Thoughts and Prayers

MR. COCKENBELLS (MISTER), a sweaty, nervous wreck of a man, paces about a hospital waiting room. DR. NIBBLEPLEASER (DOCTOR) watches from the door.

DOCTOR: Mr. Cockenbells?

MISTER: Yes? Is it about my wife?

DOCTOR: No. I’m afraid it’s about your wife.

Mister strikes the doctor in such a way that, more or less, resembles a slap.

MISTER: Out with it, man!

DOCTOR: We’ve lost her, Mr. Cockenbells.

MISTER: You mean…

DOCTOR: Yes.

MISTER: My Brennifer?

DOCTOR: That’s right.

MISTER: She’s really…

DOCTOR: Mr. Cockenbells, are you slow or just stupid?

Mister considers this, and then continues on as if he hadn’t.

MISTER: How is this possible? I did everything exactly like they told me!

DOCTOR: Mr. Cockenbells… – may I call you “Mister”?

MISTER: I’d rather you not.

DOCTOR: Mister… I know that I’m only a well-educated and even more well-endowed doctor of medicine. But in my least humble opinion, sometimes these things just happen.

MISTER: “Just happen”?

Mister slaps Doctor yet again.

These things don’t just happen!

DOCTOR: Please stop hitting me.

Mister storms about the room, pulling out his phone and waving it about like an absolute ass.

MISTER: I posted her photo all over social media! I got eleven-and-a-half thoughts and prayers!

DOCTOR: Half?

MISTER: (shrugs) Brennifer’s ex-wife was still on the fence, last I checked. I thought it better to round up.

DOCTOR: Oh, that’s too bad.

MISTER: No, no. Brennifer could be a bit of a–

Doctor’s pager buzzes a little buzz. Mister looks about, utterly confused by the continued existence of a pager.

What the Hell was that?

Doctor reads the teeny, tiny screen on his teeny, tiny relic of the past.

DOCTOR: Good news, Mister.

MISTER: Good news? What could possibly be good news at a time like this?

DOCTOR: It seems we just found your wife.

MISTER: Found? What do you mean?

DOCTOR: Turns out she was in the cafeteria this entire time.

MISTER: I thought you said she was dead?

Doctor looks at Mister as if Mister were the stupidest, stupidest, good Lord, how stupid can you possibly be man he’d ever met, and, in fact, even considers letting Mister know just as much, but then doesn’t.

DOCTOR: I never said that.

MISTER: You said she was gone!

Doctor strikes himself in such a way that most certainly resembles a slap.

MISTER: I’m sorry. You’re right. I suppose I am being a little over-emotional.

DOCTOR: We all make mistakes, Mr. Cockenballs.

MISTER: I’m just happy to know Brennifer is alive and well.

Dr. Nibbepleaser looks at Mister once more.

DOCTOR: You “stupid, stupid, good Lord, how stupid can you possible be” man I’ve ever met. I never said she was alive.

MISTER: What?

DOCTOR: (chuckles) No. It appears she choked to death on a chicken salad sandwich.

MISTER: You can’t be serious.

DOCTOR: Deadly, I’m afraid. It’s a little known fact that the chicken salad sandwich is the third-deadliest sandwich on the planet – just ahead of peanut butter, and right behind knuckle.

MISTER: Is that true?

DOCTOR: In a sense.

MISTER: In what sense is that possibly true?

DOCTOR: It’s true in the sense that I made it up.

MISTER: What kind of hospital is this?

DOCTOR: Not a very good one, obviously. But it’s hardly our fault you and your wife were born too poor to afford proper insurance, now is it?

MISTER: (hangs head, nods) No, I suppose not.

DOCTOR: Good. And if you could please pick up your wife’s corpse before we have her towed, that would be wonderful.

THE END