The shot opens on....Corey. Just Corey. Whatever is behind and around him is just frustratingly out of focus. Corey's wearing that coy, confident smile that is becoming his hallmark.

Oh Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. Maybe you should have Dolly scoop up after the toy poodle once in a while, because you just can't stop stepping in shit.

Now, I understand why it is so imperative that you keep returning to this tired meme about me blowing my load early. You kind of have to. But it is objective reality (and I know how much you love reality), that I rode you hard and put you away wet in my second promo too. Oh, yeah, “Sarha” did hit me right in the feels. So imaginative. So avant-garde. So goddamn HILARIOUS! Watching you posit your Lindsey Lohan-esque pre-teen breakdown as though it's some kind of signifier of how “deep” you are. And yeah, it was so bad that I did have to sit in front of a camera and roast you about it for a while. Because sometimes the direct approach is best when it comes to dealing with people who consider subtlety a four letter word. Sorry if THAT tugged at your fee-fees.

But we don't even need to go to that well again, because you have graced our presence with so much more insight into your “Life-styles of the rich and pathological” existence. You know, for as much as your like to knuck people like Game Girl and I for worthless filler, you sure spent a hell of a long time rounding out the rest of your Barbie line-up. “And this is Kendra! She's a lawyer AND a doctor!” Oh-oh....but right, you had to show us that you have some kind of unique ownership of the concept of “knowing people in the business.” Of “having wrestling in your blood”. That you run the table when it comes to being trained and prepared, as though you're the only one who has received any kind of fight instruction and guidance. Now, I may not have been rich enough to receive expert tutelage from La Femme Nikita, but what I am is a SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD BOY who has proven I can beat the brakes off of people twice my size. Now call me crazy (you have), but surely that skill must have come from somewhere? Could it be that I was....trained to fight? What a concept! And I didn't even have to spend 30 minutes of the viewer's precious time jilling myself off about it.

So let me ask you something Sarah, just how far into your training were YOU at 17? I'm sure you looked wicked awesome as you were running through your first Kata back then. I'm sure you were impressing the shit out of all those fancy trainers who your daddy (well) paid to applaud like Pavlovian dogs at your every stumble and queef. I'm sure you were getting them serious gains in the most elite gyms and training centers...and you know what, side note, where the fuck did all those gains go? Because if I was your father I'd be wrenching myself right up out that grave and demanding that money back because your tomboy bean pole body looks like it couldn't crack open a mustard jar much less hit hard enough to leave a brush burn. But, I digress. Back to Sarah's favorite topic....reality.

As in, thank you for giving us even more nauseating insight into YOURS. Thank you for insisting that we all care SO SO MUCH about the minutia of the contents of your rapidly expanding social circle. Oh spare me the “you just didn't understand” horse shit....I understand the point you were making just fine. And my point has never been that what you're saying is irrelevant. I'm saying it's BORING. You know, that accusation you keep lobbing at people like me and Game Girl because the most innovative thought that's ever entered your pallid little head is Versace or Ralph Lauren.....ohhhhh shiiiit hold up, hold up! I'm falling into the clever trap you've laid for me all over social media, like so much bird shit on a Jersey pier. Sarah says she just WANTS people to assume she's all glitz, glamour and facile facade, when in reality deep within her, beats the so-so serious heart of a lion. We know this because she took the oh-so innovative step of having a chat in a graveyard with her dearly departed daddsy (or as I like to call it, blasé, ham fisted character development technique 937). We know that she is a strong, powerful woman, with equally strong and powerful friends who serve as not just card board cut outs designed to pad out her promo time, but as motivators and trainers and character developers. Yes Sarah, that's all great and serves to make you into a totally unique flower because literally no one else has supports in their lives. But it doesn't deny the one thing that still makes you weak as fuck.....

...your privilege.

Because for as much as you tried to roll back that image with “but-but-but it's all tied up in trusts” and “planes are expensive-duh”, even as you literally opened a door into a FUCKING GRAND HALL RIPPED STRAIGHT OUT OF MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH (and you know what happened to those people, right?)....I mean, Jesus, what kind of complete lack of insight does that take, huh? I'm rich but I'm not “rich-rich”, but yo watch me drop this scene straight out of the French Renaissance. Sarah, I just got one thing to say about that shit.



Sarah, you try to build yourself up and give yourself all this credibility, but over and over again all you prove is how disastrously out of touch you are. From your assertion that albinism is some kind of critical condition worthy of completely losing your goddamn sense over, to insisting we all MUST care EVER so much about your tedious social circle, to this notion that you are not some pampered child of privilege as we step into the Grand fucking Guignol with you.

You.

Are.

Clueless.

And that's the entire point I've been making this whole time. And it keeps paying dividends because you keep failing to see how clueless you are.

And you know what, it makes complete sense why you wouldn't see the value in people having an imagination. It makes total sense why you dissemble so much on why the stories people like Game Girl and I create are supposedly worthless. Because yeah, your life is already pretty amazing. FOR YOU. For 99% of the rest of humanity, it's just a reminder of the opportunities we didn't have. But I'm sure you don't care about any of that so long as you get to keep huffing your own musk about how elite you are.

Privilege is ALWAYS a weakness. Because for as great as it is at buying expensive trainers and the best blow-up weight sets (because by God how else do we explain that utter lack of muscle tone), it denies you the STRUGGLE. It denies you the knowledge and experience of having to pick yourself up from the very bottom and FIGHT like the DEVIL to survive. And considering your “bottom” involved having everything handed to you by a wealthy legacy that you did NOTHING to create in the first place (there's a reason I picked Paris Hilton to portray you), well, I imagine this will be a real eye opener. So, without further adieu, I present to you....



The shot finally opens up to reveal that Corey is standing in the lap of lower-middle class luxury. That doorway to opulence commonly known as...the entrance to the shitter at McDonalds.



Corey affects an over the top accent like that of a wealthy British bon-vivant as he gestures theatrically at the door.

Welcome to LIFESTYLES OF THE BROKE AND HOMELESS. And I'm pretty sure I should be wearing a monocle. Sorry about that. Anyway, step with me through this wrought iron gate made of the finest Polynesian gold inlaid with the tears of poor children who fell into the smelter.

With a flourish, he casts open the door. Inside, is, well a typical McDonalds bathroom. Someone appears to have tracked the toilet paper on their shoe across the entire length of the room. The automatic soap dispenser is idiotically pumping out soap despite no one being there to trigger it, leaving a congealing mess on the floor. The mirror has been smeared with an unknown substance that bears an unnerving similarity of hue to pus. Corey continues using the jokey accent.

Ah, yes, the commode. Hewn from stone taken from the famous statues of Easter Island (in violation of strict anti-desecration laws because fuck it), the incalculable value of this “place of business” is impossible to put into terms that the average plebian can understand. But I assure you, it would be no less than a crime than for me to drunkenly miss the urinal and piss on anything other than a timeless sacred relic....

Corey collapses into laughter, waving his hand at the camera. He resumes his normal tone of voice.

Okay....okay....you get the picture. So, why are we here? Well, remember that colorful little anecdote that I shared last time about me being strung out and face down on the bathroom floor?

He points down to the floor.

A place of legend, it is. This right here, is my “bottom”. No, I'm not talking about the pert piece of flesh behind me....I'm talking about my ROCK BOTTOM. Let's get up close and personal.

Corey sinks to his knees down onto the assuredly filthy floor. The floor itself is an unimpressive patchwork of small white tile held together with sloppily applied grout. It also looks desperately in need of a good sweeping.

It wasn't so long ago that I was out cold, face down on this very floor. Stewing in my own juices, my body flush with the poison that I willingly consumed. It was here that I came as close to dying as humanly possible. And you know, I'd love to be able to say that I ended up here because of someone else. Because my daddy smacked me around or my parish priest took a special interest. But I can't. I came from a very ordinary middle class family. My parents loved me, and they both worked full time to support me and my three siblings. Sure, money was tight sometimes. Not that you would know anything about that, Sarah. But we were all fed, clothed, and sheltered. The worst thing I can say is that my blue collar parents had a tenuous grasp on what having Bipolar disorder meant.

Oh, yeah, I have bipolar disorder. A real mental disorder. Not the comedy option vampire fantasy you tried to force feed us as one, Sarah. Now I don't think having a mental disorder is something to be especially proud of. It certainly doesn't make me unique. In fact, about 2.6% of the population over the age of 18 are diagnosed with it. Go, go Google powers activate. But yeah, I had it. I still have it. In fact, a.....friend....recently accused me of seeming manic. Maybe I am.

But it made for a hellish existence for young(er) me. I could be a huge pain in the ass, what with my already hormonal self emotionally ping-ponging all over the goddamn place, and my parents (well meaning as they were), simply not having the educational background or experience to effectively deal with my issues. We started fighting all the time. I made life equally as hellish for my younger brothers and sister, who started living in fear of the next blow out or the next time Corey said something crazy or threatened to kill himself.

Corey stops for a moment, still on his haunches on the filthy floor. He casts a quick glance off to the side, away from the camera, as the memories rush back.

I was the oldest....I should have....

He winces, and then brushes a hand over his eyes. Regaining a semblance of control, he turns back to the camera.

And on top of all of that, as the disease progressed, thrown into overdrive by that bitch called puberty, I started to get a sense of it's ebbs and flows. I started to get a little bit of insight into its patterns. In short, I knew that soon after I crested that rise, it was all downhill from there. And heh...manic Corey was cool, right? He was fun! He was charismatic. He killed it singing in the choir! He was a banger at all the school dances. But depressed Corey? Well, he sucked, and he was content to just pull the blankets over his head and let the world pass right on by. And I started to be able to tell when depressed Corey was coming. And it scared the shit out of me. So what did I do?

I figured out where my mom kept her pain meds and started deep diving into the wonderful world of substance abuse. Because, well hey, if I knew depressed Corey was coming sooner or later maybe I could ride it out by feeling nothing at all. Sounds like exactly the sound plan a 15 year old would come up with. So I did. And naturally, because the shit made me feel so good, got its talons in me nice and deep, it started becoming the ONLY voice I would listen to. Parents, friends (who were increasingly dropping away by this point), teachers...all became white noise. And when my parents saw through my indifferent shrugs when asked “Where did mom's pills go?” I had to leave. I had to go elsewhere to fill that need. So I set off on my own and lost myself. Oh sure, my folks caught up with me now and then, usually thanks to a late night call from a hospital or a cop, or child welfare, but it didn't stick. I kept leaving. Because I knew better. No. Because I was a scared kid who just didn't want to fucking hurt anymore.

Long story short, I ended up here.

Corey gestures once again to the floor. He gazes at it, as though transfixed. As though deriving some kind of spiritual meaning from something so base and so mundane.

I died here.

He speaks the words quietly, reverently, like a hushed prayer in a church.

I died here.

He repeats the words as a single tear finally parts ways with his right eye. Corey quickly brushes a palm against his cheek to be rid of it. He forces out a small laugh to try to return some levity.

So....promise broken, I guess! I vowed I wouldn't get so heavy but hey, you know what, it was worth it. It was worth it to give a pseudo-human like Sarah Lacklan a taste of what real struggle is like. Of what real hardship is like because you know what Sarah....reality? That thing you like to whinge about so much? It's right here. It's....

….this!

Corey slams his palm down on the cold floor.

…..fucking!

He does it again.

…..floor!

And another blow, like a mini-thunder clap echoing off the walls of this enclosed space.

Get a close up.

Corey reaches up to take hold of the camera, forcing it down right into the filthy stained grout of the floor.

Look at that dirt. Look at that common filth, Sarah. Look at it! That's where I come from! Not from some opulent manor from which you sit on some gilded throne, mocking people for changing up their voice and their style because your crank shaft is stuck in the gear of blithe affluent ignorance. Not from some place on high where your only concept of depth is “my friends help me wrestle” and “sun burn makes me pretend to be a vampire”. No, I was born deep down here. In the real depths of human struggle and passion and misery! Look at it!

He forces the camera down even further against the floor, so that we can pick out every fleck of grime, every spot of broken grout.

I know where I come from. I know where I've been. And while you may have yourself a good laugh at this, you do so at your folly. Because this is what moves me. What motivates me. What drives me ever forward. Because returning to this floor is my worst goddamn nightmare. It's the depths I fell into. It's the depths I crawled out of. And it's the depths I am fucking TERRIFIED of returning to.

Corey picks the camera up, forcing it to look at himself once again.

Unlike so many others, I was picked up off this floor and given a second chance. That's MY shred of privilege, but it doesn't compare to yours. You might not see the value of this floor, but that there is your biggest weakness. You've never had to face this floor. Not really. Maybe some hollow facsimile of this floor, but you've never truly been down deep in the muck and the filth and the putrescence. You've never gotten your hands truly dirty with just how bad it can get. So you don't have that primal fear as a motivator. I do. And the only other one in this tournament who comes close to even touching that is perhaps Dolly.

So fuck me I guess for understanding that kind of struggle. Fuck me for wanting to spin a good yarn every once in a while to give people who've been in that kind of struggle, or are still fighting that fight, a bit of escape. But what I do sure as hell can't be as damaging to those people as the parade of smug egoism and wealth porn you broadcast to the masses every day. Not that you care about people who are struggling.

And that's the other thing you miss. You just want so badly to be the face of this company. But who would be a better face? You? With that inspiring message of “hey, just be born into a wealthy family, have other people pay for you to have an asinine number of advantages, and make friends with other similarly like minded people and well, by golly everything will turn out just swell.” Because no matter how you slice it, yeah, you put the training in, but what brought you to that dance in the first place? Something that is completely unattainable to 99% of the population, that's what! You don't get it. And you never will. I get it. I have multiple gears. I can sling trash talk, fight, tell that epic ode, AND understand what it's like to be buried in the mud. And maybe I can do all those things because of how deep I was buried in the shit. I don't know.

Corey finally gets up off the floor. Notably, he doesn't even bother to brush himself off.

One last thing Sarah. I bet you're already chomping at the bit to use this little expose against me. To call me sad, weak, pathetic. And, well, you'd be right. You're 100% right. I was weak, sad, and pathetic. And I oh, so, desperately want you to go there. Because nothing lights my fire like a reminder of me at my worst. So put on your Monopoly guy top hat and have a good belly laugh at the drug addicted pleb. Because in the end, it's simple physics. All the inertia I've gained in the move from this floor to where I am now. I got a whole lot of momentum built up. And reminding me of this floor is the precise shot of high octane I need to knock your pop culture swilling, decadence dependent ass the fuck out. In the meantime, I look forward to the inevitable glimpse of your struggle, which will no doubt include the time one of your glorified prep school teachers made you run an extra mile. Oh, the horror!

Corey takes a moment to come down, but is soon interrupted by someone entering the bathroom. He looks surprised by this development, and smiles awkwardly at the man.

Damn it, I told them I would need this for at least 20 minutes.

The man looks at the camera in confusion, and then back at Corey.

You're not gonna record me having a piss are you?

What? Oh, no, no, no! Heh....I'll, uh, go outside.

Embarrassed, Corey takes the camera and moves it back out into the restaurant proper. Having himself a seat at a booth, he sheepishly returns to the promo.

One of the downsides of shooting a promo in the real. Another reason I love fiction. Anyway, last item on the agenda: Dolly. Still coming down from the high of that first promo. You got another one in the tank? Looking forward to it. But might I make a suggestion for your next effort? Maybe you might want to address your bitch-ass-boss-cum-Corey-Smith-punching-bag taking a bunch of tepid shots at you under the guise of a disgruntled employee. I mean, sure she can't come at you full bore HERSELF for fear of awakening the giant she knows you are, but that utterly transparent substitution she made was about as dime store dog shit as it gets.

Dolly, I'm not going to let you dodge this anymore. What in the hell are you doing? You actually signed on with Bram Stoker's “Scrooge McDuck”? Seriously though. What. The. Everloving. FUCK?

Is it the money?

Is it the media exposure?

Is it the beauty tips? Girl, just do what the guy from Powder did! It's not hard.

I really, really wanted to believe that you of all people wouldn't fall for all that shit. I thought you of all people would stay true to your roots and maintain some sense of self and credibility. But it's looking more and more like you sold out. Before, I alluded to the fact that of all the people in this tournament you come the closest to understanding what real struggle is. Granted, I wasn't around for your first few runs, but I know enough about you to see you as kin. I know you weren't exactly well off. I know your dad was a drunken wastrel. So yeah, the appeal of the snake oil that Sarah peddles is there. I get it. But is it you? You're a tough girl who strikes me as the type who would have punched ashy Malibu Stacey before you so much as spoke to her. But now here you are letting her trot you out as just another of her legions of errand runners. What gives? Is that truly who you are? Were we all seriously THAT mistaken?

I like you. I think I've already established that fact. And I want to do you a solid, and unlike the Sarah Lacklan's of the world, I'm willing to give something of myself to help you see the light. If you stop this clownshoes display of servitude with Sarah RIGHT NOW, then I promise that should I win this tournament and come away with a 24/7 briefcase, then I will give you a subsequent match on Savage with the briefcase on the line. All you have to do is walk away from an objectively bad decision, and you get TWO potential chances to win the briefcase, not just one.

Is that something Sarah would have offered you? I think you already know the answer to that.

Come back to the light Dolly. We need you. And we have cookies.

From just off camera, we hear the characteristic sound of a toilet flushing.

And that's my cue. Dolly, think about it. Sarah? Keep on keepin' on with the “making my job easy” thing.

Buh-bye.

The boy's face is illuminated by the screen of a public library computer, the harshness of his expression a total incongruence to the children's section he's presently seated in. A smiling monkey with a banana hangs of the side of the screen he's using, and just beside him is a carpet with a cartoonish train pattern, complete with stops at destinations conveniently labeled “school”, “post office”, “doctor” and the like. Shelves of simple hardback picture books dot the shelves surrounding him.

Contrary to his last appearance, the boy is now appropriately dressed. In fact, he's even well dressed. Wearing a child size Hilfiger hoodie, fashionable jeans, and a pair of red and black Sketchers, his mysterious benefactor would seem to have put in a degree of elbow grease cleaning him up. But despite the spit and polish, the boy's expression still reads a a depthless pit of mercilessness.

Equally as out of place is Number 44, who is looking rather uncomfortable sitting in an undersized yellow seat beside the boy.

What is it you needed to show me, my child? Number 44 intones in a calm voice despite his relative discomfort.

The boy, steely faced, pursues his task without response. He pulls up Youtube, enters something into the search bar, and without delay an image of Corey Smith appears on the screen. The boy points ahead at the screen, never making eye contact with Number 44. I watched this.

Number 44 looks at the screen, and the boy. And?

You lied to me. He spits the words dispassionately, as though a breach of trust was no more than a matter of fact without all the cluttering emotionality it typically entails.

I did no such thing.

The boy starts the video, and we see Corey Smith making his public admission in his first promo that Lux and all of it's other trappings were no more than a cleverly constructed storyline. With that said, the boy stops the video and finally looks at Number 44. I watched all these. He's just a stupid drug addict telling stories. He's not Lux and he's not dangerous.

Number 44 smiles. So you're going to believe him over me?

The boy's eyes narrow, but he doesn't respond.

He's lying to you and the rest of the world. Lux is still with him, and she knows that someone is warning her targets. She's having her host make up these lies to try to thwart me. And it looks like it's working. Unfortunately. Number 44 drips acid off the last word, imbuing it with disappointment.

What do you want with me? The boy retorts, but with some of the resistance depleted from his tone.

As I've told you before, it's not so much what I want FROM you, but what I want FOR you. Have I shown you yet?

Shown me what?

Why, what I want you to be! Number 44 leans in, bringing his face closer to the boy's. What I have in store for you.

No.

Well then allow me to rectify that mistake. Number 44 brings his hand up towards the boy's face, and he touches the tip of his forefinger to the boy's head. The boy doesn't flinch at first, but then, his eyes go wide as he is awash in sensation.

Soldiers filter onto an urban battlefield under an angry red sky. An intersection in some unnamed metropolis. Unmanned cars pepper the intersection, long abandoned to decay. The surrounding buildings, once towering supplicants to modern power and wealth, also look abandoned. One of the soldiers barks out an order, and the unit disburses, using the cars for cover. But it's not on the ground that their attention is drawn. No, it is the sky that they watch.

The warriors hunker down, eyes peeled towards the raging heavens, each one of them oozing with nervous and fearful energy, fingers hovering over trigger guards. They wait. And they wait.

They wait until the sky is cut by a fearsome sight, a man flying through the buildings, like a razor dragged against flesh, cutting the air with an inhuman quickness. One of the soldiers barks out a warning and fires into the beings wake, missing him handily. The form disappears behind another building before appearing again just as swiftly, diving down and landing atop one of the cars.

The sight is as awful as it is hauntingly beautiful. The being is completely nude, with a chiseled male physique like something out of a Romanesque statue. His hair is a halo of dreadlocked strands. But that is where the beauty ends. Plunging down the length of the figure's caramel colored toned stomach, where a man's genitals should be there is only a mass of ruined flesh, a marring obscenity that serves to take this Davidian figure and render it somehow horrific and other. But even moreso than that, the being's method of flight stretches out from its broad shoulders, twin metallic wings comprised of blades of various length.

The soldiers scream and open fire, rising from their hiding places. The winged man screams in return, but his is not one of pause or fear, but a welcoming scream. An inviting scream. A scream to dine and dance. His mouth distends, revealing rows of steel artificial fangs. He is undaunted by the bullets speeding his way, as each shot bounced harmlessly off the shield embedded in his wings. A quick pulse of orange energy blossoms as each round hits the shield and drops harmlessly to the pavement. Panic sets in amongst the soldiers, and they continue stupidly firing. The flying man reaches back to one of his wings, withdrawing a wicked blade and throws it with pinpoint accuracy, burying itself to the hilt in a female soldier's chest.

With that, the figure then leaps off the car and wades into battle, darting about the field with the same inhuman quickness as before, laying waste to his opposition with serrated wings and vicious fangs. None of the humans stand a chance.

The boy comes to in the library again. He is weeping openly with joy. I'm so beautiful. He mutters, not even bothering to catch the tears as they fall.

Do you trust me now? Do you understand that that is what I offer you?

Yes. The boy gasps.

Excuse me?

Number 44 and The Boy look up at the interruption. A security guard has walked up to them, and he tugs at his hat as though it conveys some small measure of authority. We already told you the library is closed. Sir, you need to take your son and leave. But then, the guard catches sight of the boy's unhidden tears. Hey, are you okay?

I'm a God. The boy responds breathlessly.

...what?

The boy stands up abruptly, casting back his child sized seat. His hand darts into the front pocket of his hoodie sweatshirt, and he withdraws a small knife. I'm a God. He repeats, as he plunges the knife into the security guard's bulbous abdomen. The guard emits a shrill cry of protest and pain, but the boy is undaunted, and he plunges the knife in and out again and again. The guard falls to the floor, slipping in his own rapidly escaping blood, leaving the boy an opening to mount him and set in on carving up his face.

Number 44 remains seated, appreciating the screams of the damned like an aria.