The Oddyssey

The keening of Corey’s co-workers had dwindled down to nothing. The last inarticulate scream and gurgle combination had been 10 minutes ago, an hour ago, five hours ago. Time had lost all meaning, obliterated in the face of an overt horror that jeered and spat in the face of reality.

Corey remained in the duct, legs folded in tightly to his body, head resting on his knees. His face was salted with spent tears, his body still electric with shock. But he was rooted, time locked, in this space. Fear being that great usurper of action.

Corey.

He jumped, heart hammering up into his throat as a fresh supply of bile threatened to make its appearance known. But once his eyes had been given enough time to focus, he saw that it was only Iggy. Iggy, who’s incomprehensibly innocent expression served as an inappropriate counterweight to the evening’s events. His eye was still formed into a disconcerting spiral pattern, but this time he was garbed in military camo. A gun (that was clearly a toy) was strapped over his back.

Wha….what are you doing…? His voice was an airy shuddering thing.

I was about to ask you the same thing, silly goose! Iggy smiled and leaned in closer to Corey. Corey instinctively drew back a couple inches. Iggy didn’t seem to notice, or care. Why are you hiding in here? We’ve got some super heroing to do!

Corey just stared at him, uncomprehending. He swallowed deep, it burned all the way down. What the hell are you talking about?

You know! Kick butt! Save the day! Help people! The stuff you normally do.

Corey blinked a few times, adrift. There is a literal fucking monster out there that just did God knows what with a slew of my coworkers. He tried to stay matter of fact, but the tremor in his voice undercut all of it.

Are you...scared? He posed the question like the notion was inconceivable.

Of course I’m scared! Corey hissed back, teeth set together in repressed anger. This is like some horror movie shit! I don’t understand what’s going on! Did Doc do this? The Left Hand? Who the fuck was that guy?! Corey reeled himself back in, suddenly aware of how loud he was being.

Iggy looked plaintive now. Corey, Dolly and Thad are counting on you.

That hurt. He winced, leaning back against the smooth coolness of the duct. Oh God, they may already be dead…

Or they might not be! Don’t lose hope, Corey. But if we’re gonna help them we gotta get out of this duct. Iggy extended his hand. You coming?

Corey glanced at the hand. It was immaterial of course, a symbolic gesture. Corey leaned forward, hesitation and desire fighting a pitched conflict within.

Come on, I’ll be right with you. Iggy goaded, effecting a surprising degree of warmth.

Corey nodded numbly, and started to follow Iggy’s lead. His heart raced again as he reached the grating overlooking the immense hall. He forced himself to look.

It was carnage. Seas of blood flowing unchecked, pieces of bodies bobbing on the crests of this crimson sea. Corey felt the bile rise up again, and he stifled it desperately. He had to know if Thad and Dolly were amongst the lost. Some of the corpses were rent beyond recognition. Others he could recognize. Thunder Knuckles. The Themis Sisters, their bodies sprawled so close they must have gone down fighting together. Dick Powers. John Black. Ned Kaye was dead, but his Avalanche cohorts were gone. The rest of the remains were too difficult to identify, but there was no way every XWF employee here was accounted for. So where were the others?

What happened here? Spoken in equal parts awe and horror. Iggy didn’t reply, nor was it warranted. With a shuddering breath, Corey pointed ahead. We need to backtrack, back to Alias’ room, see if we can find him, and Thad, and Dolly. And then, it struck like an arrow buried feather deep in his heart. Frankie. Oh God, Frankie. We have to hurry.

Iggy nodded resolutely, disappearing and then reappearing behind Corey. Lead the way.

Corey made progress down the duct, despite the horror germinating in his gut. His body was still wracked by cold sweat tracing ley lines down his torso. A couple times he had to stop to breathe deeply to combat lightheadedness. But finally, they reached Alias’ room. Corey quietly approached, ears trained to suss out any noise. Nothing. So, carefully extricating himself from the duct, he shimmied over to behind the bed. Iggy popped into existence at his side, toy rifle now at the ready.

You ready for this?

No. Corey admitted. He bit back a choke, wiping his wet clammy hands on his thighs. He forced himself to peer up over the bed, scanning the room for anything that could possibly be a weapon. Then, a stray thought settled in, and Corey lifted up the comforter to peer under the bed. Alias’ 24/7 briefcase was there. Corey slid it out, considering its heft, giving it a couple experimental swings. It’ll have to do.

He stood up, limbs creaking from the constraining elements of the ducts. Going to the door, Corey activated the comm from within, straining to pick up on any sounds outside the door. He caught the barest hint of a whisper in the distance, but its exact nature escaped him. Corey sighed, looked back at Iggy, who nodded, and then opened the door.

Corey lit into the hallway, clutching his impromptu weapon and quickly looking both ways. There was nothing save a solitary figure in the corner down the hall. Actually, he was facing the corner. Male, from the looks of it. Corey licked the dry mesa of his lips and started to walk slowly towards the figure. As he neared, he recognized the clothing. Marf. And he appeared to be speaking. His speech was pressured but low. Corey approached carefully, one foot before the other, as stealthily as possible. Before long, he could just barely make out what was being said.

Iseetheperipheryitisthereandwantsmethepassengersburrowtheyburrowandmakesenseofthe peripheryallgoodthingsintime*giddy cackle*allgoodthingsintime…

Stopping short, the young man went wide eyed and rigid. This was not right. His sweat soaked hands brought the briefcase to bear, up in a position ready to strike if needed. Marf. Corey called out, audibly enough but certainly not a shout.

Marf’s head cocked, in surprise perhaps. But it was an odd jerky movement, lacking the finesse of man and more the unrefined utility of an animal. Marf slowly turned. Corey stepped back, aghast. His hand slapped to his mouth as vomit knocked again.

Marf’s eyes had been hollowed out, and in their place were two reedy yellow parasitic worms poking out the sockets. The worms moved in unison, twitching towards Corey. Christ, they could see him.

The two men remained still for a time, the air punctuated by Corey’s breathing. Marf wasn’t breathing at all, his chest still. The tension mounted as each of them remained rooted. But it was Marf that ultimately broke the stalemate. A shriek exploded out of his throat, hoarse and ragged to the point that droplets of blood were expectorated past his lips. Marf lunged at Corey, clumsily, like a marionette wielded by a distracted novice.

STOP! Corey ordered. But of course it went unheeded. Marf was five feet away, three feet, two! He carried the saccharine stench of death, a rotted shell turned into a tool wielded by an alien sadist. Corey plunged the corner of the briefcase into Marf’s face. He buckled, reeling back but not falling. Corey had killed one of the worms in his eye, its shivering body leaking a pus like fluid down Marf’s cheek. Corey screamed and went on the attack again, crashing the briefcase into his skull. Marf finally dropped, pinwheeling off the wall before landing on his side.

Get him Corey! Iggy cheered from the sideline.

No, no, no…..The panic started to tighten its grip again. The impossibility of this ghastly tragedy blanketing him, smothering him, once more. He took a half step back from what was formerly known as Marf.

No! You have to finish him off!

Marf got to one knee. Corey wiped away the flush of tears in his eyes. And he screamed again, cracking his forehead with the case. Marf crashed to the floor a second time, and this time Corey let his body’s momentum carry him. He landed on the floor beside Marf, and he set out to brutalize him further, bringing the case down over and over and over. The meaty thwack of metal on flesh succumbed to the dull crunch of bone and cartilage giving way, which finally became the sucking sounds of a face caved in on itself. When the deed was done, Corey howled in agony. The upper half of Marf’s face was a crater, his tongue loosened and flopped over onto the mess that was once his nose as if it was trying to cover something immodest. Corey sobbed openly, crawling away from the disgusting scene.

It’s okay Corey, you did good. But we gotta find Dolly! Her room is right there! Right there! Iggy pointed at the door.

...huh? Corey replied, riding on a bleary haze of half cognition.

Dolly! Iggy yelled.

This finally motivated Corey to action. Using the wall to steady himself, he rose to a standing position and hobbled to Dolly’s door. His finger hovered over the comm button, but then he thought better of it. If something like Marf was inside, he didn’t want to give them advance warning. Corey snapped against the wall and triggered the button to open the door. Nothing responded from within. Corey wheeled back through the threshold, ensuring the door shut behind him. The room still seemed empty. After a brief scan, his eyes hit on a folded piece of paper on the nightstand. There was nothing on the front, but within it Corey instantly recognized the telltale scrawl of Thad’s handwriting. It was directions to a loading dock. “Meet us here” it said. “Munitions.” It added.

Munitions? Corey rolled the word about in his mouth. Here?

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth buddy. We need to get to that loading dock STAT!

He nodded and went to the door, grisly attache still in hand. The door slid open.

Lane?! Corey exclaimed. One half of the XWF’s senior management team was encompassing the doorway. His eyes did not bear the same hideous replacements as Marf’s did, but something was still unquestionably off. Lane’s veins were a deep, sludge like brown beneath his skin, making an atlas of his face. His eyes looked unfocused, settling somewhere past Corey. But he attacked nonetheless. Lunging with the same kind of awkward stutter stop motions as Marf, Lane tackled Corey to the floor. Panicked and desperate, he punched Lane three times in the face, eventually drawing a pained moan out of him before rolling him off. Corey got up, but stumbled, impacting off the wall near the bathroom. Lane didn’t even wait to rise fully to his feet before he spring heeled into Corey, causing them to turn into a rolling conflagration on the cool tile of the bathroom floor. Lane’s jaw distended, and Corey screamed at what lay within. His tongue had been replaced by another of those parasites, and it was wriggling and thrashing about with foul excitement. Lane brought his open mouth down towards Corey’s, a lover’s gesture perverted. NO! Corey howled, before clamping his mouth shut so the wriggling abomination couldn’t enter. Corey reached up into Lane’s face and gouged it hard. His cheek ripped away like tissue paper, revealing sallow, stinking musculature beneath. Corey skittered out and under from Lane, but Lane grabbed Corey’s pant leg, trying to draw him back in. A swift kick to the XWF co-owner’s face tore away more flesh, but the beast remained undaunted. He lunged for Corey again, but Corey rolled out of the way. Lane’s bottom jaw cracked up against the steel of the toilet, and Corey knew he had to capitalize on the opening. He took hold of Lane’s golden locks and forced him face down into the toilet. Corey howled in anger and fear as he positioned himself over Lane, planting himself so he could bear down on the creature fully. Lane’s limbs flailed every which way, and Corey had to struggle to hold on. But finally, the fighting stopped, the creature evidencing that it was capable of drowning. Corey held Lane under for a minute longer to assure his demise, before rushing out of the bathroom and passing through Iggy’s incorporeal form on the way to the door.

You okay, Corey?

No! I’m not fucking okay! He barked. He hadn’t realized how badly he had been shaking until his bitter retort. His hand grasped the edge of the doorway, but his coordination was so tremulous he almost missed it entirely and fell. He felt sick inside down to his marrow, and the trickles of cold sweat had become a fluish wash. He found himself sliding down the doorframe onto his rear, shaking uncontrollably as the breaths kept becoming harder and harder to summon.

Whoa, whoa. Hey man….

No! He held a hand out towards Iggy, halting him. Then, wracked with hysterical sobs, he tried to find more words and found it futile. Iggy got face to face with Corey and Corey tried to brush him away, but his hand simply filtered through Iggy's cheek and out the other end like fingers playing in cerulean beach water.

We have to….

I can't! He yelled back, shuddering and weeping as the extent of what had been transpiring won out over reason and sanity. This...it's not real…..it's not….

It is real, Corey! And if we don't go now your friends are going to be in big trouble.

I can't. Corey begged off, his body becoming a tight thicket or arms and legs wound around each other. As if Corey was attempting to shrink himself out of sight by curling into himself.

This isn't like you!

Please...just….stop.

Iggy, looking frustrated now, throws his hands up in the air. Well….SHIT! Iggy played with the cuss word for the first time, surprising even himself with it. Hey, you know what? A placating smile formed. I bet the rest of the way will be easier. I just know it!

How the fuck can you know that?!

I….uhhh...A touch of….panic? Lemme um, lemme….

The boy considered the manifestation strangely. He screwed up his pallid face to consider Iggy, narrowing his waterlogged eyes. What are you talking about? He inquired through a dry rasp.

Just...come on! This isn’t like you Corey.

Well maybe I’m a different Corey, then! He spat back bitterly. But the seemingly surface level barb seemed to resonate with Iggy. His lips curled downward into a ponderous frown. His hands clenched at his sides. It was his turn to look wracked with worry.

...what?

Iggy didn’t respond. His eyes boring a hole in the floor at some distant act he now rued. I think I….

You what? He bit again. But then he sputtered out a callous laugh. We’re gonna fucking die here and you’re just standing there lost in thought.

I think I made a mistake.

Corey rose to his feet, earlier suspicion now a baleful countenance. What kind of mistake? What do you mean? But his line of questioning was interrupted by a dull thump from further down the hall. A single noise soon became a pattern, a dolorous sequence of heavy footfalls. Corey tensed, eyes riveted on where the hall gently turned round a corner.

It was Robbie Bourbon, but he was now a cancerous bloat, stripped nude and now a wall of sagging chalk white flesh covered in massive throbbing boils. At some point, his bottom jaw had been torn off, causing his tongue to flap uselessly against his thick neck as streamers of drool weaved and hit the floor.

Oh my God…. Corey muttered, backing up out of the doorway. He was terrified, and it wasn’t long before he tripped over his own feet, landing hard on his back. He’d forgotten his weapon too, the battleworn briefcase was still in Dolly’s room. HELP! HELP ME!

I got this! Iggy called out. He stood defiantly in front of Corey.

What do you mean “You’ve got this”? YOU LIVE IN MY FUCKING HEAD!

But the next sound Corey heard was Robbie’s ponderous body hitting the deck. Corey snapped up into a sitting position as the former B.O.B enforcer flopped face forward without even the barest instinct to protect himself. All the pustules on his body exploded simultaneously, unloading an oily slime onto the floor. Corey jumped back, expecting to see more of those parasitic worms spinning out, but nothing came.

Did you do that?

I think it was just a lucky break!

Getting upright again, Corey marched right up to Iggy. What is going on here? You have one chance to shoot straight with me.

I am, Corey. Now please, we have to go to the loading dock. That’s where your friends are. Do you want to risk their lives standing around here?

I’m scared.

No,no,no,no! We can’t have any more of that! Iggy started to pace down the hall. Look at the directions Thad left you.

Corey brought the paper up to his face. But he was again stricken by a niggling doubt. Iggy, how did you know this was directions to the loading dock?

Iggy stopped short. I, uh, read it over your shoulder.


How did you know this was from Thad?


It's Thad's handwriting.

He paused, his mind a roiling storm. He felt like the bounds of everything he knew and understood about the world, the convenient little package his already strange reality had been boxed into, was unspooling. Iggy….

Corey was interrupted again, this time by a man’s howl of protest from further on. Corey leapt into action, making his way down the hall, hugging the wall as he went as his chest thundered and fresh perspiration pushed through his pores. The vocalizations grew louder and more distinct, until he reached a T-Junction. Jim Caedus was standing in the middle of it, and approaching him were a gaggle of abominations. It was more of his former coworkers, their eyes ruined and replaced with worms like Marf’s were. He saw Ned Kaye’s Avalanche back up and Dean Rose. Corey hid back behind the corner as Jim laid into them.

What kind of D-movie Zombie slipshit is this?! The Undead?! In space?! Two fucking cliches pressed together like the cinched fat rolls on my cousins belly as I’m going balls deep in that sweet, sweet incestuous honeypot! I demand to speak to your director so I can open palm slam my disappointment straight down his gullet until he shits the price of my admission back out!

Iggy waves his hand in Jim’s direction plaintively. Jim’s crazy! He thinks he's cutting a promo on these creatures! You gotta save him from himself!

And worms for eyes? What kind of flim flam fuckery is this? You think just because you tack on one unique feature ad hoc at the last moment that somehow absolves you of being blatant HACKERY! YOU’RE ALL HACKS! HAAAAAAAAAAACKS! Spittle is flying everywhere out of Jim’s mouth as he stabs his finger in the direction of the approaching danger.

I….I…. Corey peers around the corner as the motley collection of abominations get to within a couple feet of Jim. Jim seems completely oblivious, continuing to rant about how they couldn’t even be bothered to cut a promo before devouring him.

COREY! Iggy shrieks. BE THE HERO!

But, Corey just watches the creatures eat Jim Caedus. Come on, while they’re distracted. Corey darts out from his hiding place with a flummoxed Iggy in tow. Making his way past Caedus a la carte with a quickness, Corey returns his attention to the paper, following the instructions until they reach another lift. Corey bounds inside it, and Iggy reappears at his left.

You let Caedus die!

What was I supposed to fight them with, huh?!

You two could have taken them out together!

Corey shakes his head. Fuck Jim, he’s an asshole.

Iggy slinks back, looking hurt. That’s not very nice, Corey. You just…

I’m not a fucking hero! I’M FUCKING SCARED! Now shut the fuck up Iggy! Corey slams the proper lift button with his fist. I need a drink.

As the lift plunges downward towards their destination, Iggy returns to a pensive inward mien. Worry is drawn all over his face, worry and something else….

What’s your problem?

Iggy startles. Uh, nothing!

It doesn’t seem like “nothing.” The lift settled. Forget it. The door slides open and Corey consults the paper again before turning left. Moments later, he hangs a right. And despite his attentions, no threats rear their ugly heads. It’s quiet.

Yeah. See, I told you it would be ok.

But it’s not right. Between all the technicians, and XWF employees, it’s not right. Where did they all go? There weren’t that many bodies back there.

It’s strange, I agree! Iggy concedes with a nervous titter. Thank Vishnu for small favors. But hey, we’re almost there, right?

Yeah. Right. Corey drawls, eyes lingering on Iggy again before he rounds a final corner and reaches a large set of double doors. He can hear some sort of commotion from inside. Placing his ear up to the steel, it is readily apparent that it’s the sound of gunfire. He backs away from the door as though stung by it. Shit!

It sounds crazy in there?

It sounds like a clusterfuck in there. Corey’s breath was again coming in short starts and stops. He leans against the wall, bending at the waist with his hands braced on his knees.

We should get in there, huh?

Fuck you, Iggy. You don’t even have a life to lose.

Sure I do. Yours.

Corey cranks his head up. Why can’t I shake this feeling that there’s something you’re not telling me?

Iggy smiles like it’s a nervous tic. Why would I hide anything from you? Come on man. It’s Thad. It’s Dolly. It’s little Frankie. Be the hero you know you can be.

What is it with you and this hero shit! He pops off the wall in a rage. Huh? Hero, hero, hero! I’m not a fucking hero! I’m a screwed up 17 year old kid who…. He stops. 17…..

You’re 19 Corey.

I know I’m 19! But why would I….?

Another burst of gunfire can just barely be gleaned through the heavy doors. Corey bites down on his bottom lip, trying to reel in his shuddering. He goes to the panel next to the door. It might not even open. Hesitantly, he brings his finger up to the bright gleaming green button and presses it. The door slides open effortlessly. Corey jumps back, but this allows him a full view of what’s going on inside. Dolly, Thad, and Frankie are atop a small mountain of crates. Thad and Dolly are armed and firing down at the horde trying to claw and clamber up the sides. Demos is atop another stack, still fully human and also opening up a salvo on more freaks. Corey spots a conveniently close open crate with an assault rifle sitting inside.

A gun, Corey! Join the fight!

With a nervous glance at the violence in the hangar, he rushes for the crate with the weapon. He notices then, just beyond the crate, the butchered remains of RL Edgar. This gives him pause. His gaze crosses the length of the hangar again. There’s so many. There’s so many.

Iggy bounds out ahead of them, gesturing for Corey to follow. But again, Corey is planted in place by his fear. I….I….

They don’t even see you yet! Come on! You can sneak attack them!

Corey nods, but chokes back another red hot ball of terror that rolls down his esophagus. Y-yeah…. He takes a step. Two steps. Three. He still hasn’t garnered the attention of any of the creatures. He can make out the identities of more of them now. Chris Page. Miss Fury. Theo Price. Andre Dixon, Money Oswald. Damn near the whole B.O.B. crew. There were other familiar faces too. Others like….Betsy Granger. Oh God Bets, not you too. Corey intones piteously. I can’t shoot Betsy….

You have to. She’s not even Betsy anymore!

No, no, NO!

Corey sinks to his knees as his stomach contracts, pushing up a gout of vomit. Corey throws up on the floor, letting the gun clatter to his side.

Iggy looks back and forth between Corey and the fight frantically. Get up! Get up! It’s Frankie, he’s….

Frankie’s scream cuts through the air. Corey looks up, the acid tang of his puke still antagonizing his taste buds. One of the creatures, it looked like a station worker, had gotten a wan hand wrapped around Frankie’s ankle. Thad screamed and fired down at the creature, causing it to drop. But it didn’t release Frankie, and the boy was dragged down off the perch with him. NOOOOOOO! Thad howled.

COREY!!! NOW!!!! Iggy screamed.

Corey looks up just as Thad, fueled by paternal fear and desperation, dropped down amongst the creatures and started lighting them up. Dolly screamed something and tried to provide cover fire. Meanwhile, over on Demos’ stack, the creatures had somehow managed to knock his vantage point over, spilling Demos to the deck. In a sick sort of irony, Rel Dixon was the first one to tear out his throat. It was all going sideways. All of it. And all Corey could do was sit on his puke defiled haunches and tremble. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. But most of all….he wanted to run.

Corey….please… Iggy was now overtly begging.

I….can’t….

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Frankie’s high pitched death screech punctuates the air. Thad releases a sob of utter despair and rage and barrels into the throng. But he doesn’t care anymore. He’s beyond caring. He lost him. He lost him. And soon, Thad is consumed by the rabid teeming mass. Dolly keeps firing, taking aim through free flowing tears. Just then, the floor beneath their feet starts to juke and shake. The walls moan ominously under the stress of some as yet unseen calamity.

What the hell….? Corey gasps.

And then, the floor explodes from beneath them. Aiwass, the great worm, who had healed himself by succoring of the life’s blood of countless victims, landed with a heave of his putrid bulk. Alias was atop him, a makeshift shank in each hand, ripping and tearing at the demi-God’s skull as it howled in rage. Aiwass squirmed and bucked, trying to dislodge Alias. In so doing, he flattened some of his stillborn creations and smacked Dolly off her perch. She fell hard, body jackknifing on the floor and going still at an unnatural angle.

But despite all of this, Iggy marches right up to Corey, sobbing openly. It’s my fault, he laments. It’s my fault.

And Corey turns to run.

:// :// :// :// :// :// :// :// :// ://

THE CLEAN ROOM

He tripped and fell, blinded by the purity and intensity of the light. Rolling onto his back, he winced and shut his eyes. The sounds of battle had ceased. But this brought fresh confusion and alarm. Where...where….?

It’s ok. It’s over.

Iggy’s voice intoned from somewhere nearby. Corey rolled onto his side, waiting as his eyes acclimated to the room. When they did, he saw Iggy sitting on the floor. He was seated on his legs, but with his lower legs and feet bent out to the sides like resting wings. It cut a very child-like countenance.

Iggy, where am I?

Safe.

No. How the hell did I get here?! But then he was battered by the weight of recent memory. Gasping, he clutched his hands around his waist, one arm over the other, and coiled into a fetal position. Oh Christ, I let them all die….

No….

I let them all die! He howled, trying to tuck himself into insignificance.

No, Corey!

Leave me alone!

IT NEVER HAPPENED! Iggy hollered. It sounded strange and out of place. And it was enough to finally take hold of Corey’s attention. He remained curled into a tight ball, but he responded.

What?

It never happened Corey. None of it.

Corey sat up.

I wanted to give you the chance to be a big hero. I wanted you to be happy.

Corey’s mind was a buzzing haze of interference. What he was hearing was like a puzzle, pieces scattered to the wind. He tried to catch them, to comport reason from this chaos.

Iggy cried into his knotted fists. I wanted to make you happy.

Drawing in a ragged breath, Corey pulled the disparate threads of Iggy’s declaration together. It never happened. He mouthed “no” as the tumult in his head reconfigured into something tangible and concrete. Hate.

You made that happen?

Iggy nodded, refusing to look at Corey.

So that was all...what? A delusion? A dream? A fabrication?

Iggy nodded again.

Corey threw himself at Iggy, a clumsy, grasping thing brought to life by pure rage. But of course, he passed right through him. IGGY! Corey’s howl was beastial.

I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I thought you would be brave!

FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! Corey was apoplectic beyond the capacity for reason now.

Please calm down! Please!

Corey started to rise to his feet again, but was beset by an onslaught of weariness. He could never catch Iggy. He could never kill him. He tried before. When they first met. Corey settled onto his knees, head lolling. Explain!

I made you see all that because I know you like helping people. You like rescuing people! I thought that would make you feel good.

Anger turned to revulsion. You thought that would make me feel GOOD? His mind started to spin again, and he drew his hands up to his temples as if to trap the errant thoughts inside and force them to play nice. I don’t understand this. I don’t understand this at all. Iggy, what the fuck did you think would happen? What the fuck did you think would happen AFTER?! Did you honestly believe I would never realize you tricked me?

I don’t know. I don’t know! Iggy threw his hands out defensively. Corey studied him then, searching for signs of malicious intent, for the evil that was the only possible explanation for the insane hell he had just been subjected to.

But there was another answer.

You didn’t think about what would come after?

Iggy remained silent.

Corey nodded. Of course you didn’t. You’re a child. He spoke the final words not as an insult, but as a concession. He looked down as a glint caught his eye. The chain of the medallion Christian had given him half hung out of his pocket. He removed it, and something else returned unbidden. A memory. Christian yelling at him through the door of the stall. The tingle of the MDMA on his tongue. That nagging emptiness he tried to convince himself was happiness and freedom. The hole in things.

You took something else from me.

I did. Iggy burst into a fresh sob. I’m the reason you don’t remember Lux and The Engineer. He choked the words out fearfully. I thought that would make you happy too. Those memories made you sad all the time.

You had no right. Corey growled.

No...no, I didn’t.

And the gravity of what he had lost returned to him. All that hardship. All that pain. It was a burden. But it was a necessary hurt too. It’s what finally made him look outside himself. It reared him from a weak, indulgent child into the strong, caring compassionate young man he was today.

I thought I was helping, but it just made you….weak.

This didn't anger Corey. Iggy was right. Without Lux and The Engineer he was no better than that selfish 17 year old, fleeing from life into the warm embrace of a needle’s debauched mother’s milk. Suckling on the poison that would kill all the fear and the responsibility and the confusion and the hurt.

Without them, he was no hero.

I need them back.

Maybe just Lux? Iggy offered hopefully.

Corey grimaced. If only. Both. It pained him to say it, but the barest truth of the matter was that The Engineer was just as necessary as Lux. Both were the anvils upon which THIS Corey Smith was forged. He could not have one without the other. He couldn't have Lux's justice and love without the towering guilt The Engineer had left him with. A light and dark duality in the strictest sense. The essence of all.

Both? He seemed mystified. But when the other didn’t respond he nodded in acquiescence.

You need to give them both back. The next words caught in his throat. In the unceasing light of this room, Iggy’s features were illuminated without remorse. He stood there, still worrying his fists against his face, looking every bit like a young child expecting Daddy to get home any minute and go for the belt. It occurred to Corey then how contrived the whole experience had been. Like a horror reel as dreamed up by the overactive imagination of an eight year old. A premade adventure, just for Corey. Full of chills, thrills and daring-do. Except he had been the wrong Corey, unfit for the job. And, in the end, Iggy was no child.

You’re dangerous. You need to shut yourself down.

Iggy displayed surprisingly little reaction to this. He dropped his hands from his face, looking to the side like he wanted to say something, but what? What could be said?

Iggy…?

Yeah. I heard.

The tinge of sadness spoke to Corey. But he knew he had to be resolute. Ultimately, Iggy had retained all of the Engineer’s most destructive and twisted impulses, but filtered through the mind of an artificial child who held no true moral compass. Iggy’s words from the first time he had manifested returned. “I can do no wrong, for I do not know what it is.”

You’re right. Iggy nodded mournfully. But I’m scared, Corey.

I know.

What does it look like? Shutting off?

I couldn’t possibly tell you.

Oh.

Corey felt pressed to say something. It might be like sleeping. Some people think that’s what it’s like when people die. He had unthinkingly drawn the distinction between humanity and Iggy’s machine otherness.

Do you think it will hurt?

I don’t know. He answered honestly again. But if it’s like falling asleep, probably not.

A thorough silence passed between them before Iggy broke it again. Do you hate me?

Corey didn’t answer right away.

Do you?

It’s confusing. He sighed. I don’t think you meant to hurt me. But everything you did? It was…

...bad. Iggy finished.

Bad. Yeah. Corey trailed off. Look, there was this beautiful beach Lux and I used to meet at. A memory palace. A special place for both of us. I can bring that back. For you.

Iggy nodded. That would be nice.

With that, Corey’s mindset to work on The Clean Room, suppressing and molding it, like a potter's hands upon pliant clay. The bright white exploded in color as if filtered through a prism. The smells and sounds followed. The lap of the sea. The subtle smell of the salt breeze.



It’s beautiful. Iggy spoke the words before Corey could. They stood side by side on the beach now. Corey’s earlier anger had melted away, replaced by the sad serenity of this moment in time. Are you ready?

How odd it was for Iggy to ask if HE was ready. Corey closed his eyes. Yes.

Iggy reached over and touched his finger to the side of Corey’s head, and his mind exploded. Corey gasped, sinking to his knees as it all returned to him. Lux’s smile, a splash of blood, standing atop a windswept rooftop, Lux winning the television championship, Madison’s sadistic grin as she stomped Lux to death, The Engineer….oh no….oh no….it was back. Every terrible, beautiful, gut wrenching, life redeeming moment of it. Corey started to seize up, tumbling into the sands as his eyes rolled back in his head. Open, but unseeing.

Iggy walked into the waves and was gone.

April 19, 2021

Corey opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was a bathroom stall door covered in graffiti. He slowly became aware of Christian’s voice on the other side. Corey gasped, drawing in a multitude of breaths as his overtaxed mind struggled vainly to process everything. All of his memories of Lux and The Engineer had returned. Right where they should be. But yet, he felt strangely at peace. Traumas and all. Because they all made him. Elevated him. Birthed him anew.

It was still April 19th. Iggy’s games had played out in an instant as a crafted memory lifted out of the ether. All of it. All of it. Corey looked at his watch. All of it in under a minute. The most laden minute of all time. He almost laughed.

Christian was about to call out to Corey again when Corey stepped out, interrupting him. Christian looked at him sourly.

You almost just fucked up over a year’s worth of sobriety, man. What were you thinking?

I was thinking that something was missing. And then I was thinking I found it. Corey surprised Christian with a gentle kiss.Then, when they parted, All my hurts are back where they should be.

Huh?

Just think of it as a new, old, beginning.

You’re not making a lick of sense, honey.

It’s me. I figured you’d be used to it by now. Corey playfully plucked at Christian’s shirt as he walked towards the exit.

Weirdo. Christian smirked as he followed him back out onto the dance floor.

Corey embraced the music. He embraced Christian. And his body sang electric as hundreds of stars inside him blinked out for the last time.

LOGOS

A lot to process? Tell me about it.

Corey is still standing in parts unknown. The shot is focused on him, and the background is an indiscriminate blur.

We are in the final moments ladies and gentlemen. T-minus no time at all until the XWF breaches the boundaries of Mother Earth and pierces the heavens. That is presuming of course, that this isn’t all an elaborate ruse perpetrated by a management team that loves pulling off well coordinated, highly elaborate, gags on their entire roster. But I’m sure that’s not the case! Corey chuckles, but by the end his laughter doesn’t seem quite so confident. He quirks an eyebrow in Thad and Vinnie’s general direction before continuing.

But because time is of the essence and fate is so near, we mustn't waste anymore time on symbolic ruminations into our own psyches! NO! It’s time to shred the opposition once and for all. And taking a turn in the lead pole position is….DEMOS! But you know what that childish nursery rhyme says. First sometimes IS the worst.

So Demos, bubby! Has the revolution officially failed yet? It’s a shocker, it really is. I mean, you basically put zero effort into effecting any serious change. You talked a ehhhhh….mediocre game. And gathered some other various miscreants to your muddled cause. Buuuut that’s about it.



Quite right French Ned Flanders. So I guess we’re back to a temporary (??) Charlie LoveDickles with a splash of Joaquin Phoenix’s dramatic turn as the clown prince of crime. And people say I’M overcomplicated. And hey! Now that the uprising has officially been quashed in favor of you getting a piece of haggard strange, when do we get to hang you from your toes in the town square and toss rotten produce at you? I’m waiting with baited breath and I’ve got a barrel of putrid apples I’ve been saving for this very purpose. Corey pauses. I like to think ahead.

But Charlie, you had A LOT to say about me in your last bit. You questioned my passion for challenge, Charlie. My drive. My ambition! Now it’s my turn. And we’re gonna spend my turn talking about a little thing called insight.

To me, insight is, to borrow from the late great Kenny Rogers, knowin’ when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em. It’s knowing when to push your luck and when to hang on tight for just the right moment. And as I’ve noted NUMEROUS times, the majority of my run since returning to the XWF has been about making sure I’m making the right call. I suffered a traumatic brain injury. I lost control of my basic faculties. I was a hot goddamn mess. So I promised myself, when I returned to the XWF, I wasn’t going to take anything for granted. I was going to make sure I was TRULY ready. So I bided my time. Taking stock. Having regular check-ins with my doctors after each match.

So when King of the Ring rolled through town, I still wasn’t 100% sure of my status. I was about 90%. But unlike you, I possess this thing called patience and I wasn’t going to fuck up, go into a big event like that weak, and show my ass to the entire world. There’s always next year. And I’m ok with that.

Now? Now’s different. Now I’m sure I’m at one hundo. Hence, me entering the Leap of Faith. And you can’t say my story hasn’t been consistent this entire time! I held myself back from making the real deal challenges, entering the big events, until I was completely assured of my health.

Insight.

Yeah, that’s still the name of the game. So now we have Charlie. Who has blown his load time and time again. On the Universal Championship, on the King of the Ring, on the Tag Team Championships, and now on Leap of Faith. And how have those epic series of ejaculations gone for you Charlie? Were you pumping out proud money shots or just little dribbles chock full of flagella less idiot sperm? We know, Charlie. We know.

Because like an overstuffed cow with a misfired captive bolt in it’s brain, you have stumbled and bled your way through so many challenges you were COMPLETELY unprepared for because you lacked the insight and patience to know you weren’t ready. So now we have me, racking up wins, and you, floating tits up after striking the iceberg of your own narcissism. You’re waist deep in a losing streak that’s triggered personally switcheroo number 45 and you look like complete SHIT.

So tell me Chuck, who picked the right path to Leap of Faith? Huh? Who’s lookin’ better? It’s amazing what an iota of insight and common sense gets ya. And by the by, all the comedy greats will tell you if you have to EXPLAIN the gag, it’s a bad gag. And frankly, I don’t need the stolen valor anyway. It hasn’t done much for the Doc. And thanks for all the blatant homophobia Chuck. Why don’t you just call me an F-Double-G and get it over with? You know you’re waging a losing battle when you got to take pot shots at a sexual minority; because nothing says “secure” like belittling somebody for being gay. Huh, maybe that was that whole “bully” thing Caedus was going on about.

As for the rest of that feckless wharrgarbl Charlie, the facts speak for themselves and they certainly aren’t with you. I DID lead a tough life. Until very recently, by an admittedly odd and slightly disconcerting twist of fate, I became the inheritor of Madison Dyson’s entire estate. Which you would know if you spent more time watching the opposition and less time cosplaying with North Korean War Criminal. And as I’ve already pointed out to you, sucking silver spoons ain’t exactly my thing, so I’ve taken that fortune and used it for something good. Feeding the hungry. Sheltering the homeless. And comforting the lost. You know, helping out THE PEOPLE that you claimed to be helping. While you were sputtering socialist rhetoric just to hear yourself speak, I was down here on the ground ACTUALLY DOING SOMETHING. You fake ass motherfucker. Turns out doing good by the masses is just another thing you’ve failed at. I bet you’re getting used to it by now, eh?

You may have had one point though stinky pinky. I don’t actually know why RL’s kept to himself. But then again neither do you. And R.L., if you’re watching this, I hope you jump in here and call me a shitbird with a quickness.

I hope you’re pissed at me. I hope you’re pissed at Demos. I hope you’re pissed at the world! Because that’s the exact kind of gumption I want to see outta you. I still don’t think you got this. I’m still hoping I’m wrong. But whatever happens, I hope you come away from this feeling like you made your family proud. And if the results aren’t what you wanted, I hope you can live with that. Love your wife. Hug your kids. And disappear with them. Because there is little else worse in this world than that gnawing feeling that you could have done more; living with that stormcloud of failure over your head and the incessant drone of your own insecurity serving as the elevator muzak accompaniment to the remainder of an unfulfilled life.

Which brings us to Jim Caedus.

Corey smirks. Did I say before that you hated it? Because now you REALLY hate it. Like, hate it with the power of a thousand dying suns.

I started out having some honest to goodness fun with Jim. He’s bombastic. He’s energetic. He’s got his own flavor! Listening to Jim Caedus talk was like turning on the radio and hearing that one great song you haven’t heard in a while and falling in love with it all over again.

Mmmmmmm.

Yeah, that’s how it started.

But as I was watching your second bit Jim, I started to feel….strange. I mean, I had fast forwarded until you were talking about me (which you all do! Don’t try to shit a shitter!). And you had started popping off about how somehow the amount of time someone speaks, and when they chose to speak more, is like some psychic key to unlocking their subconscious insecurities. Corey stops, looking struck. And then, you went on this near Faulknerian literary analysis of the fact that I said hello and….and…..

I shut it off Jim. Corey lets the words hang in the air for a moment. I shut it off.



And we’re not supposed to do that, right? But I couldn’t do it anymore. The fun was gone. The sizzle had departed. And all that was left was a profound feeling of sadness for you. Because I figured it out. Why you do what you do.

You see folks, Jim Caedus wants you to get down and dirty with him, lost in the muck of minutia that he tirelessly debates every time he opens his mouth. He wants you to get hung up with him on figuring out what the correct definition of “is” is. And more than any of that, he wants his in depth (and I mean IN DEPTH) largesse of commentary to upset you. And do you know why?

It’s because he doesn’t want you to realize how lost in the reeds he still is.

Picture this. It’s the height of the 80’s. Terry Borden (hey Terry! Erm….don’t read too much into that, ‘kay?) is about to fight Andrej the Giant at Madison Square Garden. It’s the grandpappy of ‘em all, baby! And they hype this shit for weeks! Andrej talks about how his 8 foot alcohol fueled form is an insurmountable challenge for Terry. Terry fires back talking about how his 26 inch pythons can rip phone books in half and how, with a simple flex, he can end world hunger and solve Fermi’s paradox and it’s poppin’ man, IT’S POPPIN’! But Andrej can’t have that! Oh no! So he fires back with tape of himself shot putting a Chevy Vega and telling Terry that he’s next! HOT DAMN! And then Terry goes guns a blazing right back, and he talks about how the promo run time of Andrej’s first effort was 5 minutes, 7 seconds. Whereas Terry’s follow up was 8 minutes, 42 seconds. And we all like, huh? But then Terry goes on to say that because Andrej’s reply (you know, with the Vega) was a solid 9 minutes that clearly Terry has the psychological advantage because Terry’s first lengthy effort put the fear of God into Andrej and forced his hand to shoot LONGER material, ergo Terry has the psychological advantage and will definitely win this match.

Corey takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly.

Sounds pretty dumb right? Corey leans into the camera. Jim Caedus thinks this way. He chortles. No, he really does! This is how Jim’s mind works. I mean, let’s back up from the hours of tape Jim puts in where he tirelessly goes line by verbal line making sure no jab against him goes unanswered, let’s back up from all that cluttering minutia and stand in awe of the abject lunacy of this belief.

But Jim doesn’t want you to see that! He doesn’t want you to stop and count all the bats in his belfry so he floods the zone with shit (I love that term) for HOURS on end, never stopping, never taking a breath, in the hopes that you won’t notice that he’s still bugfuck nuts and completely delusional.

What does this mean? Why does he need to prattle on for so long, like if he lets any little barb slip through he will combust like an overfilled balloon?

Let me tell y'all another story. This is the story of Dean Rose, and Freddie Prinze Junior and Sarah Michelle Gellar. Now, this is current events Jim, and Dean’s a bit further down the card than us, so I’ll forgive you if you don’t know this one. But Dean had a reputation for being something of a troll on Twitter. That card! And one day, he trolled an honest to God (sort of) celebrity. Freddie Prinze Junior actually responded to Dean’s trolling. Freddie Prinze Junior! That guy was in Scream!

Corey reacts to something off camera.

Oh, he wasn’t? Meh. Anyway Dean and Freddie got into it online, and Freddie just couldn’t help but reply to every single thing Dean posted. Every. Single. Thing. And I bet Freddie felt great. He felt strong and in charge, reigning Twit hell down on Dean, letting no pithy insult or charge go unanswered.

But do you know what happened?

We all laughed at Freddie. And the world laughed with us. Because how insecure do you have to be to be strung along by Dean fucking Rose. What’s broken inside of you that you have to reply to EVERYTHING somebody says about you? Anyhoo Dean ended up shtupping Sarah and now they’re an item and miserable and Freddie is probably off somewhere sullenly masterbating to all the Scream sequels he apparently didn’t star in.

Are you seeing where I’m going with this?

You think your petty, dull, chronic wordplay makes you look strong. You think that by overanalyzing the fuck out of everything everyone says for nigh hours on end that this makes you look good! That it’s a magic key to ensuring you win this match. “But Corey!” You’ll protest. “That’s what we’re supposed to do! We’re supposed to go point counterpoint with each other, turning every hype video into a tautology of tedium!” But no, Jim. No. Our job is to hype the match. What you do is pull a Freddie Prinze Junior level bitch out every time somebody criticizes you on ANYTHING. And by God are you THOROUGH! “I’m Jim Caedus and I heard you use the PAST participle rather than the PRESENT participle at the 17 minute, 13 second mark in your last promo!!!!

Pussy

LOSER!

HAAAAAAAAAAACK!!!!!

Oh, and don’t forget “lazy”. Jim thinks it’s lazy not to play this mind numbing game with him. But you know what’s actually lazy? Not preparing for the rigors of space travel and not learning how to move in a zero gravity environment.

Corey throws his arms out and we finally see where he’s been for the last three promos.



Yes folks, I have been training with NASA this whole time. It may surprise you to learn that being flung into space and doing without gravity is a tough thing for the human body to acclimate to. So while Jim has been religiously protecting his oh so fragile ego and telling everyone else that they’re lazy for not talking for hours on end like he is, I’ve gotten up off my ass and actually, ya know, PREPPED for Leap of Faith. And I’m pretty proud of myself! You know that centrifugal force machine they put the astronauts in? The one that spins them around really, really fast? I only puked in that 7 times! The crew assured me that that was a record for a civilian. I’m still not sure if they meant it was a good record or a bad record, but I’ll take it!

But back to you, JImbo. You see, I knew I didn’t have to take anything you said seriously from the moment you accused me of being a sociopath when YOU’RE the one who went apeshit on your own friends for no good goddamn reason. And see, this is one of those big idea things Jim hopes we lose sight of as he prattles on endlessly.

Jim, the insane degree of detail you drag us into isn’t a show of force. It’s a COPING MECHANISM. Because you feel so awful about your past failures as a friend and as an athlete that any verbal blow that lands is tantamount to the destruction of your entire ego. It’s the sign of a sick, insecure mind that equates readying endless mental defense mechanisms with victory in a match when in fact, the two have absolutely nothing to do with each other.

In other words, every time you bluster and bloviate in a madcap dash to catch every taunt and accusation levied against you like they're the latest crop of Pokemon, it makes you look like a massively overcompensating BITCH who can’t see the forest for the trees. But I see it, Jim! You’re still nuts! And I don’t know if that’s going to be a help or a hindrance at Leap of Faith. But I do know this much. The only people who need to do what you do are people with grievous confidence issues. And that will most certainly HURT you at Leap of Faith. Now enter Jim who will completely miss the fucking point and issue a 50 page dissertation on why he is, in fact, confident, in control, and definitely not a flailing, overcompensating windbag filled to the brim with paranoid ideation and a dwindling sense of self.

And speaking of dwindling sense of self, Chris Chaos everybody. Man, was that two ice smooth transitions in a row?

So Chris, lemme see if I got this. You’re back to being the old Chris Chaos. The smash mouth, take no prisoners, rude dude with an attitude trailblazer who defied the odds, defied the norms, hell, defied EVERYTHING to turn the company on its ear. Now, color me confused, but I don’t see anything in there about you sucking management’s tailpipe to get ahead? Was that implicit back then? Was it subtext?

Anyway, Chris goes on to say that what made him weak was that he started caring about what people thought. That he “walked on eggshells” to avoid upsetting the applecart. When what he should have been was the “fuck you and the horse your mother rode in on” bastion of ‘tude that made him so great way back when. So he decided, to get back to that earlier greatness, that he should definitely care what management thinks of him by retooling his entire attitude, selling out to the man, and comporting himself in such a way that Theo gives him some nice pettins on the head and a place in the Leap of Faith match.

Corey’s eyes go wide. I’m sorry but FUCKING WHAT?!

And you say I’m inconsistent? Mo-ther-Fuck-HER.

So which is it Chris? Are you the irreverent lone wolf rogue you started your career off as or a panderer sniffing Theo’s panty lines and displaying your subjugation by urinating on the floor? WHICH ONE? Fuck it, you don’t even know.

Also, hey Thad, Dolly? Oh hell, Doc? If any of you ever see me becoming a milquetoast past his prime corporate toady waxing nostalgic about the days he sucked just a little bit less please….PLEASE, coax me behind the woodshed with a Mars bar and put a bullet straight through my skull. I’ll be the Lenny to your George and put up zero fight, I promise.

Chris why in God’s green Earth would I ever want to be you? The butt of every joke? The man who is quite possibly the least respected human being (and I use that loosely) in the back? Le barf, Christopher.

And you wanna talk shit about all that I haven’t done in 6 months? Besides the fact that I’ve already explained why I kept myself in check, bitch what have YOU done in the last 12 months? The last 24? Looks like fuck all to me. But let’s keep the focus on when Chris Chaos was a hot to trot Universal Champion like he wants us to. The way he’s hyping his golden years he must have slain some terrifying hellbeast to win that title! Corey whips out his phone and cues up the XWF website. Even I admitted he must have been better back then, right? Right? I mean, I didn’t think to check the title histories or anything and just took Chris’ word for it, but what the hey, let’s go ahead and confirm Chris’ status as the penultimate being in the….oh, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

YOU BEAT GILLY FOR THE TITLE?! GILLY?! And then….oh sweet mercy, oh Kingdom come to me….YOU LOST IT TO GABE RENO?!!

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Hoooo...hooooo….breathe Smith. Huh...wow! That main event scene must have been STACKED back then! And by “stacked” I mean anemic as all hell. I mean, it throws everything I assumed about Chris Chaos right into the air! Was Chris EVER good? Or was he just an opportunist who waltzed into an XWF that was currently sporting it’s weakest champion of all time and took candy from a big fat bitchy baby? And you know what, I don’t think it’s any coincidence that Chris’ top of the card dreams turned to smoke the moment more talented stars reared their heads. I mean, 2017 we had Robert Main making some noise, Jim Caedus, Dexter Bright debuted, all guys who robbed you of your shine because they were simply better. And naturally, you started hobnobbing with Main and Caedus right? When it was convenient for you. Before you shit all over that like an idiot and still never reached the dizzying heights of BEATING PETER GILMOUR.

Jesus wept, this sentient fart’s claim to fame is BEATING PETER GILMOUR. Unreal. What a legacy. And you know what? The fail train is gonna keep right on chugging Chris. You don’t have it now. You probably didn’t have it back then. You won the top prize by defeating a man who probably has a legitimate developmental disability. And then lost it to the man who is even more shameful scum than you. What a ride.

Chris, I’m so confident you’re gonna lose this match, I’m gonna make a declaration here and now. If Chris Chaos wins the 24/7 Briefcase, when he does his cash in, I WILL HELP YOU DO IT. Doesn’t matter who it’s against. I will make sure you get the job done. Because fuck it, if an untalented compulsive wanker like you actually wins that briefcase, the end of days is sure to follow soon after and nothing matters. But until then you can vacuum up my errant pubes off the bathroom floor with your mouth. Ya bitch asssss!

Corey mimes a “bitch slap motion”. A NASA scientist walks by looking perturbed and Corey smiles awkwardly and waves at him mouthing “sorry”.

Last one. I promise. Doctor Louis H. D’Ville. I don’t know if his middle name actually starts with an “H” but it seemed fitting. Now going by the name “Dock” since he lost his smile.

Do I feel bad yet?

Nope.

I still do not feel bad about the role I played in losing the tag titles he won, or the role I played in what transpired at May Day. When it comes to the tag titles, my only regret is letting Thad Duke down when he needed me. Doc can go blow. You were never a good fit for Continuum and I can’t speak for Duke but I was never, ever even remotely close to being your friend. And even when I did embrace your services the experience was akin to slamming my testicles in between the bowl and the toilet seat over and over.

You’re a demonstrably bad person. Thad and Dolly may have some kind of weird respect for you, and that’s fine. They’re entitled to their opinion. I don’t respect you. I acknowledge that you are a force to be reckoned with. But it’s in the same sense that cancer is a force to be reckoned with. And nobody respects cancer. Fear it? Sure. Fight it? ALWAYS.

I don’t trust your intentions or your motivations whatsoever. Even when you helped Thad like you did, I am positive that it had nothing to do with benevolence or kindness. Because I think those are foreign concepts to you. The moment you faced the hardship of loss you dropped the facade and went back to being the demon you always truly were. After all, how dare the great Doc D’Ville suffer the indignity of a loss? Don’t get vertigo on that pedestal you put yourself on Louis.

In fact, I am so committed to pissing in your Wheaties that I am A-OK with losing this match if it means the same outcome for you. I will gladly let Caedus, or RL, or even Charlie win this over you. Don’t get your hopes up Chris, you still ain’t winning shit.

To think, that you honestly expected ME of all people to shower you with adoration for winning King of the Ring! That is a level of deluded narcissism that is nearly impossible to fathom. I TOLERATED you in Continuum because Thad wanted you there and yes, you did originally win the tag championships. I even helped you to defend those titles, not out of some sense of fealty to you, but because Thad asked me to. Every association I had with you was because of Thad because he is my brother and I love him. But I do question his taste in “friends” sometimes.

Dock, you think I’m getting too big for my britches? You still want me to bow down and kiss that ring? Bring it. Bring all of it. All your sorcery, or demonic ability, or whatever the fuck it is that fuels that pitch black heart of yours. Because you’re going to need it. Because I am going to Leap of Faith to close the door on Continuum for good.

And to anyone who thinks I’m being unfair to good old Dock? That he hasn’t done anything that bad lately? See aforementioned cancer metaphor. You don’t let up on a disease when it starts to enter remission. You flood it with radiation until it’s exterminated.

Corey shoots one final passionate look at the camera.

I’m ready to fly ladies and gentlemen. My recovery is in the rearview, and all that lays before me is potential. And to those of you who critiiqued my lack of action these past months, I can’t wait to see your faces as a full throttle Corey Smith goes all in on making you eat those words.

One small step for man, one giant leap over the heads of nine pretenders on my way to glory.

Laterz.