Meal Ticket

Eleven years of dedicated service as a registered proctologist had done nothing to dampen Angeline’s reputation as an arsehole magnet. Amongst her few acquiantances, it was commonly countenanced that Angeline’s fondness for arseholes both encompassed and escaped the boundaries of her chosen profession. Angeline knew it too…

That bloody name… Angeline! A hideous moniker given with the scant regard only those obliged to process orphans (for Angeline saw herself as nothing more or less) can muster.

Where was that old bastard George anyway? The flamboyant George was almost traditionally her half two on a Wednesday ever since a very uncomfortable bowel disorder had rendered his career as an operatic tenor untenable. Angeline was pissed off… Of late, George had developed the un-Freudian ability to align his biological issues of anal retention with an irritating tendency towards reckless tardiness.

Angeline always INSISTED her arseholes show up on time.

Angeline attempted to straighten herself up, she was sweating. Bugger! She approached the mirror with the caution of a child sensing an impending scold. Her understated lipstick had smeared slightly since her last preen and she was instantly drawn to the branching veins grasping across the whites of her eyes. Her hair it seemed had developed a mind of its own and was weaving a determined path across her forehead. She swept it away with rehearsed precision and lurched towards the door in frustration.

She paused a moment…

It would not do, she skipped almost secretively back to the mirror and intensively sculpted her hair with Freudian precision. Angeline hated the thought that Ms. Berling might identify any hint of bad taste about her appearance. For sure, she’d had plenty to say in the past; Roy had been the one good man in Angeline’s life but also had the audacity to grow corn for a living.

Angeline accepted it; Berling had given her so much. She’d only been eleven when Berling first spotted her nursing a skinned knee through the cold iron fence of the Sisters Orphanage. It had been seven months since her husband had oh so fortunately met with the most deserved of ends and the gargantuan payout from the bus company had elevated her to privileges earned; but never previously known. She’d never told Angeline naturally, but something about the surgical methodical silence of the child had struck a chord in Berling’s mind if not her heart. The sponsorship saw Angeline out of the orphanage through to college. Now, she was keeping her end of the bargain in keeping the old girl in work; hardly a curse given her meticulous hard on for bureaucracy.

Even still, she resented somewhat the extent to which the old dear had her in her pocket. In Angeline’s eyes, Berling feared every man she had cause to bring under her watchful eye. Passing on her estate to Angeline was one thing but carelessly thrusting it into the arms of some all too willing jack the lad was definitely another. Men were out. It was strangling - so much so that it seemed the surgery was the only place where Angeline felt time alone with men was achievable. Berling was too proper and rehearsed to ever interrupt her during consultation.

That’s how it had all started…

Angeline naturally felt a fair degree of dominance and freedom when confronted with a pensive but unknowing arsehole. It was not long until the wretched fantasising of the prone wrinklies was matched only by that of Angeline. It only took her four months to move out from the murky depths of prostatic massage and into a whole other world of genitor-urinary manipulation. Perhaps it was the role of subject that meant none of her prey would resist her advances, or perhaps it was her tendency towards oral examination that turned incident into habit. Either way; she was addicted quickly enough.

Berling of course remained oblivious even from the first. Nonetheless, Angeline – unconsciously at first – built up a wall of secrecy . It would crush the old girl if she knew the depraved interpretation of the Hippocratic oath that was being tugged and thrust in the business end of office 442B. Professional cleaners quickly ‘unburdened’ Berling of her cherished access to the surgery while four mirrors reinforced a now entrenched superstition ensuring Berling’s only response to Angeline’s activities was obliviousness. Even then it was never enough…

Where the fuck is George anyway? That old bastard had stood her up for the last time! Angeline fumed inside, mindful not to let her volatility spew over into beady evidence of discord. George was beginning to call the shots and Angeline didn’t like it. She resented being held to ransom by a man who was biologically doomed to shit himself when backed into a corner.

That little bastard had fucked with her for the last time!

Bollocks to Berling! Where the fuck was he?…

Foregoing the usual caution with the surgery door, Angeline wildly wrenched the door open, unconsciously bursting through into the foyer. The sun was breaking in through the window and Ms. Berling seemed to leap in terror at Angeline’s unusual abruptness; what on Earth was going on?

Still, Angeline was surprised to see palpitation in Berling; she was shaken up. A hasty apology was the least she could do and even then her head bowed and her body lurched inwards in defence of her distasteful behaviour.

Berling was flustered…It was alright Angeline. 'Perhaps you should return to the surgery' she said sitting erect and ruffled from shock. Her chest was heaving from the upheaval of it all…

Angeline didn’t want to go back. She wanted to call George. He was (fffffff…fucking – she said under her breath) late after all. And as much as Berling protested through her rasping breath, Angeline’s fury erupted over her mobile as she scrawled over it to stamp George Mobile. She was gonna find that arsehole and get it told.

It was the most peculiar thing, as the shrill ringing purr of the earpiece penetrated her right ear, the dull trill of vibration stirred in her left. Berling, sensing the game was up exhaled as if in relief and backed her chair away from the clamped security of the writing desk.

The dampened scrawls of George’s moustache slid from beneath her reversing skirt before his steamed red face crept forward in nervous smile.

A tide of confusion slowly washed over Angeline…the room stank of shit.