«Apparatbedienung schloroformdämme rungsendfieberge spensterherr schaftsirrtumsjenseits krisenlähmung mißverständnisni chtungsoperationspanik quadraturenredestaubtä uschungsüber fallverrenkungswüs tenxmalypsilontenzeit«is just one possible diagnosis, though the other Doctor Tweiß (as they’re spelling it scharfed), as always, is inclined to disagree, pronounces it an» Anfangsbeiläufigkeit schemikaliendurs texistenzfurchtger innungshöllenirrs innsjämmerlich keitskrampfleidenmie nennormalität sopferpuppenqüt schungrandschicks alstraumübers teigerungsverbotswahn xbeliebigkeitsypsilotiezeit«boosts a book from the shelf not to consult, rather to set it under his sit. The former Head Psychoanalyst and Plastician to the nation, they’ve been stripped of their positions, laid naked under the dotted eyes of headlines (Mayor Meyer only acting on orders of, a favor asked by Shade who doesn’t do begging); they’re kissed off in miser fashion — with severance of either a few grand each, or a limb, it’s up to them — and soon find themselves without business, referralless as the Garden falls further from favor; smacked with suits, too, they’re being sued by anyone with a lawyer for an inlaw — that is, when they’re not formulating these absurd diagnoses for Die who, named in these suits civil and criminal both as an accessory, often as codefendant, three weeks before the anniversary of Xmas, two days late on the rent how he sells their offices out from under them, effectively banishing them to the burbs, without their receptionist, equipment, or files. They laze their days at home, then, faddishly nude atop their exercisemats on mornings when they do their calisthenics (magically Persian flyingcarpets when they’re high nights), over brunch following forging themselves prescriptions for drugs not yet invented: an insurance pill, an employment pill, a pill for debt reduction, utility assistance, you name, we’ll script it, whatever mishmashed medicament; talking over the paper every morning delivering reports just getting worse: all Unaffliated doctors are required to register at once with a new licensing committee (retesting), are forbidden from treating the Affiliated as of yesterday, have to stop in at an office and get themselves a routine shot, don’t ask, it’s all for your own good…how we promise, swear on our ethics and oaths — and then, buried in the backpages next to the classifieds they’ve been circling like buzzards (cash for gold; baggage handlers wanted, will train, shomer Shabbos req.), the casualties on all counts: “Sergei Shloshimvasheshky, 36, of Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, was found dead yesterday in the East River. The cause of death is undetermined. Though relatives report that Reb Shloshimvasheshky had been despondent of late, police have not yet ruled out murder. ‘Having received no reports of anyone falling from any of our city’s bridges, which are under constant surveillance, I would hesitate to call this a suicide,’ said District Attorney E. Falsch Goldenberg at the City Hall press conference.” (Mayor Meyer standing behind him, on the dais, the altar of the rotunda, his hands on his shoulders, squeezing) do you hear this, are you listening, “At the time of his death, Reb Shloshimvasheshky was on leave without pay from Garden, Inc., having acted in the capacity of bodydouble for May His Name Remain Withheld for All Eternity, present whereabouts unknown. Reb Shloshimvasheshky is survived by his wife, Feyge-Kelly, and a daughter, TovaKristina, currently of Angels, Calif.” I told you, I so told you. “A member of Metropolitan Gestapo speaking on condition of anonymity has confirmed that this is the twelfth body to have been found in the East River and in Resistance subway tunnels during routine sweeps in the last moon alone, the victims all said to have been employed at various times by Garden, Inc., as doubles to the Unmentionable. Due to mutilation, however, the other eleven victims remain unidentified. The DA’s office awaits the results of a dental analysis…” and yadda and blah, the continual teethchatter — performed by anyone but the poor Doctors Tweiss, not quite forensic odontologists more like fake DDS’ though they need the work, God, by now they’ll take anything they can get: sinking gumlined and deeper into their dust habits, two grand per day’s what it kills them to get the stuff flown in from a supplier in Sephard, its corridor chaining through Palestein where — will you listen to this? “according to Reb Goldenberg, Esq., ‘unfortunately, it’s still too early to tell whether or not May His Name Fall from Your Mouth Like Teeth is among the dead…’” and, anyone with any information regarding anything is hereby urged to ponder the hassle involved with it all — now, we’ll open the floor up to questions…please, mind you don’t fall in.
