John Goss

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Big Daddy Has A Vision Upgrade in Bangkok
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POP!

"Gawddangit," Big Daddy belches out along with unwelcome reminders of the Durianburger he'd had at lunch, "I can't stand the smell of burning flesh."

Doctor Doctor Ghee-ghee licks a shaky finger and folds back the moist flap of Big Daddy's eyeball, spritzing more Visocaine up his own nose with his other hand, admiring the piss-perfect work of his hot-rod mercury-vapor laser.

"Geng Geng, Nurt Nurt," the good doctor manages to slur as he pats his ancient, Tangerine i-Mac, long gone black with some tropical fungi that co-exists contentedly with his surgical instruments. He quickly readjusts his equipment over Big Daddy's other, bloodshot eye.

"Doc, you sure it's safe to do them both on the same day?" Big Daddy frets.

Doctor Doctor Ghee-ghee sits back in deep non-thought while Nurse Nurse gently lowers a glowing nipple onto surface of the eye, suctions up the outer layer of cells, and slices. Big Daddy's naked cornea squirms like a peeled, albino grape in a Lemon Jell-O side dish at a potluck orgasm.

"Quit wiggle so much," Doctor Doctor Ghee-ghee pipes down from his cloud.

POP! Another smoke-ring of annihilated eye-cells tangos into their nostrils.

"This what friend are for..." sings the doctor from the imaginary karaoke screen in his brain.

"Feels like sand whenever I blink," Big Daddy curses. Through his watery, anesthetized eyeballs, everything in the crowded street market around the surgery stall has melted into blurs of neon lime and halos of siren cherry.

"No touch one week, na krap!" Doctor Doctor Ghee-ghee intones somewhat authoritatively as he presses the half-emptied Visocaine canister into Big Daddy's sweaty, tattooed palm, slapping the obese patient's crotch playfully.

"Ess, Nootch, Tip, Dang!" Big Daddy barks to summon his boys to bare him back to Goldfinger, to that comforting go-go darkness of infamy, where he intends to spend his convalescence. And he dues mean spend.

Doctor Doctor Ghee-ghee helps himself to a big tip from Big Daddy's fat wad of baht.

Already, Big Daddy can make out rudimentary reality-overlays radiating hermaphrodelically from the quick-rooting implants.

"Doc-doc, yer a jig-nee-us," he burps in awe.

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