There was this one guy who used a rubber mallet to put the wheel covers back on my brand new Trans Am. He broke them and the car was so new they weren't available yet (not even from the dealer). I was so angry. A little gang banger shit.
I got in his face and quietly and calmly told him that EVERYONE comes to surgery before they die and he better hope to god he doesn't cross my OR table. I'd take the same care of him he took of my car. I then blocked off my lower face and hair and suggested he memorize my eyes.
I'll be damned not 2 weeks later at the next meeting of the knife and gun club guess who shows up with a GSW
I did my usual and walked in, leaned over him, pulled down my mask and he's screaming like a girl and fighting to get off the table. Which is quite a feat when you are slammed by curare, propofol and loss of blood.
I took a closer look and realized who it was. I laughed all the way to the scrub sink and no he did not live through it. There's only so much blood and brain matter you can afford to lose.