There’s never a second ambulance. Except, of course, for the brain-injured patron who relays this factoid across the bar on the wings of cheep American lager. There is never a second ambulance, he repeats himself:

"But I gotta tell you man, when I was dead and they were trying to figure out where to take my corpse- a second ambulance showed up. I was put in the back of that ambulance, man. And you wanna know who was driving that second ambulance? Jesus."

He amends his statement: Or one his helpers, I dunno. But God’s to busy for that shit.

Yes. I imagine God’s too busy for most shit. Can I get you another round?

A month later, as I was looking, with puzzled expression, at piece of pint-glass-turned-knife, piecing the soft place between my thumb and forefinger at a depth of one half inch- I was wondering, would Jesus drive my ambulance too? Or maybe he’s too busy for that shit. Maybe brain injury is his bread and butter as an ambulance driver. Maybe I should whack my head against the bar a couple times for good measure.

I hit an artery. I can assure you that I make the most authentic Bloody Marys in town.

When I got home, plus five stitches and a head full of percocet, I found that the OLCC had sent my servers permit. Welcome.

So, yeah. Hello again.