The First Fiction Friday

(A Note: Yes, I know it's Thursday. I'm a day early because I am just that awesome. Thank you to everyone who submitted a word to be used in this, the first installment of Fiction Friday. I used them all, even the ones I had to look up. Funicular? Seriously? Your words are in bold, so you can get an idea of the bullshit I had to work with. If you'd like to submit a word for the next FF, just comment on this post. I hope you enjoy it, you freaks!)

***
Pierre was a quiet man, a proctologist by trade. His days were spent examining patients, a humdrum existence that led credence to the old saying. Opinions are indeed like assholes, he thought sullenly, we all have them.

The day began like any other- a colonoscopy at 9, hemorrhoid surgery at 11, lunch of grilled gizzards at the club at noon. Later, a mildly interesting case of untimely flatulence caused by a steady diet of boiled cabbage. It was a long day and it was well after dark when he began driving home.

The road wound narrowly around the mountain, a dangerous ascent in the best conditions. Pierre cracked the window and turned on the radio to chase away the sleep that was creeping into his eyes. The soothing voice of Ms. Britney Spears crooned to him through the speakers-

"My loneliness is killing me..."

My God, it was like she was speaking from his very soul. Despite her unseemly shenanigans and penchant for flashing the vagine, Pierre couldn't help but admire the spunky Ms. Spears. It was then, as he was lost in thoughts of her luxurious hair and muscular thighs, that a creature appeared out of nowhere in front of his car.

Pierre slammed on his breaks and turned the wheel hard to the right, but it was too late. The side of his late model sedan (license plate "HOLE-N-1") careened into the beast.

When he came to, there was a bright light shining in his face. Was he dead? Had he crossed over? "Is that you, God?" he muttered.

"Highway Patrol, you jackleg!" a voice boomed. "Get out of the car!"

Pierre gingerly stepped from the wrecked vehicle and into the road. There, horizontal and still, it's lifeless limbs akimbo like a Wild Kingdom contortionist, lie the cause of his misery. "Is that an ostrich?"

The policeman guffawed. "Ostrich? Boy, you ain't from around here, are you? That there's a LLAMA." He shined his flashlight directly on the animal and Pierre saw that it was, indeed, a llama. It was a glorious creature, from the top of it's furry head to the tips of it's succulent breasts. In the darkness, it was hard to tell if it was bleeding from it's teats, or...

"Good Lord!" Pierre gasped. "Is it lactating?"

"That's right, sonny," the policeman said gravely. "You've murdered a lactating llama. That's a state felony."

"But...but...it was an accident!" Pierre stammered. "I'm a doctor, maybe I can help."

"A vet?"
"No, a proctologist."
"Unless you can perform CPR through the butthole, fella, I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you up to the station. Come on, we'll take the ski lift, it's faster."

"A funicular." Pierre said, without thinking. The cop gave him a sideways glance. "A funicular railway, that's the system of cars and pulleys you refer to as a ski lift."

"Whatever, Assman. You're coming with me."

The car of the funicular was covered in pink polka dots. It had once been used to ferry customers up the mountain to a small shop  specializing in monogrammed ladies' apparel and gifts. It was converted into a police station when women realized they looked like idiots driving around with their minivans monogrammed. They kept the polka dotted car, to further unsettled the criminals they transported there. It was working on Pierre.

When they arrived at the station, the officer began his interrogation.

"Have you been drinking alcoholic beverages? You know...booze? Don't bother lying to me, boy. We'll do the test."
"No, I don't drink."
"What do you have against llamas?"
"Nothing! I've never even seen a llama before. Why was there a llama in the street anyway?"
"I'LL ASK THE QUESTIONS HERE, MISTER!" the officer yelled, coming out of his chair with spittle flying from his lips. He stood for a time, glaring at Pierre and then settled back into his seat. His mood changed, softened.

"Can you I get you a cigarette? Krispy Kreme? Coffee?"
"Only if it's Tim Horton's." Pierre said wistfully.
"Who's this Timmy Horton? Is he your lover? Is that why you killed the llama? Couldn't get your fingers in enough butts at work, you had to kill an innocent animal to impress your freak o' nature boyfriend? Are you gay?"
"NO!" Pierre was clearly flustered now. "No! Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm...I'm Canadian!" he spat the word out with contempt, then laid his head on the table and began to weep.

"My work visa is expired. I didn't want you to find out. I can't go back there. I can't make a living under socialized medicine! Please don't send me back." The lucrative life of insurance fraud and pharmaceutical kickbacks he had carefully woven unraveled in his mind. 

The silence was deafening. Finally, the policeman spoke.
"Killing a mama llama is a grave offense. But, I think there may be a way out of this."
"I'll do anything!" Pierre said hastily, "Waterboarding! Cut my eyelids off! Splinters under my fingernails!" He could smell his own fear; it was the scent of proctology itself, of loose bowels and Preparation-H.

"The elementary school PTO," the policeman said, an evil glint in his eye, "Needs a President."