Happy Valentine's day everyone! This is a shout-out to Monica! 3
Congratulations, I've moved on to the Scrubs fandom!
Woot!
Please note this is just a short prologue.
My Hit and Run, JD-POV
Disclaimer: Nuh-uh.
I hadn't imagined my death to be so ghoulish.
I'd imagined several times what my death would be like, how I would go, and my funeral itself, but I'd never imagined it being so horrible. They'd all thought I was crazy, insane, a nutcase. Maybe I was, a little. But hey, aren't we all just a bit zany?
Take Elliot, for example. Crazy neurotic blond girl who can talk a mile a minute. She's paranoid, worried, anxious, a real good rambler, pretty good at poker…
And Carla. What's her problem? I mean, I liked her and all, but one moment she's praising me, the next she's scolding. She's like a mother hen who thinks that one of her eggs just hatched into a snake.
Does that make sense?
Turk is okay. His frat boy personality really held me there with him. He just got a bit too carried away, endlessly obsessing with the 'top dog.'
Dr. Kelso is a mean old coot. I hadn't really liked him, even on my first day as an intern at Sacred Heart. He has that manipulative glint in his wrinkly old eyes that tells you that there's no way this guy can be trusted.
Jordan? Man, she's one heck of a train wreck. Yelling, biting, shouting, hissing… I swear she's going to spit fire on someone soon. She'd almost killed Doug with a slinky and a jigsaw puzzle after the incident with the sandwich yesterday.
And here we come to the best and the greatest, Dr. Percival Cox. He's just as bad as his wife, but more of the "If you don't leave this room right now, I swear I'll have one of your heads on my dinner table for the demon." Actually, that didn't quite sound like him, but he's still a jerk. He's the kind of guy who would stuff you in a blender and burn the remains.
I wonder what he'd do with the ashes…
I would've said something about the Janitor, but I'm afraid he'll sic his squirrel army on me.
Anyway, that's not the main point I'm trying to convey here.
My death – I'd been told it was a hit and run, some drunken idiot who couldn't tell the difference between a monkey and a sea horse even if he saw them. His name was Clive Davidson, not that I really cared.
After all, I was dead.
I don't want to go in the specifics of my actual death and the events that lead up to it right this moment, but I can tell you this:
It sure wasn't pretty.
Delicious fillet mignon, my compliments to the chef, oui?
Hurrah! Review time!