So. Anyway. Where the hell was I? Oh, yeah: The white guy -- "Jim," going by his friend's immediate and frantic screams -- collapses onto his back onto the cold, wet asphalt as the meth-head disappears into the night and Jim's bar buddy yells for the kitchen aide to call 911. And as The Terrible Timpani Of Rapidly Escalating Medical Crises beat themselves into a frenzy on the soundtrack, the bar buddy attempts CPR, but it's pretty obvious Jim was dead before he hit the pavement. Well, it was pretty obvious Jim was dead before he hit the pavement until Jim suddenly gasps himself awake and sits up. D'OH! "I feel okay," Jim realizes as he tugs his shirt down to reveal a decidedly unbloody gunshot wound right above his heart. The bar buddy gets an eyeful of the depressingly neat hole in his friend's chest and wonders, "How you even alive?" Jim thinks real hard about that one for a second before goggling, "I don't know!" And then?