed to his signature road-crawl, a maneuver so deathly slow and bothersome to other drivers that he hardly ever got to use it. He refrained from giggling while making his turn for fear that too much movement of the facial muscles right now would leave marks or creases on his skin that Ms. Muffson would surely notice. He couldn’t take that chance.
The GPS told Dr. Dickson his destination was on the left. The doctor looked out his window to see a house the size of a palace, three stories tall, easily over 9,000 square feet, with a yard full of Oak and perhaps other fine woods.
“This can’t be right,” the doctor said. “GPS, I think this is wrong.”
The GPS did not respond to the doctor’s voice.
“GPS,” he repeated. “This is not the right location.”
Still, the GPS remained unaware of the doctor’s displeasure.
“Fine,” the doctor finally said. He turned into the driveway and killed the engine. He walked up the series of steps from the driveway to the front door and admired the Christmas decorations that adorned the house’s front side. Lights of all colors seemed to be present, something he found comforting. He rang the doorbell and heard a melodic riff of bells ring throughout the house, carrying on for ten seconds or more. He could tell it was a melody that would get stuck in his head if he heard it anymore. He wanted to hear it again. As his finger flew in for a second push, the door flew open.
“Hello!” Ms. Muffson exclaimed, obviously excited to see her boss. She smiled at him.
Dr. Dickson quickly swept his tongue over his teeth to feel for any food that may have found its way into the crevices, felt nothing, and opened his lips for a toothy smile. His grin almost looked natural.
“How are you? You have any trouble finding the place?” Ms. Muffson asked.
“No, none at all. And I’m fine. How are you? I’m right on time, aren’t I?”
“Why, yes you are!” Ms. Muffson appeared already to be a little bit drunk, something the doctor wasn’t going to complain about.
“So, this house. It is a big house.”
“Yes! Do you like it?”
“I… well, sure. How much am I paying you, again?” Dr. Dickson was overwhelmed by the size of the behemoth home before him, utterly devastated by the fact that his employee’s house dwarfed his own many times over. The things he felt always gave him a leg up on the dating scene were his nice car, his expensive house, his almost metrosexual sense of style. Ms. Muffson’s house was a castle of a home, filling the doctor with a sense of inadequacy.
“Oh Doctor, this house has been in my family for decades. My grandfather was an oil man, had this house built in 1950.”
Dr. Dickson pictured a man standing six feet tall or more, made entirely of black glistening liquid. The man’s arms dripped slop into black puddles on the ground, and his legs shook with ripples as he walked. In his path he left black gold, as they called it. A trail of petroleum, like a slug’s slime. The doctor shuddered at this horrific image, almost cried out in horror. An oil man sounded awful. That Ms. Muffson could be so beautiful, yet only two generations removed from such a nightmarish beast, was unfathomable. He almost didn’t believe her story.
“He’s dead now,” Ms. Muffson continued.
Dr. Dickson silently sighed a sigh of relief, happy to know he’d never have to meet face to face with the abomination Ms. Muffson spoke of. His heart’s pace returned to normal.
“And my dad left this place to me when he decided to retire in Hawaii last Fall. So it’s all mine! Pretty terrific, huh?”
“And your father… is he… is he an oil man, too?” Dr. Dickson asked. He was almost too afraid to know the answer.
“No, not at all. He didn’t want any part of grandpa’s business. He’s a salesman.”
Dr. Dickson pictured a man standing twenty feet tall, flapping in the wind, serving as a large sail for a luxury yacht. The man was entirely white, thin, almost two dimensional, made of fabric. He had a face but it was a face constantly changed by the wind, stretched out when the weather pushed the boat forward, and twisted tightly when the wind became erratic and unpredictable. Again, the doctor shuddered. It was horrible, this woman’s family. That she is so beautiful is truly a miracle, he thought.
“I guess we should get going, huh?” Ms. Muffson asked.
“Yes, of course. I’m right down there,” he pointed to his car. “I parked in your driveway.”
“That is so sweet,” Ms. Muffson said, as she closed and locked the front door of her house.
* * *
“There’s enough in here for both of us,” Ms. Muffson said, pulling a bottle of vodka out of her purse as she and the doctor walked toward James’s house from the street.
“Oh, dear,” the doctor said, not wanting to taint his perfect breath with the perfect poison. But he thought it might not hurt to help him loosen up. After all, he had his breath mints in his jacket pocket. He would be fine. “I can’t wait!” he said.
Ms. Muffson realized that at a party with the doctor’s friends, she’d quickly learn his first name. Everyone would be calling him by it. Then she would pretend she’d known it all along.
As they got to the door the doctor realized that he was going to have to introduce Ms. Muffson to James and the other party-goers. Oh no. Her first name – he still didn’t know it. He gave her a smile full of perfect, clean teeth, and rang the doorbell. He noticed right away that the doorbell’s ringing wasn’t nearly as musical as that of the doorbell at Ms. Muffson’s house. This probably wouldn’t be the only thing about James’s home that didn’t stack up to the Muffson residence. It wasn’t nearly as tall, at only two stories, and the whole place couldn’t have been more than 3,000 square feet. My friends are unimpressive, Dr. Dickson thought. I’m embarrassed. I don’t want to be here.
The door opened and a bald man with thick rimmed glasses and a mustache stood before Dr. Dickson and Ms. Muffson. He wore a turtle neck and held in his hand a nearly empty glass of wine. Music was coming from some room inside the house.
“You made it, you motherfucker!” the man shouted. “Come here!”
Dr. Dickson walked into the house with Ms. Muffson and was hugged with strong arms by the mustached man.
“This is James,” Dr. Dickson said to Ms. Muffson.
“Great to meet you!” Ms. Muffson said to James. She extended her hand for a handshake, which James accepted.
I should have grown a mustache for this party, Dr. Dickson thought. If I’d started growing it on Christmas Eve I’d have one by now. Goddammit. I’m always unprepared. This is awkward. I hate myself.
“How ya been?” James asked the doctor. “Still doctoring it up in private practice? Hahaha!” He laughed a full belly laugh, a laugh swarming with the smell of alcohol. “Get it? Private practice? Because you play with privates all day!”
“Haha, James. Very nice. I like your jokes. Yes, I’m still in private practice. Practicing on privates, I guess.”
Ms. Muffson laughed a hefty guffaw, and took a sip of vodka from her bottle. She handed it to Dr. Dickson when she finished.
The doctor took a quick sip and loathed himself for a moment while the alcohol burned his throat, all the way down his chest, and into his stomach where the sensation finally quit. He hated himself only because it was easier to hate oneself than to love oneself, he knew, and he took the easy way, most of the time. He realized that, aside from medical school, he hadn’t really done anything very hard in his life. Loving himself would take a lot more work than hating himself, so he’d stick with hating for now.
“You guys come on in,” said James, “and make yourselves at home. We’ve got drinks and cookies.”
Ms. Muffson and the doctor walked into the living room of James’s house to see nine other guests standing around, drinking, eating, and talking. A killer looking boombox was set up on a table, blasting the sweet jams of Dr. Dickson’s and Ms. Muffson’s youth.
Dr. Dickson walked up to an Asian man, introduced himself, and jumped right into a discussion of current events while Ms. Muffson explored the cookie layouts on the tables in the kitchen.
“What’s it like having your leader die?” the doctor asked. “I saw your people crying all over the place, on TV, and such. I understand it probably hurts, probably feels like a parent dying. But in America, is that how you guys reacted? I haven’t seen any Koreans crying over here. I guess that’s because over here you won’t be arrested and killed for showing your true feelings.” Dr. Dickson was known for his impeccable conversational skills.
The man smirked at Dr. Dickson. “I’m not Korean, I’m Chinese.” He had no discernable accent, but his face told the story of a man who could have very well possessed Chinese blood.
Ms. Muffson walked up to the doctor and the Chinese gentleman, with cookies in her hands, and the bottle of vodka tipping out of her purse. “Oh, a Chinaman! Hello!” she yelled.
“Uh…” the Chinese man looked at Ms. Muffson, then at Dr. Dickson.
“My god,” Dr. Dickson said. “Um, whoa. Chinaman? Ms. Muffson, er… Muff…in. Muffin. That’s a little racist, right? Right, Muffin?” He’d covered his non-name-knowing ignorance in front of the Chinese stranger quite well, he thought.
“What? Is it?” she asked. “Chinaman is racist? How?”
“It just is,” Dr. Dickson said. “Right?” he looked at the Chinese man who looked confused rather than offended.
“Actually,” said the Chinese man, “I don’t know. I guess, maybe. I’m not offended, though. I don’t think it’s racist.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure it is. I’m so sorry. I apologize on behalf of my friend, and my race.”
“It can’t be racist,” Ms. Muffson said, with cookie crumbs falling from her lips. “It’s like Frenchman, or Englishman. Those aren’t racist. How’s… how’s Chinaman…” she hiccupped, “racist?”
“I don’t know,” Dr. Dickson said, flustered. “Just, maybe apologize to our friend, here.”
“OK,” she said. “Sir, I am sorry. I don’t mean,” another hiccup, “to offend you.”
Suddenly, James appeared next to Dr. Dickson, seemingly out of nowhere at all, with a full glass of wine in his hand and his turtle neck seeming more turtle-like than ever. “How we doing here, folks?” he asked, breath still full of wine, teeth red as roses. “Everyone got plenty of drinks?”
“James,” Dr. Dickson said. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but…” he pulled James away from the Chinaman and Ms. Muffson, and whispered, “I think we might have a race war on our hands.”
James looked Dr. Dickson in the eyes, unsure if he was serious or joking. Then he became deathly earnest. “Are you sure about this?”
“I’m pretty sure,” the doctor said, gulping his nervous gulps. “I don’t want this to get out of hand. Listen, I don’t want to take sides. I’m white, but I don’t have any bad blood toward the Chinese, or the Japanese, or Koreans.”
“I’m fine with these people, as well,” James said, an air of definite worry in his definitely drunk voice. “I really don’t want my New Year’s party to turn into a race war. Not this year – this is the year of the dragon, you know.”
“Listen,” Dr. Dickson glanced briefly around the room, examining each person, “it doesn’t look like there are any other Asians here, am I right?”
“You’re correct.”
“Then this might not turn into a large scale thing. Maybe we can contain this, kind of keep it quiet, right? Race wars terrify me, I’m not going to lie to you, James. I don’t want this escalating. Not here, not tonight.”
James nodded, scratched his mustache with his free hand, and looked at Dr. Dickson. “Let me ask you this, Doc. If shit goes down, right here, right now… How long you think it would take – rough estimate – for it to become full blown? Like, a full blown race war, city-wide. How many deaths you think we’re talking, here?”
“I honestly don’t know, James. I’m trying not to think about that, because I really hope we can contain this.”
“Excuse me,” came a voice with no discernable accent.
Dr. Dickson and James turned to see the Chinese man and Ms. Muffson standing next to them.
“We can hear everything you’re saying,” the Chinese man said. “We’re cool, her and I. It’s no big deal. She’s a little drunk, I’m a little Chinese. That’s all. I don’t think what she said was a racial epithet.”
James turned to look at Dr. Dickson with questioning eyes.
“That means racial slur,” Dr. Dickson said to James.
James nodded. “Got it. OK. So, you’re sure there’s no race war?”
The Chinese man grinned, shook his head in disbelief, and reassured the doctor and James that there was no race war anywhere in the house. He patted them each on the shoulders and walked away to talk with his friends about his blog and his dog, the only two things he cared to talk about.
“Whew!” Dr. Dickson said to Ms. Muffson and James. “That’s gotta be the best news I’ve heard all night. Let’s drink up!”
Ms. Muffson handed the vodka to the doctor, who proceeded to allow himself more liberal gulps of the drink.
James sipped his wine, and the night carried on – late, dark, and loud.
* * *
Midnight was minutes away. The party had grown to over twenty people, and each of them stood or sat around James’s television set to watch the ball drop.
Dr. Dickson was already hungover. He hadn’t even gone to sleep and his head was throbbing, his stomach was sick. He’d quit drinking nearly an hour after he started, and had filled the rest of his night with frequent large helpings of breath mints from his pocket. He looked at the TV and then around the room for Ms. Muffson. Where was she?
The bathroom door flew open to the sound of a toilet near the end of its flush. Ms. Muffson stumbled out of the bathroom and down the hall, towoard the living room where everyone was watching the TV. She wiped the puke from her mouth. She brushed up next to Dr. Dickson and smiled at him.
The doctor smiled back, and noticed Ms. Muffson’s smeared makeup. “Are you alright?” he asked.
“Yes, fine. What year is it?”
“Still 2011, for about a minute.”
Ms. Muffson looked at the TV while Dr. Dickson looked at her.
First, a synthesizer played in the doctor’s brain as he stared at Ms. Muffson’s sweaty eyes. It was a simple tune, an 80’s kind of sequence of notes that made him feel young again. Then, a violin joined in, along with some electric drums, and within seconds a whole score was playing in Dr. Dickson’s head.
My breath is still fresh, and my hands aren’t clammy, the doctor realized. I can do this. Should I do this? Is this sexual harassment?
He looked at the TV.
I have thirty seconds to decide. That ball is dropping fast. How do I do it? Can I just grab her and kiss her? Grab her and pull her up to my face? What if I snap her neck? That’s murder. That would make this one of my worst first dates ever. Is this even a date?
Suddenly, the synthetic 80’s music in the doctor’s head was interrupted by a familiar acoustic guitar riff. It was the opening riff of California Dreamin’. The boom box in the living room was giving him the song he loved most.
Ms. Muffson heard the song and looked at the doctor, and smiled. “All the leaves are brown,” she silently lip synched to the song.
This must be a sign, the doctor thought. This is just right. Just fine.
“Ten! Nine! Eight!…” the twenty or so other people in the room were loudly counting down to the New Year along with the clock on the TV.
The doctor’s heart raced, and his hands became sweaty with worry, or with anticipation, or with fear. I still have fresh breath at least, he thought. He moved closer to Ms. Muffson as the party goers loudly counted down, and while California Dreamin’ played behind him.
“…Two! One!… Happy New Year!” shouted the room. Couples turned to kiss, singles stood to drink, and Dr. Dickson swallowed the spit pooling up in his mouth and smiled at Ms. Muffson. Then he kissed her.
Their red lips latched together while the doctor’s clean tongue of a saint wormed its way into Ms. Muffson’s mouth, and caressed her soft, wet, marshmallow-like tongue. Fireworks exploded on the TV screen, and they exploded also in the doctor’s head and in the head of Ms. Muffson. This was nice.
Then the doctor tasted Ms. Muffson’s vomit. The stomach acid and remnants of mushed up, half-digested cookies, swimming in a bath of vodka still lingered in her mouth. Dr. Dickson’s tongue dislodged a chocolate chip from behind one of Ms. Muffson’s teeth. The mixed flavors of puke filled Dr. Dickson’s mouth and went straight to his brain. He tried to pull his face away from Ms. Muffson’s, but he was too slow. He projectile vomited into Ms. Muffson’s mouth, filling her mouth and throat with the doctor’s own blend of vodka, stomach acid, and mostly digested hamburger meat. It was vile. He could not stop puking.
The puke splattered all over Ms. Muffson’s face and landed on her beautiful dress. The disgusting act of being vomited into caused Ms. Muffson to vomit as well, blasting back her own spray of chunky, alcohol flavored puke.
The doctor and Ms. Muffson were covered in vomit and continued to puke, lacking all control over their own bodies. James’s guests watched in disgusted shock as the two of them wretched and hurled their liquefied guts at each other, unable to stop themselves, as if possessed by some ancient gods who expelled demons and evil through the grace of puking. The smell in the room was nauseating, and those witnessing the violent display of dueling vomit began to get sick.
California Dreamin’ played on behind the carnage. The Chinese man, so sickened by the sight before him, began puking on the floor where he stood. Like a domino effect, those around him began to puke. Within seconds, all twenty or so people standing or sitting in the living room of James’s house were vomiting the night’s treats and concessions into the air, onto the floor, into each other’s faces, onto the walls, and onto couches and tables and chairs. It was a veritable orgy of puke and bad smells.
Minutes later, the room was silent except for the boom box, now playing a Jefferson Airplane tune. All of the partiers were lying on the floor, or on couches, covered in their own puke, and the puke of their fellow celebrators. The TV was muted, showing scenes of New York City, with confetti still falling from the air and scarf-wearing young people smiling and generally having a good time. None of them appeared to be doused in vomit.
James, his turtle-neck shirt completely removed, along with his pants, leaving him almost naked, and his glasses cracked in the left lens, crawled over to Dr. Dickson and Ms. Muffson, scraped his way through their puddles of vomit, and lightly chuckled.
“Happy new year, guys,” he said to the two of them, flashing his red stained teeth.
“Happy new year, James,” Dr. Dickson mumbled.
“Happy new year,” Ms. Muffson said, followed by a hiccup.
“2012!” James exclaimed. “Huh! What a year, right?”
Dr. Dickson and Ms. Muffson moaned.
“Say what you will about it,” James said. “At least we didn’t start it with a race war. You guys get some rest.” He crawled through vomit, toward the next closest puke-soaked couple to wish them a happy new year and to strike up some light banter.
Dr. Dickson looked at Ms. Muffson and extended his hand to her.
She extended her hand and placed it in the doctor’s. His hand was sweaty, but warm. His grip was strong, considering the circumstances.
The empty vodka bottle rolled out of Ms. Muffson’s purse, lying a few feet away from her, and stopped in a puddle of puke by the doctor’s feet. He kicked it away and closed his eyes. As he drifted off into a weak, nutrient-deprived, muscle beaten sleep, he hoped that the Mayan Doomsday prophecy was right. He knew that another new year would be too much for him to handle.
Philip Mason is a graduate student in Tennessee working on a Ph.D in particle physics who spends too little time these days doing physics and far too much time writing fiction. Most of his recent writings, in various stages of drafting, can be found on his blog. Poems, flash fiction, short stories, and even a few novellas, novelettes, and novels-in-progress can be found in the various pages of Fresh Prints of Bukkake. Things ranging from the sweet and adorable to the obscene and disgusting to the strange and absurd will invade your eyes if you choose to let them.
