Infected

59.

Al Turner fumed. Not only was that damn freak-of-nature kid raising holy hell again, but Al’s hemorrhoids were worse than ever. He’d used what seemed like a gallon of Preparation H, but he might as well have been smearing mayonnaise on his asshole for all the good it did.

“My name is Al Turner,” he said into the phone. “I already called once. I’m in apartment B-303. He lives right downstairs, and he’s been screaming his head off for days. I’ve had it.”

“Sir, a car is on the way. You’re willing to file a formal complaint?”

“Absolutely. I’ve been down there and asked him to shut up and I’m not dealing with it. He’s nuts. I think you better tell your people to be careful, though-he’s a huge guy. I mean pro-wrestling huge.”

“Thank you, sir. The officers will be there as soon as possible. Please stay away from the apartment. The officers will handle it.”

“No problem. I’m not going down there. That guy is a freaking fruitcake.”