As previously mentioned, here comes my night inside Beth Israel.

Second day in a row, dull talons claw my chest. Struggle to take in air. Heart being squeezed like a cubicle stress toy. Carbonation fizzles behind my optic nerves. Under one layer of sheets, sickly cold sweat escaping my temple and lower back. Simply attempting sleep, my ticker is sprinting a marathon, playing xylophone with my ribs. Pulse thunderclaps inside my ear.

I'm shaking on my couch, tossing those mental coins. Search the phone world for advice. Luke tells me that he is gonna meet me at the hospital.

In the cab, inattentive driving of the chump behind the wheel is not helping matters. Hollering to one of his cholos on the cell. Short stopping, veering suddenly to avoid pedestrians. If I had the stamina to growl at the bastard, I would have told him to shape the fuck up or I would make sure my last moments on earth would include haphazardly snapping his teeth off at the gumline. All I could muster was squinting my eyes shut and clutching the vinyl seat, trying to stop the uncontrollable finger quivering.

The cop at the front desk sparks alive when I mention I have chest pains. I am escorted to triage quickly. Course, no Hippocratic care can begin until a discussion of insurance coverage is undertaken.

Placed in a chair, asked to remove some layers. A gurnee is deposited in front of me with a balding old lady in a fetal position. The medics tell the nurses the unfortunate lady has a 114 degree fever, as they pat her unresponsive cooked head. The pressure ballon's python grip around my bicep is enough of a system interruption to make me fall out.

Believe it wasn't much more than a moment I was unconcious, barely noticed with the hustle, that I had slumped limp in my seat. Nurse asks if I need water. My tongue sounds like velcro as I peel it off my palate. Gurgle out a please.

A questionaire begins. What substances am I hooked on? Have I been swimming in some virulent river in Bangladesh recently? How much cock do I smoke on a regular basis? Did I wake up drowning in my own sick before I got there? They find out what I'm allergic to, strap on the club wristbands, and shuffle me over to an empty bed in the corner.

In my adorable backless floral pattern evening gown. Fortunately, I was allowed to keep on my boxer briefs and my silly fuzzy maroon socks. An orderly slides back the curtain confident I am decent enough for public view. Breaks out a machine. Attaches suction cups to my ankles, wrists and numerous spots on my chest and back. Homeskillet is full of jokes. Including flippant advice of keeping track of my valuables, as they can grow legs in the ward. Zaps the electrocardiogram on, a printed receipt of my rhythm is spooled out.

He hands me over to the ladies in pastel. A rectal temperature reading is insisted on. Little more than some prison lube slid on the cold probe. Extremely unfriendly insertion, crosses up my toes. Just before she stabbed my port hole, she told me to open my mouth up wide. Supposed to get my body in the mindset of opening all holes, c'mon in, it's toasty in here. I hear a "whoa". I am told I have a 106 fever. For those celsiusly challenged, that's holy fucknut hot. For whatever reason I think how centrigrade and fahrenheit intersect at minus fourteen degrees. Comforted that where they intersect is holy fucknut freezing. After that it's all a mess that someone should sweep up.

Due to the lava percolating inside me, the vampires are called out. Draining vial after vial for the lab. Needed from both a vein and an artery. Well, that's what I think anyway, as they demanded two points of blood extraction. Left the one in my hand for potential intravenous solutions. The other left a nice purple and gold constellation on my forearm. Ever since, my arm has resembled a smacked up banana.

By this point they had me on all the predicatable monitors, blipping away, as seen in the movies. Jelly circles connected to me with wires. My heartbeat wasn't settling down.

Had to be taken off the lifeline. One size fits all styrofoam booties, which split at the sides when I tried to put them on. Swaying back and forth, I shuffle over to the x-ray room. Frontal and side snapshots taken. I nearly pass out again while holding my breath, as I was ordered to do so while the radioactive particles invaded my torso. Back in bed.

Luke arrives. Pretty much right on time. Had settled in for the long haul, waiting for test results. He did chill outside the curtain as I clumsily drained the lizard in a plastic tumbler. Not all that easy, squirting the bladder juice while propped up in a Craftmatic mattress. Flailed some droplets about on my gown. Hoping they cleaned up the piss from the last chump draining away on that bed.

Luckily one of the nurses actually took on the career out of a desire to help her community. The visable difficulty I had taking in breaths caught her attention. Hooked me up with a clean oxygen nose pipe. An hour after that, I was able to bust jokes with Luke. Saying what a shame his digital camera was left at home. I was looking all the way cracked out. Would have been dope for the scrapbook. Fortunately, no gushings of blood were wheeled in while we passed the very boring hours along.

The attending doc comes over to me sometime after four. She has a disturbing quizzical look on her face. Obvious that I was in some state of medical urgency. Blood, piss and chest pics all check out fine. I can see her debating whether I should remain there until the next day for closer watch. She insists I visit my doctors the next day for more checks. Another half hour and they are removing all the needles and stickers from my skin. Handed some papers on "nonspecific chest pain" and information on depression and panic attacks.

Five in the morning, worried looks from the waiter at 7A, darting glances at my medical bracelets. Probably not the first escapee from a mental institution he's seen in the Lower East Side, buttcrack early, ordering flapjacks.

Spent half a day at my HMO. Final blood results came in three days later. I should be a healthy man. My brain does not agree. Yoga and meditation are suggested. Therapy not even hinted at, as that would dent the profit of the organisation. All praise the mighty chemical imbalance churning away inside my neck. Insufferable bugger is the only one doing his yeoman's share to make sure I don't live an extensive miserable life. Let's go glands. Who the fuck wants to see eighty anyway? Good old genes, insuring to either punch a hole in my chest before middle age, or floating that buffed cloud around my head for decades. Fetch me some escapist drugs pronto!