A Full Eight Fingers

(T/W: Substance Abuse, Torture)

The combined layers of multiple conversations muted the treble and mid-tones of the loud music, leaving only the invisible waves of its bass to gently vibrate the large mirror behind the bar top of the small Irish pub. However, this calamitous atmosphere was not distracting Al Schneider from his mission to “get soused.” He pawed his thumbless hands at the straight sides of the sweating beverage in front of him, wrapping his eight fingers around the tight curvature of the glass, squeezing its body between his palms. He hoisted the beverage from the shiny bar top toward his windblown face and chapped lips. He paused the drink’s travel two inches from his face and carefully learned into it as if gingerly moving in to caress a lover. A fellow bar patron, sitting at a table behind him, suddenly stood up, bumping backs with Al. Al watched as his drink slipped through his palms and fell to the hardwood floor. The glassware exploded into shards, and the fluid it contained reflected upward from the floor like the aftermath of a fat man entering a pool from a high dive. The rebounding splash drenched Al’s shirt and face. Al giggled as he hung his head and wiped the ale from his face with the tail of his shirt. Once his eyes were clear, he pulled his shirt away revealing a large yellow smiley face printed on its front, now dripping with long trails of the brown brew.

Al slurred his words as he talked to the smiley face, “What’s amadder buddy? Can’t hold your liquor?” Al laughed, but his jovial moment was interrupted as a hefty bartender yelled from the other end of the bar, “God dam-it, Fingers! You broke another glass!”

“It wasn’t my f…fault. That f…feller bumped into me,” Al said as he pointed into the empty air behind him.

The bartender wagged his index finger at Al, his fatty flesh waddling around his extended arm as he closed the distance between the two. “I warned you about this, Fingers. I told you— one more broken glass and you’re out!”

Al laughed while digging into his elastic waist banded jean’s eventually pulling out a wadded up twenty-dollar bill. He slammed the crumpled bill on the top of the bar while saying, “This…should cover the damned dambages…” His upper torso began moving toward the door, but his feet tangled beneath him, and he stumbled forward, causing him to fall into the man standing beside him. The man rejected him with a push, sending him crashing into another person. Al pinballed his way through the crowd but remained on his feet all the way to the doorway. He regained his balance by bracing both of his palms against the door’s mull posts. Once stabilized from the abrupt motion, he reached back retrieving a blaze orange stocking cap from his back pocket and perched it upon his 29-year-old, balding head. Turning around with a slight hobble, he announced to the portly bartender, “This ho…whole incident could have been t-o-t-a-l-l-y avoided if you knew even an…” he brought his two index fingers up to his eyes and squinted as he brought their tips very close together and continued, interrupted briefly by a belch, “…i…ota about bartending. A f…fuckin’ Black and Tan is served in a f…fuckin’ Imperial Pint glass, not a f…fuckin’ Stange glass, you f…fuckin’ moron!”

The bartender had made his way to the other side of the bar with a mop in hand. His anger exploded into his face as its skin turned from a vivacious pink hue into a deep crimson. He dropped the wooden handle of the mop and darted toward the inebriated pontificator.  Al turned to escape through the door, but once again his legs and feet lagged his upper body’s actions. The bartender slammed his enormous belly into Al, sending him through the door and onto the busy sidewalk.

Al slowly rolled himself over onto his back, resting on his elbows. The bartender held the door open with his clenched fist and mocked the evicted tenant yelling, “Stay the f…f...fuck out of here you crippled bastard!” The bartender dusted his hands off, then turned and reentered the bar to the sound of clapping and hollers of jubilation.

Several onlookers had gathered to watch the street drama unfolding in front of them. Al played to the impromptu audience by sitting up and displaying his thumbless hands for all to see. He waved them through the air and said, “That’s right f..folks…I have no thumbs. That evil brute ova bartender just threw a d…disabled man out of his fine e…establishment.” He stumbled to his feet, balancing himself against a streetlamp. He laughed sporadically as he said “But don’t you worry about me—I’m gonna be f…fine. I might not be able to play the piano, tie my shoes, or b…button my paints, but I’ll be f…fine.” He cupped his hands to his face and yelled, “And by the way…the bartender isa moron!” He smiled at his taunt, then doubled over and vomited, coating the sidewalk with a dark foamy substance. The few remaining spectators moaned in disgust as they scurried off on their way. Al muttered to himself, “I must have eaten something that disagreed with me.”

Al wiped the vomit from his lips with the tail of his shirt. His attention was once again captured by the yellow smiley face now covered in puke. “You aren’t lookin’ very good buddy…I think you might have a d…drinkin’ problem," he erupted in a high-pitched laughter that echoed through the streets and bounced off the surrounding buildings. He zig-zagged down the sidewalk trying to find equilibrium. He could feel the disapproval of passersby through their stares, and when his uncaged eyes landed on theirs, he would emit a groan that sounded like a wild dog’s warning grumble. His upper body began to lean toward an alleyway and his feet scrambled to stay underneath it. He stopped and swayed in front of an overflowing dumpster before losing his balance and falling into a heap of ballooning garbage bags piled next to it. He tried to move, but he was floundering in vain within a sea of discarded Italian restaurant cuisine, slippery garbage bags, and a cornucopia of other refuse. His fight surrendered to drunken exhaustion, and he retreated into slumber.

***

Al awoke to a loud repetitive clapping of hands inches from his face. He struggled to focus his eyes; they were blinded by three bright lights above him. He tilted his head forward, lowered his gaze, and saw a man wearing a mask and green medical scrubs. Al’s head was spinning. He was still drunk, and he found comfort in that fact. His throat was dry, and his voice cracked as he said, “W…where am I?”

The scrub clad man replied, “You are in a research facility. How are you feeling?”

“I’m f…fine, ‘cept for my damn thumbs—they are killing me!” Al started laughing but stopped abruptly when he felt straps restraining his arms to a hospital bed. “Hey, w…what is this?” he asked as he tugged against the restraints.

“Don’t worry about those. Can I get you something to drink?” The man turned before Al could reply and said to a female in the back of the room that Al had not noticed until now, “Bring us a bottle of Vodka, if you would, Nurse Dana.” The nurse nodded and left the room.

Al perked up at the possibility of consuming more alcohol, but he was confused and asked, “Hey, w…what kind of hos…hospital is this anyway.”

“It isn’t a hospital Mr. Schneider. I told you—it is a research facility.”

“Call me, f…Fingers. My f…friends call me f…fingers. Get it?” He wiggled the nubs where his thumbs once were and smiled.

“Okay, Fingers. I am Doctor Smith. I will be overseeing the drug trial you have volunteered for.”

“W…wait a minute Mr.—I mean Doctor Smith. I don’t remember volunteering for anything.”

Just then the nurse, re-entered the room. Her lower face was also hidden behind a mask, but from her high cheek bones and beautiful aquamarine eyes Al could tell she was a looker. Her auburn hair was pulled into a ponytail that swung happily behind her as she bounced toward him with a transparent bottle in her hand. The bottle possessed an emblem portraying a silver whale embossed on a golden seal.

Al squinted and then exclaimed, “That’s Beluga Gold Line vodka! One hundred and twenty bucks a bottle! Alright, consider me vol…volunteered. Does Dana come with the bottle?” Al howled with laughter, but his joke was met with the disapproving eyes of both Dana and Dr. Smith.

“Now Fingers, let’s mind our manners,” Dr. Smith said as Dana laid the bottle on the bed. Dr. Smith unstrapped Al’s arm restraints, picked up the bottle, removed its top and placed it between Al’s hands. Before the doctor let go of the bottle he said, “Okay, Fingers. Take it slow. We want you to relax a bit before we start, but we don’t need you passing out.”

“You’re the boss, Doc!” Al pressed the bottle between his palms and lifted the bottle to his lips. He took a long pull and then exhaled long and hard. “This stuff tastes like heaven, Doc.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Dr. Smith said as he leaned his head into Dana’s ear saying, “Get me two orderlies, an NG tube, and 500cc’s of MgP 145.”

The nurse nodded and left the room.

Al took another swig from the bottle and then asked, “W…what kind of experiment are we doing here, Doc? You gonna make my thumbs grow back?” Al let out a yip.

“No, Fingers. We are going to cure your alcoholism using experimental therapeutics.”

Al looked down at the smiley face on his shirt. “You hear that buddy? They’re gonna clean us up with expi…mental therma…per-atics.” Al chuckled and then his facial expression sank into seriousness. He looked at Dr. Smith and said, “Hey wait a minute, Doc. How come you lettin’ me drink this b…Beluga? This isn’t like the last program I was in…”

“No. This program doesn’t have twelve steps. Really it only has one step. All we do is administer MgP 145 and it will do the rest. You could call it a magic potion of sorts.”

“Is that what MgP stands for? Magic Potion?”

“No, but I’m impressed with your ability to come up with that in your state. The main ingredient in the treatment is Magnesium Phosphate, thus the Mg—P symbols from the Periodic Table—”

Al interrupted “Yeah, I remember that shit…”

“Well, there is a little more to it than just 'that shit.’ There are some radioactive elements mixed within it as well, but don’t you worry—it has all been tested before.”

“Before? You mean before me?” Al looked a little hurt that he wasn’t the first.

“Sure, you’re number 145.”

Al sat up and exclaimed, “145?” He placed the bottle between his legs then held up the four fingers of his left hand and touched each one with his right index finger as he said, “What happened to one through…one hundred and f…forty f…four?” He fell back into the bed and lifted the bottle to his mouth.

“It didn’t work out so well for them,” the doctor said with a high arching of his eyebrows and a muffled chuckle. “But they weren’t as experienced as you.”

“Amateurs,” Al said before tilting the bottle upward and making a popping noise with it as he removed it from his mouth.

“Well, ‘minister up some M—C—2—4—7…Stat!” Al began laughing and suddenly Dr. Smith joined him, however the doctor's laughter was maniacal, bolstering much more excitement than Al’s drunken humor deserved. The creepy laugh ended abruptly as two male orderlies entered the room, followed by Dana. She held a clear package containing plastic tubing and a huge syringe that contained a green viscous fluid that was glowing brightly.

Al lifted the vodka bottle to take another swig, but the larger of the two orderlies grabbed the bottle and removed it from Al’s thumbless grip.

Al objected saying, “Hey, that’s no way to treat a disabled vet!”

The orderlies were returning the restraints to Al’s wrist when the larger one, obviously a weightlifter, said, “Oh yeah. I was in the Army. Where did you serve?”

“No, not that kind of vet, Rambo! I worked with animals.”

The orderly scoffed and said, “Figures.”

Al sat up and said, “I’m not kidding. I was a veter…narian. I was at tha top of my game. I specialized in ex…ex…exotic animals. I traveled the world.” He shook his head up and down as if the solitary act of nodding awarded his story credibility. “I had been f…flown halfway around the world to a crocodile f…farm in Australia. They had one of the largest crocodiles in the world. That son-bitch was over twenty f...feet long. He…he…weighed more than a ton! A f…fucking ton!” Al searched the eyes of Dr. Smith, Dana, and the orderlies, and he secretly reveled in the fact that they were all focused on him. Al continued, “Anyways, turned out that big son-bitch had an abscessed tooth way…way back in his mouth.” Al opened his mouth wide, and the stench of alcohol overwhelmed the musclebound orderly who wafted his hand in front of his mask in disapproval. “Well…we tranquilized the beast, and I went to work. I put a thumb inside both jaws and…slowly…very slowly…I started pryin’ them apart. The jaws were heavy, and I was strugglin’ to hold them open when suddenly…I saw one of the reptile’s eyes roll open.” Al closed one eye and slowly opened the other, swirling his pupil before affixing it straight ahead and jutting his head forward. “And that’s when it happened,” Al deflated back into the bed and sighed through a long exhale.

The hulking orderly asked, “It woke up and bit your thumbs off? Right?”

Al sprang up and said, “No, you f…fuckin’ meat head! I quit! And then I lost my thumbs in an unf…unfortunate misunderstanding while thumbing a ride to the airport!” Al burst out in a fit of uncontrolled laughter that quickly morphed into a coughing spasm.

The large orderly shook his head in disapproval saying, “I’ve had enough of this drunken shitbird. Let’s load him up, Doc.”

Dr. Smith announced, “Alright I’m ready.”

The orderlies each put a hand on Al’s chest, pushing him down into the bed. The orderlies used their free hands to restrain Al’s forehead with a strap tethered to the head of the bed.

The massive orderly leaned in and whispered in Al’s ear, “I’m going to enjoy watching this.”

Dr. Smith stepped forward with a large tube in his right hand, its end protruding about two inches from his clenched fingers. The doctor rested his left hand over Al’s eyes, loosely holding the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. Al squirmed in the restraints and started to scream as Dr. Smith began cramming the tube into his right nostril. Al’s scream turned into a choking sound as the tube ran down the back of his throat. The doctor ignored his patient’s noises and continued to feed the long tube through his nose.

Dana handed the doctor the large syringe. He connected it to the free end of the tubing. The green glow of the fluid in the syringe reflected off Dr. Smith’s pale forehead, highlighting his arching eyebrows. Al imagined a wide smile under the doctor’s medical mask, one that would rival Conrad Veidt’s beam in the vintage movie, The Man Who Laughs. Al cringed at the creepy thought. He watched in terror as the thick glowing fluid worked its way through the tube toward his nostril.

The fluid breached his orifice and soon he could feel a pressure building in his stomach. His stomach knotted and then released as a warmth spread within it. Al began to relax…and then it hit. The burning…oh the burning…it was so hot. Al kicked his legs and rattled his arms in the restraints. The orderlies pushed down on his flailing body, and they began to laugh. Dr. Smith blasted out his baleful laugh, and even the gorgeous Nurse Dana joined them.

An intolerable pain surged through Al’s body, and he fainted.

***

Al snapped back to consciousness. He was struggling to breathe. He opened his eyes to find his face buried in a pile of rotten spaghetti. He tried to push himself up, but he was slipping in the slimy garbage. Something was stuck in the back of his throat and there was a burning in his nose. He reached up and felt spaghetti noodles hanging from his nostrils. He clapped his palms around the noodles and pulled at them, working all eight fingers to pull the noodles free. He gagged as he felt them travel up the back of his throat and out his nose. He could feel and smell rancid marinara sauce burning the walls of his nasal cavity, which was awful, but he could breathe.

He swam his way out of the pile of garbage and stood, bent over, hacking up fragments of the dumpster food. Al reached down and pulled his shirt tail to his face to wipe it clean. He spoke to the yellow smiley face grinning back at him saying, “What the hell buddy? You almost lost me to rotten spaghetti. I guess I really do have a drinkin’ problem. Whatcha say buddy? Maybe we should quit for a while?”

Al stood up straight and took in his first breath of sobriety. As he did, a small trickle of glowing fluid fell from his right nostril, leaving a green streak below the right eye of his shirt’s smiling yellow face.