One night, a man in a black sedan pulled up. No license plate. He wore a suit that cost more than Dr. Ass’s trailer. He said his name was Mr. Cross, and he had a problem no hospital could touch.
“Then what am I?”
“YOWCH! My gallbladder, you son of a—” a Dr. Ass patient would reply. cherokee dr ass
And for God’s sake, turn around before you hear him say:
“What are you—HEY!”
So he came home to Mulberry Creek, set up a trailer behind the Cherokee Stop-N-Go, and hung a hand-painted sign: The first patient was old Man Crutcher, who’d been complaining of a "funny taste in his mouth" for three years. Three different clinics had given him antacids.
They say Dr. Ass still practices behind the Cherokee Stop-N-Go. The medical board has given up trying to stop him—every inspector they send leaves with a sore behind and a sudden, embarrassing clarity about their own childhood trauma. One night, a man in a black sedan pulled up
Word spread. The second patient was a teenage girl named Wren, brought in by her frantic mother. Wren hadn’t spoken in six months. Psychiatrists said selective mutism. MRIs said nothing.