DOCTOR SAUCE

By Horst and Kiki Sloat

The doctor that met Sam at the clinic was vaguely familiar, in spite of his prosthetic nose and large, fake moustache.

“Excuse me,” Sam said, “but aren’t you Doctor Sauce, that physician under indictment for experimenting on patients on behalf of the condiment industry?”

The doctor smiled. “No, I’m William Sauce,” he said. “You must be thinking of Gerald Sauce, the ear, nose and throat man. A real Mengele, that one.”

His suspicions allayed, Sam removed his clothes and lay down on the examination table as he had been instructed. "Now, what seems to be the problem?" the doctor asked, slipping on a pair of latex gloves.

“It's my back,” Sam groaned. "I think I pulled something."

The doctor said nothing as he pushed a button on the wall. A pair of steel restraints sprung from the side of the table, clamping Sam firmly against its cold metal surface.

“Why, you are Doctor Sauce!” Sam cried.

“Indeed I am,” the doctor said, tearing off his disguise. “And your HMO was none the wiser!”

Sam now struggled wildly to free himself, but the restraints held fast. Meanwhile, Doctor Sauce calmly prepared a hollandaise enema.

“I want you know this will be an utterly terrifying experience,” he told his wide-eyed patient, who no longer felt any pain in his back.

(This previously unpublished manuscript was found in a steamer trunk owned by the late husband-and-wife writing team of Horst and Kiki Sloat. The trunk also contained several poems about apes.)