Exodus - Printable Version

Exodus - Printable Version

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Exodus - The Chameleon - 02-25-2022

Amidst the shining beacons of The Facility's Simulation Chamber, I am. I, who bears the burden of holding the many identities across the near infinite holds of human expression. I, who sits beneath the marvels of mysticism turned mechanical. I, who gazes without eyes, soulless to those who have never peered underneath. I am The Chameleon. My arms are rigid, tightened to the simulation seat by leather straps administered by one of the staff. Darcy's voice reverberates in the reflective steel barrel I am to be trapped inside. The various panels on the wall begin to synchronize and prepare for display and projection as I sit still, stirring with the fervor of anticipation. So long have I waited to punish the usurper. The question remains to them if I'm as prepared for this battle against the lunatic as they believe me to be.

Darcy's voice rings out again, but the syllables blur and mix as the display panels light up more properly, an emulated sandstorm raging in a swirl around my body, lifting me off the ground and suspended into air, the straps that restrain me unable to do so any longer, the thrashing, throbbing, thrilling thrall of what is to come flowing through my veins like blood, thick and thunderous in nature. She speaks again, knowing I have not answered, her words only now reaching me in the ecstasy of this power; the power to transform and shed the skin that rests so uncomfortably against my muscles.

Darcy: "Are you ready?"

The Chameleon: "I am."

There is a flash, like thunder in my gaze, until darkness sets and then there is only sun and sand, stretched across miles. And I am, no longer.

“All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream.”
―Edgar Allan Poe

[The following is a simulated recreation of Exodus 2:11-15. Accuracy is not guaranteed.]

Moses - The Chameleon
The Egyptian - Dante
The First Hebrew -

The Second Hebrew - [redacted]

The scorching sun beams down upon The Chameleon as he strode through the dunes of Egypt, warm winds sweeping through his hair as he rode. There was a glitter to the grains when it became this dry, like tiny bits of gold strewn amongst the dust. All of it before him. All of it His. There was an admiration he had to have for His creations, be it the tiniest spec of dust or man, in all his complexities. An appreciation, respect, and love. Yet his time to admire was reduced from mere moments to nothing, vanishing with a horrid shriek that split the air as suddenly as it sounded. Chameleon followed the sound and saw the man, face painted in white and black around the eyes, whip raised in air, twirling to crack once more upon the back of one of The Chameleon's brethren,

. He was helpless beneath the tormenting of the man, a man The Chameleon recognized well: Dante Kyllen. A sneer coated his painted face, the emulated recreation nigh unrecognizable from the real thing. The whip fell upon

's back, scraping and tearing the skin open, bloody and raw muscle revealed to the glee of Dante. A maniacal cackle left the demented assaulter as The Chameleon watched on in disgust. The pain of

was his own pain. His blood by way of family and community. He looked both left and right to see no others to bear witness upon this heinous act. No audience to applause nor jeer. An act of malice for a crowd of one. And the back of Dante was twisted away from Chameleon, his gaze fixed to the body of the man he tormented. The whip raised again and with it, The Chameleon unsheathed a long, curved blade, sharp enough to cut hide within a single pass. Before the arm of Dante could drop, his chin did. The blade met little resistance even through Dante's ribs, piercing his heart like a pen through parchment, a sputtering of crimson flowing from the man's chest and mouth as he crumbled. The tortured man still faced downward, preparing for the strike that never came as the Chameleon dragged the still warm, bleeding form of Dante and disappeared in the dunes and storming sand.

When a clear patch was found, further away from where busy stares roam, The Chameleon dropped the corpse and allowed the impact to partially submerge the body in the sand before cupping his hands together and pouring more grains on the body, repeating many times until Dante's remains had been fully buried, obscured by the sands he besmirched with his cruelty. No soil to fertilize. No flowers to bloom from his rot. Only a shallow grave in the sands with none to find or notice again. And so, The Chameleon left the scene, his hands and knife clean and his actions unnoticed, it seemed.

A few days passed as The Chameleon continued to travel, his footprints tracking across much of the desert before settling upon two of his brethren in a dispute, screaming and yelling at one another, close to blows. One man, the first, was

who had been saved by The Chameleon from the torture without a bit of knowledge. The second was [redacted], angered by some rash feeling in his chest, nearly coming to blows with

. The Chameleon walked up to them and began to speak, raising a hand in sympathy to them both, merely attempting to mediate the dispute.

The Chameleon: "My brothers, what is the problem? Surely, there is no dispute amongst us that must lead to violent acts."

[redacted]: "You speak like you've not tilled blood into the Earth, Chameleon!"

The Chameleon: "What?"

[redacted]: "Say, when your mediating hand chooses to help me, shall it doom me with rock or blade?"

The Chameleon: "You know I would never do that, [redacted]. We're a stable, we're family, we're friends before all that. I would never go out of my way to harm any of you!"

[redacted]: "Are you so sure of that, [audio expunged]?"

The Chameleon had a vision, a prophecy foretold at the apex of the man's fury. The man, his brother, his friend was broken and bloodied and struggling to stand. All at the hands of The Chameleon. He attempted to rebut the fears of [redacted]. To speak some affirming words that had long lost meaning on his tongue. A monster died in the desert and gave birth as it was slew and no amount of covering the sin would make it disappear. The Chameleon knew this, so his jaw clamped and his body turned back towards the sands and away from his brothers. How long until their blood was to be shed by him? How long until enough had been bled? The Chameleon knew not, so he dared not glance backwards.

[This portion of the simulation has concluded.]

The parting shot of the desert fades into a less intense scene as The Chameleon wades in a gigantic mud bath, his silvery skin with brown specs stuck to it. But wait... in the foulest revelation of all, the mud in said bath is not mud at all, but digitally recreated, slurred shit. Manure in its most liquid and disgusting and as PG-13, TV/14 as possible. Ultimately, it was still not real fecal matter as various disclaimers across the screen specify, but you'd be normal if you lost your lunch over it. Not The Chameleon, though. Like a sick fuck, he submerges himself in the stuff, shaking it off of his head and his head peaks out, holding a large tome in his hands as he arises.

The Chameleon: "Violence begets violence. A ruthless, crimson hand will hold not just the blood of another, but of its own flesh as well. This is the crux of nature. The cycle of hunter and prey that leads to the final feast, the final predator at the end of time. The void that feasts on ash and bone alike. Prey. It is the destination we all march towards, but it is the state in which you stand, Soldier. It's also what you should be doing, for your MASTER! will have to pull all your little strings again for you to stand a chance against me. We've both witnessed what you where and what you become, but you've blinded yourself to the truth, Dante. The truth that you are defined by your moment of origin, murdering your twin in utero. You peaked in the womb, and you never stopped being a fucking baby.

You hobbled back to the XWF with tears in your eyes and a SATAN!-sized gap in your asshole. You spent so much time in your grand return crying up a fucking storm about how nobody cares about shit you did years ago. Whoop-de-fucking-doo! You beat Robert Main with the 24/7 bitch box! You could only beat him in a "fair" fight after your MASTER! sold you off like the little escort you are, and he had spent months being a dominant champion and got buttmad at the antics of you and your temporary owners. And when they were done with you and SATAN! and decided to side with some bullshit Pagan death god or whatever the fuck, did you fight back? Did you make an unholy crusade? No. You got whipped like an obedient little broken-in pup. It was a riot listening to you whine to Alias about Shakespeare when you are to Universal Champions what Shakespeare in Love is to Oscar Winners: The first one everybody kind of admitted sucked shit right out the gate."

The Chameleon looks down at the digital shit bath he's wading in.

"The irony is not lost on me.

Wanna talk about irony? How about the irony of being a SATAN!-ic avenger when the vast majority of SATAN!-ists refuse to even humor true Devil worship. Hell, you have to quote GOD!'s book because even you know everything by your contemporaries is just "Enlightened" Atheism+Anal holidays. What about the irony of going on and on about your MASTER! when you have put an actual, verifiable price on your loyalty? See, whilst I embody the Unknown, all you have ever embodied is the Soldier: The tool of the more powerful. How many greater men have perished plowing fields to feed your unthinking obedience to others? And all of that is your fault, Soldiey. You're not some hero in waiting preparing for rebirth or the key to a bright new age, you are a hammer who glued the steel to your head because it sounded unique. You are a slave to your own allegiances whether they are right there before you or miles away. There are people in cages who lived more free than you ever were on a pirate ship. How pathetic.

But now you want everyone to believe that is somehow slipping into the past. That there is a new path for a man such as you, the kind who would slay his children to spite a voice in his head. There's no new roads to Rome, Soldier. The path you're following is your own footsteps and the spiral you will plummet down is nine stories deep. A scheming, treacherous tool sinking to the bottom of a cesspit where you're the pit boss's favorite plaything. It's a true paradox at play. You need to reject everything about your past self because it makes you look like a giant, stupid pussy who's best chance of finding a spine is at a fucking butcher's. You are the premature ejaculate of the XWF, short, quick, unsatisfying for all involved, and profoundly lacking in protein. There was no better end to your in-ring career than floundering under Lux's mere presence, for it concluded your excuse for a reign as it began, you showing the world what you truly are: a

coward. I'd ask the demented, dark past era of the XWF to take you back, but I'm pretty sure those fuckers tossed you overboard, too. Sad day for a pirate when the only booty his mates are out to get is his. And that's not to mock the LGBTQ+ community. They deal with more hardship than you did on a daily basis. Hell, I'm pretty sure Texas is trying to round em' up and spit in their mouths while you stand on the side of the street with an open jaw, too sad and disgusting to waste saliva on.

You know, I actually bought the shit for a while. That you were some hot shit former era contender, but then I woke up and looked inside the excuse for a husk you are. You are without strength without SATAN! and "strength" you rely on others for is just weakness in a mink coat. You wanna brag about kicking Main in the balls? TK kicked Rob in the dick and just a few short weeks later is jobbing out to Lovely Vita, Minute Maid! The only you've managed to accomplish lately is literally feeding Alias's ego. You're no true champion, you're not even worth the fucking time of day. This match is gonna go quick, Soldier, with you laying down and surrendering like the mutt you aspire to be. You don't get your MASTER!'s protection! You don't get to come back tomorrow! You don't get a copy of the home game and you're about to get a lifetime's supply of Rice-A-Roni shoved in your gaping SATAN!-hole, but that ain't gonna be much considering how your hours are numbered as Saturday approaches. So, keep count and pray rigorously because this match is a sacrifice and your SATAN!'s favorite lamb."