As Al watched Isaint and Rick get the mojo treatment, he sat down against a damp cement wall and unslung one of the two big satchels he'd salvaged from his car. They were starting to get heavy. His stim was wearing off now, as was the adrenaline from the fight and chase. So he was not only crashing chemically, but the headaches, joint pain, and cramps were back with a vengeance. He opened the bag and pulled out his own medkit. It was a top-of-the-line model not unlike the one they'd initially used. He didn't bother with the diagnostics, just self-prescribed all the antibiotics the thing had, mainlining it straight into his left arm.
Seeing him preparing the injection, one of the warlocks, a dredlocked hippy with those big loops in his earlobes like he wished he was some maggot puree-eating primitive and not a Londoner born-and-raised, tried to wave him off, saying the meds wouldn't make any difference with the way they were going to do it. "Listen, kemo sabe, my trust is in the Good Lord an' the cures He done blessed us all with. Ol' Al knows how ta take care of himself without puttin' my faith in no godless devilry."
He put his throbbing head back against the wall to wait out a rising wave of nausea, and through half-slitted eyes saw Robyn nod to the mages. He dozed for a moment, and when he opened his eyes he jumped to his feet. "Well porn princesses in pink panties, feel right as rain. It's a damn miracle!" and when the rent-a-wizards smiled in acknowledgement he said, "Miracle o' modern medicine, that is. Told y'all I ain't got no truck with no Satanism."
Muttering "damned degenerates" and then stowing his kit, he stepped over to where Rick was holding a gun on the mini-mage's knee. "Can't say I don't like yer style, amigo. 'Ceptin' I reckon i'd've taken out one knee first, jist ta ante up, ya know, show the pipsqueak jist how much she don't wanna lose t'other one."
