[Offensive Story] Tits and Bullets [PART THREE]

[I just want you all to know... I understand that I have yet to name the character in this story. I am going to redo the first chapter to have his name revealed plus a little back ground. Also, I understand this guy is a dick. He's a touch racist and he's not too respectful with women. This is a character choice and one that will bite him in the ass. Be patient]

I hear the annoying beep of the heart monitor first.

I want to sit and curse, give everybody a scare and maybe get someone in here to pay attention to me. I can’t though. My body is weak and the only thing that rises is m eye lids. This time, I’m not greeting with the scream of James Earl Jone’s tenor or the sight of cheap ceiling tiles.

I’m staring at –nice- ceiling tiles.

As George Jefferson would say, I’m movin’ on up.

I feel around the bed until I find that patient clicker-thingie that hospitals are suppose to give you. I press my thumb down hard on the call sign. I also scream, “Stop suckin’ off Doc McDreamie and get you asses in here!”

Or I try. It doesn’t sound right cause my jaw seems to be wrapped tightly with a bandage and my tongue in numb. However, I make enough noise to garner someone’s attention. A guy’s bald head is suddenly hanging over me and he offers a friendly smile that just tells me that everything is going to be okay.

Also tells me he isn’t into ladies either.

“Mister Ducker? Hello, I’m Doctor Vance Morgan. I suppose asking you how you are feeling today wouldn’t do you any good today?” He says with as much cheer as I can handle for the day. I try to spit back a response about feeling up his wife’s ass but it doesn’t work so well. I gargle and spit like a newborn and the man takes this as me giving him the go ahead to shine a light into my eyes. “You gave Eddie quite the scare downstairs when you woke up last week. Gave us all quite the scare. You’ve been giving-“

I zone out at this point. Last week? I narrow my eyes and reach forward. Enough strength returns to my arm allowing me to grab hold of the doctor by the collar. He shuts up immediately and even gives out an adorable squeal as I pull him closer to my nose.

“What. The fuck. Happened,” I growl. Spittle gets in the way of some of the sounds but he gets the gist.

Vance swallows and I see a nervous droplet of sweat touch on the peak of his nose. He takes hold of me arm and tries to gingerly pull free but I’m having none of it. I give him a violent shake and he freezes in shock. I remain glowering at him, he remains pissing himself. However, that surgeon inside his little prick must have eventually took over because one minute I’m looking at a piss ant and the next, a professional.

He takes my hand and gives it a slight squeeze on the wrist. He hits some sort of pressure point and my grip loosens instantly. Fucking egg-heads cheating.

“Mister Ducker, you were shot,” Vance began. “When you were brought in, you weren’t even put on the operating table. You had been dead for at least twelve hours. Or so we thought.”

“Why?” I started before just giving up. My tongue felt like a bloated sausage trying to force its way down my gullet. However, Doctor ‘Vance’ Morgan seems to get it.

“We don’t know what happened but-“ He pauses, searching for the right word. “- But here you are. Alive. More than alive.”

He moves away from me, out of my view. I grunt as I try to sit up by everything in front of me blurs and whatever inch I gained sitting was lost. I fall back into the pillow. Doctor Morgan returns, apparently reading my file.

“Your brain was dealt a massive degree of damage from the bullet. It pierced… Well, without getting too technical, Mister Ducker, it went through several key areas. Even if someone were to survive the intitial shot, it would take years of work and a miracle to gain back rudimentary motor skills.”

I peer at him, not fully comprehending what he’s saying. No, scratch that, I am. I’m just not believing it. Here I was supposed to be a vegetable and yet…

I raise my arm and flicker my gaze back at the doctor. Seeing me raise my arm again seems to send him back into his shock so I one up it and wiggle my fingers. The other hand goes up and I deliver the doctor a set of ‘Jazz hands’. Soon enough, one of my knee raises and I’m about to raise the other one when I just feel something ‘pop’ in my head.

I let out a cry of pain and my limbs fall dead. I squeeze my eyes shut, take in a breath, and allow the world a few minutes to stop spinning. This would have been easier if Doctor ‘Vance’ Morgan wasn’t waving a light in my eyes and calling over his shoulders.

They insert some sort of breathing tube into my nose or atleast try too. My hand raise and I take hold of the hand holding the tubelette. This sends a stir of surprise from everyone and that just seems to start the excitement.  People are running through the room, doctors and nurses, each seeming to want to test something on me. Hell, someone is slipping on a threatening latex glove and I feel a touch of fear hit me as I guess where that might be going.

This all stops, though. A voice breaks through all the chaos.

“Excuse me!”

The voice is filled with such… conviction that it’s enough to make me turn my head for the first time today. Surprisingly, it’s not a doctor or nurse standing in the doorway. It’s an elderly man. A preacher. The type you’d see in ‘Leave it to Beaver’ who’d give sermons on Sunday and spend the rest of the week cat-fishing and not masturbating.  

His voice silences the room and he offers one of the most pleasing smiles I’ve ever witnessed towards Doctor Morgan.  He reaching into his pants, plucks out what looks to be a business card, and asks, “Is this the miracle? A Mister William Ducker?”

Vance seems to get past the man’s holy exterior because when he moves to the preacher, he doesn’t sound respectful. More annoyed. “Father, we have other patients you can-“

“Of course, of course. But is this Mister William Ducker? His mother has asked me to check up on him while she rests.”

This seems to give a spoonful of sugar to the doctor so he answers with a humble, “Yes it is, father.”

I gurgle a gurgle a warning.

I want to tell the doctor that my mother died when I was fourteen of a pill overdose. I want to tell the doctor that my father never remarried. I want to tell the doctor that this ‘Father’ is lying through his teeth- I’m a business man. I can spot a bull shitter. I want to tell the doctor a lot of things but instead, I’m silenced when the ‘Father’ reaches behind him and pulls a revolver from behind his back.

Well fuck.

My chest erupts in pain as the room erupts with violence.