You find a nearby payphone. Your vision is starting to get funny, like people are starting to have animal heads more and more predictably. You dial 311 for municipal assistance. You tell them you left several important organs and lymph nodes in a city-owned sidewalk during a reality glitch. They ask you to wait right there. That suits you fine; you're not feeling too energetic right now.
Within minutes, vans from the DPW come screeching up. Their side doors open, revealing rows upon rows of agents in hazmat suits with flamethrowers. They burn you to nothing quite efficiently.