"What is your last name, Sir?" I ask, watching the guy with the dank, greasy hair sitting at the triage desk, nervously wringing his hands.
"Gol," he simpered. "G-O-L."
"And your first name?"
"Smea. S-M-E-A," he answered, baring his rotted teeth in an obsequious grin. He grimaced and cleared his throat painfully.
Eeeeewwww. Somebody has the meth mouth."
If you can get more than 30 lines into it without starting to giggle, you're a better person than I am.
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