The “stabbing” that we sent 12 people to, blaring their sirens and flashing their lights, turns out to be a goofball who poked himself in the top of the hand with a steak knife.
Some college-aged moron was playing the “knife game” while drunk.
I have seen the future, and we are doomed.
Nevertheless, he actually bled a good amount. One of his roommates was kind enough to bandage everything up before the fire department got there, and he did a darned good job of it, too. Like, 4×4 dressing and kling wrapped, and tied in a knot.
The bleeding is controlled, and not a single spot show through the bandage.
I think the roommate said something about being a boy scout, but he was slurring his words pretty hard. Regardless, I’m not one to remove a bandage just to look at a wound, when the bleeding is already controlled.
Laziness, maybe. Maybe not.
He wants to go to the hospital across the county to be near his mommy. If I were drunk and stabbed myself while playing the knife game on a dare, the last place I would want to be is near my mother. It’s a low-priority call, so Slimm jumps in the back and I drive.
I catch about 20 minutes of a Rush Limbaugh rerun on the way.
At the hospital, after dropping him off, my Slimm is approached by the doctor on staff.
“Hey, did you guys even look at the cut on his hand?”
“No, not really. The bleeding was controlled by the time we got there, and the bandage was already on. We didn’t want to remove the bandage just to look at it.”
I’m hiding around the corner, but within earshot, working on my first cup of coffee.
“Well, you guys should have looked at it. It’s only like, two centimeters long and not very deep. It will probably only take one stitch, but we might be able to glue it.”
“Oh, so you guys can handle it? Or do we need to run him down to the trauma center?”
I choked on that sip of coffee.