Hank's World

Hank wasn’t a real galactic traveller.

He was only visiting from America.

When we got the call to assist staff at our local crossed wires hospital with a violent patient we trundled along through sheer intrigue. It’s very rare for us to receive a call like this. Normally the staff manage to get some drugs into them quicker than you can “Just say No”. Either that or they direct them to the exit door and then call us in to report a missing person.

Fortunately we weren’t the only unit attracted by the mystery. One other pair of officers and an Inspector had turned up to play. We were all met by some very worried looking staff and a petite young American lady. She and her boyfriend, Hank, had taken advantage of a college break and were visiting The Throbbing Metropolis. During a visit to a discotheque Hank had turned “kinda funny”.

They had then begun their journey into the National Health Service. A journey which would have been made far easier had Miss Petite known that Hank had visited a pharmacist in a dark corner of the discotheque. Either the pharmacist had a sense of humour or he had misread Hank’s prescription when he dispensed some equine steroids to him.

A central Throbbing hospital had put a big tick in the too difficult box and sent the couple to the Small Corner Institute for Mysteries. Arriving in a near comatose state, Hank had gone from “kinda funny” to “kinda scary” in a short space of time. A fascinating tale, yet it didn’t explain why we had been called to assist in the early hours of a Sunday morning. The staff are well versed in “kinda scary” techniques.

A near traumatised staff member gave us a clue.

“He’s a big boy”

The ever helpful Miss Petite proudly explained that Hank had a college scholarship which wasn’t of the academic variety. He was a football player of some note. My appreciation of strange sports, gained through my satellite TV subscription, made me realise she didn’t mean he gelled his hair every Saturday at 3pm and ran around kicking a round ball.

“He’s a starter on the offensive line.” She said.

****! I thought.

“He’s 330 pounds.” She continued.

“******* ****!!” We all said in unison, staring at Miss Petite in awe and wonderment. I winced for her.

With the mystery solved a plan was required. Unfortunately, Plan A was out. We had an Inspector with us and he’d get upset if we ran away. I suggested Plan B, which involved holding a door open and me demonstrating my penmanship on a missing persons form. Regrettably, Hank was holed up in a second floor corridor. A long way from the nearest fire escape.

What we needed was a Plan C.

Or a Bazooka.

(…to be continued…)