<span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: courier;"><strong>WILLIAM 'HAROLD' BURPLESON, AT DEATH'S DOOR IN BED 2, WITH THE FAT MAN, DR. BOBBY BOSS &amp; DR. CLIFF HARRIS</strong></span><br/><br/>Burpleson wasn't pleased with the situation at all, but hardly coherent enough to voice his complaints. He spluttered and seized, his tongue sticking out rather gruesomely through the bandages over his mouth, and after a brief, life threatening cardiac arrest he more or less caught his breath with a loud groan.<br/><br/><strong>"FugginJerseyturnpike."</strong>After expressing his dissatisfaction at the route he'd taken that morning, he gazed disdainfully with yellow eyes at the blurs that were probably doctors attending to him. He noticed and smelled his leather jacket hanging from a hook beside his bed, with 'IT TAKES BALLS TO RIDE A HARLEY' written in steel studs across the back.<br/><br/>He sighed with relief that it had survived the crash.