Chapter 18: Paging Doctor Feelgood.

Eleni's trip to the North Pole was short-lived. For starters, she was illiterate, and unable to discern that the letter 'N' on her compass marked the way north, despite it having been the letter of the day on Sesame Street that morning. She reluctantly returned to West Belgium, where Sergei and Coronado were tightening their grip on the kingdom, like one of those nutcracker dolls that winds up messily spitting the cracked shells everywhere and dropping the nut anyway.

Had she been able to read the newspaper during her travels, she would have read how astronauts in orbit had spotted the massive velvet portrait of Stevie Nicks that Coronado had commissioned. The same painting which was now blocking all sunlight from the kingdom. Although it did help the booming rat population, hide the anatomically-exaggerated statues of Sergei which had been erected (in every sense of the word) throughout the capital, and provide a topic of conversation. All in all, the citizens had determined it a net gain. But across the sea, in the blood-spattered mansion of rock star Rendol Van Carthing, I, former crown princess Katrina von Pain, was sure that I would make a much better unelected despot.

The nastiness of Johnny's demise behind me, I decided to end my association with Rendol, after fulfilling a contractual obligation to film one final video with him and letting him hit me upside the head with a whiskey bottle for old times' sake. I was determined to continue my quest for the crown, and after I was done playing "Kings Quest VI," I also vowed to try to regain my own crown.

While I aimlessly wandered the streets reeking of whiskey, I wished I was possessed of the talent held by the small boy in the circular laughing-drawing I had observed lining Rendol's birdcage, wherein the boy was able to leave behind him a dotted trail marking where he had roamed. I acknowledged myself as lucky, however, that I was haunted neither by the ghosts of my ancestors nor or the dreaded demon "Ida Know." It was at that moment, while ambling down the center of the street, that fate intervened like American soldiers in middle eastern politics.

It may be more accurate to say that fate intervened like a speeding school bus, because that would happen to be the form it took. A speeding school bus that rammed into me with all the force of group sex with the Dallas Cowboys. Once again, I found myself in a hospital bed, although this time it had nothing to do with roleplaying, a botched assassination attempt, or the after-effects of group sex with the Dallas Cowboys. Standing over me was a strapping young lad fresh out of med school, Doctor Rex Hardbeef. Dr. Hardbeef looked like he had been chiseled out of pure Angus chuck, but he explained his condition away, saying he had been out in the sun too long the other day.

"Doctor," I asked, "is there any hope for me? Will I ever walk, or talk, or play the piano again?"

"Well," he answered, "you're talking now, your permanent record shows you failed all your childhood piano lessons, and the jury is still out on your walking. You've suffered severe leg failure, and there's only one known treatment. It's experimental, and not for everyone, but something tells me you might be able to handle it."

"What is it, doctor? I'll do anything to walk! I have to recover, I have important matters of vengeance to attend to! And would it be possible to get an I.V. of pure rubbing alcohol while we're at it?"

"That's the spirit," he said. "Rubbing alcohol is my favorite thing to drink too, especially early in the morning before I drive to work. But back to the treatment. I think, in my professional medical opinion, that the only thing that will comfort you is a high-quality dose of 'Vitamin S', administered by me, Doctor Rex Hardbeef, gigolo physician."

And with that, he pulled the curtain around my bed.

"Oh, Doctor Hardbeef!"

"That's my name. Now say it louder, I want the whole floor to hear!" He presented a pair of stirrups, some clamps, and his burly, three-nippled chest. "The extra nipple means extra lovin'," he said, before swigging some of my rubbing alcohol. But we were rudely interrupted. For into the room strode his colleague, Doctor Swatch Edwards, without the consideration of a knock or a honk of his clown nose. Dr. Edwards, I discovered, helped ease the pain of terminally ill young patients, like my roommate, by teaching them that this life is full of scary-ass clowns and that they're better off dead.

Oh yes, my roommate. She had been studying the goings-on behind the curtain, and for an eight-year old she sure had a lot of questions. Dr. Edwards made a lame joke about us "playing doctor" and "playing alcoholic man-whore adulterer," then proceeded to try and distract her by pulling a dove out of his pocket. When that didn't work, he read her the speech he had written to defend himself to the hospital's crusty old governing board, making cloying use of the untimely murder of his girlfriend and exploiting it for his own smug ego. The girl gave him two thumbs down and told him to choose his material better. Then she asked to transfer to a better hospital. Thus was thwarted his plan to force her to swim laps in a giant wading pool full of pasta, which future court testimony would reveal was his lifelong obsession.

But we barely noticed, so enraptured were we by the physical therapy process. "Oh, Doctor Hardbeef," I exclaimed, "you really do have the prescription for massive blunt-force trauma!" He cracked my cast into a more convenient position for himself before he gasped, "Ditto," which made little sense but showed he cared. I rang the bell for the nurse, and asked for some more rubbing alcohol.