So They're Blades, and They Roll?

It recently occurred to Latigo Flint that one of these days he could be called out by some upstart quickdraw looking to make a name for himself - and as the challenger, it would be well within the rights of the little punk to stipulate that the combatants wear rollerblades.

Latigo Flint is the quickest quickdraw the world has ever known. He can slap thigh and shuck iron so fast that Aaron Copland would be inspired to compose again... from beyond the frickin' grave.

But Latigo Flint does not rollerblade. It had never even crossed Latigo Flint's mind to touch a rollerblade, much less strap it to his foot. And this is a potential weakness - Latigo Flint recognizes this with grim clarity. The quickdraw of yesteryear, beyond his prodigious skill with a firearm, needed only to ensure he possessed the supplementary skills of walking, running, crouching, squinting, horseback riding, spitting indifferently and moseying. We live in a very different era now - an era in which the specter of gunfight failure demands I learn to rollerblade.

The events that transpired between this realization yesterday, and my wheelchair assisted release tonight from the local emergency room are much too depressing and pathetic for Latigo Flint to attempt to relate - even to you. And besides I have next to no memory of them, especially anything after sliding into that intersection.

As far as the hospital, I do faintly recall, while in a morphine induced stupor, screaming at a nurse:
"I don't think you understand the lengths I'm prepared to go to see you naked." I'm pretty sure she struck me at some point. I may have struck back. Frantic intercom calls were made. I think my abdominal stitches came undone. Things were beeping. There was beeping everywhere, beeping and running and shouting... spent cartridges falling to the floor...

I'm sorry. I must rest now.