16693--You Already Know This if You're a Tough Guy



Failure to see weapon potential is a failure of imagination.


 You've probably seen those handy first-aid kits available in stores that the general public can buy to keep ready in the car or at home.  Tough guys don't use those any more than they visit doctors.  Some of the more stubborn tough guys have been known to keep apples on-hand to throw at doctors, which seems to work even better for its much-touted purpose than taking the fruit internally.  That said, a tough guy's first-aid manual really doesn't need more than one page.  That page says: Walk it off. 



Brick Stone discovered a similarly worded single-page appendix in his copy of The Official Private Eye Handbook.  In addition to the basic instruction shown above was motivational text designed to encourage the reader to stop whining in an unmanly fashion and get on with life, but such inclusions are known to vary with the editor of the manual's differing editons.  If you're a fast-healing mutant or alien superbeing, sucking it up and walking it off are just part of the package and can easily go without saying.  Mortal men need a little reminder now and then.

Like it or not, mortal men (super spies, private eyes, maverick cops, etc.) also need some of the contents of the first-aid kit sometimes, too, but tough guys never really think that way.  Needing the stuff and using it are two entirely different things.  First-aid kits usually come equipped with some kind of pain killer.  Tough guys don't bother with those.  Tough guys grit their teeth and move on to ignoring the bandages.  Any "ouchie" small enough to be handled by the adhesive bandages in a first-aid kit is small enough to be ignored by a tough guy.

  Why are you even still looking in the kit?  Didn't you read the manual? 

Larger injuries (long and gaping gashes, protruding bones, penetrations) will be tended to by the application of an antiseptic (the more it stings the better, fueling tough guy determination).  A paper towel will do in a pinch, but cloth is better.  When you're in a tight spot, use a piece of torn clothing.  Soak whatever you've got in rubbing alcohol (which will provide the mild sting for you to feed your dogged determination), cover the wound with the soaked item and then wrap it in place with duct or electrical tape.  You've just made a mandage.

Can I get a gallon price on this?

If you're an old-school tough guy, you'll doubtlessly be a fan of the one-stop approach: of course, you have whiskey handy to pour on the wound, tie a shirt sleeve around an injured limb or fold and press it against a torso wound (some like to pack the wound with chewing tobacco first, but I recommend cayenne pepper for stopping blood) and take a couple of swigs of the whiskey to act as the pain killer.  Now, don't you feel manly?

Manly medicinal efficiency.



16370--In Warm Blood (Ch. 8)

Happy Thursday. To help keep my own feet to the fire, I'm using Thursday as my public accountability day. That means, posting a bit of coherently creative output for you to read and feedback on every week. If I perform according to my own intent, what I put here will be available as a whole elsewhere at the same time or shortly after appearing here.

In Warm Blood is currently available as a part of The Official Private Eye Handbook, first book in the CITY OF MAGICK series.  Please, feel free to take a look here, though, and at subsequent chapters. Let me know how you feel about it.  For those of you finding your way here relatively late, no problem. The start of the story is just a click away.

IN WARM BLOOD

Chapter 8

I was almost starting to enjoy having been saddled with an entourage, probably because my escorts had become distinctively useful. Without them I would’ve had to bribe my way into the morgue or wait till Monday to check on Heather Morgan’s body. On top of that, I wouldn’t have to jump through hoops to get access to the medical examiner’s report and, if that ended up being inconclusive, any of the findings of the supplemental examinations that were determined to be warranted. How hard it would be to get the supplemental reports could depend on a lot of factors, from the weather to the time of the month or what kind of mood any of the examiners (psychic, alchemist, wizard) happened to be in that day. I probably wouldn’t even have to bribe the night morgue attendant, who I was pretty sure was one of the undead vampire minions of the medical examiner. It was almost refreshing to have the kiddie cops removing obstacles rather than being obstacles.

“Well, Heaven?” Overknight probed of the very pale, vaguely Asian woman. “Anything to report?”

“Please, we’ve just met,” the morgue attendant said, coldness in her voice and her dark eyes.

I didn’t usually find the pretense of such formality lurking under pink-striped hair. People in clerical positions using customer needs to squeeze extra respect out of a situation, though, that I found a lot. She wasn’t picking up a bribe for doing her job, so I figured it was no big deal to give in on the formality thing.

“Our apologies, Miss Lee,” I said. “We’re really trying to put some pieces of a case together.”

“I understand,” the morgue attendant said from behind her clipboard. “It’s really a simple concept: you have your job and I have mine. At this point, mine is to say that I can‘t help you.”

“We really need to view that body,” Overknight insisted.

“And I can’t help you with that,” Lee firmly told us again.

“What’s the problem?” I asked her. ’Is there some form we need to fill out or--?”

“I can’t show you the body because it’s not here,” she explained. “It never was. I have a Jack Morgan, but no Heather. I’m even out of Jane Does.”

“You’re sure she’s dead?” Lee asked. “Lotsa folks in this town aren’t as dead as some folks think they are.”

“True,” I conceded, “the body counts do get a little tricky from time to time, but I put this one down myself. She wasn’t moving again under her own power.”

“Anyone else you might want to see that you think could help?” Lee asked.

“You got a weasel-looking guy named Grayson?” I asked Miss Lee.

“Yeah, he’s full of holes,” Lee said.

“That’s the one,” I confirmed. “We don’t need to see him. Glad he’s here, though.”

“But not as glad as if we could see the other,” Overknight said.

“Well, they should’ve all come in together,” I explained.

“So you’re maintaining that her absence means either someone carried her off or magicked her off?” Overknight asked.

“Pretty much, yeah.,” I replied. “I do know how to put holes in people.”

“Great,” morgue girl said, “are we done playing cher chez la femme here?”

“Here, yes,” I answered. “Thanks for your time, Miss Lee.”

“You may call me ‘Heaven’,” she said, sliding a business card into my shirt pocket. “I saw you in the newspapers. It looked like you’re into some wild stuff. You should call me.”

I sighed.   It was like being haunted by myself.

“I might have a lead,” Homer said, coming into the morgue’s examining room.

“Do tell,” Overknight said.

“I just got off the phone with a friend over at Central Records,” Homer said. “We were having an informative chat about…the other lead…your sniper.”

“Stark White. Great,” I said. “We should talk about that in the car.”