The Operation

Slowly, meticulously breathing withdraws his hand with the small blade a bleeder now, nipped in the bud compartment syndrome is a maybe. The men in green now throw their gloves discard the status symbols quickly into the lounge, still full of buzz that lung was so far gone, sweet Jesus. Malignancy plus metal jacket, hollow point. Oh, comfy chairs, be pleased we're coming and light my fire, kiss the camel in through the mouth, out through your nostrils some day the bell may toll for us, but, worry not, we are the Gods, there's neither destiny, nor death.