Dr. Roger R. Coleman is a 1974 graduate of Palmer College of Chiropractic. He has served as a co-author of three JMPT articles and an article in the British Journal of Clinical Biomechanics. This is his seventh article for this journal.

AJCC Jan 2000

The Story of Patrick Pureheart vs. Dan Dirtbag

by Roger Coleman, DC

 The sun beat down with unrelenting force, its searing heat uninterrupted by even the slightest breeze. In fact, there seemed to be no motion on the dirt street of Review, Kansas. Even the townspeople whose eyes strained through the grime-smeared windows held their breath. Nothing moved except the slow trickle of sweat down the face of proudly perfect Patrick Pureheart. He stood ramrod straight, a paragon of virtue, clad in the white garb of the hero. His hat was white, his shirt was white, his jeans were white, his boots were white and his teeth were dazzling white. He was pure white from head to toe, except, that a sharp-eyed observer would have noted a slight stain on the back pocket that contained his wallet. But otherwise he was proudly perfect, that was Patrick Pureheart, our hero. Of course, as always, he wore his belt with pp on the silver buckle.

      And why, dear readers, did Patrick Pureheart stand in the blazing sun? Why did a potent mix of adrenaline and testosterone pound through his body with each beat of his noble heart? Because a mere 20 paces away stood the dastardly dingo Dan Dirtbag. As perfect as was the picture presented by Patrick Pureheart, so was the devious demeanor of Dan Dirtbag. He was dressed in black. Black hat, black gloves, black jeans, black boots, even his teeth were coffee stained. He was Dan Dirtbag, the devil incarnate. Of course, as always, he wore his belt with dd on the silver buckle.

   They stood facing each other in the sweltering heat and everyone knew that only one would walk away. The story is well known. It is as old as the struggle of good and evil. Dan had called him out last night. “Be in the street at noon. Don’t make me come and find you,” he had sneered. “I’ll be there, Dirtbag,” was the reply. But that night, Patrick could not sleep. There were thirteen notches on the handle of Dan’s gun. Each one represented a good man shot down in the prime of life. Now, Pat was good with a gun. But Dan was a demon and even faster than Patrick. The thought put fear into Pat’s pure heart, although he would never have admitted it, even to his closest friend. What shall I do? How shall I stand? Will I die? Should I run? The thoughts raced through Patrick’s mind. But he was a Pureheart and Purehearts cannot run. Purehearts are the protectors of the flag, mom, apple pie, motherhood and the truth. The truth, of course, the truth was the answer. He knew what he must do, and he went straight to work and just as the sun came up over the hills, he finished. Then he closed his eyes for a single hour of sleep before rising to face the day.

   And so it was that Patrick Pureheart and Dan Dirtbag came to stand in the dirt street of Review, Kansas. One an IME and the other a clinician. One, a purveyor of truth, a protector of justice, while the other, a greedy leach upon society.

   In a motion honed smooth by a million repetitions, Dan went for his gun and in that same heart beat Patrick went for his. But evil always attacks first and that gives it the advantage and Patrick felt the red hot poker of lead strike him in the left shoulder. But in that instant, he was squeezing the trigger on his own gun and the bullet flew straight and true and lodged in the heart of Dan who fell onto his back, dead.

   Now, the doctor ran onto the street and as he came up behind Dan, it flashed through his mind that, from that angle, the dd on Dan’s silver belt buckle looked exactly like the pp on Pat’s silver belt buckle. So he took Pat to his office and he stopped the bleeding and he put a bandage on the wound and he sent him home in the care of a grateful group of townspeople to rest and return to his perfect self. But he wondered how Patrick had pulled it off, because he knew that Dan was better with a gun.

   So that night, he dug the bullet out of Dan’s heart and then he understood. Stamped into the bullet was a single word, TRUTH. You see, the truth eventually kills the dirtbags of the world, but sometimes a lot of good folks die before it happens. The doctor cleaned up the bullet and used it for a watch fob for the rest of his life to always remind himself to have the utmost respect for the truth.

   Now, the only question remaining is this. Which one was the clinician and which one was the IME. Which one was the purveyor of truth, the protector of justice and which was the greedy leach upon society. Was the clinician a Patrick Pureheart who loved his patients and treated them with the respect, skill and scientific ability of the competent provider or was he a Dan Dirtbag who was only concerned with money, gave needless, useless, unscientific and non medically necessary care, a leach upon society. Was the IME the protector of the public, the defender against abuse, the upholder of justice or was he a money-hungry slime who prostituted his opinions. You see, as the doctor noted, dd and pp look very similar, depending on your point of view. The only thing that we can know for sure is that truth eventually kills all dirtbags, although, a lot of good people can die before the job is done.

   So come on partner, let’s put on our white hats, our white shirts, our white boots and let’s wash off any stains on the back pocket where we keep our wallets. Let’s load our guns with scientific truth and let’s get ready. I think I hear a dirtbag calling.

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