The whole village reeked of fish guts and this hut, while appearing clean, was no different as far as Dr. Archibald Holyrood could smell. He squinted and twisted his face as if he could voluntarily close his nostrils, thinking of tiny airborne microbes of ichthyo-entrails floating everywhere. He really shouldn't have worn his new loafers, but he didn't pack any other shoes. He could throw away the clothes when he got back to the hotel, but he knew the loafers would still carry the stench. Too bad the Japanese had such awful taste in footwear. He could buy a new pair when he got back to Tokyo, but they wouldn't be as nice. Only for this prospect would he venture out to this godforsaken, moldy fishing village.

Having been shown into the room finally, after far too many pleasantries and idiotic politenesses, as if someone like him should have to beg entrance to a hovel and flatter the hosts, he searched the one room for the object of his journey. A few bowls, a few mats, a low table, a water pitcher. These people took minimal living to the extreme.

The translator was still yammering to Papa Bodyodorsan. Dr. Holyrood hoped they were reaching the transaction portion of this little cultural gathering. He kept his peripheral vision on the translator so that when he looked to the Dr., he could look sincere and compassionate and nod once or twice. All he wanted to know was the price. These Japanese couldn't get rid of their daughters fast enough�and he planned to buy one of those when they were done here�but the sons were trickier.

A boy stepped out of the shadows from one corner. Holyrood swore he'd looked directly at the spot fifteen times, but he hadn't seen the child. He had to have been standing there the whole time because there was nowhere else he could've come from.

The boy was small and skinny, his black eyes like an adult�s, intense and scrutinizing for a fleeting instant. And then it all changed to a cherubic expression of wonder, curiousity. I guess I'm the first white man he's ever seen, thought the doctor. He doesn't seem to be afraid of me. That's good.

The boy even looked as though he knew they were talking about him. The doctor laughed. Hell, of course he did. He himself was the only one in the room who had no clue as to what was being said. He barked at the translator, "How old is he?"

"Four, sir," came the reply.

Good. Still impressionable. Still malleable.

This was possibly, finally, the payoff for all of these overseas medical teaching conferences. If he saw one more slide of one more flipper-handed baby, shown to him by some ridiculous yokel quack, he would not try to explain the true medical cause one single solitary more time. He would tell the esteemed village doctor-barber-fishmonger-idiot that the child was possessed by the devil and to have the parents throw it into the sea.

The boy, naked, his face crusty with some sort of grime, had been quietly creeping up to the doctor while he�d been lost in thought.

The father was squawking about something. The doctor made calming hand gestures to show that everything was all right. The translator tried to pacify the father, not bothering with English for the doctor�s benefit. Holyrood had made sure to instruct the man many times that he didn�t care about all the preliminaries and traditions, he just wanted to know the price. Just the price. The translator would handle everything else.

He wanted a close look at the boy�the boy who might very well be the case that would make his career�and he�d intended to squat down to the child�s level. But the boy had thrown his arms around the doctor�s right leg in a clumsy hug, as, Archibald supposed, children were wont to do. He didn�t know; he�d never been around any. He would take the opportunity to examine the boy�s scalp and hair for signs of malnutrition.

An Army doctor associate stationed in Vietnam had nearly gotten his hands on a similar case last year, but the boy had died of starvation before Dr. Toolate had tracked him down. Holyrood smiled. This boy seemed healthy, if skinny. The hair was attached firmly. The scalp not scaly. This was his key to immortality, and he�d be damned if some other doctor honed in on his scientific territory. He�d worked for years, theorizing on the super-transmissive gastro-intestinal anomaly, or whatever it turned out to be once he had his hands on a live specimen. He would, of course, dub it the Holyrood Syndrome, and give lectures to all the verminous academics who�d mocked his quest.

My, the boy�s hands were awkwardly close to the family jewels.

Papa Bulgingbloodvesselsan was making even more noise, but the translator held him off.

The child, who�d been sniffing at him like a dog, crushed his face to Archibald�s leg, and the good doctor had trouble registering the sensation of teeth closing down on the soft spot over the femoral artery. When he felt warm liquid course down his inner thigh, blooming a red stain down his beige polyester blend slacks, the man of science let out a piercing screech unrivalled by a 5-year-old girl.

The boy�s father pulled a thin cane wand from somewhere, possibly from his pantleg, and began to thrash the boy�s back, adding a whorl of fresh welts to an abundant existing set that the doctor hadn�t noticed before.

The doctor kept screaming far longer than he would�ve guessed he had the lung capacity for, until the sounds degraded to something akin to the bleating of a sheep.

Finally Papa Whupstick dropped the cane and grabbed the boy�s head between his hands, pressing inward at the jaws, forcing a release. The doctor, just then unmindful of his wound, which hadn�t affected the artery at all, picked up the rod and dispensed some thrashes of his own.

The translator, feeling great satisfaction at the results of his following orders to the letter, watched beads of sweat roll from beneath the dark brown polyester blend toupee his employer wore and translated, "No charge for the boy."

Moving on - 12:11 p.m. , 2007-08-14

Where the hell have I been? - 12:10 p.m. , 2007-02-19

Holy shit! - 2:24 p.m. , 2006-01-11

Stuffing recipe - 6:17 p.m. , 2005-12-13

Good Life Update - 10:22 a.m. , 2005-11-11