Stygian: Legacy

T’was the day after Christmas at the Gabriel house in Boulder, Colorado. Well, several days after Christmas. The tree they decorated a few weeks back is still up; there are no longer presents beneath it. However of note, resting beside the tree on a portable guitar stand is the manic black-and-white-stripped red guitar commonly associated with Eddie Van Halen. Lilith walks through the living room and runs her fingertips over the headstock of the guitar, as a man’s voice, not Stygian’s, but…familiar…is heard from off screen.

Man’s Voice: I still can’t believe the two of you got it.

Lilith: It wasn’t hard, really.

Man’s Voice: Oh, I don’t know about that. I taught Eddie to play once upon a time, and he wouldn’t even give me one.

Lilah wanders in in a black sports bra with the pink Adidas stripes on either side, and matching running shorts. She has an incredulous look on her face as she takes a set of earbuds out and looks at the man behind the camera.

Lilah: You taught Eddie Van Halen how to play guitar?

Man’s Voice: Well, not exactly. Eddie already knew quite a bit before the fateful night that he first began experimenting with the minute and a half of awesomeness that would eventually blow the world away as “Eruption”. You see he accidentally played the forbidden eight-fingered chord that hadn’t been heard by human ears in 15,000 years; since the eight-fingered god of metal, Diozzy last inhabited the mortal world and kept the masses entertained by playing only the harshest and heaviest riffs on his guitar: a 1962 red vintage sunburst Les Paul stung with the hair of only the most beautiful seraphim angels and tuned by Zeus himself to never lose its tone.

Lilah: Wait, if this god of metal hasn’t been on Earth in 15,000 years, how did he play a guitar from 1962?

Man’s Voice: Even the gods have their limitations. None of the gods, not Diozzy, Hephaestus, or even Zeus could come up with anything that rivaled the ’62 Les Paul. Therefore, Diozzy travelled in time, as gods often do, and acquired one of the instruments from the limited run that was built by Les Paul himself. Legend says he offered Les immortality, but Les Paul was so happy to have his masterpiece in the hands of the Metal God, that he asked only that Diozzy tune one of his guitars. Diozzy did, but Les could never play that guitar in font on any other human being, lest they burst into flames from the sheer magnitude of the notes. And if you’ve never seen people burst into flames, it’s messy. I once vaporized an army of time-traveling Nazis with my smoldering gaze and a magnifying glass. They were Nazis, so they deserved it. But it was still an awful mess to clean up. Which I did, because I am nothing if not a consummate gentleman, even when disposing of the ashes of Nazis.

Lilith and Lilah both make the kind of face one makes when stifling a gag, until the man behind the camera chuckles.

Man’s Voice: As I was saying, Eddie played the forbidden eight-fingered chord that could have destroyed the universe if he’d held the notes for any longer than he did before I showed up to save it. I can go to other universes, of course, but I have a particular fondness for this one. No other universe has invented bacon.

Lilith: Really?

Man’s Voice: No.

Lilith: Wow.

Man’s Voice: So in order to save the universe’s bacon…

Lilith: …literally…

Man’s Voice: …I interceded and stopped Eddie Van Halen from destroying it with a single chord. I was, however, impressed that a mortal man figured out how to play a chord that he didn’t even have enough fingers to play, so I taught Eddie to conjure the lost voices of sirens and demons who still echo in the space between dimensions and imbue his guitar with them. It was with these voices that Eddie evolved the guitar and inspired, and continues to inspire a new generation of musicians.

Lilah: So Eddie Van Halen puts demons and angels in his guitars?

Man’s Voice: No, only their voices.

Lilah: I’ve seen those movies, summoning things and sticking them on guitars never works out.

Lilith: What movie has there ever been where someone trapped a demon in a guitar?

Lilah: Well, not in a guitar but hypoallergenicly…you know…

Lilith: You mean “hypothetically”?

Lilah: I’ve heard it both ways.

Lilith: Sure you have…she rolls her eyes.

Man’s Voice: Lilah is, of course, more astute than one would reasonably expect. Normally summoning vengeful demons and imprisoning angels doesn’t bode well, whatever inanimate object one traps them in. However, this was merely their disembodied voices from wars gone by. The mere echoes of these voices are so powerful that their mere presence can convey power. No angel is actually silenced, which would be a crime against life itself; and nothing is actually stolen from a demon, which would consign Eddie to an eternity of having hot, pointy things shoved into unpleasant places, which hurts an awful lot.

Lilah: That must be why!

Lilith: “Why” what? I hate it when you make these orphan statements.

Lilah: What did I do to the orphans?

Lilith: No, orphan statement, you say some random bit of nutcaseness without context and just leave it out there. “What” must be “why”?

Lilah: Well, like, whenever Jason listens to Van Halen, he does that thing where he closes his eyes and he air guitars, and he nods his head and he always says, “They all try, but nobody sounds like Eddie.”

Lilith: When you’re right, which isn’t often, you’re right. He does do that.

Man’s Voice: Yes, Lilah, that’s right. Eddie has the echoes of demons and angels in his guitars, and all of his imitators come close, but I’ve never shared that secret with any other mortal man.

Lilith: What about Jimi Hendrix? How did he play like that?

Man’s Voice: Psychotropic drugs and talent. I had no hand in that. Though I did play bass with him a few times. Not on any record or anything, just a few times at Electric Ladyland.

Lilith: Of course you did. Lilith smiles, before running her purple nails down the fret board of the instrument, looking back towards the camera. So is there any way of telling if it’s an angel or a demon in this one?

Man’s Voice: Has he played it yet?

Lilah: He’s barely stopped since he unwrapped it.

Man’s Voice: Has he played “Eruption”?

Lilith rolls her eyes and groans.

Lilith: Constantly.

Man’s Voice: And how does it sound?

Lilah: Good, but he says he’s known how to play it since he could first grip a guitar, so he’s practiced it a lot.

Man’s Voice: It wasn’t a question of technical proficiency, how does the song sound when he plays it?

Lilah: Oh, it’s all smooth.

Lilith: The notes kind of melt together, you can hardly tell where one ends and the next begins.

Man’s Voice: Angel, then. Definitely an angel. I still can’t believe you got your hands on one of his guitars. One of Eddie Van Halen’s guitars. He wouldn’t even give me one!

Lilith: He probably wouldn’t have given us one. The engineers at 5150 Studios, however…Lilith smirks…36 double-D is a universal access code.

Man’s Voice: Dare I ask?

Lilith: They were fans. They took a few provocative pictures with their phones, and they asked for us to sign their copies of our Playboy. Really cheap price to get your hands on Eddie Van Halen’s guitar.

Man’s Voice: And you’re not worried about those pictures turning up?

Lilah: Hello, we’ve been in Playboy. Like, anyone who wants to see our boobs totally already has!

Man’s Voice: True.

Lilith: Besides, if they turn up, we know who leaked them. Even today, Eddie Van Halen is paranoid about his equipment. Anyone who works for him has to sign non-disclosure agreements. Letting two women walk out of the studio with one of his guitars would probably be tantamount to breaching said agreement. First thing I’d do if one of those pictures turns up is call Eddie. He’d probably flex his legal muscles and sue them fro everything their families would ever be worth for the next millennium.

Lilah: Then we’d tell Jason where they lived and he’d go break every bone in their body.

Lilith: You’re referencing the wrong UECW Champion. Though, I would hate to be one of them when Jason got hold of them.

Lilah: But you’d want to be there, cause you get turned on by watching him beat people up.

Lilith: Can’t deny that.

Suddenly Lilah perks up her head and cants it to the side, like a cat when it hears something it likes.

Lilah: He’s here, that’s the Black Dragon.

Man’s Voice: Are you sure?

Lilith: She is. She can hear that car five blocks away.

Man’s Voice: Shall we, then?

Lilith: We shall.

Man’s Voice: Thee master bathroom?

Lilith: No, it’s actually kinda cramped after we put that shower in. Let’s go to the wet room instead.

Man’s Voice: Alright, I’ll see you there.

Lilith: Making a grand entrance?

Man’s Voice: You requested such.

Lilith: Indeed I did. Alright, go.

Lilith turns to Lilah and peels off her crimson Stanford T-Shirt, throwing it on the floor.

Lilah: What are you doing?

Lilith: Breadcrumbs.

Lilah: Oh, I hate it when crumbs get into my clothes.

Lilith: No…she shakes her head, turning and walking up the stairs. I’m leaving a trail for him; one I know he’ll follow. Now take off your fucking bra and come with me.

Lilah turns her back to the camera—in a happenstance that’s far to contrived to be coincidence—effectively censoring herself as she heads up the stairs, dropping the garment at Lilith’s direction as she shows off her nimble fingers, getting her bra unhooked without employing and of the cheating methods that most bra hooks force many a woman to resort to. Sadly, the camera doesn’t follow the girls. It turns to the sliding glass door in the back, getting a gorgeous view of the snow-capped Rocky Mountains and the Insurgency Wrestling Federation High Impact Champion. He’s dressed in his duster, a black Abstergo Industries t-shirt, jeans and Wolverines. He stops just inside the door on the huge rubber mat, removing the boots and setting them in a plastic tray that one assumes it there for just such a purpose; keeping Stygian from tracking muck all over the beautiful hardwood floor. He passes through the dining room, stopping at a closet near the edge to divest himself of his duster and hang it up and then he goes right for the guitar. He does this really cool twirl/flip to get the strap over his neck and he walks over to the huge bay window seat, where Lilith has deigned to let him keep his Line 6 amp for the time being. Eventually the novelty will wear off, and it will return to the back of his man cave with his amp stack. He picks up the lead and is just about to plug in when he sees Lilith’s Stanford t-shirt on the floor. Then he catches Lilah’s sports bra atop the stairs and he arches his brows. He drops the cable pulls the guitar off his shoulder, and returns it to the stand. With a rakish grin, he pulls off his t-shirt and tosses it near Lilith’s. he works at his belt going up the stairs, finally getting it and awkwardly shuffling out of his jeans atop the stairs. Thankfully he’s vanished down the hall be the time he’s got a mind to get out of his boxer briefs.

The wet room in the new house is much like the one Stygian and the girls kept in the penthouse. There’s a hot tub done in black ceramic tile as it the floor. There’s a steam room at the back of the room on the left, a sauna on the right. Lilith and Lilah are leaning against the back wall wearing purple and pink towels, respectively. Stygian walks in, thankfully (or perhaps unfortunately if you’re a woman, or a gay man, I mean, I’m just saying, David Boreanaz is a handsome man, and if someone had a gun to my head…or if I’d had enough to drink…no homo) the hot tub is elevated, so the camera can be creatively placed so as to obscure him from the waist down. He looks first at the hot tub.

Stygian: No bubbles?

Lilith: Uh…Jason…you’re naked…

Stygian: So are the two of you. Let’s see…

Stygian turns to face the hot tub, and then reaches down ti start the jets, there’ s a hum like Iron Man taking off and the water churns to life. Stygian smirks, turning to the girls once more.

Stygian: Now then…

Lilah: Jason, uh…what Lilith is trying to say…

Stygian braces an arm over either of the girls with an impish grin.

Stygian: Oh, she doesn’t have to say it.

Lilith: Really I do, or this is going to be bad. You see, we’re wearing towels, not naked, and the reason we’re wearing towels, and very, very much not naked is, well…

Lilith goes wide-eyed and points. In through the door comes the Old Spice Guy, wearing a top hat, smoking a cigar, and carrying a diamond-tipped black cane. Stygian turns, mouth agape as the Old Spice guy twirls his cane, knocks his top hat into the air and catches it on the end, takes the cigar from his mouth and shoots much more confetti out the end of it in a puff of smoke than should be able to fit in it, smiles at Stygian and says, in his trademarked honey being poured over dark chocolate voice…

OLD SPICE GUY: Well hello Drago…WOAH!

His eye is drawn down for a moment, and then he does the same thing most men do in a locker room, and tilts his head up to look at the ceiling, making eye contact possible only if he looks through the lowest end of his field of vision.

Stygian: Uhhhhhhhhhh…Old Spice Guy…how nice it is to see you again…

OLD SPICE GUY: When Lilith managed to send a carrier phoenix to my palace in the ancient, forgotten city of Atlantis, she said you would be happy to see me. She didn’t say you’d be that happy to see me.

Stygian: Oh, that. That’s for them.

He thumbs sheepishly over his shoulder. The Old Spice Guy hazards a glance down, carefully directing his gaze around Stygian, well over the afflicted area, and to the lovely, shapely, towel-clad women. He nods, as much as he can nod without having to see eye-to-eye with what the hot tub thankfully hides from us.

OLD SPICE GUY: Understandable. Now I see why they’re always smiling.

Stygian: Yeah…could you hand me a…

The Old Spice Guy grabs a long towel off the rack on the near wall and flings it at Stygian, almost before he asks.

OLD SPICE GUY: Done!

Stygian: One second…

Stygian turns his back, an then turns around to face the Old Spice Guy once again.

OLD SPICE GUY: Good god, man. Even with a towel over it, you could put someone’s eye out with that thing.

Stygian: Sorry…

OLD SPICE GUY: Well…do something, anything. Poke it with a needle, kill it with fire…just do SOMETHING about it!

Stygian shrugs, looking around sheepishly.

Stygian: We don’t have any duct tape in here…what would MacGyver do?

Lilith: IDEA!

Lilah: Match you for it?

The girls turn to one another and play a quick game of paper-rock-scissors, which Lilith wins, paper over rock. Lilith giggles and takes Stygian’s hand, looking up to the Old Spice Guy.

Lilith: We’ll just be 15…

Stygian: …20…

Lilith: …30 minutes, tops.

Lilith pulls Stygian out the door and across the hall.

OLD SPICE GUY: WELL AT LEAST CLOSE THE DOOR FOR GOD’S SAKE!

Lilith slips in beside the Old Spice Guy, and the two of them stare across the hall like a pair of people watching some manner of circus act, or an exhibit at a Ripley’s Believe it or Not museum; their heads tilted to the side and their mouths slightly open.

OLD SPICE GUY: She is flexible.

Lilah: I’m more.

The Old Spice Guy turns to her and gives her an appraising look.

OLD SPICE GUY: Really…

Lilah: 20 years of dancing, gymnastics, cheerleading in one form or another…

OLD SPICE GUY: Don’t…well…those…scroll down, look at the brunette in the sig, what “those” do you think he’s talking about… overbalance you?

Lilah: Til I got used to them.

OLD SPICE GUY: I do believe I need to travel to an alternate universe and meet your evil twin.

Lilith gives him an oh-so-innocent smile.

Lilah: What makes you think I’m not the evil one?

OLD SPICE GUY: Well played.

Lilith makes a noise, one that is almost so high-pitched that only dogs can hear it, but it barely registers to the human ear, and the pair of them turn back.

OLD SPICE GUY: How does he breathe from that position?

Lilah: I’ve been trying to figure that out for three years now. I’m usually not in a position to talk, much less ask questions when I’m in Lilith's place.

Finally the Old Spice Guy turns away, cam cuts to face him, as Lilah turns as well.

OLD SPICE GUY: So…this is awkward.

Lilah: Kinda.

OLD SPICE GUY: You should just go join them.

Lilah: If I do, you’ll be waiting a lot longer.

OLD SPICE GUY: Are you sure?

Lilah gets up on her tip toes and whispers in his ear. The Old Spice Guy’s eyes go wide in shock.

OLD SPICE GUY: No, there’s no way you’re tall enough…

He glances back over his shoulder and then looks down to Lilah.

Lilah: That’s what the harness is for.

OLD SPICE GUY: Oh…well, since we don’t have the time for that, take my hand. I think it’s time we took a quiet little detour.

Lilah: Hey, just because I share a man with another woman…and…well, share that woman with the man…whatever…doesn’t mean I’m easy!

OLD SPICE GUY: Lilah! I’m hurt. Why would you make such disparaging overtures towards my honor? I never insinuated anything of the kind.

Lilah: Well whenever Lilith takes me on a “quiet little detour”…

The Old Spice Guy laughs and pats Lilah lightly on the shoulder.

OLD SPICE GUY: Say no more. I understand. However I was suggesting that we merely travel forward in time until that…he nods towards the door Stygian and Lilith left through…is over.

Lilah: Ohhh, okay.

OLD SPICE GUY: Now, take my hand…

Lilah takes the Old Spice Guy’s hand and then vanish. The screen does one of those clockwork things where a line representing the passage of time circles around, and then Lilah and the Old Spice guy reappear.

OLD SPICE GUY: There, by my calculations, it’s been half an hour. He and Lilah turn around. Oh my…

Lilah: They’re always doing that. I swear to god, neither of them knows what a “quickie” is.

OLD SPICE GUY: I’ll say. Perhaps another half an hour?

Lilah: That might do it.

Lilah takes his hand again, and they bling out. Another line around the screen, and they reappear. They turn around. The Old Spice Guy jolts with shock, Lilah turns her head to the side curiously.

OLD SPICE GUY: How…how does she keep the ice cube from melting?

Lilah: She’s talented.

OLD SPICE GUY: This I can see. He sighs. It would appear my time-travelling ploy has completely and totally backfired! I think our absences are giving them an excuse to prolong this encounter. Not that I blame them, but this is getting absurd. The Old Spice Guy clears his throat. STYGIAN, LILITH, IT’S BEEN AN HOUR.

Lilith: [from the other room] If you leave now…I’m divorcing you…and taking Lilah…

Stygian: [from the other room] UH, FIFTEEN MORE MINUTES!

OLD SPICE GUY: ARE YOU CERTAIN?

Stygian: [from the other room] I PROMISE!

Lilith: [from the other room] Any more than that and I’ll need major spinal surgery!

OLD SPICE GUY: OKAY THEN. He turns back to Lilah. She’s quite voracious.

Lilah: Probably.

OLD SPICE GUY: You don’t know what it means, do you?

Lilah looks out the door, off camera again.

Lilah: I think I do now…

OLD SPICE GUY: Fair enough. Fifteen minutes, shall we?

The Old Spice Guy offers his hand to Lilah for what he hopes is the last time, and they bling, another clocked screen shot, however as it passes, Stygian is sitting on the edge of the hot tub, the black towel around his waist, and a bottle of Gatorade in hand when Lilah and the Old Spice Guy reappear.

OLD SPICE GUY: Black Dragon! Wonderful!

Stygian: It’s “Black Crusader” now.

OLD SPICE GUY: You’ll always be The Black Dragon to me. And to the ancient gods. And the Lizard People of Corvax. He looks around. Where is Lilith?

Stygian: She’ll be along shortly.

Lilith: [off camera] I think I slipped a disk.

Lilah: Of course she did. I tell her all the time, “Jason is too tall to do a Reverse Catwoman on without a spotter!” But do you think she listens to me?

Lilith: [off camera] Totally worth it! I think I need a new towel! Beat. And something to treat a friction burn!

Lilah rolls her eyes, and then dutifully grabs a rolled purple towel from a nearby closet, as well as a tube of aloe vera. She tosses them out the door one-by-one.

Lilith: [off camera] Thank you!

Stygian stands, twisting his back; sending a series of reverberating cracks up his spine. He swings his arms in front of him and off to the side until his shoulders and elbows crack, then he interlaces and folds his hands into one another and pops his knuckles letting out a big sigh when it’s all done.

Lilah: Sounds like you’ve had your workout.

Stygian: No kidding.

OLD SPICE GUY: Are you alright Dragon?

Stygian: I’m good, just, well, older I guess.

OLD SPICE GUY: Oh goodness. It’s worse than I feared!

Stygian: What is?

Lilith spirits in, tucking her towel around her boobs as she comes and nods emphatically.

Lilith: I told you it was bad.

Stygian: What’s bad? What’s going on? Is this some kind of intervention?

OLD SPICE GUY: I had hoped not, but I am afraid it has come to that.

Lilith: Look, Jase, Lilah and I were worried. The last couple weeks, these matches you’ve been losing…

Stygian: I wasn’t trying to win the one last week, I wanted to break James Shark’s arm.

Lilah: What about that tag match?

Stygian: I only lost that match because pretty much all of Upper Limit came out and helped Jason Hawk. Jason Hawk would lose 100 out of 100 matches against me straight up!

Lilah: Yes Jason, Upper Limit came down and beat you up. A year ago you would have seen that coming!

Lilith: A year ago you would have seen it coming and planned for it! You would have…I don’t know…hidden flashbangs in the ring posts. You would have had the ring fill with smoke and left them lying in a pool of their own blood. You’d have welded their door shut or shot tear gas into their dressing room!

Stygian: So that’s what this is about? I just turned 30 and the two, no, three of you think I’m slowing down?

Lilith rolls her eyes and sighs. She slides beside Stygian and rests her head on his chest.

Lilith: It’s not about you turning 30 and slowing down, lover. It’s about you thinking that you’re slowing down because you’ve turned 30. Jason, I did this a year ago. It’s a very human thing to feel this way because you just clicked over another zero number on life’s odometer. I turned 30 a year ago and suddenly I was seeing crows feet around my eyes the size of the Grand Canyon and I was thinking my ass was going to burst through my pants and, well, you remember.

Stygian: I do.

Lilith: Well you’ve gotten that way. If you’re a little stiff in the morning…

OLD SPICE GUY: It’s not little!

Lilith: I mean in his joints. She turns to the Old Spice Guy. Is that really still on your mind?

OLD SPICE GUY: It almost hit me in the chin; I’m not going to soon forget it!

Lilah: It’s a fair point.

Lilith: That’s what he said!

Lilith and Lilah laugh like that’s the funniest thing ever, they even give one another a hi-five…cue oblivious look from Stygian and the Old Spice Guy. Lilith gives them a scathing look in turn.

Lilith: Oh, so you guys can make “that’s what she said” jokes from here to hell and gone, and it’s all good, but we turn it around one time and you guys go stone-faced?

OLD SPICE GUY: It would help if your joke had been funny. But let’s not get into semantics, or protract this any longer. Stygian, I am here because these two enchanting beauties called me concerned that you had lost your swagger. They thought that the one man in this world who could help you rediscover it is me; the Old Spice Guy. So I have come, fresh off of celebrating Christmas with the moonlight people of Argus 4, which is a lovely planet in the Vegan Galaxy, and before my New Year’s Eve extravaganza in Shangri-La with KISS and the entire Lingerie Football League, to help you reclaim your Swagger.

Stygian: You mean try.

OLD SPICE GUY: I’m the Old Spice Guy, I do not try to help people reclaim their Swagger, I do it. If you weren’t such a longstanding friend I would be offended that you implied I “tried” anything. There is no room for try, not with me, and not with you!

The Old Spice Guy snaps his fingers, and the walls of the wet room split, sliding away like a movie set. The girls fall in around Stygian, who stands behind the Old Spice guy, at the foot of the summit of a huge mountain, in the snow.

Lilith: Is this…Everest?

OLD SPICE GUY: Indeed it is!

Lilah: Shouldn’t we be freezing to death?

Lilith: And suffocating? I mean the three of us keep in good shape, but not good enough to be on top of Everest without oxygen.

OLD SPICE GUY: Never to fear, you are all protected by my Aura of Swagger, until such time as the Black Dragon reclaims his own. But before we begin…

The Old Spice Guy puts his hands on his hips and looks into the camera.

OLD SPICE GUY: Hello ladies, and men, and domesticated pets, and woodland creatures, and mythical beasts of the fifth dimension. Thank you for attending this message. I understand that many of you have busy lives and hectic schedules, especially at this time of year. I have appeared to you at the climax of this most auspicious year in human history, one that saw the only mortal man in history try to challenge me for my throne and fail. One that nearly saw us have to toil without football or basketball; but I interceded on the behalf of the human race to avert both crises. It was a year that saw one of the better World Series ever played, and a year that saw the Mighty Black Dragon gain new purpose and new enemies. And while I respect the desire to go out and better oneself by seeking new challenges…

The Old Spice Guy turns to Stygian and pokes defiantly into the big man’s bare chest.

OLD SPICE GUY: …what I can’t respect is you attempting to forget your rightful place in the world and claim that someone who has defended the world from intergalactic conquest can so easily succumb to the passage of time. I will not accept this excuse from you, of all people. If you keep up at this rate, you will never be a World Champion again. You will be content with giving your best and being mentioned with the elite without being the first name out of someone’s mouth. You’ll be one of the best without being the best. You’ll be that guy they look at when they need someone for the champion to keep his claws sharp on before the big main event on the following week’s pay per view! My god, man! Do you realize how close you are to becoming Dan Alexander?!?! All you would need is an obsession with a tween pop star who can’t differentiate between you and every other guy she could date to make her father angry!

Lilith: At which point…

The Old Spice Guy cuts her off with a wave of his finger, never looking away from Stygian.

OLD SPICE GUY: Leave this to me. You summoned me here to find this man’s Swagger, now let me work. Lilith raises a brow, and bites her tongue. The Old Spice Guy goes back to prodding Stygian’s chest with his extended digit. Look at you, making excuses about age and injury when you’ve just spent longer satisfying a Playboy cover girl than most men would be able to last after seeing her disrobe her beautiful body.

Lilith grins and squirms at the compliment. The Old Spice Guy puts a hand on Stygian’s shoulder and directs him to look at the summit of Everest.

OLD SPICE GUY: I had a purpose in bringing you here, old friend. You know where we are, we’re atop Mount Everest, I told you that much. But do you know why I brought you here?

Stygian: I’m still trying to figure out…no, no I have no clue why you brought us here.

OLD SPICE GUY: Has it really been so long since you lived here, that you don’t recognize what the top of the world looks like?

Stygian: Is this that whole Black Dragon, lizard people, Mount Olympus thing? Cause you know I don’t remember that.

OLD SPICE GUY: I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about last year. This time last year you’d just won your first world title and nobody could stop you. Nobody could come close. Hades himself could have gifted Jason Bourne with a sword made from the steel harvested at the heart of Krypton’s red sun and smelted with radiographic Kryptonite and you would have crushed him. Now you’re…what? Scheming? Forming elaborate strategies that involve you getting injured and sacrificing your body to prove a point? You’ll never be a World Champion again at this rate, and you don’t deserve to be whatever champion you are now?

Stygian: IWF High Impact Champion.

OLD SPICE GUY: Pathetic, you used to be “World Title” and “Every Other Belt”. Now you’re proud of a lesser belt. Now you’re wasting your time scheming to retain it against the kind of man you would have destroyed without thinking twice a year ago. Putting yourself and these beautiful women in danger just to get the chance to try and break his arm? No wonder you don’t recognize the top of the world, you’ve abandoned it. What is the name of this pretender to your title?

Stygian: James Shark.

The Old Spice guy folds his arms behind his back and turns his back on Stygian, staring out across the Himalayas. At this altitude, at this time of the day, you can see the oblong rounding of the blue sky fading into black, where the planet’s atmosphere ends. Without turning around, the Old Spice Guy Speaks.

OLD SPICE GUY: I am familiar with this name. James Shark. I’ve heard it out of the mouths of the kind of people whose voice isn’t fit for my ears. I’ve heard nothing but praise for this man coming out of the mouths of the kinds of people whose praise nobody really wants.

Stygian: And what kind of people might that be?

OLD SPICE GUY: James Shark fans, of course. Nobody else would give such a detestable creature praise. When last we spoke, you were defending your UECW World title against Kevin Kayfabe, and I told you he was the lowest common denominator. James Shark is lower than that. He’s a decimal point on your winning percentage and the only reason he’s become even this important is because his name has been mentioned in the same sentence with yours for several weeks now. I’ve seen his matches, I’ve been privy to the videos he posts on youtube and ustream, and I’ve seen his name on twitter accompanied by the ubiquitous “hashtag swag”. James Shark thinking he even knows what Swag, or Swagger is, makes me laugh. I can say, irrefutably, without a moment’s hesitation that James Shark wouldn’t know what swag was if it walked up to him, slapped him across the face left-to-right with the finest pair of off-white duel challengement gloves and then kicked him in the testicles when he told it to run off and copulate with itself in the most ill-conceived response to a challenge since Mike Tyson told Buster Douglas to meet him in Tokyo. I invented Swagger, and this little rodent hashtags his own name with it because he thinks he knows what it is?

Lilith: You invented Swagger?

OLD SPICE GUY: I did. It was after winning a bare-knuckle boxing match with Hercules at the Grand Arena of the Five Galaxies, the remains of which you know today as Stonehenge. It was 2814 AD and I had just become the first undefeated intergalactic bare-knuckle boxing champion and I felt there needed to be a term both to describe the manner in which I carried myself, and the closes ideal to which a mortal man could aspire to being more like me, because what man wouldn’t and shouldn’t aspire to be me?

Lilah: Fabio?

OLD SPICE GUY: On the contrary. That Fabio challenged me and tried valiantly to take my title only shows that he aspired and desired to be like me; even if he failed pitpfully. That he failed should not be a point of shame. Indeed, the world needed a concept, something tangible they could ascribe such desire to. So I created the word to label it, and I created Swagger itself simply by being me. And if there’s one thing James Shark isn’t, it’s anything like me.

Stygian: There’s so many things James Shark “isn’t”, as it were. Coherent, literate, educated…worth my time…

The Old Spice Guy smiles.

OLD SPICE GUY: That’s starting to sound like it. Do you know what made you, you, Black Dragon? It wasn’t the matches you won or the titles you carried. It wasn’t even the company of beautiful women such as these.

I daresay Lilith and Lilah appear to be blushing.

OLD SPICE GUY: It was the fact that you knew you were the best. You didn’t have to plot and plan, you didn’t have to trend on twitter. You didn’t used to care about these things. If you want to be more ruthless? That’s fine. Call yourself what you will; Black Dragon, Black Crusader, Superman…whatever. I don’t care if you call yourself the Sultan of the Green Men of the Crystal Desert. Of Course the actual Sultan of the Green Men of the Crystal Desert might raise an objection, but I am confident you could defend your honor in their customary Duel of the Flaming, Barbwire-Wrapped, Scimitars. Not only do I think you would prevail, I think they would award you with the Golden Scorpion and make you an honorary member of the tribe.

Lilith: Wouldn’t he become the actual Sultan of the Green People of the Crystal Desert if he won?

OLD SPICE GUY: Of course not, don’t be ridiculous; he’s not green!

Lilith: I should have seen that coming…

OLD SPICE GUY: I have no doubt in your ability to do whatever you set your mind to, Dragon. I never have. From the time I saw you build a five-hundred story sandcastle in Australia, to the moment you took flight and incinerated that starship to save the planet, right through to when you actually made everyone, including myself, think that Kevin Kayfabe could defeat you in three matches, only to crush his spirits, his dreams and his soul by locking him into a casket and setting it on fire…

Stygian: I didn’t set it on fire.

OLD SPICE GUY: I know you didn’t, but you should have. That is why I will always remember you doing so, and fondly. My point is, Dragon, you’ve lost that sense, and forgotten who you are. Blackrock Spire used to rise so high that it eclipsed the sun from ever shining on Everest. You used to hoard gold from your lofty perch and rain down fire and death on anyone foolhardy enough to try and take what was yours. Everyone knew it was yours, what’s more important, you knew it was yours. That’s what I want you to do. That’s what I want you to be again, my old friend. James Shark goes on at great length to anyone who will listen that he’s going to whip your ass and take his third title. Do you hear the language? Do you hear it as he says it? His title. Times gone by, when a man challenged you for a belt, it was your title. Now some punk kid who doesn’t know what swagger is has exploited the fact that you’ve lost yours, blatantly disrespected you, flouted his ignorance and cavalier disregard for all things that are sacred and beautiful when two men grab a pair of blunt instruments and try to decorate the arena floor in each other’s blood. Is this the man upon whose desiccated ruins you will build your legacy in IWF? No. James Shark’s star has long been falling due to negligence and ignorance. You caught it, and you’re trying to polish it up to make it look more lustrous before you destroy it. But you, Stygian, do not suffer this kind of indignation quietly, you never have. And yet, here you are, wasting time building James Shark into more than he ever has been. You already proved you could polish a turd when you made Kevin Kayfabe look credible. Why do you want to repeat the trick? The Old Spice Guy shakes his head. You’ve inflated this man’s importance and self-worth. You didn’t used to do that. In days gone by, you used to catch a falling star and then spike it into the ground. Then you and these two beauties would do a highly pornographic end zone dance over the ruined shards of glass that remained. If you want to be called The Black Crusader now, fine. But don’t let the name make the man. Remember who you are. The Black Dragon. The Man of Steel. Stygimus Prime. The wrestling world is your domain. Your playground. Everyone who attacks you should be destroyed. Everyone who holds a belt that isn’t you, simply holds it because you allow them to, or they haven’t had the misfortune of having to defend it against you. Who does the Insurgency Wrestling Federation High Impact Championship belong to?

Stygian: Me!

OLD SPICE GUY: Who does the IWF World Title belong to?

Stygian: Me; and Brandon MacDonald better be taking pictures and making as many home movies as he can, because when he finally gets it in his head to man up, nobody’s even going to remember he even held the belt.

OLD SPICE GUY: Is that a fact?

Stygian: There will be monuments to spectacular failure he degenerates into once he sets foot in the ring with me. His name will become a verb. To “MacDonald” a world heavyweight title will come to mean to lose it badly when the real champion shows up to claim what you were only ever keeping warm. His children’s, children’s, Children’s children will be born with burn scars from the dragon’s fire he feels when he finally manages to get those two hired guns to get his testicles out of his wife’s purse so he can finally meet a real world champion.

OLD SPICE GUY: Good! And what of James Shark?

Stygian: There won’t be enough of him left. I’m going to turn James Shark into another verb. One that is the meaning in and of itself. The horror I inflict upon him and the manner in which I end his quest for a third championship will be self-defining. “Getting Sharked,” will conjure up images of such horror and visceral fear that you won’t need a synonym, but if there were to be one, the closest would be “extinction level event”. His wife better save the load he blows on her face in the locker room before the match, because that’s all that’s going to be left of him to bury.

Stygian smirks, turning and shaking hands with the Old Spice Guy.

Stygian: Lilith and Lilah were right to call you, I needed this. You’re right, you all were. It had nothing to do with my 30th birthday. It was Kaden Kessler kicking me into that grave. I’ve been questioning my own mortality. But that is done. I remember now. I remember my purpose, I remember my true strength, I remember my swagger. Thank you, my old friend.

OLD SPICE GUY: Outstanding! I’ll return you to your home in Denver.

Stygian: No need. MELTAGUN!

Stygian holds his hands out and fair catches the legendary flaming weapon of the Imperium of Man. He pumps the primer and fires it into the snow several times, creating a spectacular plume of sizzling steam. As the steam wafts away, Stygian hands the Old Spice Guy the meltagun and steps towards the rising steam, which parts and reveals the TARDIS.

Lilith: Oh wow!

Lilah: Hey, it’s a phone booth! You gonna step inside and turn into Superman?

If looks could kill, the one Lilith gives Lilah would have ended her family line.

Lilith: That isn’t a phone booth. That’s the TARDIS. Time And Relative Dimension In Space. It’s The Doctor’s vehicle.

Lilah: Doctor who?

Lilith: Yes. Doctor Who.

Lilah: Huh?

Lilith: The guy with the bow tie.

Lilah: Oh! Bow ties are cool.

Stygian: Indeed, but I don’t think I’m going to wear one. Let’s go. Old Spice Guy, always a pleasure.

Lilah: Bye Old Spice Guy!

OLD SPICE GUY: Goodbye, Black Dragon. Or should I say Black Crusader.

Stygian: No, you shouldn’t.

The Old Spice Guy smiles broadly, and his teeth even make that sparkling sound effect, his teeth are so white.

OLD SPICE GUY: Excellent. Goodbye then, old friend. Good by Lilith. Good bye Lilah.

The girls wave, Stygian nods, and they step into the TARDIS which vanishes. The Old Spice Guy turns back to the camera, his smile still beaming.

OLD SPICE GUY: And goodbye ladies, and men, and domesticated pets, and woodland creatures, and mythical beasts of the fifth dimension! My purpose here is served. I have restored The Black Dragon to his senses and returned his swagger to him. In fact, he just left in the TARDIS. I think it’s safe to say he’s got more swagger than he’s ever had before. I’ll see you around, when the time comes. For now, I’m off to the planet of sentient machines, so they can study me in the effort to finally create a weapon able to punch a shark in the face from low-earth orbit, because everyone knows how dangerous machine sharks can be, and that you shouldn’t get any closer to on than you have to when punching it. So, farewell.

Fade out tight on the Old Spice Guy’s beaming smile.

The TARDIS lands in a black room with a brick-wall-like pattern with glowing white lines where the grout should be. The briks themselves aren’t bricks per se, it’s impossible for bricks shine in the light the way these do, like the all-encompassing smooth, plastic surface of The Grid in Tron: Legacy Stygian, Lilith and Lilah disembark, still wrapped in their towels. Liliah’s mid-sentence when she steps out.

Lilah: …the hell can it be bigger on the inside! That’s like, physically impossible. You two are supposed to be the smart ones and you’re all just, “It’s bigger on the inside!” Like that’s any kind of an explanation!

Stygian: Does it matter, we’re here now.

Lilith: Yes, we’re here. Where the hell is here?

Stygian: Call it…Stygian draws the thought out pensively, before shrugging…call it Lower Blackrock Spire.

Lilith: Interesting.

Lilah: First we get in that phone booth…

Lilith: …phone box…

Lilah: …that’s “bigger on the inside” and now we’re in Blackrock Spire? Blackrock Spire doesn’t exist. Not in the real world. You made it up! You made it up and you took the name from Word of Warcraft.

Stygian: And yet…

Stygian drops to one knee and places his palm on the floor the white lines in the wall dim out in three equally-spaced rectangles of equal dimensions. Suddenly each one lights up around the perimeter in a different color; the left one is a dark pink, the middle one is deep gold, the one on the right is dark purple. Stygian stands again and the camera rotates behind the three of them, who just happen to be standing in the same configuration as their seemingly-respective doors.

Stygian: …here we are. If you find Lower Blackrock Spire too tacky, you could simply call it The Grid.

Lilith: Like in Tron?

Stygian nods.

Stygian: Or The Construct.

Lilith: Like in The Matrix.

Stygian: I think I prefer Tron, it’s held up better. Not weighed down by shitty sequels.

Lilith: Gesturing to the “doors”. I guess we go in?

Stygian snaps his fingers and the TARDIS closes, and the rooms inside the three Tron-lit doors light up, revealing each to be a long, walk in closet. The brightness of the lights, and the angle of the camera turns Stygian and the girls into silhouettes. Stygian chuckles lightly and undoes their towels, and then pull at his until Lilith casts it away. Stygian lets theirs drop to the floor and the three of them pace off to the doors and step inside. For some reason, from some inexplicable source, this music begins playing for the duration of the sequence described immediately following.

The camera angles are of course cleverly manipulated to tease flesh but show none of it as the footage quickly intercuts between the three of them. Stygian finds a black pair of boxers—Lilith and Lilah each pull up a pair of panties from behind on a split-screen—Stygian is clad in leather pants and doing up a black leather belt with a gold, glowing Templar cross—Lilith does up the hooks on a Victoria’s Secret bra—Lilith does the same—Stygian smooths a black wife-beater into place and a golden-colored Tron-line Templar cross blinks to life—close-up of Lilith’s cleavage as she does up the purple laces of a black corset—close-up of Lilah’s bra as she squeezes into a metallic pink halter top that is probably too small for her, but that’s kind of the point— Lilith zips up a black mini skirt with a purple lace hem detail—Stygian pulls a black leather duster out of a row of them and wraps it around him with a flourish. The camera slowly circles him as the buttons, each one of them a Templar Cross, Tron-lights up gold, as the camera circles around behind him, a huge Templar Cross does the same thing on his back; that is to say, it lights up like Tron. Stygian, now in full raiment walks out of the opposite end of the room, stopping to collect the IWF High Impact Title and put it over his shoulder.

The three doors are seen from the other side now. Gone are the white lines of the brick pattern. All there is, is that smooth, shiny, black surface that reflects anything the light lights up. Stygian, Lilith and Lilah exit through their respective doors. Though no source of light other than the doors can be found, they are well-lit regardless. It’s one of those subconscious that makes Tron and especially Tron: Legacy so cool and creepy at the same time. Go back and watch “Legacy”. Most of the Grid sequences, the actors are lit, but there’s no sun, no lamps, nothing. The girls flank Stygian, whose buttons, belt buckle, tank top, and presumably the cross on the back of his coat are all still lit up. He takes a breath, and smiles into the camera and the Daft Punk stops.

Stygian: I realize now that I have shortchanged Rick Christian and the Insurgency. I’m sorry for that. I’ve…when I left UECW, Kaden Kessler kicked me down a grave and parked a bulldozer on it. He took my UECW World Heavyweight Title and when Mike Nelson called me to open contract negotiations, when he lowballed me, I didn’t negotiate, I didn’t fight it, I hung up and looked for someone to pay me what I was worth. I took it when Rick Christian called. I signed the highest money deal I was given. In retrospect, that was a mistake. If I’d had any courage of conviction, I’d have stayed in UECW, gotten my title back, and been there when my rival finally reared his ugly head and returned. I’d be carrying the banner for what genuinely seems to be a resurgence. Stygian shrugs, sighing wistfully. There’s rumors floating around. Rumors that I’ve asked for my release, rumors that I’m not happy in IWF because the possibility of a Remington/Stygian UECW Title match, a match everyone knows we should have had a year ago, but Chelle Nelson screwed over because of personal interests. That match is…it’s…it’s Lesnar/Fedor. It’s Tyson/Ali. It’s the ’85 bears against the ’93 Cowboys. It’s huge. It’s too huge. Huge enough that the rumors circulate that I’m going to jump to UECW the first chance I get to take it. Some of the rumors are pretty outlandish. Some of my fans, my real fans, the Cult of the Black Dragon who traded in their Deathwing t-shirts for Crusader Crosses when I metamorphosed into this incarnation…they think I’ve been short-changing my IWF matches. Half-assing it so that I could be fired, or at least more easily afforded my release. They are right. Well, they are half right.

Stygian: It wasn’t the prospect of losing my IWF job so I could jump back to UECW and take the one match that every wrestling fan on the planet wants to see. It was the two days I spent in a medically induced coma. It was being buried alive. It was my wife nearly walking out on me because she felt I was in danger of getting myself severely hurt or killed. It was exactly what Lilith, Lilah, and the Old Spice Guy said. Kaden Kessler didn’t just take my title that fateful night. He took my heart. He made me realize, for the first time ever in a wrestling context that I am not immortal. That I am a man. He made me, and what’s more, he made the world realize that yes…Superman can bleed. Mickey Rourke says in Iron Man 2, and I’m paraphrasing, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I do nail it word for word, “If you could make God bleed, people would cease to believe in him, there will be blood in the water, the sharks will come. All I have to do is sit back and watch as the world consumes you.”

Lilah: Yeah, that’s it word for word.

Lilith: How do you…never mind…Lilah’s Paradox.

Stygian: That’s what Kaden Kessler really did that night. He made Superman bleed. He confronted me with defeat in a manner which I’d never faced it before. A defeat, a decisive defeat, on Pay Per View, for the UECW World Heavyweight Championship. And in doing so, in showing me that even if I’m Superman, there’s still just a man beneath the cape? He scared me. I’ve been scared, I’ve been fightinf scared, I’ve been running scared. Running from that night. I’ve held back. I created this…what…this Black Crusade because I felt like I couldn’t be the Black Dragon anymore. I felt like I couldn’t fly high above the world and land, rain down an ungodly firestorm of death and destruction, and take what I wanted? Stygian shakes his head. This isn’t to invalidate the Black Crusade, because its mission still stands. It’s still valid: destroy IWF. Tear it apart brick by brick, body by body, belt by belt. Make it so dark here, that someone has to dig deep and find a flashlight. Defy someone, anyone to become better than themselves. Better than tag-team champions who stel the belts and hold their heads high. Better than a world champion who stays relevant because of a mediocre talk-show on just about the lowest-rated major network in the country. Seriously, having a hit show on NBC isn’t hard, given what qualifies as a hit on a network that changes at least 50% of its prime time lineup each fall. Brandon MacDonald trends on Twitter and has friends in high places, that’s how that personality vacuum stays at the top of the card when he should be fighting for scraps with all the other UFC rejects. My mission is still to make things so bad that someone of you has to dig deep into his soul, or Rick Christian has to dig so deep into his wallet that someone is finally found who can stop my reign of terror.

Stygian: That starts, that truly starts Sunday. It starts with the dismantling of an IWF “legend”—realizing that any company where Brandon MacDonald can be world champion and Death Angel can be considered a Hall of Famer has a pretty wide definition of “legend”. It’s sort of like the definition of “retarded” in Texas. But IWF holds James Shark in grand esteem, because…well, I’ll never know. I don’t understand how this man attains legendary status. Yeah, he’s funny on the mic. Yeah, he’s built himself a grand persona that’s entertaining. So I suppose he’s something of a sentimental favorite to the IWF faithful. Okay. But “legend”…Stygian shakes his head.

Stygian: You know, so many words come up when describing James Shark. Legend, as stated. But do you know what opponents and peers so often say about James Shark? “Overhyped”. Yeah, that one gets tossed around a lot. Hey, I’m as guilty as anyone. I’ve done it. But the “overhyped” label is misplaced. It’s not true. When James Shark comes down to that ring, and he is clean, he is in shape, he is focused and he is in his zone? James Shark lives up to the hype. So “overhyped”? No. “Overhyped”…Stygian shakes his head again. He shifts the belt from one shoulder to the other. “Overhyped” takes the focus off of the words we should really be using to describe James Shark. Words like “unprofessional”. Words like “malcontent”. Words like “lazy”. Words like “wasted” as in, how you’ve been known to turn up at a live event on occasion, and what you did with your talent, James.

Stygian: Looking across the ring at you is really quite pathetic. You could have been so much, James, and you’ve let your personal problems weigh you down. You let your demons win. You’ve let a bunch of people leach off your back. They’ve bled your money out of you, and encouraged you to indulge your excesses so that you didn’t see them hooking up the IVs. James Shark, you’re a joke. You really are. All you can do is call me an “eight foot pussy white boy” over and over again. All you can do is spout the same act over and over, mix in some training montages, talk about your penis, and pimp your women to the camera. And it’s good you can do those things. Cause you know what you can’t do? You sure as hell can’t box. You sure as hell can’t fight in the octagon. You know how I know? If you could, you’d be there. Hell, if I could, I’d be there. I mean, let’s be honest James…you were a top name in the business. I am a top name in the business. Before you proved to be unreliable and basically incompetent, you used to get the kind of money I’m getting now. You used to pull down multi-year, seven figure deals. It’s good money, but it isn’t anything compared to boxing money. Pac-Man doesn’t even lace his gloves without $20 Million on the table. Hell if he ever gets that big fight with, well, Lilith will go on about “the wall” if I say his name, but if he ever can get that fight with you-know-who? They say each one of those guys leaves with $150 Million, minimum. If you could be making ten percent of that for fighting two, three times a year? You’d be doing it.

Stygian: And hey, MMA money is only getting better the bigger the sport gets. You know who I’m friends with? Not close, personal, hanging out on the weekends friends, but I have him in my cell phone and we follow one another on Twitter, friends? Brock Lesnar. Truth, swear to god. Brock and I crossed paths in New Japan. It was after he tried the NFL thing and failed, and before he tried the MMA thing and succeeded. In fact, I’ve been in the ring with Brock three times. Not gonna lie, I was still wet behind the ears and he’d been a multi-time world champion by that point…he kicked my ass. But we were good friends there, and we keep in touch here. I’m gonna be at the fight Friday, and he’s gonna be in the crowd Sunday. Before I wander too far afield, I bring this up because I know what kind of money Lesnar’s pulling down. Brock gets 500 Large just to show up, and takes home another 50k if he wins. In a normal year, when he’s injury free, he fights 3, 4 times? Two million a year! That’s not counting sponsorships, endorsements, other incentives built into his contract. Brock Lesnar gets that! GSP gets pretty close to $500 thousand a fight, and he too gets the $50 grand bonus for winning, and GSP pretty much always wins, and he fights three or four times a year. How much do I make a year? Bout $1.5 Million, and well? You know the life. On the road 30 weeks a year, minimum. Put through tables, set on fire, assaulted with chairs. It’s a hard life, it’s harder than a boxer or a mixed martial artists to be sure. They get to stay home most of the year, and travel to a venue only for their bouts.

Stygian: I’m making that, because I’m a proven draw, and I’ve proven my reliability. You…who’s had a litany of personal, professional and legal problems. Who’s been known to phone it in, or sometimes not even show up at all? You who was calling every wrestling, boxing, and MMA promoter you could think of and begging for a job? I’m sure IWF gave you low money with a lot of easy-out clauses. You have to work just as hard as any of us do, even the top-level guys. My point is, if you actually had the skills to be a top-level boxing or mixed martial-arts contender? You’d have cashed that check in a long time ago, and you’d be digging the kind of money I have in savings out of your couch.

Stygian: But you don’t have that, do you? No. Because you’ve wasted talent and potential. You’ve tried to coast by on a heavy right hand and the ability to take a punch. You’ve done it in every sport you’ve ever been in; boxing, mma and wrestling. And what eventually happened to you? In boxing and mma, your hit-and-miss work ethic and your tabloid lifestyle eventually got you overlooked and phased out. It almost did in wrestling, too. But wrestling isn’t like boxing or MMA. You can hide flaws in the ring. You can get by with some bad publicity. So where a finely-tuned combat machine like, given you’re a boxing heavyweight at 205 and an MMA Light Heavyweight…a man like well, either Klitschko or Jon Jones respectively would exploit your weakness and break you down over the grueling course of a championship fight, eventually exposing you for the half-assed work ethic and commitment you’ve had bite you in the ass on several occasions—in a wrestling ring there are plenty of Connor O’Shannons and Sean Libbys and Tyson Rowles for you to string wins together on and look like you’re still relevant. Wrestling is funny that way. You can be knee-deep in the muck at the bottom of the talent pool, but if you can hold the rest of the dregs under the water long enough, you start to look good. That’s all you have anymore James. This is your last grasp at stardom in a ring of any kind. If this doesn’t pan out, it’s Chapter 11 and liquidation of your assets. It’s Lillian filing for divorce and running back to her rich family, and selling her soul back to them. It’s out on streets for you, or failing that? Showing up half-crocked to a high school gym where some guy who has no business even being in the ring with a former IWF Champion beats on you like Rocky hammering a side of beef because putting a loss in your win column might be his ticket to the show.

Stygian: I still believe in the ideals under which I founded the Black Crusade, but not the bullshit I said as the Black Crusader. Now that I think about it, there’s no reason a Black Dragon can’t lead the Black Crusade. There’s no reason I can’t be The Black Crusader, the Black Dragon and Superman. If the Christian God can be triune, why the hell can’t I? I’ve at least proven my existence. So I believe in my mission statement, even if I’m not so sure about several other statements I’ve made thereafter. Like that bullshit about sacrificing your legend. I don’t need to sacrifice your legend, that’s a bunch of bullshit! Sacrificing your legend. This isn’t a sacrifice. This isn’t a reverent, quasi-religious ceremonial killing to honor a higher cause. This is nothing more than taking an old dog who’s had his day come and go, tying the rope around his neck, leading him behind the barn and shooting him. This is a mercy killing. It’s a kindness I do for Rick Christian and the IWF fans so that you don’t steal any more of their money by pretending to be talented. Yeah, you knocked out Death Angel. Death Angel is practically retired. He’s got one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. Oh, you knocked out Connor O’Shannon. Connor is a pale shade of what he used to be, and give that this is an Irishman so white he glows-in-the-dark? That’s a very pale shade. You haven’t had a quality opponent since returning…til Sunday.

Stygian: You have a match for the IWF High Impact Title. I say “match”. I don’t say “opportunity” and I sure as hell don’t say “chance” because you don’t have one. This is my defining moment in IWF, James. I’m going to give you one chance. A chance I’ve never given anyone before. The last time I was in any kind of title match, I lost it, and the shame was so great that I couldn’t return to that company. I’ll give you the chance to do what Kaden Kessler did to me at Pride and Glory. Here’s the belt, and here’s me. If you beat me? You can take the belt and I’ll walk away. I haven’t been here long enough that I’m intrinsic to IWF. I haven’t got any roots here. I’m sure Rick Christian has been so tired of hearing the Alexander Remington rumors that he wouldn’t mind releasing me. So that’s the long and short of it. Because I’ve worked very hard to get to this point. To rediscover my fire and breathe it into the air one more. For the first time since I got kicked down that hole I feel like myself again. Nothing missing, nothing broken. Power at 100%, boosters at maximum, shields at full power, and all weapons hot. So if you can beat me, in a title match, on pay per view, when I feel like this? Then I lied to Rick Christian when I signed my contract and said I could do in IWF what I did in UECW. When I said I could be one of his top guys and I could carry his promotion to the next level and carry his World Title. If I, the Black Dragon, the Man of Steel, the Last Son of Krypton cannot beat you; a broke, burned out, more often than not ill-prepared, lazy, unprofessional invertebrate with a four word vocabulary who still thinks dick jokes are funny? Then I will walk away from IWF because I don’t deserve to be here. Do or die, James. You always tell people how you’d wish I’d shut up. Here’s your chance to shut me up. All my chips are in the center and I’ve got pocket kings. If you pull the aces? It’s your ticket back to the top. You’ll be the High Impact Champion, and the man who sent Stygian back to UECW because he didn’t have what it took to play in the Insurgency. I’m offering you my title, and my legacy, and you know what? You won’t have the balls to take either. So keep burning up twitter with “hashtag swag”. Cause when people talk about me, after New Year’s Evil? I’ll still be “hashtag HiImpactChampion”.

The screen fades slowly out. The first ting to go dark are Stygian an the girls, who are still visible as silhouettes via the lit doors behind them, an all the lights still on Stygian. The doors blink out next. Then Stygian’s Templar Cross belt buckle, then the buttons of his coat, then the golden aura from the one on the back of his jacket fades. The last thing remaining lit is the Templar Cross on his chest. It, however flickers, and finally does indeed go out.