Mosh Pit Medicine

The General is a bit of an authoritarian. He says, Breathe! And you say, how much? Twilight is much more chill; she just says, “See you ‘round!” But then you’re bouncing along to a happy tune, and that’s not so good when The Man is holding a soldering iron in confined spaces. So, the General, it is. The Man spends all his time mapping and zapping, meting out death to fireflies and moths who are out past their bedtimes. I think the OR doubles as a mosh pit; there’s a large plexiglass shield over the huge monitor, full of cracks. I’m guessing he’s an Auburn fan who kept throwing instruments at the screens during the games. And the room is like 56 degrees. Likely, the General is not well endowed and wants to make sure everyone else looks bad. Just to be sure, they take a little more off the top. It’s a strange experience. But you can mess with them. I told ‘em, “May the Lord bless you while I’m gone!” They didn’t like that, double-padlocked the doors. Then, the General says, “Okay, we’re ready now.” “Now?” I ask. No, now. I watch the plunger get short, feel the chill in my forearm, the rush of warm across my chest, and I enter the floo network and re-appear back in my room, wishing I could have gotten a well placed punch off at the General.