Agreement

"Can you do anything? Dude said you were the best," he said. Dr. Fell smiled. "Well, please thank Dude for me, although I don't typically take praise as payment." "Thought this was a free clinic!" he baulked (his dander up). Fell put both hands up. "Easy now. It IS a currency-free clinic, and nothing will happen out-of-pocket. What is required is an agreement: that I will tend you and make you better and you will do all that you can to heal well. All healing starts at the soul level, so you'll make course corrections in your life, pick something other than violence ... since it leads directly back here (and here Fell gestured to the shattered hand, wrist, and forearm), and try to stay out of trouble. Do we have ... a soul agreement?" He laughed; guy was a fancy fucking imbecile. "Fix me," he commanded. And Fell smiled, the contract made. "Let's explore the wonders of pharmaceuticals for suitable pain management," he whispered, turning away. This was his favorite part - the lack of concern for the fine print, the hubris, the rush to get out there and go back on your word as soon as humanly possible; the drugs would help, of course - lower inhibitions, harness an already deficient ability to reason. His client thought about street value and Fell wrote the prescription out carefully, his eyes glowing red at the back with satisfaction.