Creepshow

The good news is... I always land on my feet.

Ugh, foot.

The age-old question...

how badly does the patient wanna survive?

Never give up.

Never surrender.

100...

99...

98...

97...

If I'm to tell the whole truth... and why not?

I got plenty of time...

I was born Richard Pinzetti in New York's Little Italy.

All I ever wanted was to be a surgeon.

My father, an old-world greaseball,

would laugh and tell me to get him another glass of wine.

He died when he was 46, and I was glad.

I always had luck on my side,

present circumstances notwithstanding,

but I'm not really worried about that.

As I said, I always land on my feet.

Anyway, a poor kid from the projects

getting to college was no easy task,

so I did what any other able-bodied kid would do.

I played sports.

But let's not forget,

being a surgeon was all I ever wanted,

so I figured a scholarship would get me in the door,

and the world would be my oyster.

And you know what?

I was good at it.

So I became quarterback, but let's face it.

A doctor's hands are his life,

so I'd wrap them before every game.

Then I'd soak them after.

A lot of my teammates would rag on me,

call me chicken shit,

mostly this big zit-faced asshole named Howie Plotzsky.

But living on the streets, making connections,

getting to know people, you know,

any asshole knows how to die.

The thing to learn is how to survive.

So I slipped Ricky Buzelli 10 bucks

to make Howie's mouth disappear.

Ricky obliged and brought me three of his teeth

wrapped in a bloody paper towel.

Can you imagine the damage

I could have done to my hands busting his face?

In med school, while the other suckers

were running themselves ragged trying to bone up,

between waiting tables and buffing floors,

I kept the rackets going...

football pools, baseball pools.

I stayed tight with the old neighborhood

and made it through school just fine.

I didn't get into pushing

until I was doing my residency.

I was working in one of the biggest hospitals

in New York City.

At first, it was prescription blanks.

I'd sell a tablet of 100

to some guys from the neighborhood

along with writing samples of 40 or 50 doctors.

Then they'd turn around and sell them for 20 apiece.

Speed freaks and nodders, they loved it.

Speaking of which,

I finally woke up shortly after dark.

Wait, have I mentioned

I haven't had anything to eat in four days?

Day fucking three... haven't seen another soul.

A bunch of stuff washed up over the last few days,

and I've taken what I can, between that and the shit

that I got off the useless lifeboat,

but it could be worse.

At least I'm here, and I'm not her,

poor whoever she was.

Then this gull landed on one of the rocks on the island.

It just stood there looking at me

with its fucking black eyes.

Aaah!

The sound actually gave me

great satisfaction.

I carried it back to my camp,

and before I even plucked a feather,

I dumped iodine all over the laceration.

The last thing I need now is an infection.

No driftwood or vegetation for a fire,

so I guess it's seagull tartare.

100, 99...

98, 97...

January 29th, day four.

The only reason to keep Gloria here...

that's what I call her...

is that she attracts the gulls.

But I don't know how much more I can handle.

Jesus, the stench...

her body baking in the sun.

Found a few things in the suitcase I could use.

Not much else to do,

so I'm gonna keep writing my life's story.

At least it keeps my mind off my stomach.

Well, sort of.

I had enough socked away from my adventures

as an intern and resident that I could've set myself up

in a practice on Park Avenue.

Then Lowenthal gets pinched,

fucking sheep.

They wave five years in front of his face,

and he coughs up half a dozen names,

mine right at the top of the list.

There were a few other deals, including prescription blanks,

which I didn't entirely give up.

It's funny; I didn't really need that stuff anymore,

but it's hard to give up the extra sugar, you know?

So what did I do?

Threw a couple people to the wolves.

Nobody I liked, though.

Everyone I gave to the feds was a real son of a bitch.

Killed another gull today,

same way I killed the first.

I was beginning to get scared there for a while.

It is strange how you can feel the vitality surge back

when there's something in your stomach.

263...

264...

265.

No place like home.

Oh, and did I tell you

I had about $350,000 worth of heroin?

New York street value.

You know what it's worth here? El zilcho.

Yeah, sort of funny if you think about it.

I wanted my shingle back, and it was gonna cost me big.

I had some money stashed away,

but I decided I'd take a chance,

try and double or triple it.

That's when I went to see Ronnie Hanelli.

Ronnie and I played football together.

When his kid brother decided on internal medicine,

I helped him get his residency.

Anything for someone from the block.

He went from neighborhood enforcer to law school,

set up a shop above the Fish Bowl.

I knew Ronnie would have something for me.

"It's dangerous," he said,

"But you always could take care of yourself."

Hey!

I'm here!

I flew to Thailand as a tourist.

My Chinese friend had the merchandise,

and I took it to a guy named Ngo

who pronounced it to be very high-grade stuff.

After three weeks, I booked passage to San Francisco

on the cruise ship Monrovia,

first-class cabin all the way.

This guy, Ngo, arranged for two customs officials

to wave me through, so getting on the ship was no problem,

and Ronnie Hanelli had arranged for a boat

to pick up the bag that I tossed over the side

just before we docked, so I was looking for a cook

or a steward who could use a little cash,

keep his mouth shut.

Then the ship sank.

Aaah!

Well, fuck me.

Okay.

Honey, I'm done.

No, no, don't get up.

From where I sit, I can plainly see the letters,

every single one of them.

Could have used your help.

Took me damn near all day to spell it,

but another plane ain't gonna miss me...

I mean, us.

If there is another plane.

You know, darling, my foot has been throbbing constantly,

and the swelling and discoloration

is getting more and more advanced.

I think we may have to amputate.

Shit.

All I can think about is what Mockridge used to say

in basic anatomy.

"Sooner or later," he'd say, "The question comes up

"in every medical student's career...

how much shock trauma can the patient stand?"

And he'd whack his pointer

on the chart of the human body,

hitting the liver, the kidneys,

spleen, the heart.

Cut to its base level, students,

the answer is always another question.

How badly does the patient want to survive?

So I have decided to amputate my foot.

The good thing is, I have matches, a needle,

thread from the sewing kit, and 2 kilos of painkiller,

although hardly the type I'd prescribe.

It's been four days of no food,

and if I wait any longer,

I run a greater risk of fainting

from a combination of shock and hunger