Rump is on a tear. "Sell, you will write it!"
"Sir, your blood count is too high! You could have a stroke!" White coat or not, his hands are trembling. And it's not even withdrawal.
Wanka is standing by. Her face looks perfect. She is holding the syringe, point up.
"Sell, you will write the prescription. Now. Or kiss your fucking medical license goodbye."
"Sir, we need to hospitalize you and draw out blood. You've been injecting twice a week! Your blood count is at 60! It could kill you!"
Wanka is standing by. Her face looks perfect.
"Inject it. Mr. Ladykiller doesn't care about blood counts. Mr. Ladykiller wants it! Wanka wants it! Say how much you want Mr. Ladykiller, baby."
"I want Mr. Ladykiller more than anything." says Wanka. She injects Rump. Her face looks perfect.
"Singulair!" yells Rump.
General Singulair comes in. "Sir." he says.
Dr. Block closes his eyes. His hands are shaking now but it will get worse, so much worse.
Rump nods towards Dr. Block. "Sell doesn't understand my medical needs. I have recently heard that he has a problem. I think he might be on drugs!"
General Singulair nods. "Dr. Block."
Dr. Block walks towards the door. Towards jail. Towards withdrawal. Towards screaming pain, monsters. Death might be better. He is thinking about death. He is thinking about strokes. I hope it's soon, he thinks. I am a horror too, he thinks.
"Wanka, baby, I can feel it. Mr. Ladykiller can feel it." He turns to the open door. "Vice!" he yells.
Vice comes. "Yes, sir."
"Is it ready? Is the new room ready? I'm ready." he leers at Wanka.
"Yes, sir, finished an hour ago."
"Baby, go change."
"Yes, darling." Wanka leaves. Her face is perfect.
"Need another doctor." says Rump. Agitated. Wired. He can't hold still.
His hair is more orange than ever, thinks Vice. "Yes, sir. We have one lined up."
"He understand my needs?" says Rump. "And we have all the background on him?"
"Yes sir." says Vice. Any day now.
"Great job. You do a great job. You are nearly as great as I am. Make America great again!" He eyes the door. "Gotta go. Wanka needs me."
In another room General Singulair is standing. Doctor Block sits, head in hands.
"We will be transporting you to Oregon."
"Oregon?" says the doctor, lifting his head. He tries to think of penitentiaries in Oregon.
"Here is your paperwork and identity. You will be at the Veterans Detox then Rehab. You will not have a phone. You are not to make contact with friends, family, press."
Doctor Block stares at General Singulair. "He's going to have a massive stroke with his blood count that high. Or a heart attack. And his level is more than twice normal. It is drug abuse."
"Thank you for your service to our country." General Singulair holds out his hand.
Doctor Block shakes it.
Rump goes to the new room.
A cell has been installed inside the room. Wanka is inside the cage. She is dressed as a little girl. She has a space blanket, but no toys.
"Hi, little girl." says Rump.
"I'm scared." says Wanka.
Rump walks around the cage, running his hands lovingly along the thick bars. The walls and floor of the room are painted concrete grey now and the curtains have been replaced with black out shades. The only light is from above and bright. The edges of the room are in shadow.
"Why don't I come in there. I want you to meet a friend of mine."
Rump unlocks the cell door and steps in.
Wanka's face is perfect.