Pool_1

The floor, "Healed? Eighty degree fracture healed at eighty?" "Well, it didn't hurt all that much with the metal inside steadying it, bent or otherwise. Yeah. Healed. Twisted to hell, but solid. It took that long to get approval... well... actually he never got approval.. a well known literary person learned of his plight and twisted a few arms.. Anyway, so here he is." Mr. Pall projecting the relevant x-rays in succession proceeded to the recent surgical photographic images depicting removal of bent metal from healed bent bone. The extensive slashing required to undo the malady left the nonsurgeons a'gasp as Macaluso complained, "Here he is - straight again, an inch shorter - and we S T I L L don't have approval for braces. What do I do, Milton? Huh? Pack him in Styrofoam and mail him to Nerf-land? How about friggin gills? We give him gills and toss him fish in some community aquarium? Space station? You have any ideas here? You.. ahhh" He, cut himself off and plopped down as somebody whispered to him, "What are we going to do about them?" AS Milton Blake called order, answerless, and began a customary reciting a litany of dry Q&A hospital statistics, Marcus cocking his squinting eyes sideways without turning, corrected, "Us? Do about them? You kidding? Its the Pool doing us. Our children are their food and we the appetizer." Spirits dimmed into the mundane as Professor Blake read dryly on. "Blake's our hope," Marcus thought to himself, "He's got the goods to nail them. He's the only one of us with the bat and the balls."