An Unfiltered Man
by

Robert A. Metzger

 Black and spongy. Five bristling hairs poked from its center. A wart.
Even though I had a great distrust of warts, I tried to keep an open mind,
hoping that this one might exhibit some shred of social decency. I
doubted it, though.

“Allen,” said Nurse Bemeyer, “this is Dr. Christhoffer.”

 To say the least, I was surprised. I’d encountered many warts
throughout my travels, but few that had names, and fewer still that were
doctors. This did not look good. Warts were generally bad enough, but
experience had long ago taught me to rank doctors at least three
notches below a wart. Facing a wart bestowed with a medical degree
left me with little hope that this would be a pleasant encounter. I prayed
that it wasn’t a specialist.

“Pleased to finally meet you,” said the wart.

 I never saw its lips move when it spoke. Actually, I never even saw its
lips. I grudgingly had to admit to myself that this might be a wart that
was a cut above the norm. It was then that I realized what the tricky
little growth was up to. It was using the body that was attached to it to
do its talking. This was pretty damn impressive even for a wart that had
remained unscathed after four years of medical school. I realized in an
inspirational flash that the art wanted to remain incognito, and pass off
the body growing from it as the real Dr. Christhoffer. It hadn’t fooled me,
but I’d go along with the charade until I found out what its real plans
were.

 My eyes decided to focus on the creased, white bearded face that was
masquerading as Dr. Christhoffer. His little brown eyes were sunk deep
behind rimless bifocals. A roadmap of crisscrossed veins covered his
red nose and cheeks. This is not a face I would have chosen, but of
course there’s no accounting for taste when you’re dealing with
something from the medical profession.

“I hope I will be able to help you,” said Dr. Christhoffer.

 I was momentarily confused. I rarely get confused. Then I realized
what Dr. Christhoffer was referring to. It’s amazing how the little things
can slip your mind. I was insane.

Something grabbed my left hand and pumped it vigorously. The grasp
was moist. I was not surprised. I’d expect the handshake of a wart to
be moist.

“What do you say?” asked Nurse Bemeyer.

 “Albacore tuna,” mumbled my mouth. I have no idea why my mouth
said that. It’s not very intelligent. Perhaps it was hungry again. If the
damn thing wasn’t drooling, it was eating. I don’t know why I brought it
along with me.

Nurse Bemeyer and Dr. Christhoffer smiled. Maybe they liked tuna.
Perhaps my mouth wasn’t the fool I had always thought it was. It might
not be a bad idea to listen to it more often.

 Dr. Christhoffer’s moist fingers slipped from my hand. It was only as his
little finger was just sliding away that I felt the hunger, and I’m not talking
about tuna cravings. Evil ate deep within him. Squirmy worms munched
his small intestine in their quest for soft lymph nodes. My mouth
seemed to like the doctor, and even though it wasn’t the most intelligent