And its only $70,000 plus tax!
The explosive combination of young people and alcohol has kept medical
providers gainfully employed since the days of Hippocrates. Michael Discenza.
Our hero was a gigantic Popeye-looking kid with massive forearms. He clearly was no stranger to the gym. He presented to the clinic on a Saturday afternoon. Saturday afternoon was when the good stuff invariably slithered in.
He had been attending a rocking frat party the night before and was three sheets to the wind. In a fit of playful stupidity he had scooped up a handful of ice and thrown it at a friend. In his sordid state, the ice ball obviously missed its mark. His buddy scooped up the discarded bolus of ice and threw it back. My new pal reflexively raised his forearm to protect his face — ultimately preserving the kid’s striking good looks.
His friend had inadvertently scooped up a generous piece of broken beer bottle and hummed it back with the ice ball. This big shard of jagged glass tore deep into the lateral aspect of Popeye’s elbow, severing a sizable artery along the way. The wound began pulsing blood like Dracula’s garden hose.
The collective of drunken college students immediately and vigorously came unglued. A few in attendance of both genders were unaccustomed to human blood, particularly in such prodigious quantities, and reacted poorly. There was honestly only one solitary example of sound judgement exercised throughout the evening: no one drove to the hospital.
Somebody generously donated a t-shirt to the cause. This altruistic gesture didn’t do much good. Things were looking bleak. Then a voice in the wilderness spoke up. “I know what to do. I saw it in a movie.”
Nothing transforms a good day into a great day at work like a little gratuitous gore.
This ersatz practitioner of the healing arts somehow produced a butter knife and propane torch. They further lubricated the victim with distilled spirits to dull the pending undeniable agony and then liberally doused the wound in tequila, something that also likely stung a bit. They then proceeded to physically restrain the kid for his own safety.
Once they had the butter knife heated cherry red they pressed it deep and hard onto his flesh. The patient lost consciousness. Their healing work now complete, the kid’s buddies relocated him to a couch in the frat house to sleep it off. He proceeded to sleep the sleep of the dead, bleeding vigorously and with enthusiasm all night long.
The following morning someone thought to check on the kid and was shocked to find that the couch looked like something out of a slasher movie. At least by now they were all sufficiently clear-headed enough to drive safely. His friends bundled him up and brought him to me. What greeted me when I pulled the blood-soaked t-shirt clear was memorable to say the least. I did, with the benefit of hindsight, wonder what ever became of that couch.
The lateral aspect of this poor kid’s elbow looked like something you might obtain in a sack from the drive-thru at Cap’n D’s. The wound was maybe an inch and a half long and was still spurting with some vigor. I cleaned everything as best I could, numbed it up, and went exploring.
Addressing traumatic wounds is great fun once you get past the obligatory aversion to gore and the invariable associated human suffering. Every example is just a little bit different. The basic techniques are the same, but the specific application is unique to each circumstance. I appreciate that this sounds terribly ghoulish, but nothing transforms a good day into a great day at the clinic like a nice chainsaw to the thigh.
This pumper was fairly deep. So deep in fact that all the ad hoc high-temperature emergency therapy had not come even remotely close to the source of the bleeding. I isolated the severed artery and tied it off with a figure eight Vicryl suture before closing the wound by layers. Approximating the exterior skin was like trying to sew broiled fish.
I dressed the carnage and educated the now thoroughly sober kid on proper wound care. I gently inquired as to whether or not he planned ever to do that again. He answered in the negative. Never underestimate the capacity of the young human male for unfiltered stupidity. It’s a wonder any of us survive.
I was never the biggest, fastest, or best-looking kid as I ineptly clawed my way from kindergarten through puberty. However, I have always had a gift for weapons. For a sixth grader coming of age in the Mississippi Delta in 1976, that was a marketable skill.
This ghastly tale begins at church. One of my dad’s deacon duties at Oakhurst Baptist Church in Clarksdale, Mississippi, was counting the money after each week’s collection. He and another couple of guys would tally the folding money and checks. I was responsible for counting the silver. There was just so much damage I could do with that. However, that did give me unfettered access to a wide selection of rubber bands in the counting room.
Just like assault rifles, fighter planes, and attack submarines, my weapons evolved over time. Eventually, I found the optimal balance between propellant and payload. It took a great deal of experimentation to get there.
This may look like common office kit. However, in young irresponsible
hands these simple rubber bands can become weapons of mass destruction.
Tactical Details
The energy came in the form of a pair of substantial rubber bands looped together in the middle. One loop went over the thumb and the other over the forefinger of my left hand. The knot between the two reliably established the midpoint.
The ultimate projectile began as about one-third sheet of notebook paper split up and down. I coated one side with a thin film of Elmer’s glue and folded it on itself. Once that set, I repeated the exercise. After a few iterations, I had a strip of glue-laminated paper about the width of a cigarette. I then flattened it between two books and folded it in the middle.
With this as a foundation, I discreetly made a puddle of glue on the floor of my sixth-grade classroom underneath my desk and balanced the thing vertex down with the legs pointing up. Once that set, I peeled it up and teased the extra glue away until it left a hard nubbin on the end. Terminal performance was, shall we say, formidable.
I’m not kidding, that bad boy would dent sheetrock. I have no idea where my teachers were this whole time. Just imagine what I might have accomplished had I focused all that energy on something more productive.
Regardless, after the first recess, every little boy in my sixth-grade class had to have a DIY death machine of his own. The following Sunday, I pilfered enough of the Lord’s rubber bands to arm the male half of the class. Our little grade school suddenly became considerably pricklier.
This is what Tom thought popped him behind his right ear.
Reality was something altogether different
The Event
We’ll call the two kids in question Tom and Bill. These were obviously not their real names. Tom was a pleasant enough bloke, but he always seemed just a little bit stoned. Bill was a hoodlum, but he was a likable hoodlum. Tom sat about midway back in a particular row in Mrs. Flowers’ sixth-grade classroom. Bill occupied the desk behind him. I sat behind Bill. As it was hot and air conditioning was expensive, the windows stood open.
Mrs. Flowers was reading us something, Charlotte’s Web, I think. Such maudlin prose was inadequate to keep us evil little boys exactly riveted. As a result, Bill entertained himself by exercising his rubber band weapon.
Bill oriented his left hand behind Tom’s head and stretched the contraption to its full length with his right. All the while, he used Tom’s melon as cover, so Mrs. Flowers remained blissfully unaware. I could not help but watch. It was like being privy to a slow-motion car crash. What came next was tragically predictable.
Perhaps his hand was sweaty. Maybe Bill was just clumsy. We have already established that he had epically poor judgment. For whatever reason, Bill’s projectile slipped out of his fingers. It then promptly accelerated to around 5,000 feet per second before catching Tom in the little pocket behind his right ear with the force of a 20mm cannon round.
Tom suddenly stood bolt upright and unleashed an absolutely inhuman shriek. Bill took advantage of the chaos to stash his rubber band in his pocket. The projectile likely glanced off of Tom’s skull, punched through the ceiling, and is currently orbiting Uranus. Mrs. Flowers was, shall we say, discomfited. Tom then collapsed into a ball on the floor and appeared to have some kind of seizure.
Mrs. Flowers was at Tom’s side in an instant, attempting to render aid and comfort. After a couple of minutes, Tom regained the capacity to speak. Mrs. Flowers asked him what in heaven’s name was the matter. She had likely never before seen a sixth-grade boy so moved by Charlotte’s Web. Between sobs, Tom explained that a wasp had stung him unexpectedly behind his right ear. As the window was standing open, this explanation was sufficiently plausible to deflect further investigation.
Tom recovered, sort of, in about half an hour. Charlotte’s Web was irretrievably ruined for the day. As I was the only one who actually saw Bill’s accidental discharge, no one was the wiser. It has been some 47 years, and precious Mrs. Flowers has since died, so I suspect the statute of limitations has expired. Tom, if you’re out there, I sincerely hope you’ve had a good life, bro. I’m sorry Bill nearly killed you with an improvised weapon of my own design.
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