Oh, the pain. The pain.
Little Good is staring at an empty glass of beer at Jeers, the bar where nobody knows your name.
“Seth Harker? Insano Mano? Kamikazie Ken? And my partners are Coma and Hallucination Boy? Bloody hell. Ay! You got a cell phone I can have, mate?”
“Sure,” responded a booze hound. After getting the phone from the man, Little Good dials a number.
“Yeah. It’s me. Right then. I have a herniated disc in my neck and won’t be able to take part in the six-man match…It bloody well needs to be dealt with because I can’t feel a damn thing in my legs… What do you mean are you sure it’s cuz I’m drunk? Puh-leese. I’m in pain, mate. I’m losing about 20 percent of my strength every day…. What do you mean WHAT strength? Bloody hell! My arm is bloody well injured! That’s what I said, my leg. I mean, my neck! Oh, the pain, the pain….I don’t have health insurance, where do you expect me…right, the vet. Fine! I’ll be at Running On Empty!”
The booze hound angrily told Little Good, “Hey, give me my phone back.”
Little Good rolled his eyes. “Love to. Can’t. Wasn’t part of the deal.”
And Little Good stumbled, and he stumbled, and he stumbled away.