Chapter 15: Getting Whiskey Wit It.

By and by, I left the intensive care unit and was driven to Rendol's luxurious estate, which was surrounded by a statuary featuring sculptures of naked polo players chasing overmuscled panthers. As we approached, I studied the interior of the limo, which was upholstered tastefully in hot pink leopard print. It reminded me of my brief teenage stint as a taxidermist. Everything had been pink that year because my eye was infected.

My role in the Kïllfũck music video was simple. I was to squirm and contort myself across the hood of a moving sport utility vehicle, which was completely encrusted in Teflon, while draped tastefully in thin gauze. At the band's whimsy, buckets of dove blood would be sprayed at me from the wiper wells. It was a song about life, caring, and above all, the eternal merciful torment offered by Satan and his minions of the night. Rolling Stone had already labeled the track "distasteful" and "puerile" based on a leaked MP3 on Kazaa. Eminem had commented to the press that it made him ashamed to be an American.

I was greeted by Rendol at the door. "Oy," Rendol exclaimed. That was it. He was a man of few words. Rendol's bandmate, "Long Johnny," instructed me to strip and quizzed me on my knowledge of insurance claim filing. I carefully explained, to the best of my ability, the necessity to maintain HIPAA compliance during the process and to bill only for services rendered and documented. Long Johnny stood quietly, absorbing this information, and then smashed a whiskey bottle across my temple.

I awoke strapped to the hood of Rendol's SUV, which I estimated was doing about 90 down the interstate. In front of us was a minivan with a camera aimed at me. Rendol was lip-synching, and I wondered how viewers could realistically accept his playing an unplugged electric guitar in the passenger seat with a safety belt on.

Rendol had a way with lip-synched words that few men do. Between the close calls with the pavement and the fumes, I was able to make out a poetic line lamenting globalization and calling for the purification of something or other. It was really quite catchy, much like my gauze wrap was catching on the wheels and strangling me.

"Writhe harder!" the director yelled. "Show me more unbridled lust! Make me want to violate you!"

I had been under the impression I was doing that very thing, but apparently I was not. The spray of bugs against my forehead was distracting, and the tire pressure on the driver's front side was low, both of which affected my performance and his gas mileage. Not to mention the rude interruption supplied by a highway patrolman who pulled us over for not having a writhing license.

"But Officer," I protested, I'm but an innocent simple noblewoman, adrift in a world I didn't make, and I have these," clutching at my rack and shoving it towards him. I jiggled for effect. "I'm sure Mr. Van Carthing will gladly pay any fees and we can forget this ever happened." Then I jiggled again.

"Oh, okay," said the officer. "You're lucky I'm high on opiates today." And with that he left. Rendol became suddenly more appreciative of my charms. "Hey, bitch," he said, rubbing some portion of himself against my leg. I couldn't tell. "How'd ya like to unstuff me codpiece?" And with that, he smashed a whiskey bottle against my temple and everything went black.