Intrepid Medicine and Wrong Science

A collection of records concerning A. Prendergeist, QAF

"I'm really not sure if my nipples should be fizzing like that, Mr. Prendergeist."

"Nonsense, Jeremy, that's just your body showing its appreciation of the full-bodied vintage. No, if I were you, I'd be more worried about the smoke curling out of your waistband. Drink up."

There was also the fact that his left kneecap was inching around behind his thigh in time with his heartbeat, but he didn't seem to have noticed that, and I thought he had enough on his mind for the time being.

Quickly dropping his britches, he found his pubic hairs slowly subliming into a yellowish vapour from the tips down to the roots. This was no surprise to me obviously, having experienced it frequently on the squatter boys in Jakarta, but it was entirely new to the lad, so much so that he ended up projecting the last mouthful all over my hutch of pygmy tapirs.

"Well that's no good at all. No matter, we'll get the full dose into you, don't you worry. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, the effect of straining it through the tapir quills will more than likely increase its potency. Here, I'll just squeeze out the little dears into this bedpan..."

At the sight of the remaining tonic coagulating and slowly changing colour in the pan, he started to quiver more noticeably. I assured him that the fact that the clots were forming into bonsai sculptures of him and Eleanor Roosevelt fellating a wildebeest dressed as Benny Hill was pure coincidence, but he seemed unconvinced.

"Actually, Mr. Prendergeist, I don't think I want to become pregnant after all."

"Oh, we're well past that Jeremy. Come over here and bring that speculum, will you?"

"Come in, young fellow -- here to sample some of Doctor Prendergeist's Scrotal Infusions and Herpetological Unguents?"

"Um, yes. You see, I've go this embarrassing rash-"

"Don't fuck around, my precious. We do real medicine here -- need extra glands of some kind? Improved vision? A permanent sense of unease? Extra glands?"

"Well... There's this girl..."

"Say no more poppet, I've got just the lotion. You'll be dragging on the ground before you know it."

"I don't know if that's quite what I'm after..."

"Nonsense, everyone you know will thank you for this, I guarantee. Sanchez? Bring in a dose of Number 17 will you? Don't mind Sanchez -- his prosthetic groin tends to put people off a little, but he's a sweetheart once you get used to the smell. Ah, here we go. Now, it's designed to be applied internally -- you don't happen to have a gaping thigh-wound at the moment, do you?"

"No..."

"Well, we'll remedy that presently. Take off your trousers and get into those stirrups, love."

"Um, are you sure you're a real doctor?"

"Darling, I'm not even a real woman."

I first met Sanchez on the shores of Tripoli, back when I was iguana-sexing for Her Majesty's Navy. As a lad, he used to sneak onto the base and steal discarded reptile shavings, which he then painted brightly and sold to tourists as contraceptive fridge magnets. Obviously I couldn't have him taking business away from me, so I took him on as my lickspittle, and was quickly impressed with his ability to lick not only spittle, but any number of other bothersome fluids with which I found myself encumbered.

His limited English causes a small amount of shyness in him, although he usually manages to overcome this when the conversation turns to his prosthetic groin, of which he is inordinately proud. I fitted him with it, you know -- one of my first successes in the field of groinal replacement and enhancement (a field which has since made me a very wealthy individual, and seen me excommunicated from three major religions, five cults and the Tallahassee Women's Reading Group).

He prefers not to talk of how he came to lose the crotch our Lord gave him, but when pressed he will mumble "lost it in a fight". At which point I always have to correct him:

"No dear, you lost it in a bet."

Dear Sir/Madam,

I recently purchased a "Perpetual Prophylactic" from your "Cavalcade of Unconventional Medicine and Wrong Science". I regret to inform you that, following but a single conjugal act, my wife has found herself pregnant four times in the space of eight weeks: once with twins, twice with triplets, and once with a clutch of ring-tailed lemurs.

I expect a full apology and hasty remuneration for the inconvenience. The address of a decent Catholic lemur tannery would be appreciated also.

Yours,

Montgomery St John-Cockworthy, Esq.

Dear Sir,

I'm afraid you should have been more specific in your original request. As a learned man such as yourself is, I'm sure, aware, "prophylactic" is a general term covering any kind of preventative. It is neither your fault nor mine that the dirty fornicators with which the English-speaking world teems have seized upon one of the more squirty applications of prevention.

(It is for this reason that I abstain from gynaecological congress with all but the most thoroughly parasite-free of my retainers, and I recommend you do the same.)

The prophylactic I sold you was in fact designed to prevent flatulence in the presence of royalty, in which capacity it has performed admirably, I'm sure you'll find. Your increased fecundity and pro-simian progeny are merely side effects, probably due to the lemur-squeezings I use as a thickening agent. To this end, I must regretfully request that you jam your remuneration firmly into your gaping syphilitic arse-regions (another side effect).

Cordially,

Anthony Empiricles Prendergeist, QAF

P.S. I am unable to help you with a tannery, although if you ever wish to absolve yourself of some of the children, my doors are always open. No pressure.

"Oh dear, that's going to need looking at -- you'd best see a doctor."

"I thought you were a doctor? And you just did that to me!"

"Ah no, you see, in my case 'doctor' is not so much a formal qualification as a term of endearment. Still, common mistake -- you're not to be blamed for your dirty ignorance."

"My...? But... look, can you fix it?"

"That depends -- are you allergic to topsoil? Intravenously?"

"I'm fairly certain I would be."

"Then I'm afraid you'll be needing to make a few lifestyle adjustments, Mr. Zeta-Jones. May I say I've always liked the name Catherine?"

It is with a mixture of fondness and thick, burning shame that I recall my short-lived foray into the study of Unconventional Prognostication. My interest in the subject had been piqued by a visit to a fortune teller in Prague, who bit the crotch out of a live marmoset, spun her left eyeball and proceed to predict in close detail my next seventeen acts of copulation. I was amazed at her accuracy, even by the time of the seventeenth (as, even with foreknowledge, I had no idea why a Portuguese fireman would own that many tea-strainers), and resolved to master these arts myself, thinking them a fitting compliment to my rapidly widening interest in Non-specific Medicine.

Though illuminating in many ways, this endeavour fell short of being financially sustainable, as people proved inexplicably unwilling to accept treatment for diseases they did not yet have -- I ask you, which would you prefer: having a leg amputated, or suffering the social stigma of infection and gangrene, and then having a leg amputated? Common sense is sorely lacking in today's society, I feel.

Though this should have dissuaded me, still I pressed on with my studies of the future, eventually finding a new outlet for my talents...

"So tell me, good sir -- what new marvels does our favourite futurist envision for the coming age?"

"Here is my prediction: some short time from now, messages shall be sent, not on pieces of paper, delivered by the manual labour of the working classes, but by entrusting them to tiny pixies, who shall travel instantaneously through the ether to their assigned target. This system combines the speed of the telephone with the erudition of the written letter.

Furthermore, by instructing the pixies to pass messages amongst each other, the same message could be directed to multiple individuals, allowing for optimised efficiency in the dissemination of essential information. Why, the commercial applications alone are staggering -- imagine vital advertising material being sent instantly to hundreds, nay thousands, of parties in one blow, all of whom would benefit beyond measure from the knowledge therein.

In short, such "ether mail" (or "e-mail" as I predict it shall be referred to out of convenience) shall revolutionize the field of communications as we know it."

[applause]

"Your ideas are not without merit, sir, but I believe they will ultimately prove fruitless. Why, the labour costs alone associated with training, feeding and compensating the pixies would doubtless prove prohibitive -- to say nothing of modern science's utter failure to establish their existence. No sir, I fear yours is an idea whose time has not yet arrived, nor may it ever."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, your Majesty. May I then introduce my next prognostication? I call it: the Thirteen-Inch Black Rubber Dildo. If I may be so bold, I guarantee that it shall blow your motherfucking socks off."

"Pray, do go on..."

Within moments, the Empire was in ruin; its lands sundered, its people traumatised past the point of sanity, its livestock inappropriately penetrated. I couldn't help but feel partially responsible.

I recall the first and only time I met "Doctor" Anthony Prendergeist. My efforts to locate this infamous yet poorly-documented figure of medicine finally let me to a converted piano wire factory, which was currently functioning as his surgery, laboratory and corral. I had formulated complaints of an unsightly verrucca that needed attention, although my cover story almost turned out to be unnecessary once I met the man.

His first words to me were "That's no good at all -- we'll have it out of you in a moment!"

When I asked what exactly he meant to have out of me, and pointed out that I hadn't even told him what my problem was he replied, "ah, but I am Master Herr Doktor! And besides, Fifi already knows what's wrong with you -- she has special medicinal Insights."

Fifi, it turned out, was an inert dalmation with wires embedded in its skull leading to a strange device, on whose flickering screen diagnoses continually scrolled, punctuated with "FIFI GONE TO DARK PLACE. FIFI COLD." in small text. I was not convinced.

Prendergeist was unperturbed. Again without making any attempt to discern my affliction, he ventured: "Tell you what, how about I just get Sanchez here to belt you in the face with a 5-iron?"

His assistant Sanchez was a criminally foreign individual with an oddly shaped crotch, from which emanated a constant hum (and once, what sounded like a shrill voice asking to speak to the management). He edged towards me bow-legged, dragging a cart of implements that were golf clubs only in the sense that they involved tartan.

"Beltinface?" he inquired. "Is good. Good beltinface. Make you strong in trousers."

Sensing my unease, Prendergeist intervened: "Perhaps something a little more anodyne for the gentleman," he said, before carefully applying a surgical cattle prod to my pelvis. My suspicions that his definition of "anodyne" differed from mine in several crucial respects were later confirmed: "Means 'like an anode', doesn't it?" he replied when I confronted him with this upon my return to consciousness.

Choosing not to further this exchange I instead made one last attempt to request treatment for what I had believed was a minor matter.

"Ah, why didn't you say so? I've been working on a new treatment for that -- in you come, my lovlies!"

At that call, several partially-shaved llamas entered through a side door. Each had bizarrely altered udders, even those that appeared to be male. A sanious discharge oozed from a few of them.

"The lovlies have been modified to produce fluids that should deal to your ailment with a minimum of organ failure. Now, like we practiced, sweets -- and... go!"

At this point the llamas turned as one and leapt for Prendergeist, braying ferociously, streaming spittle and striking with hooves and teeth. This was enough; I fled into the winter evening, to the good Doctor's cries of "Fuckers! Fucking fuckers! Fucking!". Some years later, word spread he had survived and was now practicing out of Sevastopol, but I chose not to investigate.

The llamas were never seen again.

Return to a simpler time. A better time.