Weekly Wilson - Blog of Author Connie C. Wilson

"There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries." (Julius Caesar; Act 4, Scene 3).

Konerak: New-Age Zombie

    Konerak quivered. Beast come back. No more! No more cut Konerak!

    The cold tile of the bathroom wall. Blood inside the tub, Konerak’s blood.

    The tall blonde man opened the bathroom door, approached Konerak.

    “This won’t hurt. Prince Philip of Orange had it done seventeen times by his surgeon. Nearly everyone lives. Well, 70%, anyway. It won’t hurt…. too much. There aren’t that many nerves in your skull. After I bore the hole, I’ll put in a nice soothing medicine. You’ll heal up and be as good as new. You’ll be a New-Age Zombie.”

     Jeffrey busied himself sharpening the ancient instrument, one used in Hippocrates’ time.  “One French doc…he drilled 52 holes in a patient’s head in just 2 months. The guy lived.  So, don’t worry. This will help you to accept your new life. I’m not such a bad guy. When you tried to get away and ran out into the street, that was stupid. Don’t do that again, or I will kill you. I told those cops we were lovers. We will be lovers. You will stay with me.”

     Konerak did not understand a single word. Konerak was of the Hmong people of Laos. He’d only been in Milwaukee for six months. The Hmong do not even have a written language. He spoke no English.

    How I get here? Konerak wondered. He remembered very little of the night, three days earlier. A bar. Loud music. Drink. Much cash. The man looked nice. I think he want sex, for money. Konerak’s slight build made him a frequent target in gay bars. American men would pay well for services.

    Konerak had broken out of the apartment, wandered, dazed into the streets, until the cops found him. But the Beast was right behind him. Konerak did not know the language of the policemen. They turned him back to the white devil. Now, Konerak lay in the bloody bathtub, trussed, cut, bleeding, terrified.

     Konerak tried to summon the strength to pull away from the sharp pointed instrument that Jeffrey held in his hands, but he was weak, both from loss of blood and from torture. He stank from urine and feces and blood and fear. He shook his head from side to side: No! No! No! No!  Eyes wide with fear.

    The beast approached his head with a drill.

   “I’m just going to take a small piece out of your skull, now,” said Jeffrey in what Jeffrey hoped was a soothing voice. “I’ll grind it up and drink it in my coffee.” A weird smile.  “The Incas thought it would make your spirit strong. Then, I’m going to pour this nice medicine (Jeffrey motioned towards a brown bottle on the floor) in the hole, and you’ll be fine. And we’ll be friends…and more.” Jeffrey smiled. “Are you OK with that?’  

     Konerak’s eyes glazed over. Excruciating pain rendered him stuporous and his gag made it impossible for him to speak.

     Konerak not do anything bad. Please! Please! Please!

    The horrible pain rendered Konerak unconscious.

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1 Comment

  1. You’re welcome.

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