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</div></div><br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">As per doctor's orders, Daxon Ripley was slated to stay overnight for observation at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center after his bike crash. Ramming into his best friend's bike in mid-air resulted in a mild concussion and a closed fracture of his tibia, so after assessing and diagnosing his injuries, the medication took effect and Dax was able to get a good night's rest. Before his shift ended, Dr. Callaghan left Dax with a stack of discharge instructions  that included no weight bearing on the injured leg, a referral to an orthopedic surgeon, and a prescription for Percocet. <br/>
<br/>
Dax hobbled off the unit on a set of crutches, his lower left leg was immobilized in a knee-length removable air cast later that day after he was visited by the inpatient physical therapy department, and one of their PT's instructed him on how to navigate with his new assistive walking devices. He was picked up by his parents, who'd made an appointment in advance with an orthopedist later in the afternoon, since Dax was mobility impaired and unable to drive with his cast for a while, he would be staying at their place in order to recuperate.<br/>
</span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">---------------------------------------------</span>​</div><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><br/>
At his appointment, Dr. Robert Dietrick concurred with Dr. Callaghan's assessment, after viewing more detailed X-rays of the fractured leg in his office. He felt that Dax was very fortunate that the break in his bone was a linear crack that was not misaligned, otherwise he would be scheduled and admitted for immediate surgery at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. So Dr. Dietrick's treatment plan for Dax was for him to continue to keep his leg immobilized for 12-16 weeks in the specialized removable air cast, followed by rehabilitation with a physical therapist. <br/>
<br/>
Thoughts of Dr. Ian Callaghan's molten gaze still lingered on Dax's mind long after he was discharged from Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, and for a week the doctor's phone number had burned a hole in his pocket. It wasn't intentional that hadn't called Ian immediately after arriving at his parent's home because he'd been taking the Percocet, and he wanted to sound more like himself when he did call him. Dax waited several days before he summoned up the courage to call the doctor, idly tapping the marble surface of his parent's kitchen island with the edge of Ian's personal business card as the steady beep of the ringtone blared in his ear.<br/>
<br/>
Whether Dr. Callaghan still remembered a random BMX biker that flirted with him during his visit to the ER or cared to meet him for lunch or a dinner out sometime was anyone's guess. Dax left a message on his voice mailbox, asking Ian to give him a call after leaving his name and cell phone number in which to reach him.<br/>
</span><br/><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">Maybe Dr. Callaghan was just a busy man?</span></i><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><br/>
He attempted to reach Ian a second time before the start of yet another grueling physical therapy session at <i>Evergreen Physical Therapy Associate</i>s, and he finally heard the real Dr. Ian Callaghan's voice on the line. Dax was excited and a bit nervous while talking to him, but managed to pencil in a time frame in which they could meet up later in the evening. It was after Dax had already hung up that he realized he'd forgotten to provide his address. Since the physical therapy center was close enough to his apartment for Dax to stop by to pick up some clean clothes, he decided to text Ian to relay the information, having the doctor pick him up from his apartment instead. <br/>
<br/>
Even though he was excited to have a date with Dr. Callaghan, he was concerned about his roommate, Ross Alves. Ross hadn't stopped by his family home even though he had requested him to come pick up his half of the rent check, and to drop off a few things he would need from the apartment during his convalescence. They were close, the two young men had shared the unit at Santa Clarita Apartments since junior year of college, while working together as paranormal investigators at Cal State. <br/>
<br/>
After enduring another hour-long torture session with Pamela, his physical therapist, he checked his voice mail while his leg was was being iced. Dax noticed that his Mom had called to let him know she was stuck in traffic and it would be another hour before she could swing by and pick him up. He quickly called her back to inform her of the change of plans, then texted Ian to send his address with a smiley face emoji at the end of the message. <br/>
<br/>
Leaving the physical therapy center, Dax hobbled off on his crutches in the direction of his apartment. When he arrived he rang the buzzer, and got no answer so he believed Ross crashed at his girlfriend, Lydia's place. It happened when Ross didn't want to drive home after their paranormal team cases, and there had been a lock-in scheduled at a house in the Hollywood Hills during his recovery from the bike accident. <br/>
<br/>
Truth be told, their apartment looked like more of a trap house for vagrants than a place to live, and the shitty maintenance barely made it worth more than the $1400 a month rent their insufferable landlord kept hiking upward.  Regardless, Dax enjoyed his half of the 980 square foot apartment. It was still a place both men called home and could entertain their fellow paranormal investigators and close friends.<br/>
<br/>
Leaning against his crutches, Dax removed his apartment key from his jean jacket pocket., and when he jammed his key into the lock, it was met with resistance. The second he realized that the lock looked different than it did a little over a week ago, his mouth let loose a string of obscenities.<br/>
<br/>
<b>"What the actual fuck! Really dude! You've got to be-"</b> angry words froze in his throat as he heard a weaselly, nasally intonation coming from behind him that caused his head to turn.<br/>
</span><br/><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">“Daxon Ripley,” came the reedy voice behind the twenty one year old tenant. </span></i><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><br/>
Dax groaned inwardly, releasing a slow controlled breath, before slowly pivoting around to look behind him. With a heavy lean against his pair of green metallic crutches that helped in walking around, Dax tried to relax the tight muscles of his arm and hand to keep them from cramping up. Giving his shoulders a wiggle, he lolled his head in a circle in an effort to relax. <br/>
<br/>
It was a decent attempt, enough to fool the casual observer, but to the keen eyes of the fat slob that stood behind him he probably looked like a walking anxiety medication ad. Dax's crystal blue eyes moved with the alertness that came from the additional stress he was under, hands remaining clenched around the cushioned grips of the crutches by the non-negotiable demands of his subconscious mind.<br/>
<br/>
Dax's stomach recoiled with the uncomfortable yet familiar sensation of nausea, when his gaze met Robert Rogers, the landlord. He had nothing against obesity, or the hirsute. Dax wasn't disgusted by his paunchy midsection, his man boobs or the greasy residue of potato chip crumbs clinging to his pants.  <br/>
<br/>
Other tenants might have thought that his unkempt, gelatinous body was like a form of pollution, but to Daxon Ripley it was the unsavory way he presented himself personally, combined with an equally nasty temperament. He still remembered the day Mr. Rogers told him he couldn't park his bike trailer in front of his unit while Dax was loading his bikes after a competition. <br/>
<br/>
Even though Dax agreed to move the trailer directly after loading his bikes, his landlord glared at him in the parking lot and threatened to call the cops. Then somehow after asserting that Dax was gay, he seemed to think asking him inappropriate sexually loaded questions whenever he saw him in the rental office or around the complex was mutually enjoyable. Dax thought Robert Rogers was creepy as fuck and his unease was difficult to conceal even now. Revulsion and a sudden flood of anger began to rise up like gorge in his throat. <br/>
</span><br/><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">This guy is suck a prick, thought Dax.</span></i><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"></span><br/><b><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">"Dude, you really need to chill. We paid rent on the 15th of last month, in full. Yeah, we were five days late with the rent. But you got it, and we still have roaches and no exterminator. Our stuff is still in the apartment, and I have my portion of the rent to give you now. I know Ross does too when he gets back. You can't just change the fucking locks like that, without at least giving us an eviction notice first."</span></b><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><br/>
He had a problem with the locks being changed without proper notification, it wasn't the part of the protocol for legally kicking people out of rental property and he knew it. Dax was sure he'd seen plenty of folks that couldn't pay with their shit out on the curb, after a posted eviction notice.<br/>
<br/>
What Dax didn't like or appreciate was the dig about his parents, who were well off and lived in Holmby Hills, an affluent neighborhood in Los Angeles. They'd come to the rescue a total of two times. The remainder of the time Ross and he'd been renting the unit, they'd come up with the money even if they had to scour the filthy shag carpet that Mr. Rogers had been too cheap to replace for spare change.<br/>
<br/>
<b>"Wait a damn minute. Dude. Just. Stop. You keep talking about my 'rents, I have a job that pays my bills.  I just told you I had my half of the rent covered, and when Ross gets here he'll pay his half.  So I don't think so. Um...?"</b> Dax was puzzled by the way his landlord wrangled past, keys in hand to open the door.<br/>
<br/>
<b>"Excuse me?? I think that you need to chill, and let me get my shit." </b> Dax replied, with an irritated tone to his voice.<br/>
<br/>
<b>"I'm going to text Ross now, so we can-" </b> Dax was speaking, and Mr. Nastypants rudely brushed past him after eyeballing his ass while he texted Ross.<br/>
</span><br/><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">Or thought he had.</span></i><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><br/>
His iPhone 6 still had Dr. Ian Callaghan's number on the screen when it opened up, but Dax was so rattled he didn't notice who he was sending the text to. Instead of the message going to Ross Alves, it went to Ian.<br/>
</span><br/><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">Brah. Come to the apartment NOW. Creepy landlord's gone psycho. Changed locks and I'm stranded here. Rent is due. he's really freaking me out. You have to come now. RIGHT NOW PLS</span></i><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><br/>
What Dax wanted to do was leave, but he wasn't leaving without his stuff. He wanted to shower and try to get ready for his date with Ian, and this <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fi.ytimg.com%2Fvi%2FGFbscyQvOMQ%2Fhqdefault.jpg&amp;hash=183da3f4cb029ee5f35ea15da8dfa178" href="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/GFbscyQvOMQ/hqdefault.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank"><i>creepypasta asshole</i></a> was making it much more difficult to accomplish. He hobbled into the apartment with the intention of giving him the envelope containing his half of the rent, and stuffing duffle bag full of stuff he needed for the next few weeks.<br/>
</span><br/><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">Hop. hop. hop.</span></i><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><br/>
Dax paused to rest in the alcove leading into the tiny living room, so he could get the envelope out of his pocket. Hearing the keys jingle he thought Robert Rogers was standing there waiting on him to produce the money, but he was dead wrong. Dax tilted his head while counting the cash from his paycheck as he heard the double cylinder deadbolt lock click shut by way of the landlord's key.<br/>
<br/>
"Seven-hundred dollars, and I want a receipt dude. I texted Ross so he should be-" his voice abruptly cut off when Mr. Robert's sweaty arm looped around his shoulders.<br/>
<br/>
Dax was utterly disgusted, immediately jerking away in an effort to shrug the unwanted contact off but the weight behind Mr. Roger's embrace completely threw him way out of balance.<br/>
<br/>
"Heeyyyyyyy! What the helll!- Get off! Get the fuck off me, dude!" Dax's voice rose in timbre and the anger that was released with his sexually explicit offer of alternative payment.<br/>
<br/>
The fact that his left leg was barely healed and immobilized in an pneumatic air cast didn't seem to matter, as his landlord's hand threatened to crush his windpipe, and his hands flew up in the air sending twenty dollar bills flying  all over the living room floor like falling snow.  His body resounded with a loud boom when Dax no longer handle the weight on his bad leg and collapsed with his landlord's hand around his neck. Dax howled in pain, but his cry came out with a croaking sound. <br/>
<br/>
Flailing hands became fists once he landed with Mr. Roger's hand gripping his throat and the other hand releasing the fly under his protruding belly, revealing a pint sized dick enveloped in a pad of fat so thick it looked like an over-sized clitoris.<br/>
<br/>
<i>The keys, oh fuck I need the keys. I'm fucking going to stab this dude in the nads. </i>were the thoughts in Dax's mind.<br/>
<br/>
His landlord then called him a fag with lips that could suck dick for hours. That was mostly true, but it wasn't going to be his. Dax didn't know what was worse, the dull throbbing ache from his fractured leg, or the sharp sting of pain as the social retard yanked on his thick, dark curls and tried to force himself him to suck his cock. Robert Rogers could either choke him until he blacked out or rip out clumps of his hair, but there was no fucking way in hell that mini-penis he was packing was getting near his mouth. <br/>
<br/>
Dax swung a fist at his groin with the intention of popping Mr. Rogers right in his sweaty testicles and hoped like hell the punch connected. Perhaps if he made enough noise, someone might just hear the struggle going on in his apartment.  Since he couldn't get enough air to yell loudly and effectively enough, he had to make a way. The only thing Dax knew was that Ross better show up in time before this encounter escalated to something that could end violently for one of them.<br/>
<br/>
Out of the corner of his eye, Dax saw the cord on the table lamp dangling and within reach. He yanked the cord, and the lamp was sent crashing to the floor, taking a glass picture frame and the land line phone down with it. If his fist connected with his landlord's genitalia, and incapacitated him enough, Dax started yelling as loudly as possible to alert others that there was a situation going on.<br/>
<br/>
"Get your fat ass off me, get off! Help! Someone help me! Oww...my leg --fuck! Getttt offff meee!"<br/>
<br/>
Because if his punch missed, Dax was SCREWED<i>.</i></span>