(no subject)
The news in L.A. was in an uproar. Media staples like ABC, CBS, NBC, and FOX, along with the cable standards all flocked to an offramp outside of San Andreas. out of one of the vans stepped a comely young woman with a wind-swept, perfectly moussed hairstyle and a pressed formal business skirt-and-jacket over her smart turtleneck shirt. She directed the cameraman to start rolling as she stepped into view, holding up her microphone.
"That's right, Tom. What you see here is a grisly scene. A multi-car pileup, with only four survivors out of the ten vehicle crash. Miraculously, the lone motorcyclist involved, the famous musician, Pickles, survived, with a broken leg and ribs. He has been flown to an undisclosed hospital to get emergency care, along with the other two horribly injured survivors. One is in critical condition, and the other is in fair condition. The final survivor, a young woman, only got cuts and bruises. We're here with the brave woman..."
Meanwhile, at the hospital, was a swearing, spitting, almost-sober redhead. "GET OFFA ME!"
"Sir, your leg was lacerated from hip to ankle, and you have five broken bones, a concussion and you..." A nurse tried to reason before Pickles cut him off, grabbed the young man clad in seafoam scrubs by the collar and hissed, "Get me a fuckin' phone, some pain killers that'll effin' work, and a doctor that'll sign me out, or you'll wish YOU were in that accident."
"Y-yes sir!" Stammered the nurse, who ran out. Pickles huffed and laid back down on his stretcher, glad that he had priority over any of the other people in the emergency room. He'd just woken up from what apparently was the worst accident of the year, after having emergency surgery to graft skin back onto his leg, and cast it up. His chest hurt like hell, his neck was aching, and all he could think about was needing a cigarette, and calling home to Miniver.
He did the latter as soon as he had a phone handy. He dialed the number, and waited for an answer. He tried to calm himself, but adrenaline prevented his voice from being anything but on edge. When the answering machine picked up and he sighed before the beep.
"Babe, Don't freak out, I'm fine. But I need you to come get me from St. Mercy's Hospital. I'm sure you've already heard about it, so I ain't gunna worry you further. Just c'mon and get me. I'll be here. I already told 'em to expect you." He hung up and waited. He knew Miniver would be home soon enough, and if the morphine worked like it was supposed to, it wouldn't be a long wait for the passed out drummer.
"That's right, Tom. What you see here is a grisly scene. A multi-car pileup, with only four survivors out of the ten vehicle crash. Miraculously, the lone motorcyclist involved, the famous musician, Pickles, survived, with a broken leg and ribs. He has been flown to an undisclosed hospital to get emergency care, along with the other two horribly injured survivors. One is in critical condition, and the other is in fair condition. The final survivor, a young woman, only got cuts and bruises. We're here with the brave woman..."
Meanwhile, at the hospital, was a swearing, spitting, almost-sober redhead. "GET OFFA ME!"
"Sir, your leg was lacerated from hip to ankle, and you have five broken bones, a concussion and you..." A nurse tried to reason before Pickles cut him off, grabbed the young man clad in seafoam scrubs by the collar and hissed, "Get me a fuckin' phone, some pain killers that'll effin' work, and a doctor that'll sign me out, or you'll wish YOU were in that accident."
"Y-yes sir!" Stammered the nurse, who ran out. Pickles huffed and laid back down on his stretcher, glad that he had priority over any of the other people in the emergency room. He'd just woken up from what apparently was the worst accident of the year, after having emergency surgery to graft skin back onto his leg, and cast it up. His chest hurt like hell, his neck was aching, and all he could think about was needing a cigarette, and calling home to Miniver.
He did the latter as soon as he had a phone handy. He dialed the number, and waited for an answer. He tried to calm himself, but adrenaline prevented his voice from being anything but on edge. When the answering machine picked up and he sighed before the beep.
"Babe, Don't freak out, I'm fine. But I need you to come get me from St. Mercy's Hospital. I'm sure you've already heard about it, so I ain't gunna worry you further. Just c'mon and get me. I'll be here. I already told 'em to expect you." He hung up and waited. He knew Miniver would be home soon enough, and if the morphine worked like it was supposed to, it wouldn't be a long wait for the passed out drummer.