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Cain · (07-19-2014)

The scene opens. A large black oak desk comes into our view, with a very large leather chair behind it, it's back turned to the camera. The walls of this room are made out of black and grey marble, with pillars every five feet. It is rather exspansive for an office, but you'd expect nothing less from him. He is a wealthy man, as evidemced by the gold busts of him sitting on either side of a large family portrait. In this portrait, you see in the dim light a man, a woman, and two boys. Upon closer observance you see that they are in a garden, and in the lower left hand corner of the painting, there is a serpent slithering around a small tree adorned with golden fruit.

This is the office of one Cain Arkham, the Last Son of Arkham. The Demon Prince. The chair begins to rock slightly, a whistling coming from it's occupant. A haunting melody, recognized as "Amazing Grace". Why this tune though? Only he knows. Only he understands anything he does. Slowly, the chair turns and we see Cain sitting there, in his very best three piece versace suit. Solid black. Red tie. His raven hair is slicked back and his beard is trimmed perfectly. He leans back in his chair, and a chuckle escapes him.

"Hahaha..."

The amusement in his eyes, though perhaps unwarranted, is apparent. He seems like a joker. Like The Joker, who has just played his greatest joke. His laughter goes on for amoment, before it subsides and he speaks.

"...life is a puzzle. Life..." he smirks. "...is a chess game. Most of us? We are pawns. You are all pawns in a game played by "the fates". However, I have been cut loose from the "threads of fate". Life doesn't apply to me, but death...oh, that's a very relevent thing to me. Destruction? Also very relevant. The point I want to get across here is that I am death and destruction personified. Win or lose, I always come to kill. I come to maim. I come to destroy. It is like..." he pauses and excitement lights up his blood red eyes. "...an addiction; but not the sort of addiction that killed Jim Morrison or Jimi Hendrix. Oh no, this addiction isn't harmful to me; just everyone else. All the Joseph Hawkins'. All the Dusty Wyatts. All those foolish mortals who think that for one second that when they step into that ring with me, that their life isn't in danger."

He reaches into his coat pocket and retrieves his familiar Marlboro non-filter. Yes, a non filter cigarette, normally seen as a killer. Straight chemicals and tobacco to the lungs. He places the cancer stick between his lips, and holds a finger up to the tip of the cigarette. Unholy flame sparks from his finger, and he inhales to make the cherry glow red. Then, he blows out a large plume of smoke. "People always said "those things will kill you". People say alot of things, like how I haven't won alot of matches lately. Or how I, the Last Son of Eden, am not as powerful as I used to be..." He puffs, blowing smoke out. He grins evilly, fangs gleaming. "...and they are right. They are SO right; because I am not. You see, I am even more powerful than ever. But, to paraphrase Pazuzu, to show you would be a vulgar display of power. Hah."

Little is known about the actual origins of his newfound, unholy powers. You would have had to watch him marching through Heaven. Killing Angels. Eating their hearts, absorbing their powers, and in turn, making himself into a fallen angel of sorts. Lucifer has seen her greatest champion's exploits, and she has chosen him. He, of course, has followed suit by following suit. Giving his eternal soul to the Mother of Lies. The background on these unholy powers is that he sold his soul for them. And he's not afraid to admit it.

"Kendall Savannah Sawyer."

"When you see this little message, you will no doubt respond in a sarcastic, bitchy way. You can do that, because you are the genius. I admit it. You are more intelligent than I, and that is fine. It's good for you, because you don't earn a Twenty Four Seven Briefcase for nothing." He applauds, and not even in a sarcastic way. "From one warrior to another, I am impressed. You've done quite well for yourself. But of course, when I am at my best, I do very well for myself as well." He glowers at the camera. "Of course, your stablemate, SteveDavids, will tell you very negative things about me. He will say that you have yet to see my best. As much as I would LOVE to take that as a compliment..." He shakes his head. "...I know that I cannot. I know that Davids is trying to hurt my pride, and failing miserably."

"But fuck him."

"We're talking about you, Miss Sawyer."

The scene fades to a panoramic view of the room, and we see more portraits on the wall. One has Kendall Sawyer, as a little girl, holding a puppy. She actually looks less bitchy than she is nowadays, her eyes shining with glee. Pictures of Kendall everywhere show her in very uncharacteristic situations. Sitting in fromt of the tv with Pabst Blue Ribbon, watching Party Down South. Frequenting movie stores, her bags filled with the dumbest action movies of all time. Reading...err...coloring in a fairy princess coloring book as a child. The camera comes back to Cain. He sits there with his fingers steepled in front of him in thought. He narrows his eyes.

"Oh yes, Kendall. I know that none of this is you, so why did I paint them? Perfect renditions, but eh, it's just a hobby. Believe you me, Kendall, there is a method. You see, I painted you as a victim. The puppy? You were a victim of Envy in that painting. Your neighbor got one."

Silence. For the longest time. Suddenly, Cain sighs.

"Who writes this bullshit?"

A deep voice is heard from off camera, Cain's sharp eyes focusing on the sound.

"Stick to the script, Arkham."

"Hell no." He flourishes his hands toward the set and toward the camera. "You people want me to get into a fucking war of words with a woman who'd rather have a dictionary in her cunt than a dick. Fuck that. I don't play that trash talk bullshit."

"Damn it! Someone cut the tape!"

"Why?! So you can censor me?! Oh, but this is America!"

"Mister Heyman specifically asked that-"

"Paul Heyman can suck Peter Gilmour's dick!"

"So are you suggesting that Paul Heyman, our acting General Manager, perform fellatio on Peter Gilmour?"

"No, I'm telling him to suck his dick. Did I fucking stutter?"

"Well no, but-"

Cain's eyes flash with the unholy fires of Hell.

"-but nothing. Look mother fucker, I am Cain. I am older than Paul Heyman. I am older than you, shit, I'm older than fuckin' Hulk Hogan if that's even fuckin' possible. What that means is, I will say whatever the fuck I want. If I wanna call Kendall a brainy cunt? I will. If I wanna say I got ass raped by a bunch of gay guys, I will!"

"Ew!"

"Are you making fun of me, you fat son of a bitch?"

Cain stands up, and we hear another voice from behind the camera.

"Ummm...Joe....I think-"

"-about children and masturbate." he addresses the camera man, who is visbly shaking. Cain is coming closer and closer to the camera, not the camera zooming in as you might believe. Cain's clawed fingers shoot out, and the camera falls to the ground as he pulls the obese Camera man up by the shirt. His Star Wars shirt, mind you. "Cause you're a fat fuckin' pervert who lives in his momma's basement!"

"Cain! Put him down!"

We see an evil grin twist Cain's lips as he bares his fangs.

"With pleasure!"

The next thing we see is Cain's jaws open so wide that you would think he had dislodged them. You would think he really was an animal...a monster. With super human speed, in a flash, Cain buries his fangs into the man's throat. This is even before the camera man has a chance to scream, although his cheeks are still stained with tears. Cain whips his head back, blood spraying the ceiling and the man's body going limp. Cain spits the throat out into the floor, his own face a crimson mask. He storms off camera, and we hear a scuffle.

"No Cain! Please, don't"

Momentarily, the director appears on your screen, crawling. A shadow looms over him, and he holds is hands up in defense. The lights flicker...

Darkness....

Silence....

A blood curdling scream is heard before...

-STATIC-

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