12-05-2011, 11:39 AM
I'm in some sort of portable building, like a trailer at a construction site, that's being used for some sort of Rock Med office where we sit at desks and answer phones. A portion of the building is a sword shop ala Victory. A vet from Iraq has some sort of seizure in the sword shop. He's shirtless and buff, very sweaty and dodgy. He runs into our section before collapsing. PPFY tries to get him back to his section of the portable saying 'It's okay. Everything is under control'. I go over and say 'Hey, we've got a bunch of medical people here. Let us help.' The other medics come in and we all take his pulse. Everyone comes up with different numbers. I count 27 in 15 s, or 108, but it takes me a little to do the math because I'm out of practice. The other medics are arguing about their counts, which are all impossibly low. I see a med-alert bracelet but I can't read it because the writing is really small and my eyes are bad.
I wake up to the pom barking because he wants to play ball.
I wake up to the pom barking because he wants to play ball.
Shadow boxing the apocalypse