The darkness stood like an impenetrable cloud. The only weapon forged against it that could prosper was a single candle, placed gently upon the table by some unknown party. As much as anyone viewing might wish, the candle didn’t illuminate nearly enough, and the darkness was steadily overwhelming its meek, flickering flame. In the dying light, a young woman, roughly mid-twenties in age with a light mocha complexion, frowned at the flame as it sputtered about in the gentle draft emanating through wherever it is they were. With a half-bored gaze, she stared off-screen, into the dark. From the black came the eerie, baritone voice of The Sleeping God.

“Oh where, oh where, has Mystica been?” he pondered aloud in a sing-song tone. “That’s quite a big question. Over all my years watching the cosmos develop, a better question might be: where hasn’t Mystica been?”

From across the lopsided table, Mystica’s solemn assistant watched in slight interest as a figure shambled about – pacing in the dark, always making sure to stay out of the glow of the candle’s luminescence.

“For those just dying to know, I have been quite busy with a personal errand. You see, I made a tiny little mistake. No, nothing that would ever, ever be detrimental to my performance between those four corners, mind you. But something personal. A miscalculation, if you will. But that’s all fixed now. Unimportant to anyone listening.”

The candle is suddenly extinguished by Mystica’s erratic back-and forth pacing. In the shade, his Arabian-American associate fumbles her right hand into her coat pocket. It emerges with a small blue lighter in hand, which the girl flicks once…twice…thrice…and the candle is re-lit. Still wearing the shadows like a cloak, Mystica continues his rambling.

“What is important is what’s occurred in my absence. I take a leave of absence for two, maybe three bloody weeks, and the entire federation falls to pieces. I never knew how very vital I was to the ones who call me their ally…that is, until they discovered I wasn’t there to pop out of the pits and repair their grievous mistakes. Where shall we begin?

Ah, yes. The big picture. That’s what David’s little mind always told me: you start a good essay with something that just POPS off the page and grabs the reader by the throat! Something that will just throttle them and hold them close until that last sputter echoes into the bleak night. Yes, let’s start with something obvious.

I’ll set the stage: November 27, 2013. Some god-forsaken place. Lethal Lottery 2. Pity I couldn’t be there. It seemed like such a shit-show. Speaking of shit-show, what in the bloody fuck happened? I have seen the kingdoms of man rise and fall. From beneath the ice of time immemorial I watched King John’s hand forced onto the Magna Carta; I bore witness to the execution of Mary Queen of Scots; I tasted the blood that flowed like a river along the Place de la Révolution and watched in amused glee as children cheered for the death of King Louis XVI. And the thing is, I was never surprised by any of them. But when I bore witness to the death of a kingship that chilled night in late November, I was, for the first time, in awe of the demise of a dynasty. John Madison fell; his…er, her kingdom finally come.

But no, I was not surprised by the he or she’s downfall. Every kingdom must come to an end. Every civilization must come to a bloody, glory-less end. Yet what was truly, truly appalling was who metaphorically pulled the lever on the guillotine and kicked Madison’s head into the gutter of mankind’s collective memory. It was not a better man. It was not a deposed king or a Robespierre. Nor was it a God. It was just another man. Theo Pryce.

Now, what’s most intriguing about this fellow, aside from his lack of any muscle structure or redeeming personality, is the utter dullness of his persona. See, the persona is the voice we use to convey ourselves to others – it is our outward appearance: the character we portray to the world while the real self huddles inside like a frightened child who can’t believe in Santa because they’ve realized GOD doesn’t exist. And Theo Pryce’s persona is the manifestation of a lecture in political science being taught to an engineer. Irrelevant, inane, and stupendously, magnificently uninspiring. If I were asked by someone to describe Theo Pryce in one sentence, in lieu of words, I’d simply hand them a slice of bread. That is Theo Pryce in a simpler form: a flat-sided, colourless thing you simply throw away when it gets stale. And goodness, is he stale. Just say the word “bread” aloud. It is the most boring word in the English language. Go ahead, just try to put some inflection on the word. No matter how you say it, you cannot make it sound exciting. And that’s Theo Pryce. He is bread.

Putting that behind me, what about my dear friend Eli?”

Mystica gasps in a faux-surprised fashion, causing his associate to roll her almond tinted eyes and smirk at his glibness. As he cleared his throat to continue, the young woman glanced over to the camera to check the battery life. After a moment, she quickly looked away, satisfied that the device wouldn’t quit out on them mid-way.

“When I heard that Eli would be defending against Radio, I had no worries. I mean, it’s Radio. When has he ever won a title that required more skill than simply being in the right place at the right time? Ever? I’ll have to check my sources, but I’m leaning toward a massive no. Naturally, Eli crushed the lad with all the tenacity I’ve come to admire from my favourite cult leader. Er, sorry. Not a cult. “Religious order.”

But then out poured a sluggish bore of a man. John Raide. He thinks he’s rather clever, doesn’t he? What with his wordplay. The Raid has begun? Fuck, how did he ever think of that? I mean, you look at the guy and cringe – his face doesn’t exactly scream “scholar.” I’m guessing he went to his kindergartener niece and asked her to come up with a pun. Then he clapped his hands like a seal when she came up with “the Raid.” How. Fucking. Clever.

Regardless, Raide isn’t the point. I have bigger fish to fry. John Austin, the opportunistic genius among his borderline mentally handicapped friends. What are they calling themselves these days?”

Mystica’s assistant moved her head up to speak, but before the answer to his rhetorical question could even escape her parted lips, he continued on his tirade. Dispirited, she laid her head back down onto her resting arm with a sigh.

“Doesn’t matter. They jump through members and names faster than the Brotherhood, for goodness sake. But more on Sebastian Duke later. John Austin is what we in this wrestling world refer to as a “transitional champion.” See, he nabbed up Eli’s title after Raide’s…Raid.”

He winced at the last word to flow forth from his mouth, though in the dark, this may not have been apparent. It tasted like poison to him -- stupid, stupid poison.

“And I’ll admire his cleverness. He’s probably the smartest member of the Madness roster. But is that really saying anything among the likes of Griffin MacAlister or LJ Havok? It’s like being the best athlete at a school for the crippled. No matter how good you can kick that soccer ball…you’re still crippled. So let’s go ahead and stand in awe of Austin’s momentary victory before the next paraplegic on the playground steals his favourite ball. Don’t worry, Johnny. You’ll get your shot eventually – once the ball gets passed around the playground, I’m sure you’ll get the chance to take it back. And then you’ll trip over your bum leg and fall face-first into that one kid with anger issues and at least one not-crippled arm left.

I think I’m about done with the past now. How about Wednesday? My glorious return to that fucking asylum we call Warfare. Now that Shane ’s gone and let up his spuddy chokehold over Ferrari and Madison, we might be able to get back to what made it good in the first place: some good old fashioned ultraviolence. My foot’s been aching to smash someone’s skull in. It’s been far, far too long. So who’s up on the hit list?

Dr. Zero? Sorry, what, now? You put me in with the man who had to essentially buy his way into a victory at Lethal Lottery? Yes, mate, I saw that little stunt you pulled. Pathetic. You either stand on your own two feet or watch as they’re chopped right off by the cleaver of better competition. Pity I lost interest in that spectacle of chemistry-less experimentation. I got myself paired with some of the absolute worst teammates anyone could ask for. Liz Hathaway, Smoke Man…Christ, if I wanted to be fucked in the ass, I’d at least go downtown and pay that one chick with the questionably large Adam’s apple to give it a shot. But Dr. Zero, you got yourself some downright skilled friends. Casey Jones! Now there’s someone I can respect. But you? You may as well have been carried up the mountain in a hammock, sipping out of a coconut while your partners trudged away foot by foot. Cluck, cluck, sip, sip.

I’m not going to mock you for the obvious. Yes…you’re some sort of poultry-based abomination of nature. From one abomination to another, mate – you’re fucking child’s play. You’re certainly intelligent, as I can tell from your manipulation of the political clime in wherever-the-fuck, yet there’s something lacking. With all that intellect; with all that charisma…you waste it doing nothing and going nowhere. Why not utilize your evil lab and minions upon minions to dominate this shithole of a company and turn it into something worthwhile, like a slaughterhouse? At least there would be some irony in that. There’d be purpose. There’d be that vital element you lack: a fucking point of living.

Now, as far as I’m concerned, the gal at your corner is a much greater threat. Egyptian Snow Pharaoh – the amalgamation of all things redundant. Snow. Egypt. Oh, fuck it, that’s been covered. You just love to argue and dance around the issue. Like a politician, you’re quite good at covering up your faults and missteps. And yet you seem to believe you’re some kind of royalty? Big hint for you, lass: the last pharaoh was in 30 BC, when Caesarion was likely murdered by Octavian, or The Last Pharaoh will be coming up this year, if you like Will Smith movies. Which you don’t, of course. That would get in the way of your “aloof, cool chick” image that makes more girls than boys cream their pants. And where the hell do you get off claiming to be Egyptian? You’re paler than I am after donating blood.”

“Hey,” Mystica’s assistant piped in, clearly offended at his last statement. She, too, was a strangely wan Egyptian girl, though Mystica sincerely doubted she much cared for anything that had to do with his profession. Mystica shrugged at her, which was answered with a stony glare before he was able to continue.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Then I’ll move on. Sebastian Duke. Oh, come on. I keep ending up in matches with the so-called Lord of Darkness, only for him to barely give half a fuck and end up picking and choosing his glorious moments. He ended up with a shot at the crown a while back just because. Just fucking because! He raises his hand and the sycophants in this company flock to his side to wait at his beck and call. Which is actually funny for me to mention, because Duke’s manager for this match is…three question marks. Oh, I haven’t heard of that guy. He must be new. Ah, it’s nobody! Nobody wants to come to Duke’s aid! Not much of a shocker there. The man pushes away anyone who dares to get close to him. Why? Fucked if I know. Maybe I should ask Dr. Jones about it. Probably something about parental abandonment or something, because we all know Duke’s only friend in this world is his own father. Pathetic. Duke let himself get brainwashed like a Jonestown second grader. Open up and drink the punch, Duke. What? No, it doesn’t smell weird! You should ask your Brotherh—oh, right. You all broke up like a shitty 70’s hair metal band. What was it over this time, Duke? Gas money? Or who was supposed to get your ball-stranglingly tight jeans dry-cleaned? Face it, mate. You have no one. Not a friend in the world. Griffin’s too busy playing shank the skank to come play. Trust me, been there, done that. David’s got poor taste in women. And so do you, Duke! Hey, maybe we can bond over it! I’ll bring the beer, you bring the Hot Topic exclusive dining set!”

There came a hearty laugh from Mystica’s shadowy form, which caused the candle on the table to flicker out once more. After some shuffling in the dark, Mystica’s assistant spoke up.

“Should I relight it, or…?”

“No, I think we should get out of here before the landlord comes ‘round. They don’t take too kindly to squatters around here. Or so I’ve been told.”

“We’re not squatters.”

“Nor is there any landlord. Do try to keep up with me, luv. It takes a lot to keep pace with the new face of fear.”