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Heath Care Reform School, Part One
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Health Care Reform School
By Stroker Al
Stan Lager swore out loud for the 20th time that Friday evening
when he heard about the MCA that was due to arrive by ambulance at the
E.R. in less than half an hour. MCA, of course, meant motorcycle
accident, and nine times out of ten, that also meant severe head injury.
This, in turn, would mean that Stan, the senior resident on call for
neurosurgery, was going to be responsible for yet another patient. That
is, if the patient wasn't D.O.A.
"Fucking bikers!" he snarled to Carl and Frank, the junior
resident and medical student who were assisting and observing Stan during
his on call shifts this hot, muggy, Summer weekend.
"No helmet, as usual, according to the EMT's. We're assuming a
high blood alcohol level, since he has virtually no other injuries
besides the skull fracture, " Stan said, filling the other two in on the
report the Emergency Room dispatcher gave him minutes ago on the phone.
He was striding down the hall towards the elevator and they were
struggling to keep up with him. It was funny because both Carl and Frank
were relatively big-framed guys, yet they were having trouble staying
abreast of this 5'8" tall bundle of hot-headed, adrenaline-pumped energy.
"I guarantee you, you'll see at least two or three of these guys
get scraped off the pavement and dumped into our laps every weekend here
this Summer, and you'll get as tired of them as I am," he told his
colleagues as he stabbed the elevator button for the third floor. The
elevator doors nearly closed on Frank who was clearly not moving fast
enough to suit Stan.
"If it isn't the waste of medical resources on total vegetables
that sticks in my craw, then it's the equally brain-dead friends and
family members who spend the next three months following me around asking
me when he's going to wake up!" Stan griped to his captive audience.
Carl just nodded, as he'd learned to do in response to Stan's
tirades, but Frank just stared wide-eyed at Stan, saying nothing. From
most evidence Stan seemed to be a competant doctor, but he also had a
reputation for being aggressive and inappropriate when it came to patient
bedside manner and interraction both with patient family members and
hospital staff. The two men were seeing him in action now, for the first
time, gearing up for one of his raging nights on call, and they weren't
looking forward to it.
One could easily have chalked Stan's aggression up to short-man's
syndrome, but that wouldn't fully account for what seemed to be a deeper
void in his character where compassion should be. He probably would have
made a better criminal prosecutor than a doctor, but no one would have
dared suggest such a thing to Stan.
Most of the female staff, and quite a few of the males, were
initially attracted to Stan, with his dark Mediterranean good looks,
intense eyes and his ability to be smooth with people long enough to get
what he wanted. However, most people were turned off when they saw how
he dealt with the first stress or unpleasantness that arose. At
twenty-eight he still had the frat-boy appearance, which was always
valued, but unfortunately, along with it he retained the spoiled brat
quality that might have work back on campus, but today was making him
enemies on the job in the real world.
When the elevator opened and the three men emerged into the
neurosurgical wing, they encountered Michael, the ward's night
receptionist, who happened to be one of the few people on staff not yet
totally disillusioned with Stan. This wasn't because the neurosugeon had
never lost his temper with him, or barked an order or otherwise been
surly with him, but mostly because Stan was a doctor and was physically
Michael's "type". Such men got excellent, attentive service from the
ordinarily indifferent Michael.
"Hey, sport," Stan said to Michael in his usual greeting, which
always sounded more flirtatious than condescending to Michael, who was
used to being treated like wallpaper by doctors. But even Stan didn't
always acknowledge his presence, so Michael guessed that Stan was going
to ask for something tonight.
"Evening, Doctor Lager," he said, though he would have loved to
call him Stan. But he was trapped in the old-fashioned hierarchical
habits of the hospital, and tended to demure to all doctors and respond
to them with unecessary formality. So while other coworkers, including
receptionists, houskeepers, and orderlies were on first name bases with a
number of medical staff, Michael always addressed them all as "doctor."
"Could you do me a favor and page Riggs?" Stan asked.
Aha, I was right, thought Michael, even as he basked in the
momentary focus of Stan's big brown eyes, and gladly paged the senior
staff doctor for the resident.
"Who's in charge of nursing back there tonight?" Lager asked as
he waited for his call.
Michael checked the schedule if front of him which showed that
for the night shift, Tim Holstein was acting as head nurse .
"Well, I'm going back to talk to him. Send the call back when
Riggs answers," Stan said and started down the hall with Carl and Frank
close behind.
"Okay," said Michael, nearly out of Lager's hearing range by
then. He watched the three men head down the hall in front of him and
checked out their asses. Having such a vantage point for watching men
was the only consistantly enjoyable part of Michael's annoying job. He
noted favorably that all three of these guys happened to be boxer boys,
which was a rare sight on a group of three male posteriors. Though
Stan's were hidden tonight behind dark dress pants and white jacket,
Michael knew from seeing the resident dressed in scrubs hundreds of times
that he always wore boxer shorts, usually dark colored and patterned. By
contrast, Michael had noticed, most of the other neurosurgical staff wore
breifs. These two guys with Stan, who were clearly displaying plain
white boxers through their scrubs, were obviously new to the service.
Michael held a theory that residents in a given medical area
tended to imitate the dominant style of underwear among their
colleagues. Chances were that by the end of a few months the other two
would be in breifs. That would be a pity, thought Michael, who hated
breifs. He thought they were for little boys who knew no better but to
continue wearing for the rest of their lives the type of underwear that
had been issued to them by their mommies. Boxers, which were somewhat
impractical in their lack of "support", had to be carefully tucked down
in tight pants, and with their looser, lighter material tended to reveal
the shape of your dick more clearly, seemed to Michael to be more likely
a conscious choice by the man who was wearing them. And men who had their
groins in mind a good part of the time seemed more likely to become
interested in someone else,s, he reasoned. For Michael , the "real" men
tended to wear boxers.
Tim Holstein would not have agreed, if he'd heard such
statements, and if he could have ever been coaxed into discussing such a
subject. He was most definitely a man, even if he felt like he had to
prove it every five minutes while in the female dominated field of
nursing. He liked breifs, especially black ones. He liked the lines and
the cut of certain more expensive kinds, and liked the way he looked in
them in the hall mirror of his home when he dressed for work. Black went
well with the hair on his chest, arms and legs. Women liked the way he
looked in them too, he'd discovered. But, unfortunately, as for the
number of women he'd gotten a chance to show them off to in the past
year, he could count them on the fingers of one hand - the very hand that
he usually ended up jerking himself off with alone.
He was reasonably young, 32, reasonably good looking (more so
without his glasses) and worked out regularly with weights, so it seemed
to him that his recent tepid success with women lately was inexplicable.
It must be his height, he decided, falling back on one of his many
lifetime insecurities, as he tended to do when confronted with the
mysteries of personal appeal. Like Dr. Lager, Tim was a mere 5'8".
Tim should have asked. Many of the women around him would have
been honest enough, if asked directly, to tell him that as appealing to
them as his physical appearance was (though a little on the thin side -
Tim overestimated the effects so far of his iron pumping) it was hard to
overlook his irritating personality.
He was not a people person, for a start. He seemed more
comfortable with things, as anyone could observe in his patient care,
which resembled the way he worked on his motorcycle at home. He paid
meticulous attention to detail, but got into trouble when some other
person got in the way or tried to interfere. Visitors and patient's
family members were a special annoyance to him, and he was constantly
getting into battles with them for more space and time to do his work.
Naturally Tim wasn't pleased when Dr. Stan Lager arrived to tell
him to expect another patient. This would have been bad news even coming
from a resident that Tim liked, but was all the worse coming from a
condescending fuck like Lager. This was not to mention the further
irritation of how Lager seemed to end up with a lot of the women that Tim
had unsucessfully pursued. Anyway, a new patient was going to cut
severely into his plans for taking care of his current patient. But when
Tim heard it was an MCA head injury, he became livid.
"Jesus, why is it always such an inconvenience for these guys to
wear helmets," he lamented. "Fucking Libertarians!"
Hearing this reminded Stan what he'd heard about Tim: that he was
an avid cyclist and religious helmet wearer, and had actually helped
lobby for a stricter helmet bill last fall, which unfortunately had been
tabled indefinitely in the state legislature.
This got Stan going again and the two of them ranted to each
other about cyclists and head injuries for the nearly ten minutes that it
took for Dr. Riggs to finally answer Stan's page. The heat of the
exchange, though seemingly directed outward to faceless cycle bums, was
fueled by the long standing competiveness between this normally
frictionalized pair of men.
First was the sense of rivalry that stemmed from their having
attracted and dated many of the same women in the hospital. Then there
was the doctor/nurse hierarchical thing, which Stan always tried to
exploit in his consultations with nursing staff, but that Tim was good at
assertively counteracting with populist, anti-yuppie rhetoric.
Carl and Frank grew weary of the discussion and started chatting
with the other nurses. Busy as they were, the other nurses were happy to
have someone else to talk to so they didn't have to listen to more
expounding on what was obvious to every health professional in the room.
Myra Brandt in particular, was relieved to have Tim's irritating
monotone drowned out, and became engrossed in a conversation with Frank
about riverboat gambling.
Meanwhile the self-styled bantam roosters of neurosurgery,
Lager and Holstein, who were alike in more ways than either would have
admitted, were getting a chance to blow off some hot air in this
rapport, overstating their points perhaps because of the novelty of
discovering the one thing they had in common that they were willing to
talk about: their outrage over unnecessary head injuries and the
tremendous waste of resources that results from them.
But then the topic veered into the plan for the patient's care,
and Tim began taking notes from Lager's report. As if out of a
subconscious desire to make his coworkers miserable, Tim, in his capacity
as head nurse for the shift, decided on his own to take on the incoming
patient. By choosing precisely the kind of patient for whom he would
have the least likely compassion, he was feeding his own workplace
frustration, and that of the whole room. Even Lager understood this, but
didn't care an iota. Let the poor fucker vegetate under Tim's tyranny,
he thought to himself. Serve the dumb shit right.
Preliminary medical reportage, after so many years, had become
second nature to both men, leaving half of their consciousness free, as
one scrawled notes and the other spoke, to once again size the other up
as competition.
Stan was confident that he was the better looking of the two, and
many would have agreed. He carried himself with the organic
imperviousness of someone who'd been a looker all his life. Nothing
short of traumatic disfigurement - God forbid! - could have made him a
less handsome man. Michael, the receptionist, thought he looked like a
diminutive version of porn star Kris Lord, and once considered sending
Lager a photo of him anonymously.
Tim's good looks, on the other hand, had the more delicate
quality that came from his having blossomed out of a past incarnation as
a skinny science nerd, leaving the aesthetic value of his appearence
subject to easy imbalance. The wrong clothes, the wrong style of
glasses, even a skin blemish, occasionally made the whole picture fall
apart. He would have been amused to know, though, how much the
smooth-chested Stan envied Tim's hairiness, which tonight was in clear
evidence through the v-cut neck of his white scrub top. Secretly
tormented by the myth that all women prefered hairy guys, the
compulsively acquisitive doctor was particularly frustrated by this
unremediable shortcoming of his own.
Tonight, however, Stan clearly had the upper hand over Tim in the
clothing department. Though at least half his working hours were spent
in scrubs identical to Tim's, this evening he was wearing the senior
resident's garb of authority: the white jacket. Under this he had an
expensive light blue fine linen shirt, beautifully tailored grey Italian
wool pants, expensive Italian suede dress shoes, and a $100 silk tie.
The tie, with its irrepressible phallic symbolism was what really
set off the whole effect of Stan's appearance that night. There it hung
in front of Tim's face the whole time, the throbbing african textile
pattern flashing the age-old advertisement of who would always be endowed
with the bigger salary, house, and power on the job. Stan liked to push
this knowledge into the faces of any hospital subordinant who made him
feel less than a deity. For while nurses like Tim were under the
constant threat of budget cutting castration, Doctors - health care's
sacred cows - could pretty much count on their nuts resting secure.
Then the call came from the E.R. The patient, one Buck Savage
from San Antonio, Texas, had arrived by ambulance and was being sent
right up to intensive care. Tim got on the phone with the E.R. nurse and
got more of a condition report, while Stan called Michael at the
reception desk to alert him.
"Damn. Another patient," lamented Michael after putting down
the phone. He called the E.R. for transfer information, but before he
had even put down the phone, the patient was wheeled past him. He was a
multi-tatooed mountain of a man, probably 230 lbs of leather and
denim-clad, six-foot-plus heft, with a blood-sopped blonde pony tail.
Trailing behind the cart was a parade of other big men, also in,
leather and denim, most with long greasy hair and big mustaches.
"You can't follow him in there," Michael told them. "Our waiting
room is back there. We'll call you when he's ready."
The men stopped and looked at him, confused. "But he's our
buddy," one of them said, almost sounding hurt.
"I don't care who he is," Michael snapped. "Rules are rules. The
staff need to time to settle him in and treat him first. We'll let you
know as soon as you can see him."
They hung there together in the hall way for a while, looking at
each other helplessly, until one, a black man with a shaved head and
goatee nodded and the grouped turned and headed for the waiting room.
Michael could smell whisky as they passed him. Following their backs
(and butts) with his eyes, he saw for the first time the lettering across
each of their black jackets: "SAINTS O' SATAN."
Oh God, Michael muttered. This was going to be a terrible night.
Back in the ward, Lager, his on-call colleagues, and the nurses
flocked around the cart and collectively transferred the patient on to
one of the ward's big, hi-tech beds. With so many hands helping, the
group was able to easily lift the patient and lightly toss him on to the
bed. Even though, as the E.R. nurse reported, spinal injury had been
ruled out at the scan on the way up, Lager should have seen to it that
the transfer was done more slowly and carefully. But Stan was too busy
trying to strike the right visual image of his authority - shoving people
out of the way and barking orders - and thus had no time for substance.
Within minutes the patient was hooked up to a ventilator. Myra
was hanging IV drips when she stopped to stare at Tim. He was cutting
into the patient's black leather jacket with the stainless steel clippers
that were normally used for severing ribs to get at patients' hearts in
emergencies.
"What are you DOING?" she asked. "We can pull that off from the
top with people supporting his head and arms. Don't ruin it."
Tim looked up at her as if at a buzzing fly. "Are you going to
hang the rest of those IVs or not?" was all he said, and went back to
cutting the jacket. It took some ten minutes, but he eventually
dismantled the leather garment and tossed it into the bedside trash along
with the biker's other shredded clothes.
What a jerk, Myra thought to herself about Tim, and not for the
first time since they'd worked together.
Soon Buck Savage was sponged down and gowned, and fixed up with
various medication and feeding IV tubes. Patches of his burly chest had
been quickly scraped smooth with a razor so that adhesive electrodes on
wires could be attached to him and show his heart rate and other vital
signs. None of this was done with particular gentleness, but it was done
quickly and efficently.
Soon Tim and Stan were the only ones left at the bedside, and the
other nurses were once again free to gravitate back to their own
patients. Stan was in Savage's face doing neuro checks, while Tim was
attempting to catheterize the patient. At that moment three or four of
Savage's biker buddies appeared in the hallway, looking in on the
activity. Even as Myra and a couple of the other nurses shooed them
away, Michael appeared next to them, out of breath and frustrated, to
usher the gang back down the hall to the waiting room.
"I told you, visiting is restricted here. You can only go back
here when the nurses say its all right," he scolded them on the way down
the hall. Michael's intitial nervousness at their size and rough
appearance had waned because of their surprising meekness and seeming
disorientation - perhaps from being inside a building other than a bar or
a brothel, Michael speculated . "Now don't give me trouble again, or
I'll have to call security," he added.
The men disappeared into the waiting room once more, but
something about the look in their eyes this time made him tremble
slightly, even as he clung to a veneer of being in control. He knew that
the hospital security guards would back him up in case of trouble, but
knew they weren't always quick enough to prevent certain kinds of
incidents from happening.
The three bikers joined their buddies in the waiting room and
filled them in on what they'd seen and heard at Buck's bedside. If the
other visitors in the waiting area had dared to sit close enough to this
rough-looking crew, they could have heard them describing how Stan had
made Buck's glassy eye flutter with his light scope and had shouted
repeatedly at him to squeeze his finger; How Tim crammed a plastic
catheter tube up Buck's flaccid cock; and how both had been badmouthing
Buck for not wearing a helmet. They'd seen the casual roughness of both
health professionals and ceased to trust either of them from that
moment. They also discussed how annoyed they were becoming with the
sneering faggot receptionist who was ordering them around like they were
trash.
Now any layman who entered the neuro ward unexpectedly could
easily misinterpret the seriousness of what they'd seen. So much of the
care in such a place was invasive and messy. But in this case, the
bikers had correctly gauged Tim's and Stan's uniquely sadistic attitudes,
even without yet being able to see the real evidence.
Tim, for example, had chosen the largest gauge of catheter tubing
allowable. His habit of doing this to his patients had been noticed
before by other staff, and when questioned about it once, had remarked "
The bigger the penis, the larger the catheter." Of course uretheras
rarely varied much in size, despite the outer dimensions of penises.
Everyone could tell it was really just another way for this cynical prick
to be spiteful. Myra whispered to another nurse that she wondered if Tim
didn't have a severe case of penis envy.
Tim did look like he was enjoying himself when he pushed the
KY-lubicated, disinfected tube several inches up Buck's penis. He hooked
the other end of the tube up to a urine collection bag and hung it at the
bedside.
Meanwhile Stan reveled in the aggression of his neuro check as
Carl and looked on. "How many fingers am I holding up?" he barked as
loudly as he could at Buck, in whose sleepy looking eyes he waved his
fingers. It was wholey appropriate to give the patient a strong
stimulus to respond to, but Stan used such opportunities to vent his
anger at patients in the process and be disruptive of the entire ward.
Every non-response was greeted with a cruel epithet, and even
appropriateness on the part of the patient he rewarded with
condescenion. Then he started in on the helmut rant again, with Tim
piping in, as if they were going to send the essentially unconscious
patient some kind of subliminal message that would change his behavior,
since they assumed that the injuries alone would be insufficient to do
this.
Stan ordered Tim to shave patches on buck's head for the
placement of bolt that would hold on a halo, or metal framework to brace
the position of the head and prevent further possible spinal
dissalignment. Tim agreed to do this immediately after administering
Buck's enema. Buck had literally shit his pants, of course, as many
trauma patients do at the scene of accidents, and it would make things
easier for all concerned if he was initially flushed out now.
Three other nurses helped hold the burly patient onto his side in
a logroll while Tim thrust the lubricated enema wand up Buck's rectum.
Tim loved to purposely leave the bedside curtains open when giving
enemas, even going so far as to reopen curtains that staff assiting him
had just closed out of concern for the patient's privacy. He was in the
middle of letting the full enema reservoir bag flow down the tube and
into Buck when a different group of Buck's biker buddies appeared in the
hall.
Stan was on the phone with Riggs when he spotted the bikers so he
just snapped his fingers and pointed them out to the nurses. . A few,
used to Stan's irritability, automatically jumped up to escort the
visitors out. Michael joined the nurses at that point and appologized,
saying that the bikers had sneaked by him by while he was tied up with
the phones.
The bald, black biker chuckled. "Not a bad idea - you tied up
with the phones!" he said before returning to the waiting room. Michael
tried to laugh that one off with the nurses, but inside grew nervous.
It had been well over an hour now since the patient arrived and
in most cases visitors would have been allowed at this point, but between
Stan and Tim, this was clearly not going to happen. Tim decided he
wanted to take his time and do all his assessing and charting at his
leisure before bothering to explaining things to Buck's family or
friends. Stan thought he'd like to get the bolts put in Buck's head
now, whether he needed a halo or not, so that Stan have more time later
to head over to the neurosurgery step-down wing and flirt with his
favorite nurses there.
So each subsequent time that the increasingly nervous Michael
phoned back to the ward on behalf of the growingly impatient bikers to
ask about visiting, he was told that there would still be a long wait,
and was given no specific time estimate. The bikers growled and
grumbled and argued with michael, as though he were making it up just to
keep them away. Soon threats to call security was the only thing that
would get them to return to the waiting area.
Meanwhile, Stan had scrubbed, capped and gloved himself and was
drilling holes in Buck's skull for the placement of bolts. He joked with
his attentive collegues, Carl and Frank, who were green enough to still
have a fascination with the Frankenstein-like practice of attaching
mechanical parts to a human body in this way. They watched the drill
slide in and out under Stan's guidance with childlike wonder that the
drilling, because of the positioning and shallowness, caused no
significant brain damage.
After nearly another hour had passed, the bolts were in and the
halo put in place. Stan was washing his hands and joking with Myra,
who handed him his jacket from a chair at the nursing station.
Tim was over checking the flow of Buck's urine into the collection bag
and recording the amount in the chart. At this moment, 6 of the bikers
marched into the ward.
When they walked into the room, everyone noticed the difference.
Gone was the attitude of concerned, curious onlooker and in its place,
one of cool calculation and determination. They positioned themselves
quickly at key places in the room with military precision, obviously
according to a plan they had worked out.
One came up to Stan and stood glaring at him. Another confronted
Tim in the same way.
"You were told to wait in the waiting room. What are you doing
back in here again?" Stan demanded.
"Out of here! " cried Tim, angrily. "Now! The patient isn't ready."
But the confrontational pair stood their ground silently.
Meanwhile, the other four had gathered around Buck's bedside, observing
all that had been done to him so far. One picked up his chart and began
to read from it to the others, despite Tim's protests and attempts to
snatch it away from him. The room grew still with tension, leaving only
the sounds of the four other bikers quietly discussing Buck's treatment
in low tones that revealed a more than adequate comprehension of medical
language and concepts.
"What the fuck is going on here?" asked Stan. If you weren't
behaving so unethically by bursting in here and interfering with our
work, I'd almost think a few of you guys had medical backgrounds."
"And if you weren't such a jackass, doc, I'd guess you might even
be human." smiled the tall, black, goateed man in front of Stan.
The nurses all dropped their jaws to hear such a direct attack on
Lager's personality.
"The name's Ben. My buddies and me have been together ever since
we served together as medics in Nam. We may not have a fucking degree or
a residency under our belts, but we don't need those to know how to spot
death dealers like you two even when you're masquerading as a doctor and
a nurse."
"Call security," Stan said sternly to Myra, who immediately
picked up the phone at the nursing station. She rummaged around for the
number for a second or two and then decided to ring Michael at the
reception desk and have him call. None of the men made any attempt to
stop her, but simply continued what they were doing. Tim, whom they
dwarfed, tried to keep them away from fiddling with things at Buck's
bedside, but they merely pushed him aside.
"You lack the essential quality necessary to be a healer, doc.
That's compassion," Ben said. "Buck's our brother. We love him and want
him to recover. You, on the other hand, don't care. Worse yet, you
think he's scum and deserves to be crippled for life or die, just 'cause
he's not one of your kind and he doesn't follow your nice little rules
about helmets and dress codes and all that crap. We're taking over now
because someone needs to see that Buck gets the treatment he needs."
Ben then smiled eerily and added, "And someone needs to see that
you boys get a lesson in empathy."
Stan's bronzed face went white. "Myra. Did you get security on
the line?" he barked, turning towards her.
Myra was talking to someone on the phone and then nodded and hung
it up.
"Michael at the desk said he already called them and they're on
their way," she replied.
Up at the reception desk, Michael was wishing that what he'd been
forced to tell Myra on the phone had actually been true. But the call
had never gotten through to the security guards because Lenny, a big
barrel-chested readheaded biker with a bushy walrus mustache, had yanked
the phone out Michael's hands and hung up. And since that moment the
receptionist had not exactly been free to make another call.
Ironically, in his present kneeling position on the carpet and
out of sight beneath the enclosed reception desk, Michael was working
harder at his job than he had in years. Above him Lenny, his unscheduled
replacement, manned the receptionist's chair with Michael's wire-rims
perched on his nose in an attempt to give himself a more professional
appearance. With his right hand, Lenny was politely answering the phones
on the embarassingly easy-to-operate switchboard, while with his left, he
was orienting Michael toward what the Saints O' Satan had agreed would be
a more suitable occupation for him.
Michael gagged and spluttered, causing Lenny to momentarily relax
the hand that was firmly guiding the back of the receptionist's head into
his lap "Stop. You're choking me," he pleaded.
"You expect me to believe you've never sucked a dick before?"
laughed Lenny, raising his bushy brows. "Nice try, girlfriend. But even
if that WERE true, a smart mouth like yours should be able to learn REAL
quickly!"
Exasperated, but becoming resigned to his fate, Michael allowed
the biker's fat, red 6-inch cock back into his mouth.
"Ah, that's right. Good boy," cooed Lenny as his prick sunk
back into the wet recesses of Michael's mouth. "I told the guys you were
really a PEOPLE person at heart."
As it happened, Michael normally did enjoy giving head, but hated
being forced to do anything. His outrage, however, faded into
complacency the longer he sucked the biker's dick, particularly as his
warm saliva gradually diluted the funky, head-cheese taste of Lenny's
unwashed, uncut cock down to the soothlingly familiar, bland taste of
dick flesh.
After a while Michael even drifted back into his everday work
habit of getting irritated at interruptions.
"This is Michael, whadda you need?" he'd say curtly into the
phone mouthpiece when the caller had a question Lenny couldn't answer.
And as soon as he'd get rid of the call, he'd go right back to Lenny's
blow job just as quickly as if he were returning to his library book or
magazine on a regular night.
And that was how the Saints 'O Satan kept outsiders in the dark
about their activities in the neuro ward long enough to gain control of
the place. Though he'd worked with and aggrivated many of the nurses for
a number of years, the fact of Michael's being replaced on the phone was
not imediately noticed by any of the staff who called. As usual,
everyone was in their own little world with their own little concerns,
which obliterated everyone else's.
In the neuro wing, however, the staff were sharing a few
concerns, for a change. None of them knew exactly what these pissed-off
bikers were capable of doing, so there was a collective terror in the
room.
(end part one of four)
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