Congratulations on Removing the Bezoar!

You’ve got a sick daughter, and you’d do anything to help her get better. So when that doctor/gypsy tells you the one sure fire way you’ll nod to her grimly, put on a bandana like a headband and run out to an army surplus store in a filthy tanktop. You’ll slam a twenty dollar bill down on the counter and shout at the clerk.

“KNIFE!”

He’ll stab a knife into the counter, real badass like. It’ll be one of those Rambo deals, perfect for what you have in mind. You’ll flag down a bus, in the middle of the street as is custom, and fill the driver in on your situation. He’ll nod solemnly, and announce his plan to the bus

“This gentleman’s daughter has cancer.” He’ll look at them all disapporvingly in the rearview mirror. “Children’s cancer.” They’ll gasp. “To save her he has to head to the local branch of AIG and cut a steaming bezoar out of the stomach of the CEO there.” They’ll cheer and slap you on the back, signing your knife with clever little slogans like “fuck you” and “rot in hell, fuckface.”

The driver will deposit you in front of whatever giant structure is filled with douchebags in your town and have you sign a waiver stating that he helped you with your quest. Then he’ll tug on his hat and return to his normal route, frowning like someone shit in his cheerios all over again.

Once inside the building you’ll march right past that fat fuck security guard clutching a bowie knife in a stained tanktop, wearing your old service jacket from Nam and you’ll hop right on that elevator. One or two suits will give you the eye, but for the most part they won’t know what the fuck is up. No one, you see, reads the fine print.

When you get to the tippy toppiest floor of the building you’ll hop out of the elevator and start jogging. You’ll jog right through the double glass doors and into the office itself, ignoring the hangdog looks and hidden middle fingers that everyone in the office flashes one another. You’ll trudge along the outside of the building until you find the iggest, most windowed conference room in the entire place. Then you’ll kick in that door and stand there, bowie knife drawn, staring at the biggest asshole in the room.

He’ll be overweight. Not morbidly so, more like the average build of someone from Scotland. You’ll stare at him and he’ll look right back at you and he’ll know, in that instant, what you’re here for.

“Shit,” he’ll say.

Grinning you’ll rush towards him, tackling with him your shoulder, knocking the air out of his lungs and crashing him to the ground. Then you’ll stab him in the stomach, holding his neck up to make sure the wound is clean. You’ll pull the knife down to his groin as he squirms, but he’ll be weak from hours of meetings and staring at spreadsheets and when you finish your work he’ll finally lay still. He’ll have a grimace on his face and his undersized penis will be exposed to the office. You’ll ignore the glowers from the various people in the conference room, the muted catcalls of “how rude,” as you ram your hand into his abdomen and feel around. You’ll feel around for nearly thirty seconds, picking through half digested meals and bits of paper with numbers scrawled on them until you feel it: a hard thing. Perfectly round. Cold to touch, despite its presence in a body.

You’ll grasp it and yank as hard as you can, pulling it free. It will be small, the size of a baseball, and jet black. You’ll kiss and run out of the conference room. You’ll double back through the office to the elevators, getting a dirty look from the receptionist as you leave. She’ll tap the sign in book and grimace at your lack of manners as your bring your prize back to the doctor and your beautiful, innocent daughter.

Congratulations on Removing the Bezoar!