Tony and Justin go to the hospital because one of them has microbials (and its not Justin)

“What kind of food poisoning doctor?” I wait for the Doctor to begin then I stand and exclaim “You can’t expect him to take this laying down Doctor!” only I pronounce it Docter. He can hear it. I am reduced to a dialect, a symptom of poverty in that I have found my way to him through Tony’s illness, without a four year degree and incomplete sentences, expectations, guff. I am reduced to the lobby waiting room next by a man who has made some compact with the man in the white coat, to take care of all the real business in the camp, the business of ass kickery. And I listen to him because he tells me to get the fuck out, not because of the man in the white coats instructions. I image the havoc Gully would wreak were I the one with microbials.

At the desk I ask a woman too fat, ugly and miserable not to take me seriously, I ask her what I should do If I felt my friend was being handled inappropriately, sexually. What do I do and could a woman, could a nurse make sure he was supposed to be doing that, that he could tell me to get out, that he could keep touching her like that I mean, we are here for an earache Mrs Artheson, is it?
She leaves like a bomb dropped from a diesel guzzling sky giant of world war two. Gully has been walked out behind me. He won’t change, he takes his clothes in his arm like a football, ass in the wind, everyone afraid of the mood, the obvious anguish of an overweight man with microbials. We have valet parked the beast and the valet cannot start her to give her back. There is pot on the seat and the valet hits it with us. Nice flag he says. Yeah.

(I was going to add a picture of an ugly nurse. All that came up was porn, so here is a picture of a dead (silent o)possum.)