A Trillion More Wishes

By Christopher McDevitt

After five long years in prison, Dennis Harkness can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. He is soon to be reunited with his pregnant girlfriend, his genie pal and his infant son. Unfortunately, the light is a lot brighter than Dennis bargained for. He and his friends soon face adversity at every turn as they try to reclaim the lives they left behind years before. Their journey will see them run afoul of the Fates, a religious cult, podunk police and Heaven itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher McDevitt
• Release date: Dec 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310819353

Christopher McDevitt

Christopher McDevitt is a former stand up comedian and generally awful person. The married father of one lives in New Jersey where he trains Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and dreams of getting the hell out of that state for a much warmer climate.

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A Trillion More Wishes

By

Christopher McDevitt

Copyright © 2014 by Christopher McDevitt

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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Cover artwork copyright © 2014 by Christopher McDevitt

Title: A Trillion More Wishes

Author: Christopher McDevitt

Dedicated To

My son, Declan, every day as your father is more rewarding than the last.

Chapter One:

Having Djosar’s lamp was supposed to make my second exit from prison a lot easier–I wish I weren’t in prison…Boom…Done. Having Djosar’s lamp stuck somewhere between my stomach and my intestinal tract made things a bit trickier. I worked out a few options as Pockets and I waited for the 4 pm count.

Option 1: I could trade some of my commissary and belongings for a dose of the laxative Dookie uses.

Option 2: I, or someone else, could wail on my stomach with fists and hope that maybe my stomach lining could rub the lamp. However, since I’d been carrying the fucking thing for close to a year and hadn’t heard a peep out of Djosar, I didn’t think this was likely.

Option 3: I could complain of stomach pain and get the prison surgeon to dig it out.

Despite the name Pinkerton Medical Center, the treatment available to inmates was not much better than treatment available for prisoners at any state or federal institution. In fact, thanks to the interminable cost cutting of a private establishment, it may have been less. There was one doctor on shift 24/7 and a few nurses. The need for surgery would see me transferred to an area hospital if I wasn’t in dire need on one of the two days per month that a surgeon was present. A hospital transfer would need several signatures and could take weeks to get approved. The likelihood of catching some sort of post-surgical ailment like staph or worse was also probably increased if I let them open me up at Pinkerton. The dreams would keep me up-to-date on how close Jenny was to delivering, but there was no telling how long I had with the time difference.

Option 1 looked to be the best decision. Occam’s Razor said that the simplest solution is the correct one. In the end, it cost me six soups and three rolls of toilet paper for the laxative. Dookie did not appreciate the irony in trading toilet paper for a laxative. Nor was he familiar with the O. Henry story, The Gift of the Magi. I guess if the book wasn’t in French or concealing a razor blade, he had no interest in it. The kitchen crew slipped me my dose when Pockets and I reported to chow for dinner. When we returned to the cell, I went to town doing calisthenics until I could barely move. I did jumping jacks and burpees, sit-ups, and for about 20 minutes I just wiggled around like one of those inflatable men outside of car dealerships. If my Richard Simmons bounce-a-thon didn’t shake the little lamp loose nothing would.

The laxative hit about 15 minutes after the 9 pm count. I was on the bowl by the time the lights went out. It didn’t bother Pocket as his lights were always out. I was still on the pot when the 12:30 count went down. C.O. Zengel made some offhand joke about me increasing the population of Pinkerton with more turds. After three hours of shitting my brains out, I was not in a laughing mood. I still laughed because this particular C.O. thought he was funny, and if things didn’t work out, my poor anus might find itself on the wrong side of his sausage fingers when Caesar returned with Djarepath’s lamp.

The worst part of the whole ordeal came around 3 am when Pockets needed the shitter. He thanked me for warming the seat for him and I did my best not to shit all over his bed while I waited to retake my throne. My workout weakened legs had gone numb from all the sitting and there was no way I could make it to my bunk, so I sat on Pockets’ bunk while he did his business. He really had no idea how close he came to a fouled blanket and shitty sheets.

By the 4:30 am count, I was willing to concede that Option 1 was not going to work out. I took a long shower, making sure to get a shiny heiney, and used that time to regroup. At this point, I favored Option 3 to Option 2. As long as I got the lamp in time, I’d be able to wish myself healed and not have to worry about blood-borne illnesses or infections. Option 2 sounded extremely painful and given that neither the calisthenics, nor the power cleanse loosened up the lamp, I didn’t think it would work. Plus, I just didn’t think I could kick my own ass again. Option 3 was the only way to know if the lamp was even still in there.

I arranged for Perseus to guide Pockets for the day, and complained of stomach pains at the 10 am count. Given that I’d spent the night shitting under the watchful (and slightly curious) eyes of the guards, it must have made someone’s report and I was immediately transported to the clinic. Stomach viruses are taken very seriously in a place like Pinkerton because they can spread so quickly. One guy shitting all night can quickly become 150 people shitting all day, and besides the smell, that impacts the productivity of the work program. Productivity is a huge concern for the corporation that owns Pinkerton, a concern and a very measurable metric. Plenty of year-end bonuses would likely be jeopardized by an outbreak.

After the nurse re-hydrated me with IV fluids and I still maintained the stomach pain, an X-ray was okayed by the presiding doctor. It revealed exactly what I thought it would, a tiny obstruction pinned at the top of my stomach. The beating I suffered at the hands of my arresting officers must have caused the lamp to perforate the top of my stomach. The object was wedged next to the sphincter (doctor’s word not mine; I didn’t know I had more than one sphincter). The blockage explained the acid reflux as the tear allowed the stomach acids access to my esophagus.

He recommended surgery and was fairly certain that he could get it on the books by the end of the month. Until then, I would remain in the clinic under observation. Pockets would be issued a new dog and I would get to spend the next few weeks handcuffed to a bedrail. Seeing as I’d never really been a discipline problem, and I was surrounded by acres of prison, the nurse relented on the handcuffs by day six. The bed rest gave me a lot of time to lie back and contemplate the twists and turns my life had taken since I discovered that stupid lamp amongst Jenny’s yard sale bullshit.

According to my Djinn friend, Adam and Eve were real people and Allah was the driving force behind the universe. That was easy enough to accept at first, considering that somebody had to be right about the whole origin of man thing. Of course, my Guardian Angel might have something to say about that considering he and his ilk protected humans of all faiths, even the faithless. When you add the existence of Muslim genies and Christian angels with a trio of Greek Fates who personally fucked up my life beyond recognition, I’d say the whole thing becomes a little suspect. That’s not even mentioning the Piss Vampire currently acting as my attorney. How was I to determine who was right and who was wrong in all of this? Who were the good guys? This Iblis guy was most assuredly bad news and Jenny was camped out on his fucking doorstep. My child would be born at the very gate of Hell, a hell that I didn’t even believe in up until last year.

According to Grimace, my guardian Angel, Heaven too was a real place chocked full of blissed out humans, angels, saints, and martyrs. It’s enough to leave a guy looking under his bed at night for the unicorns and the tooth fairy. Before long, I started to consider the possibility that I was actually crazy. I had been sentenced to Pinkerton for that very concern. My psychiatrist had testified in court that while I was certainly aware of the difference between right and wrong, I