I went to the emergency room in Brazil, which turned out to be an experience in itself. First off, everyone was sitting on the floor. There were a bunch of chairs open, so immediately I thought, FOOLS! I jumped into a seat before anyone could snatch it away, but just before I made contact, I realized why it was vacant—it was filled with vomit. Growing frustrated, the promoter of the fight went to the front desk and bribed the receptionist so I could be seen more quickly. They took me in the back, and soon I was visted by this Indian lady that spoke with a British accent. She appeared quite intelligent, which pleased me because I knew I would get proper treatment. She took some X-rays, told me my arm was broken, and then called in someone to fix it. The guy that entered the room did not appear nearly as intelligent as the doctor. He was a big, burly guy in overalls who looked like he laid bricks during the day. I looked around for the smart Indian lady, but she was nowhere in sight. I was terrified, but without many options, I let this guy get busy on my arm. When he finished, I had this massive cast that looked like a two-year-old kid had gone nuts with papiermâché.