Stable Genius by Dale Patrick Smrekar

Stable Genius by Dale Patrick Smrekar

Saturday afternoon in an emergency room of a local suburban hospital.

“There’s a blockage of your husband’s lower intestinal tract,” the young ER physician told Julie Jones, Randall Jones’ wife of nine years. We’re admitting him. X-rays are inconclusive. All we can tell you at this point is the blocking mass is located near his rectum. We’ve called in a specialist.”

“Cancer?” Julie asked.

“Too early to say. It could be several things. An infection, maybe an undigested fish bone, lodged itself in his lower tract, a benign tumor, or maybe a hard cyst. We don’t know for sure. But it’s pretty solid. Nothing is getting by, except some fluid leakage and gas. A lot of gas. I need to ask you a personal question.”

“Okay.”

“Does your husband sometimes wear a butt plug?”

“A butt plug? That’s what you think it is? Randall’s got his share of problems, but he’s not some kind of perve!” She huffed and paused. “Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“It’d be more than one.”

“What, you think Randall’s got an ass closet full of butt plugs?”

“We just had a patient in here this week who got a little carried away with them. He doesn’t live far from you. Thought maybe he knows your husband and we’re dealing with some sort of butt plug contest or something. That guy had eight jammed up there.”

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Butt plugs. Are you trying to tell me Randall’s got something lodged up his ass? Something he put up there himself?”

“It’s probably a growth. We’ll know when we get him in the operating room. Now, if it’s a major problem, cancer or something, he might have to wear a colostomy bag for a short period. Just until he heals.

Julie frowned and stared at the ER doctor. “No way I’m changing one of those things.”

“The new ones are relatively simple to deal with. No fuss, no mess.” He smiled then reached under his clipboard and handed Julie a pamphlet about colostomy surgery and hygiene information. “Here, you can read this… in case it comes to that.”

“And if it’s butt plugs?”

 “He’ll be home tomorrow.”

“I’ll hope for butt plugs.”

“A better option.”

“Can I see Randall?”

“He’s mildly sedated. May not be all that lucid. We’re preparing him for possible surgery.”

“Can I see my husband?”

“Come with me, Mrs. Jones.”

The emergency room was almost empty that afternoon. A few cubicles had curtains drawn, but many of the beds sat empty. Someone moaned loudly.

“Was that Randall?” Julie asked.

“Only if he’s an elderly woman. It’s Elderly Woman Day in this ER. Randall’s the only guy right now. He’s in the prep room.”

 Julie followed the ER doctor down the hallway to a room. “Your husband’s in here,” he said. You can spend some time with him. But he may not be all that communicative.

She found Randall lying on his side, curled up in a fetal position on a hospital bed. He looked relaxed, his breathing consistent. His eyes were like coin slits.

“How you are doing, babe?” she asked and rubbed his shoulder.

“Uh?”

“It’s me, Julie.”

“Oh.”

“Do you still hurt?”

He shook his head, no.

“They have me medicated. Feel good. High as a kite right now,” he said with a smile.

“Honey? The doctor asked me a strange question.”

“Yeah?”

“Have you got a bunch of butt plugs up your ass?”

“Butt plugs?” He paused. “No… no butt plugs.”

Julie exhaled, “For a minute I was worried there.”

He chuckled. “I’m pretty drugged up.”

Two nurses unexpectedly entered the room.

“We’re wheeling him into surgery. You need to leave so we can get him ready,” the older, heavy set Black RN said. “Please step outside. An aide will be along to accompany you to the waiting room.”

As Julie reached the door, she thought she heard a horse whinny coming from the outside hallway. Odd, she thought as she opened the door. A smiling, heavily tattooed Hispanic male aide met her as she stepped out the door.

“Was that you who whinnied?” Julie asked.

“Me, whinny? God, no, I hate horses. Got thrown once, never got back on,” he said as the prep room door closed. “Follow me, please.”

Along the way to the waiting room the aide winked at a female nurse. She’d been the one who’d just whinnied. The word that a horse rustler had corralled a bunch of plastic ponies up his ass had spread like tumbling tumbleweeds throughout the hospital emergency room staff.

“Okay, Mr. Horsie,” the Black RN said to Randall once Julie had left. “I’ll be pushing you to the operating room. Once there, we’ll carefully transfer you to the operating table. Is that okay?”

“I overdid it, didn’t I? Randall asked. “Does my wife know? She asked about butt plugs.”

“Not yet, but someone’s gonna have to tell her about all those little plastic ponies up your ass”

“I know.”

“Dr. Clark looked at your X-rays. Says there’s over one hundred up there. Any idea just how many? I’m his surgery nurse. I just wanna know how many, so I can figure out if I’ll be home for dinner or not. Had a guy with the mess of butt plugs up his ass earlier this week…. I didn’t get home until after midnight.”

“Lost count.”

“Great.”

“Are you knocking me out?”

“You’ll be alert, but you won’t feel a thing from the waist down.”

“How they getting them out?”

“Tiny cowboys. They’re gonna ride on in, rustle them up and drive them out through sphincter muscle pass.” The nurse chuckled.

“No seriously. I’m not ending up in some newscast about this, am I?”

“Only if you want to. I mean, if you were going for the Guinness World Record, maybe you want the publicity. I don’t know.”

“No, it just felt good… and then it didn’t. Haven’t taken a shit in three weeks.”

“Well, we’re gonna clean out that stable and then excavate the lower intestines. You’ll feel better in a bit, sweetie,” the nurse said with genuine concern. She lightly rubbed his shoulder for a moment.

“I’m weird, ain’t I?” Randall said as she unlocked the wheels of his hospital bed.

“No weirder than the rest we see.”

“You see others like me?”

“All the time, honey. People are always experimenting. But you’re the first one using tiny horses. Okay, cowboy, let’s get you off to that rodeo.” She pushed the bed away.

In no time, the operating room staff had Randall on the operating table. His body weight rested on his knees and lower legs, with his legs spread, and face pressed against the sheet-covered table. Restraining belts secured Randall’s calves and ankles to the operating table. His widely-placed feet hung restrained over the lower edge of the operating table, while his arms stretched to the other end. Fine Corinthian leather hand restraints would prohibit Randall’s hands from flailing away while the doctor explored the confines of his anal stable. Randall looked like an Islamic worshiper deep in prayer, except for his bare ass saluting the ceiling.

“This is uncomfortable,” Randall garbled.

“It’s called the Studio 54 position. It’s the best way to round your horses up,” Dr. Clark explained with a titter. Dr. Clark’s gray hair established him as a knowledgeable and experienced emergency room surgeon. He had seen just about everything, but plastic horses were new.

“It seems kind of gay,” Randall said.

“It only feels gay,” Dr. Clark said, as he closed in on Randall’s ass.

“Can you be careful digging around back there?”

“I do this all the time Mr. Jones. I’m the guy they call for ass extractions. You’ll be fine. I’ve never lost a patient doing this.”

“You’re just slipping something in there and digging around?”

“No, I’m using this device; it’s called an anal dilator. It expands your anus to allow me access.”

He held the device up so Randall could see it.

“See, it really opens you up,” Dr. Clark opened and closed the device multiple times. “They’re real nifty devices. Thirty years ago, the doctor would have just had to dig around in there, but not today.”

“Is it gonna hurt?”

“The anus is quite elastic, but just in case, we’ve swabbed you with a local anesthetic. Besides, you’re numb down there, right?

“Can’t feel a thing.”

“See? Now let’s get those ponies out of you. I don’t want to be here after midnight.”

“One, two… some of these are interlocked, head between the legs. No wonder he couldn’t shit them out,” Doc Clark noted.

The pile in the steel holding pan grew. “Thirty-five, thirty-six. Are you keeping count, Nurse Williams?”

She nodded and wrote down another number on her chart.

Every so often, a cloud of intestinal gas escaped Randall’s confines. The masks mostly dampened its effect.

“Mr. Jones, I assume you don’t want these little plastic horses back? They are still your property,” Dr. Clark asked.

“No.”

“They’d make a nice mantle collection,” the doctor deadpanned. “Damn, there’s a couple pieces of fencing in here. I hope there’s no barn or a chuck wagon in there?”

“No, just tried a couple of pieces of fencing, but they hurt too much. So, I stopped.”

“Excellent decision,” Doctor Clark said.

An hour later — “Eight-nine, ninety… we’re clearing you out.” A second steel pan was called into play. “Still a lot. Any guess to how many you shoved up here?”

“Maybe a 120.”

Thirty minutes later, “125, 126… I’m seeing a light at the end of the tunnel.”

“That could be a small flashlight. I thought I pooped that out.”

“I haven’t seen any flashlights. That was just a figure of speech,” Dr. Clark said.

At 142, the doctor stopped.

“Mr. Jones, it appears your efforts to shit out your horse collection out caused some of these plastic pieces to become impaled in your lower intestinal wall. We need to get an endoanal ultrasound scan before we proceed. You may need surgery to extract the rest of your ponies.”

“Is that necessary? I mean, if they’re not causing any pain, can’t they just remain in place?”

“Pilgrim… it’d be malpractice… for me to continue to allow them unbridled grazing in that valley. They need to be rounded up young cowboy… and driven to better pastures,” Dr. Clark said in his best John Wayne voice.

“I don’t want to be hooked up to no colostomy bag.”

The doctor peered once more into Randall’s anal cavity with his surgical light. You have four horses and a bit of fencing. I think I can retrieve a couple more of them. But that fencing piece may be a problem. It’s in there deep.”

“Go for it. I don’t want a colostomy bag.”

143, 144, 145. No bleeding so far.146. Just the fence left,” Dr. Clark called out to the assembled surgical staff.

“Pull it,” Randall said.

“Everyone heard our patient?” The various nurses and the anesthesiologist all nodded.

Doc Clark maneuvered the long-handled tweezer, grasping the end railing. Fortunately, Randall’s hardened feces remained bound a few inches above the fencing. He pulled. The fence piece came out easily. No blood.

“Whew, that was stressful,” Dr. Clark whispered.

Then all hell broke loose.

“He’s hemorrhaging,” Dr. Clark exclaimed. “Clamps, cauterization… too much blood!”

 No matter what Dr. Clark did, he couldn’t stop the bleeding. Randall Jones died that afternoon.

Twenty minutes later, Randall’s wife, Julie, was brought into a counseling room. A grief counselor and Dr. Clark greeted her.

“I don’t know how to say this…” Dr. Clark started.

Julie just stared into his eyes. Her lower lip quivered for a moment.

 “Your husband passed away on the operating table.”

“Bad cancer?”

She seemed oddly unaffected.

“Would you like to sit down?” the grief counselor asked her.

“No.”

“I know it’s quite a shock. Please sit down,” the grief counselor asked her once more.

“No, I prefer to stand.” Julie stared out into the abyss. She shuffled through her purse for a tissue then smiled. “We haven’t been a couple for a few years. It’s a long story, but let’s just say I like women. I’ve stayed with him for the past three years because he’s been lost, gone sort of weird. What killed him?”

“Tiny horses,” Dr. Clark replied.

“Huh?”

“He inserted over 140 little plastic horses into his rectum, along with a few pieces of fencing. It’s the fencing that killed him. One piece had pierced an artery. When I removed it… it was his decision… it tore the artery. We couldn’t stop the bleeding. I’m sorry.”

“I think he wanted to die. He was miserable,” Julie calmly replied. “He had quit his job and regressed into a child. Buying silly toys, playing Cowboys and Indians. He has a whole Western ranch scene built upstairs in our home. Trains, barns, grain silos, fake crops, wagons, farm animals, horses and farmers. You name it. It’s actually quite impressive.”

 “A referral to mental health counselors might have helped,” the grief counselor said.

“It didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Clark said.

“I had regressed from a wife to a reluctant caregiver. I wanted to move on with my life, but I’m not the kind to give up on my commitments. I was hoping…” Julie paused to dab her left eye. “Funny, I don’t know why I’m crying. I’ve got my freedom, and he’s probably at peace, riding around on that great ranch in the sky.” She glanced up at the hospital room ceiling.

“He has to be happy,” Dr. Clark said.

Julie weakly smiled in response.

“What’ll we do with the little horsies?” he asked.

“Put ‘em down. They haven’t been exactly grazing in greener pastures, have they?”

They shared a muffled laugh, which was quickly extinguished for decorum’s sake.

 The three continued to stand together for an uncomfortable minute, glancing at each other until Julie said, “Well, I guess I’ve got a funeral to plan. Thank you, doc, I know you tried your best.” She turned and briskly exited the counselling room before Dr. Clark could answer.

As Dr. Clark and the counselor stepped toward the counseling room door he began humming Roy Rogers theme song, “Happy Tails to You.” The counselor slapped him softly on his upper arm silencing his humming serenade. There’d be no further horseplay at this hospital.

* * *  * THE END * * * *
Copyright Dale Patrick Smrekar 2025

Image Source: A-r-e-s from Pixabay