Page 36 of Riot Act
In the operating room, a grumpy motherfucker with breath that reeks of stale coffee tells me to count backwards from ten while he puts me under. I stare at him stubbornly, glowering at him as the edges of my vision blur.
Then, all is black.
When I wake up, I have a second pulse in my left hip and it’s beating way too fast. It fuckinghurts. I’m in a hospital room now, and it’s dark outside. Mountain Lakes is silent on the other side of the large, bare window in the room, but there’s a weird electric hum in the air. Maybe the irritating buzz has something to do with the fact that someone just drilled a hole into my fucking hip. Who can tell at this point?
I try to sit up and a bolt of lightning descends from the heavens and strikes me on the dick. Horror pools in my gut as the fear creeps in. Why the fuck does mydickhurt?Whythefuckdoesmydickhurt!Something went wrong. They injured my junk somehow. I’m broken. They fuckingmaimedme. I tear back the bedsheet, bracing for the worst. And there it is: a thin tube coming out of the end of my dick. It leads to a clear plastic bag, attached to an IV pole next to the bed.
They gave me a catheter. A fuckingcatheter. No way. I’mnotlying here with a hose jammed down my dickhole. I look around, trying to find a call-button that I can use to get someone’s attention. Eventually, I see the buttons on the inside arm of the gurney. I hit the red button five times and the door crashes open moments later, banging loudly against the wall. Who should charge in, looking frantic and ready for anything? Well, well, well, if it isn’t my old buddy Remy. The bruise I gave him on his jaw looks terrible.
He runs to the bed.Runs.“What? What’s wrong? Can you breathe?”
I swat his hands away. “Yes, I can fucking breathe. Get this tube out of my dick right now, or I’m ripping it out with my bare hands.”
Remy’s expression darkens. “That button is for emergencies only. Do you have any idea how many alarms you just set off?”
“Eleven.”
“Don’t get smart, asshole.” He slaps a green panel on the wall above the bed, and out in the hallways, a politeDing Ding! Ding Ding! Ding Ding!stops. “The catheter isn’t coming out until you’ve filled that bag.” Remy points to the gross plastic bag on the IV pole. “You aren’t even a fifth of the way yet. Sip on some water. I might be able to take it out in the morning.”
“You’re insane. I’m not having this thing in me over night. It’ll stretch out my fucking urethra.”
Remy rolls his eyes. “For someone who can take a punch so well, you sure are a big baby.”
“I’m not fucking around. Take it out, or I swear to God, I’ll rip it out.”
He laughs. “Go ahead. See what happens to your urethrathen. Let me take a look at your back.”
I seethe as he peels back the covers and stands there, waiting for me to roll over. “I’m actually getting paid for this,” he points out. “Not very well, admittedly, but I’ve made my peace with my paycheck. I can waste my entire afternoon here and I’ll still make rent at the end of the month. It’s no skin off my nose.”
“You’re the fucking worst, you know that?”
Remy grins. “And you’re a miserable sack of shit. You’re lucky Pete told me you went to visit Presley, or I’d be manhandling you so hard right now. You might normally wanna throw fists at me, but trust. You don’t wanna tussle five minutes after waking up from a bone marrow donation.”
I groan, biting back some very colorful language as I roll over just enough for him to open my gown and check on my incision site. I don’t know if I should feel smug that he has to stare at my bare ass, or if I’m supposed to feel ashamed that Ihaveto expose myself to him. He pokes and prods at me, gentle enough, grunts, then replaces my dressing and tells me I can lie back down again. “Very neat. Very clean. Doctor London’s the best.” Remy scribbles aggressively onto my chart.
“Where’s my bag? My clothes? My shoes?”
He doesn’t look up from the clipboard. “In a locked cabinet in the staff changing rooms,” he says. “You’ll get it back in a couple of days, once Doctor London says you’re well enough to leave.”
“Uhh. I don’t think so. I’m going home.”
Remy sighs, lowering the clipboard. “How did I know that you were gonna cause trouble, huh? I must be fucking psychic.”
“Give me back my shit, Remy.”
“Nope.”
“I swear to fucking God—”
“Swear to whoever you like. It ain’t gonna make a difference. Your body just went through trauma. You’re weak and vulnerable to infection. You need to rest and heal.”
“So, you’re keeping me prisoner?”
He huffs, adopting a tone that suggests I might be an imbecile. “I’m doing my job and caring for my patient. Trust me, I enjoy your company a lot less than you enjoy mine. If it were up to me, I’d let you hobble on out of here this second.”
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