Post by The Country Doctor on May 22, 2021 17:17:43 GMT
The camera fades in on the weathered, wooden exterior of a small one-story building. There is a large porch with a few battered chairs that look to be held together as much by glue and duct tape as by the splintering wood that still remains, and a few dingy windows through which the faint glow of various neon signs advertising cheap American beer brands can just be made out. Directly in the middle of the shot is a metal door covered as much by dents and dried-on filth as by the flaking green paint that looks to have been half-heartedly applied once over 20 years ago. The scene is quiet for several seconds, save for the faint sound of wind, until the silence is broken by the muffled but unmistakable sound of shattering glass, followed by several sick wet thuds. This continues for a moment until there is one final thud accompanied by the neon sign in the window nearest the door flickering momentarily before finally going dark, and then the scene is quiet once more.
This new silence is short lived, however, as the metal door suddenly flies open accompanied by a loud bang and a shrill screech. Stepping through the doorway, slowly rolling down the sleeves of his button down shirt and readjusting his collar, is a man with medium-length brown hair falling in all directions, not quite covering up a tell-tale case of cauliflower ear on each side of his head and a quickly swelling cheek below his right eye. He sucks his teeth as he casually steps closer to the camera, running a hand across his hair to sweep it back into something resembling order. As he does so, the camera catches the unmistakable crimson of blood splattered across his knuckles. He stops, once he is a few feet from the camera, and gives a warm smile.
Jack: Well hello there. I was expectin’ y’all ‘bout… 20 minutes ago? I’m afraid y’all done missed all the fun!
He cocks his head towards the building behind him as he says “fun” and then lets out a grumbling chuckle.
Jack: You know, this here bar? It ain’t nothin’ special. There’s a dive like this’n jus' about ever’ county in these great United States. An' jus’ like the bar itself, the folks what patronize this here establishment ain’t nothin’ special neither. I ain’t been to the waterin’ hole yet what don’t have at least ONE ignorant sumbitch with a belly fulla beer and a head ‘thout a lick a-sense innit what’s itchin’ to tussle with the very first person what catches his eye. Now, I can’ say fer sure whether it’s mah… dashin’ good looks, or… the particular dulcet tones o’ mah voice, or… hell, maybe it’s even mah propensity fer throwin’ around words like ‘propensity’, but fer one reason or another, these idjits always seem ta gravitate towards yours truly.
As he continues to straighten out his hair and clothes, he seems to finally notice the blood on his hands, pulling a coarse-looking handkerchief out of his back pocket and scrubbing as much of it off as he can. He looks up at the sky as he does so, his smile fading as he seems to be lost in thought for a moment before turning back to the camera, a serious look on his face.
Jack: It’s a sign o’ the sickness, you know. That no matter where I’ve gone in this here big blue ball we live on, I fin’ the same kinda depravity. Stupid, angry people just lashin’ out at whatever they can manage to git their hands on. Just ‘cause a fellow talks a li’l differ’nt, or looks a li’l differ’nt, or, hell, just so happens t’be sittin’ in your preferred stool.
He breaks into a smile and laughs for a moment.
Jack: I don’ think that feller’s gonna be worryin’ too much about where his plump ass rests from now on. See… I fixed that boy but good in there. I gave him the only kinda medicine what seems to have any effect on people these days. Can’ talk no sense in’o ‘em. Naw, they gotsta engage in some o’ that ‘hands-on’ learnin’. You gotsta stick with the lesson, too. Soon’s they realize what they done stepped in, they’s gonna start talkin’ real respectable like - throwin’ ‘round apologies…
His smile begins to fade, and his eyes start to take on a faraway look.
Jack: ...even beggin’, once they start t’appreciate the full scope of the work you means t’engage in.
He pauses for a moment before taking a breath and putting a new, warm smile on his face.
Jack: But this here sickness - it’s rooted deep, like a cancer. And like any good doctor, you owe it to ‘em t’chase it down as far as it goes. It’s gon’ be painful. There’s gon’ be buckets o’blood, an’ collateral damage what leaves ‘em less’n they were afore. But if you’s willin’ to put in the work, you jus’ might save a poor, weary soul.
He chuckles quietly, almost to himself.
Jack: That’s why I come to IIW, and why I done called y’all all the way out here t’bumblefuck nowheresville so we could have this here li’l chat. See, I’s been travellin’ all o’er this sick world, curin’ as many poor souls as I can git mah hands on, but after a time, a body starts t’tire of the ever-changin’ scenery, and you start t’wonder if maybe there ain’t a place where you might put down roots an’ still find a way t’continue your good work. Well, IIW, I am very pleased t’announce that y’all have presented me with the perfect opportunity t’do jus’ that. When I look at mah soon t’be colleagues in the IIW, I see the same tell-tale symptoms of the sickness that I seen ever’where else I been. Vanity. Anger. Prejudice. What’s more, I see patients what’s gonna require far more… intensive therapy than what my usual clientéle demand. Best of all, once I cure one-a you, there’s always gon’ be another feller standin' in line right behind ya. I tell ya, it don’t get no better for yours truly.
He tucks his hands into his pockets and beams a wide, satisfied smile that shows off every one of his slightly misaligned teeth. Not a moment later, the metal door to the bar swings open once more, this time revealing two more men. The first is upright, mostly carrying the second, who is slumped against him in a bloody mess, barely able to keep one foot under himself. The first man looks over at Jack and the camera. He yells out.
Man: Look what you did to him you crazy, inbred fuck! Jesus Christ, someone call 911!
Jack turns casually back to face the two men.
Jack: Now why would we do somethin’ like that?
He turns back to face the camera.
Jack: He’s already seen a doctor.
With that, he gives a wink to the camera, and starts to walk towards the two men.
Jack: Now you, on th’other hand… you seem t'be afflicted with somethin' mighty nasty. Why 'on't you lemme give ya a quick once-over?
The first man takes an awkward half-step back into the bar, seeming to forget for a moment about the barely conscious man hanging onto his side. Jack begins to once again roll up his sleeves as the camera - and the man's panicked voice - both quickly fade out, leaving behind only a simple text graphic.
"The Doctor Will See You Shortly"
This new silence is short lived, however, as the metal door suddenly flies open accompanied by a loud bang and a shrill screech. Stepping through the doorway, slowly rolling down the sleeves of his button down shirt and readjusting his collar, is a man with medium-length brown hair falling in all directions, not quite covering up a tell-tale case of cauliflower ear on each side of his head and a quickly swelling cheek below his right eye. He sucks his teeth as he casually steps closer to the camera, running a hand across his hair to sweep it back into something resembling order. As he does so, the camera catches the unmistakable crimson of blood splattered across his knuckles. He stops, once he is a few feet from the camera, and gives a warm smile.
Jack: Well hello there. I was expectin’ y’all ‘bout… 20 minutes ago? I’m afraid y’all done missed all the fun!
He cocks his head towards the building behind him as he says “fun” and then lets out a grumbling chuckle.
Jack: You know, this here bar? It ain’t nothin’ special. There’s a dive like this’n jus' about ever’ county in these great United States. An' jus’ like the bar itself, the folks what patronize this here establishment ain’t nothin’ special neither. I ain’t been to the waterin’ hole yet what don’t have at least ONE ignorant sumbitch with a belly fulla beer and a head ‘thout a lick a-sense innit what’s itchin’ to tussle with the very first person what catches his eye. Now, I can’ say fer sure whether it’s mah… dashin’ good looks, or… the particular dulcet tones o’ mah voice, or… hell, maybe it’s even mah propensity fer throwin’ around words like ‘propensity’, but fer one reason or another, these idjits always seem ta gravitate towards yours truly.
As he continues to straighten out his hair and clothes, he seems to finally notice the blood on his hands, pulling a coarse-looking handkerchief out of his back pocket and scrubbing as much of it off as he can. He looks up at the sky as he does so, his smile fading as he seems to be lost in thought for a moment before turning back to the camera, a serious look on his face.
Jack: It’s a sign o’ the sickness, you know. That no matter where I’ve gone in this here big blue ball we live on, I fin’ the same kinda depravity. Stupid, angry people just lashin’ out at whatever they can manage to git their hands on. Just ‘cause a fellow talks a li’l differ’nt, or looks a li’l differ’nt, or, hell, just so happens t’be sittin’ in your preferred stool.
He breaks into a smile and laughs for a moment.
Jack: I don’ think that feller’s gonna be worryin’ too much about where his plump ass rests from now on. See… I fixed that boy but good in there. I gave him the only kinda medicine what seems to have any effect on people these days. Can’ talk no sense in’o ‘em. Naw, they gotsta engage in some o’ that ‘hands-on’ learnin’. You gotsta stick with the lesson, too. Soon’s they realize what they done stepped in, they’s gonna start talkin’ real respectable like - throwin’ ‘round apologies…
His smile begins to fade, and his eyes start to take on a faraway look.
Jack: ...even beggin’, once they start t’appreciate the full scope of the work you means t’engage in.
He pauses for a moment before taking a breath and putting a new, warm smile on his face.
Jack: But this here sickness - it’s rooted deep, like a cancer. And like any good doctor, you owe it to ‘em t’chase it down as far as it goes. It’s gon’ be painful. There’s gon’ be buckets o’blood, an’ collateral damage what leaves ‘em less’n they were afore. But if you’s willin’ to put in the work, you jus’ might save a poor, weary soul.
He chuckles quietly, almost to himself.
Jack: That’s why I come to IIW, and why I done called y’all all the way out here t’bumblefuck nowheresville so we could have this here li’l chat. See, I’s been travellin’ all o’er this sick world, curin’ as many poor souls as I can git mah hands on, but after a time, a body starts t’tire of the ever-changin’ scenery, and you start t’wonder if maybe there ain’t a place where you might put down roots an’ still find a way t’continue your good work. Well, IIW, I am very pleased t’announce that y’all have presented me with the perfect opportunity t’do jus’ that. When I look at mah soon t’be colleagues in the IIW, I see the same tell-tale symptoms of the sickness that I seen ever’where else I been. Vanity. Anger. Prejudice. What’s more, I see patients what’s gonna require far more… intensive therapy than what my usual clientéle demand. Best of all, once I cure one-a you, there’s always gon’ be another feller standin' in line right behind ya. I tell ya, it don’t get no better for yours truly.
He tucks his hands into his pockets and beams a wide, satisfied smile that shows off every one of his slightly misaligned teeth. Not a moment later, the metal door to the bar swings open once more, this time revealing two more men. The first is upright, mostly carrying the second, who is slumped against him in a bloody mess, barely able to keep one foot under himself. The first man looks over at Jack and the camera. He yells out.
Man: Look what you did to him you crazy, inbred fuck! Jesus Christ, someone call 911!
Jack turns casually back to face the two men.
Jack: Now why would we do somethin’ like that?
He turns back to face the camera.
Jack: He’s already seen a doctor.
With that, he gives a wink to the camera, and starts to walk towards the two men.
Jack: Now you, on th’other hand… you seem t'be afflicted with somethin' mighty nasty. Why 'on't you lemme give ya a quick once-over?
The first man takes an awkward half-step back into the bar, seeming to forget for a moment about the barely conscious man hanging onto his side. Jack begins to once again roll up his sleeves as the camera - and the man's panicked voice - both quickly fade out, leaving behind only a simple text graphic.
"The Doctor Will See You Shortly"