The Bucket List

You better handle it right, or heads

gonna roll, I tell you...

You tell Dr. Shit for Brains... that I wanna

know everything about that bulimia treatment...

he wants to get me on.

Ah... what's it do to your lungs, and there's

the congress next month

I don't wanna go there, and have to

breathe through a hole in my throat.

- Well that is not exactly what happens.

- Who the hell is this guy? Where's Thomas?

- I'm right here, Sir.

- Hi Tom.

- We're gonna move you in to the bed now.

- I can do it myself, I ain't dead yet.

How about now?

- Have I fired you lately?

- Not since the Oprah incident.

- That was a good one.

- Yea, it was.

- Now, who's that?

- Who the hell are you?

Oh god... where am I? In the morgue...

That was the first time I laid eyes on

Edward Cole.

An osbscises beginning, to be sure.

I hate tubes.

I'll be damned, if I'm gonna spend the next

A zombie boy... looks half dead already.

You can't have your own room...

it'll create an enormous PR. problem.

I don't give a shit after all,

I still want my own room.

It's my hospital, for Christ sake...

don't tell me, I can't have my own room.

No offence pal.

You publicly defended this policy countless times.

You run hospitals, not health spas.

Two beds to a room, no exceptions.

I've never been sick before.

Ok, Dr. Albert will be here in a

minute to set you up.

Set me up?

Jesus.

Thomas... don't let me wake up paralyzed.

I'll do what I can.

Is these really your hospital?

Yea, pretty much.

Might wanna do something about the pea soup.

By the morning of his surgery,

the cancer had spread so far...

throughout Edwards body, that the doctors

only gave him a 5% chance to survive.

But then, they didn't account for how

pissed off, they've made him.

No Visitors coming to see him?

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