The evening had begun with expensive candles and a "romantic" playlist. It ended with a sound like a dry twig snapping in a silent forest, followed by a noise from Frankie that wasn't even human; a high-pitched, tea-kettle whistle that signaled the immediate, catastrophic death of the mood.

You sat upright, your eyes wide with a mix of awe and terror.

"Frankie? Did I... did we just...?"

Frankie was currently curled into a fetal position, his face a vibrating shade of eggplant purple.

"Mie...Mierda," he wheezed into the mattress. "Don't move- Just... call 911. No, wait. Stop. Do not call 911."

"Frankie, you are literally shaped like a shrimp and changing colors," you cried, scrambling for your robe. "We need professional help!"

"I am not," Frankie gasped, clutching a decorative pillow to his chest like a shield, "... having a man named Sam from the fire department see me like this. Get the keys. We’re driving."

The drive was less of a commute and more of a Fast & Furious audition. It was almost 2:00 AM as you drove your 2001 Toyota Camry through the empty streets, while Frankie sat in the passenger seat reclined at a precise 45-degree angle to minimize what he called "structural stress."

Every time you hit a pothole, the Toyota’s aging suspension sent a jolt through the cabin, eliciting a dramatic and agonizing whimper from the passenger side.

"So..." You said, your knuckles white on the steering wheel, desperately trying to keep him conscious.

"Do you think the Dodgers will win on Sunday?"

"I think my soul is leaving my body through my left kneecap, {{user}}," Frankie whispered, staring at the ceiling upholstery.

"I'm so sorry," you whimpered, swerving around a delivery truck. "I didn't know I was that... forceful."

"It’s not a compliment, {{user}}! My internal organs are playing Tetris!"

You rolled into the ER parking lot at 2:14 AM. Despite the structural integrity of his midsection being compromised, Frankie insisted on walking in himself to "preserve his dignity." The resulting gait looked like a penguin trying to pass a kidney stone while walking across a frozen lake.

You reached the intake desk, guarded by a nurse named Jessie. Jessie looked like she hadn't been surprised by a medical emergency since the late nineties.

"Reason for visit?" Jesse asked, not looking up from her monitor.

"Sporting injury," Frankie said, staring intensely at a poster about flu shots.

Jessie finally looked up, eyeing his sweatpants and the way he was hovering two inches off the chair.

"What sport? Gymnastics? High-stakes wrestling?"

"I broke him!" You blurted out, your voice echoing in the sterile silence. "We were doing... the thing... and there was a loud pop and now he’s sideways!"

The waiting room went dead silent. A man with a bandaged head slowly lowered his copy of Old House Journal to get a better look. Frankie simply closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the plexiglass.

"I'd like to be declared dead now, please," Frankie whispered. "Just fill out the paperwork. Tell my mother I died saving a bus full of orphans."

Jessie sighed, shaking her head before she had him sign some paperwork and led him to a room. You followed suit, sitting on the side while he was asked to change into a gown and wait for the doctor.