"That's what you get for having principles, man." S.T. had followed, tucking the pipe length in his armpit and cupping a hand to his ear. Not a whisper from any of the doors.
The surgical use of anesthesia began, like so many politicians at a Harvard party. Shit went down, some guy busted his leg open, but was so tanked on nitrous he didn't give a fuck. Two dentists who were failing out of med school had hundred-watt incandescent go off over their heads. (The electric light bulb was forty-odd years late to the party, given that Edison was born two years after the party in question.) Then followed a rash of demonstrations, press releases, lawsuits, guys running off to Paris or prostitutes in an intoxicated/indignant huff, and untimely deaths. Most of the principles were pushing up granite down in Mount Auburn (the cemetery, not the hospital). S.T. knew about it from classes and trying to convince Dr. J to let them sneak into the Etherdome and hold an appropriate commemoration.
A hundred and fifty years later, and no-one used nitrous for wisdom teeth, and Harvard med students had mostly switched to snorting cocaine for expensive thrills. Nitrous was too easy and not type A enough for trust-fund legacy kids with three-piece suit ambitions.
S.T. didn't have any of the above, though he wasn't empty-handed. "Want some aspirin?" He hefted the toolkit enough that the pill bottles rattled inside. Then he leaned back against the wall, which was cold and reassuringly non-digestive. "Shit. I could use a beer right about now." Or better, some nitrous, but Mello didn't look like he wanted a lecture on the relative toxicity of recreational chemicals right now.
That was as close as he generally got to self-anesthesia or armchair psychologist, at least with non-girlfriends. Beer and five-alarm nachos and playing skeeball and talking about the Sox (summer), Celtics (winter), or hair bands (Bart).
no subject
The surgical use of anesthesia began, like so many politicians at a Harvard party. Shit went down, some guy busted his leg open, but was so tanked on nitrous he didn't give a fuck. Two dentists who were failing out of med school had hundred-watt incandescent go off over their heads. (The electric light bulb was forty-odd years late to the party, given that Edison was born two years after the party in question.) Then followed a rash of demonstrations, press releases, lawsuits, guys running off to Paris or prostitutes in an intoxicated/indignant huff, and untimely deaths. Most of the principles were pushing up granite down in Mount Auburn (the cemetery, not the hospital). S.T. knew about it from classes and trying to convince Dr. J to let them sneak into the Etherdome and hold an appropriate commemoration.
A hundred and fifty years later, and no-one used nitrous for wisdom teeth, and Harvard med students had mostly switched to snorting cocaine for expensive thrills. Nitrous was too easy and not type A enough for trust-fund legacy kids with three-piece suit ambitions.
S.T. didn't have any of the above, though he wasn't empty-handed. "Want some aspirin?" He hefted the toolkit enough that the pill bottles rattled inside. Then he leaned back against the wall, which was cold and reassuringly non-digestive. "Shit. I could use a beer right about now." Or better, some nitrous, but Mello didn't look like he wanted a lecture on the relative toxicity of recreational chemicals right now.
That was as close as he generally got to self-anesthesia or armchair psychologist, at least with non-girlfriends. Beer and five-alarm nachos and playing skeeball and talking about the Sox (summer), Celtics (winter), or hair bands (Bart).