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