I sit down. As soon as I do, the phlebotomist drops a padded bar across the seat. Sure, they claim its for resting your arm while they draw blood, but it's real purpose is to keep people from escaping. Most people don't hear the soft click as it's locked into position.
Then my arm is wrapped with a large rubber band, cutting circulation to my hand. Again, the claimed reason is to help a vein rise to the surface of the arm, but in reality, it's there to weaken the arm so you can't fight.
I'm surprised that I'm letting them do this to me. There must be something in the air to keep me docile throughout the procedure.
“This won't hurt a bit.” A lie. Not quite as bad as “the check is in the mail,” or “I'm from the government, I'm here to help,” but it's still a lie.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrg!”
“I haven't started yet.”
“Just pract—aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”
“Just a few moments more.”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“Be patient.”
“Errrrrrrrrrrrrr—are you a phlebotomist, or a vampire?”
“That remark cost you three more vials.”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeiiiiiiii!”
“There we go, that wasn't so bad, was it?”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”
“The needle is out.”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaa—oh.”
“Here, hold this cotton pad here.”
I reach over with my other, non-blood-starved hand and place it over the cotton pad to staunch the flow of blood. The phlebotomist then tapes the cotton pad and my hand to my arm. “Um, you taped my hand to my arm.”
A very subtle click as the bar across the chair is lifted. “You are free to go.”
“Um. My hand is still taped to my arm.”
“Just pull it off. It won't hurt.”