The Penis Monologues (A Shortened Story) by Michael H

I had hoped that it wouldn’t come to this.

The plan had been carefully created. There was a cover story that was credible, that couldn’t be blown by a mere comment or question. It was investigation-proof. Plausible deniability was established. No weak middle-men were involved, just a cutout, no two cut-outs to make the story go cold; cold like the Artic, if anyone came within one hundred miles of the truth.

People knowledgeable about these matters were retained. They were sent abroad, to investigate, to verify, to check every square inch of the facility. Their reports all came back the same: It’s a clean op.

Arrangements were made in the names of third parties. The names couldn’t be traced. The patient was known only as Mr. Long. His svelte, carefully veiled companion was known only as The Missus. Their passports and driving licenses were forgeries; excellent forgeries convincing to the border and customs authorities who waved them through without so much as a question.

Forged insurance cards had phone numbers that rang in a room above a tiffin shop in Bangalore. An articulate, well-scripted but anonymous voice told callers “Yes, full coverage is approved. There are no co-pays, no deductibles. You are authorized to proceed.” Another voice at the same number would tell the caller “Federated Healthcare is known for prompt re-imbursement payments. May we have your bank routing number so we can wire funds to your account immediately upon receipt of your invoice?”

The story told to others, the story used to cover the absence from public sight was a sympathetic play. It used the word cancer. Everyone stops when they hear that word; no one asks any more questions, except “How bad is it?” How little they knew.

On the day of the operation, after the bloody part, the surgeon walked to the private beach and whispered to The Missus “It has been done.”

“Good” she whispered back. “And Mr. Long, what is Mr. Long’s condition?”

“Mr. Long is no more.”“Thank you, doctor.”

The jet aircraft, plain white, tail number HAZ001, brought us back to the US. The onboard transponder had been briefly switched off, for an instant off 65 miles south of Key West. When it was turned back on the aircraft had a new transponder ID number, one that let is slip unnoticed into the FAA air traffic control system without raising suspicion.

It landed on a private, unmarked airstrip. There were security guards at the lodge; our team, we were home and safe. A few minutes online and the alibi had proved successful. Well-wishers posted their notes, responses were duly sent back.

The plan had worked. It was flawless.

Then Trooper York had to post that photo of Lyndon Baines Johnson. And all the bad, angering, horrible, humiliating old memories came gushing back like Maureen Dowd the next morning, reeking of gin, spackled face, begging for my phone number.

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. All that work, the cover story, the years of doubt, the long conversations with the therapist who later willingly became the Missus. It has to come out.

It wasn’t cancer on my kidney, although I wish it had been. Life would be so much simpler if it had been. A rough surgery, a week in a hospital, a few weeks of convalescence at home, and the episode would have passed. It would have been just another pothole on life’s superhighway.

But now I have to say it.

I had penis-reduction surgery because of Lyndon Baines Johnson.

TO BE CONTINUED