Busy, busy, busy. It was a cognitive dissonance reverberating around in his skull. It bounced from cortex to cortex, stretching the bounds of his cranium, making his head feel internally swollen. A headache was beginning to form. And he knew exactly what that meant. Mystica was about to come out and play.

"Not now," David said aloud, hunched over his desk, which was utterly covered in paperwork. He was not at The Village, much to even his own surprise. He had taken up a private office in a sleepy nearby town -- a modest room just above a mom-and-pop bookshop. The elderly woman who owned the place had given him a cut-rate deal, based mostly upon his utter politeness and, as she called it, "trustworthy face." If only she knew. With autumn rapidly approaching, David could see the leaves changing colour from vivid greens to dull browns and blood reds. They're dying, he thought. We're all dying.

When there came no response to his call, David became a bit paranoid. Mystica always came at his beck and call. Why would he not answer now? He was certainly in there, as David could feel the pressure building in his temples. It was the sleeping god's personal warning. Incoming: one ancient slumbering eldtrich abomination; no tax required.

David looked to the cheap black plastic telephone he had bought and set up, now sitting uselessly at the corner of the desk, collecting dust. Over the weekend, he had been engaged with several calls from the Network regarding his credentials and ability to run a show. Why in the world they had gone to him was beyond his imagination. Even further beyond his comprehension was his upcoming match. To be facing the good ol' lord of darkness himself -- quite a feat for him. He'd lost to Duke once before, but at this point, he had one up on the Brotherhood, having defeated Griffin on the very show he was to be running in the coming week. Now if only to prove himself capable against a human wrecking ball...

Scratching lazily at the back of his head, David looked down onto the mountain of Madness paperwork to be done. Travel arrangements, catering, insurance premiums. It was all a little beyond him. They had given him the interim position based purely on his journalistic experience alone -- hardly a calibre worthy of running a promotion. But then again, it was his intellectualism that had driven him this far, earning him credit in the professional community. He had to be honest with himself: he was more of a thinker than a fighter. Mystica took care of the bloodshed. Having merely thought of violence, Mystica took this as a cue to finally rear his head.

"The bloody hell is this shite?" the angry voice asked, motioning to the papers.

"Work," David sighed, throwing his elbows upon the desk. "Lots and lots of work for me to do."

"And I have work of my own," Mystica chuckled, rubbing his hands together cheerfully.

"Yes, yes. Warfare is your ground. Go back to sleep."

Mystica grumbled, but complied, leaving David to ponder over his loads of work to finish. When the match on Warfare was over, would he even have the energy to accomplish what needed to be done? Heck, would he still be in one piece?

Likely. He trusted Mystica to take care of business, but the worry lingered.

And he turned back to his remedy for worry. Looking around curiously, David made sure he was utterly alone, though that was redundant, given his isolated office's locale. With careful hands, he reached into his suit pocket and withdrew a picture of Alexandra. He sighed, now comforted.

Life goes on, he thought.

Achievements

• 1x Tag Team Champion
  
• August 2013 Superstar of the Month (Thank you all so much!)
  
• 1x US Champion
  
• 1x X-treme Champion