Medical BULLSHIT....

So here's the story, I'm sitting in the fucking PAW's preferred outside medical center waiting to be cleared to compete.  Motherfucker, just let me go.  I don't give a fuck about a headache.  Yet I sit here, quietly restraining my anger as I'm waiting for him to get back to me after running the usual battery of tests.  You know, back when I was starting out, this shit was so much simpler.  If you didn't see double and could walk upright ten feet, you could get in the ring and fucking wrestle.  Now they have to give you an MRI, check your reflexes, blood pressure, yada yada bullshit.  I'm amazed my blood workup only has trace elements of the drugs I was on a year prior.  Guess I clean up quick.  So yeah, I'm in my fucking shorts, sitting in this fucking little doctor's office, waiting for this short fuck of a Doctor who is probably like five inches away from being a fucking midget to tell me if I can compete on Wicked #11.  Short fuck.  To say I'm more than a little pissed off is an understatement.  So there he is, walking into the room with his tiny little doctor's coat.  Pixie would probably think the fucker was cute and pinch his chubby cheeks and ruffle up his hair.  Fucking Oompa Loompa.

So I say to him, "Alright, am I wrestling Kelsey Spencer or not?"

The short, bald Indian doctor, I think his name is Hinden or something like that from his name tag, answers me quite bluntly, "No, Mr. Nomad, you cannot wrestle at the next event."

"What... the... fuck?" I answer in Shatner-esq fashion and then add, "I feel fine, just got a little headache, so fucking what!"

"Mr. Nomad, you have a mild concussion and a hairline fracture along the Parietal bone of your skull.  It's very fine, but I cannot clear you to compete for Pure Amusement Wrestling.  I've already made a call to their facilities and let them know."

I slide off that seat, towering over this little, insignificant fuck with my fists ready to murder his face.

"Motherfucker, I can show you how fucking effective I am right now!"

"Mr. Nomad, do not do anything rash," he says to me, looking up wide eyed with fear.  Good, you should be afraid you little fuck.

"Don't do anything rash?  I'm not the dumb motherfucker who just cost the most dangerous client he's ever had in his office a fucking payday.  You listen to me you son of a bitch-"

Dr. Hinden grabs a jar of cotton balls and holds it defensively, like he's going to throw it at me.  Now that's fucking cute.

"SIR!" he says with heightened trepidation.  Gee I wonder why, "Right now with a hairline fracture of the skull it wouldn't take much of an impact to break the Parietal bone easily and cause serious brain trauma.  Without the Parietal lobe, you'll lose feeling and would have to relearn how to use your body all over again without the sense of touch as well as a host of other problems too long to say here, so please step back from me!  It is your profession that did this to you, not me!"

It takes me really thinking about the consequences of attacking this fucker here and now to actually make myself comply.  Acting out has lead to jail time in the past and jail time would take more than a show or two out of the picture.  I'd also be forced to be apart from Alexandra and that is something I just cannot do.

"How long will I be out?"

"You will be out for at least three weeks, maybe a month if the crack does not heal.  I can prescribe you medication for the pain."

I wave my hand, "I don't need pain killers.  Pain tells me I'm alive and I will need to feel every bit of this pain in order to repay Lucas "Fuck" Knux.  Is there anything else, Doc?"

He visibly calms down as I put a little breathing room between the two of us.  He's still tense, but he sets the jar back down.  Little fuck stays near it, however.  Like a jar to the head will do anything other than make me bleed and piss me off.

"Other than that, you are in surprisingly good health.  We did find trace elements of heroine, opiates, and barbiturates in your system, thus why I say surprisingly.  Doing drugs is never a good idea-"

I interrupt him, "No shit Sherlock, it's my body and if I want to fuck off with some chemical romance, then I'll do so.  For now, I've been clean for over six fucking months and I didn't need rehab or an intervention.  I decided on my fucking own.  Now give me the bill and fuck off!"

The Doctor just nods grimly, "Sir, do not return to my office.  I do not need your business."

He then walks, or more like waddles, out of the office.  Fat Fucking dicklick midget.