[ He's more than happy to sprawl out, reaching up to pull open his shirt to get a good look at the bullet wounds in his chest. A few of the buttons pop off and it takes a colossal effort for him to even pop it open, but he does it and cringes as he looks down.

The wounds are festering a little, puckered where the bullets went in. The one in his chest is obviously the freshest, but there are more. Wooden bullets pepper his skin like he's a big chocolate chip cookie of pain. He drops his head back to the couch and shuts his eyes, holding out his hand. ]

I wish we had some surgical tools. You know, tweezers, scalpel. Something fun. [ On the coffee table behind where his hand is, a tray of the aforementioned tools is dropped off by a ghost. With monumental effort, he cracks open one eye and gets a look. ]

Finally. [ He shifts on the couch a little, trying to undo his pants and failing the button. ] There's more. You're gonna need to help me -- [ he grimaces. ] Feel free to just use your teeth to pull them off. No one's complaining.