I Knew This One Old Boy That Blew Up His Stomach

(I have changed identifying details to avoid embarrassing my friend, but I swear the story is true. I've seen medical records)

Mr. Rodney is tall and handsome, with jet black hair (dyed), and tanned, leathery skin from years of working oil rigs in the Egyptian desert. He lives alone in a small travel trailer. He likes guns and motorcycles. On weekends, he goes dancing, searching for a permanent dance partner. He is a kind man that occassionally lapses into furious anger when called for jury duty on the week of his cross-country motorcycle journey.

Five years ago, Mr. Rodney sat down, alone, for a hearty dinner of steak from the grill, taters, and salad with a tall, cool glass of lemonade. Shortly after he finished eating, he developed a case of heartburn. When Mr. Rodney got heartburn, he turned to the method his mama taught him, and mixed up a glass of baking soda and water. He chugged it down, and waited for the burp. The burp did not come. Instead, he realized that there was a terrible burning, ripping sensation in his stomach, moving quickly into his throat, cutting off his airway. Mr. Rodney had the equivalent of a science fair volcano in his stomach. He reached for the telephone and dialed 911 before collapsing in the floor, where he spent several minutes struggling to breathe and arching his back from the agony in his swelling mid-section.

When the ambulance got there, a thin stream of foam was spewing from his mouth. Mr. Rodney was unable to tell the paramedics what was wrong with him, because he was no longer conscious. They rushed him to the nearest hospital, a place notorious in East Texas for the horrible conditions and mediocre doctors.

Upon his arrival, Mr. Rodney was taken to x-ray, where it was revealed that his stomach was in tatters, and it's contents (steak, taters, salad, and a homemade bomb of lemonade and baking soda) had been shot all over his insides. He was taken in for emergency surgery, where the doctors cleaned his guts as best they could, and sewed him back together. His children were told that his chances of recovery were slim.

Mr. Rodney floated in and out of consciousness for four days. On the fifth day, he woke, locked eyes with his daughter, and demanded that she call his friend, Investigator Bill.

"Tell him to bring his .45, he's gonna need it."

Investigator Bill arrived within the hour, minus his pistol. Mr. Rodney's daughter ushered him into the room. Mr. Rodney looked at Investigator Bill.

"Bill, these sunuvabitches are trying to kill me. They smother me when I'm sleeping. They dope me up so they can do experiments on me without my permission. When we try to leave, they're gonna try and stop us. You're gonna have to shoot 'em all. But don't feel bad, these sunuvabitches want me dead. We need to go right now, because I'm not gonna last much longer. If you don't help me, I'm gonna hafta kill 'em myself."

Investigator Bill assured him that they would get out safely, and excused himself. Mr. Rodney's daughter stood in the hallway, anxious.

"I think you need to move him to another hospital. I'm not sure they're taking proper care of him, and I'm afraid he's gonna kill someone."

After a brief rundown of his conversation with Mr. Rodney, Mr. Rodney's daughter decided that another hospital was in everyone's best interest. Mr. Rodney smiled triumphantly as he was wheeled through the corridor.

"You bastards ain't gonna get the chance to kill me," he shouted over his shoulder.

When Mr. Rodney was examined at the new hospital, it was discovered that his stomach was severely infected because it wasn't cleaned properly at the first hospital. They also found that the oxygen level in his brain was fatally low, leading to the bizarre hallucinations and paranoia. He was taken in for another surgery, and spent four months recovering.

He no longer drinks lemonade.