Title: Post 200 Blues
Featuring: Masked Violator 1
Date: 3/14/24
Location: New Orleans East Hospital -- New Orleans, LA

A busy night in New Orleans East Urgent In-Patient wing. Phones ring. Machines of every sort hum, beep, and whirr as designed. A maze of corridors swarmed with professionals, victims, and those somewhere in between. 

Tucked in a side room, a colorful figure stretches out on a medical cot, sullen and uncomfortable. The back of his bright red wrestling mask is untied and loose, his sweaty brown hair curling out the back of it. Gauze-wrapped head in his hands, Masked Violator #1’s right leg is elevated on a rectangular piece of foam and ensconced in ice, medical tape, etc.

A doctor steps into frame, sweeping through a curtain with his eyes narrowed at the clipboard in hand. If he knows he’s entered, #1 disregards him.

Doctor:
Okay, so I’ve had a chance to look at your initial x-rays and have a few concerns. Because of your recent surgeries, well… It muddies things.

The Masked Marvel takes a deep breath, matching the doctor by eying the clipboard. 

MV1:
Am I able to see the x-rays?

The doctor stumbles, briefly.

Doctor:
That– no, that isn’t possible here. When you meet with the specialist, they–

MV1:
This knee and I are quite acquainted, see.

Frustrated, #1 slaps the swollen, insulated appendage.

MV1:
I’ve looked at plenty of x-rays. Might be I could clear things up for you.

Showing some annoyance of his own, one of the Doctor’s wrists finds his hip.

Doctor:
I know how to read an x-ray, Mister… uh…

The clinician squints at the clipboard for a moment – but MV1’s voice pierces that concentration.

MV1::
I’m not trying to insult you, just… 

He sighs.

MV1::
How long?

Doctor:
It’s impossible to tell right now. But we’d like to keep you overnight, minimally, to stabilize the–

The physician’s words melt into background noise, dissolving into the hums, beeps, and whirs of the ward. MV1 lays his head back against the pillow, dejected and forlorn, gazing out the darkened window as rain gathers in streams down the glass.

Behind the doctor, a rough silhouette looms against the otherwise stark white curtain, from the other side. It lingers, a dark mass of confusion, before stomping off. The beast favors a limb of its own.

And in the hospital bed, against a backdrop of babbling medical professionals and their associated equipment, MV1 questions his future.

 



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TALKING SMACK

"I’m HELL’S FAVORITE HOOSIER! I’m DEFIANCE’S FAVOURED SINNER! I’m the MAN THAT GRAVITY TOOK ONE LOOK AT, SAID “NOPE”, AND STRAIGHT UP TURNED AROUND AND WALKED AWAY FROM! I’m the dope-smokin’-est, mind-broken-est, offensive-jokin’-est, rear-naked-chokin’-est muthafugga this company’s ever seen!"

- Rezin

DEFonDEMAND



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