(no subject)

[the_gene_genie]

 
[Visiting post for Wilford and YT here.]


Gene limps back up the bar in a foul mood. Not only did he spill his pint when getting up to arrest those two idiots, now his leg's bleeding and his trousers have got a hole in them. He's tempted to just leave the sodding dog where it is, but he supposes he'd better go and shovel it up. Chuck it outside, maybe, so it doesn't stink up the place.

When he gets over to it, he discovers that it won't be necessary. The mutt is not, in fact, dead. Gene huffs an irritated sigh and looks around for inspiration, because there's not a chance in hell he's looking after the thing. Luckily, he spots a dog bed and goes over to have a look at it. Maybe it belongs to this dog, maybe it doesn't, but it's good enough for now. He retrieves the unconscious mutt, lays it down, and then stumps over to the bar to write a note for the board.


Any vets in the place? The dog in the bed over there (there's an arrow) got knocked out, and could probably do with a once-over. If it's not there when you read this, it's probably fine. 


Or crawled away to die, possibly. Either way, problem solved. Gene sticks the note up on the bar, slams a double Scotch down his throat, and takes himself back off to Manchester. If he has to get a tetanus shot because of this thing, he's going to be really pissed off.