August 31, 2008

Number three.

Filed under: Belles lettres — theinkhorn @ 12:11 am

Its noon and the sun is scorching. I’m strolling down the street towards a small restaurant that serves the most exquisite Moroccan cuisine, according to Kevin. His exact words, i think, were “Bloody fuckin’ awesome”. Today i’m meeting Campbell, supposedly to discuss the details of the upcoming major surgery. As i continue strolling, the heat from the sun bearing down on me, a boy with a hugely exaggerated mohawk haircut skateboards towards me. When he realises I’m not moving aside, he begins flailing his arms and gesturing wildly at me. He’s yelling but i can’t hear him because i have Nora Jones crooning into my ears from my mp3. Finally, he tries to stop but instead slips and lands hard onto the concrete, back first, his skateboard continuing down the street without him. I walk to where his head is, glance down at him and give him a smirk, then continue on my way.

In the restaurant, the air-conditioning is on and it feels good to be out of the heat. I spot Campbell in the corner booth, waving to me. As i head towards him, the smell of garbage overwhelms me and i start covering my nose and coughing lightly.


“Campbell, do you smell that? Holy… It stinks in here.”

“Smell what? I don’t smell anything.”

“You don’t? Jesus, get yourself checked.”

Campbell clears his throat, and requests that we get down to business in a tone which suggests he’s offended but i’m too distracted by the smell to bother. Campbell runs through the details of the surgery with me. We’re going to be using a robot that operates by making cuts less than one millimetre in width, almost the same size as a paper cut. He goes on and on about how incredible the technology is and how everyone can’t wait to observe the procedure and he’s starting to sweat and raise his voice and he’s excited but his enthusiasm doesn’t rub off on me and all i do is sit there and yawn and think about what i’m going to do with his rib cage when i finally obtain it.

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