He would help if he would take off the mask over his eyes. He wore it to ward off the evil spirits of poor veterinary online reviews. Especially since he was in the running for the new cable show Bats, Rats, and Witches Hats. With his square-jawed handsome looks, his tall, rugged, chiselled, muscled frame, a head full of kissable auburn hair and veterinary knowledge to boot, he was a shoo-in lead.
Kildardevil had removed his mask and found the green-skinned varmit staring up at him. He was just at the point of squeezing its guts out when Nurse Buttkiss waltzed in. She was a buxom Valkyrie of a woman one inch taller than Kildarevil with a massive ass; a set of tits to kill for, and a slim hourglass figure with wild, wanton blonde hair streaming halfway down her back.
The veterinarian wanted to kiss Buttkiss’ butt, to fall before this goddess of war, admit to her all of his sins and then massively defraud her of everything she owned. Not gonna happen. She was a lover of Ingmar Bergman films, particularly The Seventh Seal, and she was an amphibian-phile.
He would wow TV audiences with his lassoing of patients and his use of branding irons on pet owners who were late in payment. Outdrawing money from bank accounts before anyone could cash his cheques; he would leave this creditor in the dust and ride into the sunset on Trigger, looking for his next grift.
She loved to play with frogs, to feel their thin, moist, delicate, slimy, and permeable, and to allow frogs to breathe, drink, and protect themselves. She loved to breathe on them, to hear their little webbed feet splish-splash squish and their tongues go zip-zap-gotcha! Knowing she could do that to a frog made her feel splish-splash-zip-zip-gotcha all over.
She suffered, though, from Nordic seriousness. Her face is sad and bitter. She opens her eyes and stares directly into the morning sun shining gloriously upon the poetic misty sea, belching up some bloated and dying fish. The sky is grey and immobile, a dome of lead. A cloud hangs mute and dark over the western horizon. High up, barely visible, a seagull floats on motionless wings. Its cry is weird and restless.
“There is a woman named Natasha here to see you about her pet hamster, doctor,” she said matter-of-factly. Her full, sad breasts pushed against her regulation white nursing uniform. She was waiting for the day when, once more, she would be on the battlefield, picking up and taking the glorious dead to Valhalla. Then she noticed the doctor’s hand around the frog, his trigger finger quivering.
“Froggie,” she said, “are you going to kill froggie?” Her tone was lean and mean.
“Of course, not,” said the vet, letting the frog go. He needed to preserve the appearance of being a kind man who loved animals, or else his practice would shrivel to the size of his penis.
“Send in the woman with the hamster.”
