POP!

"Gawddangit," Big Daddy belches out along with unwelcome reminders of the Durianburger he'd had at lunch, "I can't stand the smell of burning flesh."

Doctor Doctor Ghee-Ghee licks a shaky finger and folds back the moist flap of Big Daddy's eyeball, spritzing more Visocaine up his own nose with his other hand, admiring the piss-perfect work of his hot rod mercury-vapor laser.

"Geng geng, nurt nurt," the good doctor manages to slur as he pats his ancient, Tangerine iMac, long gone black with some tropical fungi that coexists parasitically with his surgical instruments. He quickly readjusts Nurse Nurse over Big Daddy's other, bloodshot eye.

"Doc," Big Daddy frets, "you sure it's safe to do 'em both on the same day?"

Doctor Doctor Ghee-Ghee teeters back in deep non-thought while Nurse Nurse gently lowers a glowing nipple onto the surface of the eye, suctions up the outer layer of cells, and slices. Big Daddy's naked cornea squirms like a peeled albino grape in a Lemon Jell-O side dish at a potluck orgasm.

"Quit wiggle so much," Doctor Doctor Ghee-Ghee pipes down from his cloud.

POP! Another smoke-ring of annihilated eye cells tangos into their nostrils.

"This what friend are fooooorrr..." croons the doctor from the imaginary karaoke screen in his brain.

"Feels like sand whenever I blink," Big Daddy curses.

Through his watery, anesthetized eyeballs, everything in the crowded street market around the surgery stall has melted into blurs of neon lime lava and halos of siren cherry.

"No touch one week, na krap!" Doctor Doctor Ghee-Ghee adjures somewhat authoritatively as he presses the half-emptied Visocaine canister into Big Daddy's sweaty, tattooed palm, slapping his morbidly obese patient's crotch playfully.

"Ess, Nootch, Tip, Daeng!" Big Daddy barks, summoning his boys to hoist him back to Goldfinger, to that comforting go-go darkness of infamy, where he intends to spend his convalescence. And he does mean spend.

Doctor Doctor Ghee-Ghee helps himself to a big fat tip from Big Daddy's bahtCoin wallet.

Already Big Daddy can make out rudimentary reality-overlays radiating hermaphrodelically from the quick-rooting implants.

"Doc-doc," he burps in awe, "yer a jig-nee-us!"