Chapter 1

It just wasn't working. On most occasions Simon Glover, successful proctologist and owner of Hiney Health, could turn even the worst of days around by leafing through his robust financial statements. Somehow seeing those large numbers in the asset column just had a way of making even the bleakest of days tolerable. Simon's broad shoulders slumped forward as he set the financial information down on his handsome mahogany desk, situated in the center of his home study, while trying in vain to avoid eye contact with the other paperwork.

The report causing him such anguish was lying at the far left corner of the desk in front of him. It seemed to Dr. Glover, the report did not have a care in the world, while exuding a little attitude. His eyes once again locked onto this evil report. It seemed to be glaring back at him, mocking him like a schoolyard bully. He broke eye contact and picked up a copy of his monthly medical publication, The Proctology Insider. He thumbed through it for a moment, but it was no use. He felt the draw of the report pulling him in with the force of a sci-fi tractor beam. He tossed the publication aside.

Reaching over the financial statements, he picked up the dreaded medical report, and looked over the data for perhaps the hundredth time in the last couple of hours. The pit in his stomach was undeniable and exquisite. He sighed and gave a sideways glance at his humorous desktop calendar. Under normal circumstances a comical conversation between two cows standing on their hind legs would be more than enough to at least put a smile on his face, but not today.

Dr. Glover set the report down, swiveled his chair ninety degrees and stared for a long moment at the oversized clock on the wall. The slowly moving hands rotated inexorably forward without emitting a sound. As they did he wondered if his time was now slipping away without making much of a sound to the contrary. The inadvertent tapping of his Birkenstock sandals on the Saltillo tile floor broke the silence in the expansive study. The resonating sound jarred his thoughts back to his current dilemma. The news he had received earlier in the day was setting in, and it was truly making him nauseous. Dr. Glover removed his sandals, eased back in his chair and placed his feet on the corner of the desk as reflected on his situation.

Only three short months ago, Simon Glover had, on a whim, purchased what had turned out to be the winning National Lottery ticket. In an instant he had gone from being well off, to becoming fabulously wealthy. Prior to that life-altering day when his finances dramatically change, he had worked hard to build up his practice and a name for himself and had succeeded on both counts. With the help of some savvy marketing, his proctology practice, Hiney Health, had for the most part become a household name in Scottsdale Arizona, where he called home. In the last year, he had even brought on a partner and added gastroenterology to his practice, which complemented his proctology services quite nicely.

His business partner, Bill Poot, was a long time friend. The two had met at Arizona State University where they both did their undergraduate work and quickly became inseparable. Bill had tried to convince Simon later in medical school that they should both pursue gastroenterology as a specialty. Bill had argued that, as a proctologist, Simon would only be treating the bus stop while he as a gastroenterologist would be treating the whole route, and after all, it's not about the destination but the journey getting there, right?

Simon often felt that his friend had missed his calling as a trial lawyer. But in the end, neither could dissuade the other and they each felt their surname had predestine them to their chosen field of practice. Recently, however, Glover and Poot had reunited at Hiney Health-proctology and gastroenterology living in harmony.

Try as he would to stay motivated, Simon's heart just wasn't in his work after winning the lottery, and he decided to take some time off. He was happy to let someone else get their hands on Hiney Health for a while and deal with the, at times, maddening minutia of a bustling proctology-gastroenterology practice.

I now have assets exceeding one hundred million dollars, for crying out loud, he had thought. I can certainly make ends meet without having to meet ends every day.

With weariness beginning to set in, Simon went on sabbatical and spent an exhilarating month scuba diving a myriad of dive locales up and down Mexico. Upon returning home a couple of weeks ago, batteries recharged, he had made appointments with his primary care physician, dentist and gastroenterologist, a little health maintenance and tune up before his next planned trip. This time it was off to Hawaii and more scuba diving-a favorite passion.

Following a stellar exam at the dentist, he had met with his gastroenterologist, business partner and longtime friend, all wrapped into one-Dr. Bill Poot. The doctor had run a battery of tests and had unfortunately found something.

"It's probably nothing to worry about, Simon," he had told him, "but let's get a biopsy just to make sure."

"A biopsy? You always were a smooth talker, Bill."

Earlier that day, Bill Poot had given him the awful news. ". . . An aggressive form of prostate cancer," he had informed. "I don't know how to tell you this, Simon, but you're probably beyond the help of chemotherapy or radiation at this point. My estimate is six months at best."

Dr. Poot spent the better part of the day consoling his good friend with little success.

Initially it had seemed a dream to Simon, but now with the pathology report taunting him with the ultimate neener-neener from the desk below, it seemed much more real and much more like a nightmare.

"Well, if this isn't the biggest latex glove insult of all time!" he blurted. "A proctologist dying of prostate cancer."

He could only imagine what a hey day Letterman and Leno would have on their evening monologues if the National Media got wind of his predicament. He looked down at the picture of his parents on the small easel next to his calendar. He had lost them to a motor vehicle accident while he was in college. It was again Bill Poot who had attempted to console him at that time, and with about equal success.

It was at this moment he sensed just how utterly alone he was and also how lonely. Simon had never married. He had come close a couple of times, but his education and subsequent practice had been so consuming that it left little time for a social life. Now with his vast holdings and everything to live for, he had six months. All that money and no one to leave it to, it was almost more than he could endure.

There it was again. He struggled mightily to ratchet down the escalating nausea, as a small burp escaped his lips. His situation was truly making him sick to his stomach. He had no intention of allowing the burrito he had eaten for lunch to contribute to the décor of his study, despite the rich, southwest earth tones that dominated the beautiful room.

His thoughts began to wander to happier times. Simon had wanted to become a proctologist for as long as he could remember. He recalled his time as a medic in the army when he was responsible for administering injections to the new recruits. The recruit would pass through a curtain into the examining room.

"Drop your pants, soldier!" he would bark, while brandishing a large syringe. He would then proceed to swab the soldier's arm with alcohol and inject the enlisted man in the meaty part of the shoulder.

"Next!" he would yell. The men would then quickly pull up their pants, exit the room and never breathe a word of this humiliation to anyone.

Yes, good times, he thought. He was most assuredly destined to become a proctologist. In medical school he had jokingly been told by his classmates and instructors alike that with the name Glover, he really had no choice but to pursue a career in proctology. Simon had agreed wholeheartedly.

He had to admit the lottery money was incredible, but he was nonetheless astonished at the barrage of scams aimed at him following the drawing. It seemed every yahoo with a couple of IQ points to rub together and access to a telephone was trying to separate him from his money. It wasn't his nature, but he quickly learned that being on the defensive would have to become a way of life. He had had his fifteen minutes of fame, thanks to the news coverage of the lottery drawing, but those fifteen minutes had turned into days and weeks of fending off would-be thieves and con artists.

He recalled with fondness, however, the gentleman who identified himself simply as Sid. He had somehow acquired his unlisted phone number and called every day for the first two weeks after the drawing.

"Is this the proc doc?" he would always begin. "If you don't send me one million dollars, by courier, in the next twenty-four hours, I'm going to pull the pin of the grenade I have in my rectum."

Trying to sound serious, Simon would respond with the overused line, "Rectum, that'll darn near kill you."

Sid never let on that he appreciated or even understood the humor. Simon would then continue, "Okay, Sid. Here's the tracking number. I don't want your rectum on my conscience."

After a couple of weeks of fictitious tracking numbers, the calls eventually stopped. He scanned the papers for a while, but saw no headlines alluding to exploding rectums.

His thoughts...