Pins and Needles
The acupuncturist was glad he had started taking Mondays off and working on Sundays: Sunday was proving to be a boom day. He had three clients already getting energized and a new one on the table for the first time. Like most new patients, Laura Moreno had asked him for pain relief, but all he could do was balance energy and let the body fix itself. Still, he had his doubts. The pain she talked about was not something he had heard of before, and her chi seemed non-existent. He carefully placed the needles on her back, then added the electrical stimulation before giving her the panic button and leaving the room. Laura lay there, spending money she didn't have, trying to fix her body enough to return to the Prince and Prowling sharecropping which was barely keeping her alive.
In the next room, a real Prince and Prowling employee with a premium health insurance plan had already rolled over for part two of his acupuncture session. Former Senator Evermore Breadman had come at the recommendation of his herbalist, Lynnette Wong. His eyes were wide open, staring at the slender needles sticking out of his body. He felt like a damned voodoo doll, but there was no way he was putting his bowels under the knife--never! He glared at his abdomen, willing it to obey his command, and wondered why Lynnette Wong had told him that his Rolex was bad for his energy. Maybe he should give it back to Rumsfeld? Still, he wasn't totally sure it was the same one, and what happened to the engraving? As the Rolex lay on the table with his car keys, an energy channel in Breadman's diaphragm abruptly shifted and he fell asleep.
Across the hallway, the acupuncturist was starting Charles Wu's second session. Wu had never been sick a day in his life, and knew exactly when to use English doctors and when to use Chinese. Wu felt fine, though the acupuncturist had begun suspecting something he had never seen before but only heard about--too much chi. Like dying from drinking too much water, it was theoretically possible to have too much chi, but the acupunturist had never seen it before. Did he dare drain some of it? Surely Wu would notice. Wu did not seem like somebody to be crossed. The acupuncturist placed only a couple of needles in the wrong places, then began the flow of electricity. Wu took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and meditated on his power animal.
The acupuncturist moved to the next room, where Henry Samuelson lay brooding about Charles Wu. After following Wu here the week before, Samuelson had impulsively signed up himself. He sensed that the acupuncture clinic was a front for nefarious Chinese activity, but he wasn't sure what. Samuelson obediently rolled over and let the Chinaman stick needles all over his abdomen, but Samuelson knew it was all mumbo jumbo hypnotic nonsense, and so, without realizing it, he was glaring at the acupuncturist, who therefore kept asking with surprise if the needles were hurting him. Samuelson was massively unbalanced, and it would be weeks before his chi was flowing optimally, but the acupuncturist was doubtful Samuelson would stick with it--he seemed an angry and impatient man.
The acupuncturist took a break, checked his email, and laughed at the photo already being circulated of the polyps removed from President Bush's ass the day before.
Over at the White House, Vice President Dick Cheney was chuckling at the same polyp photo, emailed to him by Scooter Libby. He was working on his personal files, making careful, encrypted notes about everything he had done yesterday while holding Presidential power for two hours. For some reason, there was a quarter-hour gap in his memory. He looked over his notes again, then looked out the window trying to jog his memory. Reggie and Fergie were outside, running through the sprinkler. They stopped and looked up at Cheney. He could not tell if they were frowning or smiling at him--maybe one of both. The Shackled were not pleased with his Presidential performance, and were set to linger long into the night, talking to the White House ghosts about it. Cheney turned to shuffle through his notes one more time, pricking himself on a weakly placed staple. A few drops of blood oozed out on his secret legacy.
Over in Southwest, Marcos Vasquez was thinking about checking in on Golden Fawn. He still hadn't asked her to explain, because there was no point in doing it until he was ready to admit to her that he was terrified of something in the water. A couple of floors away, Golden Fawn was carefully sewing beads onto a belt--something she hadn't done since she was a child. She could already feel Ardua's partial recovery from their last two battles--it was going to be a long, long war. Maybe she couldn't do it alone? She pricked her finger, but it didn't bleed. Tomorrow, the balcony drilling would resume around the corner, as the "renovation" continued in Southwest Plaza, with every balcony getting demolished and rebuilt. Tomorrow, Golden Fawn would have to take her radiated, emaciated shell of a body somewhere else to rest. Tomorrow, Golden Fawn would not be there when the pneumatic drilling that could have and should have been enjoined by the court caused her neighbor with the at-risk pregnancy to suffer a miscarriage one month into her two-month bedrest order.
A mile away, Ardua watched and waited for her strength to return. Still, her minions were carrying on.
In the next room, a real Prince and Prowling employee with a premium health insurance plan had already rolled over for part two of his acupuncture session. Former Senator Evermore Breadman had come at the recommendation of his herbalist, Lynnette Wong. His eyes were wide open, staring at the slender needles sticking out of his body. He felt like a damned voodoo doll, but there was no way he was putting his bowels under the knife--never! He glared at his abdomen, willing it to obey his command, and wondered why Lynnette Wong had told him that his Rolex was bad for his energy. Maybe he should give it back to Rumsfeld? Still, he wasn't totally sure it was the same one, and what happened to the engraving? As the Rolex lay on the table with his car keys, an energy channel in Breadman's diaphragm abruptly shifted and he fell asleep.
Across the hallway, the acupuncturist was starting Charles Wu's second session. Wu had never been sick a day in his life, and knew exactly when to use English doctors and when to use Chinese. Wu felt fine, though the acupuncturist had begun suspecting something he had never seen before but only heard about--too much chi. Like dying from drinking too much water, it was theoretically possible to have too much chi, but the acupunturist had never seen it before. Did he dare drain some of it? Surely Wu would notice. Wu did not seem like somebody to be crossed. The acupuncturist placed only a couple of needles in the wrong places, then began the flow of electricity. Wu took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and meditated on his power animal.
The acupuncturist moved to the next room, where Henry Samuelson lay brooding about Charles Wu. After following Wu here the week before, Samuelson had impulsively signed up himself. He sensed that the acupuncture clinic was a front for nefarious Chinese activity, but he wasn't sure what. Samuelson obediently rolled over and let the Chinaman stick needles all over his abdomen, but Samuelson knew it was all mumbo jumbo hypnotic nonsense, and so, without realizing it, he was glaring at the acupuncturist, who therefore kept asking with surprise if the needles were hurting him. Samuelson was massively unbalanced, and it would be weeks before his chi was flowing optimally, but the acupuncturist was doubtful Samuelson would stick with it--he seemed an angry and impatient man.
The acupuncturist took a break, checked his email, and laughed at the photo already being circulated of the polyps removed from President Bush's ass the day before.
Over at the White House, Vice President Dick Cheney was chuckling at the same polyp photo, emailed to him by Scooter Libby. He was working on his personal files, making careful, encrypted notes about everything he had done yesterday while holding Presidential power for two hours. For some reason, there was a quarter-hour gap in his memory. He looked over his notes again, then looked out the window trying to jog his memory. Reggie and Fergie were outside, running through the sprinkler. They stopped and looked up at Cheney. He could not tell if they were frowning or smiling at him--maybe one of both. The Shackled were not pleased with his Presidential performance, and were set to linger long into the night, talking to the White House ghosts about it. Cheney turned to shuffle through his notes one more time, pricking himself on a weakly placed staple. A few drops of blood oozed out on his secret legacy.
Over in Southwest, Marcos Vasquez was thinking about checking in on Golden Fawn. He still hadn't asked her to explain, because there was no point in doing it until he was ready to admit to her that he was terrified of something in the water. A couple of floors away, Golden Fawn was carefully sewing beads onto a belt--something she hadn't done since she was a child. She could already feel Ardua's partial recovery from their last two battles--it was going to be a long, long war. Maybe she couldn't do it alone? She pricked her finger, but it didn't bleed. Tomorrow, the balcony drilling would resume around the corner, as the "renovation" continued in Southwest Plaza, with every balcony getting demolished and rebuilt. Tomorrow, Golden Fawn would have to take her radiated, emaciated shell of a body somewhere else to rest. Tomorrow, Golden Fawn would not be there when the pneumatic drilling that could have and should have been enjoined by the court caused her neighbor with the at-risk pregnancy to suffer a miscarriage one month into her two-month bedrest order.
A mile away, Ardua watched and waited for her strength to return. Still, her minions were carrying on.
posted by washingtonwaterwoman | 1:37 PM
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