Fiction: Hippocratic Oaf

Shawn began a lap around the hotel’s pool. He wore shorts, sandals, a tank top, and a white lab coat with the name Dr. Kemann stitched underneath the hotel’s name and logo.

This was one of his favorite parts of his most excellent life in Ecuador. He had spotted a nubile young blonde on the other side of the pool. She was sunning herself and was a scant few centimeters of fabric shy of getting an all-over tan. Kemann would go over to her, introduce himself, caution her to take care in the sun, offer to apply more medically thorough sunscreen, and — if history repeated itself — end up in her bed that evening.

The beautiful young woman, and more than a hundred others before her, was why he had become a hotel doctor in the tropics.

As he approached her, the pager in his lab coat pocket chirped at him. He frowned; this was no time for some guest to have indigestion. Still, such interruptions ensured his continued employment.

The little screen said merely “Urgente.”

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