I hate hecklers, which makes sense since I became the most heckled man in recent history. Ironically, I owe my initial success and my first show-biz nickname, to a heckler. I was onstage, dressed in the dapper way I was to become known for, and someone in the black T-shirt and jeans crowd calls out 'pussy,'� from the cheap seats. Great, I'm thinkin', another one. Seeing me momentarily silent, he said it again and drunkenly chortled to his buddies. Another genius heard from.

Then it came to me.

'Pussy, huh? Well, I guess you are what you eat! I should thank you, sir.'� Boom, big laugh.

'And utilizing that line of reasoning, I guess we could also conclude that you sir'� are a dick!'� Bigger laugh. Time to bring it back home to me.

'And if that is in fact true, Dick--- you are what you eat--- I guess that would make my ex-wife a pussy too!'� Baddah-freakin-bing, I killed 'em.

And as these things often happen, the right person just happened to be in the audience. The woman who became my manager was there to see a ventriloquist that was headlining and supposedly a hoot'�he wasn't.

I eventually became known as the Gentile Jerry Seinfeld. (Ringin' a bell yet?) Not just because I'm gentile, which I am, but because I look just like him. No shit, I do. I was afraid that was going to jinx me. All those years of no pay or low pay gigs hosting comedy clubs on off-nights. Of managers and pseudo agents booking me at the Rebecca League or Daughter's of the American Revolution tea parties, thinking they had landed me the gig of the century.

Ted, they'd say, it's really a pretty good gig. And my fave, well, publicity is publicity. That one kills me. C'mon, do you really think the annual meeting of the survivors of Guadalcanal are gonna welcome a guy that tells jokes like that? I know this is comedy, but let's get friggin serious.

Oh, and my name is Ted Williams. No shit again! Christ, it's a wonder I ever made it at all. If the looking like Jerry Seinfeld thing didn't jinx me, I knew for sure that the Ted Williams thing would--- especially after they tried to thaw him out. Just what I needed.

Comedians are superstitious and I've got it in spades, or base hits if you will. A Scotch-Irish hump from Chicago that looks like Jerry Seinfeld and is named Ted Williams. Now there's a guy destined for stardom. But I couldn't change my name. Or wouldn't. Too stubborn. I wasn't even named after anyone. Not Ted Williams, the best pure-hitter of all time, or even a long lost Uncle Ted from some distant trailing of my mutating family tree. Nope, my parents just liked the name Edward, and they figured everyone would call me Eddie. Eddie Williams. Not a bad show-biz name either.

This might've worked out fine except for the arrival of my little brother Terry. When Terry finally got around to speaking---more idiot than savant, our Terry---my parents taught him how to say his name.

'Terry.'�

Simple enough, except he was pointing at me when he said it.

So as any loving and indulgent parents might do, they gave Terry his second language lesson. They pointed at Terry and said, Terry (which to his credit he got), and then they pointed at me and said Edward, which he almost got--- except it came out Tedward. My parents and my two older sisters, curse them all, thought this was just about the funniest line uttered since "I was born on a pirate ship," spoken whilst holding onto your tongue. Simple folk, my people.

Well you don't just laugh 'till you practically pee yourself in front of a little male Williams unit and expect it to not register. So my beloved little brother said it again, Tedward. Har-dee-har-har. The place was a laugh riot. Old Terry was just killin 'em. My sisters were laughing so hard they were blowing snot bubbles and my parents' faces were so red I thought they were going to explode. Oh, just one big happy family, cementing language skills into little junior.

Terry, now seeing that he had an audience, said it again ---Tedward, Tedward, Tedward---which almost cleared the room. My sisters raced to the couch in the living room and buried their heads under pillows to stifle their sobs. My mom had to race to the bathroom, in that hunched-over hop-step that middle-aged women use to not pee their pants. So it was just me, my dad, and little Terry left in the room. For good measure he said it fifty or sixty more times--- and that was that. I became Tedward, eventually shortened to Teddie, and then just Ted. A slugger is born.

So'� once I began my comic ascent I was known as that Ted Williams guy--- no, not the frozen slugger--- the comedian guy. Then I was known as that Pussy guy, after having worked the 'you are what you eat line'� into my opening. Finally a clever writer at The New Yorker came up with the Gentile Jerry Seinfeld, cuz I looked so much like him. What he actually wrote was the Gentile Gerry Seinfeld, playing off my Scotch-Irish background. Plus I'd been kinda absorbent with Seinfeld's material. Hell, I'll admit it now that it doesn't matter. I'd take his material and turn it inside out, amp it up a bit, and whalah--- new funny stuff. And no one was the wiser. Oh, and unlike him, I swear a ton. Can't help it. I just get in the zone onstage and rip. And you have to admit that sometimes there is nothing funnier that a well placed 'fuck.'� Spoken with just the right inflection. So you could say I'm about two or three degrees separation away from Seinfeld, which is one or two leaps farther than most audiences are able to jump--- so I'm ok. Or was.

So'� The New Yorker hung The Gentile Gerry Seinfeld on me, but Americans being as quick as they aren't, they weren't able to catch onto the 'G'� part of it. Fuckin' mokes. From 'that Ted Williams guy'�, to 'you know, that pussy guy,'� to The Gentile Jerry Seinfeld in just over three years. Not bad, huh? No, if you ask me, not too shabby at all. And I had it all. Money, limos, people kissing my butt like you would not believe--and oh yes, the babes! I'll spare you the details, but let's just say, How many chicks does it take to screw in old Teddie's dressing room? ... Shit, how many you got? Sorry folks, but it was pussy galore. Course that was the first to go. Now when I say I couldn't buy a blow job, I'm being literal---unless maybe she was blind. Cuz now I'm known as, and I hate to bury it here in the middle of a paragraph, but now I'm known as The Guy With No Fucking Nose!!! A cross between Typhoid Mary (more on that in a bit) and Randall Flagg. And it all started out on a day like any other day, except for the fact that that was the day my fucking nose fell off!!!

Now there's not a chance you haven't heard of me, except that now it's not all that funny is it? Nope, not even a wee bit. And with things progressing the way they are people have more immediate matters to take care of.

Yep, a day like any other day. I was taking the bus back to my skyline apartment in downtown Chicago. A guy like me, I remembered my roots. I could'a lived anywhere, in fact there was a time I sublet apartments in Vegas and New York, but my main home was still the old windy city. Call me sentimental.

My caddy was in the shop so I hopped on the bus to do some shopping. Screw the cab; I was playing Mr. Blue Collar that day. I needed a couple of new suits. You'd be surprised what sweat does to a suit, and on-stage I sweat. I sweat so much that I made it part of the act. Contrast is cool so I figured as long as I sweat like a pig on-stage, I may as well dress like a duke or something, and have that be a hook. Worked too'�"Oh yea, that guy sure did sweat didn't he? And that must've been a thousand dollar suit he was wearing. Looked funny as hell. Yeah, that's right, that pussy guy, the Gentile Jerry Seinfeld, what the hell's his name? Oh yea, Ted Williams. Gosh, can you beat that?!" And now I'm just the guy whose freaking nose fell off!

So I'm riding home on one of those new buses with the auto-bot drivers. The ones with the cris-crossing shoulder bars that pneumatically release down over you like you're on a ride at Disney Universe in Cuba or someplace. And lately I'd been noticing how much water I was retaining. I was plumping up like a damn tailgate bratwurst. Alone in bed at night I started thinking that if things didn't get better I was gonna pop. No lie, but that's what I thought. I should'a been so lucky.

So I'm strapped into this seat, feeling like crap. I'd been getting headaches and dizzy spells all morning. And flop sweats. Just like on-stage and that never happens. I mean, I can play an hour of hoops and not sweat much at all. Just on-stage. And now that morning. And I'd been noticing that my nose was blistering--- on top and around the creases where it meets my face. I'd gone to see a dermatologist about it, but he said it might just be sun exposure.

Put a little sun-screen on it Jerry, and you'll be just fine. The doc actually said that--- called me Jerry, and laughed like it was our little joke. Then he rolled his eyes like he was thinking "oh these hypochondriac comics, where do they come from?" Doofus. Since he was a skin doctor he wouldn't say anything about my water retention. Told me to lose weight and referred me to a colleague. Again with the hypochondriac comic routine. I should'a gone to my old GP, not that it would've helped much.

My nose had really been bothering me that morning. Hurting like hell and, I swear to God, it felt like it was just floating on my face. So I'm strapped in the bus, sweating like hell, head hurts like a mofo, body all puffed, and my nose feels like it's swimming around on my face. And, of course, the bus is packed. I got a window seat with a little old lady sitting next to me. I'm sick and I can tell she's trying to figure out where she knows me from--- like I'm a nephew or somebody famous or something. Normally I get a kick out of that, but not that day. Of course she's got a paper bag full of groceries, with the biggest kielbasa or sausage or some damn meat-thing sticking out of it about a foot. It was scaring me. The bus was swaying back and forth and that thing was bobbing to and fro like it didn't know whether to slap me or kiss me. Freaked me the fuck out.

Then what happened was I kinda' blacked out. I had shut my eyes and I started falling into myself. Feverish and sick, bulging skin all strapped in by the seat-belt, being assaulted by the smells of that garlic schlong. It was like I slipped into some kind of a middle world--- a bad place where bad things happen for a long time, and it was my first time there. Unfortunately I've been back since.

I kept trying to pull myself out of it. It felt like my body was expanding out around the safety bars and they were cutting into my body making me look like an out-of-control balloon animal. I'm fighting my way out of this hallucination, getting closer and closer to clawing my way out of this hell. I pushed with all my might and finally jerked my body forward against the bars. Boom, just like that, I was out. My head snapped forward, slamming my chin against my chest. Damn, I was more bloated, and gushing like a stuck I don't know what. I felt a strange draft on my face. Right in the middle of it. Not a cooling, cleansing, 'breath of fresh air'� breeze. No, this was an out of place, shouldn't be there, specific kind of a draft'right in the middle of my face. I swept my right hand up to my face. It was such a knee-jerk reaction that I slapped the side of my face'�and felt something flop against my other cheek. That scared me, so I got control of my hand and slowly started feeling my face with it. Like a blind guy trying to 'see'� what you look like. Real slow, cuz I was mucho freaked. The old lady next to me not even noticing. I started touching the cheek I had just slapped. Ok, so far so good. But then when I got to where my nose should be, it wasn't there! Hence the cool fucking breeze. YIKES!

Shit'I thought I was still hallucinating, so I slid my hand over to the other cheek, and guess what? There was my nose. My head had tilted to that side and my nose was lying flopped against my cheek, held on by only the tiniest part of skin'with a great big hole in the middle of my face where my nose should've been! I screamed. A hideous, pitiful, little girl scream'granny was noticing now--the force of which tore the remaining connective tissue away from my face'� and with that, my nose fell off my face and onto the floor of the bus.

And that, ladies and germs, is what happened the day my fucking nose fell off! Damn, I need a break. I'll be right back.
..........................................................

Ok, I'll bring you up to speed soon, as time is short, but I'll mention that I scooped my nose off the floor quicker than you can say 'trash in a trailer park.'� I held it to my face and pulled that 'f-ing'� bell ringer like, well, like 'ringin' a bell'�'and I was off that mother-luvin' bus after squeezing past granny.

I won't bore you with the details of the frantic phone calls of that afternoon, or the endless doctors' appointments over the next weeks and months. I wasn't able to work, there's an understatement, so I had plenty of time to think and feel sorry for myself. The sweating and the headaches and the bloating went away. Thank God for small favors, and God and I have been doing mucho talking lately. Not that either one of us is very high on each other's lists.

And guess what?! I found a prosthetic store that had noses. Fucking unbelievable! A peg nose. Your choice, in lovely maple, mahogany, surgical steel, or life-like rubber polymer. And those babies aren't cheap either. I got the rubber one, even though it was the most expensive. Yet, I couldn't wear it out in public. Not uncovered anyway. They gave me the glue and the skin-toned tape, but I was still freaked so I got nose-job bandages and walked around like I'd had a little elective surgery. Kind of like an eye-patch for my nose.

Believe it or not I got used to it after awhile, but by then the doctors were starting to get scared. They really don't like to know about something that they can't fix'bugs the shit out of them. And when they don't know what causes it, it freaks them out even more. Specialists, Mayo Clinic, nobody knew what it was or what to do. All they could tell me was what it wasn't.

'Well, it's not leprosy,'� they said, standing around looking all serious, and still kinda pleased with themselves for figuring out what it wasn't. Christ! And when the press got a hold of it, it all went sideways.

That's when I got the new nickname'The Guy With No Fucking Nose. Oh yea, it was real funny for everyone, for the first month or so. That chick who replaced Letterman had a field day. Like she should talk with that big honker she's got fronting her face. Yea, big fucking joke. Although I did catch this Hybrid doing a set on HBO about me, that was actually pretty funny. (Hey, I'm addicted to comedy, so kill me.) It did ten solid minutes on me alone. Well, five on me, and then another five on the generic possibilities of not having a nose. And the audience was just pee-peeing their little trou-trous. Yes, it was all so supremely funny'until other people's noses started falling off.

I thought it was just my paranoia at first. Suddenly there seemed to be a lot of people with nose-job bandages walking the streets. Until I looked into their eyes. Then I could see the fear'the big fear. Not the 'I've just had a nose job and do I look kinda' funny?'� fear. No, this was the 'holy shit, my nose fell off and the doctors don't have a clue what to do'� fear. I knew that look. I even had a chance to talk to a few, but they would have nothing to do with me after they found out who I was. Uh-uh, and ohhh no! By then I'd gotten my newest nickname'Typhoid Jerry. Not a bad play on words, but not quite as funny by this time. More like nervous laughter, if at all.

I can thank Push Limbo and 'F-ing'� AM talk radio for that. Push being the computer-generated host of the largest syndicated show in America, but you know that. The radio conglomerates realizing that computers don't get busted for controlled substances, or ask for raises, or chase transgendered prostitutes. Once the technology caught up it was inevitable, and Push was the first. He was well into his second year and going gangbusters. Can't get enough of that comp-generated, right-wing paranoia. Push initiated the Neo-rac movement, for neo-reactionary, as if neo-con wasn't quite far enough. They were putting the neo-cons to shame.

Push was the first to break the angle that I was the initiator of Raines Disease. Raines Disease being what they called it, named after the august Dr. Raines, the first incompetent specialist to treat me. He had no idea what to do about it, but he sure was quick to slap his name on it. In a way I am lucky though. The first doc that saw me was my GP, Doc Nostritch. A nice guy too, but who wants to be stuck with Nostritch's Disease? That's too close to nostril, and so on, and so on. Please, spare me the jokes. Of course not many people were laughing by this time, not with people's noses falling off left and right. No siree.

So there I was'�The Great Initiator, The Scourge of Mankind (Gosh, just look at his dirty humor, Push said. Maybe he deserves it.). And yes, boys and goys, the Typhoid Jerry of the new world. Well fuck him too!

OK, so I was the first to get it, and this is about the only thing that's been proven about Raines Disease. And Typhoid Jerry is pretty good, but damn, we're past laughing now'more that anyone knows.

After that I mostly stayed in. I was rich so I didn't have to work. So if I didn't have to work, I didn't have to go out. Fine with me. They had also figured out that I was about six months ahead of the curve. Six months ahead of the number two case. For six months it was me and nobody else'then the others started showing up'�or dropping off, if you will.

Now I haven't gone out in months. I get my food delivered and I just sit and wait. I couldn't bear to be seen in public after what happened three months ago. I had a nightmare, much like the hallucination on the bus. I was sweating and twisting and turning in my bed. My head lashing back and forth, caught in the maelstrom of this madness. Body all bloated again. I came to in my drenched bed, early morning sunlight streaming through billowing shears covering my open window. A bird perched on my twentieth-floor balcony window singing sweetly. For a sweet second I felt relief. I lay frozen, thankful for feeling good after having felt sooo bad just moments before. Even thinking "oh, how nice, a bird sweetly chirping."

Then I noticed that cool, out-of-place, drafty feeling again. This time on the side of my head. Both sides of my head. I jerked up to a sitting position and looked back at my pillow. And there, lying sweetly as can be, were my fucking ears!!! One up and one down, lying on top of my sweaty pillow, like human cards from a demented blackjack game. No blood, no carnage, no nothin''just fallen off!

'Fuck,'� I shrieked, although I shrieked with a bit more masculinity that I did on that bus, I'll tell ya. 'Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!'�

And once again, and true to form, my hands flew to my head. Bang, they knocked into the side of my head, right next to where my ears should've been.

For some reason a song came into my head. Believe it or not, it was 'Three Coins in a Fountain.,'� although my mind was singing Three Holes in a Fountain. My mind really came up with that shit. I almost laughed. Jeezus, but it was amazing. And maybe, deranged as I was, I would've laughed if it hadn't been for the fact that I now found that when I had banged my head with my hands three of my fingers had fallen off! The first two fingers on my right hand and the forefinger on my left. Call me southpaw and send me to the bullpen.

I didn't even scream. I just kind of squeaked. I let out a few 'squeak, squeaks, and peep, peeps'� and sat there stunned. After that I pretty much became a shut-in.

Since then I've lost the rest of my fingers and one thumb, so I guess I can still hitch-hike if I need to. But I'm not goin' anywhere. No sir. Especially after what's been happening the last few days, but I need to rest a bit before I get to that.
'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�..


Ok, I'm back. So anyway'�

A few weeks after my ear episode I started getting curious so I ordered a pair of binoculars. I wanted to see if any people were pretending to get ear jobs, like they had when they were pretending they had gotten nose jobs.

Ten days ago I say something. I was sitting hunched down (Ok, so I was hiding. Sue me!) on my balcony. My neighbors on both sides have moved out, but I still have my pride. I'm squatting down, looking like a cross between Quasimodo and the Elephant Man, with my super-pro, CIA-type binos between my hot little pads. I'm lucky I still had the one thumb or I'da lost those babies over the railing sure as shit. I was checking out the Medical Arts Building across the street. It's as good a place as any to catch Raine-dears, as we've come to call ourselves. This I found out on the web. I'd surf the chatties, lie low, and find out what I could from other afflicted no-noses. They were calling themselves Raine-dears. Corny as shit, but give 'em credit all the same'it's clever.

So I'm spying down and who should come walking out of the clinic but not one, not two, but three people looking suspiciously like they've had plastic nose and plastic ear surgery--a mother, father, and a little daughter. Broke my stinkin' heart. Not just because it was a family, although that killed me too, but also because I realized that it must be speeding up. I'm no longer six months ahead.

I haven't picked up my binoculars since, even though they cost me over 1,800 bucks. I may be dyin' but I'm still a cheap Scotch-Irishman. They're harder than hell to hold anyway since I lost that last thumb.

For the last couple of days I've noticed a rashy flaking in the creases where my legs join my body. It's red and the crease seems to be deepening. And they don't feel like they're really connected. My arms too. Underneath, in my armpits, and starting on top of my shoulders too. The only consolation, and I do mean the only consolation I had, was that at least I didn't feel it in my groin. Oh God no, I can't even go there. Jesus! I gotta take a break here'�

..........................................................

Ok, so I had that same dream last night. The same sweats and bloating. This time when I came rocketing into a sitting position my right arm stayed where it was on the bed. Jesus H. Christ. I didn't even scream this time'not a peep. I just cried silently, sobbing with my head buried in my left pad.

All I can hope for now is that I'll start seeing creases and flaking around my neck, cuz that will mean that my fucking head will fall off and I can get this over with.

I gotta close now. It's almost over and it's hard as shit typing this out using only what's left of the first knuckle on my remaining left pad. "Look ma, no hands." Shit, pretty soon it'll be'�"look ma, no arms'�look ma, no legs." Just my lonely head lying flopped on a pillow mumbling, "look ma, no me." God, I'm glad my folks aren't around to live through this.

One last thing, I received a phone call this morning. Thank God for speaker phones or I'da been out of luck, although I don't know how much thanking God I'm capable of doing right now. It was my GP, good old Doc Nostrich. Or Doc Nose-hole as I'd taken to calling him. He got a kick out of it. He thought I was doing the 'stiff upper lip'� thing. At least I haven't lost that yet.

Because he was my GP all the specialists and bigwigs kinda let him hang around'as long as he stayed out of the way. I'd see how they'd look at him though. They didn't think much of him. All he did was care for people, and save their lives, and birth and bury them. He didn't do specialized work like they did. Called him an anachronism. Truer than I knew. Last time we spoke, he mentioned that he was the last GP in Chicago. Somewhere along the line I'd missed the fact that GP's had gone away. And now everything's going away. Especially after what doc told me this morning.

He wasn't his old, jovial self anymore. The tone of his voice scared me right off.

'Ted, I've got some news I need to tell you. I know you won't go out, but can I come over and visit you?'�

'No thanks, doc,'� I told him. 'I'm not receiving guests today.'� Like I was some faded, movie queen lying draped on a divan.

'Ok, well then sit down because I've got something I need to tell you. Something I need to tell someone anyway.'�

Oh shit.

'Why's your voice sound funny, doc? Must be my speaker phone.'�

'No Teddy, it's not,'� and here he sobbed. 'I lost my nose last week.'�

'Oh man, doc, I'm sorry about that. I really am.'� And I really was.

L;'kfnnngrelksdjioye'�

'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�'�

Shit!!! Sorry 'bout that, but my left arm just fell off so I'm finishing this with a pencil between my teeth. Where the heck was I? Oh yea'�the doc.

'That isn't why I called,'� he said. 'You know that I was allowed access to the research? Not that there's been any hopeful signs, but I still want to stay current,'� Doc sped on, not his normal self at all. But good old Doc, always hangin' in there, I'll give him that.

'Yea, go on.'�

'Well last night I received a call from Dr. Quesada. Do you remember her? Pretty woman that the CDC flew in from Argentina? You met her at Mayo.'� Doc's voice was so uptight that he was even giving me the heebie jeebies, and I thought I was pretty well heebie jeebie-proof at this point.

'Ok?'� Me thinkin', oh shit, what could be worse than what's already goin' on?

'Well she called me late last night. Sobbing she was. She'd gone back to Argentina and it was spreading like wild fire down there. Communication is starting to break down and we haven't been getting news from other countries for some time now. You know that right?'�

Actually I didn't. I hadn't turned on a TV in weeks.

'She told me they had finally isolated a gene and a virus and a chemical chain that are all involved in Raines Disease. Good, I told her. Good, at least that's a start. And here she lost it for awhile. I don't know, maybe five or ten minutes. I thought I had lost her for good. She finally did come back on though and'� Are you still there Teddy? I haven't lost you yet, have I?'�

He had to say yet?

No, he hadn't lost me, but I was thinkin' that I was ahead of the curve on this one too.

'Still here Doc.'�

'She was only able to tell me one more thing, Teddy. She told me that they had definitively discovered one thing about Raines. One thing, Teddy.'�

Here he paused, sudden silence chilling me more than words.

'Brace yourself, Teddy. It's bad.'�

'Go on,'� I said. Oh shit, I thought.

'No one is immune, Teddy. No one.'�

Click'no dial tone. The end.

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