Part Two: "L'entracte (a.k.a. The Intermission)"

A crackle and pop. A sound not unfamiliar to those who had been alive to experience the heyday of radio and the birth of long-distance communication. But these blips of faulty service, the lo-fi aspect that permeated the golden era of Hollywood, were all errors in human technology. Another reminder of the fallibility of man.

But today, these were not the sounds of radio Bat-man urging listeners to tune in next week at the same Bat-time and Bat-frequency. No. These were warning drones, these wee pops and crackles. A signal bearing some subsonic message that forewarned the listener, wherever and whoever they may have been, that this message was not for their ears.

“Test one, test two. Blast it, wench!” came the multitudinous tones of Mystica’s voice through the signal. There was no need for visuals. This message was to be clear and concise, and the element of video would only serve as a strain upon the mind of potential viewers. For the good of the audience’s sanity, this message would be strictly reduced to an old-time radio signal – the frequency which only the likes of trucker HAM radios would be able to pick up.

“Working on it.”

“Not nearly fast enough. I still recall the onset of this most outdated means of comm—“

“Oh, we went live ten seconds ago. Whooooops!”

“Confounded, insubordinate little—“

“What part of ‘live’ don’t you get?”

“Regardless…hello all, ye misguided miscreants and assorted oddjobs. I’m positive that you are well aware of who I am. You’ve heard my voice before, perhaps last night in your nightmares, perhaps years and years ago, when your mother hummed a nursery rhyme that, in diametric opposition to its intention, kept you awake and terrorized with the manifold voices with which your dear biological host had sung. You know my voice. And I know yours. Yes, you. And you. And even you.”


“They can’t see you, idiot.”

“I’m aware of this fact, fool! It’s called ‘theatrics.’ You should know, you went to college!”

“Barely.”

“Ahem…anywho…I assume you’re enjoying the tale I have been spinning for you. Another day in the life of an eldritch abomination. Two choices, two bombs, two outcomes. Neutrality.”

“Oh, no, is this the one just before…?”

“Indeed, Miss Nassar. The tale that prefaces your almost-tryst in the sauna.”

“No! No, no no! You can’t show that one!”

“Can and will, darling. You heard right, listener! Pay attention to my craftweaving, and I shall reward your diligence with a future tale of hot spring-induced female homosexual tension. How lovely. I personally don’t understand the appeal, but I certainly do know how to grab your attention. Exploitation is the very groundwork, the foundation of modern entertainment. And who am I to deny these media their very mother’s milk?”

“I never should have gone to Switzerland.”

“But you did. And so I felt the need to test you. As I often do. First, the question of neutrality. You see, it paints a foundational layer upon the canvas. In bringing this tale of battling the fence-sitting nature of your own humanity, I hope to give rise to a much more personal matter – a question of the true self. So I have my dear followers choose between two equal threats to the stability of your own society, if only to enrich your understanding of the deeper lesson. You see? This is my Author’s Apology. Though I shan’t ever apologize to the likes of you. Does the bird of prey apologize to the wayward rabbit? No. It merely spears the ball of fuzz through the neck and devours it in the treetops. So I shan’t apologize for preying upon my sustenance: your kind. Your very minds and hearts. Delicious.”

“Do you know how difficult it is to sustain this broadcast?! Get to the fucking point before I decide to let it slip back to static!”

“Tut-tut, Miss Nassar. Your sexual proclivities are far from the purpose behind this broadcast. So I shall…get to the point. I’m here to offer my grievances. Just who does the XWF think I am? Well, the truth would dwarf their very comprehension, but I digress. In the hallowed halls of this glorified Friday Night Fight Club, my moniker is whispered in reverence. I live in the distant memory of all who are presented the glory of bearing witness to my gaze. And yet…where am I placed on the card? First match. First match?! A triple threat kerfuffle with the walking embarrassment that is Gilly-Pete and…who is the other? Ah, yes. Who I assume to be the bastard offspring of an old…friend. Sure, let’s refer to Duke as a “friend.” If that sates your ponderings.

I am insulted, verily, and I demand satisfaction! Nay, not demand. I shall prove what worth rests in my borrowed limbs. Foremost, shall we go about the act of mocking Petey-boy? Ugh, what could I say that hasn’t been said countless times before by men and women whose value far exceeds his own? Gilmour, if you’re listening, do offer me a service and slit your wrists up, down, back-and-forth, draw a picture with a razor up and down your arms. Save me the effort. I have no objection to slaughtering you on live telly, but what a waste of energy that would be!

Truth be told, perhaps I merely long for the days of your simplicity, ye walking sack of post-pubescent shame. It may very well be that I miss the days when you were merely a walking stereotype…to the uh, extreme? No, I refuse to copy-paste your juvenile spelling of such word. I mean, really, I just miss when you were fat. It made it easy to escape your toddler-like arm’s reach. I just had to lightly jog ahead of you. Good cardio. Keep cardio in mind. I’ve read some of your human fashion magazines – you know, those shameless bits of pulp literature you find in the grocery waiting line, right across from the Larry Correia novels. Such trite shite. Ah, and just like that, I have a new nickname for you, Gilly: ‘The Walking, Talking, Trite Shite.

And onto the young upstart. Goodness, how youth doth measure the worth of a man’s short time on this miserable bit of mass you call ‘the earth.’ Hum-hum, ho-ho. What a mouth you Duke boys have. Ah, I see what you did there. Or did I do it? Hum… Wordplay, how clever! Tell me, dear lad, have you had your spin in the General Lee, or do the finer aspects of popular culture fly over your head like my heel shall do just prior to reversing course and scraping the cocksure smirk off your face? Because I’d rather like to hang said face over my mantle place. Or perhaps I’ll fashion it into a vellum – or ‘hide,’ for ye lay-folk – with which I may bind a codex I’ve been assembling. Take a page right out of the darkest humanity has to offer. What was the name? Ed Gein? Leatherface? Vellum-face? Hum…I have your next gimmick already spelled out for you.

The diamond standard? I’d laugh, had I some wretched human ‘sense of humour.’ But alack-alas, I fear you’re not joking. Diamond standard? Child, you’re more akin to a piece of scrap tinfoil hastily fashioned into the vague shape of a star, with the message ‘you tried’ scribbled on it in black sharpie. Tell you what, you help me slaughter our common opponent – vile former pig he is – and I’ll pin that star to your chest so you can run back to your pederast guardian and point it out with pride. It’ll be like the parental response to their mentally challenged child’s drawing of what they enthusiastically claim is “our house.” Pin that star to the refrigerator, lad. It shall soon be your only sense of pride, even amidst your self-righteous and overtly sententious self-image.

Not to sink to the guileless level of Gilmour the Walking, Talking Trite Shite, but I feel the overwhelming need to make light of your moniker. What sort of Kool-Aid are you drinking ‘round the compound these days? I’d assume something only mildly toxic to the human condition, for whosoever granted you the name of “Thaddeus” either hates your very existence, or has been chewing lead paint chips instead of gum. I mean, really, Thaddeus? Makes you sound like you’re the chairman of an Illuminatus-themed frat house. Do you get together on Friday nights for games of Angry Orchard-pong and viewings of “The DaVinci Code?” Sure, you could easily mock my own name, but keep in mind…I only chose this laughable title because the human tongue is incapable of pronouncing my true name. So you’d best either grow a pair of gills, or think twice about legally changing that utter embarrassment of a Christian name.

So…I implore any who are not my opponents to tune in Wednesday. It’s bound to be a right bloodbath. My specialty. Come, ye lost viewer, one and all, for you shall soon bear witness to my glorious rebirth inside the four corners.

Oh, and to Billy Joel. Play “Piano Man” and then make haste for the exit. If you dare play a bloody chord of “The Longest Time,” I’ll add you to my flesh collection.

End transmission. That sounds oddly familiar…yuck.”

“…done?”

“Yes, I’m done! Pay attention, whelp! And tell Miles to prep a serving of those waffle things you made me try. Grown oddly fond of them.”

“We ran out of breakfast stuff like, last week.”

“Then go grab your little girl-crush by the teats and make a WaWa run! Don’t forget my tea this time! And pick up more amphetamines! The Dahlia is getting antsy…”

Achievements

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