Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are dare, essence and practical.

Massive Nights
Whatever you may have seen on television or in the movies, when some dude gets stabbed and practically falls to the ground dead, that’s just an untruth.

But, fuck man, do stab wounds bleed, like really profusely.

A single stab wound won’t kill a guy in all of eight seconds. Like I said, that’s a lie. Miss any important arteries, don’t nick the intestines (loose shit in your innards, that’s bad, man and it’s called sepsis), and you’ve got four hours, tops.

Unless, of course, you’re full of well vodka, the kind they sell to drunks in plastic bottles, well, then all bets are off. A hospital emergency room is definitely part of your immediate future, stat.

It was Timmons’ idea to go “slumming.” We’d dress down, toss on thrift-store clothing and drink with the common man in dark places that smelled of stale smoke, old piss, sour beer and the essence of despair.

We take a taxi to an area near the docks, a dreary place where bare bulbs splay harsh shadows across the filth piled everywhere. Perfect. Inconspicuous.

We’d also agreed, no crisp ATM $20s, just enough crumpled cash, $1s and $5s and maybe a $10 or two, to fit in. Besides, these were places where wrecks went to drink, forget. We went looking for atmosphere.

Collins, man, he gets lit on tequila, and starts talking in this really bad British accent, just pissin’ off the locals. Bartender tried to cut him off, but he drops eight brand-spanking-new $20s on the worn wood of the bar, I’m talking these things were virgin, man, and says, “Fuck it, gents, drinks are on the house.”

Then this little dude in black, two tears tattooed in the corner of his right eye, busts through the crowd that’s gathered flips open a butterfly knife and pins the cash to the bar.

“Fight or get the fuck out,” he says, mumbling in some indiscernible accent.

I’ve just enough vodka flowing in my bloodstream to take that dare.

The E.R. doc, who looks like he’s 12 by the way, tells the guys that everything was going to be fine. Once they got the bleeding under control.

“Massive quantities of alcohol have a way of hindering coagulation,” he says.

Ends up, Doogie Houser closes me up with 72 stitches.

Seventy-two very large, very messy black silk stitches. One ugly looking zipper.

Of course, they’d judged me by the clothing they cut off, figuring I had no medical, just another ward of the state. They’d save any reimbursement money by making the stitches huge.

“Hey, chicks dig scars,” the resident says, while I pay the bill with a platinum Amex card.

10 comments:

Ramesh Sood said...

Paying the bill is essence.. Well done ThomG

Deborah said...

You write 'real' soo well. Just brilliant, and the last line says it all!

Altonian said...

Eliza Cook Jnr. with the knife, and Dan Duryea the guy who gets it, eh?
Very Film Noir, and quite brilliant.
That's a real good one!

Fear Not the Darkness but What lies Within said...

Sheilagh Lee said:Excellent simply riveting. He pays for thinking slumming would be fun with not only 72 inches but by the doc treating him like an indigent and making huge stitiches to leave a huge scar.

Altonian said...

I was drinking whisky whilst on the net earlier. I must have had one too many. It's: Elisha Cook Jnr.

Ann (bunnygirl) said...

Nicely done. I like the juxtaposition of two realities in this one.

jaerose said...

'Fight Club' with a 2011 update stark, dark, brilliant (especially all those medical facts..) ...I love the idea of 'dressing down' and then paying with an Amex card..just perfect..Wednesday Night is Three-Word-Wednesday..Jae

the dummygirl said...

T -

I like this...a lot. I like the dialogue and the flow of it.

I want about 200 more pages of this stuff, so snap out of it and get to work.

h

LeiffyV said...

Not to nitpick but "Ends up, Doogie Houser closes my up with 72 stitches"
should be "closes me up", right?

Anyway, good capture of "slumming it" and the dangers of alcohol while being well-to-do.

Very nice!

Karen from Mentor said...

nothing good ever comes of a night where tequila and vodka link arms.

Loved the grittiness of this piece.
:0)