“Is anyone a doctor?” A waitress yelled into the crowded bar of the Maximum Tastesplosion restaurant.

“I’m a doctor, madam!” A thin man said from his stool. A man next to him raised an eyebrow and took a swallow of his whiskey sour.

“Please,” the waitress said, “come with me. There’s a man in the kitchen who needs help.”

The doctor rose unsteadily off of his stool, spilling a portion of his margarita onto his Hawaiian shirt, paused to relight the broken tobacco stick on the end of his cigarette holder, and stepped off with confidence. The waitress pushed the double doors of the kitchen open, revealing a steamy world of fluorescent lights, deep fryers, and decaying food. The doctor bent down next to a bleeding cook who lay sprawled on the tile floor.

“What do you have to say for yourself, man?” The doctor asked, producing a pencil and small notebook.

“Aren’t you a doctor?” The waitress asked.

“Of course, I’m a doctor of journalism.” He said. “Now, let’s get this story down before the fellow dies.”