In Trauma Green, a bald-by-design thug is screaming. Presumably, this is Ricky, and presumably, it's going to be awhile before he can answer Alma's whimper. "My arm! It hurts like a.... Do something!" he yells. He's in the kind of pain where you can't sit still because your only hope of cutting it is to wriggle and wiggle and hope that manufactures some adrenaline. Luka tries to calm Ricky down so that they can inject him with something -- anything -- but he so far hasn't sat still long enough. The bullet went through his right triceps. "You were lucky," Luka observes. "You should see the other guy," brags Ricky. "So, what, you go back and forth shooting each other until all of you are dead?" Luka moralizes. Whatever. Practice medicine before you preach, doc. "An eye for an eye, man," Ricky snarls. Luka informs Ricky that Alma got shot, and after a weird too-long pause, Ricky convulses himself into a seating position and howls at the moon. "Come on, dawg!" a cop says, trying to restrain Ricky. "I've got to kill those bitches!" Ricky screams. What a dumb thing to say in front of the cop who's about to arrest you. Because when the bitches turn up dead, and they always do, it's not like the cop's going to stand there scratching his donut gut and saying, "Hmm, wonder who killed those bitches?" Luka shouts, "You already did!" Oh. Well. Bye, bitches. But there will be more. There are always more bitches. Abby stares at Ricky because she has nothing else to do in this scene.
Elizabeth is busy sending Alma up to the OR for surgery, offering her nothing but cold information. "Don't let me die," Alma begs Elizabeth, who lets her eyes linger on Alma briefly before she turns away and shuns the girl. "You're one cold-hearted bitch, you know that?" screams Mad Madge as Elizabeth passes her. "I don't have any damn pity for you, whore! Hey, I'm talking to you, piss face! Don't you dare turn your back on me, you stuck-up little ass shaker! Where the hell do you think you're going?" Oh my God, it's like this woman is my voice. She's more or less pegging Season Eight Elizabeth. As Elizabeth ambles emptily down the hall, devoid of anything, we go to commercial wishing that Mark had been possessed by Mad Madge for a second before he kicked off to the great doctors' lounge in the sky.
Pratt wanders crankily through the ER. A baseball player grabs him and whines that he's in a hurry to get out of there. "Keep your cup on," Pratt crabs. "I should've been off two hours ago and you don't see me complaining." Weaver enters and makes a beeline for Frank. "County HHS needs to talk to you, and so does human resources," Frank says. "Anything from Romano?" Weaver asks. Frank sighs that he's only called twice in the last ninety minutes. "And Dr. Rydell's office called to confirm your appointment for..." Weaver's head snaps up and she darts a nervous look first at Frank, then around all of Reception, as if she's paranoid someone heard this. I smell a plot twist. Weaver's saved by the bell, by which I mean the cloying toll of her own shrill bellow: She has noticed that a patient called Stella Willits -- a noted hypochondriac -- is on the board as an active patient. This upsets her. Gallant tries to defend the reason he hasn't sent her up to Psych, but Weaver won't hear it. "She's nuts -- a frequent flier with a history of bogus medical complaints," Weaver insists. Gallant wants to figure that out for himself, but Weaver party-lines that the ER doesn't have the manpower to indulge hypochondriacs. "That's your department," she says. "Turf her and get her off my board." Gallant looks crushed, although it may be the weight of his enormously swollen shiner that's bringing down his whole face.