Serial Killer's Conquest

“Sir? Sir!” A lady’s heavily accented voice echoes in my already throbbing head. “I need you to scoot yourself up in the bed just an inch.”
And I need you to bleed, horrible woman. “Nooooo,” I groan at the nurse wench and smack her helping hand away. “I’m fucking tired and it hurts to move.”
“Your feet are hanging off the bed and I need your help, hon, to get you repositioned. Just one inch, please.”
I zone in on her neck and wonder how hard it would be to strangle her with my IV line. “Okay, Hitler.” I open my groggy eyelids and against all holiness skootch myself up in the hospital bed, my chest on fire.
“Mister… Dahmer, is it?” A gangly bloke in a lab coat breezes through the door looking at my chart. I snicker and poke at the nurse’s blood pressure machine thingy. It makes little panicky alarm sounds and she makes similar noises trying to reset it.
“We need to keep you here for at least three more days, even then—”
“Three more—” I can’t stay here another minute; so much time has been wasted already! “Doctor? I think I’d quite like to brace you over my knee and beat your little arse with a paddle.” I cock a brow at the young knob and rip my intravenous line out. Somebody’s getting strangled with this thing today. “Full of nails.”
“Sir, please, you have to understand.” He pushes the glasses up the bridge of his oversized shnoz but they just slide down again and in the midst of sorting it out, the chart spills to the floor. The future of the world, this one is. “The bullet grazed an artery,” he says gathering the paperwork. “You have to stay in bed or you could bleed out and die.” The memory of my Jynn staring wide-eyed through the back of Solomon’s vehicle as it drove off slides through my rib cage like a knife. I take a deep breath and my lungs quiver as the pain against my chest wall lights up. How could I have let a tiny piece of metal stop me from exploding through that cursed window and tearing her abductors to shreds?
I sit up and my hospital gown falls to the side, my junk flashing the doctor right in his pretending-to-not-be impressed face. “If I die, I die,” I say in a deep, Russian accent. “No? Nothing? You haven’t seen Rocky IV?” I sigh, as they both look more confused by the second, belly aching that no one understands me and fling the sheet back across my crotch. I silently apologize for the disappointment of it: the concealing of my fun stick and all— no one likes that.

“All right, I’ll give you another one. Name this movie.” I take the nurse’s clammy hand lovingly in mine. “How about coffee, drinks, dinner— For as long as we both shall live?” Her lips purse into a thin line and she yanks away.