Critical Hit

Gaming Infant Is Introduced To Streaming

Gon Freecss had a tendency to "overdo it", as Aunt Mito-san would say. However, this event was of no consequence to Gon's lifestyle. In fact, it was spontaneous and the only correlation was his shitty, fickle lungs. He spent several days in absolute cramping agony before at last calling it quits—forced to call it quits by Aunt Mito-san, who he had on the phone more often than not to yell reminders at him. If she didn't do that, he'd forget that he was a functioning human being who needed nourishment.

    After checking himself into the university clinic with the vague description of, "A knife corkscrewed into my shoulder blade," written under the question, "Describe your symptoms." From there, he dragged himself to one of the cushioned benches where he died for a hot minute before being resurrected by a concerned nurse.

    When it became clear that Gon was not, in fact, suffering from a stab wound, he was diagnosed with a spontaneous pneumothorax. Gon didn't really know what the Lorax had to do with his collapsed lung, but boy did it hurt like a bitch and he had more than a few colorful words to share with anyone who bothered to listen.

    "For someone who rations their swear words, I'd say you've used them all up," Zushi said.

    It was officially Day Two and Gon's carefully allotted swear words were dwindling fast. He had used most of them up the day before—before his roommate Zushi drove him to the clinic on Mito-san's direct orders. Somehow she had gotten ahold of Zushi's number and yelled at him from several states away to take her Dear, Sweet Boy to the ER.

    "I'm at twelve, thank you very much," Gon said, cracking a bright smile.

    Zushi pulled up an armrest chair as he sighed, "Ah, yes, three away from self-destructing."

    "I won't self-destruct if I hit fifteen," Gon said. He tipped his head back against the fluffy, white pillows and smiled at Zushi. He felt drunk, like he couldn't control the muscles in his face as Zushi rose an eyebrow at him. Gon rolled his eyes and drawled, "I'll just descend into Hell where I belong."

    "You and I both know you're too good for Hell."

    "Yeah, which is why we both know that Lucifer's gonna play all his cards to get me down there," Gon said with a thrust of his fist in the air. By accident, he punched up the exact arm where a hole in his chest cavity was bandaged up. He felt the adhesive on the bandages tug angrily, the ache from the wound turning into searing torture in an instant.

    He ground his teeth together, his entire abdomen seizing up. Zushi straightened, eyes wide, as Gon groaned in agony.

    "Just say it. Just let it out, dude," Zushi said.

    Gon groaned, eyes clenched shut. He gradually lowered his arm to the tune of a long, drawn out, "Fuuuck, dude. Mistakes have been made."

    "Thirteen, buddy, you're almost there," Zushi said.

    "Don't say that like you're expecting me to curse more," Gon whined with a pout. His entire chest burned like a motherfucker, but he wasn't about to say that out loud. It was only Monday, after all.

    A spontaneous pneumothorax was a wonderful start to his week.

    Zushi unzipped his backpack where it sat between his legs. Gon winced as he straightened up a bit in bed. His bum felt like numb rubber and all he wanted to do was move, but after that punch to the air he was less inclined to experience that ripping sensation in his left armpit.

    From within the depths of the backpack, Zushi produced the silver casing of Gon's laptop. Zushi held it up as if delivering an offering to the gods and, upon resting it on Gon's lap, he reached back in for another treat.