Harry B. Sanderford
Dr. Ramsey cleaned his nails with a set of dollar store clippers emblazoned with WWJD, that he picked from a peg board wall of similarly monogrammed items ranging from flashlights to forceps. He thought about his patients who gave thanks to Jesus. It seemed to bring them such comfort but for the good doctor, only doubt. He may well be the truth and the light, the good doctor smirked clicking the switch on a plastic penlight, but apparently batteries are not always included.
Ramsey finished his one dollar manicure with the notion of faith still lingering. It wasn't that he begrudged his patients their beliefs, fact was he longed for something to believe in himself. Maybe I could adopt an acronymic life philosophy for myself, he thought tossing batteries, pickles and packing tape into the cart. He continued wandering the aisles gathering kitchen and office supplies and pondering life's mystery until eventually arriving in children's toys as if led by a divine hand to the peg-hooked beacon dangling before him.
Back in his car he tossed the rest of the one dollar disguise kit into the back seat, adjusted the mirror to smooth his new mustache, yelped a giddy laugh, and punching the pedal to the floor, sped off into his new life guided by a single philosophical question: What Would Burt Reynolds Do?