“I think I’ve got cancer.” Tom squinted and looked directly into the sun until he couldn’t see anymore.
Hank spit up a mouthful of warm beer, “You need a doctor to tell you something like that. What you’re doing there is self-diagnosing and speculating. Bad bad combination if you ask me.”
Tom slowly unbuttoned his flannel shirt. The shirt was over fifty years old, and still fashionable, unlike the two old men, who were much older.
Hank spit up another mouthful of warm beer when he saw a gaping hole in Tom’s chest as big as a Spanish omelet from Joe Terra’s Diner. “That can’t be right. It must hurt like hell.”
Tom forced a smile, “You’d think so, but I don’t feel jack.”
Hank spit up another mouthful of warm beer for dramatic effect, giving him a reason to grab a fresh one. He exhaled for twenty seconds or so, “If this ain’t a good reason to see the doctor, I don’t know what is.”
Tom nodded and stared directly into the sun until he started crying, followed by a good sneeze.