The VEHICLE arrives to consult with TYRANNIE TRANNIE
Parking lot, day. The VEHICLE approaches a white van, unmarked save for a hand-painted slogan on the driver's-side door: YEARNIN' A TIT?, with a 976 number beneath it (1-9SO-4-A-TIT-NOW). The VEHICLE and her vagina, the ORACLE, have agreed previously to let the ORACLE speak on their collective behalf for the day, barring any new visitations from world leaders, so that the VEHICLE can express her desire to get her hormone-engorged breasts slightly more engorged. The VEHICLE will have to think very loudly and with great focus in order for this to happen, but as with all married couples, the VEHICLE and ORACLE are getting a sort of rhythm down, when it comes to communication, so it's mainly a matter of volume.
The van is the drive-by-night brainchild of one TYRANNIE TRANNIE, pimp, drug dealer, and cosmetic surgeon, herself a transsexual, former prostitute, and intravenous drug user. (She is of the school which holds that one cannot effectively perform a job unless one has worked one's way up from the bottom, so to speak.)
The VEHICLE knocks on the rear door of the van.
Tyrannie Trannie (henceforth T.T.): [opening door from inside, wearing a white lab coat]: Good day. Enter in. [VEHICLE stumbles somewhat on the step up to the inside] That's okay, nanny's got you.
Vehoracle: Surely you must be Tyrannie Trannie?
T.T.: 'Tit earner nanny,' I. You look a little too calm to be here about drugs, and you're a little flat to be hooking, so you must be here about the tits. No offense.
Vehoracle: I would have made an appointment, but --
T.T.: [waves hands] No, no, it's all good. I would have bumped people anyway, for someone of your stature and fame. Not often I get a celebrity. Let's go downstairs.
[T.T. and VEHICLE descend a flight of stairs behind the driver's seat]
Vehoracle: This is an impressive vehicle. Most vans don't even have staircases, much less basements.
[T.T. and VEHICLE emerge into cavernous basement, with many blinking lights and beeping noises from all over. There is a steel table, at center, and nine buxom assistants, some more symmetrical than others, in lab coats, who all look away from their computers and snap to attention on T.T.'s entrance.]
T.T.: Yeah, I got the tricked-out van, all right. [motions to assistants] This is my staff; THE NINE, I like to call them. That's Nina, and Tina, and Irene; Trina, Rena, our arty intern Annie, Nate, Arnie, and Ryan. Ernie's on an assignment right now. Nina? Tina? You want to go get our guests something to drink? Maybe some fruit? [NINA and TINA exit. T.T. and VEHICLE sit down. To VEHICLE:] So. You gots an inner tit yearnin'.
Vehoracle: I was actually kind of hoping for some outer ones.
T.T.: But yearning in an internal kind of way.
Vehoracle: I suppose. Are there external ways to yearn?
T.T.: Oh sure. But that's probably not really what you're concerned about. You're wondering about my rates.
T.T.: They're very reasonable. "Inert rate nanny," is what they call me. Because my rates are stable and don't react badly with things. For that matter, neither does my silicone. It's pure industrial grade silicone, nothing else. Plus I use no plastic encasings for the silicone. It's a little known fact outside of the medical community that the plastic casings are what really cause the health problems. It's not the silicone at all.
Vehoracle: Oh. Well that's very good. I don't want any health problems.
T.T.: You're perfectly safe here. [to RENA:] Clipboard? [Rena hands T.T. clipboard, which T.T. begins to fill out.] Any inner nitrates?
Vehoracle: None I know of.
T.T.: Good. Good. Nitrate causes all kinds of problems. Allergies to penicillin, or any other medications?
Vehoracle: No. There's going to be penicillin?
T.T.: Well in my kind of work, there's usually some penicillin somewhere, sooner or later. Or there should be. So I always ask. Nina! Tina! Reentry!
[Nina and Tina enter, with a couple glasses of some kind of cola and some fruit on a tray.]
Nina: [gesturing to banana on tray] Nanner? [VEHICLE takes banana and begins to eat it.]
Vehoracle: It's surprising to see so many, uh, assistants, here with you.
T.T.: [shrugs] Well, you know what they say. Retain any intern. I'd ask you about airy inner tenants, but I don't have to. [makes mark on clipboard] I think that's it for the preprocedure counseling. Now about the rates. I like nine. Each. Plus ninety if you're interested in symmetry.
Vehoracle: I am interested in symmetry.
T.T. Well sure you are. Who doesn't like symmetry? Well, [looking around room, eyes lighting on an obviously asymmetrical and short female] except for tiny errant Annie, there. [ANNIE blushes, hangs head.]
Vehoracle: So nine hundred ninety dollars per breast?
T.T. No, nine hundred, times two, plus the ninety. That comes to eighteen ninety, and ten for penicillin, for an even nineteen.
Vehoracle: That really is very reasonable.
T.T.: And just for you, I'll donate twenty percent to the Joycelyn Elders for President fund. It's all about cutting overhead. Not using wasteful extra processes and complying with silly governmental regulations, getting FDA approval and such. But let's get up on the table here.
[VEHICLE gets on table.] Nate? [NATE removes VEHICLE'S blouse] And let's see. Would you like music? Sometimes people find it distracting.
Vehoracle: Music is good. And by the way, you have ten, uh, assistants, not nine.
T.T.: Nine, ten. Ppfft. [to group:] Nair tray! [quick aside to VEHICLE:] Rate Nina in entry.
[NINA arrives with a silver tray and a bottle of Nair.]
Vehoracle: [aside to T.T.] Hmmm. Inane. Nine? Ten?
T.T.: Ryan, Nate. If you would.
[NATE and RYAN begin to sing, in harmony: "Relax, and rest, let's dress your chest with breasts," followed by humming to the same tune. T.T. fills a syringe with something gray from a large unmarked container]
T.T.: Now, you're going to feel a slight pinch in the breastal region.
Vehoracle: 'Breastal?' Are you, like, a real doctor?
T.T.: [Dismissively] 'Real doctor.' Nate; Ryan -- tinnier!
[NATE and RYAN continue to hum, but with poorer harmony]
T.T.: I apologize. [waving syringe around] They used to be singers, and I am a tinny trainer. Enter, Ernie!
[ERNIE returns, coming down the staircase.]
T.T.: [gesturing with head] Ernie.
Vehoracle: [to Ernie:] Hello. [to T.T.] They all look kind of familiar. Except for the breasts.
T.T.: Well you might recognize them, I suppose. Nina ran Eternity's campaign at CK for a while. And Ryan was a savage little Aryan in internet banking for a time. You do any banking?
Vehoracle: For a time. I was loyal to the Bank of America, until they started charging me extra fees for everything and my debit card number got stolen. And then I kind of ran out of money and banking wasn't really a high priority.
T.T.: Oh! You don't have money? Or, uh, a job?
Vehoracle: Not in a bank. I assumed you'd take cash.
T.T.: [visibly relieved] Oh yes. Of course. Cash is great. [nods head vigorously] And, about the job, well, I say, 'Earn rent? Inanity!' But where was I? Oh yes. The thing about the title 'doctor' is, you know, anybody can say they're a doctor. The title doesn't mean anything. If you mean, have I studied medicine, the answer is assuredly yes. Though it's a tiny arena, internal medicine. I like to have a broader understanding of things. That's why I also hold a doctorate in entertaining. And in the extremely unlikely event that anything goes wrong, I have access to all kinds of information on the computer cathode's ray. Nina! Internet!
[NINA rushes to take a seat in front of one of the computers]
T.T.: But let's get you pectacular. [Phone rings.] Trina, rent ye Nina. [TRINA answers phone and talks briefly, then writes down an address and hands it to NINA.]
Trina: [to NINA:] Earn ninety. [Exit NINA.]
T.T.: Who was it?
T.T.: Terry in Nina. Neat.
Vehoracle: You're remarkably efficient, the way you order everybody around.
T.T.: It's part of the gig when you're a pimp / dealer / cosmetic surgeon. Always got to be on your toes, juggling, rearranging. But I'm not a tyrant. [pause] A tyrant, I? Anne? Irene?
Annie and Irene [in unison]: A nanny. Trainer. [ANNIE and IRENE look at one another, giggle, then say, again in unison:] Tie! [more giggling]
T.T.: We should get started. Annie, get on the computer. [ANNIE seats self.] Trina? Pulse?
Trina: Near ninety.
T.T.: Okay. [to VEHICLE] Are you ready? [to ANNIE:] Annie -- try Nairnet.com.
(Story continues at RIMI PETERS DROPS HER THOUGHTS. . . .)