Deep In The Bowels of The White House....Present Day

A cement block spiral staircase straight out of a Hammer horror film plunges down ever downwards, the camera's view above it and turning, creating a dizzying centrifugal effect as it descends and renders the stairs unto an approximation of a drill bit burrowing into the center of the earth. As the shot drops lower, we see two figures making their way down the perilous steps: The Engineer and Madison Dyson.

The champ is still using a cane to walk, but seems a bit more sprightly than in his last appearance. Nonetheless, he's clearly trying to keep the pressure off his afflicted side as he makes his way down the steps. Why isn't their an elevator? He grunts.

This place predates all that disability compliance crap. Maybe you shouldn't get your dumb ass stabbed next time! And then, with an inquisitive side glance. So did you end up horribly murdering that kid who stuck you or what?

Actually, I let him fuck me in the ass! The Engineer replies with some cheer.

**Long protracted groan** Christ, you ARE Shane's baby.

So how long have these chambers been around anyway?

Hard to tell. Some people say they preexist The White House and and that it was actually built on top of it. Others say they were dug out during the Polk administration so he could fulfill all kinds of perverse desires down here.

Wow, Polk? Really?!

Madison nods. Oh yeah! Guy was a total freak! Insane bisexual orgies with slaves, blood sacrifice, ritual genital mutilation, the works! There's all sorts a shit that never made it into the textbooks, boo! And don't get me started on “Honest” Abe! She shudders. That guy's secret life makes walking through a Khymer Rouge killing field look like a pleasant summer stroll by comparison!

They finally reach the bottom of the steps and arrive at a large and very ancient looking iron door. Madison gestures for the champ to open it. He instantly grabs his side. Uhhhh,,,,owie! He pouts. Madison rolls her eyes out of her skull and grabs the dust coated handle. With a grunt, she tugs hard on the door, bracing her feet and wrenching with all her might. Finally, it pops, almost causing her to teeter back on her rear. Dignified!

Eat my ass!

I'll pass.

Why? Just pretend it's your boyfriends'.... She sneers and slips through the door before she can catch sight of the champ flipping her the bird.


They pass through a grisly torture chamber, Madison seems nonplussed but The Engineer's attention is instantly captured by the medieval instruments of brutality lining the walls. Walking up to a lopsided wooden table, he takes a rusted metal device that's vaguely pear shaped at the end.



Taking hold of the screw at the top, he turns it, causing the “pear” to blossom cruelly. With a cheeky grin, he slips it into his coat pocket.

Would you come on?! Take a mental picture and jerk off to it later! Madison mimes whacking off as if we really needed a visual aid. The Engineer sidles up next to her as they pass under an archway adorned with ghoulish gargoyles and into an adjoining chamber.

So what's the game plan?

For you? Nothing. Just stand there and look pretty. These assholes are my territory.

Mmmm...yes, the “old bottom up, top down.”

The Engineer ruminated on the plan as they walked. If Aiwass was to return to his full and unassailable strength, the world would have to be plunged into utter chaos, and a new Dark Age of ceaseless bloodshed, torment, and cynicism would need to be born. Madison and The Engineer had staked out their respective focus' based on their areas of expertise. Madison had spent years cultivating contacts in the highest echelons of power: senators, presidents, tyrants, secret right wing cabals and even darker hidden societies only bantered about in whispers. Whereas The Engineer would use his youth and exposure in the edgiest more risque wrestling brand in the world to ply his influence to the dregs: the ruthlessly normal at best to the forgotten, depressed and disillusioned at the worst. Working bottom up, top down as it were, the plan was for Madison and The Engineer (and their respective minions) to meet somewhere in the middle, setting the powerful against the powerless, the powerful against the powerful and the powerless against the powerless, sewing chaos and animosity and ruin in endless configuration.

The task sounded daunting, maybe even impossible. But in truth, The Engineer was finding it shockingly easy. Turned out there were a lot of people out there itching to be told that nothing mattered and violence was the only answer to what ailed them. And as The Engineer stepped into this final chamber with Madison at his side, he also found he was looking forward to experiencing the banality of legalized evil in action.

A war room of sorts opens up before them, but think less the “latest in Pentagon tech” and more “Middle Ages Knights of the Round.” A large wooden table encompasses a goodly portion of the room, and atop it is a relief map of the Mexican-American border. The walls are adorned with Nazi memorabilia and old German propaganda posters.

Quite suddenly, this thing seems to materialize straight out of the dark far corner of the room.



GAH!

UGH!

Madison and The Engineer both recoil from the pallid ghastly visage of Stephen Miller, architect of the Trump administration's war on brown people. Miller seems to float just above the floor, his toes dragging limply across the stonework, arms folded before him but with long, yellowed claws bared.

Good evening, Madison! Who is your friend? Miller's voice sends an icy chill up their spines.

This is The Engineer. He's the XWF Universal Champion. And he a ho.

Ignoring Madison's barb, he waves politely at Stephen. Hello! This is quite the set up you have down here.

Mmmmm....yes, I share this domicile with Kellyanne Conway, but she's away on business at present.

Oh, you guys share huh? So are you two, like..... Madison pushes a forefinger in and out of an “ok” gesture with her opposite hand. Miller cants his head quizzically. You know what, never mind....

I DO NOT EXPERIENCE LOVE.

The Engineer looks at Madison awkwardly. Ok, ok! Sheesh, forget I said anything.

I SHALL!

Ok, then!

Stephen clears his throat with an air of self-consciousness and allows himself to drop down to the floor completely. He runs a hand over his bald pate, smoothing back what little hair is there and actively running in terror from his face. Stephen walks over to something along the far wall. It's another table with a sheet draped over it. Removing the sheet with a flourish, we see a model of a circular building with multiple wings of prison cells radiating out from a central hub. Madison moves in closer to inspect it. Ehhhh, not bad!

The building looks like something ripped straight from the shores of Mordor, a black spired wicked looking testament to human pain and suffering. The Engineer also takes it in, nodding his head and looking impressed. But then, Madison's expression changes, and she stabs a finger at the center of the model. Wait a tic, what's that?!

Miller leans in to get a better look. Oh, that? It's a central viewing hub.

And is that a rotating throne in the middle?

Y-yes. It's a panopticon, Madison. It's designed so that everything can be observed from a centralized...

Yeah, I know what that is! But this wasn't in Aiwass' original schematic, Stephen! It's very important that we follow the original schematic! We've been over this! This building is like a generator refining and turning human suffering into the dark animus that will power Aiwass and bring him back to full strength!

The Engineer jerks a thumb in Madison's direction. In other words, what Princess Exposition is getting at is “If it ain't broke, don't fix it.” He then looks back at the little throne in the model. Reaching in, he nudges it with his finger and spins it playfully, noting how as it turned it provided a full 360 degree view of everything happening in the facility. You were totally gonna sit and masturbate in that thing, weren't you?

I DO NOT EXP-

Yeah, yeah...we've been over it.

Okay, so take all that shit out and redo it. Next item on the agenda, what do you have for us vis a vis the “corrective measures”?

Ah, yes! Stephen seems to perk up, which is really rather awful to behold. My consultants and I have come up with quite a few measures that we think Aiwass will find most....satisfactory.

Well, spit it out!

He rubs his clawed hands together. Number one, the guards will be instructed to gaslight the prisoners in very subtle ways. For example, the guards will repeatedly mispronounce the prisoners' names, but in a slightly different way each time so that that the inmates are constantly frustrated by it!

Madison's jaw drops.

It's great isn't it?! We had a whole team of linguistics experts on it! Did you know that there are well over 1000 different ways to mispronounce Julio?!

Madison and The Engineer look at each other, and then back at Stephen. Are all of your ideas this fucking gay?

I....uhhh....what?

That sucks. That idea sucks. Madison takes a deep breath and looks at The Engineer again. You ready to teach Stephen here a master class in how to create human suffering?

Ready! The champ clears his throat and cracks his neck.

One! Tell the parents their children were killed accidentally and then house them with a child without parents. Wait just long enough for the emotionally bereft parents to form a bond with the new child and then reintroduce their biological child citing an “administrative error”.

Do all that in front of the orphaned kid!

Well, duh!

Numero Dos....

Oh, good one!

Yeah, I know. Numero Dos, put just enough human feces in the food to make it taste SLIGHTLY off but not enough to get them to refuse to eat it. Don't stop doing this until they have consumed roughly their own body weight in waste and then tell them what you did after the fact in a lengthy Powerpoint presentation.

Wow, right to the feces? Once again, you ARE Shane's baby.

Guilty!

Number Three....

Not “tres”?

Nah. I mean, it was funny, but let's not wear it out.

The Engineer shrugs. Fair.

Number Three....Sneak into their rooms at night and apply delicate paper cuts underneath their finger nails. When they complain about it to the nurse tell them it's ring (finger) worm.

Mmmm...punny. Okay, how's this, Number Four, whenever a new arrival shows up tell them they have to watch an instructional video on adapting to American culture but it's just a series of Robbie Bourbon promos. That way they'll assume that the whole country is some nonsensical cavalcade of pointless HeeHaw slapstick starring a a sad fat man in a sweaty singlet and a random member of his supporting cast singing an ENTIRE FUCKING SONG for FIVE FUCKING MINUTES of promo run time because hey, why bother with new content when you can just pad that shit out by cribbing Kid Rock (christ, KID ROCK?!). That way they'll all just want to go home.

Topical, but kinda defeats the purpose of what we're trying to do.

Oh, I know, I know! How about we force them to take a shower but instead of water it's poison gas and they all die?!! Stephen looks at them like a puppy expecting a scratch behind the ears.

Madison tosses her hands up in the air. What?! Jesus Christ Stephen, we still need some plausible deniability here!! The UN's gonna get all up in our ass!

Yeah, what the fuck, man?! The Engineer shakes his head disdainfully. Artless boor...

B-But....but! Stephen looks genuinely confused.

Good luck with this Madison, I'm gonna go bowl with the president. The Engineer turns and walks away as Madison continues to berate Stephen in the background. Then, as he clears the first doorway, he curses to himself remembering he has to go back up all those goddamn stairs again.

568 steps later....in the White House's private bowling lanes

HAHA! YES! Another strike! President Trump cheers as the monitor just behind him flashes that it was a gutter ball.

The Engineer, sitting next to the console, rolls his eyes and says, as an aside to the camera, Sorry, he made us change that. Then, to Trump. Very good, sir! The Engineer's words ooze contempt but Trump doesn't seem to notice as he plants himself at the console, a sweat stained mess. He starts to dab at his moistened forehead with his absurdly wide red tie.

Good game, young man. You ready to get your ass kicked again?!

Oh, I suppose so! But I imagine it'll be second verse same as the first. Trump chuckles and leans over the console to start the next game.

The shot scales back a bit to reveal that sitting next to The Engineer is the large imposing cultist that also accompanied him to the opera. Once again, he seems to be in a daze, his body swaying slightly back and forth like some idiot tree branch dancing in the wind. The president's secret service man eyes the hooded figure suspiciously. So, he has security clearance, right?

The Engineer considers that blank hooded visage for a moment. I don't think it much matters. He's a few fries short of a happy meal, ya know?

Who is he?

Ask Robbie Bourbon! He's got it all figured out!

Melania Trump saunters in from stage left, carrying a tray with two full wine glasses on it. She brings Trump his first, setting it down in front of him without a word. He doesn't even seem to notice. Then, approaching The Engineer, she hands him his glass with much more care. Beneath the glass, moistened with a ring, is a small napkin. Melania leans in closer to the champ in an unmistakeable play at bearing her cleavage. You might want this. She slides the napkin across the tray towards him. The Engineer takes it as Melania goes back the way she came. The Engineer looks at the napkin, turning it over to see that it says “Fuck me” in bold red letters. He looks over at Melania who winks at him and shoots him a coy smile.

GOD DAMMIT! WHY CAN'T THEY JUST MAKE THESE THINGS WITH THE CLEAR PAPER AND THE PENCILS LIKE THEY USED TO! Trump rages at the machine as his fat stumpy fingers try to punch in the letters of his name, but all he can manage is DRNL before accidentally erasing the whole thing. FUCK!

Sir, would you like some help?

NO! FUCK OFF, I CAN DO IT! The president whines petulantly, his hands making meaty slapping sounds on the console reminiscent of an angry ape trying and failing to use tools for the first time.

The Engineer drags his attention away from Melania and back to the president. He conceals his laughter before looking at the camera.

ROBBERINO! Back at the witty repartee again. Good solid work, my man. Good solid work. Too bad I gotta wipe my pert, cute bum with it. And speaking of bums, don't you fret your sweet little heart about the state of those Hilton Hotel accomodations after I got turnt out. That was the day AFTER the shawarma so it had already run it's course. He winks.

Number one Robbie, money spent on the arts is NEVER wasted! Or so Corey's 11th grade Drama teacher would have us believe. So never YOU mind my theater going habits unless you're willing to concede it's just as stupid to dress one's promo's up with...oh....I dunno....just shootin' from the hip....a woman straight out of Greek mythology, a wacky cast of side characters, and a whole entire company complete with cheesy infomercial style product shilling, amongst other things in the vast Robbie Bourbon catalogue of promotional excess. It almost seems like you're taking me to task for the kinds of ingenuity you have displayed over and over again because you're running out of gas faster than Louie Anderson running a 5k.

But, there is one thing I have been spectacularly remiss at addressing so far. I mean, I'll get back to the whole “philosophical differences scuttlebutt” in due time, but it's the small matter of me looking like me and you looking like you. And I'm not talking about my good looks compared to the whole “looking like a cow's ass turned inside out and squeezed into a blue onesie” thing you got goin' on. Nah, I'm talking about the size difference. This isn't a fat joke either, bear with me!

See, Robbie likes to go on and on about how he's like this unstoppable monolith. Like he's just going to barrel right through me and straight on to victory. He likes to talk about how thoroughly he's going to man handle me, thrash my body, and throw me through an ENTIRE Ikea store's worth of furniture of dubious quality in his quest for the Universal Championship. And looking at the size difference, boy oh boy does that seem like a thing that could happen! Now that I think about it, holy shit....I'm kinda screwed aren't I? The Engineer starts to look nervous, and he turns to the hooded zombie beside him. What do I do? Wait, what's that? He leans in and pretends like the acolyte is whispering something to him. You're saying I should Google Sloane Taylor, who Robbie lost to at the UGWC Wrestlestock Open, a fact he reported to the entire world on the January 11th 2020 edition of Savage? You're saying I should do that? A thin trickle of drool droops below the bottom hem of the mask. OK!

The Engineer sets about Googling Sloane Taylor as Trump continues to rage at the bowling console in the background. Man oh man, if this chick beat Robbie she must look like if Maxine ATE Amjutkun Socio! She must be a brick shit house of.....The Google Search comes up with THIS:



….100 pounds of soaking wet pop music worshipping pablum. He shows the camera the picture of Sloane, looking incredulous. This bitch looks like if Twilight Sparkle was a people. He tosses his arms up in the air. Jesus Christ Robbie, you lost to a VSCO GIRL! Like, sure, I guess we all have questionable losses sometimes. I mean, I haven't....but MY GOD! You're talking about flapjacking me through like 12 flaming tables and yet you couldn't get through a finals match with a twiggy Instagram influencer.

He chuckles, holding his hands out. Relax hoss, hold your horses. Yes, we're all well aware of all those times you were able to put down big strapping men to win championship gold. I'm just having a little fun. Aaaaaaaaand pointing out how WILDLY inconsistent you are. Which means that you beating me is FAR from the lock you claim it is. 'Kay?

He nods.

Next up, I'm getting the sense that you're still not quite buying my whole change of identity. I mean, sometimes you like to take me at my word to land some insults and sometimes you seem to be implying Lux's failings are mine. It's kinda like you're inconsistently veering back and forth over the center median to try to score some cheap points. Kinda like how your entire personality ebbs and flows in response to the demands of your career. Robbie needs to make a big return splash? Act this way. Robbie needs to gin up some dichotomy to make a run at the big belt, act THAT way. I'm starting to gather that this is part and parcel of who you are. To say nothing for how hypocritical it is for all this condescension about my identity to come spewing out of the mouth of Danny Sex.

But you know what Robbie? Let's have ourselves a little thought exercise. Let's say that the soul, the personality, the essence of this body never actually changed. That I'm just Corey Smith, a talented young man with an eye for the theatrical. Now most people, like you, change up who they are when they need a little oompf. When they wanna garner some extra attention for some big match, or a comeback, or in response to a flagging career **COUGH** VITA **COUGH**. He smirks. That one was for you, Core-meister. Wherever you are.

Anyway, that's why most people undergo a massive personality shift. But me....if I was Corey? What the hell is the sense of changing personalities when I'm on top? Who the hell needs an added boost when they've just hit the big one? Huh? It doesn't make any goddamn sense. UNLESS...it's legit..Unless, it's the real goddamn deal. Not just some convenient narrative device to muscle your way back into the big picture. You pickin' up what I'm puttin' down, Robbie?

In the background, Trump is now punching the screen in a toddler-like tantrum. The secret service grunt is trying to stop this big idiot piss baby from injuring himself. The Engineer takes a look back at this scene and chortles.

And finally, once again, let's get philosophical. Because there is no surer combo than pro wrestling and the class your slept through your entire freshman year. But I'm being facetious of course, me and Robbie are making it look good. Or at least, I am.

Robbie, I appreciate your attempts to take the high road here and proclaim that there is still hope for me or...this guy? He jerks a thumb at the comatose hooded figure. That if I could just open my eyes and see, by golly, really SEE that I would toss out all this awful cynicism and embrace the inherent beauty of this world and....I'm sorry.....**Hack** **Sputter** **Cough** **Spew**

Once recovered, he wipes some black ichor from his lips and continues. Hoooo boy, yeah, that was....that was nauseating. But through all that sunshine and rainbows bullshit I almost got the sense that you were THIS close to coming around to my point of view. You acknowledge that this world is truly full of some terrible shit. You even montaged your way through taking care of some of it! And in doing so, you kind of proved one of my points: that terrible, horrific violence is the balm for all this necrotizing bullshit. Being a little sunflower of positivity gets NOTHING done, Robbie. YOU KNOW THAT. It's why you did what you did to those corporate stooges and those diddlers. Good job! But it's not enough. We need everyone getting in on the action if we're going to bring this house of cards down. And that's exactly what I'm trying to do.

You yourself admitted that the solutions to the ills that afflict this world are more complicated than you can figure out. And you know what? Don't beat yourself up over that. They're too complicated for most people to figure out. And part of the reason is because the only true solution is a final solution. La Grande Morte. The big lights out. And nobody wants to consider that. But it's the only real recourse.

You keep telling me that I can't “see”....that I'm brainwashed or under Shane 's thumb. But the truth is I just see the long game better than you. He points at Trump. Look at that idiot. That man controls the most powerful nation on Earth. That simpering tangle of ego and imbecility has access to nuclear launch codes. And despite being an idiot he successfully stoked the fires of racist indignation to a presidential victory. Hell, maybe two! And people like you Robbie will just say we “just gotta keep fightin', we just gotta keep tossin' ourselves in those trenches and doin' what's right”! SEMPER-FI!

Which would be sensible, which would be reasonable except for the fact that, in the long run, people don't fucking learn. The world supposedly said “no more” to the Donald Trump's of the world after Adolf Hitler was swept from power. After he systematically tried to eliminate the Jews. Now, this asshole has Jews WORKING FOR HIM to stigmatize and imprison Mexicans. Fascism is once again making it's presence known after supposedly having it's curtain call in the middle of last century. And many very rich, very powerful people would have it no other way.

You gonna personally punch all of them Robbie? Or maybe you won't even do that. Maybe you'll just settle for a rousing speech on a wrestling show and forget all that shit once the Universal Title is in your hands. Yeah, maybe that. And wait for the 2020 election! Once Bernie's in the Oval everything will be better again. Until we find somebody else to hate come 2120. And round and round she goes.

You want another example? How about this. I'm sure you and all those well fed celebrities went home full of the kind of self righteous smugness that only public volunteerism can bring in the wake of the Australian bushfires. And for as much of an impact as Kangaroo fighting made on fighting that continent shaping tragedy, you sure as shit didn't stop it. But somebody will. Eventually. But the big problems that literally fanned those flames: climate change, human indifference, pollution....none of those are going away ANYTIME soon! The inhabitants of this planet will continue to choke themselves to death if it means next day delivery from Amazon!

Are you starting to see what I mean Robbie? The POINTLESSNESS of it all? The tragicomedy of it all?! Are you starting to understand why all those flowery speeches from beneath that sweat and stank laden mask amount to NOTHING?

You can't change anything Robbie. You can't save anything. We can only DESTROY it.

He leans in towards the camera, that trademark predatory smile creeping back onto his features.

And then we come back to you. Impotent, scared, Robbie Bourbon. Clutching at his fun and games as he squeaks out “we can make a difference if we just believe.” You think you're so strong, so above all this youthful indifference. You know, you bragged about all the experiences you had, and how if I had been put through that ringer I'd be broken. But there is ONE experience I've had that hasn't broken me but sure as HELL broke you.

Being Universal Champion.

You've ducked the question long enough, Robbie. What scared you about being the Universal Champion? Huh? What led you to toss away all that hardship, all that climbing to get to the top? Why'd you fall off that apex so readily after all you BUILT to get there?!

Answer the fucking question Robbie. No more quoting from the Book of Jackson. No more grandstanding. Just answer the simple matter of your own cowardice.

Because me? That title is getting pulled out of my cold dead hands! I'll be damned if I take the coward's way out like you did. And I know you hear “The Engineer's cold dead hands” and get rock hard at the prospect of making those hands cold and dead, but have you really stopped to consider the aftermath of winning the Universal Championship? Have you stopped to consider what happens when the slobbering idiot doberman finally catches up to the truck he's been chasing for the last three miles?

Because, as you well know, that initial win is just the beginning. It's after that that the shit REALLY hits the fan. Walking around with that target pinned to your back day in and day out. Knowing that behind those smiles, those friendly waves, and that locker room camaraderie lurks the lizard brain ambition of every man and woman who crosses your path. And let's face facts Robbie, THAT is the part you didn't do so hot with last time.

You buckled. You buckled hard. Are you REALLY ready for that again? That pressure?

We both know you'll shit the bed again. And you didn't even need a shawarma to do it. BAM! He claps his hands. Full circle, baby.

The Engineer looks over at Trump, who is just now managing to spell his own name into the prompter. Then, he takes a look over at his shoulder where Melania stands waiting, tucking her tongue into her cheek and pushing it out in the universal sign for oral copulation.

Hey, sir, I think I'll have to take a rain check.

Trump wheels around in his seat. But....I just......! He sputters, waving his arms and puffing out one creamsicle colored lip like a toddler about to bust into water works. The Engineer gets up, patting his masked minion on the shoulder as he passes him. The camera follows him as he heads towards Melania .

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a president to cuck.