Dr. Bobby

After meeting with the supervillains who run my company, I go to see Dr. Bobby the chiropractor, who I hope to sweet God can help my tweaked back.

As you may recall, I fucked up my shoulder during a fight with a Jet Pack Mafia goon the previous night. Now the pain was intense, unignorable*, like a white hot sun under my shoulder blade. I made it through my meeting without crying with the help of a handful of Aleve pills, but that wore off and now I’m in crippling agony. Kids, I don’t care if you’ve seen Daredevil do it, it is not a good idea to try to stop a fall from a great height with the aid of a flagpole. That’s a little safety tip for you.

Dr. Bobby looks like a beatnik Rick Moranis – he purses his lips and squints his eyes, appraising me as I sit shirtless in his office.

“Hmm…” he says. “When did you do this?”

“Last night. Basketball. I was going up for a dunk and…” I pantomime a dunk, then wince as lightning bolts of pain shoot through my back.

“And you haven’t been to a hospital?” He walks around behind me, gently probing my back.

“Nah, I thought I’d see you first. What, is it bad?”

“Let’s try some things, some adjustments,” Dr. Bobby says.

He tries some things. Dr. Bobby pops my neck, then hugs me from behind and cracks my spine. “This doesn’t hurt?” Dr. Bobby twists my torso and yanks on my arm. “Tell me if this is uncomfortable.” He yanks harder. “Anything?”

Nothing seems to work. He stands back, panting. “Gosh, that shoulder of yours is pretty dislocated. Are you sure you’re not in pain?”

“Well, yeah I’m in pain,” I say. Duh. “That’s why I’m here.”

“I think you might have to go to a trauma center,” he says, wiping his brow.

“Aww, come on Dr. Bobby,” I say. “ I don’t want to do that, I hate hospitals. Can you give it another shot? You won’t hurt me, I promise.”

Dr. Bobby brings in Summer, a bored Asian riot grrl type who works the front desk.

“Summer, I’m going to have you push here, while I pull on his arm,” Dr. Bobby says, positioning her. She checks me out, and who can blame her? I’m a fit shirtless superhero. Her eyes linger on my shoulder.

“Dude, your shoulder is fucked up.”

“So I gathered,” I say.

“Summer, please,” Dr. Bobby says.

Summer gets in place and pushes against my torso while bracing my right arm while Dr. Bobby pulls. Hard. He looks at me questioningly. Clearly he can’t believe that I’m not drooling with pain and that he can’t relocate the shoulder.

“Harder,” I say.

With a big groan Dr. Bobby hauls back mightily on my arm like a Thai elephant pulling a log. I feel my genetically altered muscles shift and my shoulder – pop! – slides back into place. The feeling is at once exquisite and incredibly painful.

“Wow,” I say, moving my arm around, flexing my fingers. “That’s so much better!”

Dr. Bobby and Summer just stare at me as I laugh and move my arm around. I feel great.

“Woo! Kick ass! Thanks Dr. Bobby!”

*Yes, I know "unignorable" is not a real word.