Setting: A doctor's office. Pat sits on a chair; he truly looks like death. Doctor enters.
Doctor: (extending hand) Hello, Mr.... (checking the chart) Lipson? Doctor Levren.
Pat: (not taking the handshake) Pat.
D: O.K. Hi, Pat. What brings you in today?
P: Fuckin' sick!
D: Right... what exactly is going on? Symptoms? Uhhh... when did you start feeling sick? That sort of thing.
P: Which one?
D: Uhhh... which? Oh! How about we go with when this started.
P: Eight years ago.
D: Eight years?!
P: Or nine, fuck; I don't remember.
D: Okay, okay... a long time ago; we'll say nine years. Now, what exactly is the nature of the illness?
P: I'm fuckin' sick!
D: Yes, yes, sure; I'm wondering what your symptoms are, Pat.
P: Like, apart from being really fuckin' sick?
D: Yes. Apart from that.
P: My fuckin' body hurts.
D: Ummm... where exactly on your body?
P: Nowhere exactly, just my body.
D: Your whole body?
P: Fuckin' hurts, yeah.
P: Fuckin' killing me!
P: Really fuckin' hurt!
P: A lot of fuckin' pain!
D: Hips? Stomach?
P: Always fuckin' hurting me!
D: Chest pain?
P: Non-fuckin' stop!
D: Arms? Shoulders?
P: Barely fuckin' work anymore!
P: Feels like it's getting fuckin' hacked with a machete!
D: Excuse me? "Ouchy?"
P: Yeah, it hurts that fuckin' much!
D: Okay, so general pain all over... for nine years?
P: Fuckin' right.
D: (washing hands) How do you eat, Pat?
P: Sometimes in the truck, sometimes I eat at home, sometimes I use a fork, but usually...
D: I'm sorry... I meant what is your diet like?
P: Not on a fuckin' diet, that's pussy girl shit!
D: No... I mean, what, what do you eat?
P: Just about anything.
P: Cheetos, Pabst, Doritos, Beef Jerky, MGD... sometimes a couple Twinkies, but I usually don't eat those, 'cause they're pretty fuckin' bad for you.
D: Fruits? Vegetables?
P: Fuck that. I don't like cooking!
D: Most fruits and vegetables you can eat raw, Pat.
D: I do it all the time. They're actually better for you raw, no cooking needed.
D: So let's get a look at you; please take your shirt off.
P: What! What the fuck for!?
D: I'm going to listen to your heart; so I can begin to...
P: What the fuck you need me to take my shirt off for?!
D: It just helps...
P: I ain't no faggot, man!
D: I assure you, Pat; I am also quite heterosexual. It's standard operating procedure...
P: Operating?! Shit, I thought you'd just tell me what's wrong, give some pills or shit, and let me go!
D: Pat, you come to me claiming to have been in extreme pain for about nine years; the least I can do is give you a thorough check-up, so I can understand what be causing your problems.
P: What about the drugs?
D: Maybe you'll need a prescription; I won't know that until I'm able to get a better sense of what's wrong with you.
P: My friend, Johnny, he tells me doctors are just there for getting drugs. Don't want no fuckin' check-up!
D: Pat, have you ever been to a doctor before?
P: Fuck no! You guys cost too much.
D: It is expensive, yes; do you have insurance?
P: Don't need it; I don't go to the doctor.
D: Yet here you are.
P: I'm really fuckin' sick! And you won't even give me drugs!
D: You may be very sick, Pat. I need to figure out exactly what's wrong, then, we may get you something to help, but I need to do a full check-up to start understanding what's wrong.
P: I told you! I'm FUCKIN' SICK!
D: Alright, Pat, you don't need to shout. Just let me take your pulse, check you blood pressure and ...
P: No way! That's when you start charging for all those fancy doctor tests!
D: Pat, I'm going to do something for you that I'm not allowed to do, but your case has moved me to do it.
P: What you talkin' 'bout?
D: I'm going to erase this visit from the computer files, I'm not going to do any paperwork on it. You will not be charged for anything. It's free. Pat, you may have something very serious wrong with you. I may be able to stop this immense pain you're in.
P: And the drugs?
D: Top of the line, Grade-A quality shit.
P: Alright! No gay touchin', got it!?
D: Sure do.
(Pat removes his shirt, his chest is not visible to the audience, Doctor stops in shock)
D: Pat, what are all those scars?
P: Oh, that... I got shot a few times.
D: (counting) Like seven?
P: Sounds about right.
D: When did this happen?
P: Eight, nine years ago. Some drunk fucker shot me.
D: Seven times?
P: Sure, seven, whatever.
D: And you survived?
P: Sittin' here right now.
D: Who saved you?
P: I did. Drove home, sat in a cold tub for a few hours, drank a case of Pabst, big fuckin' mess everywhere. I missed a few days of work.
D: You... Uhh... you never got any medical help?
P: Fuck no, the case of Pabst only cost 7.99, doctor woulda just stolen my wallet, then I wouldn't have been able to buy any beer.
D: Have you ever felt good since that day?
P: No... not really... felt sick since around that time.
D: Okay, Pat, this is where it's going to get a little more tricky. We need to do X-rays, some other tests, and probably a lot of surgery. I'm not sure I can cover up all those expenses for you, but I will try.
P: What!? You fuckin' led me on just to get me to take my shirt off; now you say it ain't gonna be free after all?!!
P: Fuck this! (grabs shirt, starts putting it on)
D: Sorry, Pat... you we're shot seven times! We need to check...
P: Fuck you, man; you fuckin' checked me out enough!
D: (rummaging in a cabinet) Here, here, Pat, let's discuss this.... you mentioned drugs. I have plenty. Here. Take two of these.
P: What are these?
D: OxyContin. Just swallow those down, and tell me how exactly how you came to be shot seven times.
P: Fuckin' A! Now you're talkin'! These are free?
(Pat swallows them)
D: I've got more if those don't do the trick.
D: Now we'll talk about that night, and we'll see how you're feeling in a few minutes.
P: I'm keeping my shirt on though!
D: No problem... I want to help you, Pat. We'll see if I can find a surgeon friend to talk with you too?
P: What for? I don't want no fuckin' expensive surgery! I already told...
D: I understand; let's discuss that in a few minutes, huh?
P: Don't fuck with me alright!?
D: I would never think of it.
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