Prologue
A hospital can be seen bustling with activities: attending physicians with a team of medical students tending to patients from young to elderly, mean-faced receptionists talking to visitors, patient care technicians, or "nurse aides," as they are traditionally called, helping move people in wheelchairs or helping others who have difficulty walking. While some obtain vitals for monitoring.
In a particularly modest room, a man can be seen sitting with his "legs" on the side of the bed. His frame facing the window. He put his headphones on, and listened to some of his favorite music.
Occasionally swaying his head side to side or up and down. Sometimes singing, sometimes mimicking playing a guitar.
[Teenager In Love by Neon Trees]
"He's a teen, a teenager in love"
"He's a teen, a teenager in love"
"What a tragic attraction"
"What's the point of romance"
"He's a teen, a teenager in love"
"I'm a fool with a curse and a crush"
After a while, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He first took his headphones off, then looked to his left and saw his caretaker holding a tray filled with food and a mini table clutched by his left shoulder.
"Morning Vic, as usual, here's your food," Ron, his caretaker, said as he set up the mini table and put the tray on the mini table in front of Victor.
"Thanks, Ron! Though I wish they'd replace you with a beauty instead," Victor, now sitting properly in his bed, said with a fake tear dripping from his eye.
Ron chuckled and said, "Yeah, me too, bud; I too don't like delivering food to a man. Much less as suicidal as you. Anyways, enjoy your food, and I hope you choke." With a wave, Ron exited.
Victor laughed as he shouted, "That's not how you treat a patient, Dickhead!"
He then looked at his lunch: an egg and tomato sandwich, creamed potatoes, a side of carrots, and an apple. As for the drinks? Plain old bo'ohw'o'wo'er.
He mused and let out a soft chuckle as he saw the bottle.
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Now done with eating, he set aside the tray and mini table at the far end of his bed since clearly his "legs" didn't reach the end.
Victor, with a sullen expression, looked at his amputated and bandaged limbs and said
"I should've worn a helmet."
Laughing softly at his dark humor, he then put back on his headphones and listened to some soft rock music.
After a while, Victor began reminiscing about his past, where he "ventured" through the world.
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He went to Hawaii to try their notorious "big waves" for surfing. Victor then "conquered" a 50-foot wave. Impressive as it may be, he almost drowned doing it. Luckily, Ron was watching his "suicidal" friend and managed to call a rescue party.
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He skydived at a height of 10,000 feet, or roughly 3 kilometers. And he thought it was a good idea to not pull the parachute until he reached a 2,000-foot mark. This earned him a broken ankle and a trip to "Ron's daycare."
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The most notable one was at a party, he approached and "asked" a middleweight class boxer to a fight. The boxer looked at Victor, clearly confused as to why a "civilian" would want to fight a professional fighter, and asked,
"I think you meant spar, my guy."
"Nope," popping the P, Victor, obviously drunk, said. "I meant what I said—a fight; no holds barred and sh*t."
The boxer adamantly dissuaded Victor from making an obviously idiotic decision and said, "Dude, the most I can give you is a friendly spar and a little demonstration." While showing Victor some light jabs and hook.
They bickered for an hour until the boxer admitted defeat and reluctantly accepted the "gentleman's agreement."
A week passed.
Rick, the boxer, would've given Victor six months to at least train for their upcoming fight.
But the man, courageous as he may be, is a "bit" of an idiot.
In the blue corner, he is donning a blue padded helmet, blue gloves, a fit white shirt highlighting his sleek muscles, a black short designed with a gold eastern dragon's body across the left side of his short and multiple brand logos at the other, and Nike Machomai 2 boxing shoes.
Rick Martinez, the "rising star," is his moniker. With an impressive record of 14-0-3. Eight won by knockouts.
Now in the red corner, donning a red padded helmet, red gloves, a sleeveless white shirt showing off his lean build, a red short with a tiger's face on its left side, and a white Nike Hyperko 2.
Victor Vall, The Man, The Myth, The Legend. With a clean record of 0-0-0. None won, none lost.
*Ding ding ding
The bell chimed signaling the start of the match.
Both fighters slowly approaching, both fighters in a Southpaw stance, with Victor swaying side to side seemingly taunting Rick.
As they closed in, a right jab was delivered by Victor, though it was redirected by Rick using his left.
Then Rick countered with his right while slightly twisting his body clockwise to deliver a strong hook. Victor dodged barely by tilting his body left side.
5 rounds passed.
The spectators were quite surprised, as they thought that the fight would barely last a minute. Much less lasting more than 5 rounds.
*Ding ding ding
The bell chimed again, signaling the sixth round.
Victor's exhaustion clearly marred his body; nonetheless, his eyes still glinted with the same determination he had throughout the start of the fight. On the opposite corner, Rick, though clearly impressed by Victor, has the posture of a professional. Not showing fatigue or faltering from the challenge.
They closed in again, but Victor was noticeably slower. Then a jab was sent to Victor's right, and though the jab was blocked, he didn't anticipate the next move. A right cross. A classic 1-2 combo. The punch connected to Victor's face; he then grunted in pain and was slightly dazed.
With Victor's footing faltering, Rick took this chance to deliver a right hook. It connected. Then Victor fell.
The referee then started counting.
1!
2!
3!
4!
...
10!
Cheers then erupted.
Ron, Victor's "somewhat" personal caretaker, then rushed to his side to check his status. 'A minor concussion' he thought.
He sighed in relief and then said, "Damn this shithead and his moronic ideas."
Then he grumbled,
"I'm not paid enough doing this shit."
The fight, although not a professional one, was still commendable. Since a "civilian" managed to last 5 rounds against an undefeated professional boxer.
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And in his most recent one, Victor drove his McLaren Senna on a European Formula 1 track without a helmet and proper protective gear.
As he felt the adrenaline pumping in his veins, he drove faster and fearlessly. As he approached a right turn, the brakes on his McLaren failed, making him crash against the wall. Miraculously, he didn't die. Though it did cause him his legs as it was heavily crushed in the impact.
The last thing he remembered was Ron's panic-stricken face, accompanied by a group of medics.
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Victor, done with his thoughts, opened his eyes as he felt a tick of pain in his heart. Then it intensified.
Clutching his heart, he mumbled
"Damn Ron, the hell did you put in my lunch?"
His breath became haggard as the pain worsened. He tried to call his savior Ron, but to no avail, as no voice escaped his mouth.
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Then lights off.