“Are you here to perform the lobotomies?” a woman in a trench coat and beat-up hair asks me. She’s waiting for someone to cure her. The cure is inside you, old broad.
I pass her, too.
The waiting room is amok with broken legs, domestic violence, influenza and the cruel tricks your mind plays on you.
Sometimes you just have to wait a whole lifetime.
Why did I come here when I could’ve gone to the bar? There’s nothing like solace in a glass, old gods. I could be talking to Jessica about the dwarf undertaker, her undulations just out of reach in the breaths we share. The dwarf was almost cute if he weren’t so damned weird. Wait, has that man over there, in that corner wearing the startled suit, been impaled? He sits in unusual contortions, his legs under him, everything falling asleep wit
