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The Engineer · (10-13-2017)

The shot opens on a hard close up of a drain inset in a cement floor. A steady flow of crimson rolls into the drain, pooling for the barest second before dipping over into the black chasm beneath. A boot treads over the drain, parting the blood and leaving an imprint of the sole set in crimson in it's wake. The shot rises, pans out, catching The Engineer's back as he walks between rows of imprisoned cows.

I found my thrill, on blueberry hill....

Engy hums the 1940's classic by Fats Domino as the cattle to either side of him look on vacantly. He stops in place, swivels, and looks at the camera.

Did I mention he has a big fuck off sword over his shoulder? Because he does.

Ohhhhh, you.....

He points at the camera with the hand that isn't clutching the handle of the sword, advancing towards the camera and stabbing his forefinger at the viewer.

You, you, you. Keeping me all a tingle with anticipation. I've been on edge all week. Can't sleep. My body just electric with excitement John, excitement over YOU. Will he. Won't he. Is he prepping some kind of master stroke? Or just biding his time until I can put him out of his misery?

He makes a show of his body quivering with excitement.

Which is it, big boy...WHICH IS IT?! No, no,nooooo, heh heh. I gotta remember I came here to RELAX. I'm like some yuppie in a suit who can't put his fuckin' phone down in the middle of paradise. Not seein' the forest for the trees, and what a gorgeous forest this is.

Engy gestures at his surroundings. It's a slaughter house. The cows still stand locked in place, waiting for their executioner to come, oblivious to the mortal danger their in.

It's not the first time I've come here to relax. The folks here, they've always been so inviting. 'Ol Engy needs to blow off some steam and wants to put in some volunteer hours at the butcher's block? Why sure, they say. No problem. What kind of savvy business man turns down free labor? But it ain't labor for me. It's zen. It's peace. It's purpose. And I think I've always found such solace in it, even as an idiot, because it's just so CLEAN. I mean, not literally of course, but metaphorically. I think even before I knew what a metaphor was I just got that, intrinsically. Death is finality, it's got no lose ends, no ambiguity. You either are or you aren't. Alive or dead. It's....it's.....pure.

He pushes his sleeve across his mouth, catching some brackish saliva.

I got a practical purpose here too. Had to test out the new toy. Say hello to Kingbreaker. I, uhhh, know a guy.

The Engineer brings the sword forth. It really is a well crafted marvel. It's simple, no unnecessary calligraphy or design. It's no showpiece. He marvels at it for a moment, dabbing a thumb against the blade. A bead of blood is drawn almost instantaneously. Engy puts his thumb in his mouth to satiate the wound before continuing.

This is what I'm gonna kill you with John. But like any good weapon, it's always smart to take it for a test drive before it really matters. Just call this motherfuckin' Bikini Atoll.

He advances on one of the cows and runs the blade across it's throat without hesitation. The cow's screams are cut short, caught up in the rush of blood that fills it's voice box. The gore flows freely from the wound, a waterfall that sloshes to the ground with a perceptible slap, gathering into a frothing pool before slipping down the incline in the floor towards the drain. The cow's body bucks against it's restraints, dumb dying throes as the rest of the body tries to pull away from the fatal wound like a healthy person recoiling from a leper. Finally the body goes cataleptic and it hangs limp in it's harness. The other cows consider the death of their fellow like one considers a fly avulsing on a windshield.

Engy holds up the sword before him again, the blade drooling with fresh kill.

Oh yeah...we're good....

His tone is almost reverential.

It'll be quick John, I can promise you that. But I do have a confession to make. I might have oversimplified death a bit just before. I mean, yeah, death ITSELF is simple. But what a man leaves behind in his wake can be a damn messy affair. Ya see, a man's demise is the end cap of a long lifetime of that man's machinations. Decades upon decades of loves, lusts, betrayals, and alliances. Accomplishments and failures. I'm talkin' legacies, John. And there can be no doubt that you will leave a legacy. Ya know, it's common place amongst the more autistic members of the roster to pick and prod at a man's record, recounting individual losses that one time at that one place. Tabulating numbers like some limp dicked bookie pulling in debts that he'll never collect. But that's just tossing pebbles in the ocean, man. Me? I'm a big picture guy. And your picture John? It almost brings a man to weep.

You've done so much. Senator. Multiple time champion. KING. I can kill you John, but I can't take that away. No, no John. I can't take that away.

But you can.

He approaches another cow. And with another flash of his blade another life is taken. He flicks the sword to give it a quick and dirty clean. The blood splatter lands on the face of a cow in an adjoining stall, but it doesn't seem to much notice.

Some might say it's a bit gauche for me to being going on and on about such a morbid topic in light of the way the world is today. The evening news numbing us with stories about murderers and psychopaths and genocidal madmen. A lunatic gunning down hundreds in the thick of sin city. But ya know what I've always found real interesting? The different ways people react to death depending on who gets whacked. I mean, you get the deaths of a bunch a rando's by the hundreds and it's “thoughts and prayers” for days. Which...heh...lets talk about thoughts and prayers for a moment. Thoughts and prayers. That's about as low effort as it gets, isn't it? It's not a donation of time, or money, or even genuine concern. It's thoughts and prayers. A few clicks on social media vomited up for mass consumption. It's screaming into the void that “yeah, I heard about all this suffering but please no one forget about ME and how much I CARE.” Don't forget to like my post and share so grandma knows I'm not an unfeeling bitch. People who offer “thoughts and prayers” are the worst kind of vultures, feeding off tragedy to remind the world that THEY exist and THEY watch the news and that THEY have a shred of humanity.

Thoughts and fuckin' prayers....heh. But my point is this, most people only warrant thoughts and prayers. A passing hollow gesture of egocentric “whattabout me-ism”. Every one a those fuckers who got gunned down in Vegas are getting' scores a thoughts and prayers right now. Meaningless. Sorry if I'm harshin' your buzz, but it's true. When nobody knew you existed until your dead, well, that's kinda just the way human nature works, ain't it?

But every once in a while, a death happens that shakes the world to it's core. A ruler. A beloved celebrity. Someone who set the world on fire. THOSE people don't get thoughts and prayers. No, those people get breathless news coverage, weeping Youtube videos, and celebrity send offs. They get a whole page to themselves in your kid's history text. They get their face thrown up on a screen by the beautiful people at yearly award shows. In short, those people get more than the bare minimum. More than thoughts and prayers. Because those people were known for something other than DYING.

He runs his blade against another throat, this time the arterial spray catches his jacket, painting him with a mist of blood. But he doesn't seem to mind much. By this point, the floor is getting thick with blood. Flies begin to draw to it.

So now that you're in the twilight moments of your career, John, I think it would be a good idea to start considering how exactly you want to be remembered. And I gotta be honest, so far, it ain't lookin' so hot. And I'm not even talkin' about you giving up in your match with Luca or all that maudlin “XWF sucks, everything sucks, I feel obligated, get these damn kids of my lawn” bullshit you were spewin'. Your downward spiral started even before that. In fact, it started for all you callow fucks the moment you went from being the host organism to being the parasite. Because the fact is, all the Kings have just been hangin' on for quite some time. Anybody with eyes for seein' and ears for hearin' knows that you're all just a bunch of glorified part-timers now. And lets be real here, are you and John Madison even that much? You both get the honor of being considered tornado tag champions but it's Theo and Doc doin' all the “heavy” lifting.

Why the fuck are you even here if it's all beneath you now? Seriously, why haven't you just pissed off already if you got nothin' left to do? Cause from where I sit, you boys haven't contributed much of anything lately, aside from coming down from your lordly manors every so often to take a hefty shit on those of us who are actually doin' something. And then, when somebody like me actually has the balls to send you back packin', when somebody like me refuses to be your fuckin' victim it's not even a peep out of the almighty ones. I literally tortured Theo's wife live on television and none of you have even so much as called me a nasty name. Fuckin' bitches.

WHAT ARE YOU HERE FOR?! Huh?! I tried to light a fire under your ass and you snuffed out the match and bit your tongue! You wanna pull out your dick and jerk yourself off, waxin' nostalgic about the good old days while givin' NOTHING back to the people bustin their asses TODAY, that makes you a PARASITE. An old man bleedin' like a stuck pig in the middle of the ring, bladin' his flabby body to make up for the fact that you've got no “go” left, all in a shameless effort to stay relevant. To capture that feeling of being on top of the world again. But the feeling is gone John. It's gone. You already had it. Already had your time. You're not hungry anymore. You're fat, and old, and LAZY. You call it obligation but it ain't that. It ain't. You just need the blood. So you affix your lamprey like jaws to the XWF and suck, and suck, and suck out all that blood. But it won't ever fill ya. You're too broken. Too pathetic. Too NEEDY.

You say I ain't shit, John? That I don't measure up to the superstars of the past? Prove it. Fight me. Fight for your life. Fight to be worthy of more than just thoughts and prayers and prove that you deserve every bit of the legacy you've built!

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

Engy turns abruptly on another cow, but this time instead of slitting it's throat he brings the sword into an upward arc, slamming it down on the back of the cow's neck. The poor animal screams, feeling every bit of the blade slicing through it's flesh. The blade buries itself about a third of the way down and the cow is fighting, tossing itself against it's bindings and screaming always screaming. Engy withdraws the sword and brings it down again, this time severing the spinal column. The cow's body goes slack, paralyzed, but yet still unmercifully alive. It's eyes fix on Engy as the blade comes down one last time, severing the head. The head rolls out onto the floor and a waterfall of blood cascades down the door of it's stocks. Engy, breathing rapidly, considers the detached head. He nudges it with his boot and smiles.

I don't think you will. Nahhhh, I think your gonna roll like a bitch. And I'm gonna give you the sendoff a bitch deserves. I'm gonna take your life and your dignity. Butcher you like cattle. And in so doing I will reduce the sum total of your existence to one horrific act of violence, consuming everything you've ever done and reducing it to the sword.. Your glories will be irrelevant, and you will be known not for how you lived but for how you died. John Samuels the former universal champion? John Samuels the King? No. Just another man who gave up and laid on the chopping block.

People will write books about me though. Guess at my motivations. Seek to cast the harsh light of justice and understanding on me. And in that moment, I will know I've won. That I've beaten you as thoroughly as one man can beat another.

But look on the bright side. Maybe somebody will offer your mama some thoughts and prayers on Facebook.

Engy shrugs and turns away from the camera. He hoists the sword onto his shoulder once more and resumes humming Fats Domino as he saunters down the hall. The camera pans back away from him, allowing you a full view of the carnage he's left behind. The shot then abruptly cuts to static.

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[Image: tumblr_lijr868ZSL1qd8mflo1_500.gif]

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