OOC: Heads up for the squeamish, but there's some pretty gruesome imagery later in this RP. You've been warned!

RECAP Corey Smith recently had the make the heart wrenching decision to let a man fall to his death rather than have his friends at the commune be targeted by Mammon, Madison Dyson’s latest infernal patron. Since then, Corey has struggled behind the scenes to decide what that meant for his identity. He had spent the last year drawing a line in the sand, trying to fight for what was right, whether it be against evil forces from without, or against his own friend Thad Duke in the XWF. But what does it mean when the righteous kill? Can there be redemption for Corey, or is this a new path he must walk? And now, a new challenge is about to rear its head, as the strange and unusual once again lands at his doorstep…

Corey Smith stood at the end of his driveway and looked on at the nation of hate across the street.

Some of them adorned themselves in the cross all the while waving placards about about how “Fags were bound for hellfire.” And then of course there were the conspiracy nuts, decrying the fact that the commune was some kind of conduit for human trafficking, child slavery, or worse. Still others simply knew that his home was expressly purposed for conditioning young men and women in the ways of homosexuality. And finally, rubbing shoulders with the true believers, were the run of the mills who simply thought Corey’s commune was an albatross about the neck of the local real estate market, manufacturing stories about hedonistic drug use, petty crime, and the like. The worst part was that at least a couple of the stories did not need to be manufactured. The fact that a death had occurred on these grounds was oft bantered about by Corey’s neighborhood enemies. It was a pain that Corey still felt keenly. It should never have happened. Never.

Well, at least they’re staying within the tape today. Christian noted, his face still evidencing a scowl. Then, turning to Corey, It’s getting worse.

I know. He spoke softly.

I had to stop Dolly from coming out here and caving in a few faces.

Thank you.

Hmm. Christian responded noncommittally. Sometimes I think we should.

What?

Cave in a few faces.

Honey….

Kidding. Sort of. He glanced back at the mob, who were now directing their ire at them.

Corey did his best to tune out their shouts, rendering it all unto a sort of buzzing white noise. Something painless. Neutered. But in the process he missed Christian’s train of thought.

……said that one of them approached her today. She was scared out of her mind.

Wait, who?

Weren’t you listening? He chided gently. Kerry. One of the whackadoos approached her, telling her it was okay to cast off the shackles of Gay oppression.

Corey rolled his eyes. Jesus. He touched Christian’s forearm. Let’s go. I’ve had enough.

A Little Later…

Corey sat in the hot tub, alone. He could still feel the lingering tension of the encounter earlier. Almost as though the masses’ furor had a physical effect on him, like a toxin leaching deep into his system, taking root. He had to wonder how much of that toxin was self made: his own conjoined feelings of anger and impotence. They were approaching HIS people now. Frightening CHILDREN. It was times like this Corey wished Lux was still a part of him. She was always such a wizened soul, and for all her ferocity it never ceased to amaze him the profundity of her insight into the human condition. He knew she wouldn’t have been bothered by this. And not out of a sense of self centeredness, or a lack of concern for his people, but because she was just so damned on high. Seeing the grander picture with that eagle eye. With an unflinching confidence that the curve of history would always bend towards love and compassion, and that these people were but fleeting blips of animosity, rendered inadequate by the breadth and scope of time itself.

Or something like that.

Corey’s reflections were interrupted by the hip hop beat of his phone’s ringtone. He took a moment to dry his hand on a nearby towel before picking up the phone. And his heart immediately dropped. Come on…not now…. With the mien of one headed for the butcher’s block, Corey reluctantly answered the phone.

Hello, detective.

Mr. Smith. How are you today?

Wishing the view out of the front window was a little less “fashy”, but fine otherwise.

Have there been any issues? No trespassing I hope?

Corey loved how he pretended to care. They’re targeting the kids. We’ve been over this.

I know. And so long as they’re not putting hands on, trespassing, or the like there isn’t much we can do. They have all the proper permits…

Corey rubbed the bridge of his nose in consternation. Yeah…yeah…I know.

Detective Will Chandler was a 16 year veteran of the local PD, and the detective assigned to what Corey had learned was colloquially called the “freak beat” by the department. Detective Chandler had been one of the officers affixed to the recent murder case, and since then had….”stuck around”, so to speak.

My son is quite upset about this business between you and Thad.

You let him watch it? Corey was genuinely surprised.

Well, I learned a long time ago that the more you forbid something the more tantalizing it becomes. But he’s a good kid. Knows the difference between fantasy and reality.

Christ if he only knew. Corey thought, ruminating on the XWF and all it’s rampant strangeness. You can tell your boy that we’re working on it. Sort of. Or at least I am. It sounded even less convincing in his head.

I will.

But I’m assuming this isn’t just a social call?

It is not. I…uh….I actually have a favor to ask.

A favor?

Yeah. Something that I think your unique talents would be well suited for.

This was beyond bizarre. Corey’s suspicions were immediately raised. What is it?

We have a suspect we need to cut loose for now. But we want him to stay local and he has nowhere to go.

Corey’s features pinched in frustration and disbelief. I’m sorry, are you asking me to harbor a potential criminal for you? Because I’m going to pretend I didn’t…

Just come talk to him.

Corey stopped, briefly taken aback by the stolidness in the detective’s voice. Look detective, you know the giant shitpile I’m dealing with already and now you want me to harbor this guy?

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line. You know, sometimes permits for protests get lost in the shuffle. So much bureaucracy, it's hard to keep track of it all.

Corey couldn’t repress a small smirk. He didn’t like it, but if it meant not exposing the people he opened his home to to constant harassment and fear mongering, well, perhaps it was worth a listen.

Later…

The air inside the precinct was thick with accusation. Stares that lingered a moment too long, weighing Corey down despite his attempts at friendly head nods and inviting smiles. He gave up about halfway through, settling on just following Detective Chandler as they wound their way towards the back of the precinct. Behind a door held behind a key card entry was a gun metal gray hallway with large windows on each side, the eponymous one way glass that was a staple in both real life and Law and Order style observation rooms evidently. The detective stopped, signaling for Corey to stop as well.

There are a few things you should know.

I’m thinking there’s a lot more than a few but go ahead. Corey replied. For starters, you still haven’t given me a straight answer on what he’s accused of doing.

I know…I know. The officer grimaced. This is becoming a pretty high profile matter, so first off your discretion is appreciated. The Feds are involved and…

Corey throws his hands up. Whoa, whoa….The Feds?!

The detective nods in a somewhat conciliatory fashion. Yeah. Look, I won’t mince words with you anymore. The guy is a suspect in a series of child abductions. The feds are involved because the incidences cross multiple state jurisdictions.

Corey looked at him, dumbstruck. Are you fucking with me?

Ah…no.

You want me to take someone who is accused of killing children into MY home? That is host to any number of vulnerable individuals INCLUDING children. Am I hearing you correctly on this?

I…

My home. Corey gestured to himself for emphasis. You know what I think is really going on here? I think you’re trying to jettison whatever little good will I have left in my neighborhood. Do you people really want us out that bad?!

That’s NOT what we’re trying to do. Let me be VERY clear. Also, this isn’t a murder investigation yet.

But you said…

No bodies have been found.

Corey allows himself a clap of sardonic laughter. Oh, so he’s just really, REALLY good at hiding corpses? Much better!

The detective sighs and leans his back against the wall. Look, I knew this was going to be a tough sell.

Ya think?!

But listen to me! He holds up a finger, and casts a cursory glance up and down the hallway as though ensuring no one else was in earshot. Now, my opinion is not exactly the majority opinion, but I don’t think he’s done what he’s accused of doing. He pauses, as though searching for the right turn of phrase. I think the kid is sick. He’s delusional. And the way he’s handling this…it’s…it’s….*sigh*...it strikes me more like someone with a mental illness getting railroaded than anything else.

Corey had to admit to being somewhat taken aback by the detective's progressive view of the matter. Perhaps it showed on his face, because the detective seemed to take Corey’s pause as an invitation to continue.

Now, we have no hard evidence to hang on him except a couple eye witness accounts stating he was seen with a few of the missing kids.

That’s not nothing.

I know. But….just go talk to him. He leans forward off the wall, coming in close to Corey. I know we’ve had our differences. But until this is resolved your home is one of the few places I could think of where he won’t get eaten alive.

Wait….Corey held up a hand….if he’s so mentally ill why didn’t you send him to the psych hospital?

We did. For two weeks. They pumped him full of meds and his story didn’t change. And the hospital couldn’t keep him any longer if he wasn’t deemed to be actively suicidal or homocidal. Which he wasn’t. Chandler placed particular emphasis on this final statement. I’m not going to lie, my motives here aren’t entirely altruistic. I want this kid to stay alive, and given his condition and what he’s accused of, he won’t make it much longer on the streets. If he DID do this, I want him to stand trial. So he has to live long enough to do so.

But you don’t think he did it? Corey considers the other suspiciously. I’m getting some serious mixed signals here.

Like I said, the Feds are involved. It’s complicated. And I guess I can't be 100% sure he didn't do it. He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking very exhausted. Just talk to him. If you’re not comfortable with it, fine. If you are, wonderful. You babysit him for a bit and I make your problems with the Church of the Antichrist go away.

Corey withdrew into himself for a moment, weighing the possibilities. Finally, he relented. I’ll talk to him, at least. But I’m not promising anything.

Thank you. He’s right this way.

Corey followed the detective to one of the panes of glass and looked within. Inside, a young man was seated at a generic looking metal table.



The detective must have seen something alight on Corey’s features. You seem surprised.

He’s not what I was expecting. It was an understatement. While the young man’s clothes were threadbare, wearing a ragged green hoodie and jeans with profuse mud stains crawling up from the ankles, he didn’t look the part of a child abductor whatsoever. Wispy dark curls peeked out from under his hood, and his face was an ocean of barely discernible freckles that suggested a mixed ancestry bleeding through. His frame was lithe, but clearly molded, suggesting some kind of athletic endeavor or intense physical labor. He was also, not to put so fine a point on it, one of the most attractive men Corey had ever seen. With a final, silent glance over at the detective, Corey is allowed into the room.

The young man looks up as Corey enters the room, and he beams. I know you. He speaks the words with a semblance of awe. You’re Corey Smith.

Corey looks around for a second chair, but doesn’t spy one. So, awkwardly, he remains standing. A certain sense of discomfort prompts him to fold his arms in front of his chest. I am.

You help people. The young man blurts out.

He lets go. A man falls to his death. Corey blinks away the tragedy.

I try to. Corey rallies. What’s your name?

Pan.

That’s an…interesting name. Is it a family name?

No. I was born with it.

Corey mulls over the response, which on the surface seems sensible but falls apart on closer inspection. You mean it’s the name you were given when you were born.

I don’t think so.

Huh. Corey mulls over yet another bizarre reply. So the detective says you need somewhere to go.

Yeah. He replies, almost bashfully. I mean, I do have somewhere I COULD go, but I don’t think they’d like it if I went there. His eyes tick over to the glass.

I see. Well Pan, there’s one thing you need to understand if you come to stay with me. I have a lot of people living with me. Different people. And some of them…they’ve been through a lot. He pauses. So, I need to know if you’re safe.

Pan’s expression drops. I’ve never harmed a child. I could never.

I didn’t even get to ask my question.

But I know that’s what you were gonna ask. Because that’s what they think I did. But I didn’t hurt them.

Corey quirks an eyebrow. You make it sound like you did know them though.

I don’t think I should say anymore.

Now, it’s Corey who looks back at the glass, but it’s naturally fruitless. Pan if you know where they are…

I don’t think I should say anymore.

Corey runs his hand through his hair, a betrayal of his mounting frustration. I need to know you’re going to be safe! He repeats it like a mantra.

I will be safe, Corey! I will be! Pan leans over the table a bit, licking his lips nervously. Pedil edhellen?

Corey scrunches up his features in confusion. I don’t follow? What language is that?

Peditham hi sui vellyn?

Ummmmm….

You don’t understand? Pan sounds mildly surprised.

I’m afraid not.

I could have sworn you were fae.

Um….excuse me…?

It’s then that Pan pulls down his hood. His dark locks flow freely, but it’s what lies beneath them that surprises Corey. The young man’s ears came up to a point, and from his vantage point the surgical work that would have been performed to accomplish such a feat seemed flawless. He gestures at his ears with a small smile. I’m sorry, I thought you were like me.

Corey’s eyes widen and he flashes a finger up. Can you just hold on, like, one second?

Corey goes to the door and quickly exits. The detective is waiting for him on the other side, wearing a pained smile.

What. The. Fuck.?

He thinks he’s Peter Pan.

What?!

You know, like the Disney movie? Peter Pan? Wendy? Tinker Bell? Neverland?

Corey paces. And you couldn’t have led with that craziness?

I didn’t want you to prejudge. The detective softens. Come on, Corey, it’s not like you’re unused to a bit of the strange and unusual. Let’s not pretend….

Yeah, it’s my life. I know what I’m used to. He responds a tad more icily than he intended.

Look kid, you want to be the hero? There’s a sick young man in there who needs your help.

Be the hero.

A grip loosens. A man falls.

Corey already knows what he’s going to do.

Words, words, words…(better than Lycana’s words)

So, Lycana, there is one thing I want you to do for me. And admittedly, it’s a big ask, but it’s the only way I’m ever going to take you seriously.

Tell me, without any empty claims or gestures, why you are going to beat me.

And you know what I mean by empty claims and gestures. Your run up to your match with Alias was full of them. Full of utter bulltripe like:

Quote:You don’t see me.

I see you.

You. Don’t. See. Me.

Well, Im afraid he was less blind than you thought seeing as how he went all Matt Murdock on your pasty ass.

Quote:I mean, I guess you can keep right on trying to shake these bones Alias. You are only destined to fail at it, but if that’s how you want to spend your time.

Whoops!

Quote:What you seem to be glossing over, time after time, is the fact that I told you that I see you.

Again with the vision motif. Your creative writing teacher must have been all over that this week.

Quote:There is nowhere but down.

Down the path I send you on.

Chasing your own tail until you figure out just where you can go, after living at the top and I have taken your place in the Universe.

Do you fucking see me now?”

OMG YES! Yes, we (unfortunately) see you! We saw your little tosspot self get run pillar to post by arguably the great Universal Champion in history. We see you every time you talk big and perform small. We see you every time you wax pedantic for what feels like HOURS only to underperform and disappoint yet again.

We see you.

We see you.

WE SEE YOU.

And that there is the problem. That it’s hard to take this spooky bitch seriously because we’ve all seen how inadequate you are.

You know, if you had spent half as much time actually figuring Alias out instead of claiming you had him figured out in some kind of purile, blatant “playing 5-d chess” level self wankery maybe you would have actually had a shot. But instead you spewed hollow talking point after hollow talking point while we all bet the farm on Alias with Mr. Wheel and Dealer without a second thought.

So here’s what I want you to do. I want you to give me some concrete goddamn reasons why you are going to beat ME. The guy who is often spoken of as being in the same calibre as the Robert Main’s, the Jim Caedus’, and the Alias’ (their words, not mine). What hard evidence is there that you have what it takes? Because you know as well as I do that there just isn’t any.

Oh, I’ll admit, you may have shown a modicum of improvement. But honey, you’re a middle of the pack sprinter getting their second wind mere yards from the finish line. I mean, hell’s bells, you came into this promotion as a tag team specialist and never ONCE captured the titles. Having been beaten one of those times by…oh…I don’t know….ME. And another who shall not be named.

*Ah-ha-HEM.*

There. That’s your record against me. In case you forgot.

So, I’m curious to hear (in the sense that any man can be curious about what it feels like to have their nutsack sandwiched between the toilet seat and the bowl) what excuses you developed to pardon your loss at Bad Medicine. Let’s have a look at your promo from Warfare!

Quote:Random inoffensive whargarbll about what an intense match it was.

Oh yes Lycana, it was one hell of a fight. An insane fight that tripped the boundaries of space time and…and….saw Alias kick you ass.

Nah, you’re not sidestepping this shit for me, Ly. You talked big and came up bupkis. And I’m not going to let you do it again. Because, that will be your game plan, won’t it? Talk up what a dominant force you are, and how much you love the fight, and BLOOD, BLOOD, BLOOD (orgy?). Nah, skip the orgy, you’re not NEARLY that interesting.

You’re gonna pull the same shit you did against Alias. You’re gonna prop yourself up on that foundation of sand, and then when you drown it you’ll go down singing “But at least it was a hell of a match!”. Yeah. A hell of a match. That you lost.

And the people might be wondering why I’m going so hard on identifying Lycana as a perpetual swing and a miss when, hell, plenty of people lose matches, right? I lost a couple this year. A couple. But why am I running a train on you so hard over this? Well, it’s simple.

You deserve to lose. Because you’re a wholescale piece of shit.

Oh, don’t let that attempt at face saving character rehab bullshit with Betsy Granger earlier this year fool you. Lycana is a trash tier human being. She tortured Alias. She’s taken God knows how many lives because she has an insatiable, borderline parodic, lust for blood and violence. Which, by the way, is the same dull shtick you’ve been forcing on us for the last YEAR. And she is a selfish bint who would rather flay her wrists than do something positive for the XWF or, god forbid, the world as a whole.

In other words, you are precisely the kind of un-person Lux would have DESPISED.

So come on, what you got for us, huh? Like ten straight minutes detailing how your going to crush spleens, gouge eyes, and sever sinew and hey, hey, HEY, hands above the table where we can see them! No wonder it smells like fresh cod in here….

I mean, Jesus, just how insufferably DULL you continue to be. And that whole, “I have to refute every line of every point my opponent makes” thing? Save that for the Jim Caedus’ of the world, because at least he makes that level of insecurity at least SOUND entertaining. You’re just dripping with sad sack self doubt and it’s pathetic. And it STINKS. Or maybe that’s just the werewolf blood or what…the…fuck….EVER.

It is painful, goddamn PAINFUL, listening to you prattle on with your incessant “I know you are but what am I” wordplay. Not to mention woefully out of character for someone who’s supposed to be a depraved sorceress cum modern day Elizabeth Bathory. Where’s the confidence, woman? And no, no, no, I don’t mean the false bravado you smear across the airwaves like so many apes plastering their walls with their own shit, I mean the GENUINE confidence that comes with not even feeling the need to defend yourself against all attacks. . You know, you don’t see me getting all hot and bothered, racing from my opponent’s paused breath to their next paused breath and trying to shoot down every little molecule of tedium that empties from their mouths. Because I don’t have to do that. I have REAL confidence. REAL skill. I’m Mr. Leap of Faith. I’m Mr. 24/7. I’m mister goddamned WAR GAMES. In case you people forgot!

It’s the people like YOU that have to resort to that. The callow brands that have something to prove, that have face to save every time they proclaim to bring the violence only to land belly up and staring at the lights. You’re a gimmick Lycana, not a star. And while sometimes those things run parallel, it’s far more often that we get the Charlie Nickles’ and Money Oswalds’ of the world than the Dexter Bright’s. Just sayin’....

But I think what really drives me in this inevitable confrontation is just wanting to put something that sucks down for the count. To me, you are the personification of what is wrong with the world, a soul sucking leach profiting off the misery of others and relishing it. And whether those profits come in pounds of flesh or cash, it all washes the same for me. You’re a right bastard and do not deserve to achieve the heights of success that people like Alias have. And yet, people like you so often do. But not on my watch. On my watch, you stay down in the gutter where you belong, feeding on whatever meager scraps society decides to toss your way and treating you like the ethical leper you truly are.

But! I do have a proposition for you. You see, I’ve always been fascinated by the whole nature-nurture proposition. And a sick part of me wants to see if you even have the capacity for change. Now, I’m betting on “no”, but Lux….she thought people could change. You just needed to make the change appealing enough. Or at least, make them an offer they couldn't refuse.

So here’s the deal my dearie, if I retain my championship, you have to spend time with me on the commune. Under strict watch of course. But you will have to abide by the rules of my home, which means pitching in, helping out, and tending to the less fortunate. I can hear the dry heaves from here, Lycana. So rest assured, this is where it gets interesting. Because if you beat me….if you beat me….

….I go away.

….

Are you still with me? Not expecting that were you? But yes, you heard that proper. I go away. And you get to be the one who put down Corey Smith.

Tempting, no? And face facts Spooky Doo, I’ve got WAY more to lose in this equation than you do.

So what do you say? Are you willing to commit to at least that much? Or is the prospect of actually being a decent fucking human being for once too heavy a cross to bear?

The shot pulls back and we see Corey Smith give a subtle nod to the camera. A voice from behind it calls out “Cut!” We see now that Corey had been set up in an interview room at what we presume is the mythical XWF headquarters. He hops down off the stool he was sitting on, whispering some thanks to the crew as he departs. Turning the corner in the hall, he steps into a bathroom and heads straight over to the sink. Turning on the water, he plunges his hands into it and brings it up to his face. He remains there for a moment, droplets peaking and tumbling off the bridge of his nose, staring at himself in the mirror.

A grip loosens. A man falls.

Corey frowns deeply. Hypocrite. He mutters, before burying his fist in the glass.

Earlier…

He did what?!

It hasn’t been proven. It’s why he’s here in the first place.

Christian and Corey are in the midst of one of the properties' greenhouses. Christian is holding a leaking hose at his side. In the background, a couple other residents are looking on.

Could we have a moment guys? Corey addresses them. They leave without a word, no doubt thankful for the reprieve.

Christian drops the hose and runs his hands through his hair, leaving the strands glistening with cloying moisture. This is a bad call, man.

You don’t think I ran through all the probabilities in my head? The risks involved? Corey took a step closer to Christian. What I saw in that interview room wasn’t some monster. He’s a screwed up kid. And I can think of a couple other screwed up kids who got second leases on life and ended up being very thankful for it.

Don’t go there….

Why not? Corey paused, checking himself before he got too heated.

You always do this. Christian spoke softly now. You always feel like you have something to atone for and it clouds your judgment. When are you going to stop punishing yourself?

Until it feels right to stop.

Okay then. Let’s spin this around. When are you going to stop punishing me? Or them? He points towards the house. Because that’s what you're doing. You’re letting a wolf in the door and they’re going to pay the price.

I was one of those wolves once.

Christian sighs and turns away from Corey. You know that’s different. You weren’t at the wheel back then.

Corey clamps his mouth shut. He could continue the verbal repartee, but decided discretion was the better part of valor.

You’re not going to say anything? Christian picks up the hose and turns the nozzle to a fine sprinkle, picking up where he left off.

I…I guess not.

But it’s decided?

For now. Yeah. I’ll look after him.

I certainly hope so. Christian speaks the words with a clipped air of finality that suggested the conversation was done. Corey knew better than to press on, so he wheeled about and exited the greenhouse, traversing the property all the way back to the house. He headed for Pan’s room to make due on his promise to keep an eye on the young man, but somehow wondered if he had bitten off too much.

Pan was removing his spartan clothes from a garbage bag. Most of them were in various states of stain or otherwise shot through with disrepair. I can help you get some better clothes.

Pan picks his head up. You will? He smiles. It’s an innocent smile brimming with perfect pearlescent teeth, except, oddly enough his canines looked a little too sharp. Corey opted to file that notion away for now and proceed.

Yeah, can’t have you going around like that. I mean, unless you WANT to.

I would really appreciate it. And I’ll help out in any way I can to make up for it.

Corey grunted. Ya see, here’s the thing though Pan, you’ve gotta stay in your room.

The other’s features sunk. He gripped a worn t-shirt in both hands as he processed what Corey was staying. Because you’re afraid of me.

Because we need to take SOME precautions. Look man, it’s not like I’m going to lock you in here or anything, but you have to stay put or else you can’t stay here anymore. And then they’ll probably pull together some bullshit reason to keep you in county lock up which is something you DON’T want. Corey knew that this boy with his mental health issues could never last there. On that point he had to agree with the detective.

Pan looked to the side, and then back at Corey, seeming somewhat frantic. But if I stay here more children will get hurt.

What do you mean?

I mean there really IS someone out there taking those kids! But it’s not me, they’re just trying to blame me because I’m…well…strange.

Corey took a moment to decide if he was going to bite, ultimately opting to take the plunge.

So then who’s doing it?

Captain Hook.

Elsewhere….

You fucking let him go? Special Agent Miles Sumpter growls into the phone. He’s seated at the island in his kitchen, a freshly poured tumbler of scotch in front of him.

…

What do you mean “there wasn’t enough”? There were multiple eye witnesses that I corroborated personally. Do you realize how bad you’ve just fucked me here? I’ve been working this case for six months and you just let him walk. Un-be-fucking-leavable!

He withdraws the phone from the side of his head, places it down on the counter and smashes his pointer finger onto it to end the call.

The detective was a middle aged man, sandy haired and fair complected. Weathered crows feet were starting to radiate out from the corners of his eyes, and his lip was pockmarked with an inch long scar, the fallout of a scuffle with some junkie 10 years ago. He was getting soft about the middle, a fact that Sumpter was acutely aware of.

And then, there were the headaches.

In fact, one was starting now. It began as a radiating pulse behind his right eye. It felt hot inside his head, like a blossoming flower of humidity in his brain. Reasonably, he knew this couldn’t be the case but…

Sicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksick

And then came the thunder, the dolorous blow that almost toppled him out of his chair. Sumpter unsteadily found his footing, pressing his palm against his eyeball and stumbling his way to the sink. He groaned in pain as he thrust his head under the tap and turned on the cold water. Sometimes this was enough. Enough to distract from the pain until it abated.

Sicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksick

AHH! He screamed as the white hot pulse unleashed another lightning strike. The water wasn’t helping. He withdrew his head from the sink, not even bothering to turn off the tap. There was only one thing that would help now. One place.

The happy place.

With mounting anxiety, Sumpter fought the incessant spinning of the room, closing and opening his eyes, so that he could gain some sort of purchase towards his destination. He stumbled twice as the agony roared in his head.

Sicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksick

But finally, he reached his purpose. The cellar door. Wrenching it open, he nearly plummeted down the stairs, making a hard left towards the metal door at the far end of the room. Reaching that then, he took the handle in his hand and pulled that door open too, smiling as the cool air of the freezer served as an effervescent relief.

Stepping in, still with a fist punched up against his eye, he takes in the many fruits of his labors.



Sumpter drew closer to the cabin shaped pile of corpses in the center of the room. Bodies upon bodies, children and teenagers mostly, though a nosy adult could be seen here and there, were tethered together to form this infernal structure, birthed from nightmare into the real world. The cool air had ensured that the smell was mostly gone, but some of the side beams had started to wither and would soon need to be replaced.

Sumpter took his hand away from his head. Already the pain was starting to become a memory. Noting something on the ground, he reached toward it with his clawed prosthesis, his other gift from that tangle with a junkie all those years ago, and hooked it. It was a piece of flesh that had fallen from the “house”. With a grunt, he cast it aside and headed towards his true goal. The one who dwelt in that house. The boy king.

The closer he got, the better his head felt, as though the mere proximity to the boy had some sort of repairative aura. Before long he was there.



The boy king with his eternal smile. His friendly wave. No judgments. No judgments. Just purity of heart.

Oh…. was all he could muster as he sank to his knees before the boy. Placing his head in the boy’s stone cold lap Special Agent Sumpter began to weep.