Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Archive for: I Was Hitler's Wet Nurse, Oct 2005.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005.

02.17 hrs. She Started Out Breezily.

I couldn’t blog before now because I’ve spent all this time washing myself off in the shower.

Francine Aldridge-Ball came over to the asylum alright, just like she said she would. But the second she stepped into the TV room, everything took a different turn.

She started out breezily: “Darling, that Dr Császár, he’s such a whore. Let’s fire him, shall we?”

I beamed in agreement as she sidled up to me. She slipped a hand round the back of my neck.

“You want his job so badly, sweetheart? Hmm?”

I was about to say something when she gripped the back of my hair.

“OK bitch, this is how we do it.” Instantly, her eyes went glacial. She pulled me right up close. “You put on this collar. You dress for me. I lead you through the corridors to the Shame Ward on Wing 13. Hey bitch, don’t go scaredy-rabbit on me. I know all about the Shame Ward. I own this place, remember? You give your sex up to me totally in the Shame Ward. Every ounce of your soul belongs to me. You read me, stinking little bitch?”

She tugged my hair. My mouth sprang open. Her lips grazed on my mouth, feeding.

“You read me, stinky baby?”

posted by chantal at 3:49 PM Comments (4) Trackback (0)


Monday, October 10, 2005

09.12 hrs. Two Things.

When Mrs Singer regained coherence she related a colourful tale about being gang-raped by 27 bikers from the Berserkers motorcycle gang led by hurricane-in-pants and blonde god-in-residence pack leader, St Augustine.

She did this, Mrs Singer said, to earn her Berserker colours.” To expedite matters she helped out by taking on some of her “rapists” simultaneously, finding herself obliged to be filled from time to time vaginally, anally and orally – and then maybe pitching in with a couple of simultaneous hand jobs as well.

It was this multi-participant sexual situation that she was referring to when apprehended by our security in the asylum grounds, when she kept repeating the word “Crucial.”

Two things:

1. Dr Singer could endure listening to his wife’s story only after shooting up a kill-the-elephant dosage of cocaine and heroin. Morphine just wasn’t heavy-duty enough, it seems, to deal with the issue of his wife acting out her fascination for and idealization of rape.

2. I don’t know why the bikers dumped Mrs Singer over the walls back into the grounds of this asylum after they’d done with her. She doesn’t even live here.

posted by chantal at 9:12 AM; Comments (2); Trackback (0)


Sunday, October 09, 2005

04.16 hrs. Crucial.

Mrs Singer, the Arctic Finnish wife of Ward Consultant and morphine junkie Dr Rudolph Singer, set off all the alarm bells when she was found wandering dazed and confused in the grounds of this asylum wearing only a leather biker’s jacket, after being thrown over the walls – so it transpired later on – by a motorcycle gang in the dead of night like a sack of rotten potatoes, or a charity pack of used condoms.

When apprehended by the security all she could say was, “Crucial.”

posted by chantal at 1:00 PM; Comments (2); Trackback (0)

03.19 hrs. Heir-Apparent.

That henna-haired minx-of-the-desert Maxine handed me the phone as it rang on the desk in the TV room during break time on the nightshift in this asylum. Sitting by lamplight in a leather swing-chair, the minx fingered her left nipple openly, her eyes a mix of smoke and fire, as her long middle finger probed behind the buttons of her nurse’s uniform.

The voice of the benefactor of this asylum, Mrs Francine Aldridge-Ball, filtered through the earpiece as I took the phone.

“Chantal, darling, I’ve been thinking of you so much. I’m coming over tomorrow. I want to make sure my heir-apparent is OK.

”The keyword was “heir-apparent.”

Hearing it unexpectedly like that gave me a rush of elation. It implied Francine was truly in agreement with my proposition that I replace Dr Tomasz Császár as president of this asylum.

I reached past Maxine to put the receiver back on the desk. For a second, her breath was hot on my cheek, her fingertip working hard. She breathed in my ear: “Hey, you want some of this?”

I was so taken aback that I couldn’t even begin to form an expression, let alone verbalize an answer.

posted by chantal at 10:14 AM: Comment (0); Trackback (0)


Saturday, October 08, 2005.

02.46 hrs. Caesarean Homicide.

For the record, inmate Vivienne Mary Schofield’s crime of monstrous ego was this:

Luring her eight-month pregnant 22-year-old cousin into her home on the pretext of teleshopping for baby clothes, she thumped the first-time mother-to-be over the head with a family bible before hacking her open with a steak knife and cutting the foetus from her womb. At the time, both mother and baby were alive.

It wasn’t as though Vivienne Mary was an aggrieved woman denied children of her own.

She has three young sons and a daughter with a doting husband.Her trial revealed that prior to her crime she’d already made the necessary contacts in the black market for illegal adoptions.

For Vivienne Mary, caesarean homicide was just another way to make money. For her, a buck’s a buck.

posted by chantal at 2:08 PM; Comment (0); Trackback (0)


02.23 hrs. The Benefits of Thorazine.

I was horrified to discover 42 year old sophisticate-degenerate inmate Vivienne Mary Schofield reaching into the cribs of my adopted infant twins Tristan and Isolde – taken into my care after the suicide of their mother on Ward 11 – when I went to check on the sleeping babies in the secure unit where I had them removed to for their own safety in this asylum.

Under cover of darkness, and by what devious method I don’t know, Vivienne Mary had insinuated herself into the unit, and was methodically recording the measurements of the twins’ heads and limbs, entering the data in a notebook she was carrying, before removing cuttings of their hair which she then placed within the pages.

Before she could even look up I sprang across the room and slammed her into the wall where she crashed to the floor in a clatter of metal swab trays and medical supplies. Raising my hypodermic like a dagger, I plunged her big vein through with enough Thorazine to put her asleep for a week.

posted by chantal at 12:38 PM; Comment (0); Trackback (0)


00.15 hrs. Medication Time.

The inmate I refer to as the dark haired Italian diva clapped her hands ecstatically.

“Be a ballerina for me!” she cried. “Spring and leap for me!”

The microcephalicgrinning idiot” called Pippin stumbled around in circles, crashing against the wall in his cell, wearing a giant diaper and a wrap round his head whose crisp white lengths stood up from the top-knot on his small conical head like rabbit ears.

Invited by the diva at medication time, I formed an audience of one, as she proudly displayed to me the man she was to marry, and the father of her unborn child.

The only reason she wanted to marry Pippin was because, discovering fellow inmate Princess Rhodendra intended to do the same with her beau, the 16-year-old mother killer Justin da Souza, the diva, given her nature, went immediately into competitive mode, notwithstanding her desire to legitimate her pregnancy.

Reaching into my drugs trolley, I prepared a hit of 7.5mg liquid Zopiclone with an anti-psychotic lithium chaser – for both women.

posted by chantal at 9:36 AM; Comment (0);Trackback (0)


Friday, October 07, 2005

01.13 hrs. Rosh Hashanah.

In defiance of asylum president Dr Tomasz Császár I released Alexander Karlyuk – the one inmate staff and patients alike are all truly afraid of in this asylum – from the restraints that by executive order ensure he remains fettered at all times to his bed.

At Karlyuk’s request, I dressed him in the suit of clothes he had especially made up from black-and-white striped fabric, so that they resembled the style and pattern of those garments most closely identified with the Nazi death camps.

A yellow Star of David was attached to the upper sleeve, underscored by the word Jude – “Jew.”

His usual reading, Hitler's Priestess, Savitri Devi, the Hindu-Aryan Myth and Neo-Nazism, lay open, but face-down, on the floor.

We lit memorial candles in his cell. I read to Karlyuk from the Haggadah:

“. . . And the Egyptians treated us viciously, they oppressed us, and imposed hard labour upon us . . .”

He sat on the floor in his stripes with his back against the wall, his legs straight out in front of him, full-bearded, listening and watching, his black-kohl-rimmed eyes shining damply, as he, in his tortured way, celebrated his religion in these current high holy days of the Jewish New Year.

posted by chantal at 12:48 PM; Comment (1); Trackback (0)


Saturday, October 01, 2005

06.02 hrs. Poll.

See poll in sidebar.

posted by chantal at 6:02 AM; Comments (2) Trackback (0)