Tough guy

A person shot at a seedy apartment complex. Not all too unheard of. I never get shootings, though. Mostly little old ladies with balance problems.

PD arrives on scene when we are about 2 minutes away. Their update says something about “a whole lot of blood.”

It’s probably kool-aid. Or someone else’s blood.

Sure enough, the cop is right. It’s the blood of our “victim.” He has been shot square in his left ass cheek.

Sorry. “Medial aspect of the inferior left buttock” for you serious types.

This would be funny, if this dude in his early twenties wasn’t screaming and crying like a little bitch.

“Man, don’t let me die, man, don’t let me die! I DON’T WANT TO DIE, MAN!”

“Hey, buddy,” says Slimm, “I think you’re gonna make it.”

“Come on, man, this aint funny, man! SOMEONE CALL MY MOMMA!”

His clothes are cut off, revealing his tough guy tattoo on his abdomen. A crappy attempt at old English letters, with inconsistent shadowing.

“TOUGH-ASS <racial slur>”

Tough, indeed. “What’s your momma’s number?”

He made it.

Comments

  1. I had a partner once. He was like your patient. A short guy, stocky, loud, obnoxious. One of only a couple of people that I refused to work with at a certain point. His came when he falsified a patient report to the ER in order to obtain orders. I corrected it (discreetly) which pissed him off. “What do you think that makes me look like?”
    “What do you think you would have looked like if you showed up and the patient didn’t look like what you said he looked like.”

    Anyway, he was always walking around talking tough. “I’ll kick his — ” was frequently coming out of his mouth.

    So one night we were dispatched deep into the worst section of major metropolitan city, to one of the roughest places in that section. It was a “project,” an old one, single story, tiny rooms, shared showers and bathroom down the hall. The patient was a man in his late 70′s who was reported to have had a stroke and to be “low sick” as they said. When we arrived, we were alone. No police, no fire. The place looked pretty bad for sure. I took the jump kit and monitor and told my partner to bring the IV box. He said, “Don’t you think we ought to wait for the police?” That surprised me. My answer to him was that the patient had been reported to be in serious condition. He refused to accompany me down into the place. I went alone.

    There’s more to that story and it’s one of my favorites. He eventually showed up with the fire department. I mostly had everything done by that time.

    Mr. Tough Guy.

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