Uh, hi, is this...is this the Wrestling Team? Hi, yes, how are you this evening? Ah, good, good. No, no, I'm no telemarketer; my name is Dr. Moray Chowderclaws; I'm a resident over at What Me, Mercy? Hospital. Yes, yes. Anyway, I'm sorry to have to deliver this news in the form of a letter but the "contact in case of emergency" information only included this address. So hopefully this will arrive in time before the bill does. Ha ha, just kidding. It will arrive well after the bill which was generated the moment Mr. Wiest was admitted. I mean, after he admitted that he had no insurance and that to foot his employers with the bill. Well, he didn't say it so much as not say anything so we devised that little strategy on our own. I didn't go to three hundred years of medical school to let some simpering dickfreak off with free coma care. Oh, right, Mr. Wiest is in a coma.

His condition is actually quite fascinating. I mean, fascinating to me because I'm a doctor. To you, hell, to anyone else, it's actually quite the opposite of fascinating. Uninterestingly enough, if your opinion of the proceedings were to ever come into contact with mine, they would annihilate each other leaving a stream of ennui in its wake. Anyway, do you know what a brain-shriek is? Of course you don't; there's only been three reported cases in the entire history of the United Crepes. That's the restaurant I get my crepes at. Regardless, a few years ago, there was an outbreak of brain-shrieks when a number of "guest workers" had been locked in the freezer for refusing to be executed execution-style. After a few days, they grew hungry, and to survive, ate some of the rusted metal off an old automobile Grainboy Roberts, the manager of the UC, had been keeping in there while he was restoring it to the store he bought it at. Well, that metal did the work that the other metal, the bullets I mean, was going to do, as those three, ahem, "guest workers" soon came down with a case of the ol' brain-shrieks. Bunch a pussies if you ask me, but no one did, except the local news anchor, and I gave her a fistful of the ol' what-for in the form of the words I just wrote to you and also in the form of a fistful of dollars, dollars which were made of fiscal crises. She freaked the fuck out, sirs, boy, did she ever.

So, when the metamorphosis was complete, the three wetbacks were pulsating shapes of symbolic power. In other words, they could create out of whole cloth meaning, meaning for anything, they could fucking mean anything, you get me? But apparently they weren't impervious to an iron rod, which I used to bash their fucking face-things in with. So, that's the thing. This dimwit ingested some rusty iron scraps or fuckever, and in about a week, a week and a half, Mr. Wiest here will transform, and then I'll have to brain him with a blunt object because it's fucking weird, you know? There is one chance he might survive, and that's if I'm fired before his transformation occurs, but I'm only on leave-without-pay, and the chances the hospital board will convene before he awakens and fire my ass is three-to-one, and I like-a them odds!

So, here's the thing. As part of the hospital's Responsible Doctor program, I am supposed to do odd tasks for my patients, yes, even the patients that I sneak in to treat to a frosty brew at the hospital's wetbar, and so I figured, fuck it, I've always wanted to be a writer, and this scrunt ain't going anywhere, so why don't I help him out and write his column. But first, let me eat a few of these delicious metal jacks I stole from my daughter's backpack. Don't worry, you morons. They're not rusting, so I am safe from brain-shrieks. Unless they are rusting. I am much to busy writing this column to check them. They do taste pretty oxidized though.

Alright, so let me look at his chart here. What's this column? Greatest characters of 20th century fiction? Oh my god. I've read like one boo...and there it is! Number 82! The Legend of Zekey G. Holy fuck, am I lucky. Whoa, that kind of rhymed. I'll tell you what though, I'd rather be fucky, if you catch my drift. Yes, I know my drift was rather obvious, but if you'd have caught it, we'd have won the game, and Mary Ellen would have given me a Victorious Handjob, and now thanks to you, I am stuck memorizing my penis' chemical composition. 20% iron? What the fuck? Anyway, right, what am I supposed to write about? Just a synopsis. I don't know, I read this so long ago for a course I had...ah, who'm I kidding. I read it because I thought there were some hot fuckscenes in it, but there weren't. Just long descriptions of robots' eating habits. So, right, what do I know about the author? It says here that this was written in 1992. Huh. That recently. What was going on in '92. Sox won the pennant, I know that. Shoes won the Stainly Cup. Overcoat won the Major Basketball Award. Aaaaaaand Boxers Goya won the Theisman Trophy when I broke his leg, and then the Thighs-thin Atrophy when I refused to treat him, and his leg withered away into nothingness. What a screwball. What else happened that year?

Fuck it, what does wikipedia say? I'll just quote liberally from that. That's what real writers do anyway, right?

"The Legend of Zekey G is Emmanuel Teleporter's third novel in the Fake Face trilogy, a series of books about robots that hate faces and go on a quest to Mount Erebor in order to reverse the biopolarity of human bodies in order to erase their faces. Teleporter first gained fame as a" shitty "biographer, penning such" dumb "books as Mind over Mathers: The Leave it to Beaver Story and Crapetite for Destruction: The Rise n' Fall of Guns n' Roses. However, soon after he started his third book, a compendium of all the Number Ones from Star Trek history called F is for Frakes, the ghost of the guy who played Spock traveled back in time and revealed to the world that Teleporter was really a robot. When no one cared except Teleporter, he vowed to put down his pen once and for all and pick up another pen that would only write science fiction. And thus, he was born again, but without the baptism because he's not waterproof, even though there was proof he was a shoplifter." Also, Teelepoter was a stinky rhino and an idiot.

"As the third novel picks up, the robots have been successful, but instead of erasing all the human faces in the universe, they end up accidentally killing everyone except for The Last Human, Zeke Grombies. Grombies, protected by a brain disorder in which he refused to acknowledge the existence of Mount Erebor, mounts a counter-attack by training all the animals of the world to fight the robots. Unfortunately, he is unsuccessful, and the robots end up killing every animal, including viruses, which they weren't sure were actually animals or not, but just to be on the safe side, they wiped them out" like they were eating an extra large pizza pie with all the trimmings at Giuseppe's Pizza Palace, you know, the one over on 12th. Yeah, that one. Holy shit, the stromboli is to fuckin' die for. Anyway, then some other shit happens and the robots kill Grombies or he wins, I dunno. This is boring. I guess I know why I went to med school now. Print it or whatever. I dunno. Fuck off, Wrestling Team. I have a fucking medical degree and you eat my shit now.

Here let me write you a prescription for fucking the hell off and dying. Take two and bite it, pals.

Sincerely,

Dr. Chowderclaws