Panic! No, wait …

So, the three of us visited the pediatrician today for the two-month visit. Hilarity did not ensue.

Allow me to preface this with some backstory.

I have an inherent belief — stemming from my traumatic childhood — that all pediatricians are evil. This isn’t a delusion, or a grudge, but a revelation: the feeling that I have looked behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse into the true, dark, horrible state of the world. This stems from having been the plaything of The Evil Dr. Frostad in my youth. He revealed to me the miserable cabal of torture and pain that is known in this world as the pediatric profession.

I fully acknowledge the possibility that The Evil Dr. Frostad may have done his field a disservice. While The Evil Dr. Frostad himself had clearly been trained by Dr. Mengele and his unholy minions somewhere beneath the seventh level of Hell, it is conceivable that others have not, and that somewhere out there, perhaps scattered across the far-flung corners of the Earth, there is an elite cadre of pediatricians who aim to subvert their demonic profession; perhaps they vow to inflict no unnecessary harm, and even strive to bring a generation of healthy children into this world, in spite of the ruinous motives demanded by the rest of their execrable colleagues.

Alas, I have yet to encounter any of these “good pediatricians”, if any even exist. I keep hoping that they’re out there.

So trips to the pediatrician are always a good time. We travel together, for safety. I always make sure to bring the crucifix, the wolvesbane, and the 9mm Glock loaded with silver hollow-points.

The previous visit was uneventful, perhaps even promising. This particular visit, however, lived up to my expectations.

First, the pediatrician’s stooped henchwoman took some all-new morphometrics:

Length: 24.5 inches
Weight: 11 pounds, 13 ounces (a reality check from our last displacement measurement)
Cranial circumference: 40.5 cm

Then the pediatrician gave us the bad news.

With an ominous gravitas, she said that Max had seriously degenerated since our last visit. His weight was now in the bottom fifth percentile — almost off the bottom end of the chart. His cranial circumference and length were similarly, precipitously meager, like he was withering away. “He looks thin to me.” Sure, he was eating, but maybe we were mistaken about the actual quantities that he was taking? This meant he was not developing properly. “I need to see him more often.” Emergency visits, to make sure he wasn’t getting worse, because maybe something serious was going on, like a gastrointestinal disorder, or tapeworms, or …

“Oh wait a moment … he was accidentally plotted at the four-month level. And wouldn’t you know … when you plot him against the two-month level, he’s at the 50th percentile. And hey, his length is even at the 75th percentile. He’s doing fine!” She licked her lips wetly, like a starving dog. “Why, he’s a nice, plump, tasty-looking –”

That was when I ran her through the heart, using my holy sacrificial knife of polished silver, its blade engraved with 12th century protective runes. With a flash of dark energy and a withering cry, her body crumpled, decomposing before us until it collapsed into a smoldering heap of ashes and writhing worms.

Soon enough, she’ll rise again from the dead. Pediatricians always do.

As we tried to make our escape, the stooped henchwoman burst through the door, clutching a brace of needles and other apparatus. Before I could intervene, she impaled Max three times in his legs, forced a hideous pink goo into his mouth, and cackled triumphantly with a hissing laugh, almost spasmodically, “Vak-shi-NAY-shuns!” I pulled out a photo of Dr. Benjamin Spock and held it up defensively. She clutched at her eyes, as if blinded by the sun, and emitted a feral cry of anguish. I shoved her aside, and we battled our way through the hellish horde in the lobby, and beyond, to the safety of the elevator.

But not without a reservation for a four-month appointment.

Leave a Reply