Pinky Swearing

In which our Hero is ready for High Tea or High Assassinations, because everything is classier with your little finger out

So, I have no idea what I did to my pinkie. Fact, there is a definite and incontrovertible “Effect,” in that my finger had swollen up into a sausage of agony. This from a starting point of “Hmm, sore” to “Ouchy ouchy” to the high point where I could wrap my finger in snow and not feel the cold as it melted around the radiant blob of turgid flesh that was my formerly dainty little finger.

My one moment of brilliance was taking my iron ring off while I (barely) could, while my finger was only about 20% wider than normal. I call the end state sausage finger, but, centered around the specific joint like that, it looked more like giant large beetle larvae (of the variety that you used to be able to watch Bear Grylls snack on, before he pissed off his Discovery Channel0 masters (And obviously before they kissed and made up so they could do a new show)). Meanwhile my finger just continued to swell and generally be uncomfortable. So I queued up for the doctor.

Who was a complete and utter fucking asshole. I *get* that he has to palpate to assess the situation. I get that he has to flex and extend around the afflicted joint. I get that he has to squeeze on different axes to get more information.

But for the love of flying spaghetti monsters, “Does it hurt more when I squeeze this way” (sides) “or this way” top-to-bottom? And to help me narrow it down, he just kept on alternating, squeeze-squeeze-squeeze-squeeze-squeeze.

Except here’s how it worked from the inside: “Does it hurt more this way” [knives, salt, and fire] or this way [still knives, salt, and fire]… [still burning] [still burning]. Frankly, he’s lucky I was too much torn between the conflicting impulses to just take my hand away or else to slap his stupid-ass face a few times for being such a complete and utter dumb-ass.

“I don’t know,” I answered in a calm, even voice that seemed unaffected by the tears of pain starting to gather at the corner of my eyes. “You’re going so fast I can’t tell the pains apart.”

In the end, I didn’t kill him. In the end, he identified his guess, which requires me to have attempted to stop a moving car with my extend pinkie, which is technically within my job description as a ninja, but beyond my skill level, and more important, SOMETHING I WOULD HAVE NOTICED!!!!!

But after he sent me on my way, I went to look at the drugstore selection of splints. And both of them were unsuitable. One is… long. Like statistically anomalous, possibly non-human long. And the one that’s pinkie-length is also a steel reinforced monstrosity that would require my little finger to be broken sideways to leave enough room between fingers.

I am wearing a splint now. It’s a home-brew from a small thin strip of stainless steel we cut to length. There’s a slight negative bend at the joint, just to force things true despite the swelling. And things are better, since. The swelling went down, and mornings and nights, when I take off my medical appliance so my finger can have some exercise, it’s generally able to move fully. I can make a fist, if I am patient.

So maybe it’s whatever the doctor thought it was. Or it’s just sort and healing. Going to ultrasound it to find out. In the meantime… for now, I eat my burgers like I drink my tea; pinkie extended like I’m sitting with the Queen.

And if anybody asks me what happened… I’m going to say “Fight Club.”