Mark "Stop, Or My Wife Will Shoot" Greene briskly trots down a Chicago street, pausing to let his aforementioned attachment catch up. "Maybe we should go back to taking shifts," grouches Elizabeth "Mother of Chucky" Corday. Mark teases that she looks doomed to collapse, while she bitches that the walk was supposed to wake her up after an almost sleepless night. Mark jokes that Rachel was seven before she slept through the night, to which Elizabeth snarls, "Bite your tongue." And Mark knows from experience that if he doesn't, she'll do it for him.
At Reception, Abby covertly telephones a pet store and inquires about fish tanks. Randi, who happened to be on the Warner Bros. lot for another audition, stops by long enough to notify everyone that Weaver is on the warpath. Somehow, this is news. "I'm going downstairs," growls Elizabeth. Mark calls her a chicken. Abby blathers about the aquarium again, then spies Luka down the hall and abruptly slams down the phone, which never, ever, looks cagey or suspicious. Mark notices something strange about patient charts, prompting Chuny to exposit that Weaver is compiling her own copies of patient histories all of a sudden, ordering loads of superfluous tests. Mark figures this is a colossal waste of time and resources, and Haleh agrees that Mark should do something about it before someone goes postal on Weaver. Mark straps on his pen and his Doctor Face and deems it time to treat-and-street some poor sick suckers.
Haleh leads him to Jenny, who's complaining of a bladder infection. Mark prescribes Bactrim and tells her to return in three days, plowing on down the line toward a pathetic-looking guy in a knight's costume. "Fall off your horse?" snarks Mark. "Yes, goddammit, superior bald twit!" the knight growls, plunging his sword through Mark's sternum. Sigh. My fantasy ER is a much nicer place than the real one. The knight actually explains that he toppled from his steed during the jousting contest at a Renaissance Fair; Haleh explains that Weaver wanted the knight to wait for an x-ray, but Mark figures he's better than science and orders the man to walk on his injury. "It's just a sprain," he decides, calling for a course of ice wraps and ibuprofen. "That's it?" Sir Clumsy gapes. "Normally, I'd do a bloodletting, but we're low on leeches," Mark shoots back, having stolen the last two jars for recreational crotch use because Elizabeth's jaws just don't always look terribly trustworthy. "Don't forget about me, Dr. Greene," cracks a pretty female patient lying on her stomach. "Hi, Candy!" he grins. Haleh supplies that Candy is suffering from a human bite to the buttocks. "Again?" he asks. "Some boys can't get enough Candy," she purrs. So, yeah, she's a hooker. Mark grins and orders no one in particular to prep her for suturing.