After the waiting room, the arena chaired by a mutant receptionist, one is summoned into the inner sanctum of the medical priesthood. 'Take off your shirt. Oh that's nothing to worry about. Just a wee bleeding mole'
Now you can't be dead because one of the holy medical folk said you're OK. But who are these latter day priests of pills and potions? A goodly many of them power tripping white coats acting like the KKK without the hoods. If you've stumbled upon one of the few who didn't drink their way through medical school and actually does know what they are looking at, then you are one very lucky bastard!
