Solar Joint Stories: The Tale of the Med-Hub Hound
Saving Lives and Getting Sloshed...
There’s a time-honored tradition in the solar joint Doc’s Oasis; the toast. Only it isn’t your normal well-wishing over a tall class of amber-colored ale. The toast is a time to tell stories. To rant, to rave, to regale. Talk of grand triumphs and complete failures. All unfiltered, and all in the company of friends. This is one of those stories.
Look, the secret to not being a lightweight is simple. Practice.
Practice, practice, practice. Drink yourself ‘til you’re pissing brandywine or ol’ Doc tells you “c’mon cat, lay off sauce.” Now the story I once heard is someone had gotten so full on liquid bread, he blew up. I don’t mean like he threw it up or he was hitting one of ‘dem squealy-high notes the metal kids go’on up and sing on that there stage. I mean some guy stuck a wick up this wolf’s ass, lit ‘er, and the hound just blew the fuck up.
Scout’s honor, I had to clean up that mess.
Well…you see MedHub is a volunteer gig for the kind of folks with strong stomachs. Hence why I’m on my fifth ale and I still walk a straight line with both heels broken off my boots. You see shit, man. I mean, you see shit!
Hit-and-runs, heart attacks, ODs, shootings, beatings, butcherings. You name it, I been there. Always worse when you have to clean up after Hell Patrol too. Most of them fuckers are so smack addicted, their guts have gone GREEN. Like luck-o-the-Irish green, whoever the hell they were. I hear they’re doing a community police program to get the junk outta here. I say good luck, godspeed, and don’t stop ‘til every crack-rock-atomic-heap is outta here!
Thank you, thank you! My next promise as Mayor of the township of the county of the village is…ah fuck it, bring on Number Six, Doc!
Thanks. Be seeing you. At the bottom of this sucker.
Alright, whaddyas all wanna know about the MedHub biz?
Any questions? Comments? Wry musings?
There’s a good one. To cut right to the bone, we do this ‘cause no one else will. We don’t charge a red cent for getting you there, and most of the time we just slap some of you over the head, say “don’t do that again,” and send you on your way. Most births take place at home and most hounds know how to tend to their Missus, most deaths kinda happen too fast to do anything. We can fix wounds, stop overdoses 90% of the time, and occasionally do fire-flash surgeries. Miracles of modern tech. Like getting Therac’d, ‘cept you don’t get yourself chock full of radiation because the code’s fucked.
What was tha…yeah, no I caught it. Yeah, Doc Adderlay and Sickbay is probably the best facility we’s got out here. MedHubs are just when you can’t make it to Base. Which is a lot of ya seeing as they’re all the way out East and we’re popping up across the whole of the desert. If the cat’s critical and only Paul has the gear, we’ll speed ‘em out to HQ, but that’s if they can be stabilized.
Now, remember: don’t you ever. EEEEEEEEVER. Fuck with ambulance drivers. Don’t do it. I’m sure Mommy and Daddy told you all that before, but I mean it. We have guard dogs behind the wheel of every ride at our disposal from here to the Marshalls. We keep the suspension in top shape and we fix it so they can put ‘er on the floor and run those honeys flat-out. If you get in front of one of these guys, they will take your life.
Ethics? My friend, what’s ethical is getting a dying hound the care they need. If your healthy-ass decides to jockey with a MedHub driver, that’s on you. If your healthy-ass tries to play chicken, we got bull-bars front and back and one mean feral fuck ready to turn you into an unexpected blood donor for the Afterlife 500.
I’d know ‘cause I been one for five years. “I’ve…seen things, you” Et cetera, et cetera. I chose assistant work because I kept getting charley horses from stretching my leg out and holding the throttle down for that long. The blessing of driving automatic, and the curse of driving automatic, but hey, no one’s perfect. I do much better with my ‘Vette anyhow.
Why do I…now that’s just fucking stupid. I’m off tomorrow for starters, I’m perfectly within my faculties, and for closers, the shit I’ve seen will make you drink. Limbs severed, heads torn off, flesh and fur strewn across sand and asphalt. Losing someone on the way to a Hub, losing someone on the table, losing someone at the scene. The shit I’ve gone through would make anyone drink. Even the greatest totaler of teas.
The difference is that I’m not a lightweight. I take it slow going home, I could read the year off a penny if you stuck it to the wall (that one says 1994 for the record), and furthermore, I know when to stop. Six is a nice, even, r-r-r-r-round number to cap off on.
See, right there! I can even roll my Rs with crystal clarity.
And for my next act of precise sight…well hot damn one of my patients! How you healing, Fay?