Normally I like Metallica, the louder the better. This time it was a little much. My ears were ringing before Samantha opened the door, letting a dozen flies, a few cats and the stench of a thousand assholes out of the house, and inviting us in.
"He's in there," she said, puffing on her Marlboro like there was no tomorrow.
We foraged through a minefield of cat shit, dog shit, and …human shit? I don't know, but it smelled awful.
Billy sat of the edge of a filthy sofa, sucking on a can of Bud, watching Gilligan's Island reruns with the mute on and the Metallica blasting. His basketball sized testicles sat in a puddle of blood between his filthy feet. Cat, dog or human feces was stuck between the toes.
"You gotta stop the bleeding," he said.
"He's a diabetic," she said.
I thought the house would collapse from the weight of his nuts, the pounding music and a hundred years of filth. It didn't, though, and the band played on, and some kittens ran around, playing in the shit, and Samantha lit up another smoke and flies appeared out of thin air, joining the party.
The pool of blood was quickly turning into a river.
"He's got varicose veins," said Samantha.
"One of them busted," said Gilligan.
"We have to leave. Now," said the EMT.
"He's bleeding!" said Samantha.
"The show's almost over," said Gilligan.
"I'm going to puke," said the EMT.
We stood him up, put his balls into a makeshift hammock, tied that to a Toga like contraption we created, stuffed a trauma dressing between his nutsack and legs and duckwalked him out of there.
"Can I take a beer for the road?" he asked.