So a little while back, Hilary Davidson let slip she’s had a bit of a health scare — seems some of her skin cells maybe caught a few too many rays and went rogue on her. She had to go in for a biopsy (everything turned out fine, thankfully) but that’s gonna leave a bit of a scar on her bicep. I jokingly suggested that perhaps Hilary’s Scar should be the subject of my next flash fiction challenge. I was kidding, but my subconcious wasn’t. Something nasty bubbled up — something, dare I say it, Davidson-like.
So this isn’t a challenge per se, just my modest offering thanking the cancer gods for getting their asses off Hilary’s dance card. Now, if any of you guys want to join in and maybe leave a link to something in the comment box, well, it’s not like I can stop you.
Hilary’s Scars
Alphonse Cooltan was having a good month. OK, he’d had to go down on Ol’ Shrivel Tits that morning, but if you were going to work as a gigolo, then giving the occasional post-menopausal gash a little tongue bath was part of the gig. The money was the other part, and Shrivel Tits had just coughed up a check for ten large – even had her driver pulling around to run him to the bank. And she wasn’t that bad for fifty-something, not really.
But she was a comedown after Hilary Lafitpour. That one had just fallen into his lap. Twenty one and hot as hell. That Persian skin, the Blackglama hair, those almond eyes. He wasn’t even looking for a payday when he saw her – just, you see something like that and you don’t make a play, then it’s time to turn in your man card and go home to your Elton John records, right? So when she bit on the ol’ Cooltan charm and wanted to take him home, well cool. When the valet brought the silver SLK around, well cooler. And when home turned out to be twenty-plus acres of lakefront North Shore estate, well cool-fucking-est.
He’d run the writer scam on her. Tortured artist, working on the novel about his Peace Corps days in Rwanda, and she’d swallowed the bait whole. Inside of three weeks, she’s talking marriage, but then he met the grandfather, and Alphonse had been the one who got cold feet.
Bahram Lafitpour had left Iran when the Shah went down. Been some kind of young hot shot with the Shah’s secret police. What did he call them? Savak? Anyway, Hilary tells him Grandpa wants to meet him, so he drives down to the old man’s office in the Loop, and the old man’s got his whole file – even the Juvie stuff that was supposed to be expunged. Tells Alphonse, very calmly, that there is $50,000 in the envelope on the desk and a plane ticket to New York. That $50,000 is a pretty good payday for Alphonse. That if Alphonse thinks he’s going to marry into the Lafitpour fortune, Bahram will drop him alive into a barrel of acid and then pour him down a drain. Not personally, of course. He might ruin a suit. But that Alphonse should rest assured that Bahram had the acid, he had the barrel, and that there were men who worked for him who would consider it a personal honor to do that sort of thing. Alphonse was pretty sure Lafitpour wasn’t being metaphorical.
So New York. Took a nice room in the Benjamin while he worked out his options. And a week later, Ol’ Shrivel Tits is making eyes at him across the bar. And she had that money smell on her so thick that her looks were no big deal.
*
Bahram Lafitpour stood in his granddaughter’s room at the private clinic in Zurich. She’d taken the pills the day after Cooltan had left. The immediate threat was past, but her kidneys had failed and her liver was failing. Such a beautiful child, but you had only to think of the name, Hilary, that American banality, to see the problem. Bahram’s son had grown up in America and put no stock in his own culture, in his thousand-year-old name. He wanted to be John Wayne or that cowboy cigarette man. Or had wanted to be until he’d driven that ridiculous Viper car into a tree. What chance did the child of such a father have? But there was time. If Bahram could find a transplant, there was time. His Blackberry vibrated against his hip. He snatched it up, read the message and smiled. There would be time.
*
Alphonse Cooltan opened his eyes. Fucking bright. He was laying on his stomach, naked, some kind of sheet over him. He tried to roll over, but he was belted down. His arms, his legs, something across his back. What the hell? He remembered getting in the car. He was going to the bank – Shrivel Tits driver was taking him to the bank. Now, he was cotton mouthed, his head foggy, he had a sense that a long time had gone by.
Something moved. Pants – somebody standing in front of his face.
“Mr. Cooltan, we meet again.” It was the fucker Lafitpour. Cooltan tried to say something, but his mouth was too dry – and he realized there was something running down his throat.
“Don’t try to speak, Mr. Cooltan. The feeding tube is still in. We wanted you healthy, of course. Did you know your DNA profile was in your record? Of course you did – part of that unfortunate statutory rape business in Louisville several years back. But to catch you up, after you decided to trifle with my granddaughter’s emotions, she became distraught. She took some pills. She is alive, but she needs a new kidney and a new liver. And, in a delicious irony, you turn out to be a match. Had only the kidneys failed, I would have made you an attractive offer for one, but since she needs a liver as well, and since you can’t live without one of those –well, we could just take a lobe, couldn’t we, but I’m told her chances are much better with the whole organ – I’m afraid an attractive offer would be wasted on you just now. We may as well take both kidneys, don’t you think? You won’t be needing either.”
Cooltan grunted, trying to yell through the tube as he struggled against the restraints. He saw two more pairs of legs – legs in surgical scrubs.
“I wanted you to meet the anesthesiologist Mr. Lafitpour,” a new voice said.
“This is costing me enough,” said Lafitpour. “And I’ll be spending a fortune on plastic surgeons later, taking care of Hilary’s scars. I don’t see any reason to waste money on an anesthesiologist, do you?”
A long pause. “I guess we’ll get started then,” said the new voice. More noises, people entering the room, the soft clatter of metal instruments on a sterile pad atop a metal tray. Cooltan felt someone pull the sheet off of his back, someone painting him with iodine, and the terror rose in his mind like the sun.
You are a genius.
Or a madman.
Maybe both.
High-five.
— c.
Thankyee, sir. I tired to do the Queen of the Night justice.
I’m now disturbed. Thankfully I finished my breakfast first.
Most important meal of the day, breakfast.
I think Chuck called it right: you are a genius and a madman. Also, a fiercely talented writer. I loved this… but you knew I would, didn’t you?
Well, you know, you live by the tongue, you die by the scapel, or something like that. I just hope my daughter’s boyfriend reads this. You hear, me, ‘Taterhead? I’m talking to YOU.
Some things are just so goddamn wrong they can’t help but be gloriously right.
Thanks Chris –‘preciate it.
You are sick, twisted man. I love it!!
Sick and twisted — nicest thing I’ve been called all day.
Hey Dan, thanks for fucking up my breakfast. Good job!
Always enjoy ruining a meal — though I’m curious as to what exactly put you off your feed. Was it the “elective” surgery or the post-menopausal gash?
Gives a whole new meaning to the word ‘takeaway’! Marvellous stuff old bean!
Pretty sure Tater isn’t a gigolo, but I’ll have him read it anyway.
I wanted to leave a comment when I first read this, but didn’t have it in me. For as much of a dog-loving raconteur as you are, you’re also a dark SOB. It’s an admirable quality.
That’s some nasty stuff going on there. Perfectly balanced justice of the darker sort. Very cool!
Don’t forget, boys and girls, you too can add your story — 1000 words or less, and it has to be about Hilary’s Scar.
Speaking for almost 40 year old hot chicks everywhere, I’m thinking the post menopausal gash might not be a whole lot different given a few trips to Rite Aid.
I hear they even sell them flavored these days.
I love that I could tell instantly that a father wrote this. This kicks my husband’s plan to buy a shotgun in the ass.
Maybe you could embroider this on a t-shirt for the daughter to wear on dates.
Yeah, because I have the patience and know how to do that.
Screw that. Let me see if I can print it to an iron-on transfer.
Excellent. But it’s funny, in a Hitchcockian sort of way. This piece is as gutwrenching as any of your others, but it’s the only one (that I’ve read) in which no one dies. At least no on camera. The Viper guy meeting his dendritic dead end doesn’t count. Cooltan is only left with a sphincter cramp. Yet it has the same O’Sheavian (?) touch.
Thanks, Phil — although in my WalMart piece no one is actually dead yet by the end of it. There is quite a body count in the other two, though. Hmmm, let’s see, three in Two Phones, four in Absalom, none (onscreen) in the other two.
Still I hope I’m inspiring everyone to keep their organ donor status up to date.
I might print this off and save it for when my daughter starts dating. Just start handing it out to whatever boys come sniffing around her. Granted, it won’t be for like, sixteen years, but it never hurts to be prepared, right?
Nice and brutal. What I like about a story like this is, when I finish reading it, it just feels like I’ve read a 10k word story. Don’t know how that happens. Guess it just seems so full, yknow?
Here’s my shot at the scar story: http://steveweddle.squarespace.com/imported-data/2010/3/31/the-scar.html
Thanks, Steve. You know you’re dead, right? Never mind Hilary, when Gischler sees that . . .
And Chris Holm has joined the fun. http://chrisfholm.blogspot.com/2010/03/dan-osheas-flash-fic-challenge-hilarys.html
I couldn’t resist.
http://ericbeetner.blogspot.com/
Apologies for the uninventive title…
I might try this. Give me a couple of days, though.
This one is muy informal, so if you get the itch just post a link whenever.
Here you are:
http://eb-misfit-2.blogspot.com/2010/04/hilarys-scars.html
Here’s my offering: It Should Have Been Easy.
http://stumblingthewalk.blogspot.com/2010/03/it-should-have-been-easy.html
I couldn’t resist. Here are my SCARS.
Dylan likes the story dad, and he says the following: While it has always been my dream to be a Hollywood Gigolo; having an Iranian billionaire perform a back alley live organ donation on me has not been nearly so high on my bucket list. Thankfully, the name O’Shea screams Irish so my biggest fear at this point is us reenacting that scene from the “Quiet Man” where we will beat the hell out of each other across the entire Irish countryside. Though, like John Wayne, I would still end up getting the girl and we would become friends. You could be affiliated with the IRA but you do not appear to be a Fenian to me so I will take my chances. I would like to see this on a shirt though. If you do actually do any type of iron on shirt I would like to wear one as well. It can be free advertising for you. In other news, I look forward to meeting you in a setting where we will not engage in a drunken brawl a la the aforementioned “Quiet Man.”
Only way the Tater Tot is making it all the way across the countryside is if he runs — I’m not chasing the little bastard. We may become friends after I drive him into the ground like a tent peg, though.
Ulp. Okay. Scars be here:
http://ajhayes2.wordpress.com/
[…] F. Holm, A.J. Hayes, Naomi Johnson, Chris La Tray, Ellen Neuborne, Steve Weddle, and especially Dan O’Shea, who instigated the challenge in the first place (there was also one anonymous entry). I […]
[…] is another piece of flash fiction. This one is part of The Hilary Davidson Flash Fiction Initiative, as launched once again by Mr. Dan O’Shea. Here’s the setup from his blog: So a little […]