After Hal gives me a small amount of medicine to make me relaxed, but not exactly tired, through an IV needle in my hand, I was pretty much out. The last few things I remember clearly were Hal helping me curl into a little ball on my side, then him putting something in my butt, and that’s it. Maybe we were talking about stuff, but I don’t really remember what. It felt like it was less than two minutes, even though it really lasted about twenty-five. Once it was all over, Hal patched up the needle puncture in my hand with a cotton ball and a band-aid, and let me lie down on my back and recover for a few minutes. Hal leaves for a short amount of time, probably to go see how Allen’s doing.

I find myself waking up almost fully within about ten minutes, and Hal comes back into the exam room. “Hey, waking up finally, are we, Fargo?” he says.

I grin sleepily. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m back.”

Hal sits in the stool beside me. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

I wince slightly. “My tummy hurts a little,” I say.

He nods, seemingly understanding what’s up. “That’s alright, mate,” he says. “You’ll be a little bit cramped up right after it’s all done. Want some more of your water?”

I nod. “Please.”

Hal hands me my red solo cup filled with water, and I take a few sips, and it almost automatically makes the cramping go away after I sit for a minute. Much better.

“How’s that?” Hal asks.

I smile with a nod. “Better,” I say. “So, how’s it all looking in there?”

Hal pats my shoulder. “Perfect,” he says. “Everything’s pink, as it should be. No polyps, no cancers, no sores. Your prostate looked perfect as well. You’ve got a perfectly healthy colon, Fargo.”

I chuckle. “Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

I sit and have a few more sips of water, just talking with Hal. After a bit of just small chat, something comes to mind. “How’s Allen doing?” I ask, knowing I haven’t heard any word of him before we were taken to our separate exam rooms.

Hal frowns. “I heard the poor thing was having a panic attack,” he says. “He wouldn’t let Ricky anywhere near his urethra. He was afraid it’d hurt. And unfortunately, it did end up being uncomfortable for him. It was rough for poor Allen.”

Hal’s right about that -- poor Allen! Of course, he’s a natural born fighter, so if he feels threatened, he’s going to fight. But I didn’t think he’d get that nervous about the whole thing. I find myself feeling nervous for him, concerned for his well-being. What’s going on with him now? Has he calmed down yet? I just want for that poor man to make it through everything alright.

“Is he okay?” I ask worriedly. “Is there any chance I can go see him?”

Hal nods. “They did have to gas him. Not in the same way I just made you sort of aloof and relaxed -- they gave him some medicine and put him to sleep for his test. Ben’s in there with him right now, so I’m sure Ricky would be alright with you going in and seeing him. Why don’t you finish your water first? Maybe change into some more comfortable clothing, put your underwear back on, use the bathroom. Then I’ll take you over to see Allen.”

I do just that. I take my time drinking the rest of the water I have in my cup, then I get up to pee -- I haven’t peed in a bit, at least not after leaving for the hospital, and I did drink quite a bit of water before and during the colonoscopy. Seeing as I’m a bit more exposed than I’d like to be in the hospital gown I had to wear, I put on some light blue scrubs and my underwear, as well as a white tee, just to cover up a little and keep warm. And as promised, Hal takes me for a walk to go over and say hi to Allen.

When we get to his room, it’s obvious that Allen’s been knocked out. His legs are up in stirrups, so his private area is easier to work with, and it’s a little blocked off by some blankets that cover him from the waist down. Ricky works underneath the blankets and between Allen’s legs, using the cystoscopy tubing and the scope attached to it; he appears to be busy examining Allen’s bladder. Shaw, Brandon, and Paxton all stand around as well, and I assume that had some part in getting Allen to chill the shit out. Ben sits in a stool beside the bed, holding onto Allen’s weak, limp hand that has no life to it, except for the occasional twitch of his fingers... Perhaps he’s dreaming or something.

After putting on a pair of sterile gloves so I’ll have clean hands, I pace over to Ben’s side of the bed to see Allen. Damn, I’ve never seen him this weak before in my life. He’s fast asleep, of course; as Hal said, they had to knock him out if they wanted any chance of him sitting still. He’s got a mask over his mouth and nose as he steadily breathes in the medicine being gassed to him, blood pressure cuff around his arm. He’s out, man. Not just that, but his eyes and nose are clearly swollen and red. Shit... Allen’s actually been crying. No one has ever seen the Allen Jameson crying before.

I frown, reaching out and pinching Allen’s cheek. “Hey there, my sleepy friend,” I whisper, even though I know he can’t hear me.

Ben grins up at me. “Glad you’re here,” he says. “Poor Allen had a major nervous breakdown earlier while you were getting checked. He’s alright now, though. Nice and sleepy. Doubt he’ll remember a thing by the time he’s awake again.”

I give Allen’s hair a ruffle. “I’m sure he won’t, poor guy,” I say. “What happened?”

Ben tells me about how Allen was fighting the medicine Ricky was trying to give him, and the one thing he heard outside of the room when he was taking a walk with Shaw, Brandon and Paxton was Allen’s blood-curdling screams, in a way Allen has never screamed before. Allen kept saying how he couldn’t handle the test -- he didn’t want to do it. Eventually, Ben and Paxton held him down and Ricky did what he needed to. Finally, Allen calmed down when the doctors put him into a position that was comfortable for his penis while his urethra was being dilated.

“Wow. He must be tired then,” I say, just gently stroking his hair.

Ben nods. “I would think so,” he says. “Ricky says that his urethra’s probably that no-go zone. You know how most people aren’t just going to go and touch their eyeballs because they’re squeamish?” He nods towards Allen. “That’s Allen’s urethra. You touch, you die, Ricky said.”

I chuckle. “Well, I understand that. Not like you’re going to have a camera shoved up there everyday. I know I’d be pretty bloody nervous,” I say, looking down at Allen again. “Poor thing. Tough outer shell in the ring, sensitive urethra in the hospital.”

Ah well. At least when he wakes up, we’ll be able to tell him his bladder’s a healthy one. That’ll give him some relief -- he’ll never have to do this again!