...no one to blame but myself...
About 5:00AM my wife stirred me from a blissful sleep. "C'mom, swarf-boy," she snorted, "You have an eye exam in about two hours..."
"Relax," I grinned, "The Gurkha just came back from vacation--two weeks in California. Sandy beaches, non-stop Mai-Tai beverages, girls in bikinis. This little respite is going to be more fun for him than a full-out front pincher attack at the Khyber Pass..."
My wife grunted, "You're his first patient of the day--and he doesn't like you..."
I brushed off her concerns, but she was right. My duff barely hit the chair in the waiting room, when The Gurkha's head nurse called my name. I got the dilating drops, I was led into the deep recesses of the pitch black exam room (the larger operatory with the mosaic rendering of Kali), and I must admit, I was a bit nervous.
Without warning, the exam door swung open! I could tell from the pint size shadow of the diminutive surgeon and the crisp ring of a perfectly balanced kukri that the doctor was definitely back at the helm...
"Bhagwan preserve us," I heard the Gurkha intone, "first those infernal teacups and now you are the first..."
"Teacups?," I whimpered reverently.
"Oh, blessings and peace be upon me," gesticulated the warrior of The Sainted Pass. "There is a small cut-out of Mickey Mouse by the gate to those spinning teacups. Since I was three years old at my Beloved Khyber, I was thrilled at the whimsy of those spinning teacups." *sigh*
I tried to keep silent, but I had to ask, "Mickey Mouse kept you off the teacups?"
"No, you chattering infidel," the Gurkha seethed, "It was just a sign, a poster board sign of The Great Michael The Rodent!"
Then the proud surgeon slumped into the stenographer's chair and spoke no softer than a hiss, "He stuck out his tiny gloved hand with a notice imparting, "You must be this tall to enter the ride..."
Sadly the Gurkha was over three inches too short.
A grin washed over his face, and I discerned the unmistakable rasp of polished steel sliding from antique leather as he stepped behind me, and caressed a shoulder. As is his custom, the keen edge of the kukri rolled across the surgeon's thumb as a crimson offering ran down to his wrist.
"Trust me, you Mediterranean Malcontent," The Gurkha chortled, "Mickey is now much shorter than I..."
From behind my back, I heard the kukri forcefully impart the opening of the leather and mahogany sheath, finished by the unmistakable slap of the brass hilt being rammed home.
"Oh, forgive me for my rudeness," offered the surgeon, "How's the eye?"
"Oh, fine doc, just fine, couldn't be better, both eyes right where your left them," I proffered, knowing that the back of examination chair didn't stand a harpie's hope of stopping 14 inches of Nepalese steel.
"That's good," laughed The Gurkha, "Just hang onto the armrests, I have a bit of jet lag, this might hurt a bit..."
...No matter where you are it's enemy territory...
Last edited by The Tourist; 07-08-2016 at 11:38 AM.