The elevator doors open with the clunk and whine of the roaring 20’s era machinery deep within. You know not of how you arrived here, or even who YOU are per se. Nonetheless, you go through the preordained motions, crossing the threshold into the elevator. The carpet is a bright sea of red, the walls patterned with art deco gilding and lush fabrics. You turn to see a man sitting on a stool, wearing a gray elevator operator’s uniform. Brass buttons form a v-shape down the front of his torso, his trousers pressed and well tended. Your gaze wanders up the man’s frame to his face. THAT face. Beneath the uniform cap. With it’s jaunty, subtly crazed smile. Incongruous with the trappings of formality, he’s a criss cross of scratches and old wounds, weathered swatches of skin and chipped teeth.



He is Dexter Bright.

What’s poppin’ kids! He cajoles, spreading his arms out wide and talking directly into the camera’s eye. It’s ya boy, ENGY! Now ladies, keep your panties on, ‘ol Engy’s still D-E-D DEAD! He says with an air of solemnity. I’m just here as a...a...he snaps his fingers to spur his recollection….a SIMPLE!

You mean, “symbol”, Dexter? The narrator’s omniscient voice replies, drawing a scowl from Dexter.

Yeah, what the fuck ever! I’m a simple of….what am I a simple of again?

Well, you’re sort of a symbol. To be more precise you’re more of a narrative device. Something that’s going to tether together the disparate elements of this story.

Oh broham, you lost me in the woods like 20 words ago.

**Sigh** Don’t worry about it. Just push the buttons when I tell you.

Looking irritated, Engy bites back. Look dude, I might not be the sharpest tool in the candle box, but that don’t mean you gotta treat me like I’m re- . He reels a bit. Wait, what just happened?

Oh, you got censored. The XWF has changed a bit since your demise. Certain words and phrases are no longer acceptable.

What the fuck?! So I can’t say re- even if I’m re- ?!! That’s mad re- !!

Well, “them’s the rules” so to speak.

I bet Gilly’s pissed about that!

Erm...yeah….about Gilly. He got fired.

Engy looks incredulous. What?! How the fuck can you fire Gilly?! He’s an important part of the XWF! This is BULLSHIT!

You didn’t even like Gilly! You tried to get him and his girlfriend blown up!

Still! You don’t fuck with tradition! He whips his body around on the stool, throwing his arms up in consternation. So what else’s changed since I left?!

Well, there is one very good thing that’s changed. They redid the Top 50 of all time list. And guess who’s number one?

He rolls his eyes and sputters out a cynical laugh. Oh yeah, big whoop.. He makes an enthusiastic “jerking off" motion. I bet the new list sucks! And I bet their new number one guy sucks too!

Well….

I bet he sucked a whole bunch of dick to get that spot! I bet he sucked off so many dicks he got lockjaw, and then went to the hospital for the lockjaw, and then they told him it was terminal lockjaw and he was gonna die from sucking so many dicks. That’s how many dicks the new number one guy sucked!

Ummmm…..

And he’s probably overrated as fuck! Like one of those guys that seemed pretty sweet at the time, but then you look back and are like “wait, we all liked this guy? He’s drizzlin’ diarrhea dumps! Who we got now is way better! Wow, I can’t believe we ever liked this guy! Boy were we re-.

I kind of really, REALLY want to tell you who it is now.

Don’t bother! I don’t give a SHIT!

Are you sure? It’s pretty phenomenal.

I just said, I don’t care how phenomenon it is! Drop the fuckin’ subject! GOD, YOU’RE PISSING ME OFF! He slams his fist into the side wall, cracking it. Then, he reels his hand back in with a pained squeal and starts blowing on it.

Fine. I’ll just get into it then. You, Dexter, are going to be the thread holding this together. John Donne, in his famous poem “No Man is an Island” spoke a basic truism of the human condition. We, as much as we might like to think ourselves untethered from the inside forces of our own psyche’s, the external pressures of our relationships, and the forces of fate working at us from afar, are far more complicated. We are layers of interlocking latticework, all melding together to form the sum of a man’s experience, for good or for ill.

Engy, still blowing on his hand, bites back at the narrator. Stop talkin’ in big words! What’s all this gotta do with me anyway?!

I imagine you were chosen because you were once a symbol of strength in Corey Smith’s life.

Who’s Corey Smith?

You know Corey. Lux’s host body.

So why don’t you just say Lux? Duh!

Oh….oh dear….

WHAT?!

Please….please just press the basement button.

Engy grumbles, waving his injured hand in the air as he smacks his meaty fist on the glowing button marked B. You better tell me what’s goin’ on.

Watch. And wait. And see.

The elevator thrums back to life, and soon the doors part again.

WITHIN

The elevator doors part into a serene woods, with a child’s crude treehouse front and center. Slowly, your perspective rises until we can see within the treehouse. Iggy, The Engineer’s childlike remnant, is playing on the floor with some action figures. Naturally, they’re action figures of Corey, Thad, and Dolly.

[Talking for Dolly]”Oh Corey! I love you so much! You’re so cute and nice and you smell good! I think we should kiss!”

[Talking for Corey]”Oh gee, Dolly, I don’t know, maybe we should just stay friends!”

[Talking for Thad]”And how about us Corey, should we just stay friends too? I might want to kiss you also!”

[Talking for Corey]”Oh boy, this is so confusing! Who do I want to kiss?!”

[Talking for Dolly]”Maybe we could all just kiss together?”

[Talking for Thad]”That sounds great!”

[Talking for Corey]”I also like that idea!”

Iggy brings the action figure’s faces together and mouths an exaggerated “smooching” sound. Then, he sighs contentedly and returns to his normal voice. Yay! All my friends are happy now! Oh, but wait! He reaches behind himself and pulls out a Doc D’Ville action figure. Naturally, it has a crown on its head.

[Talking for Doc]”Yes, it is I….the Doctor! Here to say lots of smart words and mess everything up!”

[Talking for Corey]”Oh no! I hate that guy!”

[Talking for Thad]”I do too, but maybe a little less than Corey!”

[Talking for Dolly]”He’s ai’ght.”

By now, Iggy’s hands are chock full of action figures. He looks like he’s about to continue his private melodrama, when he hears a faint sound in the distance. Huh….? He cranes his head, and finding that insufficient, puts the toys down and crawls to the window of his treehouse for a better vantage point. He gasps when he looks down. The forest floor is completely gone, replaced with a resplendent scene.



Playthings soundly forgotten, Iggy places his thin hands on the sill of the window and looks out. He’s astonished to find that his tree seems to have been uprooted and placed in the center of this grand room, but no one seemed to notice its intrusion. The bejeweled ladies in their glistening dresses, and handsome men in their courtly suits, dance and sway to the sound of the orchestral music, forming hypnotic circles over the tiled floor. Iggy simply remained there, entranced by the strangeness of it all, before a wanderlust gnawed at him, daring him to explore up close. Slowly crawling away from the window, he makes his way to the ladder and shimmies down, all the while his senses alert and expecting one of the revelers to finally spot him and decry his intrusion. But, feet firmly planted on the floor, no such cry came. In fact, still no one seemed to notice his trespass.

From his refreshed view, Iggy could now discern the finer details of the masks the party goers were wearing. They were all bleach white, but encrusted with jewels in various patterns. Some were punctuated with feathers tufting from the top. Others featured lacquered lips, or jarring black gashes of eyebrows.

At any rate, now that he was among them, Iggy started to feel an unease brewing within. Maybe it was their alien indifference to his presence, or maybe it was the dreamlike ambiance of the scene, but something started to strike Iggy as being profoundly wrong with all of this. He nibbled at the side of his lip, hands clasped in front of him anxiously. He willed himself to move, or maybe to retreat back into the safety of the treehouse. But what if all this remained no matter where he went? Why was it here…?

Iggy….

His name came to him, floating on a gentle wind that washed over him. He wheeled about, searching for its source, but still no one paid him any mind.

Iggy….

There it was again. He restrains a rising tide of fear, balling his fists at his sides as his chest began to work in and out quicker and quicker. Who’s there? He ventured, his voice sounding meek.

Come here, Iggy….

Unconsciously, Iggy started to understand the direction the voice was coming from. Swallowing a ball of fear that burned in his throat, Iggy began to tenuously place one foot before the other, diverting from his given path just enough to avoid the whirling dancers all about him. But oddly, none of them ever came all that close, as though they were being unwittingly circumspect about his presence without ever truly seeing him.

Weaving through the revelers, Iggy at last reached a golden throne set upon a dias at the forefront of the ball room. The man seated on it was clothed like a Victorian era aristocrat, one stockinged leg primly crossed over the other. Blond hair flowed down over his shoulders. But, what stood starkest was his pitch black mask. It had none of the adornments of the other revelers’ masks. Just two holes for eyes, out of which pitiless dark seas surveilled Iggy like a predator marking prey. Iggy tried to tear himself away from those eyes, but found himself fixated.

Hello, Iggy.

Hello. Iggy shrank from that imperious glare.

The man tilted his head, sending a lock of blond hair drifting over the mask, a stark relief to its featureless blackness. You know who I am. A statement, not a question.

I….I don’t….

Yes you do. Speak it into being.

Iggy’s chin quivered. He looked down at the floor. I don’t….

Refuse. Idiot. Remainder. The man behind the mask lurched forward in his seat, spitting the taunts like epithets. Speak it!

Iggy started to cry, his hands prying at the hem of his shirt, wishing he could wither away. Wishing he could be as far away from this nightmare as possible. Suddenly, he realized the music had stopped. He chanced a look over his shoulder. All of the dancers had halted, and were staring at him. The man in the mask spoke again, regaining his attention.

We are one.

Please...Iggy choked out the word as a half sob.

I am the dragon. And you are but a fragment of me. He removed his mask.



I am The Engineer.



Dexter, still upon his stool, slaps his knee. Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about! End it on a cliffhanger, baby. Keep ‘em comin’ for more. I like your style, narrator voice.

It doesn’t strike you as odd that he used YOUR former name?

What? Oh, naaaaah. This is all make believe anyway, right?

It is not.

Dexter stopped short, mouth hanging open. Snapping it shut, he musters a single word. Oh.

”Oh”, indeed.

That’s bad.

First floor, if you please.

Wait, we ain’t done talkin’ yet!

Have you forgotten your place? You’re just a narrative device, remember? Beholden to the ebbs and flows of the story.

I ain’t holdin to nothin’!

And yet you’ve already done as I asked.

Dexter looks over, seeing that his finger had pressed the first floor button independently of his will. He huffs. You bastard.

WITH OUT.

Corey’s insides were a tumlt as he beheld his own home. It should have been safe. It should have been familiar. It should have been inviting. But instead, as he looked upon that front door, his body was a party to a frenetic, nauseating, momentous excitement. He was at the apex of the rollercoaster, looking down the tracks, his stomach already rising with the expectation of that first big drop. The fear, that burst of fight or flight as epinephrine flooded the pathways of the brain, yet all the while knowing, intuitively, that it would all be all right in the end.

It will be okay.

Corey Smith walked to the door. He passed through it. His bags, a burden in his sweat caked hands he was eager to relieve. So he did. He just dropped them at the door. He walked, the jilting step of someone at once eager and terrified, as two opposing forces pulled at him. Fight or flight. But there was no enemy to fight. No need to be afraid.

It will be okay.

Breathe. Relax. Breathe.

Dolly

She rounded the corner, expecting him. Naturally. Corey bridged the gap between them. Epics could have been written in the time and space that passed between them, unspent odes that need not be spoken. But Corey decided to try.

Dolly...I….

It’s fine. I get it. It’s fine.

It will be okay.

Corey searched her face for traces of anger or ley lines of disappointment. He found a repressed sadness there, a wound to be sure. But not a mortal one. A wound that would heal, given time. But more than that, Dolly meant what she said. Corey was sure of it. It WAS fine. She understood.

I would never hurt you on purpose.

I know. She jerked her head slightly, ushering him onward. Go claim who you are.

Corey simply nodded and smiled. He was happy, but he was still sad too. For some reason, his mind picked a word out of the ether. Agape. The highest form of love. Unconditional. Self sacrificing. It was Dolly’s love for him. She would never be embittered by Corey’s choice, because she knew it was true. And she wanted him to live his truth. No matter what. No matter how much it hurt.

Thank you. He choked out, fresh tears threatening to breach.

Dolly looked away, so that Corey wouldn’t see her own tears. So that he wouldn’t feel that pang of guilt. Agape.

You’re welcome.

Corey forced himself forward, traversing the length of the house until he reached the main staircase. He could feel the eyes of the other residents on him. Some of them offered up a friendly “hello”. Corey wasn’t sure if he actually responded to them or just thought he did. His movements were dreamlike. His body clammy with sweat. His heart a recurrent thunder clap in his chest. He took the stairs two at a time. The upstairs hall yawned before him. He stopped, steeling himself at the top.

It will be okay.

From there, he went to the door. It was already ajar. Corey pushed it open the rest of the way. Christian was there, waiting. He was shot through with the same nervous energy as Corey. He smiled. And in that moment Corey knew.

It WILL be okay.

What’s good Smith? The words were playful, a bit nervous maybe. But more than enough to meet Corey’s melting point. He took a halting step towards Christian, and then he was in his arms, body hungry and wanting. Their lips met, their hot breath giving each other life and propelling them forward. Christian gently bit into Corey’s upper lip, drawing a small gasp out of him. Corey’s arms worked up and under Christian’s shirt, and his hand encroached on the massive livid scar on his side. He pulled his hand away from it as though it stung. But then Christian, not breaking the kiss, reached over and placed Corey’s hand back on it. So his hand traveled up it, lifting Christian’s shirt up and over his head.

Christian took hold of Corey then, gripping the back of his thighs, spinning him around and planting him atop the dresser. Corey gave a grunt of a different kind as the abrupt act reminded him of the fact he was only two days out from March Madness and that hellacious tag title match. Christian picked up on this instantly, breaking the kiss. Shit, you’re still beat up.

Corey arched his back a bit, working out a stiff muscle.

We can slow down….

Corey gazed at Christian’s face, and then his upper chest. His skin was flushed, which only made his freckles stand out even more. His eyes traced the slender curvature of Christian’s collar bone, sliding seamlessly into the nape of his neck. Fuck no. Corey whispered lustily, bringing his mouth up into the nape of that neck, breathing Christian in and filling his senses with him. He wrapped his legs around the back of Christian’s thighs, pulling him in and entrapping him as blood flow flooded his nethers.

Christian tilted his head, allowing the kisses to pour down and around his throat before rejoining his lips once again. Christian hefted Corey up once more and took him to his bed, laying him down, gently this time. Somehow, Christian’s pants were undone, his boxer briefs stretched tight against his manhood. Christian got on top of him, sliding up his body until his lips reached Corey’s left ear. Just lay back. I’m yours. A ravenous whisper.

Corey arched his back again, ache ignored, so that Christian could remove his pants. He tilted his head back in ecstasy, a single phrase piercing the haze of his passion.

To think, I hesitated….

~~~~~~Later~~~~~

Corey left the bathroom, noting that in the time it took him to finish his shower night had fallen. He looked at the glow of the clock on the nightstand and chuckled. They had spent almost the entire day in this room. Surely, the tongues of the other residents would be wagging. No doubt the rumor mill was already gearing up.

Moonlight dipped through the window, which was ajar and permitting a gentle breeze that ruffled the silky curtains. The light fell across Christian’s prostrate form, illuminating a single leg that had kicked out beneath the covers, the blanket revealing a tantalizingly high glimpse of his naked thigh. He was asleep, and Corey permitted himself this moment of quiet to study that which he had feared and adored for these months. Christian’s curls encircled his head on the pillow like a halo. His chest, also half exposed, rose and fell with the gentle sway that only accompanied a deep and sound sleep. He was perfect. A better happiness than any drug could provide. And Corey realized now that that was what he feared most. Not the dirt sheets’ vapid pontificating on his sexuality, not the jibes of his peers, but this. True bliss. A genuine joy that deep down he was still loathe to accept, coupled with the neurotic notion that each joy must be paired with an equal and opposite sorrow. So when was that other shoe dropping? Corey shut his eyes, grasping at peace. There might not be another shoe. There may never be another shoe. He opened his eyes.



Rage.

The gall of it, the unmitigated gall of him appearing in his sanctum, here and now. Corey’s face twisted in anger, prepping to spew venom. But he caught sight of Christian first, still peaceful and dreaming. Corey mellowed, and looked at D’Ville. He’s not a part of this. Leave him alone. He whispered, suddenly feeling the extent of his vulnerability; a towel clutched around his waist.

You lost them.

Not now. He spoke the words harshly, but quietly.

You lost what I won.

A mirthless smile formed. So what?! You won the tournament. The XWF can officially eat out of the hand of the great Doctor D’Ville once more. A nervous glance confirmed that Christian was still asleep. Is this all you needed? To rub it in my face?

I am not entitled to my anger? He spoke the words with a cool detachment, which in a way, made it so much worse.

Sure. Fine. Have your anger. Then, gesturing at the towel. Can I get changed?

Certainly.

Corey stepped out into the hall with the joint purpose of heading to his room to change and to draw D’Ville away from Christian. The late hour was a boon, as no one was up and about. Corey crept downstairs to his own quarters, and then, going to his dresser, started extricating clothes at random. His mind was too far afield to be beholden to fashion. Dressing quickly, he looked up just in time to see Doc haunting his doorway.

Better?

Yeah. Corey allowed a couple more octaves into his voice, but was still being mindful not to awaken others. Now what do you want?

He remained in the doorway, but rested a shoulder up against it and crossed his arms, striking a demure pose that registered as a challenge. I was upset about the tag titles. But I’ll admit that “King Doc” is a very effective balm. So I’m here to talk to you about something else.

What?

Dolly.

Why?

Because I can read it on your face. You’re chomping at the bit to use the loss of the tag team titles as an excuse to cut me loose.

Corey smirked. Yeah, well, no shit. What does that have to do with Dolly?

Everything. You see, Mr. Smith, you seem to be one of those unfortunate souls to whom the expression “...and hell followed” is really quite apt. You tend to get the people around you hurt. More’s the pity for Christian….

Look man, fuck off….Corey snorted.

I will not. And that’s my point. You won’t cut me loose.

Now, Corey chortled with laughter. Oh! So what? The mighty Doc D’Ville NEEDS me now? You NEED me? Is that it?

Doc pushed himself off the door frame, and a certain subtle malice returned to his features. I do not. But, Mr. Smith, “hell will indeed follow” for you, as it always does. And I will be here to watch you and protect what’s important from being drawn into your messes.

What the hell are you talking about? Then, with a suspicious glance. Do you know something I don’t? Then, shaking his head to clear the thought. You know what, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need your protection.

Who said it was for you? For such a simple phrase, it carried a chill that went right through Corey. Continuum will endure. Like it or not. Because there are people in your circle of influence that shall not be damaged.

Corey blinked at him in confusion. You think I’m going to get somebody hurt? You think I’m going to let Dolly get hurt? That’s the whole reason I created this place, to protect those who needed it.

And what happens when it proves insufficient?

What do you know? He said, coating his voice in steel.

Nothing specific. A feeling. A portent.

Great. “A portent”. Thanks, Doc.

Oh, you WILL thank me. In time. He takes a step back. I’m better as an ally than an enemy, Corey. Consider that. Now if you don’t mind, I have a kingdom to rule. He winks at Corey and takes another step back into...nothingness.

Corey turned to face the window in his room, muttering curses under his breath. Before long, he sensed a presence behind him. Jesus, haven’t you had…. He wheels around. It’s Christian. He’s clad now in plaid pajama pants and wearing a concerned look. Oh. I’m sorry...I….

You okay? Christian made up the distance, and placed hands on Corey’s biceps. I thought I heard someone else talking down here.

It’s, um...it’s alright. I was just thinking. Talking to myself.

Christian considered him for a moment, as if deciding whether to believe that or not. Well, alright. He nodded to Corey’s bed. So what, do I snore or something?

Corey chuckled lightly. No man. I’ll come back up.

It’s cool, we can sleep here. Christian went to the door and closed it, before sliding onto Corey’s bed.

Corey smiled warmly. You look so sexy, no matter what you do.

I can stretch the limits of that claim. Give me time. Christian reached up, grabbed Corey’s wrist and playfully pulled him into bed, wrapping him up in a tight embrace. But something was bothering you, right?

Yeah.

What?

I was thinking how I can never let myself be happy. Not without being scared, or feeling guilty.

Christian planted a small kiss on the back of Corey’s neck. I know. I understand.

He did. And I don’t want to pull you into a bunch of bullshit right off the bat, but there’s one thing in particular I been thinking of.

What’s that?

Back when I was The Engineer, there was….this guy. Corey stopped, suddenly acutely aware of how this was going to sound. He decided to clean it up. The Engineer and his retinue of assholes were prepping him to be his next host if something went south with me.

But something did go south with you. Christian started rubbing Corey’s forearm, soothing him. So where is he now?

I don’t know. And that’s what worries me. Corey pauses. His name was Malcolm. I have no idea where he went after I had my stroke. But The Engineer used him, played on his insecurities. Corey’s voice quieted. He was gay too.

At first, Christian didn’t respond, which sent a pang of apprehension through him. But finally, he spoke. You want to find him?

Yeah. I owe it to him. To help him. But, Corey’s mind retreated to minutes ago. D’Ville’s talk of a portent. A hint of potential dangers to come. But finding him might be dangerous.

I want to help.

I don’t want you to get hurt. Again, Doc’s presence loomed. ”More’s the pity…”

Another gentle kiss tickled the back of Corey’s neck. You think you’re gonna stop me from helping? I’m already knee deep in the crazy, what’s a few more feet? He gave Corey a little squeeze to drive home the point that he was joking.

Corey’s gaze drifted out the window, and towards the moonlit night sky. He settled into Christian’s body and exhaustion finally started to catch up. Eyelids heavy, he sunk deeper into this boy he loved. A few more feet...he mused, just before sleep began to take hold.



Ah JESUS! Dexter cries, shielding his eyes. You couldn’t a warned me about all that GAY STUFF?!

It’s not like it’s going to kill you.

It MIGHT! He complains, finally pulling his hands away from his eyes and testing out a few experimental blinks. Oh well, at least the kid seems happy. More than you can say for a lotta folks.

Indeed. So, are you ready for the next floor?

Dexter looks wary. What the hell’s on the second floor then? We already been inside this kid’s head, and then outside this kid’s head. What’s left?

The forces of fate working on him from afar.

Oh. Sounds heavy.

It is. Try as we might to improve our lot, sometimes the universe just won’t abide.

Oh ho! I know that one! He points towards thin air, where he presumes our omniscient narrator to be. The Big Lebowski! “The Dude abides.” Damn good movie! Julianne Moore had some nice tits. Can I say “tits”?

You just did. Twice.

Okay, well I guess new XWF doesn’t completely suck balls then.

It really doesn’t. Are you quite sure you don’t want me to tell you who the new number one of all time on the Top 50 list is?

He shakes his head. Fuuuuuck NO! You tryin’ to piss me off again?! Like I said before, it’s probably some douchebag fuck boy like Cadryn Tiberius.

He’s number 25.

Whatever. Point is, I don’t care. He presses the button for the second floor. And that time I did it on my own so fuck you!

Well then “fuck me” I guess.

AFAR

Your senses are assaulted by a barren, antiseptic white room. Within it is a simple office table with three plastic chairs. They’re all occupied, with a middle aged couple on one side and a girl in her early teens on the other. Her face is reddened and swollen from a recent bout of crying. She has her knees curled up under her chin, yet still keeps her too thin frame firmly in the seat.

The woman, her mother, also looks to have been recently crying. Her mascara bore the tell tale smudges of it, and even now she seemed on the verge of resuming tears. She took a breath and reached her hand across the table. But her daughter ignores the overture, face canted towards the floor. Please baby, will you take my hand?

Will you believe me? She responds bitterly. Her finger twirls a knot in her shoulder length brown hair, a nervous habit.

Her father, perhaps made of sterner stuff, doesn’t seem to have been crying. But he does look torn. Dr. Wingate warned us that you had been having...strange thoughts….again. But honey, we just weren’t prepared for….

She looks up, glaring at her parents. Weren’t prepared for what? The truth?

The woman looks to the side, hand over her mouth to conceal a gentle sob. The man replies plaintively, Nobody wants you home more than us. But baby, we can’t….we can’t. Not like this. We need you well!

Then get me out of here! She shouts, twisting around in her chair and bashing her fists on the table. The danger is in here! IT’S IN HERE!

Ellen, it’s not! You’re still sick! Her mother cuts in, her voice a wavering vibrato of fear and despair. Her husband plants a calming hand atop hers, and she pulls back again.

The man suddenly looks weary. Ellen, listen to what you’re saying. Please, I’m begging you…

And I’m begging you! The tears flow anew on a rising tide of desperation. Things are not right here! There is a man here, a patient, and he’s DANGEROUS. He’s….he’s controlling things. Controlling the staff, controlling the other patients. They’re all scared of him! She shudders. I’m scared of him.

And this man, “RJ’, you said?

Yes.

Tell us what else you told Dr. Wingate about him.

Ellen leans back in the chair, hand catching tears running down her cheeks. You just want me to sound crazy….

We don’t want that at all! He pauses. What else did you tell Dr. Wingate about this RJ?

You already know!

We want to hear it. From you. He gently prodded her.

Fine. Fine. You want to hear the entire “crazy girl” spiel?!

Ellen...no….

"No" what?! I’m gonna give you what you want! Ellen manages an expression that is both defiant and terrified. RJ isn’t like the other patients. He’s got this control over everyone here. He scares us. Even Dr. Wingate knows what he is and is terrified of him. She rubs away another tear. And there’s….there’s…...oh God….the fight leaves her as she remembers….he has this thing with him. On his back. Ellen starts to shudder uncontrollably. It’s not from Earth. It can’t be….she sobs again….it’s awful….it’s awful…

Ellen…

They're going to kill me. She spoke the words with such a grave finality that both of her parents looked to her in shock.

Honey, we're going to speak with the doctor again, okay?

Please don't leave me here. It was a despondent croak, pleading. Her father hesitated as he rose out of his chair. His wife soon followed suit, having to tear her attention away from the girl before going to the door.

We love you, Ellen.

With that, they passed out of the room. A nurse nodded at them and went inside to retrieve their daughter. They walked down the hall until they reached Dr. Wingate's office. He was perched sitting on the corner of his desk and he gestured for them both to have a seat. How did it go?

The woman croaked, starting to speak but then tightened her lips together and broke eye contact. Her husband found her hand and held it.

It was pretty much as you said. But she seemed so frightened. That was the worst I have ever seen her.

The doctor nodded. It has been a significant regression. I’m sorry. But I am retooling her med regiment from the ground up.

The man still looks unsettled. But she was stable on her old meds.

I know, but the thing you have to understand is that neurochemistry is a complicated and fickle matter. Sometimes medications simply lose their effectiveness over time. I fear that’s what’s happened here.

The man looks to his wife, and then back at Wingate. Look doctor, no offense, but I’m starting to feel like this isn’t the best place for her anymore. I mean, look at her. She’s terrified….

Yes, she’s terrified. Wingate conceded. But it’s not real. The terror she feels is real, of course, but it's hallucinations. And paranoia.

Who is this RJ man she was talking about? The woman joins the conversation with some timidity.

The doctor sighs a bit. I’m bound by patient confidentiality laws from divulging too much. But I can tell you that he’s a patient here. A largely harmless one. And certainly not capable of the level of conspiracy your daughter has accused him of. Then, in a conciliatory tone. The man barely even speaks.

The man squeezes his wife’s hand, both of their expressions written over with grief.

I know this seems bad. I understand. But this truly is the best place for her now. If you bring her home she could harm herself, or someone else. She’s nowhere near stable enough for discharge. But I promise you, I will do everything in my power to rectify this. I’ve even contacted another physician I know who specializes in schizophrenia and other severe delusional disorders. We’re going to collaborate on this case.

The couple look at each other again. The woman speaks. I think he’s right. After a pause, the man concedes with a slight head nod. Dr. Wingate drops down off the desk.

Thank you for trusting me. I will have my staff provide you with daily updates. He steps in closer, magnifying his sincerity. Emily means a lot to us too. Nobody here wants to see her fall. Dr. Wingate goes to the door, opening it for them. In the meantime, please take care of yourselves. Call if you think there’s anything else we can do to help.

The couple acknowledge his words with quiet thanks and pass through the door. But then, the man turns around. Do you think we can say goodbye before we go?

Wingate winces. I’m not sure that would be for the best. Perhaps a phone call later?

Meanwhile….

Emily shuffles down the hall with the nurse by her side. The girl is still possessed of a nervous, fearful energy, her eyes darting between the nurse and the floor. Picking up on her state, the nurse says, Honey, I know things seem rough. But you gotta stop all this business.

Emily starts to cry again.

The nurse remains stoic. You gotta stop tellin’ these stories. You’re not doing anybody here any good.

You’re all afraid.

The nurse abruptly stops walking, and she gently places her hands on Emily’s shoulders. Emily flinches. The nurse’s response is cold and measured. You need to shut up before we all get killed.

Emily pants, her heart once again thundering up against her sternum. She looks back, and lets out an anguished moan at what’s behind her. This isn’t my room!

And that’s when the nurse shoves her brutally through the open door. She then takes hold of the handle, slamming it shut on Emily and locking it from the outside. Emily can be heard howling in abject terror from within. The nurse’s features twitch with uncertainty, before she walks away.

Within the room, Emily is sprawled out on the floor. She skitters back towards the door and then reaches up, trying for the handle. But it was futile. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, with a light burning within. Inside the room, a man was singing.

I found my thrill
On Blueberry Hill
On Blueberry Hill
When I found you
The moon stood still
On Blueberry Hill
And lingered until
My dream came true
The wind in the willow played
Love's sweet melody
But all of those vows you made
Were never to be…


The words are sung in a jilted, broken appropriation of Fats Domino’s voice. Emily shrinks from the foreboding sound of the song, getting up on her knees and wrenching uselessly at the door handle.

And then he was there, eclipsing the light in the doorway.



He was lean, wolf like, and predatory. His eyes were widened, deep tumultuous pools of entrenched madness. As though he was looking through Emily, through this room, through this hospital, just through into some secret wriggling awfulness lurking beneath the veneer of reason and reality. A secret no one was meant to know. And yet, a secret he was overjoyed to know and surrender to utterly.

Please….please….she begged, sinking back down on her haunches and shying from the man. The tears came again, and she wanted to stop them, not out of shame, or ego, but because she knew that was what this thing fed on. And oh, oh….it was feasting.

A slow smile spilled onto RJ’s lips like a reckoning. Emily, have you been a bad girl? The voice was higher pitched than one might expect, almost feminine. Have you…?

Please God don’t...don’t…. The girl has descended into full scale horror. Please……


And then, RJ was on her, too fast, too fast. Gripping her head in his oversized bony hands. PLEASE! She screamed.

RJ forced her head around, bringing his lips to her ear, setting her entire body ablaze with a crawling revulsion. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE! He screamed it into her ear, over and over, a shrill mockery of her terror. Emily bucked and howled at every utterance, kicking her feet out to try to escape. But RJ held fast, and cranked her head around to face him again. Shhh, shhhhhhh. He petted her tear stained cheek. It’s ok, it’s ok. It’s not you. Not you. Something flashed in those deviant eyes. Two people here have no family. No mummies or daddies, isn’t that sad? Eh? Isn’t it just awful. You have a mummy and daddy….

Don’t...hurt them….

Noooooo! He chuckled, as though the notion was absurd. No, they’ll be fine. YOU’LL be fine. See? But two people here, nobody visits them. Nobody checks in. Eh? How sad. How sad.

What are you talking about? She croaks between sobs.

I’m talking about you picking which one of them dies. Emily bays in anguish. At dinner. Tonight! You’re going to point the finger in front of everyone and choose. And that person dies. And why? He grips her face tighter, bringing his own leering aspect in closer, so close Emily could feel the fetid stink of his breath on her lips. BECAUSE YOU CAN’T KEEP YOUR FUCKING MOUTH SHUT! He rages at her, spittle flying from his mouth and coating her face. She flinches again, choking on her tears.

Something drew Emily’s attention to just over RJ’s shoulder. She already knew what she would see. And her horror descended yet further, tripping past the bounds of sanity as her mind feverishly tried to unsee what was impossible.



A monstrous, shuddering, broken worm. Pulverized bone poked out at irregular angles from its pulsating body. Its face was ravaged, as though torn asunder and resewn together by some sadistic cosmic insanity. And Emily could sense, even through her own fear, that this THING was insane too. A mad beast from beyond the hells, something once great now humbled and angry for it. And the fact that this abomination, this mystery vomited up from the void, had just as little control over itself as any of the human beings locked in this hospital, struck a primal chord of dread so deep it sung the body electric.

Emily screamed one last time. And then she never spoke again. But she could still point. And later on that day, will shattered, mind numb, an absolute wreckage of human detritus washed ashore on an island of insanity, she pointed. And she smiled.

After that, the shot pans down the darkened hallway of the hospital, past the empty rooms of the patients who were forced to be a party to the bedlam that was once their haven. It settles on the nameplate next to one of the rooms. A familiar room. It read:

Roland James Dyson



DYSON?! Dexter growls. I hate this little turd already! Maddy never told me about no family.

Well, she did actually. She said they were all dead.

So who’s this prick?

I would shrug if I had the ability to.

He hunches forward. You tellin’ me you don’t know nothin’?

Oh, I know what’s going on. But the story must play itself out.

But I got no patience! Seriously dude, I just fast forward to the end of every movie ‘cuz I wanna know what happens! And I can only focus on shit for like five minutes TOPS.

Surprise, surprise. At any rate, it’s time to let Corey speak his piece on Betsy Granger.

Who the fuck is Becky Granger?

Corey Smith’s next opponent.

Oh. He muses. She got nice cans?

**Sigh**

LOGOS, PATHOS, ETHOS

Betsy Granger. It’s a privilege.

No, that’s not some cynical opening snark. It’s that rare beast in the XWF known as genuine respect. You’ve impressed me since you first debuted here. And I know you’ve had more than your fair share of accolades in other parts too. So strap yourselves in boys and girls...this one’s gonna be a LOVE-IN.

I can hear the collective groans of the masses as we speak.

But, there is a question mark steepled high over our spot on the card. That question of why I chose you, of all people. Because it WAS a choice. Deliberate. Calculated even. And admittedly, mostly selfish. Betsy, March Madness was the one year anniversary of my freedom from The Engineer. And though I had a losing effort that night, I spent it with my best goddamn friend in the whole world, putting on a show stealing match that elevated a much maligned and forgotten title division here in the XWF. But put that on the shelf. March Madness 2021 marked the anniversary of me getting my life back. And no matter the outcome of that match, I couldn’t be happier.

I’ve spent the last year pulling the pieces of Corey Smith back together. It’s been hard, to say the least. The physical challenges aside, I realized just how little I truly knew myself. I was vengeful, and hypocritical, and deep in denial. But I also loved fiercely, fought tenaciously, and vowed not to apologize for any of it. I found myself in love with a man. I questioned the very essence of who I am and who I want to be. I sinned. I sought redemption.
I still don’t have it all worked out. But I’m starting to.

So why Betsy Granger?

Simply put, you’re a challenge. Some people have taken to calling me the “gatekeeper” lately, and I’m not sure I agree with that. I’m not some sagacious figure on high, deciding who sinks and who swims. Hell, the vast majority of people I’ve faced since my return haven’t been new to the game at all. Including James Raven. I think you know him.

Okay, maybe THAT was a little snarky.

Anyhow, I’m not a gatekeeper. Just the opposite. I’ve been seeking out gatekeepers since I returned, looking to challenge myself at every step, to set the barometer for how far I’ve come and how far I’ve yet to go. And Betsy, I chose you to be one of my gatekeepers. And you don’t choose someone to be a gatekeeper because they’re an easy mark. You choose gatekeepers because beating them MEANS something. Beating Betsy Granger, to put not so fine a point on it, is an accomplishment.

So, confession time, this is, at its core, a singularly selfish act on my part. I want that “beating Betsy Granger” feather in my cap. That’s what this is about. Sorry, not sorry. Now, some might argue that that feather’s become a bit tarnished of late. Not making it to the finals of March Madness. Losing to Lycana last Warfare.

Horse shit.

You lost to Doc D’Ville, and though I’m loathe to admit it, that man really is an icon for a reason. You’re one of a legion to fall at his feet. As for Lycana? We all saw how that went down. “Mall goths FTW.” Hardly.

Ah, ah, ah. On that note, The Left Hand. I lied before when I said I made apologies for nothing. That’s not quite true. I do have something to apologize for. , Betsy, you and Alias, and RMI have been taking the fight to The Left Hand. Which is something I vowed to do months ago and….never did. Not really anyway. You stepped in where I did not. So I apoligize for saying one thing and, well, not EVEN doing another. But let’s step back and reassess. Let’s talk about what The Left Hand really represents for you:

a waste of your time and talent.

You know why I reneged on my declaration of war against The Left Hand? It’s because I saw that there really isn’t anything there. Sure, they’ve managed to beat some people up. They scarred Alias, which was tragic. But what else? Baphomet’s been in absentia for the most part, when he’s not blatantly arranging the deaths of inept FBI agents. They’ve wasted precious time feuding with people who were smart enough to leave their ranks. Ranks, I will add, that seem to have dwindled considerably in the XWF since they rolled in here claiming to be the best thing since Nightmare Before Christmas Funko pops. Where’s the Horseman exactly? Did he take the fall for the Baphomet? I forget where we are exactly in this absolute garbage tier Dark Shadows dreck.

Look, guys, your hearts are in the right place. But at the end of the day you’re indirectly buying into the hype of a glorified used car salesman who read the Anton LaVey edit of “How To Win Friends and Influence People”. Betsy, you’re above this. You’re putting a mountain of effort into crushing a team of dullards who claim to be this world threatening shadow cabal, yet they picked the wrestling world as their arena to garner influence when they’re about as mediocre as mediocre gets at it. And yes, oh yes, I saw Marf won the TV title. Just because he caught the People's Republic of Profound Mental Illness napping does not mean he's anything other than a weak transitional champ at best. Also, if Baphomet himself was a real monster, he'd accept the challenge laid down by someone like, oh, I don't know, ME, because he would see in that the potential to humble someone with notoriety and send a devastating message to those who oppose The Left Hand. Instead, he continues to duck and dodge. Not because he's a master manipulator, but because he's a chicken shit empty suit with delusions of grandeur.

Well shit, I just went ahead and cut a promo on The Left Hand. Sorry Bets. But in my defense its easy to do when you're considering the quantum levels of pure SUCK that they represent.

So back to Betsy. Hopefully you're swayed by what I said. If not, well, then I guess it's ok that you're beating up some scrublord assholes who still deserve it even if they're not the worldwide threat they pretend to be in their masturbatory fantasies. Maybe you can even pull Lycana out of their clutches. You two do seem to have some kind of “love/hate/want to turn you into a flesh suit kinda maybe” thing going on.

But here we come to the crux of the matter, Betsy. Do I think I can win? Of course. And that’s not just me stroking myself off only to sally forth and underwhelm. I’ll leave that to the low insight schmucks amongst us. I know what I’m capable of. And more than that, I know that I am now the best goddamn version of Corey Smith that has ever existed. My neurosis have been put to bed. I’ve made peace with my failings. I know who I want and what I want, and when I want it. In short, Corey Smith 2021 is a white hot ball of deadly self actualization packing enough sheer kinetic force to split terra firma in half and usher in any era I damn well please.

Sounds pretty epic, right? That, my lady, is what you’re going to be dealing with at Warfare.

But I will end this on one more positive note. Groaners, bite me.

There’s an additional thing that drew me to you, Betsy. You remind me of someone very special. A strong, confident woman possessed of an unerring moral compass. A woman who carried with her a touch of the ethereal wherever she went, a force of nature to whom the typical bounds of space or time did not apply. A woman who loved me in a way I could never return, but nonetheless never stopped believing in me or picking me up when I fell.

I failed her, and she died.

You’re not her Betsy. You never will be. But you come close enough. And for that reason, I thank you. Thank you for reminding me of her, even though you didn’t mean to. Thank you for making this match something more than a wrestling match. Thank you for inadvertently making me want to laugh and ugly cry at the same time. I needed that. Cue The Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony”.

Talk to you soon, Bets. And say “hi” to James for me. He knows why.