May 23, 2014- 12 days left…

It’s been so long…

I haven’t felt this way in so long…

This…

Desire…

This… craving…

I want to hold you…

I want to touch you…

I want to reach out to you and make you mine… To wrap your arms around me…

And leap from a cliff…

So that once you accept me… You can never take it back…

Can you not see my dedication? My devotion?

It’s all for you…

I’m putting myself through the most unimaginable agony… Through unspeakable torment… Every cell in my body screaming, howling, submerged in a sea of burning excruciation...

For you, my love…

Do you not appreciate my sacrifice? My offering of rose-colored blood on your doorstep. My flesh torn apart, my organs, my arteries, exposed so I can’t hide a thing from you.

I don’t want anything coming between us, sweetheart.

You’re too innocent a girl for that…

Can you not comprehend how deeply pure my love for you is?

…

Shh…

You don’t believe me, yet…

You’re still so far away…

I remember the first night I saw you…
***
May 12, 2014
Frodo walks down to the ring accompanied by his two kids, Joseph-Gordon, Katie and his manager Crack. As Frodo walks down he waves at the crowd as if he were royalty. Once in the ring he removes his hoodie, hands it to Katie and climbs the turnbuckles pumping the crowd up. If they seem unimpressed Katie just shoots them a smile, their hearts melt, and they cheer.

JOEY STYLES: "A touching family display.”

MARK FLYNN: "Yup. Nothing better for a family than professional wrestling. Ask the Von Erichs. Or the Guerreros.”

Flynn had to be honest; he was getting enough morphine directly pumped into his vein to murder a bald eagle. Most of the words that had streamed out of his face were involuntary and at least half of them were intended when he opened his mouth to come out as racial epithets.

It must have been sheerly through muscle memory and two decades being in a wrestling ring that anything that was coming out of his face was in any way relevant to the matches he was sitting through.

Luca and Theo’s plan was coming to fruition. Another week and he’d stop having to sit next to this disgusting pond sludge they allow speak into a microphone like a parrot’s parlor trick, Joseph Styles.

He hated everyone. In a beautiful ineffectual passive kind of hate, the kind only a man too off his fucking gourd to even move his muscles can feel, not a hate to change, just a festering, boiling hate, dormant for too long.

Hate was what he fed on. Hate nourished him. Hate had been what he'd fed on from youth.

He hated the official in the ring, who gets the ultimate position of God, given the pair of inferior morons circling each other without an ounce of talent in the ring. The morbidly obese orb of bubbling walrus fat that was writing his color commentator checks, Paul Heyman.

The pond sludge sample that learned to talk and was placed in front of a microphone as if it was a thing to celebrate, Joseph Styles.

The...

...

Hmm...

...

Flynn felt... a strange absence… of hatred…

A... tolerance.

Flynn... could tolerate this presence…

He took a moment and evaluated who this was and who he was.

What an appealing young creature...

...She can’t have been here long… Flynn had never met her before…

…

Her...

He would learn her name…

He would pursue her to the ends of the Earth.

…

This…

This was an intoxicating love he felt…

***
Poor Elijah…

Poor, pathetic, overwhelmed Elijah…

We’ve met… And yet, I don’t remember you…

And it seems based on the way you’ve come out of the gate…

That you weren’t worth remembering…

Poor Elijah…

The world crumbles around you…

Invaders crawl from beneath the Earth…

Tunnels hundreds of feet long…

Creeping, writhing before you…

Emerging from beneath you… Trapping you…

Creeping ever closer… Your time to act slowly slipping away…

And like a frightened bleeding animal…

Like a doomed squirrel cursed with too low an intelligence to be anything but prey…

That instead of demonstrating your ability as a human being to reason, to consider the best possible defense in this situation…

You flit. You swing back and forth ineffectually, just trying to bat away those that envelop and surround you.

Your attention swinging back and forth between targets, never actually attacking…

Only briefly taking the time to recognize that your enemies are surrounding you…

As you inadvertently… subconsciously…

Back yourself into a corner…

Serving yourself as a morsel to those that wrap around you…

Like a deer in headlights…

Too frightened to move…

Oh Elijah…

How…

Considerate…

Elijah, I’ve faced adversaries like you before.

And while dear Theodore adequately dissected the content of your message, how truly clueless you are.

How foolish you sound when listing your false accomplishments. How you’re no longer the owner of the XWF and still somehow you stand the victor of an imaginary battle with Theo, taking place in your mind. How you killed the Black Circle, when your input into the matter was tragically negligible.

What a sad list of other people’s achievements you’ve compiled.

However, I see beneath.

Even below the content of your message, there is a falseness.

You’re desperately trying to maintain control.

You feel the steering wheel slipping out of your hands…

As the car slips off the bridge.

And plummets into the river below…

There’s nothing you can do stop this…

And yet, here you are.

You pretend to command control.

You make the first charge in the battle.

While saying nothing of merit, vague mumbling water vapor, let to hang in the air.

Present, but negligible.

You immediately respond to Theodore’s dissection.

While failing to even once make me believe the words that are coming out of your mouth.

You can’t handle the fear.

You can’t deal with the lack of power you feel as you are overcome immediately by three superior monsters.

Surrounding you.

Nipping at your flesh.

The blood runs over your eyes. Blinding you.

Every second you become more vulnerable. You feel the urge to swing desperately, hoping you’ll hit something.

But all you do is wear yourself out, expending your valuable energy…

And still you must try to pretend you have a chance...

Pretending that this demonstration of immediate response, of continuous directionless assault, proves how true your point is.

Instead of how desperate you are to maintain this façade for a mere hour longer.

What a performance.

Eli, you may feel that after listening to this dissection of your motivations, unveiling your shaking knees beneath the white sheet you've chosen for your ghost costume.

That I don't respect you or your talents.

I do, Elijah.

I respect your abilities.

As a very skilled actor.

Your performance is such a... Well-crafted imitation of a true hunter.

You cool your neck in a way that the audience understands that you represent a cobra.

Your mask of a monster calls imagery of the masks used in the great Greek tragedies.

A truly powerhouse performance...

...

However.

Look upon that of the Grecian mask.

It looks somewhat like the creature it's intended to represent.

But no one would be fooled for a second into believing the face to be that of a fellow human being.

Even an animal could see it as a man in a mask.

It cannot even move.

The genuine article is superior in every way.

Elijah.

Your monster mask fits well.

I can see you've worn it a long time.

Your mannerisms convey your intended message almost flawlessly.

You terrorize your damsel as a monster might.

You imply doom without directly inferring the path that lay ahead as you believe a monster should.

You've clearly put much thought into your message, even though they come off as diluted with confusing analogies with Adolf Hitler and Lance Armstrong.

Who are of course, the first two people one would think of when discussing monsters.

Sure.

On some level, you might even believe that you mean what you say.

You've been playing the character so long, spent so many years unchallenged, we're allowed to spend so many years battling the fear deeply rooted within your own heart.

That you may actually think yourself a monster.

That you may believe you are the most evil being to ever exist in the XWF.

How adorable, Elijah.

How truly touchingly adorable.

Elijah.

I know.

I know this is frightening.

I know that no matter what you say this week, your skin creeps. Your heart quickens.

You stare at the 'friends' you've piled at your sides.

'Friends' you were forced to choose because your fellow defenders have vanished into the ether.

Friends you're uncertain if you can count on to help defend the walls of your crumbling castle... From three superior nations, stampeding down the hill...

Toward your farce of a stronghold...

Thus far, they are silent.

As they should be, little one. My poor boy, Elijah.

Scared of the dark. Of the uncertainty that lay before you…

The storm only started yesterday. The war has just begun.

And yet, there you are. Standing at the top of your stolen castle. Declaring yourself the general, the mastermind behind your side.

Before your compatriots have even gotten into position.

Sending your best men out to begin the battle. To meet your foes…

And seeing their armor pierced...

Their sword broken...

Their throats slit...

It's day 1 of a week long campaign.

And you've already doomed yourself. Spent your best material to immediately be torn apart and cast aside.

Turned this fight into a 3 on 2 contest, only providing a handicap for your allies you paid off with gold to overcome.

You call me a comedian, Elijah.

But, being the only man in this contest who has rightful stake over one of those belts you’ve stolen, that currency you’ve used to purchase your mercenary force with.

And immediately rending yourself as the irrelevant weak link.

In a match featuring the DIMMALISHER?

It's hysterical, Elijah.

Bravo.

...

But...

Just to ensure we aren’t leaving this back-and-forth on a sour note…

I don’t think you’re talentless.

I might not even disagree with your message.

But in this battle?

You’re being outplayed, boy.

By a corpse of all things.

I’ve been dead for months.

I’m not going back to Hell.

But it’s not too late, Elijah.

I hope you see that.

I hope you can change your ways, Elijah.

I hope you stop hiding under the bed, shivering and cold, covered in goosebumps.

Hoping, pleading that your lovely if slow mother, Dimmalisher and your father, Azrael come in before the terrors that you’re trying to ignore in your closet gooble you up…

Yelling your mantra.

‘I love when people prove my words wrong. It proves I’m right.’

Over.

And over.

And over…

Too scared to move. Too paralyzed in fear to make it for the light switch on your own…

I hope you come out from under there where you think it’s safe…

Because I want to feel you struggle… I want your mouse lungs to empty as you squeak and squeal to the very end.

I need to feel you fight against my jaw as it locks around your legs…

As the muscles within my throat, tighten and constrict…

Drawing you down my esophagus…

I want you to abandon your pathetic childhood strategy of pretending that everything is all right.

That you still have control.

I want the fear to set in.

I want you to desperately thrash. To strike terrified, to allow the adrenaline of knowing you’re already to overwhelm and consume you.

Because in this state, your fear is hidden. You’re a microwaveable meal, easily digested. Easily excreted.

I want to savor your unique terror as failure grips every move you make.

I want to feel your fingernails clawing the inside of my throat as you slip deeper…

I want to taste your fear, Elijah.

…

..I can see it in your eyes, Elijah.

Behind your confident words…

Behind your theatrics…

I can see it...

...

I can smell it…

…

…

…

You’re…

…

Mmm...

...

Delicious…