The firetruck story that everyone’s already heard.

Watchmen came out on the 6th. That was…kinda a while ago, wasn’t it?

It was good. Reasonably accurate, with some glaring differences that…probably were for the best. Because the original ending was a teensy bit convoluted, and probably a little difficult to get across in only three hours.

Looking back, I probably should’ve tried to insist on not seeing it until I had painkillers, because I knew I was going to end up with a headache.

See, I’ve got this problem with movies. They flicker. Apparently, they’re even adding flicker to digital movies now, to make them feel more…authentic to everyone else. Which completely defeats the purpose of digital, as far as I’m concerned. Because that flicker? I can see it. And it hurts me.

A lot.

I probably would’ve been fine, though, if it weren’t for the popcorn. See, I’m kinda beginning to suspect something was wrong with the popcorn — or, at least, the tiniest bit of the first batch of popcorn I ate.

Why do I think that? Well, I kinda bit into something that tasted like…it’s hard to explain, except by smell. You know that smell that lets you know that there’s a potato somewhere in the house that’s been in the house far too long? Like, months, or years? And it’s gone all soft and nasty, and the smell gets everywhere, so it’s almost impossible to locate? It tasted like something that smells like that must taste. With a nice topping of rancid salsa.

It was…what you might call ‘ungood’. A fairly nasty taste. But I wasn’t exactly sure if I was tasting it, or just smelling something really wrong — like, maybe the guy three seats down from us got some nasty, nasty nacho platter, and it was fucking with me, y’know? It was that kind of taste — the taste that’s more smell than taste, and you’re not sure if you’re really tasting it, or just…smelling it. Because some smells taste more than they smell.

And the refill on the popcorn was fine. So I kept eating. And I kept drinking my coke. Got through two of those — and, hey, prompt refills, too. That was nice.

Right toward the end of the movie — right around…the Mars talk, and Antarctica, I started feeling kinda…bad. In the ‘intense pain’ sort of way. But it wasn’t my head; it was my stomach. Like my steadily-worsening migraine decided that my head just wasn’t a good enough neighbourhood anymore, and it had to move somewhere where there were more nerve endings. Not the most pleasant feeling.

Right around the “I’m smarter than your average Bond villain, so I’m going to explain my cunning plan to you, and then let you know that I set my plan in motion thirty minutes ago, ha ha!” speech, I noticed that the normal ‘I can feel my heart beating, and my blood flowing through every fucking capillary’ effect of a moderate to severe headache had taken on an interesting new…texture. I figured it’d be fine, though, because, hey, there’s still movie left. I’ll just focus on that, and everything will be fine. I’ll just relax enough to lower my blood pressure, and, by the time the movie ends, I’ll be able to move again.

…except, that didn’t quite work out. Because it didn’t stop. And the movie ended. And I stood up. Because I’m an idiot, and I couldn’t actually find the words to explain why I shouldn’t get up.

Now, most of you have probably never been inside a Movie Tavern, so it’s probably kinda hard to imagine a place that shows movies and has food and really, really comfy executive-style office chairs. But they’ve got…really comfy chairs, and tables for the food, and really wide aisles. And a fair approximation of the stadium-style seating that most cinemas now have. I made it to the big aisle between the rear set of seats, where you go to exit the…whatever the individual rooms are called. And then I just…sat down. Because standing was no longer an option, and sitting in a somewhat controlled manner was better than any other option. Because standing up was some sort of magical signal to instantly lower my blood pressure from…wherever it was to ‘oh shit, there’s very little blood in my head’.

…then Gremlin reminded me that acting the way I was would likely get EMS called, and I stood up again.

I almost made it to the little exit door from the special room with the screen. Then, everything stopped working, and I got up-close and personal with the floor. It was much nicer than the last time I passed out — in my own bathroom. That time, I hit a door, gave myself a black eye, scratched up my face, and ended up with a really nasty cut just below my navel. That one left a scar.

Here’s where things get fuzzy. I remember saying that I was fine, I just needed a minute, but I don’t quite remember getting up. I remember someone offering to get me something — a chair, or some water. I remember saying, “water would be good,” and that one of the employees said he was something that qualified him to administer first aid of some sort. I vaguely remember that this employee looked kinda emo…just, y’know, the hair.

…then the fire truck showed up. And I couldn’t figure out why there was a fire truck, except that they’d called 911, and assured me that it was policy.

I remember they sent the ambulance people [who also showed up] off to deal with someone who had an asthma attack, leaving the firemen with me. And then, there was all sorts of new pain. In my finger.

Finger sticks hurt. What the fuck is that about? It always feels like they jam that little automatic needle thing straight into my finger bone, as if there’s some sort of magical test which requires bone marrow from my finger. But my blood sugar was okay. So that’s good.

I also remember them taking my blood pressure. I was fairly convinced it was going to be high — mostly because I was confused. It makes a hell of a lot of sense to me now that it’d be lower. But…confused.

Things didn’t start making sense until much later, mostly because things got really confusing after that point. Because the fireman offered to give us a ride home. I didn’t know they could do that. I didn’t know they would do that. I mean, it’s a fire truck. It’s a big, expensive, special emergency vehicle that goes to save people from fire. It doesn’t have seats — not really. It doesn’t have room for passengers [or so I thought]. It doesn’t…take people home.

Firemen don’t do that, right? They aren’t there to give you rides home when you pass out after seeing a movie. They’re there to remove you from your home after you set it on fire trying to deep fry a frozen turkey inside.

Except, apparently, they do. Because they gave me a ride home.

The novelty of the situation got me just aware enough to take pictures, because I figured nobody’d believe me. Because it’s a fire truck.

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They’re a little blurry, because I wasn’t really steady enough to hold the camera properly. But…pictures — because it did happen.

Fire trucks, by the way, are not the comfiest ride in the world. The seat was nice enough, but you could feel every imperfection the road has ever had — and possibly every imperfection the ground underneath it has had since the planet cooled. Seriously bumpy ride.

Also, fire trucks? Are big. Really, really big. And our street is one of those little streets where two cars can’t pass eachother on a good day — where a good day is when there aren’t cars parked on both sides of the street. So, that was probably annoying for them.

I spent the rest of that evening in bed, drinking my water — and then 7up, just to be safe.

I’m fine now. And I’ve got more stuff to post about, but I’ll leave it for later. I’ve just been a little lazy recently….

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