[Cont.]
Suddenly there is a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it,” I say. “You go sit down and enjoy your sudoku puzzle.”
“Enjoy is not quite the right word,” Toshiro grunts.
The knocking is insistent and becomes banging, as I wait for my colleague Toshiro to walk back to his desk and sit down before I unlatch the lock.
Now I open the door, “Sorry, the bolt was jammed,” I lie. “My name’s Doctor Bryan, how can we help you?” I extend my hand expecting a kiss.
On the other side of the door is a large, muscular man who clutches and shakes my hand firmly. “Doctor Bryan, we have already met; I’m your bay stallion Mukhorty. I’m here for a gut transplant.”
“Mukhorty, my horse?” I am shocked. “But you’re a human male now — a muscular man with a very firm handshake… or hoof-shake, rather. You seem gruff and potentially violent, not at all good-natured anymore. What in the world happened to you? How did we lose touch for so long that you have changed your whole way of life? Come in, come in — we must sit down and catch up on old times.”
I motion for Mukhorty to have a seat.
“You got anything to drink?” sez the humanoid Mukhorty
“Yes, yes, of course — we have absinthe, vodka, cognac…”
“I’ll take a classic martini,” sez the muscleman, “with gin.” Then, when I hand it to him, he sez: “Thank you so much.”
I wait for him to tip back and drain the cocktail glass. Then I ask: “So…?”
“Oh, yes: the change in species,” sez Mukhorty; “let me explain. What happened is that you fed me human foodstuffs — pork intestines, in fact — and I gobbled them up, because I was hungry after our trip. Now, you’ve heard that saying ‘You are what you eat’: therefore I’m here to get a gut transplant, because if you fill my belly with OATS then I will transmogrify back into a medium-sized bay stallion. It’s as simple as that.”
I turn and yell to my colleague Toshiro: “Are you overhearing all this? Do you think you can put down your sudoku puzzle for a moment and help me do a standard gut transplant? Maybe change out the lungs and then braid the tail?”
“Fine, fine,” Doctor Toshiro grunts and begins to labor up from where he was mumbling.
“Lie down on the operating table,” I motion gracefully toward the stone slab that looks like the grave of Doctor Frankenstein.
“Ooh, this is comfy,” Mukhorty the muscleman shimmies and smiles.
I place something that looks like a plunger or extra-large suction cup that is connected to an accordion tube over the face of my former horse Mukhorty, who has recently devolved into a human male, and I shout: “Breathe deeply: this is some fragrant-smelling aromatherapy gas to help you sleep.” (Additionally I press the button labeled “Play” on the seashell-shaped white-noise machine, which then emits the sound of what are intended to be gentle waves lapping the shore, until the audio-cassette reaches the end of its spool, whereupon the tape auto-flips to Side B, and, after a short pause and a loud mechanical click, resumes the soothing beach-themed program.)
Soon Mukhorty-Man is snoring. I remove the suction plunger and fetch my samurai sword. Doctor Toshiro grabs his sword as well, and we stand on opposite sides of the sleeping humanoid, brandishing our weapons overhead. Then, after a three-count, we slice down onto the belly of the ex-beast, and the stomach opens to reveal a bunch of guts.
“Those must be the pork intestines that I fed my trusty steed which debased his exoskeleton,” I whisper to Doctor Toshiro.
“Alright, so what do we do now?” Doctor Toshiro stands poised with a questioning look, still holding his sword.
“We do a gut-swap,” I explain. “Make a transfer — put oats in their place. You know the drill.”
So my colleague Doctor Toshiro heads out to the marketplace and buys two baskets of oats from a sweet-natured salesgirl. Then he balances these baskets on his head while he walks on foot back to our medical clinic in Antarctica.
“I’m ba-a-ack!” roars Toshiro, kicking the door in like a pro.
“Did you get the oats?” I say, greedily rubbing my hands together.
“Yes, right here,” Doctor Toshiro reaches up and removes both baskets from the top of his head, while grunting and grumbling.
“Whoa, you got the GOOD kind,” I say, running my hands thru the oats like they are a treasure of sparkling gems. I bring a handful up to my face and sniff deeply. This makes me sneeze. Then I stick out my tongue and lap up a few oats and chew them. I make a sour face like an infant who has eaten something unsavory, and I spit the oats. “Ick! No flavor!” I shout, and I spit many more times. — So I pour some olive oil in a pan with some salt and pepper and a little hot fat, and I add about four or five of the individual grains of oat and sauté them briefly over high heat; then I taste a sampling and say: “Mmm, much better. — Here, try one,” I offer my colleague Doctor Toshiro the last grain of sautéed oat; and he chews it for several moments while growling. Now, when I make the face that means “How do you like my meal?” Toshiro swallows and sez: “I think I burnt my tongue.” I stare at him blankly until he shrugs. Then I clean away all the cooking utensils and fold up the table. “Alright,” I clap my hands, “now come and help me perform the trade-off.”
Doctor Toshiro holds aside the flaps of the human Mukhorty’s slashed-open belly, while I use a garden spade to dig out all the pork guts. Then I heft one of the baskets of oats over to the operating table and tip it precariously, in an attempt to pour its contents into the void of Mukhorty’s midsection. Much of the oats spill over the sides and onto the ground, but some of them make it into the corpse. Then I go and lift the other basket overhead and balance it just like I saw my colleague Toshiro do earlier; and when I’m near the open body, I dump it in. This second helping goes much smoother — almost the entirety of its oats land within the cadaver, rather than on my loafers and the marble flooring.
“Let’s sew him up,” I say.
So we use fine white lace, which is also very strong, to seal up the belly of Mukhorty like it’s some sort of corset.
“Not too tight,” I say.
Then I make another martini for my patient and hold the rim of the glass to his lips while lightly slapping his cheek and saying, “Wake up and drink, old friend!”
Doctor Toshiro takes yet another break from his sudoku puzzle to help me haul the still-comatose bulk of our humanoid subject out to the horse barn. We set him carefully upon the manure-covered floor. Even tho Mukhorty is still a large, muscular, adult human male, we muzzle his face and tie him up to the hitching rail, anticipating that he’ll eventually return to equine form, now that he’s got a bellyful of horse-feed. Then we return back inside and watch the movie Stroszek (1977).*
[* This has little or no relation to inter-species transitioning; I mention the title only because it truly is the film that we happened to screen on this occasion.]
After Mukhorty’s body realizes that its digestive system is no longer clogged with human sustenance (in this case, chitterlings) but rather heart-healthy Quaker-brand oats, his horseflesh re-transforms into beast-mode.
I awake the next morning and go outside to smoke a cigarette, and I am greeted by a loud, resonant neighing from the stable. I run in to look:
“Mukhorty!” I shout. “My bambino! You’re a stallion again!” I run to give him a hug and a kiss, and, as I approach, my equine friend playfully juts out his left forehoof — this demonstrates that animals possess compassionate intelligence: for, if he had wanted to, he could’ve seriously injured me — but his hoof only gently brushes my lab coat and leaves a streak.
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