A Saint in the City

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Heathen: D+ | Grade It Now!
A Saint in the City

Susan and Jerry talk about puking, and then share a plate of nachos. Hey, I don't write it; I just bitch about it here. Weaver storms in demanding to know the alderman's whereabouts. Apparently, Bright is getting x-rayed. Annoyed that no one rushed him through, Kerry spits nails that spell out, "He. Is. Important." Susan whispers that she needs to discuss the alderman's case. Weaver blathers that he wrote a bill to finance a spousal-abuse shelter, and that he's one of the good guys, as if this justifies her surgically attaching her lips to his wrinkled derrière. "Not too good," Susan says quietly. "When I was checking for a pelvic fracture, I found a sore on his penis. I think it's syphilis." Weaver looks mildly horrified, probably thinking up ways to punish Susan for having the gall to make the alderman whip out his alderman. "Did you swab it?" Weaver whispers. "Yeah, we're waiting on labs," Susan informs her. Weaver decides, to Susan's semi-surprise, that she will handle this herself.

Tom has been positioned next to his dying wife. Luka explains the concept of being "brain dead," but Tom insists that she might still wake up. Except no, honey. She won't. It's called "brain dead." Luka stresses that Tom's own wounds are worsening the longer he lingers, but Tom refuses to leave his wife to die alone. He starts sobbing to punctuate the fact that, yes, this is the worst day of his life, and that includes the day he realized prostitution is illegal everywhere but Nevada. Romano bangs impatiently on the door and gestures for Luka to join him. That's twice he's done that in the span of two episodes.

"Okay, cowboy, I've got a vascular surgeon, an anesthesiologist, and three residents waiting upstairs in an OR suite that rents for five grand an hour," Romano crabs. Yeah, but to whom? To the patient, right? Then Romano shouldn't necessarily care how long they're waiting. Sure, that's mean and all, but it's money in the coffers. Luka explains Tom's refusal to leave. "Well, isn't that touching," spits Romano. "She's dying," Luka adds. Romano notes that Tom will die, too, unless he gets upstairs promptly. "If he's not up there in ten minutes, I'm going to take out your spleen," Rocket threatens. Luka's like, Whatever, no one needs a spleen.

The alderman, en route from x-ray back to the main area, blathers that if America's so rich, it should be able to provide basic health services to all its people. Weaver bonds with him over this. "We do what we can with limited resources," she says. "Everyone should come down here and see the war you're fighting," Bright insists. That's his way of saying, "Vote for me and you'll get all the meaningless sympathy I can offer!" I mean, which one's the whore here, Weaver or Bright? Right now it feels like they should each leave money on the other's dresser. Romano bursts in, and his schmooze-meter is turned up to eleven. "Don't tell me we couldn't find a private room for the alderman!" he booms. "Nice to see you again, sir. Robert Romano. I heard you were down here and I want to make sure that you bend over for me just once so that I can French-kiss your cheeks twice as well as Kerry did." Wow. Two's a party; three's a brothel. Weaver explains that they're waiting on test results, and Bright avers that he really doesn't want his own room. "This lets me experience the service my constituents get when they come in," he smiles. Romano chirps something about his being in good hands with Weaver, but then hisses to her privately, "Get him a room."

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