Prompt: what you don't know can't hurt you [third person sample]
alternate title: all of edgar's prompts are about dead people
Who: Edgar Holloway (and NPCs Cutter, Jacques and Buckley)
Where: His Toronto gang-house
When: Immediately prior to this entry, mid-April 2022.
What: Edgar returns home from Cicero and finds out one of the gangmembers has dropped dead for no visible reason, and nobody's sure what to do in the face of the implications it raises.
Warnings: It's Edgar, there's swearing. Also a dead guy who looks like he's sleeping. That's probably it.
~~~
What You Don't Know Can't Hurt You
"What do you mean you just fucking found him like this? How'd he die?"
Medical knowledge: it's so easily taken for granted. Fuck that dumbass doctor for not being able to diagnose me, I have shit to do, I'm busy, I'm late, what a quack, what a waste of med school, what a waste of taxes. Edgar had a dangerous fever and a hospital stay once, as a baby; his mum was scared it was swine flu, but he was fine. There's cancer in his dad's side of the family, or something like that, he can't quite remember. He also can't quite remember the Science classes he took, back before the plague made school kind of obsolete, but there might have been a biology unit or two. That's the extent of it, Edgar's medical knowledge, if we're talking formal training. There's smarter guys out here, though, who finished highschool, even University or College. The problem here is that nobody knows fuck-all about the plague anyway, so it doesn't much matter how smart you are. The people who knew things mostly died. If any of them survived, they haven't come knocking.
They probably know better.
Think, Edgar, what do you know? Think. What do you know?
It's bacteria, not a virus. That doesn't mean anything to him. You don't know you've got it 'til you die and antibiotics don't make a dent. That's not too helpful either. It's better to be around a living plague-victim than a dead one. Something about spores, it turns into tiny spores and becomes airborne, you can't see them but they're infectious. Don't touch the body, don't touch its clothes. Don't breathe its air. Don't dump the body in water. Change your clothes. For the love of God, don't fucking spread the spores.
(But Edgar, what don't you know?)
Edgar's ex-girlfriend's sister was a nurse. Wasn't that girl a nurse? Edgar, wasn't Goldie's sister a nurse?
That's what somebody's saying to him as he stares down at Blue's body, but what he's thinking about is how the fuck this guy could've just died. "Edgar, wasn't Goldie's sister a nurse? We should get someone-- We don't know how he died, man, Blue, he was always complaining about something, always coughing. He could've died of anything, right?" It's Buckley talking, and his question hangs in the dusty air. Four men with crossed arms are warily hugging the walls, and there's one peacefully dead on the floor dead-centre, but not one of them wants to answer him. The Québecois kid, they call him Jacques, is shaking his head, pale, and whispers something in rapid unintelligible French to his brother Cutter.
Edgar whirls on him. "You shut the fuck up. Whatever you're saying, shut the fuck up, 'cause that shit isn't gonna help." The kid is meek, and he shrinks towards the door.
Cutter's accented voice is calm and stony. "He said we need to leave the body. He doesn't want to die. Everyone else left the house, Edgar, they're scared shitless."
"We don't know it's the plague, it could be anything," Buckley says again.
"We don't know fuck-all, Buckley." Edgar rubs his temples a moment. "Jacques, where'd the rest of'em go?"
The kid is silent, and Cutter answers for him. "They went to the old house, took a bunch of the supplies. Said they're gonna wait for us."
(They don't know that longterm exposure to the asbestos that clung to his father's shirts had slowly triggered malignant mesothelioma, and that Blue's death has nothing to do with the plague. His father died of the same thing, but his body was thrown into the underground like the rest of the plague victims.)
"Okay," Edgar says, and then with more confidence, "Okay. You guys go. I'm gonna deal with this, I'll be right behind you."
Buckley stays rooted where he is, but Jacques doesn't need to be told twice, and is out the door so quickly it takes Cutter a moment to realize his brother's fled. He hesitates, stepping towards Edgar. "You need any help? Qu'est-ce que tu feras? If he had it--" Cutter flicks a look to Buckley, who is staring at the floor, "if he had it, we all do."
(They also don't know that they each already are carriers of the so-called plague, which lays dormant in their bodies. They can't see the bacteria sporing off from Blue's corpse, but neither do they realize it will never have an effect on them.)
"Just get out, Cutter, I got this. Don't say that kind of shit to anybody, okay? It's just between us. Make somethin' up, he died some other way, all right? Don't fucking say anything. Make sure your brother stays shut-up too." Edgar grabs a blanket from the bed, kneeling down beside the body of his packmate. "Buckley, if you're gonna fucking stand in here then help me wrap him."
Cutter is still staring at him, jaw set and eyes cold. Edgar says again, "Go."
Only when Cutter and Buckley have finally left does Edgar start pacing, Zanzibar key tightly clenched between his fingers.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, what the fuck am I doing?"
Who: Edgar Holloway (and NPCs Cutter, Jacques and Buckley)
Where: His Toronto gang-house
When: Immediately prior to this entry, mid-April 2022.
What: Edgar returns home from Cicero and finds out one of the gangmembers has dropped dead for no visible reason, and nobody's sure what to do in the face of the implications it raises.
Warnings: It's Edgar, there's swearing. Also a dead guy who looks like he's sleeping. That's probably it.
~~~
What You Don't Know Can't Hurt You
"What do you mean you just fucking found him like this? How'd he die?"
Medical knowledge: it's so easily taken for granted. Fuck that dumbass doctor for not being able to diagnose me, I have shit to do, I'm busy, I'm late, what a quack, what a waste of med school, what a waste of taxes. Edgar had a dangerous fever and a hospital stay once, as a baby; his mum was scared it was swine flu, but he was fine. There's cancer in his dad's side of the family, or something like that, he can't quite remember. He also can't quite remember the Science classes he took, back before the plague made school kind of obsolete, but there might have been a biology unit or two. That's the extent of it, Edgar's medical knowledge, if we're talking formal training. There's smarter guys out here, though, who finished highschool, even University or College. The problem here is that nobody knows fuck-all about the plague anyway, so it doesn't much matter how smart you are. The people who knew things mostly died. If any of them survived, they haven't come knocking.
They probably know better.
Think, Edgar, what do you know? Think. What do you know?
It's bacteria, not a virus. That doesn't mean anything to him. You don't know you've got it 'til you die and antibiotics don't make a dent. That's not too helpful either. It's better to be around a living plague-victim than a dead one. Something about spores, it turns into tiny spores and becomes airborne, you can't see them but they're infectious. Don't touch the body, don't touch its clothes. Don't breathe its air. Don't dump the body in water. Change your clothes. For the love of God, don't fucking spread the spores.
(But Edgar, what don't you know?)
Edgar's ex-girlfriend's sister was a nurse. Wasn't that girl a nurse? Edgar, wasn't Goldie's sister a nurse?
That's what somebody's saying to him as he stares down at Blue's body, but what he's thinking about is how the fuck this guy could've just died. "Edgar, wasn't Goldie's sister a nurse? We should get someone-- We don't know how he died, man, Blue, he was always complaining about something, always coughing. He could've died of anything, right?" It's Buckley talking, and his question hangs in the dusty air. Four men with crossed arms are warily hugging the walls, and there's one peacefully dead on the floor dead-centre, but not one of them wants to answer him. The Québecois kid, they call him Jacques, is shaking his head, pale, and whispers something in rapid unintelligible French to his brother Cutter.
Edgar whirls on him. "You shut the fuck up. Whatever you're saying, shut the fuck up, 'cause that shit isn't gonna help." The kid is meek, and he shrinks towards the door.
Cutter's accented voice is calm and stony. "He said we need to leave the body. He doesn't want to die. Everyone else left the house, Edgar, they're scared shitless."
"We don't know it's the plague, it could be anything," Buckley says again.
"We don't know fuck-all, Buckley." Edgar rubs his temples a moment. "Jacques, where'd the rest of'em go?"
The kid is silent, and Cutter answers for him. "They went to the old house, took a bunch of the supplies. Said they're gonna wait for us."
(They don't know that longterm exposure to the asbestos that clung to his father's shirts had slowly triggered malignant mesothelioma, and that Blue's death has nothing to do with the plague. His father died of the same thing, but his body was thrown into the underground like the rest of the plague victims.)
"Okay," Edgar says, and then with more confidence, "Okay. You guys go. I'm gonna deal with this, I'll be right behind you."
Buckley stays rooted where he is, but Jacques doesn't need to be told twice, and is out the door so quickly it takes Cutter a moment to realize his brother's fled. He hesitates, stepping towards Edgar. "You need any help? Qu'est-ce que tu feras? If he had it--" Cutter flicks a look to Buckley, who is staring at the floor, "if he had it, we all do."
(They also don't know that they each already are carriers of the so-called plague, which lays dormant in their bodies. They can't see the bacteria sporing off from Blue's corpse, but neither do they realize it will never have an effect on them.)
"Just get out, Cutter, I got this. Don't say that kind of shit to anybody, okay? It's just between us. Make somethin' up, he died some other way, all right? Don't fucking say anything. Make sure your brother stays shut-up too." Edgar grabs a blanket from the bed, kneeling down beside the body of his packmate. "Buckley, if you're gonna fucking stand in here then help me wrap him."
Cutter is still staring at him, jaw set and eyes cold. Edgar says again, "Go."
Only when Cutter and Buckley have finally left does Edgar start pacing, Zanzibar key tightly clenched between his fingers.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, what the fuck am I doing?"