From: rickg@netcom.com (Rick Gordon)
Subject: Peevetown General Hospital: Take 4
Followup-To: alt.peeves
Organization: Netcom - SF Bay, Cal Northifornia
Date: Mon, 9 Nov 1992 22:45:53 GMT


The scene: A room in the Transitional Care Unit (TCU), after midnight.
Two beds, two patients.  The room lights are out, but it isn't dark
because the door to the hallway is open.  One of the patients, Mr.
Graham, is sleeping fitfully after an arduous surgery of unknown
scope.   The other patient, Mr. Gordon, lies on his back, eyes closed,
nearing sleep.

GRAHAM:
"<koffkoff>"

GORDON:
[What?]

GRAHAM:
"Ahuelgghhh!  GRAKKH!  GUH-KHWOOOM-UH!"

GORDON:
[Jesus.  What time is it?  Half past 1.   Oog.]

GRAHAM:
"Ooooohhhhhhhh!  Oooooooooooo."

GORDON:
[What is wrong with this guy?  If he's dying I wish he'd do it more
quietly.  I need to sleep.]

GRAHAM:
"HOGHHKKH-GLUHGGGHH!  <burbleurble>  KACKKKHH!"

GORDON:
[Sounds like he aspirated a bottle of carbolic acid.  If I looked over the
curtain at him I bet I'd see lung fragments hanging out his mouth.]

GRAHAM:
"Ooohhhhhnnnnnggh.  Oooommmmmmmmmmm."

GORDON:
[Maybe he'll quiet down now.  Sounds like he's going back to sleep, if
he was ever awake.  Think pleasant thoughts, think of ]

GRAHAM:
"KAH-PIKKHG-K'FLOGGGHH-AAAAAHHH!  *S H N O R R G G H* !  Ooooohhhhhhhhh!"

GORDON:
[Two AM.  It's hopeless.]

TCU NURSE:
"Mr. Graham, are you alright?"

GRAHAM:
"Is time for my medicine yet?"

TCU NURSE:
"Yes, I have your morphine right here."

GRAHAM:
"Oh.  Oh.  That's good."

TCU NURSE:
"I'll be back to check on you in a little while, Mr. Graham."

GRAHAM:
"Glugg."

GORDON:
[Morphine?  They're giving this guy *morphine* every hour?  No wonder the
social skills have worn a bit thin.  Poor bastard.  Still, at least he's
quiet now.  Can't even hear him breathing.  Is he still breathing?  If
this is the time for Mr. Graham to meet his maker, it's OK by me, but if
he has to go, can't it be peacefully?  Can't he go while I sleep?  It's
out of my hands, anyway.  Hmmmmm.  Hands.  Got the whole world in His
hands, y'know.  Hands of the clock, keep on moving.  Movingggggggg.....]

GRAHAM:
<NUL>  <NUL>  <NUL>

GORDON:
[ ... ]

GRAHAM:
"<kof>"

GORDON:
[Wh?]

GRAHAM:
"KAHHGGHHKK-HOOOKGHHKLAHHH!  Ooooooooonnnnnnggh!  OOOOOOOOOOnnnngggghh!"

GORDON:
[Three AM and I'm trapped in a tiny room with the Living Dead.  Take him,
Lord, quit playing with him, or make him shut the hell up.  Just let me
please sleep, at least a little while.]

GRAHAM:
"Khakkh, KHA-KHAAAGGGGHHH!"

GORDON:
[All right, You win.  Take me now.]

. . . . . . .

Hours later, sunlight filters in through the window on the far side of the
room, Mr. Graham's side.  My mouth feels like the inside of a mouldering
kapok life jacket, my skin is clammy, my back hurts like hell.  I'm glad
I don't have a mirror; my face must look like Dracula's dog.  I made it,
though, I got through the night.  Now I can go home!  All I need is to get
checked out by the ENT doc, and I'm outta here!  Yeeeeeee-HAH!

Next: Hopes dashed, depression complete, an escape plan is hatched.

-- 
Rick Gordon      | "She Broke My Heart So I Busted Her Jaw" 
rickg@netcom.com |   --- One of those country songs you never hear anymore