Having previously heard horror stories about this procedure, I originally chickened out of it five months before; however, it had become necessary to provide a "nerve mapping" to the surgeon. I decided I'd go alone reasoning that if I were to flop around on the table like a frog in a lab, I wasn't all that keen on witnesses.
The discomfort of the electric shock was prevalent but bearable. The needle, drenched in throbbing electricity and moved about within my muscles, was not. The further the doctor went up towards my achy neck, the worse the pain got. At one point I believe I used a rather offensive expletive. Rather loudly. But I can't be sure.
Once done, I reached for my cell phone, desperately needing someone to vent to. Having sufficiently whined to my step-mother, she then handed the phone over to my father.
He got on the phone in his usual cheery disposition. "Started confessing to the murders and where the bodies were buried and they didn't even know there were bodies, huh?"
"Yeah." I sniffled. "Hell, Dad, until he stuck that needle in my neck, I didn't even know there were bodies."