02 Guess I Had It Comin'

In this episode, a kidney stone sends Fake Cop to the hospital, where he helps a rookie police officer through a dangerous situation, frames an innocent man with heart problems, and leaves with a new partner. Condolences to the Mendoza family.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:49

South Lake Hospital. New market. Fuck. Always hated hospitals, especially when they're for me. Being a fake cop. A fake rogue cop. I'm no stranger to hospitals, and neither are three generations of the Mendoza family. Mendoza was my first partner, but he got cut to pieces. I didn't. Mendoza's son, Mendoza Jr., was my second partner. Just a rookie, 22 years old. He got cut to pieces. I didn't. My third partner was Mendoza's nephew, and Mendoza Jr.'s cousin. Didn't even know his real name. So I called him Mendoza Jr. Jr. 16 years old. Not even a cop. Real or fake. Best partner I ever had. And just like his cousin and uncle, he got cut to pieces. I guess they had it coming. I didn't though. The Mendoza women refused to let me come near any more Mendoza men. They say I'm dangerous, reckless, self-important, stupid. Said I keep getting all their men killed. Guess I can't blame them. And I guess they had it coming. God damn it, Mendozas. It's rough out here in these streets. Down these mean streets, a man must go, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. These cold, hard, mean streets of Newmarket, Ontario, Canada. From the Upper Canada Mall to the Upper East Side. These streets talk. These streets laugh. These streets whisper. These streets listen. But mostly. These streets cry. A dog whines in an alley. A cat dodges broken glass. The wings of a pigeon carve the thick night air. A baby cries. A fake cop dies. Smoke is on the wind. You don't make up for your sins in the church. You do it in these streets. Been a cop long, I said to the real cop sitting next to me in the emergency room triage. He looked down at me like I was really fucking weird. I'd seen that look before. From other real cops I had attempted to banter with. In hospitals, donut store parking lots, courtrooms, slow-pitched tournaments, crime scenes. I'd seen that look before. It was almost three looks in one. At first confusion, then some kind of awkward clarity, followed by a sigh, filled with resignation, like a balloon slowly letting out air. He'd seen my type before, and I'd seen his. I've been on the job six months, he answered, sounding both bored and annoyed. Ah, a rookie. Got ourselves a rookie. I remember those days. I gotta go back some 20 years now, but it seems like yesterday. Bought a retired cop car, paid six grand. Cash. Could have been your daddy's. Take it easy out there, rookie. These new market streets. Don't lie. Just ask the Mendozas. They found out the hard way. I guess they had it coming. Earlier that day, I was sitting in Fitzy's, a fake cop bar on Main Street, at my own booth in the corner. A lot of deals were made in that corner booth, a lot of things exchanged. Briefcases, paper bags, punches, knowing looks, laughs, lies. My buddy Mike slipped into the seat across from me. He seemed a little nervous. Endo, my fake henchman, had checked him earlier for weapons and wires, and Mike was clean. He just wasn't used to operating at this level. I had caught Mike earlier in the week driving with a load not properly tied down. Pretty serious offense. I told him I could kick it up to the real cops. Or we could handle it ourselves. I named Mike Price and told him to meet me at Fitzy's on Thursday. And here he was. Mike, take it easy, I said. You're doing great. You drink Bush Light, right? Hey Endo, get Mike a Bush Light. Endo brought Mike a Bushlight. Mike was originally from the south side of Chicago, not a place for wallflowers, but nothing had prepared him for the streets of Newmarket, Ontario, Canada. Or that back corner booth at Fitzy's. His eyes scanned the room, darting around like a panicky rabbit. Somewhere in the back, he could hear sweet emotion by Aerosmith. With a large, shaking, tattooed hand, he slowly pushed a paper bag across the table. I lifted the top part of the bag. As I lifted my eye at Mike, I looked back down at the bag. Van Halen CDs. A lot of them. It was well known around Newmarket that I accepted classic rock CDs as bribes to let people off the hook. People like Mike. And Mike was caught driving with a load not properly tied down. I see a lot of Van Halen in here, Mike. That's great. You know how much I like Van Halen. But where's Zeppelin? Where's Rush, Mike? I know they're really your favorite bands. You wouldn't be holding out on me, would you, Mike? He was just a simple drummer, a little slow in the uptake. I even felt a bit bad for him, but I couldn't let Mike make me look soft. If I did, every wise guy, skell, and fake cop in Newmarket would be taking a piece out of my fake ass. I had to make a statement. You know how much I like Van Halen, Mike, but stop breaking my balls here. Most of these are fakes and you know it. I grabbed a shitty looking 5150 and smashed it over his head. You burned that copy yourself, didn't ya? You fucking degenerate ya. He looked at me with a shocked face. But Brad, I thought you was laying. I'm laying. Nah nah, I'm taken. I was taken. You sure? asked Mike. I'm positive, I replied. Mike said he was a little confused. You're a little confused? Maybe if I stick your fucking head through this fake copy of women and children first, you'll get a little unconfused. Now give me the fucking Zeppelin album. That's when Mike pulled out an original. Unopened, untouched. Physical graffiti. Double album. My favorite. I'm sorry, Brad. I didn't mean anything by it. Yeah, I know, that's why you had it ready. You thought I was fucking laying it. Now get the fuck out of here. Go home. Clean up. And Mike, never bring Sammy Hagar here again. Van Halen died with David Lee Roth. Mike stumbled out of Fitsi's, clutching his head and a giant paper bag of fake Van Halen CDs. He wouldn't be back. But others would. These streets are generous. They never stop giving. I sat in that booth alone, nursing a warm beer with a cold heart, feeling lower than a snake with broken legs. I had extorted yet another working man for classic rock albums. It was the bottom of the barrel, and I had scraped it. I just couldn't shake losing Mendoza or Mendoza Jr. Or Mendoza Jr. Jr. or whatever his fucking name was. I mean, I I guess they had it coming, but still, I just couldn't get that warehouse down by the docks out of my mind. I still hadn't found out who killed the Mendoz in that warehouse. Probably never will. I'd say they got it coming. But I don't even know who the fuck they were. I thought it was that fucking Jeff Bezos trying to punish me for successfully canceling Prime. But I was wrong. Was it the Russians? The Syrians? Another rogue unit of fake cops? A double D slow pitch team? I guess I'll never know. So I guess they'll never have it coming. But we all got it comin'. That's when I felt a stab in my right flank. It wasn't a knife. I wished it was. Fuck. I knew what this was. I knew what it was the previous 79 times that it happened. I had a lot of enemies out there, but none bigger than kidney stones. And this was number 80. I had my first one back in April of 98. Just 24 years old, not even a fake rookie yet, but I was about to be tested like a seasoned vet. One minute I'm on the phone to one of my girlfriends. Next thing I know, I'm shrieking like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs. Felt like the devil was in me. Hadn't felt pain like that since the Blue Jays blew a 3-1 series lead in the AL Championship series against the Kansas City Royals back in '85. I still can't talk about that. I guess they had it coming. So that was my first kidney stone. The legends were true. I had to recalibrate my concept of pain. My dickpot producer Greg, or Craig, took me to the hospital. He was screaming even louder than I was. I was doing terrible things to the interior of his 83 cutlass, gripping the wheel, his knuckles turning white with fear. Greg hammered the gas pedal as we exploded onto Davis' drive like a slug from a 45, rolling like a supersonic, a couple of fools getting down on it, 180 horsepower of maximum performance piercing the night. The only thing louder than that car was our screaming. We almost crashed through the front window of the emergency room. Then I crawled inside, screaming in Latin and other dead languages I never even knew in the first place. This was demonic possession. I didn't need a doctor, I needed a priest. Greg had his own adventure in the parking lot. Go back to episode 16. It's pretty gross, but it's pretty funny. Twenty years later, a broken down fake cop. Sitting in a broken down fake cop bar, drinking a broken down beer, in a broken down body, broken down by kidney stones. God damn it, Mendoza. I mean, this really had nothing to do with Mendoza, but still. God damn it, Mendoza. I'd retired three times. I'd lost three partners. I'd had three wives simultaneously, and 80 kidney stones. I needed a drink. I needed a lot of life insurance. I needed a vacation. What I had was a cane, a fake badge, and a mint copy of Led Zeppelin's physical graffiti that I stole from Mike. I grabbed all three and called for an ambulance. The ambulance arrived at Fitsi's in under five minutes. They were there every damn day. Fitzsi's was no library, it was a fake cop bar, and there was always some kind of action going on. Beatings, stabbings, shootings. That back alley behind Fitsi saw more fights than Caesar's Palace. Once the paramedics saw me, they knew what was up. A kidney stone. Not just any kidney stone, but a tier one screamer. I don't care if you're King Kong or Genghis Khan. A tier one screamer will turn you into a puddle. Totally ruin your weekend, and possibly your life. I recognized the paramedics, Lou and Frankie, and they recognize me. Being a fake cop, I was no stranger to paramedics. Most paramedics were afraid of Fitsies, especially on a Thursday night with a full moon blooming in the sky. But not Lou and Frankie. What do we got today, Brad? Bullet or stone? Frankie nonchalantly inquired. God damn it, Frankie. I wish it was a bullet, I replied with grit in my teeth. Lou and Frankie were real paramedics, thank god. Not the fake kind that I had inspired many years earlier when I became a fake cop. People saw the kind of power I had, the lack of oversight and accountability, and wanted a piece of the action. Not everybody could handle being a fake cop. It can get pretty rough. Gotta deal with punks like Mike, driving around with loads not properly tied down. I got a thing for that. Really sticks in my craw, raises my hackles. If you're driving around with a load in your car, you make sure it's properly tied down, goddammit. Party time is over. There were fake paramedics, fake bylaw officers, fake firefighters, fake doctors, fake nurses, fake orderlies, fake security guards, and of course, fake cops, fake rogue, cops. Pretty soon we had more fake frontline workers than real ones. I told Lou the paramedic to get my urologist off the golf course and down to the hospital. I had two urologists. One was named Dr. Skeys, or Skeezer, or Skeezy. It depended. He was my fake urologist. It was probably best to call my real urologist for this one, because this was a tier one screamer. Frankie and Lou tossed me into the back of the ambulance, with Frankie scrambling in behind me and Lou racing to the wheel. Step on it, Lou, I said. I think this stone's about to get me. What'll it be today, Brad? inquired Frankie. Morphine or fentanyl. It's happy hour. Give me the morphine, buddy. We'll save the F-word, for when shit gets real, I wouldn't know just how real until later that night. I ended up needing that fentanyl, but not for the reason you might think. Actually, it probably was for the reason you might think. I hadn't had my fake cop car since 2009. I don't have any car now. I'm not allowed to drive. According to the courts, I took my fake cop roll a little too far. I guess I had that coming. I have to take Ubers everywhere now, which can be tough because I only have a 1.7 rating, probably because I tried to arrest them all for driving with loads not properly tied down. The only Uber drivers who will accept me are ones who have a similarly shitty rating. Makes for a more interesting ride. I usually end up making a caller. It's usually the driver, and that rating gets even lower. I didn't have a problem getting picked up this time though. Lou and Frankie knew who I was and what to do. Alright, Brad, here comes the morphine, Frankie said. Show me one of those world-famous veins you got. He was right about the veins. I've got pretty badass veins. Paramedics and nurses love my veins. No poking around on some treasure hunt. Don't even need the elastic band. I flex my bicep with about 1% power, and that vein popped up like a buried cable. Frankie slipped the IV in like a tailor. The man was an artist. Instantly, I felt this warmth rush through my body, like a blanket laid over me. From the inside, I started thinking about Mendoza and Mendoza Jr. And Mendoza Jr. Jr., whatever his fucking name was, and how they had to take the same ambulance ride for the last time. I guess they had it coming. But did I? I'd soon find out. Lou shouted from the driver's seat. We're ten minutes from the hospital, Brad, but I'll get us there in two. He wasn't kidding either. Lou was the best ambulance driver in Newmarket. He could thread that van like Frankie with a needle. I was in good hands, but I was in bad shape. The pain was exquisite. You know, that's the only way I can describe it. I was in exquisite pain. I'd felt this pain before. 79 times. Number 80 didn't feel any better. You know, you don't really get used to the pain, but you do get used to the process. And at that moment, the process began. I couldn't see much out of the back window of that ambulance, but what I could see was pretty fucking cool. Colors, lights. Davis Drive was lit up like the sunset strip. The morphine forced that stone back into its alley. It would be temporary, but I would enjoy it. Davis Drive never looked better than from the back of an ambulance. Fucked up by both a kidney stone and 10 milligrams of morphine. We hung an Elbender onto Davis off a northbound Leslie. The Upper East Side. My old neighborhood. I learned a lot in that neighborhood that helped me prepare for the life of a fake cop. Lou was coming up in a scale emerald. It would soon be a fresh ruby. He accelerated, and so did the morphine. I looked up at Frankie, who at that moment started to look a lot like Elvis. I was in the back of an ambulance being ripped up by a kidney stone while Elvis injected me with morphine.

SPEAKER_02 17:55

You're gonna be fine, son. I do this every day to myself.

SPEAKER_00 17:58

I heard Elvis say that in my head, but it was Frankie giving me the morphine, and he wasn't keeping any for himself. Frankie was straight as an arrow. I tried to bribe him back in 08 when my fake cop powers were at their peak. I wanted to expand and become a fake paramedic and drive around a fake ambulance. I tried to bribe Frankie with Pink Floyd albums, but he wouldn't budge. I usually don't like legitimate types. You can't trust him. But Frankie, he was different, you know. You couldn't bribe him, but if you had a kidney stone, he could definitely take some of that load off you. I trusted Frankie with my life, or at least with the morphine. We whipped by here on Heights Avenue, where the TB convenience store lit up like a psychedelic candy cane. Maybe it's the morphine, I thought, but I really like what they've done to the place. We were traveling both supersonic and in slow motion. Hard to describe, but that's what was going on. It was like we were streaking by in slow motion. Now I didn't need the small window in the back. I could see right through the side of that ambulance. I looked right through that ambulance at the Huron Heights Plaza. You know, I don't remember a day in Newmarket where that thing wasn't standing. The appliance shack. Newmarket rehab and wellness, stop and cash. I knew that place well. Lillian Nails, Alexandro's Hair Studio, the world-famous Palace Pizza and Spaghetti House. Even under the influence of a tier one screamer and 10 milligrams of morphine, I couldn't ignore a pizzeria. Neither could I ignore the two werewolves eating slices and playing cards in the roof. But they looked like they were having a good time. So I let it go. The variety food mart, like the TB Convenience store. You put a store like that next to a high school, you got a business for life. You're also gonna have a shoplifting problem for life. The ambulance was moving like a rocket, but the morphine slowed both brain and time. I could see through everything. Next I saw Hollingsworth Arena, except it wasn't Hollingsworth Arena. It was a goddamn condo where the arena used to be. Not even the morphine could take that pain away. Best damn I surface in Newmarket. I turned my head and looked at the back window of the ambulance. A trail of red light, bleeding into the road. Lou pulled into the ER Bay in exactly two minutes, just like he said he would. The morphine made it seem like two hours. Frankie checked my straps and began to deboard me. The boys conferred with each other for a moment, leaving me alone in the stretcher, observing the horizon. And there it was, Southlake Regional Hospital. I first saw it on May 12, 1973, the day I was born. Back then it was called York County Hospital. Had I known how many times I'd return, I would have crawled right back where I came from. My head was light, and the moon was full. It looked like it had been cut out and pasted on the black New Market sky. I stared at the moon for a bit, pondering its dark side. Frankie and Lou brought me inside, checked my vitals again, gave my health card back, and said their goodbyes. This was part of the process I hated the most. That ambulance ride was the best part, especially with Frankie and Lou. I never met a paramedic I didn't like. And those two are the best. Thanks again, boys. I'll see you next time. And hey, be careful out there. I was transferred to a wheelchair and taken to triage. Time inched along like a worm doing push-ups. That's when I decided to banter with the real cop next to me. Been a cop long? He was a real rookie cop, not a fake one. He looked down at me like I was really fucking weird, as I was establishing how much of my banter he would tolerate. We heard a loud noise down the hall from Pod 18. That was my usual pod. They assess you at the Triage, then sit you in a pod. It's a smaller room that you share with a few other people while the doctors figure out what they're gonna do with you. I was in pod 18 six weeks previous with kidney stone 79. Ended up running a gambling ring out of that pod for three days. Some rich guy was in for a hip replacement or something. I bluffed him at a 50 large. Son of a bitch paid me a bearer bonds. I hate those fucking things. They are impossible to convert. At least he didn't want diplomatic immunity. The rookie heard the same thing I did. I'd heard it a thousand times before. The rookie would hear it a thousand times after. It was a rumble, a bad one, and it didn't have a steering wheel. A brawl had broken out between two slow pitch teams, Cosburns and Renegers. It was the Double D League slow pitch playoffs. Very intense time of year. Emotions run high. Two players had collided at second base. Each team rolled up to the ER to support their man. Next thing you know, there's a Pier 6 brawl in pod 18. These two teams played in a double D slow pitch league. They couldn't play ball for shit, but they sure could fight. I looked over at the rookie cop. It was a damn good thing I was there. I asked him where his partner was. Hey kid, where's your partner? He said he didn't know. I thought to myself, Mendoza would have been here if he hadn't have let himself get slaughtered in that warehouse after letting me order a pizza from the parking lot. God damn it, Mendoza. I sure could use you right now, buddy, but the rookie would have to do. He was a big kid, square jaw, big mitts. He looked apart. Now, we'd see if he could act it. I put my hand on his shoulder and said, Son, there are seven double-D-League slow pitch players throwing hands inside of Pod 18. They might as well be bikers. Thought they probably are bikers. You and I are gonna go in there and protect the integrity of Southlake Hospital. The new market way. You got the gun, you go first. I got my cane and your six. We understand each other, rookie? I thought so, buddy. Party time is over. The rookie and I burst into the A team like a house on fire and began unloading the heavy artillery. I was right about the rookie. That kid was squared away, didn't even hesitate, stuck his head right in there. I was right at his elbow with my cane. I'd been training with my cane several hours a day for years. I could use it at short, medium, and long ranges, a snap of my wrist, and it was good night Irene. But my finishing maneuver was the pool cue. I'd shoot that cane straight up from my waist like a pool cue, right under some poor bastard's chin. That move got me out of a lot of jams, and it was gonna get me out of this one too. The rookie and I had things under control by the time Backup arrived. A young hospital security guard seemed pissed off that he missed the action. I've looked at his name tag. Ramirez.

SPEAKER_01 25:10

Hmm.

SPEAKER_00 25:11

This kid could have something. Character. Moxie. Grit. A false sense of self-importance. All the makings of a fake cop. I made a note to keep an eye on him for the rest of the night. See how he carried himself. I turned back to the rookie. He was off to the side, giving a statement to some other real cops. I pushed my way through them and said, You handled yourself pretty well back there, rookie. Not bad for a real cop. I looked over at the other real cops and said, Hey, let's be careful out there. The other real cops looked back at me like I was really fucking weird. Everything went quiet for a little bit, and I remembered why I was there. This goddamn kidney stone and Frankie's morphine was starting to wear off. The nurse came out to me and said, Are you alone, sir? Aren't we all? I replied. She looked back at me like I was really fucking weird. Then she told me to go to Pod 18. They dragged the ball players out, cleaned up the blood, and set me up with 4 milligrams of IV hydromorphone. Elvis' favorite, just in time too, is that stone was getting pretty loud. That's when a familiar face came from behind the curtain. Dr. Vega, the best ER doctor, from Aurora to Keswick, a real doctor too, and he saved my fake ass many times. Another stone, Brad? Good god, man, you're like a Pes dispenser. You frightened me, boy. Dr. Vega did the scare easy. He was a medic in the great North American shoe wars of the 1990s. It was a fucked up time. I still can't talk about it. Go back to episode 42. Dr. Vega used to sew me up when I was a youngster. Running and gunning to Upper Canada Mall in the shoe wars, face down in the muck like the rest of us. He was in the shit. He was also in the no. He knew I was tougher than a $2 steak, and I was probably hiding the true amount of pain I was in. He was right. Jack the Ripper had set up shop in my right ureter tube, and he was sharpening his knife. Spare me the fake tough guy stuff, Brad. I know you got a tier one screamer in there. Frankie told me you turned down the fentanyl in the ambulance. I'm offering it again, and you usually don't get that offer twice. I nodded slowly. Dr. Vega had a point. The fentanyl would definitely slow that stone's roll. But it could come in handy for other stuff too. Remember, I'm not just a fake cop, I'm a fake rogue cop. There's a difference. You gotta be one step ahead out here in these streets. They are unforgiving. You always need something up your sleeve. Something like fentanyl. Dr. Vega had the nurse replace the hydromorphone with fentanyl. Then he ordered a CT scan for me to see where the stone was and of what burden. I settled down in pot 18 and let the fentanyl soak in. Or at least some of it. I held some back, only took half. I kept the other half for well, to keep a card up my sleeve, I guess. And fentanyl was the ace of spades. Who knows? Maybe it could come in handy. There was a guy sitting in front of me, appendicitis. He was waiting on surgery. I generally don't like people, but there was something about this guy I really didn't like. He just wouldn't shut the fuck up about some TV show called Severance. I mean, he just wouldn't shut the fuck up. Yeah, I heard about Severance. Sounded pretty good. But this guy was making me hate it. It reminded me of back in 09. Everyone around me was going on about this show called Breaking Bad. Quit busting my balls, I said. I'll watch it when I watch it. I ended up watching it in 2018. It was pretty good. But at this rate, I was never gonna watch Severance. This guy just wouldn't shut up. He spoke exactly like one of those obnoxious wannabe movie critics who have infested the internet. Despite the bright lighting and Spartan appearance of the Luminothus, Severance is dark, despairing stuff, like a radio ad song rendered as a sitcom. It captures the rising NUI and disaffection of the 2020s. It reflects the hopeless, fruitless existence that our dependence on faceless technologies has brought us. Blah fucking blah, buddy. I mean, he was articulate, but come on, no one needs to hear that crap. I would have shot him with one of my kidney stones, but I couldn't waste the ammo. So I came up with a plan. You wanna talk about a real TV show? Punk? Yeah, I've been sitting here, listening to you go on and on about severance. You and your good time buddies. Well listen up, Joy Boy. Matt Houston, now that was a fucking television program. Starred Lee Horsley, aired from 1982 to 85 on ABC, cancelled after just three seasons. Goddamn tragedy. It was about a guy who had a shitload of free time and spent most of it solving crimes. Wasn't even a cop, no legal or law enforcement experience whatsoever. I don't even know what the fuck he was. I think he had something to do with the oil business. But he wasn't a cop, but he was a damn good fake cop. He seemed to have all of this legal power, with absolutely nothing to back it up. He was an inspiration. I was just nine years old, but that's when I knew I wanted to be a fake cop. I just didn't know how far it would take me. I saw that familiar haze fall over his eyes as I went on and on about Matt Houston. Severance this, severance that. I'll show him some fucking severance. Some severe severance. That's when I remembered the extra fentanyl in my pocket. Or I should say, the ace up my sleeve. I asked him to tell me more about severance. He began talking again immediately and wouldn't shut the fuck up. That's when I made my move. I slipped the extra fentanyl into his jacket. He was so busy talking about severance, he didn't even notice. Then I splashed a little grab all on him. Just a touch behind the ears, maybe a little under the wrist. They give you that to counter the nausea for the fentanyl. I had him set up perfectly. The frame was on. The fix was in. I alerted the security guard. A scrappy-looking kid around 25. The same one I'd seen earlier when the rookie and I cleaned up all those ball players. I looked at his name tag again. Ramirez. That's right. Hey Ramirez, feel like making a caller? Ramirez's eyes lit up. Finally, some action. And Ramirez wanted in. Hey kid, my name's Brad. I'm a fake cop. I'm in with a kidney stone. Dr. Vega gave me some fentanyl earlier, but some of it's missing. I looked over at the Severance Freak sitting across from me. He was still talking about Severance. Ramirez looked at the Severance guy and then back at me. We understood each other. Excuse me, sir, said Ramirez. Could you please shut the fuck up about Severance and empty the contents of your jacket? It was ugly, but it was over. Problem solved. It wasn't the first time I planted false evidence, but this was the first time I did it to shut someone up about a TV show. I guess he had it coming. Ramirez and I would get to know each other pretty well. I still hadn't gotten over Mendoza, but I was starting to warm up to this kid. And I needed a new partner. Some younger blood. I was just getting too old for this shit. I bought a new fake cop car, and now Ramirez drives me around. By that point, my Uber rating was hovering at a 1.2. It was getting lower and lower by the hour. Even when I wasn't using them, now I couldn't even get the worst of the worst to come pick me up. The sun was coming up, and the shift was changing. Ramirez drove me home, helped me inside, and put on the mint condition physical graffiti CD I extorted from Mike nine hours before. It was a new day, with new mail. Before we left, Dr. Vega came up to me with my CT results. He wanted me to stay. According to the scan, I had a 1.2 centimeter stone inside of me. A true bruiser, Godzilla tier, biggest one I ever had. I was as proud as I was terrified. Dr. Vega told me we had to get it out. Diplomatic negotiations had failed, and it was time to send in the hostage rescue team. My fucking urologist, my real one, not the fake one. That's not what I wanted to hear. I was tougher than leather, but getting tired, you know? Tired of people going in me. Up me, down me, and around me. My real urologist was a damn fine doctor, and a damn fine man. He'd done this procedure a thousand times, but around 30 of them had been on me, and I didn't feel like making friends with a 28 centimeter urinary stent again. So no, Doc. I don't think there's gonna be another procedure this time. Not just because I'm a weak ass fredy cat, but there's a bigger reason, a real reason, not a fake one. I won't let them take that stone out, even if it totally obstructs my ureter tube and destroys kidney function on the right side. I'm gonna carry that stone, and I'm gonna do it for the rest of my life, right to the bitter end. I've called it Jack, suits it, it's my only friend, and in this world, you need all the friends you can get. Jack will act as my conscious, something I've never had. A quasi-moral compass to keep me on the straight and narrow, something hard to do, living the life of a fake rogue cop. Carrying that stone will remind me of all the pain and suffering in this mean old world. Jack the kidney stone, it'll be like that Johnny Cash song, The Man in Black. I carry the stone for the poor and beaten down, living in the hopeless, hungry side of town. I wear it for the prisoner, who's long since paid his crime. But he's there, because he's a victim of the times. Actually, he's probably a victim of me. I probably put him away for driving with a load not properly tied down. Serious offense, but still, I'll carry the stone for him, too. Ain't that right, Ramirez? Pass me another beer, buddy. Matt Houston's coming on.