The Source

He sat in the doctor’s waiting room with his finger in his ear. Digging like a gold miner, he was trying to touch his brain. Malnourished pubes clung to his face in clumps and gave his face insufficient protection from the viciousness of the air-conditioning. A sick and dying elderly woman stared at him with hateful scorn, but he dismissed this as jealousy. He squeezed a barely audible fart out of his arsehole and stared back at the old woman with a look that told her that he knew that she knew that he had farted but by staring at her incessantly everyone else would think she had done it. The elderly were notorious for having poor control of everything that chose to expel itself from their bodies. He winked at her. Next! said a voice in the corner. It was the doctor. This confused him because how were they supposed to know who was next? The elderly woman began to stand up and that was when he took the opportunity to fuck her over one more time. I think that’s me! he said and barged passed her. She was half way to standing up, hands supporting her body weight on the seat. The smell of him passing hit her like a giant fist to her senses and permanently fucked what was left of her ears, nose and throat. The doctor led him to his office.
We have the results from your recent tests, said the doctor.
Oh, excellent, he said and the doctor opened up an envelope that was on his desk. A skeleton sat in the corner, supported by a metal pole and he wondered what the fuck the doctor could possibly use it for. Dance practice? Some sort of necrophilic bullshit that he performed after hours or between patients. None of it made sense. Oh no, said the doctor.
What? he said.
These aren’t good at all.
What do you mean?
Well, by looking at these results…actually do you want to reschedule this? Maybe you would like a family member present, said the doctor.
Just give it to me, doc.
Are you sure? said the doctor and none of it had hit home yet. What could the doctor possibly tell him that he didn’t already know? He was fat? So fucking what? His testosterone levels were lower than a bull dyke’s? Eat me out. He had heard it all before and if he was truly honest with himself, no one to date had been able to verify any of these claims. Just fucking tell me, he said with the impatience of a thirty-five year old woman who is still single and living with her parents but is desperate to have a baby by any means possible.
It’s not good.
You’re dying, said the doctor.
No, it’s true.
Do you have a source for that?
Excuse me?
Do you have a source?
For what?
Do you know it’s rude to answer a question with a question you fucking quack?
What do you mean by a source?
I don’t have a source.
Well, that’s the end of that then.
You’re dying. You’ve got three to nine weeks left, tops, said the doctor.
Without a source, your claims are meaningless.
I’m a doctor.
Yes, but do you have a degree in death?
What the fuck?
Well, what you’ve just told me is unverifiable and therefore I will not be taking it onboard.
You have multiple tumors throughout your body, said the doctor.
And do you have a source for this?
The report handed to me by the radiologist.
And has that source been peer reviewed?
What does that even mean?
Listen here, son. You don’t have much longer to live. I suggest you go out and enjoy what time you have left, said the doctor and he stood up.
This has been a complete waste of time, he said.
Your denial is understandable. It’s a tough pill to swallow, said the doctor.
I feel like I’ve been to a fucking fortune teller, he said.
Correlation does not amount to causation and everything you have said to me today has been provided without a source. I have no choice but to dismiss your comments as hateful and request politely that you go fuck yourself.
Get out, said the doctor.
Good day, he said and left with the taste of victory in his mouth. Be damned if he was going to accept opinions as fact and on face value alone. The elderly woman was still seated in the same place she had been when he went into the doctor’s office. You are rude, she said to him.
Excuse me?
You, fat guy. You’re rude, she said.
Do you have a source for that?
A source?
Yes, do you have a source?
You farted on me. You pushed in and saw the doctor before I did.
None of this can be substantiated. Do you have video footage? A peer reviewed third party account of these accusations? he said.
Whatever. You’ll be dead soon, she said.
You are the second motherfucker today that has made this UNVERIFIABLE claim that I am dying without a GODDAMN SOURCE, he said and the patience for retarded utterances that he so prided himself on was fast becoming like the transparent nighty his mother had had for fifty years and still wore to this day.
I speak to Death every night. He’s not ready for me, but he’s sure as shit ready for you, she said.
Well, if you cannot provide me with a source for that I’m leaving, he said and he headed for the door because there was no way the old woman could possibly produce a peer reviewed statement from Death that detailed his apparent demise. With his hand on the door knob he considered turning around and telling everyone to go fuck themselves but the overwhelming burning pain in his arsehole prevented anything from coming out of his mouth other than a yelp. HERE’S YOUR SOURCE, BITCH! said the old woman as she drove the knife a second time into his anus.
That’s not a source, he said as he fell to floor. The seat of his pants becoming like the evening redness in the west.
I think it’s answered all our questions, said the old woman.
None of this is peer reviewed, he said as he lost consciousness. The old woman and the other patients stood around him wondering whether he had a source that could prove this.

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