The Last Hero

Eck’s Saloon is a dive bar. It’s the kind of place Alison Williams wouldn’t be caught dead in. It’s the kind of place that the multitude of people responsible for handcrafting Brandon Macdonald’s squeaky-clean image would threated legal action over if anyone ever tried to say they’d seen him in. It’s a no-bullshit kind of a joint. It’s not trendy. It’s a good place to go if you want to meet up with tattooed ex-cons and Jerry Springer guests. It’s the kind of place where a spilled beer might lead to a brawl in which several pieces of furniture may have to be sacrificed to appease the whiskey gods. It’s also the kind of place where you’ll never see an “appletini” served. It’s the kind of place where you won’t see gel-headed, spray-tanned morons in Affliction t-shirts who call everyone “bro” and fist pump to stupid pre-packaged dance beats. It’s the kind of place where the aforementioned won’t have to say “come at me bro” twice. It’s the kind of place where nobody knows what the hell an Avicii is, and thinks a Skrillex song is an attempt to contact extraterrestrial life. It’s the kind of place where the jukebox doesn’t get much use, because there’s usually a live band cranking up the greatest hits of metal’s glory days. It’s definitely Stygian’s kinda place.

The clock on the wall says 3 o’clock as we fade in. The place is mostly dead at this hour. The waitresses are up at the bar, counting out. There’s a small group of men at a table in the corner, finishing off beers and laughing. Up at the far end of the bar sit Lilith and Lilah. Lilith is dressed in a sleeveless mini-dress with polished purple sequins intricately woven between black lycra with silver sparkles and black platform heels hooked into the crossbar of the stool as she picks at a plate of fries which seem to have been carpet bombed with ketchup with purple-nailed fingers. Lilah is wearing a black Def Leppard “Hysteria” album cover shirt that someone has cut up and redone to look more girly. She’s also wearing black lycra shorts and beat up pink Chuck Taylors as she is going to work on some toasted sandwich: bacon, turkey, tomatoes, swiss…looks damn good actually. She glances down and back up to her plate.

Lilah: I like those shoes.

Lilith: Thanks. You want to wear them Sunday?

Lilah: I haven’t really thought much about what I’m going to wear. We won’t be out there for very long. Jason says he’s not gonna let us stay out and watch the match.

Lilith: I don’t think I want to, anyway.

Lilah: Yeah, me too.

Lilith: I know he’s confident, I know he thinks he’s got this under control, but dammit! Three cages, weapons, and it’s not like he’s getting into the ring with Khaos. That’s Corey Fucking Casey. The man could build a cemetery out of the people he’s maimed beyond recognition.

Lilah: Lil, you’re…you’re really scared of this guy. You’re like, Alex Remington scared.

Lilith takes a swig of ice water and forces a weak smile to Lilah.

Lilith: As long as I’m not Corey Bull scared, right?

Lilah: You were always more scared of Alex Remington.

Lilith stares at her plate of fries and sighs.

Lilith: You’re right; I quit being scared of Corey Bull after the rematch. In some ways Corey…Corey Casey that is…is worse than Remington.

Lilah: Really?

Lilith: Alex Remington is frightening. He’s sadistic, calculating and scary. He’s mean, he knows how to hurt a man, but his endgame is winning. At the end of the day, more often than not, Alexander Remington just wants to beat Jason in a match. A very violent, very bloody match. But he just wants to be able to say he did it. At the end of the day Alex respects Jason. He respects Jason and he thinks wrestling is a better place with Stygian in it.

Lilah: And Corey Casey doesn’t?

Lilith: I don’t know what Corey Casey thinks about Jason when he’d not blindingly mad at him; seething with rage. That’s what scares me about Corey Casey right now. He’s in a place, a very dark place. He’s all the worst—the absolute worst—bits of Alexander Remington and Corey Bull. He’s calculating like Alex, and right now he’s rage-fueled and completely depraved like Bull. I don’t think he knows or cares what he’s going to do beyond inflicting the most mind-bending, soul-crushing pain and torture he can think of.

Lilah: Yeah, but…

Lilah cants her head to the side thoughtfully for a few seconds, pausing to sip from some kind of dark, icy soda.

Lilith: But what? Don’t leave me hanging on one of your idle thoughts!

Lilah: Well, Jason is plenty violent, too. He’s sadistic, geeze, you ought to know that better than anyone. He can hurt people. He can fight on that level. He likes those kinds of fights.

Lilith: I know he is, and I know he does. I just hope he’s not in over his head is all. I hope he’s got his head in the right place.

Lilah: Honestly, the scariest I ever saw him was when he was trying to get you back from Corey Bull.

Lilith: He would have been just as determined if you had been the one Corey Bull kidnapped.

Lilah: But it wouldn’t have been the same. I know I’m all equal and stuff. I know you’re going to start slapping me if I keep calling this a “fake wedding ring”. But this isn’t about that. You bring out something in him. Something I couldn’t. There’s something about you that unlocks that dark place in him. If you really want him thinking like that, maybe you should do whatever it is you do to bring that out in him.

Lilith arches her brow and glance over to the front door, where Stygian steps in through the front door, carrying a black guitar case.

Lilith: You may be on to something. She leans in to whisper to Lilah. Mind sleeping alone tonight?

Lilah: Is it going to get him into that mood so he comes back from the Hellzone in one piece?

Lilith: Damn right.

Lilah: Then, he’s all yours. I’m worn out from tonight anyway.

Stygian clears his throat, stepping in behind them. He’s dressed in a red shirt with crazy black and white stripes just like the paint scheme of Eddie Van Halen’s most famous guitar, and black jeans with black wolverine boots.

Stygian: What are you two whispering about?

Lilah: I was just telling Lil about how tired I am. Can’t believe it. I mean I just sit there.

Stygian: Drumming. You’re holding your arms out almost constantly and banging into objects feverishly. And you’re not just some mewling quim, you attack those motherfuckers like Tommy Lee.

Lilith: He’s right, you are rather animated back there.

Stygian: And this place is a sweatbox when it’s packed, and it was tonight.

Lilith: Who knows when we’ll have the chance to get Breath of Fire together again?

Stygian: I think they’re more interested in the hot lead singer.

Lilith: Most of them seemed to want autographs after the show.

Lilah: I think I’ve seen more copies of that Playboy than they actually printed.

Lilith: Jason and I were just having that discussion the other day.

About that time, the men from the corner wander up to the gathering around the end of the bar.

Drunk Douche: We’re ready for ‘nother round. Punctuated with a rather loud belch in the vicinity to Lilith’s face that makes her face screw up and makes her cough and fan her face to try and get fresh air.

Stygian sets the guitar case down on the bar and turns to face the men. Expecting trouble, the bartender comes running down on her weary feet.

Bartender: Hey, what’s going on here? What can I do for you guys?

Drunk Douche: Yeah, we want another round.

Bartender: You guys missed last call. We’re closed now. Thanks for coming in.

Drunk Douche: Yer givin’ them drinks!

Bartender: They were the band, and they’re personal friends of the owner.

Lilah: And just about everyone else in here. Except you jerks.

The drunk and his pack of friends turn to the busty brunette.

Drunk Douche: That a fact?

Lilah: Yeah-huh.

Drunk Douche: You got a big mouth.

Other Drunk Douche: Goes with her big boobs.

The drunks laugh.

Drunk Douche: Bet you wouldn’t be such a mouthy little cunt if you didn’t have the Black Fag-on over here looking out for you.

Lilith: He didn’t…

Stygian: I believe he did.

Stygian goes to make a move, but Lilah stops him.

Lilah: Don’t get your hands dirty.

Lilah slides off the stool and gets face to face with the inebriated gentleman who seems to be what passes for an alpha male amidst this pack of booze hounds.

Drunk Douche: Honey, I ain’t gonna touch you, not what that big dumb faggot standing there.

Lilah: Fine.

Lilah waves a hand around the bar.

Lilah: Pick your poison.

Drunk Douche: What?

Lilah: I see darts, I see air hockey, I see fooseball, I see a ton of pool tables. Take your pick.

Drunk Douche: An’ what, you’ll play me?

Lilah: Yep. If I win, you and your friends go home without any more bitching.

Drunk Douche: And what if I win? She reopens the bar?

Bartender: Lilah, we can’t do that. It’s against the rules and it’s illegal.

Lilah holds up her hand and silences the lady behind the bar.

Lilah: If you win I’ll give your friends a table dance, and I’ll finish it off by giving you a lap dance.

The guys all seem to think this is a good idea.

Drunk Douche: What kinda lap dance we talkin’ here?

Lilah: All the way down to my panties, but no touching.

Drunk Douche: You’re on!

Lilah: Pick your poison.

Drunk Douche: Pool!

Lilah shrugs. Stygian and Lilith wince. Lilith shakes her head and whispers to the big man.

Lilith: Stupid, so stupid. Fell right into the trap.

Stygian: We can’t control her.

Lilith: I know.

Lilah struts over to one of the pool tables, feeds the quarters in, and slips down to the end of it.

Lilah: I’ll rack.

Drunk Douche: You can say that again.

Lilah: You break.

Lilah rolls her eyes. She gets the balls all set and lifts the rack clear. She replaces it in its slot and takes one of the house sticks off the wall as the drunk lines up and hits a loose break, leaving a large cluster of balls bound in the middle.

Lilah: What’d you sink?

Drunk Douche: It’s open.

Lilah: With that half-assed break, I should have known.

Lilah grasps the base of the stick in her left hand. Stygian whispers to Lilith as Lilah bends down and lines up her shot. The rest of the men seem content to leer down her shirt and make suggestive jokes under their breath.

Lilah: Jesus, guys, I posed for Playboy if you really want to see them.

She promptly lets fly with a shot that crashes into the balls still clustered in the middle of the table, knocking in two stripes.

Lilah: Well, looks like you’re solids.

The rest of the game plays out in time-lapse fashion, set to Dire Straits’ “Walk of Life”. Lilah and the man take turns knocking in shots, missing them and waiting for their opponent. After what looks to be a good back and forth in about 95 seconds, there’s the point where the table is very nearly cleared off. The drunk misses putting the 4 in the side pocket. The picture slows down as Lilah bends down and eyeballs the 11, bracing the cue in her left hand. She takes a deep breath and knocks it into the corner pocket. The cue ball drifts back to the middle of the table and lines up with the 8 and the side. The drunk and his friends groan.

Lilah: 8 in the side.

Drunk Douche: No shit.

Lilah naturally sinks the shot and the drunks all grumble.

Lilah: That’s that. Now G-T-F-O.

Drunk Douche: You cheated.

Lilah: How?

Drunk Douche: You loose racked them, fucked me from the first shot. I want to go again and rack em.

Stygian leans over to Lilith.

Stygian: Whispering Are we gonna let her do this? It was sheer luck that it went down that way?

Lilith: Whispering The foolish have to learn their lessons the hard way.

Oblivious to the hushed conversation, Lilah furrows her brow and huffs.

Lilah: Fine, one more time, you rack this time, I’ll break. This time if you lose? I don’t stop Jason from kicking your ass out the door.

Lilah walks up to the bar.

Lilith: Lilah, are you sure you want to…

Lilith silences her with a death glare. She grabs the empty shot glass and the bottle of Johnny walker sitting in front of Stygian, pours a shot and downs it. She looks at her reflection in the mirror.

Lilah: Jason, where is she? Did you take her out with the instruments and put her in the van?

Stygian: I always pack her and the other two last, just in case we fancy a game before we head home.

Lilah: Then get her.

Stygian: You sure?

Lilah: Get her!

Stygian starts as she snaps. He chuckles and reaches behind the bar, pulling out a small black case replete with pink Playboy Bunny stickers. He hands it to Lilah, and sne walks back over to the table where the game is to be played. One of the drunks offers Lilah the stick she’d used for the last game, she smirks and sets the case on the next table. She pulls the stick out in two pieces. The end is polished black, with chrome silhouettes of a woman inlaid over the screw of the haft like on a mudflap. The base of the stick is polished black, but the threaded grip is done is a nice, deep, rick pink which seems to be the brunette’s favorite color. She spins the two ends together til they click and holds the custom cue up like the Sword of Greyskull.

Lilah: Isn’t she pretty? I call her “Ballbreaker”.

The drunk cadre of troublemakers all stare at her mouth agape.

Lilah: It was my break, right?

Lilah bends over, this time nobody’s looking at her boobs, which is a shame. She shoots right-handed this time and leans into a rocket off the break. The cue blasts through the cluster of acrylic, sending them rocking around the table, and knocking in the two solids at the corners.

Lilah: Now that was a loose fucking rack.

This time, no time lapse set to music is necessary, though “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” would be appropriate. Lilah lines up another shot and knocks it in. She stalks along the edge of the table to where the cue ball has settled behind three stripes. She flips the stick around behind her back and banks the cue off the cushion, when it comes off, it curves around the line of balls and knocks the 6 into the side pocket, before rolling to the middle of the table. She steps around and lines it up, hitting a missile into the 5, which grazes the 3 on the way by. They both trickle into the same corner. She jumps the cue over the 1 and then it spins back to knock that ball into the side pocket. The poor two hanging on the edge of the other side is easy pickings. All that’s left is the 4 and the 8. She taps the corner pocket with the butt of her stick.

Drunk Douche: The fuck are you doin’?

Lilah: Calling the 8.

Drunk Douche: You still got the 4!

Lilah: Don’t worry, she’ll go down first.

Lilah sights in on the cue. She hits it into the 4. The 4 starts rolling towards the top rail. The cue then hits the 8 and sets it rolling. When the 4 bounces off the top rail, it careens back into the cue which deflects it towards the far corner. The cue hits intot eh 8 on the rebound and starts creeping towards the other corner at the same end of the table. Every eye in the room watches as the 4 drops into its pocket, and then the eight barely has enough gas to trip over the edge of the pocket and fall in. Lilah holds the cue up and blows chalk from the end of it, like smoke from a gun.

Lilah: UNLV inter-dorm champion eight semesters in a row. Now get the fuck out.

The man who was to be her opponent slumps and nods, rounding up his men and making for the door as Lilah knocks in all the other balls as well. She’s already broken down her stick as she rejoins Stygian and Lilith at the bar.

Lilith: That was hilarious.

Stygian: Guy pissed you off a little.

Lilah: A little? I broke out Ballbreaker and played right-handed, he really pissed me off.

Lilith: Fair enough. I’m going to use the little girls’ room.

Lilah: I’m with you.

The pair of them meander off. Stygian watches them go for a moment before pouring himself another shot and turning to face the camera.

Stygian: I oftentimes find myself wondering if any other predatory species enjoys the luxury of looming over their prey and savoring the moments before the kill. What am I talking about? Really my life in general. You see this match coming up…it’s unleashed a beast inside of me that I’d forgotten how to be. It’s been wonderful. I’m going to go home with those women in about half an hour and do something diabolically predatory and deeply pornographic to both of them. I suppose I, and they have you to thank for that, Corey. I feel alive again. For the first time in a long time I feel…I don’t think I quite know how to say it. This might just be the biggest match of my life. I’ve won four world titles. I’ve been in 16 world title matches. I’ve been in front of full houses at some of the largest and most famous arenas in the world. But this feels bigger than any of them. This is a chance to prove something. This match, this opponent, they’re both ground-breakingly significant. There’s only a handful of names you could put into this match that would get the wrestling world going like this. This structure I’ve created, this playground of pain! There are a lot of men who don’t belong in it. There are a lot of very good professional wrestlers who don’t belong in this environment. Wonderful, talented, hall of fame caliber performers who couldn’t climb into this thing. Brandon Macdonald? Some say he’s the best in the brief history of this company. Some say he was the best in the world when I retired him. Can you imagine him in this match? Hell no! He wouldn’t use half the weapons. He’d try to go about it in his clinical, sterile, professional technical martial arts style. Don’t get me wrong, Brandon was good. He was great at what he did. And he had toughness in spades. Hell, I needed five Baneblades to put the motherfucker down! But he’s boring. Athletic ability like no other, technical prowess beyond reproace, toughness to spare…but he doesn’t have…

Stygian: There’s something men like you and I have, Corey. Something deep inside. I don’t know that I can explain what it is or where it came from. It’s not something so trivial as being molested by a priest, or beaten by your father. It’s not a chemical imbalance. It’s not something that a psychologist can point to. It’s not a thing that can be treated with medication. It’s not madness. It’s not insanity. There’s a difference between Syco Angel locking Hostyle Jones’ sister in a cement case and torturing Hostyle with a strap around his neck while he forces him to watch her struggle against death. Those are the actions of madmen. I know you’ve been in the ring with madmen. God knows I have. I was in the ring with a man who kidnapped my wife and sent me videos of her bound to a chair in humiliating outfits while he tortured her and then his dyke sister molested her. I had a maniac build up a beautiful girl next door, made her think she was the next great contender in this sport and conned her into a match with me, only to drive a barb-wire baseball bat into my skull and try to end my career while pretending to be her “manager”. I’ve known madness. Corey Bull, Syco Angel, Salazar Darke, Shadow Demon, Tyson Rowle…I’ve seen madness, Corey.

Stygian: But there’s a difference between carrying around a two-by-four stuck full of nails and naming it after a woman because it’s the only thing in this world you could conceivable love, between carrying around a bag of thumbtacks to slam your opponent onto, between kidnapping a man’s loved ones and torturing the for fun…there’s a difference between that, and tossing Dan Alexander spine first into the ring steps with such precision that it breaks his back and quite probably cripples him. We’re not mad men are we, Corey? We’re surgeons. We’re tacticians. There’s always a method to our madness. I’m probably the first man who realizes that about you. “The Most Violent Man in Professional Wrestling”? “The Lord”? Those are fronts. Those are bedtime stories you spread around the locker room. They’re images you carefully cultivated for the camera. They’re tools you used. You used them to make the madmen think you’re mad. You used them to make the crazies think you’re crazy. You neither of those things, Corey Casey. You’re not a maniac, you’re a sadist. You derive pleasure from inflicting pain. There’s nothing wrong with admitting it. I do. I’m a sadist. Just ask Lilith sometime. I like hurting people.

Stygian: I wonder, Corey, if any other predator on the planet has the luxury of looking at its prey and savoring the moments before the kill. Does a wolf watch a hart move through the forest, grazing in a clearing, and dream about the moment he runs her down and sinks his teeth into her? Does a tiger savor the fear in the eyes of a gazelle when he takes it down? Does a lion smile when he thinks of the weeping of the mate and the offspring of the zebra he just devoured when daddy doesn’t come home? Because let me tell you, Corey: A Black Dragon does. My blood starts pumping when I think of that wretched creature you intend to wed in two months weeping at your bedside as you lie there, unresponsive. My heart races when I think of the little Casey twins in their cribs crying when that contemptible shrew tells them that daddy isn’t coming home again. I smile with sheer glee when I think of all the father/son games Corey Casey will never play with his twins because he’s a quadriplegic. I savor these moments leading up to the kill. I savor the vision I have in my head of the ambulance backing down the ramp. Jessica Matthews’ mascara running as she cries, watching from a private room somewhere in the arena, big brother Chuck puts an arm around her and promises “Corey will be fine” and he’ll “get the bastard” for shattering little sister’s world. The breaking news all over the dirt sheets with your smiling goofy face smiling from a file photo in an upper left corner as the story proclaims the end of your career. I will savor all the will-wishes on twitter. I will savor all of the people decrying me for heartlessly and brutally ending your career when you’ve got kids to feed. I will relish it even more than when I go into Barnes and Noble in every city I’ve gone to since I came back to IWF and seen stacks upon stacks of hundreds of unsold Sayge Gemson books. I will treasure the memory of snapping your spine even more than either of my weddings.

Stygian: The bottom line is quite simple, Corey. I don’t like you. I haven’t liked you since I got here. You are easily the most two-faced, dishonest, back-stabbing, lying, manipulative son of a bitch on the roster. You let Rick Christian fire me as a “test”. A test? I needed a test? I was the Insurgency Wrestling Federation World Heavyweight Champion. I’d just beaten the most prolific champion in the history of the company and retired him. I didn’t need a test, and it wasn’t a test. You just didn’t want the Black Dragon coming for the rest of your little boy band. There was never any test. You wanted Upper Limit to be dominant, and you took one look at me and you knew you were outgunned. Upper Limit, the last gasp for all of the people who failed to keep NLWF afloat to try and make one more grab at stardom. I retired your big gun, Shark turned on you, and the whole thing sort of just fell apart, didn’t it? That little cadre was doomed from the start; most stables in IWF are. You weren’t testing me, you were eliminating a threat. Because that’s the kind of bullshit artist you are, Corey. You’re the kind of a man who will reach out to a guy on twitter, tell him he’s welcome to return any time with open arms, enlist him because you need him to fend off an attack from Chance Rugani, and when he does help you? Call him out on Battle Grounds and publicly humiliate him and fire him because he said something offhand that you didn’t like.

Stygian: Yeah, I got an offer from WEW. Yeah I entered into negotiations with them. Yeah, if they would have given me what I wanted, I would have signed. Rick Christian just fired me with your blessing. What was I supposed to do? Crawl out on battlegrounds, grovel at your feet and beg? Maybe that’s what losers like The Ninja or Sean Libby have to do, because nobody else will take them. But I’m seven feet tall. I’m 315 pounds. I’ve got 5% body fat. Put a live mic in my hand and I destroy whatever I set my sites on. Forget all these assholes throwing pipebombs, I drop hydrogen bombs! I can afford to pack my bags and go. Insurgency Wrestling Federation needs Stygian more than Stygian needs Insurgency Wrestling Federation. I can safely say that about, oh, 99% of the wrestling companies in the world, up to and including WEW. I can get a forum to talk, a ring to compete in, a live mic in my hand and t-shirts with my face on them anywhere in the world. Take a look around. Between satellite proliferation, cable saturation and internet broadcasting, there are a hundred “venture capitalists” piloting “start-ups” trying to do what Chuck Matthews did a year ago, or what Jim Crockett did in the 80’s, or what Verne Gagne did in the 60’s and 70’s. I can find a hand out and a seven figure deal anywhere I want, where are you going to find another seven footer with my build, my skill, movie star good looks who brings two beautiful Playboy models to the table! Where are you going to find that?

Stygian: Corey, you’re one of these men who I wish I could buy for what I thought he was worth, and sell for what he thinks he’s worth. “The Most Violent Man in Professional Wrestling”. You’ve built your legacy largely in a specialty match mostly against hand-picked opponents. You’ve done little with this company but grind axes, carry out vendettas and try to put your friends over. You brought in Nick Ridicule just to beat him up. You let Dan Alexander back in after he stooped so low as faking his death…just to have a grudge match with him. You’re not a violent phenom skilled in the arts of delivering pain; you’re a petty dictator making your enemies do a danse macabre for your amusement. That’s why I didn’t want the double cage. For too long people haven’t been fighting the war with you the right way. They haven’t taken the fight to you. They’ve wandered into your minefield with a pick axe because you told them gold was buried there. But I didn’t fall for your bullshit.

Stygian: I designed this match to inflict the most unbelievable amount of pain imaginable. I designed it to break one, if not two men. You’ve been spoon-fed screened opponents in your special structure of slaughter for years. I wanted something never before seen. Something never done. Something nobody has ever thought of in their most twisted, depraved thoughts. Admit it Corey, if you’re going to go out, you wouldn’t want it any other way. Who better to be the man who destroyed the Holy Trinity of Insurgency Wrestling Federation? Who better to be the last man Brandon Macdonald ever got in the ring with. Who else is worthy enough to engage “The Most Violent Man In Professional Wrestling” in the most brutal match ever conceived? What’s a better monster than the Black Dragon? Admit it, Corey; three cages, weapons, instruments of torture, and the biggest, meanest motherfucker who will ever been seen in this company. You couldn’t have conceived a better ending to your story if you were able to make your nightmares tangible.

Stygian: I came here to clear away the relics of NLWF’s past. Slowly but surely they’re fading. Chuck Matthews, Brandon Macdonald, James Shark, Johnny Styles…you’re all being snuffed out like candles one-by-one. It’s not about the five million, it never was. It’s not about the IWF Title. I don’t need that to prove my rightful place on top of the company. Look at Steel Angel and look at me? Really, that’s all one needs to do. Don’t get me wrong, Corey. I’m still the Real IWF World Heavyweight Champion. Nobody ever beat me for the title, and nobody ever could. And I’m going to take that five million dollars and…well, I haven’t made any plans for it. I happened to sell off a valuable patent recently, so maybe I’ll just blow your five million on a new man cave as big as my house. I haven’t figured that out yet. I haven’t figured out anything past Sunday. I’ve spent this week here, in Denver. Training in my own gym. Eating at my own table. Sleeping in my own bed. I’ve gotten back to the baseline. I’ve reset my focus, and calmed my mind. I found the last traces of fear I possessed and eliminated them. I’m ready to step into the Hellzone with you. I will leave Lilith and Lilah at the stage and send them to the back. And when that door locks, when that bell rings, I will wage the kind of war upon you that you have never seen in your life. I’ve never liked you, Corey. I’ve made it my mission to systematically destroy your professional life. I took the greatest title from your company, and paraded it around the world like a trinket. I corrupted and tainted the one pure thing you had left in this sport. You owe your vaunted double cage horror streak to me. It’s mine. I have wounded your dreams and stolen your pride. The only thing left for me to do is break your body. Some legends say the beast of Ragnarok is a mighty black dragon. You will meet that beast Sunday. You will gaze into his evil eyes, smell the brimstone on his breath, and feel his razor teeth as they tear your world asunder. All shall burn. You’re the last of IWF’s heroes. Once you fall, there will be nobody left. In this land you’ve defended from all things dark and cruel, now you’re defenseless in the land of the Black Dragon’s rule. Because that’s what’s going ot break you, Corey. It won’t be the pain. If you could have been broken by pain, it would have been done long ago. It won’t be the humiliation of having to attend your wedding in a wheelchair. If humiliation could break you, Gunther would have had that honor two years ago. It won’t even be the sorrow of having your sons ask you to go play catch, and crying when you have to explain to him that the injuries the big nasty man inflicted on daddy are flaring up, and he can’t play today. If sorrow could break you, you’d have given a Beretta a blowjob after the Super Bowl. It will be when you turn on your television every Saturday night. When you see me with the belt you failed to recover, with my foot on the throat of the company you failed to defend…you know, it’s kind of a funny thing. The only way to kill you, is to kill IWF, and the only way to kill IWF is to kill you. To modify a line from Nick Fury in The Avengers: Birds…

Stygian points at the camera, and symbolically at Corey Casey, and really every IWF wrestler, fan, and employee.

Stygian: Stone.

He turns those fingers right back on himself. About that time, Lilith and Lilah step back into picture.

Lilah: Are you done yet?

Stygian: Just finished.

Lilah: Good. I’ve had the least to drink, I’m driving.

She heads off, but Lilith stops the big man. She reaps her arms around him and presses her lips to his. She leans into him and shoves him down onto the bar stool, giving him a wicked smile when her lips part form his.

Stygian: Now Lilith, you know we can’t do that in here ever again.

Lilith: That’s all you’re getting for now.

She takes Stygian’s hand and transfers something form her hand into his, but closes his fingers around it while she talks.

Lilith: Lilah’s sleeping in the spare tonight.

Stygian: Why? Is she mad at one of us?

Lilith: No. You have training. Someone needs to get you into the proper frame of mind. Lilah and I agree I’m the best person for the job.

As she walks away, Stygian opens his hand, unveiling a bunched up wad of purple lace. He dangles the garment from his fingers with a confused look.

Stygian: Why do I have these?

Lilith: I thought a man with advanced degrees in applied sciences would be able to grasp the principles of simple deductive logic. If they’re dangling from your finger, then I’m obviously not wearing them anymore.

She gives him a sultry, lingering gaze as she turns and walks away from Stygian. He balls the garment up into his palm and takes off after the blond.