[R A D I C A L]

¤ Smoldering below - Sickly stench of a burning man - wilted in a deceased bouquet. Sticky in touch, still covered in shame - fourth degree of burns - nevermore the same. A black jet in the cool night lands on a private dimly lit runway somewhere in South America. An exit ladder mechanically folds down to the ground below. Waiting impatiently next to a blue BMW sedan, pacing back and forth is a man in shiny shoes and a button up vest. One of those funny chauffeur hats bounces into the wide shot; beyond it in the distance, a face at the top of the stairway. Emerging from the darkness. The ground begins to shake. Violent trembles crack the paved asphalt. A magnitude yet to be measured. The driver braces himself against the car. Down the stairs but barely visible comes a figure in what looks to be a red robe. Now, it looks to be a normal suit. A red robe again. The chauffeur rubs his eyes, which was he seeing? Closer, the glowing red eyes hypnotize the young man. A gesture to open the door. He... it, gets to the car. Shaking it off, the driver closes the door behind, and hops in to start the engine. From above the shot shows the engine vibration beginning, then the sound of screeching tires dot the night's 'I'. Moving quickly out of view, the remaining cracks are left in a curious pattern. Revealed by the car driving over each letter vertically. S E V A R G The car comes to a stop. In the middle of the street. Shown only by the headlights; a woman. As decrepit as she is delightful. The driver looks on puzzled, then notices in the side mirror that the passenger door behind him is already open. Out in the street through the windshield the driver's eyes lock onto what is already happening. The figure shoots her in the head. Open, the chauffeur's mouth, his eyes delicately tracing the path that ends with him, it, in the back seat again. Sit. Slam. It motions. ¤ "Pull in over there, under the question shaped maple tree." A much older stained version of the Fun House where Gabe Reno discovered... the truth as a boy, is the destination. The driver gets out, opening the truck, then recalling that the... thing, had no luggage. An eerie fact that didn't help the already question laden chauffeur's mind of why he wanted to be left at a Fun House in the first place. He, it... gets out. He holds out his hands toward the sky, and spins around methodically. "A luxury, to be back in such... warmth. Where are you from? Do you ever go back to where... it... well, basically all started? Your foundation. The day you became a man. When the clouds cleared to the side one day and you said, "OH, THERE! MY MISSION IN THIS LIFE!"? ONE GLORIOUS DAY! I used to be like you. Scared of my own existence and what could come of it. Nothing, was the most frightening answer. Then, KC and I ventured to this place to find a Gremlin. You know how kids talk about urban legends? Well, it turned out not to be a Gremlin at all! Can you believe it!?" The driver looks on unsettled and fears stepping away from the car. The man speaking, it, puts its nose in the air and takes a gigantic whiff. Turning next to an aggressive stare. "I can smell the fear. Hormones rush the amygdala in the brain. So that you react instead of analyze. The same smell that takes you back to so many times, and places. Ahhhh, did they tell you why I came?" The younger chauffeur nods with his tear ducts boiling over. "Well, where shall I roam?" A trembling finger points toward a shed in the back of the Fun House. He slowly walks by the driver's outstretched hand in the suggested direction. Pacing step by step through the thick discolored grass toward a dingy shed. Getting to the door, with a huff and a puff, and the door fell off the hinges. Awkwardly stepping through, a quick look right, a slower scan left... a clinched fist of damned rage. "WHERE IS IT!? I can sense it. It's HERE!" A shuffle of the feet makes him, it, to trip. He braces himself on a wood counter causing a chain reaction; some old Fun House supplies to fall out of the cupboard just overhead. A set of tin can phones with a severed line. Chattering teeth. Box of rusty nails. One of which, has went through his hand, pinning it to the table. His dark red hands and sharp yellowing nails are hit by a stream of light from the window. Must be a full moon. Gooey black sludge runs out, where blood might normally be. "BEELZEBUB!" With a slight grimace he removes the nail. His hand is raised to his chest. He turns, catching a glimpse of something reflective. His eyes light up with discovery. "por supuesto!" [ [ "of course!" ] ] He realizes that that could be what forced him to trip. Diabolical teeth behind his Satanic smile, while walking over to it. Dusting off the area and moving some clown ski's out of the picture. A shadow blocks what little light the moon had been providing through the door. Crazy orange hair on a small child-sized clown. Unnerved at first, he, it... reassures the child. That old smell of fear a dead giveaway. "It's okay, I'm not going to let anything happen to you, little one. You are always safe here to play and torment!" The driver runs back over looks for him. Noticing every window facing the shed has a different demented or mutilated soul staring at the interaction between the little one and it. He finally gets close to the door and is sensed. "What is it, boy?" The moonlight hits, showing the transparent chauffeur's Head. Half of it is missing. As if a shotgun blast had been pointed inward. He gets to the doorway where the moonlight is weaker. His head goes back to visually normal. He looks at him, it. It rises, and walks out into the yard by the shed. Looking up at all the creatures looking to him. "I was made here. And nothing, and no one will ever hurt any of you again. Ghoul, or ghost. Demon, or demonizer. Mutant, or maleficent. To find what I am looking for, we cannot fear the truth. In that cellar is confrontation. Which ends in death. Running from it will not solve it. So all of you, even the little ones, coddle your fears and rejoice! Go back to plundering and torturing those who were stupid enough to come here! Natural selection... I will TAKE HIS SOUL! WE KNOW WHERE HE IS! THE GRAVY MAN WILL NOT LIVE!" He runs back to the shed and pulls off the latch. Ripping off the three large ring shackles. He opens it as hot steam consumes his entire face... a long sigh of relief. "AHHH! TUMBAS ABAJO!" [ [ "AHHH! GRAVES IS BELOW!" ] ] ABAJO Hiding places are adorable. Especially when in plain sight. Mortal's tend to forget that things that aren't mortal don't play by the same rules. We have our own occultism's. We make our own sacrifices. It's not about being sinister, despite what the world may want you to believe. Living in fear is controlling. The leaders of your democracies and dictatorships know that, hundreds of years over. Why go away from what works? God works... in mysterious ways. Graves works... when he shows up to say "hey". Gabe works... on the heretic that Warfare demands he dismay. "las tumbas están ardiendo" [ [ "Graves is burning" ] ] XWF's blistering meteor of mediocrity - permanent middle card resident. "eer comido vivo" [ [ "being eaten alive" ] ] The Devil did it - you, forced to say and do horrible things - you, just weren't strong enough. No one expected you to be - profoundly successful this time - any time - that your light or dark peaked out its igneous head. A crown of thorns dug in a bit too deep. The fear lingering just behind those eyelids of empty feats. No one thought to themselves - "Hey, that Graves is a fire torch" - and even if they had, would it be good? Skulls and costumes aren't that scary. Hell, when I'm not on Earth, I have two horns and a tail. It's fucking sick. Do you show up when it matters? Don't just answer yes. Think about it. Is the ritual of Micheal Graves more of the light? Can you be dark enough, bad enough, real enough... to break through, once and for all? Or are you just another bum waiting for someone to do it for you? No one gifted you the insight to be smart enough to quit - a spirit can't make up for being weak. Courage can only be courageous if you can be both. When you hear a child beg for you not to hurt them anymore, do you feel courageous? Anything? Courage? No? Yeah. Because it's not. You're not. A pathological whatever. The terms don't matter - the results do. Your shame may be things you didn't get done in XWF or in your lifespan as a whole... mine are easy. You're still walking the Earth. On my worst day as Gabe Reno, in this life, I'll only defeat you. But is that really my goal? It isn't. It's to rid everyone else of you. Graves - crucial to nothing that matters. Flattered by those who are eager to prove just how crucial you aren't. Sweltering was never the temperature you felt comfortable at. Not as a molesting 'warrior' who needs a strobe light to seem like he's moving up. Do you have any self respect? A 'warrior' competes no matter the stakes. You would call yourself competing? Okay. Let's give you the benefit of some doubt. Wait, all there is, is doubt. Damn. I tried. Damned is the playground you sit next to in a rusted out van playing "Brown Eyed Girl" so you can hoax yourself into feeling it's not wrong. Painfully wrong. That is only a tiny skid-mark on your mommy-made tighty-whitey's of the amount of pain they feel. Forever. Maybe it's time you and that type of suffering get better acquainted. The kind that wakes you with a fever that never ceases. The kind that makes the holiest of men curse their religion and pledge to give others diseases. The kind you so richly have earned. The dark side of me can't help but admire the grit in going full Child Molester. It's almost like if I had a satanic son who... touched kids. Your death valley driver won't work on the man from Death Valley. Keep your poison spit to yourself, it doesn't poison me. Grave Digger, yawn. System Shock!? Seen it. What's next are you going to line people up for lobotomy's? Can we start with you? Seriously, who still does neck first drops onto the top rope? Don't we have concussion protocols? What's left in your bag o'Gravy? A bro kick? OHHH, The SHINING WIZARD! I better be really careful. Don't want to walk into THAT! Warfare is coming. That is inescapable. And my anal bum cover will say next Wednesday that I am not rapeable. Have you been a mess for a long time? Do you want my help to get beyond a life of despicable crimes? You know what else about you that I heard? Never mind, let's put our heads together... ya know, poor choice of words. Maybe I can help you get back to where you never were. Shit, that's not going to work. Look, I'm not going to bullshit you, we know I am the great deceiver, that won't work this time. How about this, just let acceptance seep in. It's already there... begging for your permission. Wanting for an end to the benevolence. Are you as tired of watching it as we are? Week after week. I think I heard someone get willingly kidnapped while you were doing the "giving it another try in XWF" speech. Those media events. Wow. What a legend. Tour de force. Icon... oh, what's that, you're none of those things? My mistake. Hey, are your parents cousins? I know it seems random, but I've wanted to ask for sooooo long. See, I knew they would put me up against the hardy-har's in order to climb my way back to the top after what we will call a "long sabbatical from the Radical". But I was Universal Champion up until I left, what the fuck are you, were you, ever? A shadow behind anyone less than 12 years old? You're not pretty enough to be this stupid. It leaves me jealous of all the people you haven't met. What a world, Gravesless. If only I had the time or crayons to explain it. The darkness has come. The devil will get his due. Raping, is that what it's come to? You like to molest to protest your weak disposition, and weaker ring skills? How depressing. I met a blind man who told me how ugly you are. The warrior that lives in you can be whatever color you want... the one inside me is red. I'm not a parasite on the wall hoping that if I don't move I won't get splattered, ass first. I lose some of my fights, but I also pick them. At least with that personality you'll never need to worry about picking them yourself, or birth control. Did your parents have any kids that lived? Or do they all dwell dead in the half-shadows waiting for a child to walk by too? You're an incubus of could-a, would-a, should-a. Pagan to the eschatology of a world inflamed. Your doctrine has finally run out of pages. There is no genius in putting fear into a child, still coy. The Devil may be cruel and merciless but even he can't watch a loser getting off at the expense of the paperboy. One of us is immortal, the other is you. Prejudice, but not as imposing as you had hoped to do. Lucifer has come in the dead of night to eschew you off in a daze of compassion. Leaving the world better, even for his own evil assassins. Dropping you off, in a dry desert in my waterless hell. Full of ways to die soon with no magical escaping spell. Addition by subtraction. And you get to be the belle. . . . ¤ W E D N E S D A Y N I G H T W A R F A R E v. M I C H E A L G R A V E S # 0 1 | X W F # 0 5 5

[Gator]

¤ Smoldering below - Sickly stench of a burning man - wilted in a deceased bouquet. Sticky in touch, still covered in shame - fourth degree of burns - nevermore the same. A black jet in the cool night lands on a private dimly lit runway somewhere in South America. An exit ladder mechanically folds down to the ground below. Waiting impatiently next to a blue BMW sedan, pacing back and forth is a man in shiny shoes and a button up vest. One of those funny chauffeur hats bounces into the wide shot; beyond it in the distance, a face at the top of the stairway. Emerging from the darkness. The ground begins to shake. Violent trembles crack the paved asphalt. A magnitude yet to be measured. The driver braces himself against the car. Down the stairs but barely visible comes a figure in what looks to be a red robe. Now, it looks to be a normal suit. A red robe again. The chauffeur rubs his eyes, which was he seeing? Closer, the glowing red eyes hypnotize the young man. A gesture to open the door. He... it, gets to the car. Shaking it off, the driver closes the door behind, and hops in to start the engine. From above the shot shows the engine vibration beginning, then the sound of screeching tires dot the night's 'I'. Moving quickly out of view, the remaining cracks are left in a curious pattern. Revealed by the car driving over each letter vertically. S E V A R G The car comes to a stop. In the middle of the street. Shown only by the headlights; a woman. As decrepit as she is delightful. The driver looks on puzzled, then notices in the side mirror that the passenger door behind him is already open. Out in the street through the windshield the driver's eyes lock onto what is already happening. The figure shoots her in the head. Open, the chauffeur's mouth, his eyes delicately tracing the path that ends with him, it, in the back seat again. Sit. Slam. It motions. ¤ "Pull in over there, under the question shaped maple tree." A much older stained version of the Fun House where Gabe Reno discovered... the truth as a boy, is the destination. The driver gets out, opening the truck, then recalling that the... thing, had no luggage. An eerie fact that didn't help the already question laden chauffeur's mind of why he wanted to be left at a Fun House in the first place. He, it... gets out. He holds out his hands toward the sky, and spins around methodically. "A luxury, to be back in such... warmth. Where are you from? Do you ever go back to where... it... well, basically all started? Your foundation. The day you became a man. When the clouds cleared to the side one day and you said, "OH, THERE! MY MISSION IN THIS LIFE!"? ONE GLORIOUS DAY! I used to be like you. Scared of my own existence and what could come of it. Nothing, was the most frightening answer. Then, KC and I ventured to this place to find a Gremlin. You know how kids talk about urban legends? Well, it turned out not to be a Gremlin at all! Can you believe it!?" The driver looks on unsettled and fears stepping away from the car. The man speaking, it, puts its nose in the air and takes a gigantic whiff. Turning next to an aggressive stare. "I can smell the fear. Hormones rush the amygdala in the brain. So that you react instead of analyze. The same smell that takes you back to so many times, and places. Ahhhh, did they tell you why I came?" The younger chauffeur nods with his tear ducts boiling over. "Well, where shall I roam?" A trembling finger points toward a shed in the back of the Fun House. He slowly walks by the driver's outstretched hand in the suggested direction. Pacing step by step through the thick discolored grass toward a dingy shed. Getting to the door, with a huff and a puff, and the door fell off the hinges. Awkwardly stepping through, a quick look right, a slower scan left... a clinched fist of damned rage. "WHERE IS IT!? I can sense it. It's HERE!" A shuffle of the feet makes him, it, to trip. He braces himself on a wood counter causing a chain reaction; some old Fun House supplies to fall out of the cupboard just overhead. A set of tin can phones with a severed line. Chattering teeth. Box of rusty nails. One of which, has went through his hand, pinning it to the table. His dark red hands and sharp yellowing nails are hit by a stream of light from the window. Must be a full moon. Gooey black sludge runs out, where blood might normally be. "BEELZEBUB!" With a slight grimace he removes the nail. His hand is raised to his chest. He turns, catching a glimpse of something reflective. His eyes light up with discovery. "por supuesto!" [ [ "of course!" ] ] He realizes that that could be what forced him to trip. Diabolical teeth behind his Satanic smile, while walking over to it. Dusting off the area and moving some clown ski's out of the picture. A shadow blocks what little light the moon had been providing through the door. Crazy orange hair on a small child-sized clown. Unnerved at first, he, it... reassures the child. That old smell of fear a dead giveaway. "It's okay, I'm not going to let anything happen to you, little one. You are always safe here to play and torment!" The driver runs back over looks for him. Noticing every window facing the shed has a different demented or mutilated soul staring at the interaction between the little one and it. He finally gets close to the door and is sensed. "What is it, boy?" The moonlight hits, showing the transparent chauffeur's Head. Half of it is missing. As if a shotgun blast had been pointed inward. He gets to the doorway where the moonlight is weaker. His head goes back to visually normal. He looks at him, it. It rises, and walks out into the yard by the shed. Looking up at all the creatures looking to him. "I was made here. And nothing, and no one will ever hurt any of you again. Ghoul, or ghost. Demon, or demonizer. Mutant, or maleficent. To find what I am looking for, we cannot fear the truth. In that cellar is confrontation. Which ends in death. Running from it will not solve it. So all of you, even the little ones, coddle your fears and rejoice! Go back to plundering and torturing those who were stupid enough to come here! Natural selection... I will TAKE HIS SOUL! WE KNOW WHERE HE IS! THE GRAVY MAN WILL NOT LIVE!" He runs back to the shed and pulls off the latch. Ripping off the three large ring shackles. He opens it as hot steam consumes his entire face... a long sigh of relief. "AHHH! TUMBAS ABAJO!" [ [ "AHHH! GRAVES IS BELOW!" ] ] ABAJO Hiding places are adorable. Especially when in plain sight. Mortal's tend to forget that things that aren't mortal don't play by the same rules. We have our own occultism's. We make our own sacrifices. It's not about being sinister, despite what the world may want you to believe. Living in fear is controlling. The leaders of your democracies and dictatorships know that, hundreds of years over. Why go away from what works? God works... in mysterious ways. Graves works... when he shows up to say "hey". Gabe works... on the heretic that Warfare demands he dismay. "las tumbas están ardiendo" [ [ "Graves is burning" ] ] XWF's blistering meteor of mediocrity - permanent middle card resident. "eer comido vivo" [ [ "being eaten alive" ] ] The Devil did it - you, forced to say and do horrible things - you, just weren't strong enough. No one expected you to be - profoundly successful this time - any time - that your light or dark peaked out its igneous head. A crown of thorns dug in a bit too deep. The fear lingering just behind those eyelids of empty feats. No one thought to themselves - "Hey, that Graves is a fire torch" - and even if they had, would it be good? Skulls and costumes aren't that scary. Hell, when I'm not on Earth, I have two horns and a tail. It's fucking sick. Do you show up when it matters? Don't just answer yes. Think about it. Is the ritual of Micheal Graves more of the light? Can you be dark enough, bad enough, real enough... to break through, once and for all? Or are you just another bum waiting for someone to do it for you? No one gifted you the insight to be smart enough to quit - a spirit can't make up for being weak. Courage can only be courageous if you can be both. When you hear a child beg for you not to hurt them anymore, do you feel courageous? Anything? Courage? No? Yeah. Because it's not. You're not. A pathological whatever. The terms don't matter - the results do. Your shame may be things you didn't get done in XWF or in your lifespan as a whole... mine are easy. You're still walking the Earth. On my worst day as Gabe Reno, in this life, I'll only defeat you. But is that really my goal? It isn't. It's to rid everyone else of you. Graves - crucial to nothing that matters. Flattered by those who are eager to prove just how crucial you aren't. Sweltering was never the temperature you felt comfortable at. Not as a molesting 'warrior' who needs a strobe light to seem like he's moving up. Do you have any self respect? A 'warrior' competes no matter the stakes. You would call yourself competing? Okay. Let's give you the benefit of some doubt. Wait, all there is, is doubt. Damn. I tried. Damned is the playground you sit next to in a rusted out van playing "Brown Eyed Girl" so you can hoax yourself into feeling it's not wrong. Painfully wrong. That is only a tiny skid-mark on your mommy-made tighty-whitey's of the amount of pain they feel. Forever. Maybe it's time you and that type of suffering get better acquainted. The kind that wakes you with a fever that never ceases. The kind that makes the holiest of men curse their religion and pledge to give others diseases. The kind you so richly have earned. The dark side of me can't help but admire the grit in going full Child Molester. It's almost like if I had a satanic son who... touched kids. Your death valley driver won't work on the man from Death Valley. Keep your poison spit to yourself, it doesn't poison me. Grave Digger, yawn. System Shock!? Seen it. What's next are you going to line people up for lobotomy's? Can we start with you? Seriously, who still does neck first drops onto the top rope? Don't we have concussion protocols? What's left in your bag o'Gravy? A bro kick? OHHH, The SHINING WIZARD! I better be really careful. Don't want to walk into THAT! Warfare is coming. That is inescapable. And my anal bum cover will say next Wednesday that I am not rapeable. Have you been a mess for a long time? Do you want my help to get beyond a life of despicable crimes? You know what else about you that I heard? Never mind, let's put our heads together... ya know, poor choice of words. Maybe I can help you get back to where you never were. Shit, that's not going to work. Look, I'm not going to bullshit you, we know I am the great deceiver, that won't work this time. How about this, just let acceptance seep in. It's already there... begging for your permission. Wanting for an end to the benevolence. Are you as tired of watching it as we are? Week after week. I think I heard someone get willingly kidnapped while you were doing the "giving it another try in XWF" speech. Those media events. Wow. What a legend. Tour de force. Icon... oh, what's that, you're none of those things? My mistake. Hey, are your parents cousins? I know it seems random, but I've wanted to ask for sooooo long. See, I knew they would put me up against the hardy-har's in order to climb my way back to the top after what we will call a "long sabbatical from the Radical". But I was Universal Champion up until I left, what the fuck are you, were you, ever? A shadow behind anyone less than 12 years old? You're not pretty enough to be this stupid. It leaves me jealous of all the people you haven't met. What a world, Gravesless. If only I had the time or crayons to explain it. The darkness has come. The devil will get his due. Raping, is that what it's come to? You like to molest to protest your weak disposition, and weaker ring skills? How depressing. I met a blind man who told me how ugly you are. The warrior that lives in you can be whatever color you want... the one inside me is red. I'm not a parasite on the wall hoping that if I don't move I won't get splattered, ass first. I lose some of my fights, but I also pick them. At least with that personality you'll never need to worry about picking them yourself, or birth control. Did your parents have any kids that lived? Or do they all dwell dead in the half-shadows waiting for a child to walk by too? You're an incubus of could-a, would-a, should-a. Pagan to the eschatology of a world inflamed. Your doctrine has finally run out of pages. There is no genius in putting fear into a child, still coy. The Devil may be cruel and merciless but even he can't watch a loser getting off at the expense of the paperboy. One of us is immortal, the other is you. Prejudice, but not as imposing as you had hoped to do. Lucifer has come in the dead of night to eschew you off in a daze of compassion. Leaving the world better, even for his own evil assassins. Dropping you off, in a dry desert in my waterless hell. Full of ways to die soon with no magical escaping spell. Addition by subtraction. And you get to be the belle. . . . ¤ W E D N E S D A Y N I G H T W A R F A R E v. M I C H E A L G R A V E S # 0 1 | X W F # 0 5 5