315 - Dr.


Getting shot is pretty awful, you've decided. Circumstances and fault aside, having a tiny piece of metal propelled at supersonic speeds through your body is just, like, the worst. Top five worst, at least.

The cop stands over you, telling you repeatedly that the ambulance is on the way as he checks his phone. His stoicism in the face of such a traumatic event is admirable.

After a short wait, a handsome, square-jawed man in a red polo with a white cross over the left breast leans over you.

"They got me good, doc," you plead to the paramedic.

The medic eyes your wound and frowns. Blood seeps slowly out of the .30 caliber hole in your gut.

He retrieves a knife from his belt and grabs a handful of the front of your shirt, pulling it away from your body until taut. He dips the knife toward your shirt, but the blades advance is halted suddenly - by your hand clutching his wrist.

"Doc..." you groan. "This is...my favorite shirt."

The paramedic's frown deepens. "You like it enough to die?"

You die looking fabulous.