"Is it bad?", words shot out like darts from a dart gun. Worried thoughts raced through my mind like sprinters speeding round a race track.
"What do you think? Try shooting yourself in the arms and a few more in your thighs . . .", Agent K cursed. K was badly wounded from Operation Yoga the day before. We had to wait till the sun came up for the medic to arrive.
I looked up and saw the sun hung steadily upon the backdrop blue sky.
"Come on, let's go see the doc", I said as I carefully carried her to our vehicle.
Undisclosed Clinic, Seremban. 10:30
The medic operated in the cover of a General Practitioner in a typical, non elegant, no frills clinic. We went in to find the person at the counter giving us a wink. We winked back 2 times long, 2 times short. It was the agency's secret code. 2 longs and 2 shorts means "we need help now, but we can still tahan". 3 longs and 5 shorts means "cure me now or I'll shoot your brains out". We avoided the latter, choosing peace over violence.
We were told to wait, so as to not blow our cover. We had to wait like any other patients. It was enlightening that we did, as we stumbled upon the greatest ethical standards in medical history.
What was the definition of "sick enough"? Agent K was shot 3 times in the arms and 5 in the thighs. I fathom that was "enough" enough.
We couldn't demand for an MC. Well, fair enough. But how was the medic gonna judge? What if he insisted that K had to get back to work the next day in bandages and stitches?
We couldn't demand for the duration of the MC. Well, again, if the medic was a loser, he'd give a 2 hour MC to K.
Seeing the medic did not automatically qualify for an MC. Well yeah, you've gotta be sick enough, remember?
We had to be in the clinic in the morning, before lunch. Phew it was 11:05. What if K came in with 8 bullet holes at 12:01?
"No no, tengok ini, before lunch time la, come back besok", I imagined the counter saying that and slammin' down the blinds.
MC could be refused if you came in at night. Goes back to the above, before lunch time rule.
Medic's Room. 11:24
"What's your problem?", the medic uttered with his eyes locked to his computer screen. The medic was a young lad, late 20s with short hair and was rather well built. He had that cunning smirk on his face that gave you the "please hit me hard here on my left cheek, then right cheek, then forehead" lure.
"Gun shot wounds", K replied calmly, ignoring the inviting impression on his face.
"Okay, any allergies to meds?", words came out like a printing machine churning out prints, bet he recited the same script dozens of times every single day.
"No", K said.
"Headaches?", another print.
"I was shot 8 times MISTER crab brain, what do you think?", I could see it on K's face. But she played nice, "No".
"Slept well?", yet another one.
"!@#$%&$^#*@($*$&#", it showed on K's fists this time. Yet again she played nice, "No".
"你是什么人？(translation: What people are you?. Meaning: what race/dialect group are you from) ", the medic showed no signs of getting any signals from K.
"我是病人(translation: I'm a sick person/patient. Meaning: You nak kena hantam #&#@^@%^ ???)", K gave a vicious look and a murderous stare.
"HA HA HA", the medic finally looked up, not realizing that it was no joke. He stopped when he caught K's stare and was immediately silenced.
The day, ended surprisingly peacefully without bloodshed. The medic managed to prevent a catastrophe by a mere suspension of his craps.
Before leaving the medic's room, he pleasantly asked, "Do you want MC ah?".
