One punch to save the world. One punch could finish them. One punch was all he needed. Just… one… punch… Patrick’s left fist slammed into the rock again leaving a bloody smear. The boulder pinning Patrick’s crushed right arm didn’t budge. Air raid sirens began to wail in the distance as Patrick leaned against the canyon wall and stared at the blinking red button on the controller under its plastic shield lying just barely out of reach.
Just one punch, that’s all it ever took… except this time. This time had been a setup. He had been chasing a petty thief. After cornering him in a canyon just outside of the city, Patrick didn’t hesitate to deliver the final punch—that final fateful punch that started the rockslide that should have never happened.
The Barron was behind it. He had appeared in a suit smiling at Patrick with his dead black eyes just as the dust settled. He explained everything, the expendable bait, the rocks, the controller, the nukes. He explained that he was going to give Patrick a choice as he daintily placed the controller outside of Patrick’s reach. With a greasy smile the Barron slid a short knife out of his sleeve. This he handed to Patrick with a quip, “you know what you have to do.”
The Barron had left after that. He left to let Patrick struggle and scream. At first Patrick fought and cursed. He cursed and struggled until the pain overwhelmed his vision with red and black. His right arm was a ruin of blood and bone. As a boxer, Patrick was the renowned One-Punch-Pat, able to floor any foe unlucky enough to get hit. As Punchman, his right arm swung with the hope of the people. His right arm held up justice and liberty where the arm of the law had failed. Within a year he had almost completely punched crime out of existence, but that was before the Barron came. The Barron’s knife glittered mockingly from the ground as the Barron crossed his mind.
Patrick knew what he had to do. He had known for hours, but Punchman couldn’t do it. The city relied on his arm. To remove it would betray them, would send them back to a hellhole of crime and injustice. One-Punch-Pat couldn’t bear his career to end either. It was stupid. If he didn’t pick up that knife, there would be no career for anybody, but One-Punch-Pat still couldn’t do it. And Patrick…
The air raid sirens seemed to increase in frequency in the distance until the metalic wail sounded more like a scream. Patrick could do it… But Patrick didn’t exist anymore. Patrick died when the city chose its super hero and celebrity. That which does not live has not the right to judge the living. The nameless quote came unbidden to Patrick’s mind as distant roar filled the air. Patrick picked up the knife gingerly in his left hand and raised it just above his right cheek. The slice was swift and smooth as though it had been practiced it a thousand times. Patrick opened his throat to the sun as the first missile tore through the sky.