The doctors huddled together under the sole lamplight in the room. Physicians assembled together as a gang of burlaped refugee cockroaches, contrasted by the buzzing insects seeking their own lamplight-solace. First Aid Arms and Stoner Company Healers was one of the better healing stations that one of limited funds could seek repair; it numbered four floors with an infinitesimal, dilapidated lounge on the right corner of its bottom floor. Without a heating system the doctors huddled among themselves for warmth, the only added heat coming from the graffiti urchins who adored the healing station’s walls for their almost unlimited canvas size.
“Healer Epoch” buzzed a voice from the loudspeaker, after its initial twitch.
“Healer Epoch to the fourth floor.”
A lone healer, “Healer Epoch” broke from the mass as a crumb falls from a crust to a salivating canine; hardly noticeable. Ascending the creaking stairs statically with outstretched arms of oak, he choked on the cold dusty air and thought of trees.
“Investing in leafies could bring in a pretty penny from the air breathers”, he thought as he adjusted the sleeve from the burlap sack euphemistically called a "shirt".
“For some and end, for some a means,” the lone thought ran churlishly back and forth through his head like an inebriated track-star, only to be interrupted by the ghastly mass of blood and flesh that greeted him upon his entering chamber 6G.
“What do we have here?," inquired Healer Epoch.
A short, stumpy woman with immaculate skin and indigo teeth held together by a dusty burlap sack of her own replied routinely, “Car crasher from causeway forty.”
She added a condescending “probably had too much to drink at the catacombs” between coughs that required her to snatch the air back through her teeth; creating hissing sounds that longed for their own twilight.
Chamber 6G of the fourth floor of First Aid and Stoner Company Healers consisted of barely four complete walls, a series of iron shelves that armed the walls like fences, a single bulb that hanged lifelessly from the ceiling that shone yellow; the room had the appearance of a fishbowl housing a flashlight. Waiting patiently under the light was an aluminum operating table with four, wheeled legs that made blunt popping noises as a mass of blood and black shook on it.
Healer Epoch, with a freshly gloved hand poked the mass with a single finger, which completely intensified the popping noises borne from the twitching mass.
“You sure you can afford a good healing, boyo?” he spoke as his uncovered mouth breathed visible wound kissing breath that longed for a place to ferment.
“The economy is in a bad state, young one,” he chuckled as his outstretched hand welcomed a scalpel, in the same manner that breadliners welcome their wishes.