Character Poll: Hats

[Velox]

Vote here for your favorite Character Story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on June 10th at 3:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to the Character Story Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 12th round preliminary poll.

• [*]The Hippocratic Oath “You people aren’t serious,” the middle-aged sole surgeon of Alexanderburgh’s sole medical clinic, Mr. O’Connor, was pretty explicit in his expression of surprise intermingled with just a bit of shock and horror. With reason, too. After all, it’s not every day that three men, armed to the teeth, burst in through the front door of your clinic. George O’Connor was a typical 37-year-old man, not at all accustomed to people barging in through the door, especially not people that looked like they could shoot you with those dangerously lethal rifles in their hands any time now. He had a sturdy, but not particularly strong, build and darker skin than most of the inhabitants of Alexanderburgh, hinting to his Mexican ancestry on his mother’s side. Dark hair, cropped short just above the ears, and a dark goatee, and a complexion that was rather well suited to his just ever so slightly frightened expression at this point. Before him and rather intent on getting through the door that he was currently delicately positioned to block, stood the three aforementioned men. One was short, light-haired, grey-eyed, Caucasian, dressed in blue shorts, a white straight jacket and something of a fisherman’s hat on his head and a rather amused expression on his face. The frightening part, however, was the rifle in his hands, and the two men besides him, who weren’t half as relaxed as he was. They, like proper gangsters, wore suits of the finest Milanese make. And frowns on their faces. Rather grim ones. “Oh, come on, doctor,” said the laid-back one, a smile flickering on his face, “we only need to visit a friend -that wounded police officer that came in recently. We promise you, we’ll make sure no one thinks you had anything to do with… any mess that we may leave behind.” O’Connor was not a brave man. But this was one step too far. He forced himself to scowl. “What do you want with him?” with an ever more courageous tone, the doctor asked. “Lay your cards on the table, gentlemen. Truthfully.” Mentally, he wrote a testament, leaving all of his belongings to his wife and children… and forbidding his wife from burning his copies of all the books of A Song of Ice and Fire that he had, what she hoped for ever since that day when he decided to get a tattoo of a crowned wolf in honor of the Stark family, as was their sigil in the books. Meanwhile in reality, he slowly observed the frowns on the men’s faces growing ever tighter. “Let’s say we owe him something, Doc. I don’t think I have to pronounce every single detail of our plans regarding the good lieutenant out loud. You’re a smart man.” “Yes, I am. And frankly, gentlemen, I see no reason to let you pass. Hippocratic Oath.” Witnessing the quizzical expressions on their faces, he decided to add: “Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given to me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God.” He crossed his arms. “I will not give up the life of one of my patients to save mine.” The laid-back suddenly turned as grim as his fellows. “Pity, ‘Doc.” It seemed to O’Connor that an eternity passed by as the rifles turned towards him. He wouldn’t remember which one of them shot. ------[*]The Car Wreck Flashing lights. The world blurs out. I woke up to see a man, bending over me. I could clearly see the crowned-wolf tattoo on his arm. “Eek!” I yelled. “Get away from me!” “Relax” he said. “I’m the doctor.” “You’re the doctor! You’re this town’s excuse for a doctor!” “Lady, please calm down. I’m sorry I startled you. You’ve broken your leg, just your shin. I’m just going to check to see if it is infected, then I’ll let you go. Alright? Please stay calm.” He pulls off my sheets. I squirm uncomfortably. He kneels down to unwrap the bandages around my leg, me intensely aware of his every move. “You’re fine” he tells me. “I’ve already set it, while you were asleep so you wouldn’t feel anything.” He wraps new bandages around my leg. “We’ll take you to a real hospital soon. They’re on their way, with an ambulance. They will get you a real cast.” A cast? I’ll be out of work for weeks! I’m a reporter, and I can’t travel with a cast! “What about the accident?” “It wasn’t your fault. Some drunk. You’ll be fine, just fine.” I squirm in pain, my face contorting. “My leg, my leg, my leg!” “It’s just the pain pills wearing off. Want some more?” He holds out the bottle to me. “No…I think I’ll be fine.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.” I wince as another explosion of pain travels up my leg. “You don’t sound like it.” I hear the faint wail of sirens. Good, they’re here, and I’ll be able to get away from this creep. “Trust me, I’m fine.” “You don’t trust me.” “What’s the story behind the tattoo?” I ask, hoping to distract him from darker ambitions. The paramedics enter the room then. “Looks like this is pretty under control.” The doctor waves them off dismissively. “Car accident. Broken leg.” He then pulls the bed away from the wall, skillfully maneuvering me through the halls and up the ramp of the ambulance. The paramedics follow, talking and joking with each other. Even though I’m still wearing my clothes aside from my cut-away pant leg, I still pull the sheets back over myself. The ambulance doors close behind me. I’m going to be just fine. “You asked me a question.” I looked behind me to see an imposing figure, wearing a leather jacket and hat, stand next to my bed. “You see, when I was younger I had a group of friends. We rode motorcycles, and called ourselves the Wolves. I was the leader, so when we were old enough, we got a tattoo to seal the deal.” He allowed himself a sly grin. “They thought of me as the leader, so they gave me a crown on the wolf.” “That place where you got wrecked is a dangerous pass. One of my buddies, he wrecked out there. Died. After that, I decided I would never ride again. Instead, I would settle down, go through school to become a doctor. That way, I could actually help some people. I thought I was helping my buddies, my fellow Wolves. But I was only helping myself.” His face fell. “I wanted to change that.” I nodded. “Thanks.” -------[*]Doctor of Everything He stood at the street corner, waiting for the crosswalk to let him cross, feeling the brisk wind whip around him. He was wearing a trench coat and a large black Stetson, as he nearly always did. He liked both, but he liked the hat a bit more, he mused silently. Walking across the crosswalk with a brisk stride, he outpaced the rest of the crowd that was with him. It was his 37th birthday, and he barely noticed. To him it was another day on the job. As many a thought leads inexplicably to another within the deep recesses of the neuron maze of the brain, he thought back to his 36th birthday, where he had gotten his first tattoo. It got it on his lower right ankle, and was of a wolf. He liked it because the wolf was wearing a hat. (Well, not really a hat, to be precise, since it was actually a crown. Still, a crown was a kind of hat, wasn't it?) He was a doctor, though none who met him would imagine that at their first choice for his profession. In fact, from the looks of him, he looked a little like a private investigator. A day old growth of facial hair adorned his cheeks, and his boots made very little sound as they made contact with the concrete surface of the sidewalk. At the end of the street, he met a man whose clothes were the exact same as the ones he had on, save for a silver band around his hat. He was leaning back against the brick facade of a nearby cafe, sipping a small martini. "Good evening, John," the martini-sipping man said. "Good evening, Andrew." "The only reason you'd have that particular hat on would be to denote a murder." "Yup." He downed the last of his drink, laying it on a table with a small tip underneath. "Mafia got another one. Just a villager." "Still random?" "Yup." "Let's get this over with, then" They traveled into a dark alley, where a sheet covered a body. The dumpsters around overflowed with trash, and flies flocked to them. Peeking under the tarp, he rolled the body over and did some quick diagnostics on it. She was dead, obviously. She was female, blonde, and was in her late 20s or early 30s. He found the wound: a gunshot to the head, as well as a few other shots around the body. Taking out a few of his trusty utensils, he poked, prodded, and generally worked a bullet out. Wiping it off with a sterile handkerchief, he looked at it in the light, pulling out a magnifying glass to aid his vision. He was experienced in the field of gun fingerprinting enough to recognize the unique characteristics which were imparted on bullets by the various firearms, especially those used by the Mafia which plagued this city. "If you don't mind me asking, what kind of a doctor are you?" the detective asked. "Obviously you know your way around a body, but I haven't met too many medical doctors with your variety of expertise." "I know a lot about a lot," came the reply as he pocketed the bullet. "I'm kind of a doctor of everything; a doctor of life, maybe." Andrew smiled. "And yet, you deal in death." "I do. But I try to prevent it," he said. pulling a notepad out of his pocket and scribbling a few things down. "Should I round up the usual suspects?" "Not necessarily." He folded the piece of paper, handing it to the detective. As the doctor walked away, Andrew unfolded the paper. It contained four words: "He's right above you." ------[*]King of Dogs From “Veterinary Workers Monthly:” This year, our Veterinarian of the Year award goes to Adam Thomasson, age 37. We brought him in to interview him about his career as an animal doctor. VWM: So Thomasson, tell us about how you feel about being titled Veterinarian of the Year. AT: I am honored to have received the title. It’s amazing to think, there had been a time when I was unsure if I wanted to continue my career as a veterinarian. VWM: Really? AT: Yes. I felt that perhaps my skills could be put to better use saving human lives rather than animals. It was when this one husky was brought to my clinic that everything changed. VWM: What was the condition? AT: I’m sure every veterinarian knows the situation! An owner had made the innocent mistake of leaving rat poison in a place where not just rats could access it. The husky had consumed some of the warfarin rat poison. As any veterinarian knows, it’s an anticoagulant that kills rats with internal bleeding. VWM: What happened to the husky? AT: He was bad shape. He’d eaten quite a bit and pumping his stomach wasn’t going to cut it, as his body had already processed a fair amount. It was the most difficult case I’ve had up to today that still managed to end happily. The poor animal was full of IVs that were delivering some medical coagulants, but he pulled through. VWM: You said this changed your view on veterinary medicine as a career. I’m not sure we understand just how, at this point. AT: A couple months later, I got a call from the owner. He was really broken up and something was clearly wrong, but I had to get back to my duties. I almost was about to hang up when he dropped the bomb on me and explained why he was calling: a disgruntled individual had broken into his home in an attempt to kill him to settle an old grudge. The would-be murderer came face to face with an unforeseen obstacle, however. The husky I’d saved attacked him and forced him to run off, but not before the man fired a shot into the dog with the gun he’d planned to kill the owner with. The dog bled out before it could be helped, but it saved the man’s life. VWM: That’s a touching story. AT: That dog showed me just how important a companion can be. Additionally, I had saved someone’s life with my medical skills, just like I’d always wanted to. I realized the world needed people to keep our faithful companions alive and well every bit as much as the world needed people to do that for humans. When people come to my animal clinic, I tell them about that noble husky, who I call the king of dogs. VWM: Does that relate to your tattoo? AT: Absolutely. I got the tattoo of a wolf wearing a crown shortly after that episode to serve as a permanent reminder of the king of dogs and the importance of my job. Also, the hat I’m wearing today is the one I wore on the day that husky was brought in. I always wear a hat, but I reserve this one for special occasions these days. VWM: Thanks for your time today, Dr. Thomasson… and we’ll make sure all our subscribers hear about your noble king of dogs. AT: I appreciate that. It’s always a pleasure to tell people that story. ------[*]Crown Wolves Knock-knock. I open the door and gesture the middle-aged man into the house, assisting him briefly with his plenteous luggage. A quick glance outside before I lock the door ensures no one is lying in wait. “I do hope you realize what you’re asking,” says Doctor Quinn Jong, straightening his jacket and hat. His briefcases, large enough to match his healthy girth, lie on the sofa in front of the fifty-inch TV. “Cybernetic implants are illegal in this area of China.” “Because no one can stand up to the government’s cronies without them,” I respond impatiently. “Do you have all you need?” “I am not so old as to be that forgetful” — he scoffs — “especially when payment is involved.” “How old are you?” I ask. “Thirty-seven.” “That’s old enough. Here, let me carry that for you...” The briefcase is heavier than it looks, but I carry it downstairs without much trouble; how Doctor Jong, six centimeters shorter and at least ten kilograms heavier than I am, carries his other suitcase easily escapes my mind. I run through my knowledge of Doctor Jong: He has been working underground for the past eleven years since he graduated med school; his credentials include being hired as a freelance designer by the U.S.-run Gearhead Enterprises before being fired two years after for failing to comply with China’s numerous technological laws. Normally I would be more cautious about hiring strangers. But the twenty-second century turned China from physical to almost entirely digital transactions. I have no money on me, and this house is an abandoned one in the outer limits of a nearby town, so there’s nothing of worth here. If the doctor wants payment, he needs to perform the operation well and have me alive by the end. A table and two chairs have already been placed in the center of the basement under a hanging light. Doctor Jong and I place the briefcases on the chairs. As he opens one, I clamber onto the table. “You have the blueprints?” I ask. Without speaking, he hands me a piece of paper before fiddling outside my field of vision. I examine the design closely, noting with pleasure the CPU to be connected to my brain and the metallic support spine to increase my load-bearing capacity. “Good,” I say. “Here.” He takes the paper back and places it inside the case before drawing out a pipe and a needle. “I have to place you under to perform the operation,” he says. I nod. “Continue.” The needle’s prick is barely noticeable through my adrenaline high. The rapid fading of sensation in my arms, however, quickly overwhelms me. I breathe deeply and close my eyes. Then the pain starts. My lungs strain for air, but they can’t move. The pain spreads from my chest down to my abdomen and up to my throat. My eyelids snap up and I stare in horror at Jong, whose grizzled face is split with a smile. He pulls up his right sleeve; there, prowling across his bicep, is a wolf wearing a crown hung over one ear. The image dissolves as my brain begins to shut down. “The Crown Wolves operate for no one but the government,” says Jong. His voice is distorted as if it’s traveling through water. I wonder what will become of my cash. ------[*]Doctor Who? He was the doctor you knew when you were a kid. You remember the one with the strange tattoo and that even stranger hat? Whenever he rolled up his sleeves you could see the crowned canis lupus on his arm, and he never removed the incongruous beret, ever. He had an incomprehensible recipe for alphabet soup hanging from the waiting room wall. There was something artificial to his smile, and beneath that superficial film covering his eyes which he claimed helped him to see you knew their lay deep waters. And the only explanation to his hands was the bucket of ice he surmisably kept in that back room. At first you thought he was an alien, and that beneath that beret you knew he concealed his disguise zipper. Clearly the mask didn't fit right, with that ripply forehead and those sagging jowls. He was here on Earth, you reasoned, to abduct humans for his fellow Zogwarg biologists to study, and you always insisted your mother enter first. You soon dispensed that theory as folly. That wolf tattoo was something no alien would think of. Indeed, it was too incredible. He must have been an ex-cop, that doctor, discharged for brutality and illegal interrogation tactics. After that he had turned to the dark side of the city and joined a gang. That was where he got his tattoo; it was the mark of the Wolf Pack. The crown meant he was their king. He had probably killed a few people and stolen a lot of money. That's why he could afford such expensive suits and all those paintings that old people who cleary haven't the slightest idea what they're talking about call art. But he played violin and read books. No gangster worth his salt cared for music or literature. That was sissy stuff. Which could only mean he was one of one of those weird foreigners from artistic, refined countries. And though you couldn't place his accent, you had seen berets upon the heads of French people in pictures, and the prison-stripe shirts they wore could be no coincidence. There he could only have been part of one of those secret cults where they study and play music and practice black magic. He had fled to America to be safe from rival cultists and witch hunters. But then there was that smile. It was artificial, but also vain and dignified. He was obviously hiding something. Now you knew what it was. He must have gotten all those fascinating gadgets somewhere. He was a secret agent for the government, and you were more excited than ever to see him for him to question you and exploit your knowledge for the good of Uncle Sam. But when he didn't, you were convinced he was a terrorist, and spent some few hours trying to figure out what the equivalent was, in a doctor's case, of convincing your mother you were sick to get out of school. But no matter how much energy you displayed coming down the stairs, no matter how many times you flexed your muscles, even when you ate that dreaded asparagus, it was all to no avail. As you got older you realized he was just a doctor, a person like anyone else, only he got payed a lot more. You decided you wanted to be a doctor, too, because they were rich and never got sick. But still that artificial smile and those superficial eyes haunted you. Even now you wonder . . . just what kinds of deep, arcane secrets was he hiding all those years? --------

[Ballom Nom Nom]

Tough choice, as all of the stories here were good. However, I eventually voted for number one.~B~

[Sumiki]

Three, my own.

[Padishah Mehmet II]

Voted for my own, number 1. Well, it seems that whatever the case, I'll still be first. xD-Dovydas

[Legolover-361]

I self-voted, but I nearly voted for Entry 6.

[Excelsior]

Tough poll, but in the end, I voted for 2.May the best story win!-Excelsior

[Velox]

Went with #6, but I enjoyed all the entries here.Polling period over; poll closed.