Just as he had finished asking Niklas for another drink, Quackshot turned to see a familiar face barge in with a bleeding man slumped over her shoulders like a sorry sack of potatoes. 

"Ronnie?" he asked as she slammed the dying man onto the chair next to Quackshot and went off to sit by the Dustin Brothers and collapse onto the bar in apparent exhaustion. He flew into action and slid the man onto the floor next to his satchel. "Sorry, Niklas! Dying men call! I'll clean it all up once I'm done."

Dr. Quackshot set to work checking the man's pulse in various places and inspecting his wounds. The cuts on his arms looked like stitches would suffice, but the gunshot to the abdomen looked less promising. There was no exit wound for the bullet, meaning it was still lodged in his body somewhere. Judging by the odd shape of the entry wound and the amount of blood gushing from that area, the bullet probably hit something vital, though Quackshot wouldn't know what for sure without an actual hospital with proper equipment. 

Quackshot tore off the man's shirt and used it to soak up some of his blood around the wound, but it was not very effective. Casting the now bloody rags aside, Quackshot pulled out a tiny medical scope and light to inspect the wound. With a free hand, he gently probed around the wound to determine the path of the bullet. He guessed it was lodged in the man's stomach and likely passed through his intestines. He cocked his head and leaned close to the wound, wiping the blood away as best he could and focusing on his sight. The wound seemed to enlarge and clear itself out for Quackshot to gaze into the unwelcome hole in this man's side. The bullet had ruptured his intestines, poisoning him with his own digestive juices. Quackshot doubted this man would survive any attempt at surgery in a real opperating room, let alone a surgery on the fly in a Gutter bar. 

He took a scalpel and a pair of forceps from his bag and prepared to cut into the man. Quackshot poured some of his emergency whiskey in the man's throat and massaged his neck to make him swallow it. Then he gave a shot of morphine, too, just for good measure. Satisfied with the shoddy anesthesia, Quackshot began to cut into the man to retrieve the bullet. 

He enlarged the entry wound and plunged the forceps in, clamping them together like the hunger mouth of a newborn chick awaiting its mother to return with food. It was easy to find and pull out the bullet, the the geyser of blood that followed was much more difficult. The bullet was lodged in a main blood vessel in the outer lining of the stomach, plugging some of the bleeding. Once it was removed, the blood could flow more freely. 

The man bled out and died before Quackshot could plug him up again. It was a wonder to him that such a wound did not kill this man sooner, even that he lasted through who knows what to get to the bar. 

Quackshot got up and collected a mob bucket from the closet at the far end of the establishment and started cleaning the blood. 

"Sorry about this mess, Niklas." He turned to face Ronnie, the mob slowly sliding in figure-eights on the bloody tile floors. "Ronnie, why did you throw a dying man into a chair? You could have at least left him on the floor. That jostling about might have cost him his life and, I assume, your payment from whatever job you two were doing."