Part XLVI: Neither Scab Nor Scar

Harry Guakomoli was yanked away from The Pink by his ringing phone. His ring tone, "Big Pimpin'" by Jay-Z, alerted our hero that Yvette was calling him.

"Fick mich, dies besser mir gut," The Guak cursed.

He fumbled in the dark looking for his phone.

"Was ist das?" our hero barked into the phone.

"What?" a woman asked in a tone as equally as harsh. "Put The Guak on, motherfucker."

"This is he," our hero replied, switching from his newly discovered knowledge of the German tongue to his native English.

"Are you busy?" Yvette asked. "Can you pick me up in an hour?"

"I don't have a car," responded The Guak.

"Ugh. What grown ass man don't own a car? You can drive mine. Meet me in front of the shop in an hour?"

The shop the mocha-toned beauty was referring to was Miss Yvonne's Psychic Readings, an ESP parlor fallen on hard times since Yvette's mother, Miss Yvonne, began exhibiting bizarre behavior possibly related to The Guak or his family.

Our hero was groggy and incredibly sleepy, but getting in Yvette's good graces could convince her to help him get answers from Yvonne. Plus The Guak always had difficulty saying "no" to a foxy lady.

"Are you still there?" questioned Yvette. "Can you meet me?"

"Yeah," responded The Guak in the affirmative. "What's this about?"

"I'll explain when you get here. And don't dress like a complete slob."

The chocolate-colored honey ended the call abruptly, leaving our hero laying in the silence and complete darkness of his room. He turned on the lamp on the night stand. The Guak squinted until his eyes adjusted to the light. He stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. He gazed into the mirror, staring at the man staring back at him. The Guak was specifically looking over the bandages that dotted his face and neck. Bandages that covered the wounds he had sustained a few days prior during his tussle with the bald acolytes of "The Death Matriarch" (whoever the fuck that was!). He couldn't show up with his face looking like that. Our hero wished the wounds under the bandages weren't open and oozing. He peeled the large bandage affixed to his neck and hoped the bite he received didn't cause it to fester. Much to his surprise, not only was his neck wound not seeping blood and pus, but it was no longer there! There was even nary a scar to be found!

"That's...fucked up," our hero muttered.

It was fucked up. For as long as The Guak could remember he recovered from injuries much faster than the average man. Quicker than any man really. But this...this was something else. That there was no reminder, be it scar or scab, of mixing it up with that bald chick. It was incredibly weird.

"Wow. That's fucking cool."

This story's protagonist was right once more. The entire situation was fucked up but in the coolest way possible. He removed the rest of the bandages to discover the results were the same. It was as if his fight with those bald bastards never happened.

The Guak spent so much time with the bandages he only enough time to shave or shower but not both. He was smelling a bit ripe so the four days' worth of stubble he had acquired would have to stay put. Our hero washed himself quickly and changed into jeans he bought at the second hand store as well as a gray t-shirt with a frog and, in the green letters, the phrase "I'm so happy I could just shit." He covered up the tee with a dark brown button-up shirt (made of both cotton and polyester for those of you who care for such things). He left it untucked and the top two buttons undone, as well as the shirt cuffs, as was his style. And of course the ensemble was completed with a pair of shit kickers.

With about fifteen minutes to spare our hero left the Resplendent Auberge. Since arriving at the glorified flophouse he had fallen asleep by eleven o'clock at night, so he had not seen the surroundings of the transient hotel/hot spot of money-for-sex get togethers at two in the morning. Whereas there were only a handful of prostitutes offering their flesh in exchange for cash (how many hookers can one have in one's hand? this narrator wonders), now there were dozens. The ladies of the night were everywhere, as were peddlers of illegal substances. And none of these entrepreneurs of sin and vice made attempts at hiding their wares and services.The blood of our hero began to boil. He was making an effort to ignore his past endeavors as a vigilante crime fighter/ass kicker, but these blatant displays were hard to overlook.

Fearing the walk to Miss Yvonne's Psychic Readings would be interrupted by some impromptu cracking of skulls, The Guak opted to hail a cab.