Ned sat in the least broken chair against the inside wall of his dingy apartment. A strong ammonia smell pervaded the place, but he hardly noticed. He ran down the list again, as he had done for the last three days.
Wife threw me out.
Filed for divorce.
Kept the kids.
And the dog.
Girlfriend not returning my calls.
Parents and sister ditto.
Lost my job.
And my medical license.
D.A. considering criminal charges.
Patient’s family considering civil lawsuit, too.
Reporters hounding me.
BMW trashed by angry mob.
Rent on apartment overdue.
Loan shark looking for me.
That covered things.
“It’s going to take a miracle to get me out of this,” he muttered.
The meth lab in the apartment next door exploded. The two meth heads and Ned died instantly.
“That butcher doctor sure got off easy, didn’t he?” everyone said later.
You know… I know it’s weird, but the first thing I thought when I saw the “strong ammonia smell” was “I wonder who’s cookin’ meth?” Does that mean I know too much about meth labs?
(For the record… I have a family member who was far too involved in the meth scene in Kansas for a long time. I have no personal connection, other than through him. *chuckles*)