An empty operating room lit only by a light box on the far wall.
Footsteps grow louder until we see Dr. Death enter the room. He places a CT scan over the box, revealing an image of a brain. Luchadoc takes a step back and studies the image. His eyes travel towards a grey streak in the right lobe of the brain before he shakes his head and taps his cane on the ground.
“Ischemia can do horrible things to a person,” he declares, studying the scan.
“A sharp, talented person could, at best, lose his or her touch. What once came easily for him or her might become a difficult task after a stroke permanently closes off a portion of their brain.”
Dr. Death kicks his cane up and catches it with his opposite hand, then begins stroking imaginary strings as if he were playing a guitar.
“A fully-functioning, vibrant person could, at worst, could lose their ability to talk, or even find themselves unable to move one side of their body. What they once were, just mere minutes ago, is now a mere memory.”
Luchadeath flicks the light box power button off.
“They’ve become a relic of the past,” we hear his voice say into the darkness.
A spotlight abruptly shines over Dr. Death, illuminating him and the OSW World Championship resting over his shoulder. His blue, soulless eyes stare directly into the camera.
“I know you’re confused, hermano. Please try to listen to me— I’ll speak as clearly and directly as possible.
“Based on my assessment of your symptoms, it’s my belief that I can properly diagnose you. The grey, rotten streak of wood that’s appeared on your guitar, and your sudden inability to play music are symptoms of ischemia.”
Death leans in closer to the camera.
“I’m sorry to inform you that you’ve suffered a stroke, El Mariachi Muerte. I realize that this is a lot to process right now, but you’ll have to accept that you’ll be unable to rely on your talents to get by any longer. The beautiful harmonies you once strummed will forever be shrill, dissonant tones with no theory or feeling behind them. The connection you forged with others with your music will forever be severed by that ugly grey streak. And the days of you performing on stage in front of others is now a mere memory.”
A high-pitched cackle erupts and Nurse Frightengale’s face becomes illuminated by the spotlight as she leans in behind the sitting Dr. Death.
“A stroke of luck won you the title. But now your luck has run out and all you have left is a stroke. You should consider yourself lucky to have only suffered a mild one at my hands when I broke La Musíca. You’re able to speak, your gross body movements are intact, and you can still live a fairly normal life. But those who suffer small strokes are at heightened risk to suffer a bigger one, and being unable to proficiently stroke your guitar won’t hurt nearly as bad as my stroke of genius I’m going to subject you to at Odyssey.”
Click. Lights out.