Boy had Rick ever screwed up. Assuming he didn't get gutted by Ward Cleaver here, he was going to seriously reconsider his methods. Maybe set up a practice instead of being a travelling surgeon. He'd be able to use the fancier machines that way. Also? No being ambushed by fellahs too tough for him to tango with. Rick was a pretty tough hombre himself, but some of the mooks running around this joint had serious muscle.

"All right, Doctor," Gluskin set him down and pulled the black sack off of his head. Rick wasn't sure what the fuck the black bagging was for. He hoped it meant Gluskin intended to release him back into the wild, but who knew with these crazy types, "Now, keep your voice down. She's resting. And she's very sick."

"You got it, buddy," Rick said at normal volume. Gluskin shushed him, practically hissing, and Rick put up his hands (bound together at the wrist) in defense, "Sorry."

Gluskin carefully opened a door and Rick immediately saw the problem – the patient was wearing a wedding dress. That right there was probably enough to lay a man out, but after his initial eyeful, Rick had a better idea of what was going on. The blood stains on the dress weren't random spatter. It was bleed through. Yowza, what had Gluskin been getting up to here? Setting up a rival practice, looked like!

Gluskin went to 'her' side and took up her hand, patting it gently, "I've brought the doctor, darling. Everything will be all right."

'She' moaned, and Rick noted how pale 'she' was. Well, now or never. He approached the bedside and bent down to get a better look, recoiling and waving a hand. Yep, infected. Badly. How, though? He moved down to the foot of the bed and grabbed the hem of the dress, and Gluskin made a noise of protest.

"Please, doctor! Her modesty!"

"I'm a doctor, buddy. I see this kinda thing alllll the time. You can trust me!"

Gluskin didn't look convinced, but he nodded, and Rick pulled the dress up. Where blood had seeped through, he had to peel, and the patient moaned again. They sounded weak, and they were probably on their way out, but that didn't mean Rick wasn't damned curious.

"Holy mackerel!" Rick said. He could feel his balls retreating up inside his body. It wasn't so much that Gluskin had excised the man's junk; it was the way he'd done it. The brutality of the cut had probably damaged a lot of organs, and if that wasn't enough? The way he'd been stitched back up made Rick think ol'Gluskin didn't actually want his gal to pull through. Some of the insides were poking out between the rough, wide gaps in the stitches.

"Is it bad, doctor?"

"Well it ain't good," Rick said, covering the patient back up. He didn't need to peel back the top of the dress now. It was pretty easy to deduce that Gluskin had tried to give his lady a backalley boob job. Rick was sorta curious about what he'd used to fill in the tits, though. His own junk, maybe? That'd be pretty frugal, to be honest. Rick might adapt that kind of mindset into his own work.

"Is there anything you can do?" Gluskin asked, laying a hand on the poor fucker's clammy forehead, "Please."

Rick had an exit strategy, and he reached into the front of his apron. A little difficult with his hands bound, but his fingers weren't. Gluskin hadn't searched him – his exit strategy was sound. His could conceivably get the hell outta here. It would mean not having his Chris-Walker-B-Gone, but he was pretty confident that not even Walker would want to be anywhere near this particular brand of crazy. Gluskin didn't even look bothered by what Rick was doing, and Rick dared to approach him, like he intended to console him, or confide in him. As he'd hoped, Gluskin leaned in to hear whatever it was Rick had to say.

"Pretty sure she's a goner, buddy," Rick said. His fingers curled around the plungers of a syringe each. It was the good stuff. He wasn't even sure how to pronounce it, but it had been locked up, and he'd tried a little and had a blast, so he figured it'd do the trick, "I mean you can try the whole plenty of rests and lots of fluids routine, but... well, do you want my honest opinion?"

Gluskin swallowed and nodded, and Rick leaned in so close he was talking into Gluskin's ear.

"I think you should take two of these and call me in the morning."

Rick jammed both syringes into either side of Gluskin's neck and depressed the plungers. Gluskin reacted pretty predictably, shouting and shoving Rick away. He landed on his ass and only managed to take one syringe with him, the other still lodged in Gluskin's neck.

"How daree... yoo... ouuuu," Gluskin had grabbed the extra syringe and yanked it out, but as he tried to advance on Rick, his speech slurred, and he couldn't quite get his legs under him. He folded after another step and grabbed at the bed, his face in limbo between rage and slack-jawed drooling. Rick calmly stood, dusting himself off and backing up to the doorway.

"I'll send you an invoice," Rick said, "It's gonna cost an arm and a leg, though. Preeetttyyy sure you don't have insurance, buddy."

"Not... not buddy," Gluskin managed before his entire body gave out on him. He wound up facedown in his own drool.

"Yeesh," Rick said, looking at the dying man, who was glassy eyed and probably delirious, "Next time, come see me. I've got antibiotics, at least! I mean, I assume I do. Haven't figured out what's what up there, but heck, it can't be that hard!"

The man groaned and Rick laughed, waving him off, "Flatterer. Anywho. Take it easy. He's gonna be perrr-ritty P.O.'d when he wakes up!"

Inspired by a picture drawn by miikpah on tumblr.