Murphy, realizing he has no recall of the previous evening in the bar, questions Coral, the bartender, about what he might or might not have said…not necessarily for the reasons one usually panics over these things….

MURPHY: Coral, look at me. Did I say who I was working for?

CORAL: No.

MURPHY is demonstrably relieved, but quickly recovers.

MURPHY: You know why that is? Ask me why that is.

CORAL: Why is that?

MURPHY: Because I’m not working.  For anybody.

CORAL: Yeah?

MURPHY: Yeah.

CORAL: Sure?

MURPHY: Coral.

CORAL: Maybe you only work for somebody when you’re ripped to the tits.

JAN and MARCUS, two paramedics, enter.  They’re filthy, their uniforms begrimed with blood, and they wear pistols in belt holsters. JAN carries an EMT’s bag or box.  JAN and MARCUS sit at the bar.  JAN begins fishing through the bag/box, which is filled with drugs, weapons, and antique surgical instruments.  From time to time, he’ll lay a  pill on the bartop, which MARCUS will casually eat without even looking at.

CORAL: Hey. You guys working for anybody?

MARCUS: Not if we can help it. Whiskey.

CORAL: You?

JAN: Whiskey sour.

CORAL: Rough night?

MARCUS: Rough? Can’t see a damned thing until it’s on the goddamned windshield. It’s great! We’re making business! Responded to a hit and run and probably made three more.

MURPHY: Someone we know, I hope.

MARCUS: Chased Johnny the Scooterboy half a block.  Fast little fucker.  Had ‘em right in front of my grill and–

CORAL: Who’d you nail?

JAN: Some cop.

CORAL: Oh boy.

MARCUS: Shit, he asked for an ambulance.

JAN: Said hit and run.

MARCUS: Responding to some old cow centerpunched getting off a bus.  One half hung up on a rickshaw stand, other half in the bus doorway.

JAN: No reason to call us.

MURPHY: You able to save the fuzz?

JAN: Parts of him.

JAN and MARCUS chuckle, clink glasses.

CORAL: Hence the glop?

JAN: Ghouls wanted the livers.  Top dollar.

MARCUS: No, they did NOT.  Jan.  That’s from a trepannist.

MURPHY: Trepannist?

MARCUS: You heard of this? Whackos think they open their third eye–right here–they’ll get higher than a fruit bat on amyls.

MURPHY: Standard Tantric procedure.

JAN: Not when you open your third eye with a power drill.

CORAL: Awesome. They live?

MARCUS: Oh yeah. Messy as hell, but this guy was lucky.  Passed out before the drill even got through the bone. Loser. His mom found him lying in the bathroom, power drill still sticking out of his head, spinning round and round.

JAN: Said it fucked up the TV reception.

MARCUS: You get through the skull, into the membranes, set yourself up for a hell of an infection.  There’s some kicks, an infected brain.

JAN: Eh.  Not that bad.

MURPHY: Does it work?

MARCUS: Work?

MURPHY: Drilling a hole in your third eye?

MARCUS: Um…sure. You should see how consciousness expands when your brain’s got room to roam.

JAN: We keep a portable drill in our toolbox.  Want to give it a try?

MARCUS: Got your own paramedic team here.

MURPHY: Probably shouldn’t as I’ve been drinking. Might disrupt the delicate spiritual nature of the….  You are talking shit?

MARCUS: Kinda.

MURPHY: I mean, there’s dangerous and then there’s—

MARCUS: Ain’t no Saturday night skin pop.  Suppose you sterilize the drill bit—

JAN: Brain surgeons do it all the time.

MARCUS: They do?

JAN: Four holes in a square, connect the dots with a bone saw.  Flap, get to the good stuff.

MARCUS: Oh.  Yeah, all the time.

MURPHY: What sort of anesthesia would you suggest?

MARCUS: Anesthesia?