Pool_1

does such a putz get the front desk job? Anyway, though, was this a real emergency? That remained to be seen. This hospital, a so-called place of excellence, failing to respond to an emergency was unthinkable, a line not to be crossed. His mind was swirling with the possibilities, and old personalities who took line crossing seriously. But this is getting ahead of our selves. This confusion of pressing medical obligation juxtaposed to a pressured courtesy to an elected official heralds our story, to which we will return later. But note, confusion is chaos. Chaos breeds everything. Macaluso muttered, as he led a yawning child's gurney toward the recovery room, that he hoped that the G-lady out there might have brought some box lunches. She didn't, and the cafeteria was closed at this hour. Shit. Should've taken a break. Way too late for the coffee shop. Tonight's meal was to be vending machine 7-up and Ritz Cracker 'peanut butter sandwiches'. He swooned for the company and cuisine, Spartan as it was, of The Table. That's right, the table. No. The Table was NOT an organization of assassins, but a loose-knit on the run gathering of hungry healers. What ass hole started that nasty rumor, anyway?