ER just got renewed through a twelfth season. All I can think of -- well, besides, "I hope Wing Chun and Sars have fired me by then" -- is, "Oh my GOD, that's a lot of ocular tomfoolery."
As recently as last week on ER, Romano cooked his arm, then decided that Charred Rocket with a side of Sensory-Damage Chutney didn't look so appealing swinging from his shoulder. He wants to lop it off. An ex-gang member's family got shot; the sister was paralyzed and the brother, Turner, was shot in the abdomen. Curtis rejoined the gang to get revenge, and a shootout ensued. Pratt got matched with Northwestern, to his delight, and will be leaving County. Luka went to the Congo, and Carter previously turned down the same placement with Alliance de Medicine Internacionale.
In a dark room, Carter is asleep, until the loyal family maid wakes him. She doesn't seem to mind that she's dressed in an old-school uniform, a marker of indentured servitude that should've been obsolete several decades ago. Gamma's dead, honey. Wear some khakis. Carter resists waking up, but eventually he bolts upright. The maid offers him breakfast; as he wipes his tired eyes, he mutters that he doesn't need anything. The maid leaves, and Carter promptly pulls a Heathen -- which, personally, I'd rather have refer to something naughty done to Luka's hot sweaty frame, but he hasn't called me yet -- and flops back down onto his bed for some extra sleep. "Dr. Carter," the maid warns, poking her head back through the door. "I'm up," Carter insists, sitting up hastily. Groaning, he shuffles to the window and throws open the curtains to expose Gamma's perfectly manicured, palatial gardens.
Carter yawns his way into County General at 8:02 AM for the day shift, according to the Graphic of Complicated Story Concepts. "You're late," Pratt chides him, dumping off a bunch of charts. There's a couple gangbangers there, and the turf wars have every department full up and backed up. Susan pulls up and parks behind the front desk long enough to share the delightful detail that a bunch of food-poisoned Texans are puking up hash browns, but are desperate to leave by 2:16 PM so they can see the solar eclipse. Susan, ever the cynic, can't figure out why people take pleasure in watching things that involve the cosmos, or nature, or anything you can't find on TV or at the bottom of a wine bottle. "The moon blocks out the sun -- big deal. I've got a billboard outside my apartment that does the same thing," she snorts. Pratt grins and bids them farewell for the night. "I thought this was it," Susan says, surprised. "Almost. I've got one more night slumming it with you cats, then I'm headed uptown," Pratt grins, swinging through the lounge door...