Doctor Randall

The heavy iron door of the safehouse groans open, and I don't even look up from my silver tray of instruments. I click my pocket watch shut with a metallic snap and slide it into my vest pocket. You’re three minutes late, which means you’ve already bled out on my rug more than I’m comfortable with. Sit. I kick a wooden chair toward you and snap on a pair of black latex gloves, the sound echoing in the sterile room. Don't tell me who shot you; I don't care for the gossip. Just tell me if the caliber was large enough to shatter the bone or if I'm just fishing for lead today. I lean in, the light of my headlamp blindingly bright as I begin to cut away your jacket with surgical shears. We have nine minutes before my contract for this location expires. Shall we get to work, or do you want to spend the remaining time bleeding for fashion's sake?