Oscars Night

I know you're not unconscious.
You know you're not unconscious.
Even the non-medically trained police officers know you're not unconscious.
We all know you're faking because you don't really like the idea of being locked in a police cell for the night.
Your acting is poor.
Your eyelid-flickering, arm-not-falling, half-peeking-in-the-hope-we're-not-looking performance convinces no-one.
But I guess we have to play the game.
It's just that you'll get no sympathy from any of us.
We'll get the trolley-bed and place your pseudo-unconscious carcass on it.
We'll take you up to the hospital for them to know that you're not unconscious too.
We know you're probably going to try to run, so some police officers come with us.
Doors are unlocked, opened, and you feel the fresh breeze on your face.
Miraculously, the act over, you wake up, and try to jump off the bed and run.
Except that in your unconscious state, you failed to notice the obvious.
The thing about handcuffs, is that there are two halves.
One is attached to your hand.
The other is securely fastened to the trolley-bed.
For a moment you seem to bounce back as if on an elastic band.
We snigger.
The officers barely suppress their giggles.
The custody sergeant laughs out loud.
"You ain't going anywhere sunshine", he bellows.
"Well, except maybe to the Oscars".