Napoleon had gotten so small he invisible, but given proclivity for sneaky comebacks robots, destroyed all of his old hideouts, i.e., bladder, prostate, adjoining lymph node real estate, und so weiter. Search and destroy strategy, but better than having the dwarf Bonaparte multiply like brooms in Sorcerer’s Apprentice and kick Wahab’s butt into Land of the Dead.
Surgery all well and good, but aftermath not so much fun. Wahab end up stuck in hospital for two weeks while digestive tract revived. No food, no water, holes draining both sides, foot-and-a-half-long pic-line inside main artery in right arm, tube up nose and down through larynx into belly. He like Bionic Man as engineered by insane Slovenians. Insertion of tube “interesting”: Wahab wheeled into elevator and taken down into subterranean catacombs beneath hospital. Weird machines humming, air ice cold, futuristic décor. Wahab expect ultra-modern painless tube insertion; instead, mad doctor with squiggly eyes and Strangelove eyes, without warning, stick angry wolverine up right nostril, shouting “Swallow! Swallow! Swallow!” Human schnoz not designed as wolverine refuge, Wahab quickly decide. Wolverine poked further up beak with thorny tree limb, accompanied by more exhortations; finally wolverine plummet down through throat into lower plumbing, find wolverine den, goes in and falls asleep. Then Wahab fired back up into Overworld, where nurse waiting to inject him with more blood thinner.
Wahab hope someday he forget it all but probably scarred mentally for life. Hospital routine like this. Lie in world’s uncomfortablest bed unable to move because of i.v. tubes, drains, etc. Day go on endlessly while traffic on Highway Five (hospital in Orange County, Calif.) roll endlessly in both direction below, each huge vehicle containing one (1) white Republican male who love Tea Party and think Glenn Beck is profound political philosopher. Periodic entertainment featuring defective i.v. bags that beep like European police cars, visits from nurses who want to make sure Wahab not dozing off or copping zzzzzs, blood tests with dull needle, more blood thinner, repeat one thousand times in average day. It start to get dark, Wahab go into fugue state for seventy kotis of kalpas (Hindu measure of endless cosmic time), then look at clock thinking it must be 4 in the morning; despair when Wahab see it 7:30 p.m. Somewhere people are dining on kung pao chicken, potstickers, Maryland blue crabs and shad roe, paella and Trader Joe’s pumpkin ice cream (only available in October), but doctors decided Wahab sucked on too many ice chips yesterday, so he lose meager privilege and throat feel like nasty old sweat sock left out in Rub al Khali by Wilfred Thesiger in 1920s.
Wahab once read great Central Asian novel called The Nights Here Last 10,000 Years. Enough said. Several times i.v. bags begin beeping and Wahab have to call nurses’ station; nurse comes after reading last hundred pages of Crime and Punishment, turns on interrogation lights in ceiling, pokes bag so beeping stops, then goes out forgetting to turn lights off again. By 5 a.m., Wahab looking like 100-year-old stuffed owl with migraine; he almost fall asleep, so team of interns burst in, turn on accursed lights again, ask rote questions, rub chins feigning wisdom, then go out, leaving lights on, of course.
Chance of sleep vanish like fantasies of food. This go on for two solid weeks, to point where Wahab think maybe Napoleon fortunate in becoming extinct….
When damnable treasonous guts signal they working again by emitting surreally smelly gas explosions that peel paint off walls, doctors reward Wahab with bowl of Jello and cup of fruit juice. Wahab ask if he can go home now; ho ho ho, doctors laugh, no, Wahab must conjure up excrement first.
How? ask Wahab, who hasn’t eaten in 12 days, so where hypothetical poop supposed to come from? Doctors say not their problem, they not ones imprisoned in Hell Bed festooned with tubes et cetera, half of insides scrapped and looking ridiculous.
Only time in life when Wahab offer to sell soul to Devil for one small spheroid of hooha. When miracle finally happen, Jello replaced by six grams of worst fajitas ever made, from hospital cafeteria; Wahab decide MREs he ate in Baghdad not half-bad in comparison.
On thirteenth day doctors grudgingly sign habeas corpus papers releasing Wahab from bondage and retreat to MDs Lounge, where they watch 100 Days of Sodom on VCR.
Finally liberated, Wahab spirited away to mother-in-law’s house in Laguna, where he devour kilo of carryout Chinese food and six bowls of ice cream, washed down with case of Diet Coke. (Ha ha ha, researchers in NY Times say cyclamate not cause bladder cancer after all, even when lab rats get equiv. of 80,000 cans of diet soda a day.) Watch football on TV and more joy when NY Jets and Dallas Cowboys both tank in big games. Now if only mystery virus appear that attack only owners of hundred-foot-long recreation vehicles, “birthers” and moth-breathing knuckle-dragging fundamentalist Xians who ironically prove man descended from apes.
Speaking of germ-like entities, next step is to annihilate Hitlertitis in liver, and finally surgery on knee, which self-destruct when Wahab run like demented idiot up and down sand dunes with Tibetan pal Lama Sonam after daughter’s wedding in Half Moon Bay. With luck, Kabul before end of 2012, and chance to wreak vengeance on blood-feud enemies, but for time being prospect of return to Telluride in time for Indian summer = boundless happiness.