The Lone Ranger is knee deep in dirt digging a shallow grave when a rattler bites his manhood.
“Tonto, quickly! You’ve got to suck the poison from the wound or I’ll die Tonto.” The Ranger falls to his knees.
Tonto blinks the dust from his eyes and staggers back. “Tonto go doctor, get help.” The Indian turns tail and runs like a coyote fleeing the coop all the way to the doctor’s door. He arrives, staggers into the waiting room and confronts the ageing doc. “Rattler bite Que no sabe on pee-pee.” He gasps between breaths.
Shaking Tonto roughly by his shoulders the old doc drives home his urgent instruction. “You’ve got to suck the poison from the wound, or Ranger’s a gonner.” Tonto blinks the dust from his eyes and staggers back. He turns tail and flees faster than a priest from a whore’s chamber to his master. Running as fast as his moccasins can carry him, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest Tonto arrives at his stricken friend’s side where he lies recumbent in the shallow grave meant for an outlaw. Staring down through tear filled ears the words of the doctor rang in his ears: suck poison from wound, suck poison from wound.
“What’d he say, Tonto. The doc, what’d he say?” the Ranger coughed.
Tonto knelt beside his beloved friend, cradling the masked man’s head in his hands he said, “Doc he say… you gonna die boss.”