Rubber Babes

3. Zitts

3

Zitts

I might not have ever gotten to the bottom of Keppelhoffer's (or gotten into any of the trouble that later befell me) if I had not been paid a visit at the office one bright morning by what the shopworn editors of Reader's Digest would call "My Most Unforgettable Character."

"Zitts is here to see you," Vivi said, waltzing in and out of my private office.

Close behind her was a tall, pizza-faced man with close-cropped black hair in a black suit, black shirt, and black tie. He was probably not a day over forty, but he walked with the slight stoop of a much older man, and he had a discernable limp.

As I rose from my chair to greet him, he thrust out his hand enthusiastically. "Doctor Dieter Zittpopper," he said with what I thought was a thick German accent but which could have been Austrian, Dutch, or Swiss.

"Vivi seems to know you," I said, gesturing for him to sit. She'd already bestowed on him a steaming cup of her syrupy Nigerian dark roast, which, of course, he took black to match his clothes.

"Ah, we are old buddies," he said as he made himself comfortable (not for the first time in this office, I guessed from his relaxed manner). "She teases me and I love it." He added a wink to convey he knew I didn't mind her teasing me either.

Right away, I assumed he was a medical man — sucking for bucks, no doubt.

I should learn not to assume.

"Looking for grant money?" I asked.

He took a moment, set his cup down on my desk, and pulled an earlobe pensively.

My God, he's an ugly man.

But his smile had charm, and his eyes sparkled as though he was about to tell you the best dirty joke you ever heard.

"Do you know the story of Martin Luther?" he asked slyly.

"Luther as in Lutheran?"

"Yes, that's the one. Do you know that when he was a young man in the seminary, Luther claimed to have had s**t-fights with Satan?"

A chill ran up my spine. I was sure it was a bizarre coincidence, but I had only recently been wondering why the devil, in whom I conferred not a shred of belief, would be picking on me. Now here was this guy playing a modern-day movie version of the same.

"s**t fights?" I asked.

"Yeah. He wasn't being metaphorical. In the middle of the night in his cell, they were literally throwing s**t — we can only assume it was Luther's s**t — at each other as they screamed their disgusting insults."

"Nasty" was all I could think to say.

Zittpopper chuckled. "Those frat boys, what do they know? Puke and ejaculation. They probably won't believe Satan exists, much less try to take him on."

"Young men can be foolish," I agreed, fearing this fellow could well be a big contributor, albeit some religious nut-job, to be respected and indulged. I was praying his stay would be short.

Why didn't Vivi brief me? (Where are those friggin' towels?)

"Those arrogant boys should understand Satan stands behind their pranks, motivates their little swinish urges, and animates the ups and downs of their little pricks like a puppet master jerking them off."

Whew. "Doctor Zittpopper…"

"My friends call me Zitts. I assure you it's totally okay," he beamed.

"What, er, can we do for you?" I glanced at my watch meaningfully.

"Ah, my dear boy, it is what I can do for you," he replied in all seriousness. Then he smiled again. "I see that vixen Valerie has shared nothing with you. She is having her fun, as is her way." He cleared his throat importantly, and then added, "I am a paid consultant to your foundation."

"You're involved in research, doctor?"

"Not at all. I took my doctorate in theology. I'm chairman of the department at Spaulding Putter University."

"Known for its academics or its golf?" I asked, hoping he didn't mind my making a joke of this prestigious-sounding institution I'd never heard of.

"Both, of course," he said, looking enormously pleased. "Are you a golfer?"

"My father was a player," I said, not suspecting he would know how true that was. "Can you actually take a degree in golf?"

"Sure. Although we recommend a double-major with religion," he said with a straight face. "Think about it. To move comfortably in the corridors of power in this country, what skills do you need? You must speak the language of the Neocons — political science and religion — and you must be able to seek them out where they live — in their country club estates!"

"So you move comfortably in those social circles?" I asked.

"I do," he said humbly.

"So would you say you are an advisor…?"

"Let's not mince words," he said, shooting me a stare. "I'm a lobbyist."

"I'm not aware of any legislation pending regarding Keppelhoffer's Syndrome," I said, trying to sound knowledgeable.

"No, not at this time. It would be premature," he said and laughed, unexplainably. "Of course, influencing the government is not just about getting laws passed. There is agency oversight, industry regulation, funding of programs — so much work for us to do."

"Do you mean it's premature because we don't know much about Keppelhoffer's yet?" I hoped the question might lead to an explanation, since he seemed to know all about everything we were up to.

"Oh, Keppelhoffer's is no mystery," he said and chuckled again.

"I thought there was still a lot of research yet to be done."

I mean, what's all that money for?

"Perhaps but that is not our — your — worry. Big Pharma will have to take care of business. It's their mess. Let them clean it up."

"Shouldn't we, I don't know, help?"

Zitts sat back and studied me for what seemed a long while. Then he said, "You don't have the faintest idea what Keppelhoffer's is, do you?"

"It involves the p***s," I said confidently.

"Of course. What about it?"

I had no answer.

He smiled, as though he was about to explain the facts of life to a tween, which was pretty much the situation.

"The underlying condition of chordee has been well understood for quite a long time — kor duh ee. Erection of the p***s downward. Fairly rare. Can be temporary, can be chronic. When chronic, appears in boys, genetic defect, fixed with surgery. Basically, a plumbing problem. Get a vascular guy in there, snip-snip, reroute the blood supply, no worries."

"And when it happens to an adult…?"

"Ah. Now it gets interesting. You've heard about the erection that lasts longer than four hours?"

"Yeah, side effect of some ED drugs. I can't see why it would be a problem!" Now it was my turn to chuckle, but Zitts went all serious.

"No joke, my dear boy. Blood pressure builds and keeps building down there. You don't get help, you could hemorrhage. It's a major plumbing problem, and you need help quick."

"And that's Keppelhoffer's?"

"No, but similar. Keppelhoffer's, regrettably, is worse."

"What could be worse?"

"Not chronic chordee. Permanent."

"Wow," I said.

"Turns missionaries into pile-drivers, wives and hookers into acrobats. b****y painful too, or so they say." Serious as he'd been, he seemed to be amused.

"And the d**g companies want to develop a pill cure it, of course."

"No, my dear boy," Zitts said in a low voice. "They want to stop causing it."

Gulp.

"It's extremely rare, you understand," he said. "Only a few hundred cases ever, in millions of doses. But it's a side effect, sure. Every one of the poor fuckers had taken the same stuff about an hour before onset."

"And any of the ED drugs can do this?" I demanded, resolving to clean out the medicine cabinet as soon as I got home.

"Not all," he said, "just…" and he recited several trade names I'd never heard of.

Then, as if to explain but only muddying the issue more, he added, "…and mostly in France."