CARDRUNNERS

What's Your Edge

Daut44's Poker Blog

January 29, 2009

part 1 here: blogs.cardrunners.com/Daut44/god-wants-local-man-dead-part1

Monday 9th

I wake up. It is morning. My priorities are in order.

Contact doctor.
Get soup.
Survive.

Psycho nurse walks in with the ward head and the lunch lady. They are the three medical musketeers. Angry, angry musketeers.

"We phoned the doctor."

Fantastic. Progress towards a goal that won't put me six feet under. That's a first. I ask about the soup.

"We told her about your behaviour."

I ponder this for a moment. I try hard to think of an answer that would most benefit my situation, and maybe even improve my relations with the nurses.

Instead, I ask about the soup. There is me, and there is soup. Nothing else matters. I want this made clear.

"Yes, you're allowed to have soup."

I smile. I am happy. I have waited so long for this day. A food with smell. A food with warmth. A food with personality. I consider making sweet love to the soup. I drop this consideration immediately.

"But you'll have to compliment your diet with jel-"

Her words mean nothing. The soup rests on my lap. It steams away. I close my eyes. To taste it is thrilling. Absolutely mind-blowing. I moan the sensation softly. I hum and shuffle and exhale. It is orgasmic.

I open my eyes. The musketeers are still watching me. Not awkward. Not awkward at all. I figure I may as well be polite. I hold the spoon up to psycho nurse.

"Want some?"

I smile. She is unimpressed. I know she's jealous. Harpies love soup.

"I'll be your care-taker for tonight."

The head nurse chimes in to finish psycho nurses' sentence. Nurses arn't capable of individual thought. They rely on a chattering hub of ineptitude and disinformation to make decisions. Natural Selection turns a blind eye. God has them on his dirty pay roll.

"Until then, behave and don't leave your ward. Your visitors are still restricted. We've stored your stuff in another room until you are ready to leave."

Wait, where's my phone.

"We've placed it with your other things."

Oh no you don't you dirty scoundrel. My phone is my personal property. Get fluffed'ed.

"You can collect it tomorrow."

I protest. I threaten to call King Louis. I threaten to call D'Artagnan. But I get nowhere. The musketeers walk out together. As one, they are vulnerable. As three, they fear nothing. I finish my soup. I will need the strength. Medical Stalingrad is in dire straits. Every line of communication has been cut. Higher nurse echelons have me sorrounded. Sporadic food drops will not sustain me.

One more night. One more.

I wake up. It is night time. Just before eight o'clock. It is silent. I can hear the nurses scurrying about. Perhaps they are searching for cheese. One of them asks another nurse if she's done the heparin rounds.

"Doing them now."

It is the chirpy, sinister voice of psycho nurse.

"67 should enjoy it."

They both laugh. I think nothing of it. I am oblivious. You devilish bastard God. My complacency is to your advantage. I leave my defense ill-prepared. Precious time is lost.

I glance the sign above the door.

67.

Oh no. No fluffing way. Not this fluffing shit again. I remember the last heparin needle this psycho bitch gave me. I remember her getting up close and personal - blood-tipped needle in hand. I shift into overdrive. I weigh up my options. I am scared. I am afraid. Shit's about to hit the fan, and I'm still in my fluffing pyjamas.

Then, sitting up, I eye something poking out from behind the adjacent room curtain.

Jackpot.

But I didn't think I'd go that far.

Then again, God goes as far as he fluffing wants.

My room is dark. The light is off. I see light emanating from the hall way. It is foreign territory beyond the darkness, but there is no time for caution. My needle is already one minute overdue. Slowly, I edge toward the door. I glance around the corners. My eyes sting. A nurse walks with her back towards me to the West. To the East, a family heads to a set of elevators. The elevators will be closely guarded. To the North lies an empty hallway. My decision is made for me.

I gun it.

I have never commandeered a wheelchair before, but by fluff did I haul ass. If there was a Nascar for cripples Id've taken pole position. I get past one room. Then another. And another. I am getting tired. Half my energy goes to keeping the stupid thing straight. The other half goes to keeping the thing moving. I realise it is fluffing hard to use a wheelchair for the first time. My arms are aching already. I'm running on soup from 8 hours ago. I come to the next room.

Patient Lounge.

Holy shit I've hit Switzerland - neutral territory. I wheel myself in there. I bang myself on the door on the way in. Two men; one in a wheelchair himself; look at me as I roll into the corner. I've bought myself some time.

But not enough.

I hear psycho nurse's voice. She is not happy. She has only killed 2 patients today.

"67 isn't in his bed."

Another nurse has the answer.

"Check the patient lounge."

fluff. I am royally screwed. The only exit is the entry, and there is no time to escape. I shift into over-over drive. I don't fully understand the implications of my brain's over-over drive. It is a risk I must take.

I roll to the table in the middle of the room and grab a magazine. It is a Woman's Day. Excellent. There is hope. My arms are burning. I make a final push toward the door, just as psycho nurse - needle in hand - comes around the corner. She stands in the doorway. Her shadow fills the room.

Enter shit. Enter fan. Commence'th the shitten'ing.

I throw the Woman's Day at her feet.

"YOU SHALL NOT PASS."

I stare into psycho nurses' black eyes. Katie Holmes glares at psycho nurse from the floor. I am touched by her gesture. Holmes is a hero. Her sacrifice will not go unheralded. The man in the wheelchair is frightened at the unfolding events. I want to take his hand. I want to tell him he is safe. But I cannot leave my post. The patient lounge is at stake. Someone must defend these people, and that someone is me.

A second of time passes.

Psycho nurse is pissed off. Beyond pissed off. Her face turns red. The head nurse appears behind her. I grip the handles of the wheelchair. I am getting scared. Beads of sweat pool on my brow. Miss Holmes looks to me for help. I see fear and uncertainty in her eyes.

Too much shit. Too small a fan.

I wake up. It is around midnight. My thigh hurts from the heparin needle psycho bitch gave me. I am now being closely monitored by the nurses who check me every half hour. They have been instructed not to let me leave my room. The head nurse stood next to the bed as I ate my jelly dinner. She made certain I ate it, and then removed the tray.

My spirit is close to breaking.

I look out the window.

"Tomorrow, God."

Light from a passing street car strafes the room. Shadows move across my face.

"Tomorrow, the fight comes to you."

Tuesday 10th - VH Day.

I wake up. It is early morning. Tuesday 10th. It has been one week since my incarceration. One week since the outbreak of war between God and I. Each day has been longer than the day preceeding. The great skyfairy has been cunning. He has played his hand in direct assaults and convenient accidents; nutritional and psychological warfare; and foiled my attempt to break out via Switzerland.

Worst of all, he killed Katie Holmes.

fluffing bastard.

I am nervous. There is no doubt that today God will present his most challenging situation yet; but I am hungry, I am tired, and I am afraid. The nurses' continual checking has disturbed my sleep. My soup privileges have been revoked. My possessions have been repossessed. My only celebrity friend has been slaughtered by a psychotic wilderbeast. Her compatriots have become equally obsessed with my destruction. I have only one solution. It is sly. It is cunning. It is hot.

I'll take a shower.

A shower is the ultimate problem solver. Rheem, unknown too many, was a genius among men. It is the facilitator of all solutions in life. I will take one, I will think, and I will prevail.

With great effort, I walk hunched over to the enclosed bathroom. I open the door and shut it behind me. I take a seat, grab the shower hose, and commence showering.

It feels degrading to have to shower sitting down, but boy is it comfy. Too bad the water is heat, pressure and time limited. They could've just given me a bucket. Then again, the hospital knows better than to give me a bucket.

I could do awful, awful things with a bucket.

The shower shuts off and I get up. I am refreshed. I am happy. So far, the morning has run smoothly and without incident. Sadly, I have not yet learnt the lessons of my complacency. God plays his hand. He pulls blackjack.

fluff.

Stepping out of the shower I slip on the plastic lid of a jelly cup - the contents of which I fed to the toilet some days ago. I fall back, grab at the curtains, and land on my back. My shoulders take the brunt. My head taps the tiles lightly. The bulldozers in my kidneys go on a joyride. A morphine burrito would go down so well right about now. I lie on my back. I will wait for the pain to subside. I will carry on with my normal duties. The nurses will be none the wiser. I cannot; will not; give them a reason to prolong my stay. My sanity, and my life, depends on it.

A few seconds pass. I notice an orange glow from the shower corner of the ceiling. It has never shined before.

Once again I am oblivious. Once again I lose precious seconds. Once again the septic system is poised to assault my fan.

It all comes together. The light is connected to a long string reaching all the way to the ground. Above the light is a plaque.

“Pull for assistance.”

There are only two nurses now assigned to my room - psycho bitch and the captain.

And one of them is coming. Now.

I assess the situation. I am lying immobile on the floor. I am cold. I am wet. I am naked. There is a jelly cup lid on my heel.

God has played his hand, so I play mine: I pull a 3 of diamonds and an expired discount voucher for Civic Video.

I am so fluffed.

Then it happens. An angry bang on the door. It is psycho nurse. The hospital bouncer. She is not pleased. She has not yet consumed her morning meal of baby.

"What do you want?" she snaps.

Wow. Such hospitality. Where'd they find this gem of a worker. The abattoir? I think fast. I tell her I'm just getting dried. I reach for the towel and rub it through my hair to mimic the sound. This was a mistake.

My head hits the tiles and I grunt in pain. Psycho bitch realises something’s up. For all she knows, I could be training a Golden Retriever to don a balaclava and attack the medical staff. I wouldn't put it past her.

"Do you want me to come in?"

Do you want a mastectomy?

"I'm going to come in."

The fluff you are. There's only one option. I outstretch my foot and jam it up against the door. Psycho nurse pushes hard. I will hold. I must hold. If they find I am injured, they will hold me longer for observation. If they find I have hit my head, they will hold me overnight.

This can not happen.

"What's going on. I can't open the door."

Over-drive time. I tell her my drip stand is up against the door.

"YOU'RE DRIP STAND ISN'T BLOCKING THE DOOR. IN FACT, I CAN SEE IT FROM HERE. IT'S NEXT TO THE BED."

Damn. The psycho nurse is smarter than I thought. Her vision isn't based on movement at all. Last time I trust Jurassic Park to help me escape from a hospital bathroom naked.

"Open the door."

I tell her I can't. I continue making noise with my towel. I plead she will go away.

"Why not."

I have three words for her. Drip. Door. Jammed.

"WE JUST WENT THROUGH THIS."

I slip into over-over drive for the second time in two days. The result is instantly regrettable. I will never understand the thought processes involved. I have doubts as to whether any thinking took place at all.

I sing to the tune of Banana Boat. Loudly. Many seconds elapse. I am cold. I am shivering. I am paining. I am lying naked on the bathroom tiles of a concentration camp hospital with a towel around my head.

And I am singing.

"I'M GETTING THE HEAD NURSE."

Finally, she leaves. Here is my opportunity. The pain has subsided just enough for action. I struggle back onto my feet. I throw a singlet on and a pair of pants. I fling open the door and throw the towel behind me. I cripple-jog to my bed. I lift myself onto it. I pull the covers up to my chest. My heart is beating. My pulse is racing. My escape hinges on this action.

Seconds later, psycho nurse arrives with the head of the ward. They check the bathroom first. They find water, soaked pyjamas, and a twisted towel. They do not find the drip or patient 67.

The head nurse exits the bathroom and spots me. She marches towards the bed. She is in a controlled rage. Her pupils are dilated. Her cheeks are flush. Her very being quakes with fury.

I am not a smart man. I am still in over-over drive. A smart man does not stay in over-over drive. I am half-smiling. My voice is feeble.

“I don’t suppose you like Jurassic Park?”

Nice.

It is late morning. My belongings have been returned. The doctor has visited me. I inform her that my stay has been uneventful. She laughs. I exit my room on my feet. I head East to the elevators. On my way, I pass by Switzlerland. The man in the wheelchair stretches his arm out, begging me to take him. But I cannot. I leave him to his fate. It pains my heart. It truly does. He was here when I arrived. He is still here as I am leaving. I promise to myself that one day I will liberate the captives here. I will be the hero facing the darkness and heralding the dawn. Until then, I must survive. God is still pissed. And I know it. Boy do I know it.

I exit the elevator. Ground floor. Sunlight streams in through the double glass doors. I am smiling. I am warm. I am happy.

I sign out at reception. I am free. Free from heparin needles, psycho nurse, jelly, the pirate ship captain, and seated showers. A cloud passes over and softens the sunlight.

I am not free yet. God is not accustomed to failure. His vengeance will be swift. Today is VH day. Victory-in-Hospital day. But the war is not over. It is in its closing stages, but there are still more hands to play.

Then, a friendly voice. The voice of someone not trying to kill me. It is harmonious.

“Over here!”

It is my friend. He has come to pick me up. I walk over to him. He dangles car keys from his hand. I ask him if I can drive.

“Oh man, hahah, far out man, shit no, no fluffing way.”

He turns around and walks out the door, still laughing. It was worth a try.

I approach the doors and take my first step outside. Storm clouds loom on the horizon.

The words form in my mind. I know he can here them.

“If you want me.”

A boom of thunder resonates in the distance.

“Come fluffing’ing take me.”

Wednesday 11th - VH Day +1

I wake up. I am in my bed. My bed. It is the morning after VH day. I have escaped medical Stalingrad as the Wermacht surrendered next door in a blaze of morphine-induced fury. Tens of thousands have laid down their arms and crossed over to the other side; abandoning me to my fate.

fluff the Wermacht. I will fight on alone.

I look out the window. I am not smiling. God's offensive - brilliantly planned, yet poorly executed - has been repulsed by a unit of his own creation. The unit has successfully withdrawn from behind enemy lines; across rivers of heparin-fuelled flames and miles of antibiotic jungle; to safe territory. It is time to think. Time to consolidate. Time for action.

It is time for the counter-offensive.

It is time to realise the paradox of an antibiotic jungle.

I assess the situation. It is grim. Bleak. Jelly remains in world-wide circulation. New hospitals are under construction all over the globe. In Switzerland, clowns lie dying in the streets. Cripples everywhere rally to avenge the slaughter of Miss Holmes. A confused and PMS-suffering Woman's Day launches an offensive into New Idea. Five celebrities become fat in the subsequent gossip dead-zone. Two more are wed. The world is outraged. Tensions reach boiling point. A shit the size of which the world has never seen is about to hit a fan no larger than a toaster. Worst of all, I somehow caught the flu.

This is what happens.

This is what happens when you piss off God.

Compounding the dire situation is one simple, harrowing fact: God is immortal, I am not. In the absence of a work-around for this I am royally fluffed'ed. I could be a martyr. I could sacrifice myself to appease God and set things right. But suicide is a sin. I would go to Hell. I have been to Hell. It is not peachy. Not peachy in the slightest. I would prefer to prolong my stay on Earth. I will survive.

I rise to shower. I will pray to Rheem. I will need his strength. While undergoing this steamy meditation, God's progression becomes clear.

God created the Earth, and man, in 7 days. I had spent 7 days fighting against man and his creations. And man, unto God's order, is governed by the 10 commandments.

Creation and the ten commandments. God is a big fan of symbolism. This will be no exception. His offensive hasn't stalled at all. It has quietened. Time to think. Time to consolidate. Time for action. On the tenth day, Saturday 14th, it's go-go time for God's retribution against me. No fan is big enough for the shit about to come. With a thousand years, and a trillion men, no fan could be made big enough. There is only one solution.

I must dismantle the shit itself.

From the inside.

This leaves me with 3 days. If God is going to rest today, than so will I. I am exhausted. I am receiving soup, but I am still weak. My mid section still pains. I am restricted to light activity only. fluff that, I have a war to win. Does inter-ethereal war count as light activity? For America perhaps, but for me, no chance.

It is lunch time. I have had soup. I am happy. I am content. I decide to go for a walk. Walking is important after staying in hospital because the lungs become congested from disuse. While I might not be on speaking terms with my bastard child kidneys, I happen to enjoy a mutual friendship with my lungs. Therefore, I will protect them. I will walk.

I walk in the nature reserve often and without incident. Today however, I would encounter God's auxiliary units, from which I would learn one thing.

God still wants local man dead.

I am ten, maybe fifteen minutes into the walk. I'm walking through the big nature reserve near my house. It's pleasant, but the reserve has somewhat of a bad reputation. Today though, I am just happy to enjoy the quiet of nature and the sunshine. The track narrows to a small rock-crossing over the remnants of an eroded creek. One person crosses at a time.

I walk down to the creek. A kid, maybe 17, maybe 18, sits on a BMX in the centre of the crossing. He has acne everywhere and a shit haircut. I was once told bogan's love rust, but inner-city bogans are of a different variety. They like chrome. Anything chrome is the bomb. The shinier, the better. They are Chrome Bogans.

This BMX was shiny. I figured it was stolen. Chrome Bogan's can't afford bikes. That bogans have adapted to ride them is a marvel of evolution unto itself.

"What the fluff do you want."

Yeah, this is going to be pleasant. I tell him to step aside. I add ", kid" to the end of it.

Chrome Bogans don't like to be belittled. They are the Adam and Eve of psycho nurse - all traits inherited.

"fluff you dickhead."

Chrome Bogan looks at my tee-shirt. He's looking for an add-on to his own insult. He's doing a shit job. My shirt reads "O-week," as in university O-week.

"O-week. What fluffing gay shit is that."

I would kill him if I could. Shame I can't. My next move defies logic, and is not one I would take again. I have reason to believe my kidneys had already boarded flights to Fiji at the time of the incident. My brain most likely had detached from my spinal cord; dug a fox-hole, and bunkered down. Wherever the fluff the three of them were, they weren't with me at the time. I speak flatly.

"fluffed'ed if I know. But the O reminds me of the face c*unts like you make when you're sucki-"

I never did get to finish that sentence. Shame. Twas' snappy.

I get king-hit in the back of the head, off-centre by someone I didn't realise was behind me. I go straight to the ground like a dead weight. Chrome Bogan dismounts and kicks me in the upper back. fluffing hurts. Agony. White flecks are filling my vision. I don't want to pass out. I feel rustling in my jeans pocket.

A few minutes later my vision is fixed and I get up. My head fluffing pains. My back is OK though. I'm just glad they didn't kick me in the stomach. One-way trip back to Stalingrad that would've been.

My wallet is lying about ten metres away. My cards are strewn in the trees and shrubs around it. The fifty bucks worth of notes that were in there is gone. Luckily, my car keys and my phone were in my other pocket, which was pushed against the ground and covered when I fell. I call my mate.

He gets there in five minutes and helps me back to the car. I ask him if I can drive. Guess.

He takes me to the police station and I give a statement. I decline the offer of medical help. fluff God, be a little more cunning would you.

It is night. I am in bed. My bed. It is the night after VH day, and I continue to survive.

"I’m coming for you God."

I look out the window. Dark clouds diffuse the moonlight. A lone star shines in solitary defiance.

"Bigtime."

Thursday 12th - VH Day +2

I wake up. It is mid-morning. Today marks the second day of my flight from medical Stalingrad. Including today, this leaves 3 days until Saturday - the day God's war-machine shifts into overdrive and Blitzkrieg's my sorry ass. I cannot repel this offensive. This had been made clear. I have a ChromeBogan inflicted bruise on my back to prove it. If I am to have any hope of defeating God, I must strike on the 13th; before the curtain rises. There will be no encore. No repeat performance if I fail. I have showered profusely. Rheem has shown me the way. The fallen have given me the will. Everything hinges on tomorrow's action.

Christmas comes early kids. Crank the fluffing milk and cookies. We've got a war to win.

But first, I must navigate the labyrinth of God's bureaucratic bitch. The ultimate institution for crippling men's minds through unnecessary documentation, duplication, and red tape.

Welcome to University. Prepare to be cluster-fluffed'ed.

I dress myself. It takes me ten minutes. My mid-section, upper-back, and head are having a house party at my expense. Attrition is taking it's toll. I must make it through today unharmed. My capacity for injury has been reached, and then some.

I board a bus. An hour later, I board a second bus. A ten minute walk after that, and I am standing outside the student office at university. It is lunch time. The short walk has nearly killed me. My mid-section is paining something fierce. I am glad the queue is short. I am desperate to get home.

"Next," says the man.

I am disturbed. The guy serving me has bags the size of grapes under his eyes. They seem unstable. They quiver with his speech. I pray they do not explode.

"Hi, I spent a week in hospital and missed some tutorials. I want to apply for special consideration."

I am smiling. I am perky. I am the girl scout on your front porch offering cookies for money. I am your biscuit prostitute. I hope our transaction is savoury.

Bagman does not smile back. God has forewarned the University of my coming. They have prepared themselves well.

"Go make photocopies."

This seems unneccesary. I ask him why. In retrospect, I should've told him the vineyard on his face was ready for harvest. A lot of future pain could have been avoided. I may even have scored some wine.

"You need to make a photocopy for each course."

Ok. Fair enough. I'll pay that. I ask him if he wants all of the photocopies.

"You take them to each faculty in person, and bring one to me."

The faculties are located huge distances apart, but I will respect procedure. An incident is the last thing I need.

I walk to the library. It's a huge effort to walk without grimacing. My kidneys are divebombing off the roof into the pool that is my bowel. Everything is getting wet. Everything is getting sore.

I photocopy the medical document I need four times. The cost is $1.20 per sheet. I make the trek back to the student office. I wait in the queue. Once again, I confront Bagman.

I hand him the photocopies. He takes the original, and leaves the photocopies on the counter. I tell him I'll go hand the copies into the relevant faculty offices.

Bagman plays his hand.

"First year subjects don't accept special consideration for missed tutorials. You just get counted as not having attended."

He smiles. Deadset smirks. He is overflowing with self-importance.

I ask him why he had me make photocopies. I want to know why I just spent twenty minutes tearing the shit out of my insides to waste my money

"Not my problem," he says.

Absolute fluffnut. I decide I need to break even with Bagman. Two seconds of silence passes. I speak.

"Are they seedless."

Bagman is confused.

"What?" he says.

"The grapes."

"What grapes?"

"Red wine or white."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Vintage? I'm thinking vintage."

"What is it?"

I make a V with my right hand and hold it in front of my face. I smile.

Flip goes the Bagman.

I start walking away. The queue behind me is laughing. Bagman stands up and presses his face against the plastic divider screen. He starts yelling. Loudly. His eye-bags are fluttering. I can't laugh. It hurts to laugh. But I am happy. It is time to go home.

It is late afternoon and the sun is ready to set when I catch my first bus. I then wait in line for my second bus, which arrives ten minutes late. I am first in line. Yay for me.

I pay for my ticket and choose the seat behind the driver, on the right hand side of the bus. I do not want to stumble around trying to get off and risk injuring myself. God will not score his prey that easily.

The bus fills up. A man comes and sits next to me. He has a monobrow and more chins than fingers though, so I need not... not... respect him? I flashback to the nurse and doctor I met in hospital. Bizarre bastard offspring? You decide. I begin to wonder if his eyebrow could act as a sunvisor. I drop this line of thought immediately.

The doors close and our bus driver - a pleasant Oriental man - begins to move off. That's when I notice it.

That's when I notice another bus coming in particularly close on my side. It has no blinker on. I think nothing of it.

Welcome to the public transport system - God's elite cadre of assassins.

Our bus driver slams on the brakes and shouts out. The other bus, as we are moving to leave, cuts us off and heads into the bus shelter lane. The front-left of the other bus slams into the front-right of our bus. The side-view mirror is sheered right off. The impact is halfway between the drivers seat and my seat. The glass window to my right shatters inwards. The bus lurches and bumps the bus shelter itself, snapping off a part of its perspex roof. I am already buckled over from the sudden braking when the bus hits. I am pushed sideways into the enormous parachute of a man next to me. My bag; resting on my lap before the crash, is first pushed hard into my abdomen, and then flung into the aisle. The other bus continues on for another thirty metres before stopping. Ous bus driver is swearing. He gets up and asks if we are all OK. Everyone nods. People are excited moreso than angry. Bus crashes are the new black.

We all exit the bus. I feel fine. I don't feel any pain at all. I walk away from the crowd of bus goers. The city sidewalk is incredibly busy. It is filled with people. Another bus rolls up. The people from my bus begin to line up. I wait until the last one has boarded before I approach. A man from the bus company stops me at the entrance. He is not pleased.

"Ticket."

I love bus service. Probably more than this man loves drowning kittens. I fumble around in my pocket for the ticket. Two seconds pass. Five, ten seconds pass.

I've lost my ticket.

I'm not too worried at this point. Surely, this man is not stupid enough to deny me entry. I explain that I was on the bus that just crashed. I describe the driver. I tell him the passengers on the bus could vouch for me too. I was truly surprised by his response.

"Either pay for a ticket, or walk."

Inside my head, a thousand tiny fans are disposing of a thousand tiny shits. I cannot believe what has just been said to me. Do they want me to pay for the fluffing window that broke as well? I struggle to quell my rage, but I am not waiting an hour for another bus. I am going home. If that means paying for another ticket, then so be it.

I open my wallet. I know I have $5.60 in here somewhere.

Instead, I find 80 cents. Courtesy of the fluffing vineyard.

I begin to argue with the man. I point up at the windows and tell him to ask someone on the bus to vouch for me. But he is having none of it. He waves to the bus driver, and the bus drives away.

I check my wallet for my keycard. Instead I find a note. It's from my sister.

"Needed card to go to DFO. Pay you back. xoxo."

I assess the situation. Now I understand the Wermacht's position. God's red army has blown apart my only method of transportation. I have .8 of a whole dollar in which to finance my retreat back to friendly territory.

I am so royally fluffed'ed. Again.

I make a call. The familiar voice of my friend comes across the reciever. I explain to him what has happened.

"You are a walking inconvenience. Ok, I’m coming."

I love my friends. An hour later and we are driving in the direction of my house. Suddenly, my abdomen begins to pain. This isn’t my normal movement pain. This pain feels warm, burning and sharp. I disregard it. My friend asks for his phone, and I turn on the car ceiling light to rifle through the glove box.

“Dude, I think you’re bleeding.”

I look down at my shirt. Red spots are forming where two of my incisions were made. I tell him it’s not bleeding much.

“Maybe you should get it checked out.”

I am telling him I’m fine when I feel my abdominals tighten and go hard. The pain doesn’t increase, but my whole mid-section becomes rigid. I can feel the blood seeping out onto my skin.

“I’m taking you to hospital bud.”

I don’t argue with him a second time. I have no choice. God has forced my hand. I am going back.

Back to medical Stalingrad.

It is night. I am looking out the window. The same window. A crueler twist of fate I could not have envisioned, but it has happened. I am in the same room.

Tonight is the eve of Friday 13th – the day of my offensive.

God is playing hardball. He is winning.

And things have never looked bleaker.

______________________________________________________________

will post conclusion tonight. then a long mma post, then some poker bs to close out the month

Entry Tags:

Jan 29, 09 13:25:10

this is really great stuff, definitely worth the read.

snails has some serious writing talent too.

brystmar

Sep 9, 09 07:29:03

dfgdf'dfg dfg

rakesh_sharma