DR. HASHROOSH

My name is Dr. Khalid Hashroosh, and I am, let’s say, controversially practicing gynecology here in Dearborn. Look, I know what you’ve heard. The whispers, the lawsuits, the colorful descriptions of my bedside manner circulating on the internet. All lies, I tell you! Fabrications!

So, maybe I’m not exactly Mother Teresa with a speculum. But these young and voluptuous women! They come in here expecting miracles and demanding I fix their, shall we say, unique anatomy with a wave of my hand. As if I’m some kind of vulva-wielding wizard! I’m a doctor, not a magician.

Anyway, the point is, I’m innocent of any real wrongdoing! That’s what I kept telling my lawyer, Numan.

“Numan,” I’d say, dramatically clutching my chest, “these allegations are preposterous! I’m a pillar of the community!”

Numan would usually grunt, adjust his toupee, and say something like,

“Yeah, well, pillars don’t usually have five pending lawsuits for sexual allegations, Khalid.”

Look, five lawsuits are nothing. It’s practically a slow week in the world of gynecology. But this one was different. This one had the potential to screw things up.

Her name was Sasha. Sasha with the fiery red hair, big chest, and even fierier temper. Sasha claimed I constantly prolong the procedure. To be specific, she alleged I overwork my fingers once inside the cave, and I purposely keep talking nonsense while I continue excavating. Simply Preposterous!

Sasha was a firecracker. She was loud, she was persistent, and she had a knack for getting the local news involved. A picture of my face next to the headline “Dearborn Doctor From Pornhub!” was not exactly the publicity I needed.

So, I did what any sane, innocent, and slightly panicked doctor would do: I decided to discreetly compensate her.

“Numan, I need your advice,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Hypothetically, if someone wanted to appease a disgruntled patient, how would they go about it?”

Numan looked at me with the same expression he usually reserved for overflowing bedpans. “You’re considering bribing her, aren’t you, Khalid?”

“Bribing! Heavens, no! I’m talking about a charitable donation. A goodwill offering. A gesture of gynecological goodwill!”

Numan sighed. “Look, Khalid, I’m a lawyer, not a magician. If you’re going to do something monumentally stupid, at least don’t tell me about it. And for God’s sake, use unmarked bills!”

Unmarked bills. Good advice. But what kind of “donation” amount would make Sasha magically forget about her fabricated lies? That was the million-dollar question. I mean, not literally a million dollars. I wasn’t that guilty. Maybe ten thousand? Twenty? I shuddered. This was going to hurt.

I decided to play it cool. I called Sasha, pretending to be deeply concerned about her well-being.

“Sasha, darling,” I said, oozing false sincerity, “I’ve been thinking about you. I’m just so worried about how this incident has affected your life. I want to make things right.”

“Oh, really, Dr. Hashroosh?” she said, her voice dripping with suspicion. “And how exactly are you planning on doing that?”

“Well,” I said, stalling for time, “I was thinking of offering you a complimentary membership to a local gym. And maybe a gift certificate to a spa?”

There was a long silence. Then, Sasha burst out laughing. “A gym membership? Are you kidding me? I need you in jail!”

Okay, so the subtle approach wasn’t working. Time to get blunt.

“Sasha,” I said, lowering my voice, “let’s talk turkey. How much money would it take for you to reconsider your lawsuit?”

I could practically hear her eyes widen over the phone.

“Well, Dr. Hashroosh,” she said, her voice suddenly smooth as silk, “that depends. How much are you willing to pay for my silence?”

We haggled like we were selling rugs at a flea market. She started at fifty thousand. I countered with five. We eventually settled on twenty-five thousand. Twenty-five thousand! It was enough to make my prostate ache, and I began to wonder if I could still afford the monthly costs of those shady sites I rarely visit to expand my gynecology skills.

The next day, I met Sasha at a deserted parking lot behind a Taco Bell. I wore a baseball cap and sunglasses, feeling like a character in a bad spy movie. I handed her a briefcase full of unmarked bills. She handed me a signed document stating she was dropping the lawsuit and would never speak of the incident again. We shook hands. It was over. I had bought my way out of trouble. I felt terrible.

And so, dear reader, that is the story of how I, Dr. Khalid Hashroosh, shady gynecologist extraordinaire, ended up paying Sasha twenty-five thousand dollars to drop her lawsuit.

Was I guilty? Maybe. Did I deserve it? Probably. Anyways, I drove home, feeling like a slimy, morally bankrupt gynecologist.

I parked my car and walked inside my house, when I heard a notification ding on my laptop from one of that shady website. It was Amy, claiming to live only three miles away.