The Doc Who Needed A Doc

Sunlight poured in through the grimy hotel window, rousing me from my slumber. I yawned and consulted the bedside alarm clock, which claimed it was already after 2PM. Had I slept that long? And actually, how did I get here? I scanned the room for any indications of what might

have happened to my head last night. I’d been on the trail of Fat Fingers last night at the April Club. That dame with the red finger nails shared her cocktail. But I’ve been slipped a Mickey before and my noggin didn’t ache like this one.

I couldn't bear it no longer. I had to find a good doc to fix my head up 'cause it felt like it was going to blow my brains to heaven come before any of the outlaws out here did. So I saddled up my bag of fleas, tied my spurs right onto the saddle, and then forced my horse into a

full sprint down the dusty trail. The trail was quite long and narrow. It felt like eons before we finally arrived at a local doc’s home. My head was still throbbing and my scalp was hot to the touch. I knocked hardly on the door. “What do you want?” the doc answered harshly.

At the sight of the blood and sweat running down my face, his demeanor changed. "I'm sorry, I thought you were the Jehovah's Witnesses again. Please come in." He bustled me and my companion into the dim living room, and went to fetch his first aid kit.

And passed out