Mike Tyson staggered unsteadily down the hospital corridor, eyes wide, head spinning, limbs trembling from the noxious assault he'd narrowly escaped. His gown fluttered wildly behind him, torn and stained. Sweat, blood, and tears mingled on his face as he stumbled forward, barefoot and half-naked, mumbling fevered, stuttering proclamations.
"Th-th-they thought they could stop the—the messiah?! Th-this ain't nothin'! I'm the f-f-freakin' Fist of Christ, baby!"
Behind him, the massive security guard Terry groaned weakly, clutching his belly, rolling onto his side. He was pale and breathing heavily, jelly-stained uniform sticking uncomfortably to his sweat-soaked body.
"Did... did I win?" Terry asked softly, his voice feeble.
Next to him, the smaller security guard, Josh, lay curled in a fetal position, eyes glazed, muttering fragments of anime dialogue under his breath. He coughed weakly, shuddering.
Slowly, Josh sat up, rubbing his bruised arms, his bravado completely shattered. "Bro...that wasn't... very Baki of me," he whimpered. His voice cracked with embarrassment.
Terry managed a labored nod. "Yeah...and that fart wasn't very Goku-like either."
They exchanged an exhausted, defeated glance. Both men felt the sting of shattered pride, but duty—and a lingering, perhaps delusional sense of heroism—drove them back to their feet.
Josh rose shakily, squaring his thin shoulders, breathing deeply. "We still got a job to do, Terry. Anime heroes never give up."
Terry groaned, hauling himself upright. "Damn right, kid. Like Vegeta...I get stronger every defeat."
Josh gave Terry an uncertain look. "Wasn't Vegeta always losing, though?"
Terry hesitated. "Shut up. Let's get that crazy old man."
They moved forward cautiously now, slowly, staying a safe distance behind Tyson, who still staggered down the corridor mumbling incoherently about divine judgment and the Geneva Convention.
Josh raised his voice cautiously. "Uh, Mr. Tyson...please stop? I promise we'll let you go back to your...uh...heaven or whatever, okay?"
Tyson turned sharply, eyes blazing. "Y-YOU AGAIN!? G-G-GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU HEATHEN!"
Terry immediately threw his arms up defensively. "Easy, Mike. We're just trying to—"
Tyson's eyes bulged. "JUST TRYIN' TO MURDER ME WITH YOUR ST-ST-STINKY SAIYAN BUTT BOMBS AGAIN, HUH?!"
Terry glanced shamefully downward. "It was an accident...those donuts hit different."
Tyson shook his head violently, spitting with rage. "Y-you're lucky my fists of Jesus are forgiving—"
Before Tyson could finish, the corridor echoed sharply with crisp footsteps. Everyone froze.
From around the corner emerged a figure tiny yet commanding, fury crackling in her gaze, white nurse's shoes clicking angrily on the tiled floor. Her brown ponytail bounced with every step, her glasses gleaming ominously beneath the flashing alarm lights.
It was Chloe—the small but notoriously fierce nurse whose reputation had terrified unruly patients across the hospital. And she was furious.
Chloe halted dramatically, hands planted firmly on her hips, scowling fiercely at the surreal scene before her. Tyson, half-naked, twitching madly; Josh, bruised and disheveled; Terry, covered in donut jelly and shame.
Her voice cut sharply through the tense silence, ringing with authority and rage.
"What in the actual bloody hell is going on here?!"
Josh pointed weakly. "Mike Tyson, ma'am—he's going full second-coming on us."
Terry mumbled apologetically, "Also, I farted, Miss Chloe. Sorry."
She shot Terry a disgusted glare. "We'll address your gastrointestinal terrorism later, Terry."
She turned her fierce eyes back to Tyson. Despite her small stature, the nurse radiated confidence and menace.
"Mike Tyson," she said coldly, her voice slicing through the corridor, "sit your crazy ass down. Immediately."
Tyson blinked, stunned by this tiny figure's audacity. "Wh-wh-what did you just say to th-the divine fist of—"
"You heard me perfectly well," Chloe snapped, stepping closer without a hint of fear. "I've already missed lunch today, and I don't have time for your prophetic tantrum."
Josh leaned toward Tyson urgently, whispering loudly, "She once suplexed a patient on meth. She's dangerous, dude!"
Tyson hesitated, sizing up the tiny nurse, clearly bewildered by her intensity. "B-b-but...I'm the messiah..."
Chloe reached behind her and grabbed a gleaming metal bedpan from a nearby cart, brandishing it menacingly.
"I am five feet tall, hungry, and a green belt in karate," she declared, eyes glinting dangerously. "I assure you—I can and will spin-kick your soul into the afterlife. Sit down, Mike Tyson."
Tyson stared, mouth agape, genuinely conflicted. His mind whirled—visions of divine purpose warring with the inexplicable terror this small woman inspired.
Josh took a careful step closer, voice shaking. "Mike, seriously. She's stronger than both of us combined. Please."
Terry nodded gravely. "The karate nurse is no joke, man. Stand down."
But Tyson's confused expression suddenly twisted, paranoia flaring up again.
"NO!" he screamed, staggering back. "Y-you're n-not real! You're a d-d-demonic karate angel from hell sent to deceive me!"
Chloe rolled her eyes. "I've been called worse."
Tyson spun on his heels, gown flapping, wires trailing, desperately fleeing down the hall in the opposite direction, shrieking hysterically, "I-I WON'T FALL FOR YOUR HELLISH KARATE TRICKS, YOU SM-SMALL DEVIL WOMAN!"
Chloe sighed deeply, adjusting her glasses in irritation. She turned to the two trembling security guards.
"Really? You couldn't stop one middle-aged boxer having a religious breakdown?"
Terry shrugged helplessly. "He got powers, ma'am. Biblical ones."
Josh nodded solemnly. "And Terry farted."
She closed her eyes briefly, muttering quietly. "God save us all."
Then, holding her bedpan with grim determination, she marched swiftly down the corridor after Tyson, prepared to end this madness one way or another.