Clearing The Air: The Sequel: Something In The Mist





There was nothing in this world like the 5:00 am mist rolling in off the Gulf of Mexico. There was something mysterious and eerie about it, but something soothing as well. The therapy of the unknown, perhaps. Even though you knew what lay behind it, in a way, you didn’t. Anything could happen in the mist. Your world, or the world you knew—or thought you knew—could be drastically different.

To Chris, this was the time he could relax the most. This time of year, the temperature of the air was cooler than the temperature of the water, which is an unusual phenomenon, and it created a low hanging cloud that engulfed the area until the sun was able to burn its way through. This was the time Chris set aside to think. It was so serene, peaceful….and as cliché as it sounded, chaotic.

Why was it chaotic? Well, because of the unknown. There could be a ship speeding at 100 knots directly at you and you wouldn’t see it. The probably of that is not good, of course. But it is still a possibility. Anything is a possibility when you think about it. The only thing that is not a possibility is reaching 0 kelvin on the atom scale. That is absolute 0. When the world stops. When a man named Chaos becomes the Universal Champion and the entire world stops for just a moment before it catches up to the realization that chaos is actually reality.

When chaos engulfs the Elimination Chamber in Atlantic City, New Jersey, there will be only one way out. Survival. Survival of the fittest. Darwin at his finest. There were no excuses. Chaos would reign supreme no matter who won. It was a chaotic environment, so it was only fitting that Chaos came out on top. But it wouldn’t be easy, and Chris knew that.

It would be the most difficult thing he has ever done.

If not, the most.

He pulled his bait out of the cooler, slapping it down on the cutting table in front of him. Frozen squid and shrimp. He would use live shrimp, but the little fuckers didn’t stay alive in the bucket more than 30 minutes. And what fun is it putting a hook in something ‘live’ if its not actually ‘live’? He loved to shove the hook in and feel them wiggle. He wondered if shrimp felt pain---he hoped they did.

Flipping out his butterfly knife, he dug into the cold bait. He felt it slice through, ripping and tearing away at the flesh under it. Mutilating it.

It didn’t need to be pretty. It needed to be effective. Much like the chamber this coming week. It sure wasn’t going to be pretty but it damn sure needed to be effective. He put a chunk of the fresh meat on the hook, driving the spike through it like a dagger through a vampire’s heart, and dropped it down into the murky moss green water below him.

Splash.

Within minutes there was a small amount of tension on the line. It pulled, it released, it pulled, it released.

Tap…..

Tap…..
Tap….

Pull.

There was resistance on the line. The morning feeding time, the best time. After a long night of hunting, all of the scavenger fish were in the harbor looking for a quick meal before heading back out to the open water. Scavengers---like the other men in this match---always looking for a meal they were too inept to kill themselves.

The water’s surface broke, and a gray body could be seen. Gray and white. A hint of black. Getting it up and onto the dock, Chris saw it was a Gafftopsail catfish. A beautiful way to begin the morning---with a dangerous fish. A dangerous fish that was only dangerous if you allowed it to be. Just like every man in that chamber at Wild Card. It was only dangerous if you let your guard down.

But just like every man in that chamber that he had studied the past two weeks, Chris had done hi homework on these little scoundrels. While Robbie was busy at the DMV, PTA Meetings and Battered Women’s Shelters---or wherever the hell his handlers let him wander off to---and Trax was too busy doing his best Back to the Future time traveling act and Gilmour was too busy spending his allowance money in cut rate AC casinos, Chris was studied tape after tape. Match after match. Archive after archive.

The Gafftopsail was now on the dock, flopping around. He looked at it, knowing it was a matter of time before it’s air supply is cut off and it slowly starts to suffocate. The Gafftopsail has a spike on it’s dorsal fin. This spike is always visible but expands when the animal feels cornered. It drives said spike into it’s aggressor and releases a toxin—which can cause swelling, pain and even can—if not treated kill—humans. Though rare, it has happened.

Chris knew to handle these little monsters with caution. A hand towel or gloves, whatever. Chris didn’t want or need to take precautions. He wanted to introduce a little chaos, a little anarchy, into this situation. It is what he thrives on.

Chris also knew that the main predators for these creatures were Bull and Tiger sharks. Chris also knew that there were several sharks in the harbor this time or morning, just before the sun blazed it’s way through the South Eastern sky, to try to grab an easy meal before heading out to open waters. Chris grinned a sinister grin before grabbing this particular catfish around its midsection and hoisting it up onto the bait cutters table. He felt the sharp barb trying to rise and sink itself deep into the flesh of Chris’s hand, but his firm grip around it prevented that. Slapping it down onto the bait cutters table he ripped the hook from the fish’s mouth, drawing blood.

The fish squirmed on the table—bucking and thrashing as it struggled to breath. Chris now controlled this creature’s destiny. HE controlled whether or not IT spent another minute on this earth. It was a powerful feeling. Looking out into the mist, which strangely seemed to be thickening, he couldn’t see ten feet in front of him. It was also a powerful feeling. He didn’t know what lay ahead, but he knew, some how, some way, it would be chaotic.

Chris took out his knife, and held the fish by the midsection. “You, buddy, are nothing more than a message. A metaphor, a sign of what is come…...”

He plunged the knife into the animal, and pulled it horizontally across the middle. The innards spilled out over the white table, pouring from the still alive animal. It’s eye looked straight into Chris’s as if looking directly into his soul---his eye, almost asking “why? Why Chris?” as the sea dwelling creature began to spasm.

As each organ fell out of the body, Chris shoved them off the table with his knife and pushed them into the water. The water began to cloud up in a mist of its own. Matching the sky above the water began to have a murky gray aura about it. The fish was still alive, as Chris could still feel it weakly breathing as he had his hand around the middle. “Fucking thing won’t die---goddamn Neanderthal” Chris said out-loud, but like most valiant efforts, it’s time comes to an end eventually. "There is only so much you can fight before the chaos overcomes you.”

He took the creature, still breathing but in a mix of blood and organ fluid, and threw it back into the water. He could see the fins of the approaching sharks. Bull Sharks can smell a single drop, a SINGLE DROP, of blood in an area the size of an Olympic swimming pool. One drop, one SINGLE DROP, can send them into an uncontrollable frenzy. There was nothing more fun to watch at the early dawn hours than a feeding frenzy from the world’s apex predator.

There was a slight breeze this morning. The boats shifted lightly in their moorings. Every so often there was a splash behind him. Birds squawked in the distance. Every so often there was a slight bump noise as the boat tapped the dock. Somewhere, out in the mist somewhere, an engine backfired. Somewhere, out in the mist, someone, something, hummed. It was a clear hum. As if someone hummed a tune, then it stopped. You never knew what you will hear out here in the mist.

…...chaos.

He ripped another chunk of squid and shrimp off the frozen log. He drove the hook through it—like he would drive a hook through the hopes and dreams of five other men inside a mile and a half of steel.

An audible plop as it hit the water again. Sharks fed nearby. Birds circled. Oh, the beauties of a feeding frenzy deep in the heart of the mist.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tap.

Pull.

Wiggle. Wiggle. Pull.

Reel.

Got one.

Another Gafftopsail. These little fuckers were everywhere. When there is a free meal to be had they leach off the work of others like little bottom feeders. That is exactly what they are, bottom feeders.

This one was fat. 5 lbs, probably. Small in the grand scheme of things but big by this animals standards. “A fat little shit aren’t you?” Chris said, looking it eye to eye. “Fat, but useless. You can’t defend yourself against me. I control your fate. But damn you are an ugly, pudgy little fucker. I am going to call you Robbie.” He dropped the fat fish into the water bucket.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Pull.

Gafftopsail.

This one looked a little funky, and smelled weird too. It had two long string looking things coming out if its mouth. A fish goatee? And it was making a grunting sound. “Yep, you’re WarPig. Disgusting, inbred looking motherfucker. Get in the bucket.”

Plop.

Over and over again.

Tap. Tap. Pull. Tap. Pull.

Over and over until he had 5.

5, just like the men in the match he was about to win.

5, just like the number of men he was going to disembowel in the chamber.

5, just like the number of creatures he was going to disembowel right now.

Taking out his knife again he looked at the life forms in front of him. They came from among the mist, and soon they would return. There is something making a noise behind him…...something with a squawk sound. Random splashes. Nature is talking to him….begging him not to do this….telling him to do something else….anything else………...just something……..

Something in the mist.

Chris looked at the first victim on the table. The mist, thick now in the 5:45 am hour, was engulfing him. It was all around him. He was now part of it. It was part of him.

First there was some resistance, a hard, almost wall-like resistance before a pop...then soft…..and the smell….oh the smell……

His hands were covered in blood and entrails. He began to dig in with a sickening force. Completely disfiguring his target. He didn’t care what it was….he was in control. When the knife hit the table below and there was no more to cut...he moved onto the next. The white table was stained a purplish red, with a hint of pink. There was skin, stomach acid, intestinal matter…..what appeared to be half digested shellfish…….

The wall again…..hard, pushing back as tough to show resistance and defiance, refusing to be defeated. Then, like before, a pop. This pop was louder than before. This pop sounded like the splashes and the squawks. It was just another something to add to the mist.

Something………

Soft tissue again hugged the serrated edges of the knife and almost welcomed them. Soon, his hands were covered in a purple juice again. He was in control….he could stop at any point. But he wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop until he achieved his goal. He wouldn’t stop until he won the fight. He wouldn’t stop until everything around him was dead.

…….The thickening mist shifted. It appeared lighter. The night time was waning. Dawn would rapidly be upon him. When the smoke cleared, figuratively, he would emerge as the conqueror. The emperor. When all of the blurriness dissapeared it would only be him left standing.

…….Just the way he wanted it.

……….Somewhere, another boat engine fired up. Something like that makes you feel a little uneasy. You can’t see it, you have no idea where it is or what is coming but you know you must face it head on. There is no turning back, no backing down. When something in the mist comes at you, you must be ready, if necessary, to die defending your honor.

……..Pop.

Soft.

3 down, to go. He was Darwin right now. Survival of the fittest. In the Elimination Chamber it would be survival of the sickest. Who was the most devilish. Who was willing to get their hands the most dirty. Who was willing to kill, if need be, to prove they are the sickest. The fitting.

……..Kill……….to survive.

Looking at the knife now, it didn’t even look like a knife. It was covered in a purple glaze and hanging, gray flesh. Pieces of bone matter were strewn about. It looked like scene from a horror movie. Who knew that such small creatures could create such a mess.

“I am the ruler of destinies, the emperor of fear” he said “I am one with all of the chaotic beings on this planet. Do you want to see something really chaotic?”

He went to toss the putrid remains into the water, knowing the frenzy it would cause. But right before he got to the edge he stopped. “I still have two more victims to go”. He smiled a sinister smile. A grin that could be mimicked by only Satan himself.

“I wonder where Unknown Soldier is. Trax and Bourbon have spent so much time focusing on me, and Peter Gilmour has been so loose and carefree, I have to think that maybe these two got cold feet? By two I mean him and War Pig. Surely War Pig is fucking a donkey somewhere at the edge of some cliff while firing a rifle in the air and yelling “Make ‘Merica Great Again!”. Soldier is probably passed out with his eyes rolled back in some RV in the middle of nowhere. I have to say I am a tad bit disappointed.”

He took the 4th fish, but instead of mutilating it, he decided he would have a little fun with this one. He had already beaten Doc, Soldier’s little brother in arms, and now Soldier was going to be locked in a mile of steel with Chris. He would be cut off from protection. He would have no way to defend himself other than his cunning quickness and general weirdness. Essentially, Chris had cut off his only means of protection.

He took the knife and sliced the poisonous dorsal fin off the cat fish in front of him. Then, sticking it with the edge of his knife he drew blood. Now came the fun part. He tossed it back in the water. Threw it back into the mist. It was only a matter of time before splashing could be heard and a fin could be seen—only a much larger fin with a pointed edge. Shark.

The poor Gattopsail must have tried to dart away because the big fin changed direction abruptly. But, just like Soldier this weekend, it had no defenses and it had no where to go. It was trapped by a bigger, more sinister predator. The best thing that could happen to it now was to die.

…….and soon it did. Soldier was a lot like this fish. It and he had nowhere go, nowhere to hide, and no way to defend itself any longer. There was only so much face paint that can cover bruising.

Eventually the bigger fun ducked under the water and did not resurface. Mission accomplished. Now for the big fucker. Picking it up he looked it dead in the eyes. What a dumb looking creature. This was most certainly Bourbon.

Chris thought about squeezing this fat useless creature until its eyes popped out of its skull and its brain matter leaked through its nostrils. Why not? What would be more fun than that. Popping Robbie’s head off his shoulders was going to happen sooner rather than later.

He began to apply pressure.

The animal must of sensed danger because he began to wiggle in Chris’s vice like grip. It began to make prolonged grunt noises. After a few short minutes, a pop was felt. Blood, eye matter and everything else inside the fish became mashed potatoes in Chris’s hands. Something inside him felt good as he knew he had popped this ugly animal like a zit.

…..Just like he would pop each and every one of those competitors in this match. After killing the last creature, he dumped the bucket into the dark water. He watched the frenzy ensue. It was so beautiful. He knew he would be in shark infested waters in Atlantic City, but he would be the big fish who escapes the chamber while all other others are the mashed up remains of what could have been.

As the mist began to burn off….it must have been the 6 AM hour. The sun was starting to come through. As the mist burned off it became, once again, paradise.

………...sometimes you never know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

….sometimes the mist becomes paradise before you can truly appreciate the beauty of the mist.

When the mist cleared at Wild Card Weekend it would Chris Chaos walking out victorious…...wandering off out of the mist and into his new life of paradise…..only to create another mist all over again.

A vicious cycle.



+____________+____________+_______________+

"Everyone wants to run their mouths about how the other not worthy....I am guilty of it myself. All too focused on bitching and not enough focused on action. My resume is what it is, I cannot change it. I have only had a handful of matches here, but guys like Trax want to come out and brag about how they have beaten all these guys---not one of which is currently here or was here when I got here. It is old news, old fame, old success. There is not a single person he listed that I could not and would not beat. I am on a roll right now. I am in my prime. I am red hot. Right now, I don't feel there is one man or woman on this roster that could beat me when I am on my game. I don't think there is a single person in the history of this company that could. I am THAT. DAMN. GOOD. They all want to talk about how good Vinnie Lane was. Vinnie Lane has been reduced to making matches, not fighting in them. He sits behind a coushy desk getting his dick touched by his prostitute girlfriend. If Vinnie ever wanted to lace the boots back up and take the gel out of his hair and step into the ring, I'd beat him too. And beat him bad.

That is not the point, though. The point is, that I am easily the best in this business right now. I have all the cards in my favor. The deck is stacked for me. Gilmour can gamble all he wants but instead of failing at the river he will find out he was screwed from the flop. There WILL be a new Universal Champion. And it WILL be me. Enough talk about the past. Who won what match, when and where. Who lost. None of that matters. The slate is clean, the score is 0-0. Records no longer matter. All that matters is who is the best on that day.

I am the ONLY one who had to defend my Wild Card. I am the ONLY one who had everything I've ever worked for on the line night after night. I opted into shows I didn't have to opt into. I went into that ring every single show and proved I was the best ass kicker on planet earth. WHEN I become the Universal Champ, nothing will change. Night after night, week after week, month after month, year after year, I will defend my title. Do I have to? No. But I am a fighting champion. If Gilmour retains he will be another Scully. Same with Trax and Bourbon and Pig. Excuses and more excuses as to why they can't fight that week. Look at Scully. He maybe fought and defending the strap twice since I've been here. Not me. I will give a shot to anyone who wants it. And I will PROVE that I deserve this more than anyone else. In fact, WHEN I win this belt I will even put it on the line at the first Savage after the event. I love fighting. I love competition. And I love winning.

That level I had to get to to beat Doc...I am there. I am beyond that. I am so hyper focused on winning this strap and when I am focused I don't fail. I am going into a match that many men would falter but I am in a league of my own.

I am a one man army. I am a one man wrecking crew. I will be a fighting champion and I will be a reigning champion. None of you have enough respect to vote for me for SuperStar of the Month but I don't care. You don't want to gamble, then I will force your hand. When Wild Card weekend goes off the air and I am holding that belt high above my head....you will have no choice to but to see me for what I REALLY am.....

....The best there is....

....The best there was....

...The best there ever will be...

Eat your heart out Brett Hart.

Oh yeah, I beat him too.

Just like all the others that have fallen at my feet. Five others will enter and five will fall.

.........disappear like the morning mist. There will be something in the mist when it clears......

........Chris Chaos holding the Universal Title.

XWF RECORD: 12-3-2