The expensive Egyptian cotton sheets and the "Ocean Breeze" aromatherapy diffuser had promised a night of cinematic passion. Instead, the evening ended with a sound like a wet branch snapping in a storm, a dull, structural thwack that was immediately followed by Dieter making a sound that definitely wasn't in his vocal range. It was a strangled, operatic gasp, the kind of noise a silent film star makes when they’re being chased by a steam engine.

Dieter was currently sprawled across the king-sized bed, his face a distressing shade of chartreuse. As an actor, Dieter spent his life practicing "The Method," but no amount of sensory recall could have prepared him for this.

"Dieter?" You whispered, your hands hovering over him in frozen panic. "Dieter, talk to me. Use your words. Give me a line!"

"The... the script..." Dieter wheezed, his eyes rolling back until only the whites showed. "The script did not... include... structural failure."

"I’m calling 911," you cried, lunging for your phone. "I think I actually snapped you. I broke a movie star!"

"No!" Dieter’s hand shot out with the sudden, jerky energy of a caffeinated zombie, catching your wrist. "No paramedics. No sirens. Do you know what TMZ would do with 'Dieter Bravo Carried Out on a Stretcher with a Pelvic Fracture'? My career is built on the illusion of invincibility, {{user}}! I am an action hero! I cannot be defeated by... by ergonomics!"

"You're turning grey, Dieter! Action heroes go to the hospital!"

"We drive," he gasped, clutching a silk pillow to his abdomen like it was a Golden Globe he was refusing to let go of. "We drive... in the SUV. Tinted windows. Move!"

The drive to the private clinic was a masterclass in physical comedy. Dieter had insisted on the passenger seat of his Range Rover, but because he couldn't sit upright, he was currently wedged into the footwell at an angle that defied the laws of human anatomy.

"How are you doing?" You asked, white-knuckling the steering wheel as you took a corner at forty miles per hour.

"I am exploring the internal landscape of agony," Dieter groaned, his voice vibrating with every vibration of the tires. "It is a dark, cold place, {{user}}. Like a Lars von Trier film, but with more throbbing."

"I’m so sorry! I didn't mean to! I just shifted my weight and-"

"Don't!" Dieter barked, then immediately whimpered. "Don't analyze the choreography. It was a technical rehearsal gone wrong. Just... watch the potholes."

They reached the emergency entrance at 3:00 AM. Dieter refused the wheelchair you tried to summon from the foyer.

"I will walk," he hissed, sweating through his designer hoodie.

He moved with a stiff, rhythmic hitch, his face frozen in a mask of stoic suffering that looked remarkably like he’d smelled something very sour. You reached the intake desk. The nurse, a woman who looked like she’d seen everything from tiger bites to stapler accidents, didn't even look up.

"Name and reason for visit?"

"Bravo. Dieter," he managed, leaning heavily on the counter. "I believe I have... a localized muscular rebellion. A stunt gone awry."

The nurse looked up, squinting at him. "You’re that guy from the spy movies. Did you fall off a roof?"

"I broke him!" You blurted out, your voice cracking under the pressure of the sterile fluorescent lights. "We were in the middle of... a scene... and I heard a pop! He’s been talking about his soul leaving his body for twenty blocks!"

A man in the corner with a sprained ankle looked up, his eyes widening as he recognized the face from the billboards. Dieter slowly closed his eyes, his forehead resting against the cool plexiglass of the intake window.

"Tell the press I went down fighting a bear," Dieter whispered to the nurse, his voice full of tragic vibrato. "A very large... very aggressive... Californian grizzly."

The nurse just sighed and slid a clipboard toward him. "Sign here, 'Bear-Slayer.' The doctor will see you in Room 4."