Imagine having a cardiac arrest. As you lay on the ground in pain, a shadow flits into your vision. You look up, hopeful. Is it help? Have the EMTs arrived? No, the putrid stench of unwashed pits and cheap grease fills your nostrils.  "Help me," you croak.  "Nuh," comes a raspy voice. "Like, dun tell me what to do, shitlord."