Ponderlust
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
The deliciously pungent fumes from the double order of Gnocchi Gorgonzola wafted in gentle spirals and into Rychter’s yielding nostrils. Synapses clicked and well-exercised salivary glands ached out their abundant anticipation. He wobbled monolithically toward his desk.
Big. By any measure, Dr. Gordon Rychter was gargantuan. A family doctor’s office scale only went up to three hundred and fifty pounds. With precise planning his ponderous presence pirouetted planet-like onto the protesting perch.
“Fucking chair! Mary, Get me another fucking chair!” For now, it would have to do. His shoulder length hair was a throwback to his youth. He smirked in pleasant satisfaction at the tarp that he liked to think of as his three-piece suit. If you looked closely, you could read his name within the custom pinstripes. And how fuckin’ sweet was that?
As he fed himself with one hand, Rychter pumped a hand exerciser with the other. Balance, he thought to himself, and who gives a flying fuck anyway. He felt the gentle fullness of the defibrillator that would kick in if his heart should stop. Alcoholic cardiomyopathy. Definition: too fucking much of a good thing.
The gnocchi? They were to die for.
Rychter smirked irony. Irony returned the favor.
Behind him like a coat-of-arms: his medical diploma, a biker patch, a picture of his dear mother and a take-out menu for La Dolce Vita Restaurant: a fragmented sentence in a fragmented whole.
Then, suddenly, from the hall he heard, “Dr. Rychter, there’s an emergency out here, can you help? I put him in Room three.”
“Do I need to give you a fucking brain transplant you cackling bitch? I thought I told you never to interrupt me during lunch.” Rychter worshiped his mother and his mother idolized him, but to every other woman in the world, he was a callously sadistic misogynist. He sucked down his wine, turned off the “Ode to Joy” and went over to see what the fuck was up.
And there he was: a miserable weasel-of-a-man and former biker gang-member named Lenny. His gang had kicked him out when he kept going back to drugs. “Why’d ya haff ta do it, Doc? Why’d ya have ta tell’m you was mad at me, Doc?” Lenny was covered in bruises, his left cheek was blown out and his eyes were the color of blood. Then, Rychter remembered.
Lenny had been bugging him all last week for drug prescriptions and Rychter happened to mention how frustrated he was with this little beggar to Mike, the local biker club leader. Mike was also one of his patients. “I wish someone could get this fucking asshole off my back, “ Rychter had said.
Mike seemed to like Rychter. “Rychter, you’ve done the club a lot of favors, what with writin’ prescriptions and lookin’ after our gunshot and knife wounds and and all. So, I’m gonna make you an honorary member of our club. Any time you have a problem or any time you need a favour, just say the word, doc!” That’s when he'd given him the biker patch and that’s when he'd left mumbling something about protecting his investment.
Lenny’s condition was obviously the result. “I’m goin’ to da ‘mergency, Doc. I come here ta ask fer ya ta put in a good word for me wit’ Mikey, ‘kay?” Lenny exited.
Pathetic.
As he returned to his desk, Rychter muttered, “Someone ought to put that fucking Lenny’s lights out once and for all.” Philosophically, he took the biker patch off the wall, wondering where he’d wear it. As he looked at the back of it for the first time he noticed an embedded microphone. He also noticed a brief and muffled scream from the parking lot.
Gradually, “Ode to Joy” resumed full force. With great power comes great responsibility, Rychter thought.
Now, let's see, who else pissed me off this week?
Big. By any measure, Dr. Gordon Rychter was gargantuan. A family doctor’s office scale only went up to three hundred and fifty pounds. With precise planning his ponderous presence pirouetted planet-like onto the protesting perch.
“Fucking chair! Mary, Get me another fucking chair!” For now, it would have to do. His shoulder length hair was a throwback to his youth. He smirked in pleasant satisfaction at the tarp that he liked to think of as his three-piece suit. If you looked closely, you could read his name within the custom pinstripes. And how fuckin’ sweet was that?
As he fed himself with one hand, Rychter pumped a hand exerciser with the other. Balance, he thought to himself, and who gives a flying fuck anyway. He felt the gentle fullness of the defibrillator that would kick in if his heart should stop. Alcoholic cardiomyopathy. Definition: too fucking much of a good thing.
The gnocchi? They were to die for.
Rychter smirked irony. Irony returned the favor.
Behind him like a coat-of-arms: his medical diploma, a biker patch, a picture of his dear mother and a take-out menu for La Dolce Vita Restaurant: a fragmented sentence in a fragmented whole.
Then, suddenly, from the hall he heard, “Dr. Rychter, there’s an emergency out here, can you help? I put him in Room three.”
“Do I need to give you a fucking brain transplant you cackling bitch? I thought I told you never to interrupt me during lunch.” Rychter worshiped his mother and his mother idolized him, but to every other woman in the world, he was a callously sadistic misogynist. He sucked down his wine, turned off the “Ode to Joy” and went over to see what the fuck was up.
And there he was: a miserable weasel-of-a-man and former biker gang-member named Lenny. His gang had kicked him out when he kept going back to drugs. “Why’d ya haff ta do it, Doc? Why’d ya have ta tell’m you was mad at me, Doc?” Lenny was covered in bruises, his left cheek was blown out and his eyes were the color of blood. Then, Rychter remembered.
Lenny had been bugging him all last week for drug prescriptions and Rychter happened to mention how frustrated he was with this little beggar to Mike, the local biker club leader. Mike was also one of his patients. “I wish someone could get this fucking asshole off my back, “ Rychter had said.
Mike seemed to like Rychter. “Rychter, you’ve done the club a lot of favors, what with writin’ prescriptions and lookin’ after our gunshot and knife wounds and and all. So, I’m gonna make you an honorary member of our club. Any time you have a problem or any time you need a favour, just say the word, doc!” That’s when he'd given him the biker patch and that’s when he'd left mumbling something about protecting his investment.
Lenny’s condition was obviously the result. “I’m goin’ to da ‘mergency, Doc. I come here ta ask fer ya ta put in a good word for me wit’ Mikey, ‘kay?” Lenny exited.
Pathetic.
As he returned to his desk, Rychter muttered, “Someone ought to put that fucking Lenny’s lights out once and for all.” Philosophically, he took the biker patch off the wall, wondering where he’d wear it. As he looked at the back of it for the first time he noticed an embedded microphone. He also noticed a brief and muffled scream from the parking lot.
Gradually, “Ode to Joy” resumed full force. With great power comes great responsibility, Rychter thought.
Now, let's see, who else pissed me off this week?
