Sunday, October 30, 2011

The Terrifying Tale of the Gimp Toe

(IMPORTANT NOTE: what you are about to read was not based on a true story. It was INSPIRED by a true story. I really did hurt my toe this weekend and had to go see two doctors about it. BUT IT DEFINITELY DID NOT GO DOWN LIKE THIS)

Everyone who reads this was either there when this story happened, or has probably heard the story already.

Thus, in the spirit of Halloween, I am going to take some (serious, serious) artistic license here and recount to you all: THE TERRIFYING TALE OF...

THE GIMP TOE

Let the absurdly overdramatic, wildly exaggerated, terribly written, purple prose commence...

~~

It was a night like any other night. Dark. Dangerous. And full of doors. At the time, I was unaware of what horrors lurked literally three feet from my face. If I had known then what I know now...I might not have smashed myself directly into that door with as terrifying a force as I did.

Maybe. I actually have no idea.

The door was as tall as a 7 foot door. That is, it was 7 feet tall, and also a door. And it demolished my toe. The pain was incomprehensible, the thoughts rushing through my head with such speeds that I could only catch fragments of the pain, broken sentences colliding with the walls of my mind like that one dog who sleep-ran into that wall. Like in that Youtube video. On the internet.

why did this even

this is the opposite of what I wanted

ow

I stood back, staggered, and beheld the state of my toe. It was a mangled, mishapen mess of skin, in my mind. In reality, my toe appeared no more harmed than as if it were a fly shaken gently by a 7 foot tall door-shaped gust of wind. The site of impact, the left side of the toe, throbbed angrily, but seemed to be more or less "dealing with it", as they say.

I thought nothing more of it.

I was so foolish back then...

Days passed, a week came and went, and just like that one movie about that video tape and the tv and the well and the dead girl in that well and also the tv again in case I left it out...seven days later, something happened.

When I woke up that morning from unsettling dreams, I found my toe changed in my sock into a monstrous wound.

Screw you, toe. Why you gotta be like that. I thought we were pals and then you go and do this.

Panic-gripped, I flew forward from my bed. Rushed into the bathroom, fumbling with the door handle until I got it locked. Gasping for breath, I looked down at the toe once more.

It was bad. And it looked hungry, the kind of look you get from not eating for a while.

What do you want, toe? Go away. Seriously, get out.

The toe didn't answer. Not knowing that toes don't usually respond to verbal threats, I foolishly assumed that was the end of it. The gimp toe would heed my warnings and get out.

If my actions following this incident are ever examined as evidence in the final trial against mankind, God help us all.

I continued to go about my daily life, feigning normality during the day, creeping back to appease the growing problem that was my toe by night.

After three days, things got serious. Seriously wack.

My gimp toe had become self aware. Now a sentient being, it had only one mission: to spread it's gimpness across the land, turning everything in it's wake into seriously gimp shit. It was then that I knew this monstrosity needed to be stopped. It was invincible to peroxide now. I was going to need a bigger gun.

Figuratively. Maybe figuratively.

And so in secret, I organized a trip to the urgent care center. Unbeknownst to my toe, this was not a trip I had taken "just because I felt like it" as I had initially lied. This was Operation Stop-Being-Gimpy-Seriously-You-Suck. I was getting rid of this problem, no matter the cost.

The doctor walked in. I froze--the Gimp Toe knew. I had to act fast. Before the doctor could speak, I ripped of the bandage covering the monstrosity that was Gimp Toe and shouted "KILL IT. KILL IT FOR GOD'S SAKE. KILL IT WITH FIRE."

The doctor paused for a moment. Then nodded. Understood. He left the room in search of an approriate weapon with which to defeat Gimp Toe.

I was left alone.

Waiting.

Time moved slower than the speed of a really fat dog who doesn't like walking and does everything in it's power to avoid doing so, even if you drop a steak in front of it, it's just like meh.

Seconds felt like minutes. Minutes, like hours. Hours were also disproportionately slow in comparison to their usual passage. Finally the door opened.

The doctor walked in. In his hand, the ultimate weapon. Silver Nitrate.

I could feel it in my mind, Gimp Toe's anxiety. Its fear. In all my time with Gimp Toe, I had never known it to express such a fear. It knew what was going to happen. And it was powerless to stop it. I grit my teeth as the magic of chemistry went to work against Gimp Toe. The searing of flesh, nerves firing in every direction, screaming for relief, an urgency indescribable, except I just described it, so it was an urgency kinda describable.

Gimp Toe's life force flickered dangerously like the guttering of a candle. I knew it would be over soon.

Too soon. The searing stopped. I opened my eyes. The doctor was walking away, seemingly satisfied with the amount of damage dealt to Gimp Toe. He thought he was done. Fool!

No. Wait. That was too easy. Where are you going? This isn't over!

I realized too late that shouting these words in my head was the opposite of what I should have done. The doctor was not a mind reader, or if he was, he was being a jerk about it. Regardless, I had suffered with Gimp Toe long enough to know that, though gravely injured, it was far from finished. A black shadow crept over my heart. The end was nigh.

Solemnly and without hope, I hobbled home. I could feel it in my mind, a foreign, swelling victory that was not my own. Gimp Toe had been victorious. And I...

I had failed.

The rest of the day wandered on. The terrible realization that I had doomed humanity to a fate of eternal Gimp was like that same really lazy fat dog, sitting on my shoulders, being fat, being lazy. It was impossible to carry this burden. But it was mine to bear. I had caused all of this. And for what?

My pride.


A night of fitful rest passed. I awoke the next morning. Slowly. Cautious. A dull clinging hope hanging in the air that maybe it had all been a dream. I stole a glance at Gimp Toe.


Still alive.


That was it. That was the end. There was nothing else that could be done. Unless...

It was only a legend. Tales told in the dead of night. Stories of urgent care clinics that stay open on Sundays. Everyone knew it was a myth. The greatest things are always closed on Sundays. Like Chick-fil-A.

Screw you Chik-fil-A. Why you gotta be closed on Sundays?

But that was all it took. That hope, small and meager, flourished to terrifying life at this prospect of one more chance. A chance to deal the final blow to Gimp Toe. It was now or never. I packed a bag, only the essentials.

I set out to find the elusive urgent care clinic open on Sundays.

For what felt like hours, I searched. Far and wide. Near and narrow. Low and high. Left and right. Forward and backward. Diagonal and also diagonal, in the other direction.

If there were more directions, I would have searched them too. But I didn't need to. I had found it.

The urgent care clinic.

Open on Sundays.

My last chance.

Let's do this.

I walked in, a dramatic air about me. The room fell silent. Or, it was already silent, and I just walked into it. Nothing happened for a moment because I just stood there.

Finally, I walked through the automatic doors and into the waiting room. Except I wasn't here to wait. I was here to do the opposite of wait. I was here to act.

I acted brave. I acted fearless. But I was lying to myself. Gimp Toe would not be fooled again. We both knew where we were, what was supposed to happen. We were both here to win. But like the Highlander, there can only be one.

I walked into the examination room.

The room was small, the stale smell of sterilized air clung deep in my nostrils. I sneezed. The force of it sent my leg out in an reflexive kick, and in that moment I caught a glimpse of Gimp Toe once more.

It looked like it wanted to punch me in the face. I think it actually might have, if it weren't for what happened next.

The Sunday clinic doctor rushed into the room. The tension was palpable, thick and heavy around me, as Gimp Toe waged a mental battle against the doctor. After a moment, I spoke up.

"The last doctor I saw tried to kill it with fire. He failed. I don't know what else to do..."

A pause. A beat.

Then, "We stab it in the face with a freakin needle-straw and rip it out."

Well shit.

What could I do? There was no other option than this. Bleed or die. I nodded mutely in agreement, and the doctor vanished to prepare.

I steeled myself. Time once more did that weird slow thing. I thought about the events that had led me to this moment. I thought about the kind of person I was slowly starting to become. I thought about an ultimate cheeseburger and how I really wish I had one.

SNAP. Back to reality. The doctor returned, wielding a sharp instrument, undoubtedly the freakin needle-straw. I gasped for breath and braced myself.

The needle plunged. Metal pushing through skin. Blood welled up in protest. Once. Twice. A pause.

"Is that all?" I asked weakly. The doctor nodded. Told me to wait 10 minutes for the freakin needle-straw to take effect.

Waiting. More waiting.

I briefly wondered why this was playing out so smoothly.

I was an idiot.

A blur, or a flash, some indescribable muffle over my senses, and BAM, I shot up. Dizzy. Going to pass out. I leaned back to succumb to sleep and

No. Not going to pass out. Going to puke on everything.

I didn't puke on everything. I just puked on myself. I knew what this was: Gimp Toe's last attempt to destroy me. An ironic twist, I thought, to use my own body against me. But Gimp Toe underestimated me.

And I had overestimated the freakin needle-straw. Sunday doctor came back. The needle hadn't taken effect.

Shit.

In one last effort, the needle shot Gimp Toe once more, like in the movies where the main character dies and everyone keeps saying "nah man he's gone", but that one guy is like "no no way dude he's totally not gone" and he keeps using the defibrilator until the main character suddenly comes back to life all dramatic and that one guy is like "I knew it man I knew it you can't die man you're a hero" and everyone applauds and some people cry and then the movie ends.

It was like that except we were trying to kill Gimp Toe.

This time the needle worked. Gimp Toe was knocked unconscious, and it was time.

Freakin gnarly death time with scissors and tweezers.

There was pain. There was no pain. It was a transient feeling that didn't quite exist. I realized then that it was Gimp Toe, finally dying. Finally...

It was over. Sunday doctor said something afterward, but I could only nod deafly, still in shock.

I had won. Gimp Toe was dead.

But was it really?

We covered the resulting wound with a bandage. It's been two days since the battle.

...I still haven't looked under the bandage...


~~
Right now I'm pretty sure you're all looking at your computer screens like
Photobucket

If you're wondering what the hell you just read, don't worry. I'm wondering what the hell I just wrote.

What! It's almost Halloween and I don't plan on doing anything special for Halloween, so! I took a real life event and bastardized it into a campy horror story.

What have YOU done for Halloween?!

(PS: If you were actually entertained by this story, I highly suggest you pick up a copy of John Dies at the End. It's a comedic horror novel that's written a lot like this, except, you know, better. To give you an idea of what kind of story it is, let me just say that a sentient gimp toe bent on world destruction would not be out of place in it!)

(PPS: This little story is about 2000 words, which is around the same number of words I'll need to write a day for NaNoWriMo ;;;)

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