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Layer Cake Part 2 - Printable Version

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Layer Cake Part 2 - Corey Smith - 04-15-2021

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We return once more to that archaic elevator/Jungian symbol, which is currently playing host to Dexter Bright’s irritation.

How the fuck does an elevator leak? Huh? He gestures down at a rusty pail, origins unknown, that he has placed in the middle of the elevator to catch errant drips of water coming from the ceiling.

Well, the elevator IS pretty old.

But it’s a STORY elevator! So it should be perfect! But it ain’t, so explain that mister fancy hot pants. He barks out with some bitterness, tossing his arms open wide in the hopes of ensnaring this disembodied presence in his ire.

You should know better than anyone that stories are never perfect.

He scowls and looks up at the air. If you had a body, I’d be pulling your insides out and using ‘em to shampoo my crotch!

Ehhhh….WHAT?

For a moment, even Dexter looks confused by his own threat. SHUT UP! He gestures towards the buttons on the wall. So I suppose your gonna make me go to another stupid floor. Third floor: “women’s wear, hosiery, panties, and the memory of that time you strangled a bum just to watch him die?”

I don’t think that that would be part of Corey Smith’s life experiences. And no, we will be returning to the basement.

Dexter starts to whine petulantly. But we already been there! It’s just some gawky twink talking to the shitty version of ME. BOR-RING! Isn’t there a floor with Lux’s memories of all the times she had to get naked for an assassination attempt?

No, there is not. Basement.

Do I gotta though?

Yes.

Fuh-hyuk ME. He slams his fist on the basement button. Then, he jerks his head to the side in response to some stimuli and looks up just in time for the second drop of water to land right in his eye. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-

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WITHIN


Iggy remains stock still in the presence of a sea of dead eyed revelers. Before him, The Engineer languidly tosses a leg over the arm of his throne as he beckons for one of the revelers to bring him a sprig of grapes, which they begin to drop carefully into his mouth like a perverse recreation of a mother bird feeding her young. He chomps down on the first grape, closing his eyes and savoring the juices, before sparing some attention for Iggy.

Iggy you can squeeze your eyes shut, plant your palms on your ears...you can see, hear, and speak no evil. But the truth still remains, knocking at the door of your childlike idiocy. You are a shard of me. An iota. A speck of my greatness. And it’s time for you to rejoin the fold so we can pick up where we left off.

Iggy, eyes still tear stained, has his toes pointed inward, the tips of his shoes prodding each other. He’s hunched over, shoulders slumped. His body’s writing a concession speech as he talks at the floor. But if I’m so small, why do you need me?

The Engineer opens his mouth so that his supplicant might drop another grape inside. After a thoughtful chew, he points at Iggy. Decent question, I wouldn’t have thought you capable of it. Iggy, think of it like a sports car. Sporty. Sexy. Powerful. But, remove one little spark plug and what do you have? An inert pile of parts. Untapped potential rotting away! Iggy, my sweet simpleton, you’re my spark plug. A tool that fits snugly into the whole of me, necessary, but ultimately forgotten once it sets about its task. Are you able to understand that?

Iggy’s still looking at the floor. Yes, sir.

Mmmmmm. The beast is fed another grape. So you see here, you have no choice.

But I don’t think Corey wants you back. Iggy ventures, knowing instantly that he spoke out of turn. He flinches in anticipation of The Engineer’s wrath. But instead, he just emits a cruel laugh.

Iggy, I am so beyond giving a single solitary fuck what Corey Smith...But the Engineer stops mid sentence. He sits back up, planting both feet on the floor, considering Iggy quizzically.

The Engineer’s shard is now eyes forward, his earlier traces of timidity forgotten. He looks like he’s pondering something. Then, he speaks aloud to no one at all. Was her name Ellen or Emily?

The Engineer bares his teeth in a condescending snarl. What are you babbling about?

The scared girl in the hospital. Was her name Ellen or Emily?

For reasons inscrutable, The Engineer now looks subtly unnerved. A keenness shadows his facial features, wary yes, intrigued as well. But maybe a tad shaken too. He opens his mouth to speak, but Iggy cuts him off.

I think her name got goofed up. Iggy looks at The Engineer, features placid, as though what he’s saying could not possibly be misunderstood.

The Engineer leans over further, nearly tipping out of his perch. What are you talking about?

Why do you look scared? A question proffered in innocence.

I’m not. I’m just trying to determine if you’ve gone insane, spouting gibberish in my presence like...but then he’s interrupted once more. Looking past Iggy, he sees that every member of his court has simply vanished. Taking a moment to process the anomaly, that plaster cast of leering condescension cracks a little more. He looks to his side to confirm that the bearer of his grapes was also gone. But the sprig of grapes was on the floor beside his throne. Slowly, he picks up the fruit and brings it to his face, considering it with mounting apprehension. Where did they go?

Iggy looks behind him, thoroughly unmoved. I dunno.

He tosses the grapes aside, exhuming his slender but powerful frame from his throne and reaching Iggy in three thunderous strides. Iggy is too slow to muster a defense, and The Engineer has his hand about Iggy’s throat. The monster’s eyes become brutalist pinpricks of pure blackness, twin glimpses of anti-life.

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Iggy starts to falter again, salty tears pushing out from behind his eyes as the pressure is applied. He grasps for The Engineer’s regalia, but his hand is swatted away. You will yield to me.

Attempting to choke out a response, Iggy can only gasp and sputter. The Engineer relents a bit on the pressure, and Iggy’s voice emerges as a damaged rasp. I don’t want Corey to get hurt. Corey’s my friend. Thad’s my friend. Dolly’s my…. But then, his windpipe is sealed again as the fist about his throat reclenches.

You think they’re your friends, Iggy? Honestly? The words were dipped in venom. I’ve never heard something so absurd. Corey wanted you DEAD, Iggy! DEAD! He pants incredulously. And Thad and Dolly? They can’t even SEE you! You’re nothing to them! They’re not your friends, they’re Corey’s friends! He shakes his head in awe of the inanity. You really are damaged, aren’t you? Aren’t you?! The Engineer winces at his final statement, expression turning sour and confused. Then, channeling that into a furor, he throws Iggy away violently, sending him sprawling into a heap on the floor. He walks around his downed form in an imperious semi circle, continuing to denigrate him. Your part in this story, such as it was, is finished. You were only ever a vestigial part of me. My metaphorical afterbirth. Is any part of this touching home base for you, Iggy?

At this, Iggy places his arms out and starts to push himself painfully to his feet. Speaking nothing, he starts to rise to full height. But as he does, like a flower in bloom, the clothing he’s wearing starts to change in a rolling cascade that starts at his ankles and ripples out to all his extremities. Once bright colors embrace darker hues, pumps filling out into slick black lacquered dress shoes, white t-shirt becoming formal wear. And then, almost as an exclamation point, a flamboyant hat appears atop his mess of black unruly hair.

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The Engineer takes a half step back as his callous programming attempts to fit this into some sort of workable schema. Iggy turns towards him, revealing his face. Something new has been born there. Or rather, uncovered. Because for reasons he is unable to explicate, The Engineer has an unshakeable feeling that this Iggy was ALWAYS there, beneath the surface.

A black diamond pattern imprints itself in the flesh about Iggy’s eye, and the pupil dulls and grays. The Engineer’s remnant stands at full height now, and nothing about his countenance speaks to fear. Nor does it speak to anger.

Things are still being written.

The Engineer cocks his head, wishing in equal parts to rage at this impetuousness, and discern it’s true nature. Why…. He stops short, fingers going to his mouth in surprise.

Iggy continues to look at him with a bland and unassailable mien. My fault.

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There are now four buckets scattered about the floor in the elevator, each one collecting a stream of slow but persistent drips from the ceiling. The Engineer, still looking agitated, places a fifth one down in the corner as yet another insult of dirty water reveals itself. Man, shit is gettin’ fucked up! All this goddamn water! Iggy weirdin’ out like a little spaz! ALL THIS GODDAMN WATER!

You mentioned the water.

Yeah, I did. He traipses back to the center of the elevator, careful to avoid overturning any of the buckets. And you don’t sound all that worried! How come?!

The story is simply playing out as it was meant to.

Engy goes to speak, but all that emits at first is a bile filled sputter. Collecting himself into coherency (or what passes for it for him), he rails at the air. So you know what the fuck is causin’ this! Then you can stop it, right?!

I cannot. I’m just as ancillary here as you.

I don’t know what that word means you STUPID IDIOT. Engy’s head bucks in surprise, but then he simply shakes the misgivings away.

We are only here to support the story, give it a smooth cohesiveness of narrative. Like I said before.

Well then this story sucks! He takes a step and ends up jostling a bucket, which upturns and spills everywhere. God fucking DAMN IT! Dexter reaches down and rights the bucket, slamming it on the floor in frustration. The bucket clunks when it meets the checkered linoleum. And something occurs to Dexter then. He slowly pulls himself to a standing position, casting glances at all corners of the floor.

Is something wrong?

The floor’s diff’rent. There was a rug there before.

Are you sure?

Course I am you dense bitch! The floor just changed! Why did the floor change?!

Ah. Well, even the most seasoned storytellers can make mistakes, I suppose. It’s a minor detail really. No big deal.

Who the fuck is tellin’ this story?! He snaps his fingers. It’s Corey, ain’t it? We’re in his head, right?

I’m not at liberty to say who the author is. And unfortunately we’re running late for our next stop. Please push the first floor button.

No! Not until I get some...but then, Dexter’s arm takes on a life of its own, curling and pulling towards the warmly glowing floor buttons against his will. He chortles out a curse as his arm retracts and then extends rapidly, pulling Dexter in it’s desired direction like a swimmer. Once, twice, it uses the energy of its momentum to bring him closer to the elevator door. Dexter trips over a bucket, and his shoulder slams into the brass button panel. He grunts in pain, but his autonomous arm pays the rest of him no mind and pushes the first floor button.

Thanks for your cooperation.

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With Out.


Alright, so first of all, no electronic devices of any kind. Dolly states, opening her hand up towards Corey and waiting.

Corey crinkles his nose up in irritation. What? Why?

Dolly sighs and readjusts her weight on the swivel stool. Behind her, the empty trappings of Madison’s basement bar and tap room, now thoroughly stripped down and purged of anything alcoholic, served as a quiet backdrop. Nobody came here because, quite simply, there was nothing to see or imbibe anymore, making it perfect for clandestine conversations. At any rate, Dolly pulls her hand back. They’re his rules, not mine. He’s very, uh, cautious.

More like paranoid. Plus it doesn’t make any sense, there’s tons of people here with cell phones. Why do I have to give up mine?

Dolly’s expression is a subtle shade of “oh shit”. Oh, I forgot to mention, he refuses to meet you inside the house. He said he prefers “neutral ground”.

“Neutral ground”? Corey smirks. Sure. Fine. He pulls out his cell phone and hands it to Dolly. Are you sure this is worth the aggravation?

I would trust him with my life. He knows what he’s doing. She pauses, and then sets in with a start. Oh! And do NOT talk about the government. At all. It’s a sore subject for him.

This is some Unibomber shit.

He’s good. Very good. Girl Scout’s honor.

Corey lets out a resigned groan. What kind of “neutral ground” does he want to meet at anyway?

~~~~~~~~~~~A Half Hour Later~~~~~~~~~


Corey sets foot inside the Chick-Fil-A, and gets to scanning the crowd for Dolly’s contact. His gaze settles on a broad shouldered man sitting in a booth at the rear of the restaurant, a booth with a direct line of sight to the door. He appears to be tearing into a Spicy Deluxe as he locks eyes with Corey. Corey does his damndest to casually walk his way over to the table and sit down across from…..


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Tommy scowls at Corey as soon as he sits down. His head seems to be on a swivel as he takes in the room before relocking eyes with Corey. The fuck you doin’? Order a sandwich. Tommy growls in a low bass.

Why? I don’t even like Chick Fil-A.

He holds up a finger. Number one: Chick-Fil-A is quality American made chicken at a price that’s affordable to the everyman, so fuck you. He holds up a second finger. Number two: You look suspicious as hell without food, so go order a goddamn sandwich.

Corey relents, holding his hands out to the side. Alright, alright! Jesus…. He slides out of the booth and heads up to the front counter. The shot cuts back to Tommy as he continues to shoot nervous glances about the restaurant and enjoy his meal. Before long, Corey returns bearing a Market Salad (a mere 310 calories!).

Tommy frowns at the sight of the salad. Fuck’s sake….

Whaaaaaat? I have a five pack to maintain.

Why not a six?

It’s always been that way. I guess one of them never dropped. Tommy looks at him blankly. That was a joke.

Tommy just grunts in response. You don’t got a cell phone on you, right?

Corey resists the urge to roll his eyes right out his skull. I left it at home.

You can follow directions. That’s good. He takes another bite. So the base rate is $40,000. That’s without mileage and equipment expenditures. Light resistance bumps the price up another 30k. Heavy resistance? You’re lookin’ at a hundo.

Corey leans back in the booth, holding his hands out in a “pump the breaks” motion. Whoa...whoa...whoa. We’re just looking for one guy, not infiltrating Waco.

Tommy visibly tenses at the mention of the word “Waco”.

Uh! I mean, we’re not infiltrating a super villain’s lair! Plus, I’m coming with, so you’ll have back up.

Normally, I’d tell you to piss right off with the Avengers Assemble shit, but you actually CAN fight despite your looks, so I’m fine with it this time.

Corey playfully “finger guns” Tommy. I know you were going for a backhanded compliment, but I’m gonna take that to mean I’m cute. Corey splays his hands out on the table then, looking hesitant. There is one thing Dolly and I did neglect to mention, however. My boyfriend Christian wants to come.

Gunn cocks an eyebrow, putting down his nearly devoured crescent of sandwich and clearing his throat. Christian, hmmm? Good name. But this boy of yours, he got any combat training? Firearms experience?

Wellllll….we did watch Midway the other night and he really, really liked it.

The mercenary’s features drop. You’re shittin’ me.

Oh, it was a really good movie!

His hands curl up into tight fists of repressed anger. Corey sinks back in his seat, having a decent idea of what’s coming. But, Tommy surprises him by releasing his rage with a deep inhale/exhale, drawing down the tension and closing his eyes. My doctor said my blood pressure’s been too damn high. He remarks offhandedly, before opening his eyes and speaking in a more pointed manner. Your boy Christian’s not coming.

But…

No. The tone is heavy with finality. He’s a liability.

You’re still talking like this is some military op. We don’t know what we’re walking into.

Are you willing to accept my terms? Including all my fees?

Well….yeah.

In that case...Tommy pulls out an attache case and opens it. Casting more paranoiac glances about, he withdraws a manilla envelope and empties the contents onto the table. It seems to be a series of surreptitious black and white images of a large mansion and the surrounding grounds. Most of the images feature hard looking men with firearms that are most definitely not civilian. ….we DO know what we’re walking into, Mr. Smith.

Corey considers the images. What is all this?

I already found your guy.

Corey looks astonished. You did?! Damn, Dolly was right, you do earn your keep!

Save the confetti and party favors kid, Malcolm has waded into some deep shit. Tommy starts pointing out the armed figures in the pictures. He’s being held on this property, and these dickheads are well trained private contractors. Mostly ex-Marine far as I can tell. Real shoot first and ask questions later kinds of assholes.

Hold up! Why is he there? What is this place?

I'll walk you through it kiddo. I started tracking Malcolm in Vegas, where The Engineer went tits up in your brain.

Corey squirms, gritting his teeth. Thanks for the reminder.

Just the facts. Anyway, I figure if the "big bad" that Malcolm was being prepped to house was no more, he was probably dumped like a sack of trash. A reasonable inference given the human scum stains The Engineer ran with. I tracked Malcolm to a homeless shelter just outside Vegas. I got one of the caseworkers there to talk after some “convincing”...

Ah Jesus, you didn’t threaten to break their knee caps or anything, right?

No, I flattered his keen sense of fashion and impressive eye for Hummel figurines.

Oh! Well, then that's…

Corey, you really are a knob. I told him if he didn’t talk he’d find out what kind of squeals he makes when his testicles get turned every which way.

Corey looks aghast.Dude!

What? It was a bluff! But it worked. A little too well. I could smell piss. At any rate, It turned out somebody showed up at the shelter representing a Marcus Bouchier, some rich fuck who was looking to offer poor disenfranchised ragamuffins landscaping jobs. The caseworker said this guy took an instant interest in Malcolm. He thought it was creepy and warned Malcolm not to take the job, figuring it might be some weird sex thing. But he didn’t listen and took it. Quelle surprise, Malcolm goes missing. The caseworker followed up and called Bouchier’s house staff, but they said Malcolm only showed up once for work and ghosted. He ain’t been seen since.

Corey nods, processing the information. Okay, but how do we know for sure he’s here? Maybe they were telling the truth?

And maybe I shit azaleas. Gunn’s face invites the barest glimmer of a smirk. I did some more digging on this Bouchier. Turns out he’s made his bank in the rare book business. Buying and selling. A few years ago he snapped up a rare manuscript from the Middle Ages, some pagan shit that would get you thrown to the lions. Guess what it was about?

The young man’s stomach sank instantly. Oh no…

Yup. Aiwass. You wanna tell me that’s a coincidence?

Corey ran his hands over his face in frustration. Why can’t I escape this shit….?

Yeah, well, it looks like it's Malcolm we gotta worry about now. That is, if you’re still in?

Corey sighs, gaze drawn to the pictures on the table. He shakes his head wearily. I can’t leave Malcolm behind. He doesn’t deserve that.

Tommy starts to collect the images. Well, then it's settled. I booked us a private plane owned by a good friend of mine. It leaves at 10 PM sharp tonight. Be there, or I’m hittin’ the strip with your down payment.

What down payment?

Tommy leans in with a smile that splits the difference between cheeky and intimidating. The one you’re gonna make right now, of course.

~~~~~~~~~~A Little Later…..~~~~~~~~~


Corey sat in the quietude of his car, hands resting atop the wheel, and head against the headrest. In a way, he was thankful for Tommy’s discretion. Corey was not comfortable with Christian accompanying them if it was going to be dangerous. Especially given Doc’s D’Ville’s vagaries about threatening portents. But Christian would no doubt be disappointed to learn the decision had been torn from his hands. Corey glanced at the phone sitting in the passenger seat. Swallowing back his guilt, he picks it up and dials Christian’s number.

Hey babe. How did the meeting with G.I. Joe go?

It was...productive.

You’re doing that pausing thing you do when there’s something you don’t want to say.

Corey scowled. We haven’t even been dating a whole week and already you know my tells. I’m pretty sure that’s strictly “month three level intel.”

I’m a savant, except instead of solving equations I got emotional X-ray vision for my boos. Corey could hear him smile over the phone. He told you I couldn’t go, didn’t he?

Corey grunts affirmatively. It turns out this is going to be more complicated than we expected.

Is “complicated” a euphemism for “dangerous”?

It is.

He could hear Christian’s worried sigh on the other end. Am I going to lose you already?

The words cut deep. Real deep. Swelling Corey’s heart and intensifying his guilt simultaneously. No. I promise you that.

Are you gonna fuck Malcolm?

Corey smacks his lips good humoredly. This is neither the time nor the place for neuroticism, papi.

Ok. But, I watched some of The Engineer’s old promos and I was like, damn.

Corey swallowed a burning ball of lead. Sooooo….

I know you guys boned.

Fuck.

And I know he’s like 6 feet of bronzed sex bomb.

I wasn’t ME at the time. Corey allowed a bit of frustration to register in his tone. And he was 5’9’’ tops.

Speaking of “tops”....

Don’t! Don’t even! But then, Corey relented. Although he could tell that Christian was playing, at least in part, their newborn relationship was already under bombardment. Look, I’m gonna go kick ass with Tommy Gunn. I’m gonna save the day. And I am gonna avoid having sex with this caramel machiatto Greek statue of a man like a boss, because I already have a beyond gorgeous Latin sex machine at home that loves me to bits despite the fact that I’m a fucking weirdo. Corey takes a breath. I’m so, so gay now.

You better be. A wide berth of silence follows before Christian speaks again. I’m scared as shit for you, Corey. All traces of humor from before had been purged. His fear was a telltale quaver.

I’m sorry. It sounded stupid and paltry as soon as it passed his lips. I mean, I’m sorry for scaring you. Shit, that still sounded real dumb and selfish.

If I told you not to go, would you forget the whole thing?

The question thrummed in Corey’s head. It felt like a test he hadn’t prepared for. A true false dichotomy that improbably had no correct answer. But he had to respond. Yes. It felt like the right answer, and yet something in him recoiled from it too.

I would never ask you not to go. I know how important this is to you. Helping people, I mean. And I know you still feel like you have so much to atone for. Christian paused. I bet that seemed like some stupid mind game. I’m sorry.

No...no. It’s fine. I should be the one who’s sorry. Putting you through all this worry. He swallows. If it makes you feel any better, when I was with Lux, we went through a ton of dangerous scenarios a lot like this one. So as scary as it is, it feels familiar too. Real familiar. Corey steels himself. I know I can do this.

Ok. It was a laden acquiescence. One that had been run through a thousand nightmare scenarios in the blink of an eye and had still been pushed out the door, scared and alone. Thankfully, Christian proceeded to change the subject. So in the midst of all this super heroing are you going to get back in time to face Betsy Granger?

Corey tensed. He didn’t relish the fact that he was taking on such solid competition after what amounted to a rescue mission. I’m not napping on Betsy Granger. I’ll be there for sure.

Do you think you’ll be 100%? I’d hate for you to go all badass special ops just to exhaust yourself into an injury at Warfare.

I’ll be as close to 100% as I can reasonably be. Plus, Betsy herself is already waving the “you’re not getting the best Betsy” flag. I can handle it.

A playful “heh” sounded over the phone. You’re sexy when you’re confident, you know that?

Oh yeah?

Mmmm hmmmm. When are you leaving?

10 PM tonight.

Plenty of time.

Corey didn’t even have to ask “for what?” Pressing the push button ignition, the car thrummed to life. I’ll be right there! He hung up the phone and then looked down at his lap. 30 minutes, bro. Hold on for 30 minutes! Corey threw the car in drive and peeled out of the parking spot.

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Upon our return to Dexter Bright and his mystery elevator, we find his predicament has already worsened. By now, roughly a third of the elevator’s floor space is covered in buckets. The drips are now coming at such a steady clip it almost seems like a light rain has settled in. On top of that, a soft tune is playing. Fats Domino’s dulcet voice does its best to provide a calming backdrop, but for Dexter, it doesn’t seem to be taking.

Fuckin’ A! And now I gotta listen to this old people music too?! Narrator voice, shut the music off!

I’m afraid I can’t do that, Dave.

Who the hell is Dave?!

Nevermind. But at any rate, I don’t control the music either. Sorry.

Engy grumbles to himself, before slumping his shoulders in a defeated fashion. Only good thing to come about for me lately is that at least this last bit had some jokes. You know how hard it is to shoulder the burden of being the only comic relief?! It’s hard! It’s a lotta pressure!

I can only imagine.

Yeah, you can only imagine because you’re boring as fuck. And useless! AND DUMB!

Are you through?

I guess. He glances up into the corner of the elevator as if that’s where the voice is coming from. And what’s the big deal about this Betsy Granger? Corey’s actin’ like she’s the second coming of...of….somebody really good.

You could have said “second coming of YOU” at least.

Shut up! But gimme the lowdown on this chick.

Betsy’s a very talented young woman who just so happens to be an astral traveler.

Oh? Sweet!

She’s also with James Raven.

Engy frowns. Fuckin’ WEAK! I hate that guy! You know what, I’m done talkin’ about this. I ain’t gettin’ paid to do Corey’s job anyway. So let me guess, second floor again?

Correct.

And if I don’t wanna you’re just gonna force me, right?

If need be.

Well suck the shit outta my ass! He growls as he presses the button once more.

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AFAR


~~~~~~~~Roughly One Year Ago~~~~~~~~~


The Creche existed in the cross hatched spaces between realties, buried in the crevices between multiple simultaneous states of matter. It is said that from this place the notion of Hell was born. Man had always had an indefinable animal knowledge that it existed. A psychic relic buried in the collective unconscious of humanity. But for want of words to explain The Creche’s existence, lodged in the spaces in between, man grasped for a simpler, more three dimensional placeholder for its location. It existed beneath their feet rather than beneath all existences. Buried under the earth. They made it corporeal, more relatable. But in so simplifying it, the notion of The Creche became soft around the edges. And thus, the true extent of its horror was reduced.

In truth, the Creche was a nigh infinite landmass composed of the time locked corpses of endless billions of forgotten Gods. It was a graveyard. Some were so old they predated multiple creations. Aged beyond the point of reason, and thus they existed only beyond the bounds of what the human mind was capable of comprehending. Their designs had been so foreign, so alien, they could never be understood or quantified. Others were less far removed. And one such being was approaching, riding on the currents between realties, until it simply was. The skies above The Creche were like a photographic negative of the familiar, composed of a blinding, endless white pockmarked by the black spots of long distant darkstars. When it arrived it eclipsed the light.

Aiwass had shed its human form during its passage. To clutch onto such a form here, in this place of ages, seemed pitiful and low. So it appeared true and real and horrible.

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It came here to ponder amidst the bygone resonances of this place. Removed from the trappings of the physical, it felt freer to contemplate. And it had much to contemplate. Another of Aiwass’ agents had fallen. Just the latest in a sea of centuries of failure. The beast’s Engineers had been consistently stymied. And Aiwass chafed under the cosmic rules the mightiest of the New Gods had established for those who came before and were weaker. The corruption and rot it sought to sew amidst Yahweh’s creation had to come from within. Aiwass’ more direct intervention was not only forbidden but impossible in the trappings of this most recent of realities. Aiwass was beholden to the rules this upstart deity had established, and it enraged it.

But Aiwass was patient too. It came with being as aged as it was. Perhaps it would wait another 1000 years to strike at Yahweh again. Give God’s squirming mewlings enough time to forget. It would….

A tear.

Aiwass felt the presence as it manipulated space and time, just as it had, to approach The Creche. Something other and unfamiliar was fast approaching, a psychic din that was foreign to it. Had another of the old ones awoken? Interesting….

It appeared before Aiwass. Massive and...amusing.

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It resembled a bastardization of the mythic Minotaur of Crete, combined with the humans’ simplistic idea of Satan. It was laughable. The result of a particularly unimaginative child’s nightmare. Nonetheless, Aiwass extended its influence towards this thing, speaking to it without word or conventional concepts. Its speech, such as it was, was a flush of high ideas, well beyond the paltry trappings of vocalized communication or scrawl. It sent it simultaneous paradigms of ridicule, insulting this thing to it’s very essence.

It did not reply.

Perhaps it is daft. An idiot pretender. Or a fledgling New God, ignorant of its circumstances. . This final thought thrilled Aiwass. To murder a New God. Impeccable.

Aiwass was about to extend its influence again, to bombard it with another volley of humiliations. And that’s when it replied.

It replied with the symbol of a black upside down triangle being shattered. It had replied with the denigration of Aiwass’ sigil.

Aiwass roiled. The impertinence! It breached the gap between them, lost in the grip of its mighty rage.

What happened next was impossible.

The beast was suddenly everywhere, drowning Aiwass in endless replications of itself. It broke time and space once more, but this time to appear not just in many locations but in every POSSIBLE location it could appear.

It was over in an instant. Aiwass was sullied beneath the crushing limitlessness of this being. Its body was broken and pulverized. Its mind was destroyed and reset haphazardly by the shock, like a shattered limb reset by a psychotic novice. With its final rational thought, it could think of only one thing.

Escape.

It bent time and space again, and in its desperate escape its body was further broken. Its mind further devolved. Aiwass emerged into the real once more, a humiliated mad God, humbled and terrorized. And in its humiliation, like a vengeful child lashing out indiscriminately at the world, it thought….

mOrE bLooD.

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To the elevator once more, we see Dexter Bright, sitting upon his stool. His body is ramrod straight, his eyes wide and unfocused. Finally, he stammers something out.

I have no idea what the fuck I just saw.

That’s probably for the best. If your mind tried to make sense of it it would probably implode on itself or give you a stroke or some such thing.

Like, that was like somebody telling you a story. But speaking in a language you don’t know. And talking underwater.

That’s actually a remarkably apt comparison. Well done.

Yeah… he breathed. Then, recovering some, he looked back down at the buckets. By now, most of them were at least half full. This was a predicament he could appreciate. I gotta start emptying these buckets.

Where will you empty them?

Outside. He replied simply, as he pressed the button on the panel to open the elevator doors. But the doors did not open. With a sneer, he pressed the button again. No reply from the elevator. Now, furor rising, he hit the button again and again, harder and harder, until finally he was bashing on the panel.

I don’t think that’s a good idea.

OPEN THE FUCKIN’ DOORS!

You don’t want that.

OPEN ‘EM! In his irritation, Dexter became aware again of the music in the background. It had never ceased. AND TURN OFF THE FUCKIN’ MUSIC!

No can do.

Dexter pressed the palms of his hands into his ears and screamed.

Well, that’s not very mature.

Flushed crimson, with spittle running out one side of his lips, Dexter set in again. OPEN ‘EM, OPEN ‘EM, OPEN ‘EM, OPEN ‘EM, OPEN ‘EM…..!

Are you sure you really want that?

FUCK YOU EAT MY SHIT AND YES YOU STUPID ASS-COCK VOICE!

Fine.

With a pleasant “ding”, the doors parted. Dexter almost stumbled to the floor in his haste to drop down off the stool and peer at what lay beyond his makeshift prison. What he saw was a sight unfamiliar at first. But then, he recognized one of the actors in this tragedy about to play out before his very eyes. Hey that’s….

Quote:I just said, “eye for an eye”! You haven't pieced it together yet? It's one for one, Luxy. ONE FOR ONE! Soldier reaches for the sack and pulls it off the body's head in one smooth motion.

It's Joachim Bright. The Engineer's son has just been killed by the Universal Champion.

The crowd howls and gasps. Steve Sayors looks shocked and appalled. Lux's eyes go wide as her entire world is destroyed. Visibly shaken, she turns ashen and has to hold on to the ropes for support. Soldier dips a finger in Joachim's blood and grabs for the XWF contract he was holding before. Flipping to the last page, he signs his name in the young man's blood and shows it to the camera. We're on, Lux. See ya real soon. Soldier then drops the contract to the floor, and the feed cuts to static.

Dexter slumps to his knees in front of the open doors, jaw going slack in horror as a wound is ripped open once more. The doors close again with another prosaic “ding” sound. Dexter’s gaze stays locked full forward, and he speaks in a deadened tone at the door. Why did you show me that? This time, he doesn't even notice the subtle change.

I tried to warn you. I tried to get you to listen. It didn’t have to happen.

He wilts some more, looking utterly broken. The music is still playing, a jeering counterpoint to Dexter’s suffering. And then, the water coming from the ceiling starts to increase in volume, doubling in intensity in a matter of seconds until it’s a full on rain. Numbly, the man formerly known as The Engineer looks upward, allowing his face to be drenched. He opens his mouth to catch the water. Maybe he wants to drown.

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LOGOS, PATHOS, ETHOS


UGHHHH! Betsy! Countering kindness with MORE kindness?! You sly devil. Err, deviless? Is that a lady devil?

Seriously though, you couldn’t have at least called me a “dick” or something? I can be a dick. I can be a HUGE dick! One time I was feeling really lazy and didn’t put the cart back in the cart corral at Costco. At least not at first. But then the cart guy looked at me and I felt real guilty, so I went back and did it. But I almost didn’t! What a dick move!

*SIIIIGHHHHHH*

Alright, fine. Fine! Make me do the dirty work then! Make me be the heat bringer! Whatever! Betsy, you….you….YOU….

….are an absolute doll.

*SSSSSSIIIIIIIIIGGGGHHHHHH!*

Those are some of the nicest things anyone has ever said about me. And I appreciate that. Truly. I mean, I’ll give you a pass on the gatekeeper thing even though I explicitly said I wasn't one. Though, the Gatekeeper/Keymaster reference was pretty solid.

…..

Didn’t they have sex….? Ooops. Don’t worry James, I’m gay as the day is long as of late. Although your lady IS quite the looker.

So where do we go from here, huh Bets? Man, I bet Vinnie is watching this shit and he’s just apoplectic. Big money match like this and we’re tripping over our own feet in a mad dash to be nice to each other like a couple of awkward adolescent sweethearts. Although, as I watched your promo, there was a little something that nagged at me. It seemed somehow familiar. And I’m not talking about you reminding me of Lux. It took me a bit to draw a bead on it. But then it hit me. Your last bit on me was, in many ways, like your commentary on Doc at March Madness.

By the by, you want a REAL asshole? Look no further than our illustrious lord and master. Now THAT was a guy you should have gone ham on.

But you didn’t.

Yeah….that’s when I got it. Betsy, you got a habit of going all starry eyed in the face of serious competition. Insert Shooting Star pun here. You handled Doc with kid gloves, talking up his greatness and what a treat it was to face him. Bets, trust me on this, Doc knows he’s good. The last thing you want to do is talk up Hell’s Resident Reigning Douche Supreme. But yeah, you don’t do that with Doc. He’s never going to admit to being afraid, so why not go guns a blazing telling him what a crusty old bitch he is. Telling him that for as little fear he has for you, you’re not exactly sweating him either. But maybe you are. Deep down inside. And maybe he knows that. But why give him the satisfaction of polishing his knob?

And then you come to me. Same song and dance. Hell, at the first suggestion of you being “in it to win it” you apologized and walked it back for sounding “redundant.” And then, you went on stressing your injuries, working against doctor's orders, EEE TEE CEE, like….like….like you were already getting ahead of a loss.

Bets.

BETS.

At the risk of sounding like a jerk off, you are in the XWF. The meanest promotion on the planet. And sometimes you just come across as too nice. When you told me you wanted to win this match, I just didn’t HEAR it. It wasn’t there. The passion, the drive, the focus, the grit, the determination **deep breath**....none of that came through. But see, I KNOW it’s there. You had no problem trying to bleed out Lycana. But it’s almost like you sell yourself short once you reach a certain rung on the ladder. Upon exposure to the pecking order you just kinda fall in line and resign yourself to getting pecked.

So I’m here to tell you to say “fuck it.” You can be a badass without compromising your morals. It’s okay to look at some legacy figures here (hi James), plant your feet, and tell them to prep for sucking down an L. It’s totally cool! Hell man, I remind Chris Page every time I see him in the locker room that he is in a persistent state of being 3 seconds away from losing his title to me any time I want. And maybe that’s not a great example because unlike your match with me, or Doc, Page losing to me is as foregone a conclusion as Kanye West’s next pants on head emotional breakdown. But still! Punching up is just part of the game, Betsy. And you need to do it to stay credible.

There is one more quibble I had with what you had to say, and it was your comment about "the forces around me holding me back". I wasn't sure what to make of that. You mean Doc? Nothing about Doc holds me back. We don't like each other, but our...mutual entanglements, so to speak, keep us in each other's rotation. Plus, to be honest, I kind of like having him in my sights. I'm not egotistical enough to think I have a whole scale understanding of what goes on in that wide awake horror show he calls a mind. But it's that whole "keep your enemies closer" thing, you know what I mean?

OR! Do you mean The Engineer, who is dead? Do you mean Madison Dyson, who is also dead? Do you mean Shane , who is off somewhere rage shitting himself into oblivion?

Aside from any of them...then what? I love my friends. Dolly, Thad. I'll even count folks like Alias and R.L amongst my friends (though what he sees in Demos eludes me). And none of them hold me back. If anything, they inspire me day in and day out. Dolly has been my partner in running this community of mine. The growth and change I've seen in her takes my breath away every day. Thad is a beautiful, imperfect, generous, complicated human being who was instrumental in saving my life. He loves ferociously. He makes mistakes sometimes. But he will always be there for me and vice versa.

The last thing my friends do is hold me back. So, maybe I misread you. I hope I did. But if not, you were off base on that one. And the interesting thing about your comment is that I think kinda, maybe, it was one of those "thou doth protest too much" moments that says more about the speaker than anything else.

Let's talk about who you surround yourself with. James? Don't like him. Now I'm sure you think the sun rises and sets on those washboard abs and hey, that's your thing. I can't tell you who to love. But me? I'll never forget how he and Centurion treated Dolly in her last match. Rushing in to scold and berate a young woman for failing to live up to THEIR standards. Man, fuck off! Even in a Fed that sets pretty high standards for being an absolute shit unit, coming back to a promotion you want nothing more to do with just to berate a young woman for not fulfilling your lofty notions of what greatness is is pretty low. Oh, and please remind James I pinned him. In fact, have it be your parting shot during your next argument. I'm sure he'll LOVE IT LOTS!

Next item on the docket, I don't envy you being smack dab in the middle of whatever drama bombs Shawn and Atara are dropping. Now look, I like Atara. I really do. And, though it wasn't his intent, Shawn saved me from The Engineer. But these two, man, THESE TWO. Are you on Twitter, Bets? I know you are. So I'm sure you've seen the XWFs own Kim and Kanye air out their dirties on the regular for the last 300 years or so. Like an unmedicated Bipolar lurching back and forth between mania and the sads, these two had a love hate relationship like TWELVE TIMES A DAY! And seeing their interaction styles, I get it! Atara is a queen, man. And she acts like one. And Shawn? Hooo boy, Shawn. Sometimes I have to force myself to remember he did me a solid last year. Because like 90 percent of the time I find him insufferable. From his "teenage girl esque" mood swings, to his incessant desire to, for some ungodly reason, broadcast the notion that he's an asshole like it's a brand he's shilling (because it is, in fact, A BRAND HE'S SHILLING), to the fact that he is the most terminally online man in XWF history (watch your ass Dean)....just, WOW.

Shawn, you are aware that acting like a bitter, irritated turd lord all the time does not make you seem like a badass, right? That insecure Twitter meltdowns and online drama instill fear in the hearts of no one, you see that right?

Holy shit, I just realized I have a problem with Fuzz! LOL.

Whew, long story short Betsy, I don't know how you tolerate that lot. But if I had to pick who I wanted to hang with, my peeps or yours, there’s just no doubt I’m goin’ with my crew. Shit, I might even throw Doc in there and STILL pick my crew. I figure he’s gotta be on par with at least 100 of Shawn’s cringy Tweets.

So let me flip this around on you, Betsy. If YOU are ever in the market for new friends or allies, try Continuum brand compadres! Thad has his own army! I have my own commune! Doc has...has...well, a recent bout of megalomania. We’re working on it. BUT STILL BETTER! And it’s not like we’re going to make you break up with Raven. That wouldn’t be fair. He would, however, be sitting at the kiddy table.

But yeah, don’t be afraid to sock it to me. I’m a big boy. I can take it. And hey, I’ll even give you a head start. Here’s a list of a few of my weak points to get the ball rollin’.

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Number 1: Shy bladder

Number 2: Puzz-oh, wait my bad. Got my list mixed up with Andre’s…..

REAL Number 2: Lactose Intolerance

Number 3: Turf toe

Number 4: Pathological fear of the number 4

Number 5: Used to be an Engineer

Number 6: Used to be an Engineer. I figure this merits at least a couple slots

Number 7: Dry scalp

Number 8: Unicycles comma “operation of”

And on and on it goes. How do you get it to stop, Betsy? Just call Corey a douche or something! Easy peasy!

Number 9: I have to finish all the food on my plate even if I'm full because I start thinking the food I don’t eat is gonna be sad if I just throw it away

Seriously. You’re our only hope.