THE ELEVEN DAYS OF BRIAN NINE; DAY ELEVEN

I went to the hospital this morning not to have the cancers cut out of my legs but for a bit of the old green needle.  No more of the well rubbish scratching for this Brian Nine.

I headed off with Brian Seven (f) who needed well often work on his lame cancerous insides.  We raced at two hundred miles an hour and I got to the garage under the hospital just before him because I had got out of the garage just before him.

We went into reception and he went off with his pink card to the Torso Wing, his hands still at his sides because he could not scratch inside himself.  Well frustrating he said it was.

‘Bye Brian.’  I said.

‘Bye Brian.’

I showed my red card and was sent to the New Wing.  I sat in the doctor’s office looking out over the burial sites, a diffused yellow haze hanging over the little headstones.

‘Sure about the burial plot, Brian Nine?  It’s not too late to choose another, eh?’

‘It is still available?’

‘It is, yes.’

‘Stick with that then.’

‘OK.  Feeling better today, eh?’

‘Yeah.  OK.’

‘Well this way then Brian.’

I followed him next door to a room that was well clean with a frosted window letting the yellow glow in.  There was a bed and a screen just like virtually any room in this hospital.  Bed and a screen well clean.

‘You want to see Brian Nine (b), Brian?  He’s only next door, ready when you are.’

‘Er…no.’

‘OK.’

I lay on the bed all well comfy and the doctor tucked me in and fluffed my pillows.  The screen was on and Ma Tortelli and Pa Tortelli and Sissy Tortelli were dressing up in black all well quiet to go toTortelli Jr’s funeral.

The doctor got out his green needle and I put my arm out still watching the screen.  The Tortelli’s in a large black car all shiny pulling away past a sad looking Johnny ‘Eggplant’ O’Bergine, clutching some well old hat to his big chest.

He gave me the injection and slipped out quietly all subtle like and I watched the car drive up a long road through a graveyard and it well began to rain.  Right wet and bouncing all over the sad Tortelli’s as they walked up to a fresh grave with Tortelli Jr’s coffin carried in front of them, the rain splashing on the old wood.

I was tired, way too sleepy to watch the screen.  Off to rest in Abraham’s bosom, I reckon, all comfy.  But just as my eyes were sliding slowly shut in the soft yellow glare and just as Tortelli Jr’s coffin was being lowered and the priest was mumbling some well old rubbish I turned to look at the door and through the frosted glass I saw a figure walk by and I recognized the profile instantly and even though I was fading over the creek and the window was all distorted I knew I was sure that it Brian Nine (b) and I knew I was sure that he looked in the window too.