Dr. Fraud is back, newly employed as the psychiatrist-in-residence at a medium-sized hospital that caters to both urban and rural patients. This time he has his colleagues with him, most of whom are just as eccentric as Dr. Fraud, but thankfully a little more competent.
Dr. Fraud walked proudly through the enormous glass doors that led into the A&E reception for Whitesnake Hospital. On his interview day the Staff Director for the hospital had explained that the hospital had a number of rich benefactors who had insisted that all the entrances to the hospital were as grand as possible. So here there were glass doors reaching nearly 20 metres high and six inches thick, cunningly cantilevered to swing open at the lightest pressure and proven to be lethal in high winds. Round the side of the building, where the ambulance bay was, the doors were surmounted by Ionic columns and had antique brass fittings. The entrance to the administrative wing had so many steps leading up to the Georgian portico that there was a lift on the other side to take visitors back down to the ground. No expense had been spared in the look and feel the Director had said, with what Dr. Fraud felt was unnecessary emphasis.
He looked around the A&E waiting room, sparsely furnished with chairs donated by design students who had failed their degree. Many of the people waiting to be seen by a doctor looked as though their primary problems were caused by the furniture, and in one case Dr. Fraud couldn't work out how the poor man had got so tangled up in the chair. Realising he was staring, he frowned and tried to pretend that the man was just in the way of his gaze.
"I'll take that one," he said, pointing at a young man with a nasty cut running down his face from the insider corner of an eye to just under his ear. "Have him blotted a little and send him along to my office."
The duty receptionist turned to look at him, startled.
"Ah, that's not how y'all do tha--" she said in a southern drawl that set Dr. Fraud's teeth on edge.
"YOU'RE DEALING WITH ME FIRST!" screamed the woman at the front of the receptionists queue, slamming a fist down the counter-top. The receptionist looked back, looking a little nervous.
"That's one of our doctors," she began, flapping her hands in what she hoped was an appeasing manner.
"THEN HE'LL DO!" screamed the woman. She picked her handbag up off the floor as though performing a one-handed clean-and-jerk in a powerlifting competition and advanced on Dr. Fraud. "WHERE'S YOUR OFFICE THEN, YOU QUACK?"
Dr. Fraud's eyes had opened as wide as his Botox-ed face would allow, and he had been backing away as discreetly as he could manage. Caged now, he waved a hand at the door marked Psychiatric disturbances, and tagged along after the patient as she muscled forward, reminding him uncomfortably of a summer spent working with the Bulgarian female wrestling squad, just after he'd graduated. As he followed her, he noticed with a little pang of concern that she had a butcher's knife stuck in her shoulder, though to his relief it had stopped bleeding a while back. Dried blood crusted her muscle...blouse? Muscle-shirt, he decided. Some of the dried blood looked quite old.
She opened the door to the psychiatric wing, and together they went into his new office.