In his right hand he held his trusty cut and thrust sword. He had a spare, a shield-cleaving inward-hooking sword—which seemed a stupid weapon to him really, a weapon unwieldy by a swordsman with a damaged shoulder. He switched the gladius to his left—Oh, it is a gladius. How do I know this? —where he could still backhand cut and stab on the inside line, but little else.

Out came the crooked sword from the place behind his hips as the snow broke before him to reveal the heavy dark features of a black-haired giant in furs, with a devil-faced belt buckle, who was drawing a massive black iron sword from what looked like a guitar case strapped to his back.

A fucking guitar case—really? It has to have name.

He heard a gust like breath escape from the lungs of the giant as it squared its feet underneath his frame, which was as wide and tall as a door back at the hospital, with the head being of a height that it would rest on top of the doorframe.

He really felt like he knew what he was doing, though he hadn’t been in a fight since Jerry Melonbaum beat him up beneath the swing set in second grade. Never-the-less he advanced on the giant giving a war cry that sounded like something the priest would chant up on the altar, voiced with the confidence that he could cut this thing down.

Really? Are you fucking kidding me Vitto. Where’s your goddamn gun is what I’d like to know?

The sky split open overhead and God reached down with one big hairy hand, grabbed him by the collar, and answered, “My gun is upside your guido head you piece of shit!”

A lightning bolt then struck him sending a sizzle of white fire through his head.

“You were right Mother, I never should have stopped attending church.”

The scuffling and screeching of men and women, the whoop of a siren, and a command in a firm female voice that he remembered out of the past came to him as the big hairy hand of God released his collar and the lightning bolt lit night gave way to day. He came to under a clear blue sky above, quite unlike the dread gray sky of his ‘God is an abusive psychotic parent’ dream.

He looked up into the dreamy powder blue eyes of the lady cop—the cop who had touched him and cared back when he lost it, the cutie with blonde ponytail and blue uniform who was placing her jacket under his head and neck and yelling to a guy cop for an ambulance.

He looked up into her eyes through the bloody haze as she pulled up his underwear and pants with a half grin. She obviously recognized him and smiled as she spoke. “We meet again, under the strangest circumstances. Pushing burgers instead of gurneys does not seem to be agreeing with you. The daughter’s owner is hot, I’ll give you that. But you could do better baby, much better.”

She patted him on the chest again—how he loved that, how it had comforted him when she did it after his soul had been frozen last winter, how he wished he could have come back from the nightmare places in his mind to call her, to ask her out, to touch her…

The whoop-whoop of an ambulance brought him back to the land of the insanely living. Mister Takadapolous was being hand cuffed and taken away by two cops as—what is her beautiful name—the lady cop stood over him taking notes on a pad as Anastasia went on about how she was just getting supplies out of the storeroom, and Vitto’s dick had ended up in her purely by accident, and she didn’t usually fuck guys on the job, but Vitto had been pretty cute before her father smashed his head in…

The snap of the gurney rising brought him to consciousness and he looked forward to see an ambo that he recognized, an ambo with a static cling ‘L’ on the windshield!

No!

The deep voice with the hip hop inflections and Eastern European accent got him to roll his eyes in his head, as the head itself was strapped to the board. “If it isn’t Doctor Funkenstein nailing Big Daddy’s little Greek girl in the kitchen. What the fuck bro?”

“She made me man.”

Ivan roared with mirth, “Yeah, she’d have to twist my arm too! Dude, do you realize how pissed off I am at you for losing it and sticking me with this bitch-ass Mexican nigga here—what’s yo name again?”

Another EMT, spoke in a Spanish accent, “The name is Heysuse, and I am from Spain, oh coworker of ten months. But call me Joseph if it helps Drago—better yet, how about you give up on trying to play Gears of War on that tablet. You know that eight year old kid in Anchorage, who is still kicking your ass just lied to you and said he used a tablet you stupid gringodon.”

And just like that his unhealthy reunion with his former coworker dissolved into an argumentative banter between Joseph of Barcelona and ‘Ivan the Imperishable’ who still drove like he was a taxi driver in Mexico City…

What is her name?

The Bitch of Doom is her name Plutus. You said so yourself you little vagina.

Get out of my hea—no, don’t go there. There are no voices in your head. You are Vitto Quintivale, unluckiest EMT on earth and dumbest short order cook in Baltimore. You are not insane—not going insane, will bounce back from this.

I wonder is my brain damaged.

No vagina, it seems to be in perfect working order. Unfortunately it is not attached to your narrow-shouldered carcass and I doubt very much if the bitch will ever give it back!

Ignore that—Ignore me legionnaire, ignore me!

“Yo Ivan, he is seizing up, call ahead and make sure a neurosurgeon is alerted. Iv is in and pressure is rising. I’m sedating him.”

“Yo Ivan!”

Ivan’s voice cut through the sound of the respirator—respirator! It’s that bad that I’m on a respirator.

“Can you believe Officer ‘too-cute-to-be-true’ Bellanote gave this fucking meatball her phone number—wants me to let her know how he’s doing, what room, blah, blah, fucking blah! I’ve been trying to score that pussy fo’ a year holmes, a fucking year of kissing ass and begging and dis bitch wants what’s left a wannabe Doctor Funkenstein when she could be worshipping Ivan the Imperishable’s glorious cock!”

‘Joseph’ could not help a jab at his partner—and Vitto knew where he was coming from even as the world began echoing more deeply in his mind—and came back with a pretty astute slice at the Ivanian ego complex. “Perhaps, she prefers a dude that looks more like a young Robert De Niro than Christopher Walken on steroids? And perhaps the movie-going public would agree oh mighty Gringodon?”