A completely drained John Gage covered his dirty, smelly face with both hands, dragging them downward in tired exhaustion. He looked at Roy with pleading in his eyes, but he knew what he needed to do. He reached for the microphone, knowing it was their duty. Roy shook his head at his weary partner.

"Squad 51 clear, leaving scene." He held his breath. Maybe it was just an inquiry? Maybe Sam just wanted to say hello and wish them safe travels on their way back to the station for a shower and a hot meal? Yeah, sure.

A string of orchestrated tones proceeded out of the radio, sending them to a structure fire with another station. Grabbing his helmet, John managed to conk himself in the eye with the rim, and Roy pretended politely not to notice. Johnny tried to look on the bright side – at least the smoke smell would take care of the fish smell, or, with his luck, they would mingle and he would smell like...smoked fish…?

The 'big' structure fire turned out to be an elderly couples' attempt to make a flambé dessert with extra brandy, and they had managed to set their kitchen curtains on fire in the process. As John attempted to move the dessert, he ended up tripping over the rug, and landed flatly in the confection, scattering the couples creation haphazardly around their kitchen, and on himself. He now added to his growing collection of smells: Dirt, fish guts, smoke, apricot brandy, and sticky, burnt frosting. It made it even better that he had his turnout coat open at the time, fully exposing his last uniform shirt and pants to the gooey mess.

Great, just great.

He seriously thought about just having Chet hose him off in the old couples' driveway, but he knew Chet would enjoy that w-a-y too much. He carefully removed his turnout coat, hoping that most of the smell would leave with it. No such luck.

Little did he realize, however, that once frosting hardens, it can become quite hard to deal with, especially when it is in ones' hair. Poor Johnny had random spikes of white sticking up all over his head, not to mention smears of frosting, and soot smears of black haphazardly cast on his face. A very noticeable fact – especially if your name is Chet Kelly.

"Hey, Johnny baby, nice look. Didn't know you joined a rock band! Or... are you doin' a rain dance later?" Chet leaned against the engine holding his gut laughing. John had no idea about his appearance. Marco tried not to snicker, but he couldn't help it. Even Mike Stoker squeaked out a grin.

"What the heck are you babbling about, Kelly?" John asked wearily. He stowed his gear and headed for the squad. Roy stood with his mouth open, but had no words for the way his partner looked. He just thought he had better get him back to the station as quickly as he could.

As John reached for the door of the squad, he caught a glimpse of an alien-like creature peering back at him from the mirror on the door. This creature had wild hair, sticking up in all directions in pointed peeks, and had chalky white smudges, not to be out done by the dark gray, black smudges smeared on his face. His shirt was all disheveled, and still caked with dirt. Gracefully caressing the dirt and grime from his previous runs, were now delicate swirls of white frosting and cake, and streaks of dried burnt brandy. He wasn't sure, but he could swear he saw fish guts, too. Or was it a swirl in the shape of a fish? Heck, he didn't know. Johnny squinted at some dirt around his eye... He wasn't sure if it actually was dirt, or a black eye that was beginning to form from his helmet 'mishap' on his way to this run.

A loud sigh could be heard from the tired paramedic. A look of utter defeat could be read in John's demeanor. His shoulders slumped. His head dropped. His half smile disappeared. He stood frozen in place, wondering what else could possibly go wrong. Instead of getting into the squad, John sat back on the curb, chin on his palm, and sat facing the passenger door, not having the energy to open it, climb in, and go back to the station. Captain Stanley took notice of his down and out paramedic, and took his partner aside.

"Roy, is he alright?" He pulled his senior paramedic by the elbow out of earshot.

"I don't know Cap. He's had a really rough day. Goofy patients, he missed lunch, and now it's past dinner. He's had a terrible run of bad luck. He's really exhausted. He could use a break." Both men looked over at John.

"I'm gonna check with dispatch and see if I can get you guys stood down for an hour or so." Hank headed to the engine to get on the radio. Roy made his way to his partner, getting a bit concerned himself.

Noticing the paramedic's helmets laying on the grass, Chet decided to scoop them up. He headed around to the drivers' side of the squad to put them in their proper place. Chet scooted through to the passenger side of the squad to hang the second helmet.

After a few positive words from his partner, Johnny decided to hoist himself up from the curb and head back to the station. He hoped with his entire being that Cap could get them stood down for an hour. He could get his long awaited shower and something to eat. As John mustered his energy, he leaned forward to push himself up from the curb.

Then, it happened.

Chet decided it would be quicker to exit from the passenger side rather than go back out the way he came. With unabated energy, Chet threw open the passenger side door at the same time John leaned forward to stand up.

It could be heard up and down the block – the sound of the metal door hitting Johnny squarely in the head, knocking him back about four feet. All of his crew mates froze in place, not believing what they had just seen or heard.

A dent in the identical shape of Johnny's head now adorned the squad's passenger door.

Johnny lay spread eagle in the grass, still and unmoving.