It's the stupid season. It's hot. We're short and it's shift change. Calls spill into the que. Priority don't stop.
D-Fresh and I are dispatched to a bum beef in the Park Blocks.
It's not a code run. There's no hurry. When we arrive, no one will be there or they won't want want to talk to the police or be victims.
On scene, the fight's done. One half has run off. Park security have surrounded the aggressor.
It's Popeye. He's 5'5", 50, and 120 pounds. Popeye is a former Marine and mean drunk. He'll fight anyone. When he loses, he'll hurt his opponent's hands with his face. He won't back down until he's dragged off.
He has blood smeared on his face. His chest is puffed out. He's drunk and proclaims, "I ain't done fuckin' nothin'! I didn't touch the fuckin' guy!"
It's dark. In the shadows of the park, it's hard to see.
Popeye waves his hands around as he talk, punctuating the air with punches as he speaks.
Popeye's right had is thick in blood. It's soaked like he dipped his hand in a vat.
Let me look at your hand.
I can see a steady stream of blood flowing from his hand down into the grass.
I hook his arm. The blood on his hand is millimeters thick. It drains from a rend on the top of his hand above his little finger. It does not stop. It's an open faucet. From the sidewalk to his feet, blood has soaked the sod.
I press the mike.
Code 3 Medical. This guy has an arterial bleed.
I open up the prowler, grab my go bag, and pull out a tourniquet.
I look at Popeye.
You're a tough guy, right?
"I'm a fuckin' Marine!"
I take his arm, slide up the tourniquet to his arm pit, and cinch it tight.
I crank the win-yard, twisting it tighter and tighter until the flow slows to a spatter.