The Southerner--assistant coach at Slam Master's gym--had come to an impasse in trying to explain to her charge, the XWF's KnightMask, the nature of one of his opponents in his upcoming triple threat, Ann Thraxx. Suddenly, her eyes came alight.

The Southerner: I can't explain her to yah...but I can show you. I think.

She led KnightMask out of the gym.

The Southerner: C'mon, hon. Its over, here, what I wanna show yah.

The Tennessee-born pointed to the store neighboring Slam Master's gym, Howard Lovecraft's Used Bargain Books.

KnightMask: I love this place! One time, I found a copy of Conan's Most Savage Tales for fifty cents, because the cover had--

The Southerner: I ain't talkin' about the store, sugah.

The Southerner gestured to the object hanging from its door; a makeshift wind chime the owner had pieced together from pots, pans, spoons and what looked to be rodent bones. In the windless morning, it was still and silent.

The Southerner: You wanna understand Ann Thraxx? That's what she is. Look at that thing. Ugly as all get, ain't it? But come a nice gusty breeze an' it'll make a song that puts most birds to shame. Take away that wind, an' you ain't got nothing but a whole lot of trash. Now, ain't nothing pretty about what Ann Thraxx does in the ring...but without the squared circle...well, she'd either be just another killer on the loose...or just another death row inmate bidin' time before her number came up.

Really, if I had to choose between trash an' wind chime, I think I might go with the trash. Trash is just trash, every day and always. A wind chime gets that glimpse of somethin' different, somethin' glorious...even if it is only brief. How torturous that must be, t'know, somewhere, lurking way behind the sadism and blood-thirst that takes up most of the space in that mind...is a wrestler with skill an' even courage...a wrestler that can bring an arena to its feet, that can actually experience the love and adoration of all those people are normally either loathin' her or fearin' her...?

KnightMask considered this for a moment. Truth be told, The Southerner's analysis of his sociopath of an opponent made for too much of a fit on him. He'd flunked out of graduate school, essentially been barred and blacklisted from the world of submission-grappling...it wasn't that professional wrestling was the only place where he felt any semblance of belonging. Literally, professional wrestling was the only door left open to him.

The Southerner: There's something else about that woman, KnightMask. If you was her, how much would you every single minute of yer life spent hangin' there as nothin' but trash, waitin', just waitin' for that wind to blow? A lot of wrestlers I hear 'em say that when they die, they wanna die in the ring. But Ann Thraxx? That girl has got to be seekin' her death out every time she enters into that ring. She's gotta be beggin' for it...like a viking longin' for Valhalla...heck, any time an' opponent knocks her out, he's probably savin' her as much as himself.

KnightMask: Then I guess I'd better win, coach. Even without professional wrestling, I've still got 80's metal and 80's comic-books.

The Southerner shook her head.

The Southerner: I do declare...your worse than those boys back that're still tryin' to fight the North. The 80's is done with!

KnightMask: Not so long as I've got Howard Lovecraft's Used Bargain Books.

They headed back into the gym to resume their training with Coach Hagar, Ratboy and the rest of the Slam Master's Gym crew. As he opened the door to let his coach in first, KnightMask thought back to his triple threat against Agony and Neil Capra. He considered how lucky he was that Agony had worn a mask during their encounter. It meant he didn't have to look into the black abyss of his eyes during their match. This time, he wouldn't be so lucky.