Tagged: drugs

Arriba, Arriba

Dear Planet Earth,

If I didn’t feel like enough of a baby-like invalid before, learning how to walk definitely sealed the deal.

I started my physical therapy today with Dr. Brooke, who as it turns out, isn’t even a doctor. No joke, he dropped out of medical school halfway through to start a chain of Mexican restaurants with his brother. But that’s a rant for another day.

He’s had me walking up and down the hallway for the past five hours. I’d tell you that I’m moving at a snail’s pace, but that would be offensive to decent snails everywhere. However, my unfathomably slow gait still makes me feel like I’m running a marathon. With pins in my leg. With Tabasco sauce marinating those pins.

To make matters worse, they’re cutting back on my painkillers now, too. If only I could summon some of that adrenaline from yesterday, I know I’d be the unholy love child of Usain Bolt and Speedy Gonzales.



Dear Planet Earth,

I changed the layout of the blog, and after turning over on my right side, watching static on the TV, and counting all the water stains in the ceiling, the only thing left to do today is to write about something.

I’m in a lull here, a stagnant void that could easily make me forget that the mole people are out there, intent on killing me and the rest of humanity. I need to keep my brain active. I need to use this time for something more productive than just scoring free drugs and waging war on orphan children. It would be good to lay out the facts, to remind me and anyone else willing to listen what the hell has happened to the world we once knew.

I’m working on a timeline now of everything that’s led to this moment. I’m going to need a minute or two.


The Skillful Skull-Swiper

Dear Planet Earth,

It seems my painkiller bender is over. The swelling’s gone down considerably and now only hurts as much as listening to Justin Bieber sing a duet with a pack of geriatric cats in heat. My insightful wit also seems to have restored.

But drugs or no, a little boy did actually steal my burnt mole man skull. There’s at least a dozen kids running around the hospital at any given time, but Roberts is pretty sure my suspect is the little Hispanic boy they picked up at a looted gas station near a highway off-ramp.

They found him huddled underneath a cash register, covered in spider webs and Cheetoh dust. He’s only said the words “yes” and “no,” which first led everyone to believe he only spoke Spanish; he spoke even less to a translator.

Whoever he is, he stole one of the few material things I have left, and that cannot stand. Unfortunately, I cannot stand yet either.


Dear Planet Earth,

General Talpa wasn’t lying about those drugs. I’ve got enough painkiller flowing through my body right now to satisfy Paris Hilton and Rush Limbaugh combined.

It’s morphine or analgesic or some other weird word you hear thrown around Grey’s Anatomy. That’s right — I’m so high right now, I’m not ashamed to admit I used to watch Grey’s Anatomy.

Shit, I wonder if the mole people killed the whole cast now. I guess I’ll find out soon; if all goes according to plan and a doctor says I’m ship shape enough to walk without a cane, Talpa’ll take me along with his new army to California, where there’s supposedly a growing resistance set up.

Ship shape, ship shape. That’s a weird expression. Is that even an expression?

Okay, blogging time is over. I think I just saw a little boy come in here and steal my skull.

Garden of Eden Redux

Dear Planet Earth,

The troops have been back for a few days now, so I felt a little neglected when General Talpa didn’t show up before. I guess I should be glad he honored me with a visit at all since he’s presumably focused on trying to save our entire civilization from mole people. Of course, that thought didn’t stop me from complaining.

“I was sure you forgot about me.”

He walked to the foot of my bed and inspected an apple in his hands. “How you feeling?”

“Better,” I said. “Much better, actually.”

I tried to sit up straighter in my bed without wincing. Talpa looked me in the eyes — I mean, really looked me in the eyes — and tossed that damn apple right at ground zero of my pulsing, stinging wound.


I don’t know where that came from, but it was enough to make the general flash one of his rare smiles. I quickly wiped away the pools of tears that seemed to have materialized from nowhere.

“You gotta take me with you. I know you’re recruiting civilians now. Take me. It hurts like a bitch, but I can still pull a trigger if you give me a gun.”

“You watch too many war movies,” he said. “All you kids do. Christiansen, Mendoza, Leone, Bitoni. They’re all dead now, you know.” I could hear him release a long exhale. “They were all so eager.”

“I’ve lost too many friends to just sit here and rot while those bastards –”

He raised his hand to cut me off.

“We brought back some more supplies — food, weapons, medicine.” He walked over to my left side, picked up the apple, brushed it off, and put it on the hospital bed tray in front of me.

“Get better, Mr. Panus. And stay eager.”


Dear Planet Earth,

Pain. Blinding, striking, unrelenting pain. It consumes me, taunts me without words, chews on me without teeth.

I’ve heard of pain like this. I’ve heard my grandfather complain of such a feeling in his hands. It followed him all the way into death, forming an image in my mind of an unearthly malady beyond simple arthritis. I feel like that old man. I feel like ten old men.

They gave me drugs — morphine or codeine or some other “ine” — the first few days here at the hospital, but then the supplies became scarce and they decided a kid like me — practically a man — with a single bullet wound didn’t need that much painkiller. So, now I’m the painkiller. And I’m losing.

They left me with 50 cc of painine and the possibility of never walking again. I sound bitter, like an old man, but I don’t know how else to feel. I was shot in the leg by a mole man. I was shot in the leg by a mole man and I can’t think of anything but the tingling, tormenting fire in every inch of my body.