We open on a wooded area adjacent to a parking lot. Just in the distance, you can make out a folksy wooden sign that reads “Twin Creeks Challenge Course”. Madison Dyson is standing at the edge of the lot, wearing shorts and a tank top that reads “Hotties for Christ” with an image of a blond bastardized Western version of Jesus giving a thumbs up while cradling an assault rifle in his free hand. Engy is still in the lot, collecting a day pack out of the back seat.

Next to Madison, however, is a bizarre sight. Clearly, someone is standing there, but their entire image has been distorted. Madison is considering this strange figure with suspicion, looking him (her?) up and down. Engy comes up, lugging the day pack. Did you truly need 10 fucking bottles of mineral water?

Madison, eyes never leaving the odd blip in reality, responds,I get parched! So, you want to tell me what the fuck this thing is and how it slipped unbidden into our dimension?

Engy looks at the strange figure. Oh, that's our mystery participant. He's one of the country's Top 10 Challenge Course participants of all time. We needed a fourth or they wouldn't process my reservation to use the course. But trust me, this guy is HOT SHIT. He passes through these courses like Taco Bell through a fat man with IBS.

If he's so good then why not just tell us who he is?

Suddenly, the Mystery Participant speaks. In a voice that sounds like the kind of creepy distorted audio you'd hear when you get a midnight phone call from a pervert who just made off with your kid, he bellows MY IDENTITY IS IRRELEVANT. YOU WILL ACCEPT MY CREDENTIALS ON BLIND FAITH ALONE.

Madison screws up her face in annoyance. ....the fuck you talking about? I'd say your identity is pretty goddamn important considering the claims you're making.

UM. NO?

Unbeknownst to all of them, another figure has joined them. He's a good looking younger man, blond, wearing cargo pants and a flattering, pec hugging t-shirt with the “Twin Creeks” logo on it. He clears his throat to garner their attention. **Ahem** Good afternoon, you must be the Bright party?

They all turn to face him. Madison's features instantly soften into a pleased smirk. She reaches up to toy with a strand of her hair. Well, hello there....

Welcome to Twin Creeks everyone! I....

I HAVE ALREADY MASTERED THIS COURSE.

The guide looks confused. I'm sorry...who are you and why are you made of squiggles?

Engy releases an annoyed sigh. Could we please get on with this. It's hot as balls.

The guide allows his gaze to linger on the mystery man a bit longer before responding. Yeah, anyway, my name is Brock and I'll be your guide today on the course. Today, you all will have an experience like none other! You'll face your fears and work together to overcome adversity, build trust in one another, and come away from your adventure today feeling closer than ever before. Erm, Mr. Bright, where exactly IS your fourth participant?

Engy blinks once, twice. He whispers something to himself, like he's trying to recall a distant memory. Suddenly, he bolts upright. Oh, SHIT!

WE ARE IN NO NEED OF A FOURTH! MY EXCELLENCE, WHICH YOU WILL ACCEPT WITHOUT VERIFICATION, SHALL SUFFICE!

Engy darts back to the car, fumbling in his pocket for the keys and muttering curses to himself. He hits the trunk release on the key fob as the rest of the group looks on with interest. Engy opens the trunk, and starts to speak in soothing tones to something inside. It's ok buddy, it's allllll ok, alley-oop, out we go...hey, hey, HEY! STOP THAT!

A pair of bound legs kick out at Engy from inside the trunk. He swats them aside and grabs Joachim out of the boot, hauling him over his shoulder. Joachim, tethered at the hands and feet and gagged, can only offer up incomprehensible moans of protest.

Brock blanches at the sight of Engy dragging his son over to the group. Um, what....what is going on here?

Madison saunters up to him, curling her fingers seductively around the back of Brock's neck and pulling him in close. Don't worry about it baby. Hey, do you believe in Jesus?

Y-yes....

Madison draws her lips up to Brock's ear. Then why don't you just focus on answering the question, “What would Jesus do?”

I don't understand....what is happening here....?

He would do me, baby. Jesus would do ME. Madison forces her tongue down Brock's throat.

Engy drops Joachim at his feet, but Joachim's still fighting as hard as his tied up body will allow. He leans over into the dirt and starts rubbing his face frantically against the grass until the rag tied abut his mouth is dislodged. He sucks in a deep breath of air before shouting, CALL THE POLICE!

WHAT A FARCE, UNBEFITTING AN ELITE PERFORMER SUCH AS MYSELF. I'M GOING AHEAD WITHOUT YOU! The figure behind the wall of mystery sets out, but unfortunately the effects keeping his identity hidden don't follow, resulting in him being directly exposed to the light of day. WHO IS THIS MAN OF MYSTERY?



Eh, it's just some douche showing his ass again. Totally not Gabe Reno, realizing the jig is up, panics and scrambles to pull his cover back in front of him before rushing off towards the course.

LATER...

The parking lot is lit by the flashing gumball sirens of numerous police cars. Brock is being interviewed by one cop and Joachim by another. Crammed in the back seat of one of the squad cars are Madison and Engy, both with their hands secured behind their backs.

Madison, looking dejected with her face pressed against the window, sighs. We are so dysfunctional we couldn't even make it past the parking lot. Madison pulls her head away from the window to gaze over at Engy, and she instantly recoils in disgust. Engy is slumped over in the seat, and he's successfully torn away his pant leg with his teeth and is now biting a chunk of his own flesh off. Madison squirms away from him. EW EW EW WHY???!!!

Engy continues his grotesque work, paying no heed to Madison's carping. He pulls a flap of his own flesh back and delicately withdraws a lock pick from underneath his skin with his teeth. Resting it in the corner of his mouth, he speaks to Madison through gritted teeth. 'ey, 'elp ee out 'ere.... But Madison shakes her head “no”. Engy rolls his eyes and tries to spit the lock pick back into the seat where he can reach it, but instead it disappears into the crack between the cushions. FUCK! He slumps back in the seat, looking defeated. Ya know, this whole thing was supposed to bring me and the boy closer together.

Madison returns her head to rest against the glass. Oh sure! Drugging him, tying him up and putting him in the trunk of the car? Great start, Eng.

Well I couldn't get him to come any other way!

Yeah, well, now we're going to prison!Madison sneers. Do you know what they do to pretty people like me in prison? I'm gonna be some dyke's personal Clam Slam! Madison then leans away from the window again, brings her leg up as high as she can get it, and slams her heel down on Engy's shin.

Engy yowls in pain. What the hell was that for?!

That's for calling me a “one note comedy bit player”, asshole! I am a fully fledged human being, not some facile, paper thin, cut-out like Gabe “living embodiment of the troll face meme” Reno.

Engy smiles and cants his head towards Madison. Whoa, nice segue. See, now THAT'S why you're still on the payroll!

Engy then looks dead ahead at he camera, AKA the universal sign for “somebody is about to get verbally castrated”.

Hey mystery guy. I want to give you a “from the bottom of my heart” thanks for confirming, once and for all, that you are indeed NOT a Top 10 guy. In fact, based on that botched clothes hanger abortion of a promo, I am now harboring serious doubts that you are even a Top-ANYTHING guy.

Let me be the first to tell you, that you are officially FLOUNDERING. I know Peter won't tell you, because quite frankly he's such a Dunning-Kruger case himself that he doesn't have the requisite insight to know when he sucks, much less someone else. You know, you keep telling me you've got all this “ammo” on me, that you've been studying me and watching me, like you're some psychological mastermind playing fifth dimensional chess when in reality all you've done is TURNED ON THE FUCKING TELEVISION. And considering that you've been functionally unemployed for months after getting clowned out of the XWF for being a giant tool, watching TV and pulling your pud about sums up your entire recent existence. That is, if you're Gabe Reno. Heh.

You're not top 10. Because if you were, you'd actually be doing something serviceable, exploiting my weaknesses in a new and creative way. Like Jim did. Or Bobby Main. Or any of those other guys who stepped up to me without having to shamefully hide their identity. Emphasis on that “shame” part. Because the reason you still can't actually speak your name is because it's POISON. It's because your name is synonymous with a humiliating exit and comprehensively failing to live up to what very little potential you ever had. Because pulling back that curtain would do nothing but confirm that you are a NOTHING and a NO ONE, and that deep down inside you know that giving up the ghost would be every bit as underwhelming as I said it was.

But let's talk about those shit tier promo skills you got. Did you pull a muscle reaching for any of those garbage metaphors you pried out your ass? Here's a pro-tip sunshine, if you have to EXPLAIN your metaphor....Engy leans in towards the camera with a mock conspiratorial gleam in his eye, .....then IT SUCKS. I mean, did you seriously call me a fucking “panda”?! A FUCKING PANDA?! Madison laughs derisively in the background. You can't stop tripping over your own awkwardness! TOP 10 MY WHITE ASS. I mean, Jesus....just look at this.....LOOK at this!

Quote:They should be called a trucking agency because they are more top heavy than the Wal-Mart truck that almost made us lucky enough not to have to listen to Tracy Morgan yell Ebonics through our television screen anymore. 

Engy mimes a big old stretch, and he makes a series of painful “popping” sounds as he does so. Can you diagram that shit for me please? But hey, good on you I guess for sticking it out 'till the bitter end to land that killer burn on a guy who hasn't been relevant since 30 Rock.

YOU ARE SO BAD AT THIS. Were you DRUNK? Or are you just so shook now that you're unclenching your face sphincter and just letting all manner of verbal diarrhea hit the wall in the vain hopes that something's actually gonna stick? Seriously, if this is you “back and better than ever” then just how humiliatingly BAD were you before? And I haven't even touched that painfully graceless “high school edgelord's creative writing class submission” upper-decker where you waxed poetic about the fragility of life, siphoning off your own farts like you're saying something profound while the rest of us with more than a 14 year old's level of life experience sit in absolute AWE of just how far you've managed to crawl up your own asshole. ENGY WILL DIE SOME DAY. HE IS MORTAL. WATER IS WET. GABE RENO IS THE KIND OF GUY WHO SPELLS ECCENTRIC WITH TWO ESSES (admittedly I can't PROVE that last one, but it does seem like a good bet, no?).

Creaton....? Cr....crouton....?

Finally, allow me to disabuse you of the notion that I'm the only one with something to lose in this match. I mean, hey, broken clock being right twice a day and all, but you did score at least one point. I'm under a lot of pressure. But then again, being top dog and also being saddled with BOTH halves of a tag team championship tends to do that to a guy.

But let's stop and think for a moment about what LOSING this match would mean for you, hmmmm? Here you are, casting about in the throes of your own crapulence, telling the world you're back and better than ever...only to lose to the guy who, on paper, should stand no chance of winning this match at all what with all the pressure I'm under.

When that loss does come to you, and it will, what does that mean for you? Allow me to hold your hand. It means that you are nothing but a vapid bomb thrower with delusions of grandeur, a pretender to the throne of the actual legends who have come before you. It means that you are so lacking in insight into yourself that you truly think these paltry efforts put you in the same league as guys like John Madison, Louis D'Ville and James Raven. Jesus, and you think I'm entitled? You think that I have an ego?! You're the one who said you were Top 10, buddy. Too bad about everything that's come out of your mouth after that though. What a shame.

And hey, while we're doing the whole “reductive mastermind” thing with each other, I'm gonna go ahead and call you on why I think you settled for Peter. It's to give yourself an out, isn't it? You came crawling into the arms of someone as demonstrably mediocre as him so that when your big return doesn't turn out like you wanted, you've got a big old wad of bluster and grease to toss up under that bus. Peter's your scapegoat, mystery guy, a big fat “pin the tail on the high cholesterol having donkey” to assign your failings too. Well congrats. You've successfully chosen one of the few guys this side of Drezdin that you can reliably blame your pending loss on. But we both know it's not just on Peter, don't we? We both know that you suck too.

Engy smiles big and starts drumming his hands on the door of the squad car, getting a good anticipatory beat going before suddenly stopping.

And now last, and certainly LEAST, we come to you Peter. Peter, Peter, Peter...the man whose big pay per view win set this whole chain of events in motion in the first place. So, uhhhhhh, Petey....where the fuck are you? This is YOUR match. You wanted this, right?

Did ya get “too busy” again, Pete? Did you forget the phone number to call the XWF promo team? I know buddy, I know, numbers ARE hard. Or maybe all those years of undiagnosed, unchecked syphilis from that Patient Zero you call a life partner have finally exploded into full blown psychosis. Whatever the case Pete, you're fumbling the ball in the kind of painfully embarrassing way only you can accomplish.

So I'll tell ya what Peter. I'll do you a favor. If you ask me “pretty please with a cherry on top” I'll write your group home staff a note telling them that “yes” you do in fact have a match with me so that, yes, they do need to allow you to use the internet so you can, at a bear minimum, pound out some dodgy bullshit on Youtube or Skype or whatever. But you need to at least meet them halfway on this and stop downloading all those virus-laden German scheisse videos.

You. Fucking. IDIOT.

The door to Madison's side of the squad car opens and an officer leans in.

Guess this means I'm done.

The officer returns a radio to his belt and adjusts his shades a bit before speaking. Mr. Bright, your son has declined to press charges, but he does want to speak with you.

Madison lets out a whoosh of relief and leans back in the seat. Oh thank God! PRAISE YOU LORD! Now get these fucking cuffs off me before I start to chafe.

The officer turns his impenetrable glare on Madison. Actually ma'am, YOU'RE under arrest for sexual assault. Come with me.

Madison's eyes go wide as the panic takes hold. What, what, WHAT?!

The officer reaches into the car and grabs Madison by the arm, dragging her out of the vehicle. We can hear her try to beg off as she's hauled away. Engy, unable to fight back against a chuckle, calls out to her. Hey, don't worry! We can use the “bail money slush fund” on YOU for once! But seriously though, can we do something about the cuffs, they really are....

Joachim slides right into the place where Madison was setting. He does not look happy. Engy trots out an awkward smile. Sooooo, how ya doin'.....?

Joachim looks down at the open wound in Engy's leg. He doesn't even hesitate to press his thumb into it. Engy bucks and cries out in pain as Joachim speaks to him in a detached measured tone. Let me be clear. This whole “me not pressing charges” thing? This is some quid pro quo shit. He digs his thumb in deeper and Engy cries out louder. One of the officers outside the car, clearly able to hear Engy's cries, turns his back towards him. In exchange for me not pressing charges, you will never contact me again after Warfare. No calls. No letters. Not even so much as a goddamn Facebook “like”. Are we crystal clear?

Engy shakes his head “yes” and Joachim pulls his finger out of the wound. Engy gasps and hisses, but as he recovers a strange look starts to overtake him. He smiles wide, beaming actually. It slowly starts to occur to you that the look is “pride”. That was....that was SO BADASS! Holy shit you ARE my kid! Joachim moves to press his thumb into the wound again. Sorry, sorry, sorry! Nevermind! Joachim relents and Engy sighs again. But did I hear you say “after Warfare”? Does that mean you will help me defend the tag titles?

Joachim doesn't look proud of what he's about to say, but continues anyway. I am. But only because I need the pay day if I'm going to be moving out of Madison's house. Plus I figure I need to start sometime seeing as how I've decided to keep the XWF contract after all. Engy looks confused. Yeah, that's right. I'm keeping it. And I have you and assholes like Peter Gilmour and his “mystery partner” to thank for that. The XWF needs a cleanse, and if I can stay here and hand jerks like you guys your asses on a regular basis, all the while using the money I earn to make a positive difference in the world, well then I think it's worth it.

Engy stammers out a response. But you're still so green, kid. Who's gonna train you?

Joachim looks away from his father. I got that covered. You know, Madison's old Rolodex has some pretty interesting info in it.

Engy looks askance at Jo as Jo moves to leave the squad car. Engy looks out the window, wincing as though he's questioning something internally. Finally, he looks back at his son as he exits. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I do lo-

Joachim offers no response, and shuts the door on his father before he can finish. Engy lets the thought trail off, unfinished, as the camera's shot pans up and away from the squad car.

ELSEWHERE...

I AM THE MYSTERY PARTICIPANT! UNVERIFIABLE TOP TEN ALL TIME AT EVERYTHING!

We see a series of intersecting ropes crossed between two trees, clearly it's one of the high rise obstacles from the challenge course. The blotted form of the mystery participant is balanced precariously on the ropes, sans safety harness. Below him, a Boy Scout troop looks up in equal parts fascination and terror.

LOOK UPON THE RESULTS OF MY GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCH AND DESPAIR!




Yep, I'm using it again. It's my favorite. Fuck you.


But also pizza cat.



The mystery participant stabs a finger down at the throng of confused scouts. DO YOU NOT SEE THE PROFUNDITY OF MY MESSAGE, CONCEALED WITHIN THESE IMAGES?! HA! OF COURSE NOT! MY SKILLS SUPERCEDE YOUR PURILE.....whoa....whoa....WHOA!

The mystery participant loses his footing and plunges about 200 feet to his death. The scouts cry out in shock and terror as his body hits the unforgiving earth with a sickening crack. Then, inevitably....

***FAAAAAAAAAAART***

….his corpse forces his bowels to vacate. The mystery participant cuts a massive rumbler as shit fills his pants. His soul reaches the pearly gates, where Jim Caedus, angel wings and all, screams “HACK!” in his face before pulling the lever then sends him plummeting straight to hell.

Fin.