Jon Willer
Submit to Mistress Conestoga!
Dr. Baize was anastomosing an ileum to the strains of Enigma's Return to Innocence 12”. The 24-bit FLAC vinyl rip was one of the crown jewels of his worldbeat / new age music collection. He refused to enter an abdominal cavity without something civilized to listen to.
Soon, he thought with relish, it would be time to suture the ileum to the anus. Dr. Baize loved anastomosing ilea. Truth be told, he loved anastomosing things period. He was enamored of a Whipple procedure. He would flip over a Roux-en-Y choledochojejunostomy.
Opposite him suctioning reddish peritoneal fluid was an intern whose name Dr. Baize understood to be Deet. Brown-skinned, Deet smelled of cloves and had a tendency to giggle when nervous. Deet had one of the all-time awful nervous giggles, in Dr. Baize's estimation.
Retractors laid bare the spleen, soft and purple, shaped like a flip-flop. “Now, palpate,” said Dr. Baize.
Deet giggled and squeezed the spleen. Dr. Baize stayed the brown fingers. “Palpate, I said. You are not at a farmer's market. You are not testing the spleen for ripeness.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Deet giggled and squeezed the spleen.
“Hemostat,” said Dr. Baize.
Dr. Baize raised the hemostat high.
~
“'Giggling idiot. What did I tell you,'” the Chair of the hospital Ethics Committee read off the transcript. “'Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.'”
“I acknowledge saying it, if that's what you're after,” said Dr. Baize. From across the U-shaped table, Deet glared and rubbed his bandaged knuckles.
~
“There was I believe it was a Roman philosopher—perhaps it was Marcus Aurelius—who said something to the effect of: If the teacher switcheth the errant pupil with the rule, does not that pupil switcheth itself? Himself, herself?”
“Let me make sure I'm understanding,” said a Committee member. “Your defense before this committee is 'Stop hitting yourself'?”
The hearing was still very much anyone's game, Dr. Baize felt.
~
“You know what? I have absolutely no problem with that.” Dr. Baize threw up his hands. “Deet, I'm sorry for hitting you with a hemostat. Okay?”
“My name is Deep, you asshole. Deet is an insect repellent.”
The odds were not improving in his favor, Dr. Baize had to admit.
~
Albuquerque Presbyterian's Ethics Committee ruled a two-week suspension without pay. There were two sequelae of this injury, one chronic and one acute:
Contusions to Dr. Baize's worldview. Dr. Baize considered his practice to be highly faith-oriented. He frequently blogged about the intersection between Calvinism and health care on LinkedIn. His ancestors were French Huguenots and, according to the saliva he'd mailed one of those DNA companies, had basically kick-started the whole Huguenot thing in France.
The Elect were not meant to face formal disciplinary proceedings. Formal disciplinary proceedings were for reprobates. Obviously he was aware, per the Canons of Dort, that he was to seek the fruits of election within himself; but on what good the fucking fruits were when a man's name could be dragged through the mud over bruising and hairline fractures to the hamate and two metacarpals, Dort was silent.
Dr. Christian Baize understood himself qua surgeon to be an instrument of the I in TULIP, Irresistible Grace (cf. Hardcore, 1979, dir. Paul Schrader): No matter what gastrointestinal thunderclap might befall God's chosen, he ineluctably dragged them back to pristine health—staunching the hemorrhagic varix, un-telescoping the intussusception, tugging free the fecal impaction or bezoar. So how come no grace showered on him?Hypovolemia of funds. Less existential but considerably more urgent, as the World Elite was maxed, the Sapphire Reserve was maxed, the Venture X was maxed, and tribute was due to Miss Fanny on the first of the month.
~
Dr. Baize was—let's all be adults about this, please—in love with an online findomme. Miss Fanny Alger (@ObeyMissFanny on X; @the_miss_fanny, @miss_fanny_backup, and @miss_fanny_reels on Instagram) insisted she was not a tradwife but did, for example, have ready access to buttermilk. She tended to wear a gingham apron. She “put up” jams and viscid chutneys. She could explain what a poultice was.
He discovered her while browsing the “footwear” tag on Clips2Watch via the below listing:
Jerk Your Vaxxed Micro-Cock for My Filthy Mule!
$12.95 | 8:07 | MP4
Look at you, a pathetic pawn of the medical-industrial complex... addicted to Anthony Fauci AND feet! It's a miracle you can even “Come”-irnaty with that tiny “Spike”-vax (because we both know you haven't got any Johnson & Johnson 😉) Now rub til it's raw while I show you the soles of my filthy mules and this article my brother-in-law sent me about thiomersal! #muleworship #antivax #femdom #findom #domme
After indulging in the 30-second preview and adding to cart, along with “Mormon Giantess in Temple Garments,” “Step-Sister Sacajawea Wants to Show You the Grand Tetons,” and “POV: Tetchy Schoolmarm Punishes an Armpit Sniffer,” Dr. Baize promptly disbursed. And kept on disbursing.
~
Monthly tribute to Miss Fanny was in the amount of $200, if Dr. Baize wished to remain at the Premium Footboy tier. Even absent any income and with lines of credit exhausted, Dr. Baize felt confident in regard to swinging this expense—provided, of course, no further expenditures of size.
~
“Look how cute!” Miss Fanny held up Her Pixel to Her webcam. It was their standing weekly Zoom call; She was showing him a gift She would like (gifts, notably, being distinct from monthly tribute), a hot fudge maker called Fudge-Chan that had gone viral on TikTok. “You simply load the ingredients into the hatch, and two servings of rich, decadent hot fudge are ready in virtually seconds.”
Dr. Baize freely admitted that Fudge-Chan was cute. Fudge-Chan was also, however, $329.95. Before shipping.
“It should be your life's purpose to drain your wallet for Me,” pouted Miss Fanny.
“No arguments there,” said Dr. Baize, “it's just... Is Your Excellency familiar with a double boiler?”
“You know I hate when you try to top from the bottom.”
“I'm not—dammit, it's not even a separate tool unto itself, you just set a bowl over a saucepan full of simmering water and...”
“Fudge-Chan features the same technology used by top pastry chefs,” said Miss Fanny.
Devotion to his Goddess aside, there was no way Dr. Baize was financing the asinine contraption. Among other things, he had an unvoiced suspicion that the hot fudge maker was actually intended for her son, a homeschooled sluggard named Yarrow who lurked sometimes in the background on calls, making an erection untenable. He had questioned other recent gifts; plausibly the microscope and the balloon animal kit were intended for Her, but the dirt bike jersey (size Youth XL Husky) strained credulity.
It was settled, then. Under no circumstances would he buy Her the hot fudge maker.
~
“I need to make a large purchase,” Dr. Baize told his crypto broker, a Montenegrin named Bogdan (@EmperorCoinstantine on X), over Google Meet. “I'd like to sell the Screechcoin.”
Bogdan made an ominous sound with his teeth. “The Screechcoin I can't move so easy right now.”
“The Screechcoin is worth $70,000,” said Dr. Baize.
“It's worth $70,000 if a buyer will pay $70,000,” said Bogdan. Bogdan explained that, neither Dustin Diamond nor Peter Engels Productions nor NBC having licensed the likeness of Screech, the coin was considered toxic, a bad litigation risk. On the exchanges, he said, the rumor was that it might be impounded and destroyed.
“How can it be destroyed? It's on the blockchain!”
“Don't talk to me like I'm one of your interns, man.” Bogdan sighed a crackling sigh into his headset. “Look. Brate. Nobody with his whatyoucallit—eye on the pulse?—is messing with Screechcoin right now. You need a crypto virgin. Who you know is stacking paper but doesn't do no trading?”
~
“I'm curious... How versed are you in cryptocurrency?” Dr. Baize asked Mistress Conestoga.
Yes, there was a second domme in Dr. Baize's life. Mistress Conestoga (@MistressConestoga on X; @serve_mistress_conestoga, @mistress_conestoga_backup, and @cones_toes_ga on Instagram) offered an immersive BDSM experience grounded in the Old West. Her basement studio, The Hoosegow, was in Nob Hill, located downstairs from a Subway and an H&R Block. (A suggestion of Sweet Onion Teriyaki blew in from the ceiling ducts on occasion.) Sometime She dressed up as Annie Oakley and shot Dr. Baize in the ass with a cap gun. Sometimes he wore a yoke for oxplay.
Dr. Baize was able to dispel some of the common misconceptions regarding crypto. He explained how volatility could actually be a sign of ruddy good health. He exposed the half-truths behind the phrase “backed by assets.” He reviewed Her accounts with Her and found an unmissable opportunity to get in on the ground floor of Screechcoin, a nostalgic new token that was headed to the Moon.
He recommended a figure. Mistress Conestoga scratched under Her latex bonnet. “I don't have $70,000 on hand.”
“How about liquidating the Roth IRA?”
~
The transfer to Her new wallet effected, Dr. Baize changed into his nappy feeling unburdened—carefree, even. “As always, I'd like to kick us off with a land acknowledgment,” said Mistress Conestoga. “We stand here today on the unceded territory of the Pueblo and Athabaskan peoples...”
“Me no know what that is,” said Dr. Baize. “Me want ba-ba.”
“This is eating into your hour.”
~
“Watch. This is adorable,” said Miss Fanny. Fudge-Chan made a dainty recorded sound of straining at stool and dispensed onto Miss Fanny's Butter Brickle.
She was so pleased that, in contravention of written policy, She ridiculed his cock for an additional 15 minutes beyond the agreed-upon hour.
~
Mistress Conestoga was not pleased. The following week, She invited him to a Zoom call which, it was made clear, would not involve the customary sissification nor SPH (small penis humiliation), but rather “business matters.”
Her Divine Presence joined the call from another slave's camper van. He was behind Her in the kitchenette preparing dessert in a tutu while She ate squab. “The worm called Slave Gary shot this for me,” She said, indicating the squab.
“Good looking out, Slave Gary.” Dr. Baize flashed Gary a thumbs up. He was at pains to keep the conversation light; he had checked the value of Screechcoin and it had somewhat stabilized at 0.000000000001 cents.
“Mistress,” laughed Gary over the bananas he was caramelizing, “remember that saddle of venison? When the hot grease spit? She had to take me to urgent care,” he told Dr. Baize.
“Excuse Me? I didn't 'have' to do anything.” She yanked a chain tethered to some off-screen bit of Gary, who whimpered. “Certain worms are taking entirely too many liberties, including with My retirement fund, which I didn't piss on half the C-levels in the Southwest to see go down the drain.”
“I was just about to broach that, Mistress,” said Dr. Baize. “There are indicators that we're on the cusp of a bull market.”
“Cool! So take back your worthless coins and give Me back My money.”
“Trust me, you don't want that. Time, not timing, is the only way to capitalize on gains.”
“Gains? It's worth a trillionth of a—” There was a sickening gritty crunch. Mistress Conestoga gripped Her cheek. “Oh fuck. Oh god. I fink I broke a toof.”
“Like a tooth tooth?” said Gary.
She spat out a nub of dull metal. “Oh my god, the buckshot.”
“Birdshot,” said Gary.
“Shut the fuck up.” She yawned at the webcam. Her mouth filled Dr. Baize's MacBook screen. “Can you thee it?”
Dr. Baize inspected. “I can't quite... You need to lean... I mean, Mistress, unworthy as I am, would You do me the honor of...”
“Shut up!” Her uvula loomed.
“Do You still have the piece that broke off?”
“Oh god, what if I swallowed it?” She searched with Her fork through the gastrique.
“Put it in milk! Put it in milk!” screamed Gary.
“I think that's just for whole teeth!” screamed Dr. Baize.
Mistress Conestoga slammed Her laptop shut.
~
“Dr. Baize, this is beginning to feel like déjà vu,” read the Ethics Committee Chair from her prepared remarks. “Less than a week back from suspension and you're appearing before us again.
“This latest incident marks strike two for you with respect to violence on hospital grounds. As such, and in light of our zero tolerance policy, you may consider this your final warning.
“Albuquerque Presbyterian Hospital is a prestigious institution.” This much was true; APH had been a pioneer in the use of mercury for treating syphilis, and had helped lead the fight against EMTALA. “Assaulting two process servers in the course of their duties is absolutely unacceptable.” That part was unmitigated bollocks.
~
The facts as alleged by APH versus objective reality:
Approached by Individual #1 in the cafeteria, Dr. Baize falsely purported to be preparing for surgery, stating he had “scrubbed in” and “[was] sterile.” There had been zero mention of surgical prep. That was strictly an imputation on the part of the process server. If he had asked (instead of childishly continuing to shove forward his little envelope), Dr. Baize could have explained that any scrubbing was in anticipation of a lunchtime fajita bowl.
Dr. Baize proceeded to shove Individual #1. As a result, Individual #1 fell against a waste receptacle, causing bruising and epistaxis. Interesting how a simple finger to the chest—and not a very forceful one at that—could be transformed into a “shove.” (Similarly, characterizing a garden-variety nosebleed as “epistaxis” was just plain dirty pool.)
Upon exiting the cafeteria, Dr. Baize became involved in a parking-lot altercation with Individual #2, ultimately rolling up the fingers of Individual #2's left hand in the power window of his (Dr. Baize's) Lexus. “Parking-lot altercation.” Again you can see the warping of words to paint an everyday disagreement between adults as something tawdry. And, at the end of the day, what was “Get your grubby fingers out of the window before you lose them” but the most forthright and therefore the most genuinely respectful way of saying “I don't wish to continue this conversation”?
~
He had ample reason to avoid service of process, beginning with the phone call of two nights prior. The heavily intoxicated voice picking its way over words (and requiring repeated clarification that it was Doctor Baize) proved that of Slave Gary from the camper van. Tricia Fingerhut DBA Mistress Conestoga was suing him for negligence in (a) serving squab “riddled with” birdshot, (b) failing to warn him of the “inherent risks of consuming squab,” and (c) causing “career-jeopardizing” injury to her upper right lateral incisor, the veneer she had elected over an extraction having ruined several clients' immersion and led to lost bookings (twarn't how it were done on the trail!).
She sought damages in the amount of $70,000. Regarding the familiar figure, Dr. Baize kept counsel. “You sound quite upset,” he said instead.
“I am. I'm upset I'm being sued. I'm upset it's the Goddess I worship that's suing me. I'm upset her name is 'Tricia Fingerhut.' My god, it's like seeing your teacher at the supermarket.” Gary made a gagging noise. “Listen. You have to testify for me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You have to,” Gary begged. “You have to tell them she was distracted arguing over your stupid Saved by the Bell coin and not watching what she was eating.”
“All best wishes, Slave Gary,” said Dr. Baize, “but I prefer not to get involved.”
“You don't get to call me that! That is a private pet name!” shrieked Slave Gary. “And you know what? I think you do prefer to get involved.”
The zoomed-in screenshot Gary texted was taken from mistress-conestoga.com/gallery. You could not make out the features of the shirtless man spread-eagled on a wagon wheel, for reasons immediately obvious to any viewer. You could, however, identify the adobe-colored object clipped to his belt as an APH lanyard. And you could, by zooming further, retrieve a face and a name.
“You think hospibble let you keep reaching into people's guts when they see you with a face full of that?” Gary bugled into the phone.
Messy as it was, there was nothing inherently ethical or unethical about the tableau. All the same, it was exactly the sort of thing that APH in all its Comstockery would arrogate itself license to condemn and punish.
“All this could have been avoided,” said Dr. Baize. “It's just a pity she wasn't paying closer attention to the squab.”
“Star witness!” said Gary, and belched.
~
Mistress Conestoga struck him as unusually aloof during their session the next day. To be fair, it was an ignore fetish scenario wherein She did the Wordle while he worshiped Her soles; nonetheless, you can tell when someone is checked out. “Heard you plan to testify on behalf of Gary,” She said with practiced casualness at the end of the hour.
“I'm afraid I'm caught in the cogs of the judicial system,” said Dr. Baize.
“Right, right... the cogs.” She lifted his chin with Her instep. “Let Me simplify matters for you. If you take the stand for Gary, I'm sending a couple guys around to your house. They're going to have you eating out of a tube.”
“Okay, salamander,” said Dr. Baize. Salamander was the safe word. “I told You: I'm not into forced bi and I'm not into force-feeding. I feel like boundaries are being disregarded.”
“No, that's an actual threat,” said Mistress Conestoga. “If you fuck up this payout for Me, I will have meth-heads come break your bones.”
“Noted,” squeaked Dr. Baize.
~
Of course, a truly special and meaningful way to show his devotion—especially if he wasn't equipped at this time to reimburse the $70K—would be to testify on Her behalf at the trial.
“It just seems a shame,” said Dr. Baize, “that he couldn't have checked the squab more thoroughly for pellets. Why would he tell You it was safe to eat?”
“Not bad,” said Mistress Conestoga. “In fact, I think we have just enough time for a round of ballbusting.”
~
“If I help out the one I'll lose my job,” Dr Baize told Bogdan, “and if I help out the other I'll be beaten senseless.” He shifted the steam-in-bag frozen corn on his lap. “I'm between Scylla and Charybdis.”
“They're Albanians?” said Bogdan.
In the crypto broker's opinion, it was no time to mope. He shared his screen and pulled up a line graph with a jagged upward trajectory. “Streepcoin, man! Gotta get you in on the ground floor!”
“I thought they were impounded.”
“Streep, Streep,” said Bogdan. “Think Mamma Mia.”
“Streepcoin,” said Dr. Baize pensively. “This presents the same issue, though, that we ran into with the Screechcoin, does it not?”
Meryl was considered to be less of a litigation risk, Bogdan explained. When Dr. Baize protested that he could not afford to buy in, citing his ongoing liquidity crisis, Bogdan cut him off, shaking his fingers as if they were overrun by ants. “Hey, hey. Opušteno. We'll just get you set up as a broker, man. That's where the real money is anyway. Commissions!”
Bogdan dismissed Dr. Baize's reservations regarding the time commitment with the same ants gesture. “We'll get you licensed in Tuvalu. Fully online. Two business days, tops.”
“Tuvalu?”
“Island chain,” said Bogdan, “in the Pacific. Exports frozen fish and telephones.” A Tuvaluan license, Bogdan assured him, was as valid as any other broker's license. “You get that license, you find a buyer with cash to burn... it's like printing money.” He reclined under his Evangelion poster, hands clasped behind his head, looking like the very portrait of ease.
~
In service of getting Streepcoin in front of Miss Fanny as rapidly as possible, Dr. Baize asked Gemini to design the PowerPoint. It was admittedly a little rough and ready. “What's a 'croin'?” Miss Fanny asked in response to the title slide.
“Surely from context clues you can... Sorry! Sorry, just bubbling over with excitement regarding this opportunity.” He walked Her through the impressive highs Streepcoin had reached in recent months. He pointed out that Streepcoin was attractively branded with the award-winning star of The Iron Lady. He showed her a witty Bridges of Madison County meme posted to the official Streepcoin X account.
“And you're able to sell these things? Legitimately?”
“I'm fully licensed,” said Dr. Baize, “in Tuvalu.”
Yarrow loomed palely at the edge of the screen and whispered in Her ear. “Their white paper has 'volatility' spelled with three Ls,” She said. Sneaky little fucker.
“Also,” She went on, “have you looked at transactions? The founders still own a lot of this thing.”
“Well, wouldn't you?” He looped his cursor around and around the growth chart, hoping for a hypnotic effect. Extraneous Ls aside, that steep skyward trajectory was indisputably sexy.
Miss Fanny bit Her lower lip. “I've been saving up to buy a condo,” She said. “Should I be investing that money instead?”
“Only if You want the condo to be a penthouse,” said Dr. Baize.
~
Online Star Gummer Boy Faces Crypto Coin Criticism
24 September
Trevor Loudermilk, known mostly as “Gummer Boy,” the star of the viral “Don't come for Mamie” meme, is facing criticism after his newly launched cryptocurrency nosedived in value.
His “Streepcoin” digital coin hit a $490m market cap shortly after it launched on Wednesday, before suddenly losing more than 95% of its value within hours.
This has led some, including YouTube cryptocurrency investigator Coffeezilla, to accuse Mr. Loudermilk of scamming investors with a “pump and dump”—where the people behind a coin hype up its price before launch, then sell it for a profit.
He has denied allegations that his team sold any of the tokens they owned.
“I'm just as gagged as yall are,” he wrote in a copy and pasted post on X (formerly Twitter) on Wednesday.
Streepcoin takes its name from US actress Meryl Streep. Mamie Gummer, also an actress, is Ms. Streep's daughter. “We will be pursuing this unauthorized use of [Ms. Streep's] likeness to the full extent of the law,” a Streep family spokesperson said.
~
He arrived breathless at Mistress Conestoga's, the cashier's check in his hand still warm from the printer. From the vents issued a slight perfume of Italian B.M.T.—the spicy smell of success. “I think You're really going to like this, Mistress!” he called out as he galloped down the stairs.
“Sit.” Mistress Conestoga flicked a ruler at a puny wooden desk, newly added next to the vacbed. Dr. Baize wedged himself in. Interestingly, this stern teacher getup was not dissimilar from an ensemble of Miss Fanny's: pince-nez, shirtwaist, accordion-pleated skirt in sober charcoal.
“Ma'am?” He raised his hand and flapped the cashier's check in the air. “$70,000. That's Your Screechcoin fully reimbursed. Obviously any investment carries risk, including loss of principal, but it just seemed like the right thing to...”
The ruler whistled through salami-scented air and cracked against the desk. Recoiling, Dr. Baize felt a scraping against his close-cropped hair, then paper across his brow.
Miss Fanny emerged from behind the desk, in identical teacher's garb. “The little reprobate's stolen from us both now,” She said. “He's falling behind in his lessons.”
“A dullard.”
“Borderline ineducable.” The dunce cap was unexpectedly erotic. Dr. Baize readjusted his chinos.
“We've collaborated on a task for you,” Mistress Conestoga told Dr. Baize.
“Believe me, Mistress, nothing could excite me more,” said Dr. Baize. “It's just that I've already paid the standard deposit, and I must say I'm not in the optimal financial spot for a double-domme session right now.”
“Never mind that,” said Miss Fanny. “You're in serious need of correction. That takes priority right now.”
“I'll warn you, it's disgusting,” said Mistress Conestoga.
“Yes, yes.” Could either or both be relaxing their prohibition against Roman showers? Dr. Baize wondered.
“I mean it. You'll question whether you're even human anymore.”
“Please, Mistress,” said Dr. Baize. “A worm like me needs reminding of the muck I came from.”
“Are you ready, then, to degrade yourself fully?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Dr. Baize. “Roll me in filth! Make me loathsome!”
Mistress Conestoga looked at Miss Fanny. Miss Fanny looked at Mistress Conestoga.
~
Dr. Baize was removing a gallbladder, listening to “Smaionte,” a B-side off Enya's Orinoco Flow (the 12” maxi-single, not the Japanese EP with pink obi). Assisting on the cholecystectomy was a fresh-faced intern whose name, he was fairly certain, was Wing.
“Now, resect the common hepatic duct,” said Dr. Baize.
Wing began to sever the clamped tube.
“Resect, I said. This is living tissue. It's not to be sawed at like mother's pot roast.”
Wing mumbled an apology and began cutting again.
“Scalpel,” said Dr. Baize.
Dr. Baize raised the scalpel high.
Editor’s Note: This story contains a treated excerpt from the BBC.com article “Online star Hawk Tuah girl faces crypto coin criticism."
Jon Willer is a copywriter living in Brooklyn. His fiction has appeared in Hawai'i Review, Juked, Paper Darts, Knee-Jerk, and Exacting Clam.
