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#Post#: 319--------------------------------------------------
Unintended Consequences - Chapter 5 - Against Medical Advice
By: RampageSports Date: September 8, 2014, 12:33 pm
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Character Reference
HTML https://aade768506dacb303a01a361d3dc0d27209a5ec4.googledrive.com/host/0Bz8YsEjMxOhMMXhVcF82aG5SXzA/Richelle_100x120.jpg
Name: Richelle Winterfeld
Nickname(s):
Background: Owner of the RSI stable, former underground fighter
HTML https://aade768506dacb303a01a361d3dc0d27209a5ec4.googledrive.com/host/0Bz8YsEjMxOhMMXhVcF82aG5SXzA/Danni_100x120.jpg
Name: Danneel Harris
Nickname(s): Danni
Background: RSI stable leader, reigning DEF welterweight
champion
HTML https://aade768506dacb303a01a361d3dc0d27209a5ec4.googledrive.com/host/0Bz8YsEjMxOhMMXhVcF82aG5SXzA/Emma_100x120.jpg
Name: Emma Watson
Nickname(s):
Background: Reigning FAC featherweight champion, training
partner and lover of Tiffany Mulheron
HTML https://aade768506dacb303a01a361d3dc0d27209a5ec4.googledrive.com/host/0Bz8YsEjMxOhMMXhVcF82aG5SXzA/Trish_100x120.jpg
Name: Dr. Patricia Leone
Nickname(s): Trish
Background: Head of the RSI medical staff
[hr]
Chapter 5 - Against Medical Advice
As my eyes fluttered open, that same blinding light filled my
vision.
Only, it really wasn't the same. This time, the light was
coming from the recessed fixture above my bed.
My hospital bed.
"Well, look who's finally awake," called a voice I knew well for
all the wrong reasons.
I quickly became aware of something squeezing on my rib cage.
Not crushingly tight, but certainly tight enough to notice. The
sensation gave the impression that I was wrapped in a giant
rubber band. With no small amount of effort, I lifted my head
and looked down to investigate.
It turned out that I WAS wrapped in a giant rubber band.
"Rib protector," said the voice. "An extra large one, for an
extra stupid person."
I rolled my head to the right and found a small Italian woman
standing near the foot of my bed. Olive skin. Thick, dark hair
cut in a short, no-nonsense bob. Five foot, three... maybe a
hundred pounds, soaking wet. White lab coat. Stethoscope
wrapped loosely around her neck. Look of stern disapproval on
her face.
"Hello Trish," I croaked dryly.
"Hello moron," she responded.
Can't you just feel the love?
I met Dr. Patricia Leone roughly twenty years ago, in a room
strikingly similar to the one we were in at that moment. My
fighting career, if you want to call it that, came at a time
when organizations like the UMMA did not exist. If you wanted
to fight, your venue selections were limited and largely
undesirable. Empty parking lots and back alleys were the norm.
On a good day, the action would move to some seedy bar with a
dirty worn boxing ring, or an empty field with a makeshift
wooden ring that looked more like an enclosure for farm animals.
There were no rules, and there were no refs. The people who
paid to see those fights wanted blood, and they weren't going to
settle for something decided by a judge's scorecard. If she was
lucky, the worst the loser would suffer would be a knockout.
I was good at what I did. VERY good. But nobody's perfect, and
I took my share of losses along the way. Unfortunately, those
endings didn't always fall into that "lucky" category.
In other words, this was not the first time Trish has had to put
Humpty Dumpty back together again.
We met after I had suffered a particularly unlucky loss. Trish
had been the doctor on shift in the ER when they wheeled me in,
so she was the one that got me splinted and sewn up. With no
doctor of my own to hand off to, Trish stayed on as my general
practitioner as I transferred my way through the different
units... first to ICU, then to the trauma unit, then... well,
let's just say I was there for a while.
It didn't take long to figure out the overall routine. Various
doctors and nurses poking and prodding throughout the day...
each little visit becoming a line item on the bill I wasn't
going to be able to pay. But, at the end of each day, Trish
would come by, look over the record of the day's events, and let
me know where things stood. We hit it off almost immediately,
finding that we had much in common. Both from large families.
Both the only female among our siblings. Both proudly declared
Yankee fans, at a time when the Yankees were perpetually
terrible. Talk about an unbreakable bond. However, I think the
biggest reason the relationship was so smooth was that Trish
never said a word about how I'd gotten my injuries.
As an amateur partaking in what were highly illegal fights, you
learn to lie pretty convincingly. Bruises and cuts would be
ascribed to mysterious falls and accidents. Friends and family
might not buy the excuses, but they'd have no way to prove them
false. Doctors, on the other hand... you can't lie to them.
So, I knew Trish was very aware of what I'd been up to. But,
she never said a word. The closest she came was on the day I
was discharged. She gave me her card, and made me promise to
stay in touch. She also made me promise to find something
better to do with my spare time.
I kept one of those promises, and she and I became closer and
closer as time went on. The relationship included a few more
visits to her workplace on official business, but she never let
that stand in the way. When I made the decision to form RSI,
one of the first things I needed to do was assemble a medical
staff. The decision on who I wanted to lead that staff was the
easiest one I've ever made. She fought me at first, but I won
her over by telling her she could retain her privileges at the
hospital, at my expense.
Clearly, it's money well spent.
She picked up her iPad - the patient chart of the modern age -
from the large, sunken window seat.
"How are you feeling?" she asked in a tone that said she already
knew how I was feeling.
"Like I got my ass kicked."
She stared at me coldly. Apparently, wise-ass remarks were not
going to be tolerated, at this time.
"I feel pain, Trish," I said with a little too much attitude.
"Pretty much everywhere, but mostly in my side."
She nodded. "That's to be expected. You broke three ribs...
two of them completely displaced. Surgeon had to go in and put
everything back where it was supposed to be."
Surgeon. Not good.
"He went in through a small incision just under your rib cage.
There's going to be a scar there, and I hope to hell it's an
ugly one."
Speaking of ugly... I didn't really like where this conversation
was headed.
"And you can thank me personally for making your face look only
as horrible as it was originally. I take payment in the form of
dinner at Anjelica's, Harry's Lobster House or the Salt Creek
Grille. I also accept gift certificates to the Ocean Place
Spa."
"Duly noted."
I found a mirror on the roll away table next to my bed, and
picked it up to take a look. Trish had apparently performed
some sort of miracle. The bloody mess she'd been given to work
with had been reduced to almost nothing. The gash above my left
eye had been closed with a few stiches, and the eye itself was
an ugly black and blue. Other than that, there wasn't much to
talk about.
"How's Emma?" I asked, a vision of the mess she'd been flashing
through my mind.
"Physically, she's fine."
The qualified response left a lot of room for some "not fine,"
too.
"And other than physically?"
She paused, thinking about how she wanted to answer.
"You've had a bad time of it, Richelle. There were more than a
few dicey moments. You'll want to keep that in mind, because
your friends are pretty shaken up."
Especially Emma, I thought to myself. She must have been right
there when it all went down.
"Speaking of things you were supposed to keep in mind..."
And here it comes. When I quit the fight game a few years back,
Trish was ready to throw a party to celebrate the fact that I'd
survived. Patching me up like this was something she never
expected to do again.
When Trish is in a good mood, she's caustic and patently
annoying. Picture Danni with a stethoscope. As you may have
noticed, I seem to surround myself with such people. So,
although I'll never say this to them, it's pretty obvious I
enjoy trading insults with these clowns. It's our way of
showing affection for each other, and it works just fine for me.
But, when Trish is angry...
"I thought you were finished with this nonsense."
I sighed. "I thought so, too. But, a friend needed help..."
She cut me off. "And this helped how?"
Good question. "I'm not sure that it did, but I..."
"Mmmm, hmm. So, you acted like a damn fool because you were
trying to help a friend. Now, you're lying in a hospital bed
and you're not even sure you actually helped anybody. That
about right?"
"I... yeah, I guess... but..."
"You said you were through with this sh*t. Then, you and that
fool Harris get into it. Now this. When you started RSI, you
swore to me you weren't getting back in that cage."
"This wasn't like that, Trish. I..."
"The hell it wasn't. You went right back to it, just like I
knew you would. And now, here you are... laying in my hospital
bed one more time. So, it looks EXACTLY like THAT, to me."
I just looked at her. "Are you going to let me speak?"
"No," she said flatly. "No, I am not. Because you're so
stupid, I might get dumber just by listening to you."
Oh, that Trish... she's such a doll.
She snapped the cover closed on the iPad, and turned for the
door.
"You've got visitors," she muttered disgustedly as she left the
room.
She turned and nodded at an unseen figure in the hallway.
A moment later, Danni rounded the corner.
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