Floating nearly lifeless in the void, my thoughts on War Games and my career continue on. If this is it for me, if I’ve lived the dangerous life I live only to lose it because my best friend shot me in… a dream? An alternative reality? Then I die at peace with it all. I’ve always lived my life fast and on the edge because I just didn’t know when it’d all end so Alias can make his sorry little jokes about leading my nation 24/7 while I’m simultaneously doing other things. Just because I don’t show you everything, doesn’t mean things aren’t happening. If this is the end… I die happy, knowing I leave behind me a legacy of excellence that so few can match. I die knowing ,y life lives on in the lives of my children. I die knowing that someone loved me for something other than my big fucking.... bank account. I die knowing that I’ve escaped the shadows of those that came before me. I die knowing that I’ve done everything there is to do in the XWF. I die knowing that in only a month, I’ve left OCW in a much better, stronger place than I found it. Small, sure. Them signing me opened the floodgates and forced their hand. They have no choice but to grow stronger.

But... FUCKTHAD… right?

But for some reason Thad has a blind spot for someone that regularly fucks with his head... Remember that Corey...

If that name isn’t telling, I don’t know what is. Go on and admit that my image, my actions, my success lives in every single one of their heads… and excuse the overused cliché… rent free. It’s truly an honor that everything I am sticks in their sides like a fucking dagger. It’s an honor that no matter what titles they wear individually, no matter what they accomplish in their respective careers… none of it outshines the shine on me.

Alias tries and fails miserably at lambasting me for making mistakes in my personal life that I’m not proud of while dreaming? Or whatever… of my son holding my severed head. I’m such a horrible person because I succumbed to pleasures of the flesh while he desires my death… the hypocrisy would be hilarious if it wasn’t so fucking disturbing and transparent.

I deliver death on my enemies because I have to, not because I want to. He dreams of mine, desires mine… because he’s a disturbed individual with an inferiority complex that he’s begun covering with arrogance and ego. Gee, I wonder where I’ve seen that before. Another Omegalomaniac.

That team spent time picking apart my team, hitting Dixon for his spotty appearances, my selection, only for one of theirs to not even show up. Andre Dixon has been spotty lately, but he showed up, didn’t he? And he’ll show up again because unlike some others, loyalty means maybe as much to him as it does me. Possibly even more.

Seems childish now doesn’t it? Railing against Dixon for his flightiness of late only for one of their own to… disappear at the last moment.

NorthKoreanWarCriminal thinks I have two BoB adjacent teammates. Maybe I do but here’s a little secret that isn’t much of a secret: I don’t have the hard on for BoB that so many others seem to have. The members of BoB do what they think is in their own best interest… and I don’t give a fuck.

Chaos?

Yeah we’ve had our differences and that’s no secret. But there was a time when he wasn’t a joke, when he wasn’t a laughing stock. There was a time when he was dominating the XWF. FUCKTHAD can make their immature little jokes all they want but it's not Chaos they’ll need to beat in order to advance.

Centurion, my best frienemy. Let me preface this by saying straight up, that I have no issues with Morbid bouncing and Centurion stepping in to take his place. The question I have though is: how does it feel Cent, to know management sees you on equal footing with someone like Morbid Angel? Someone I very easily could have waxed in the ring some weeks ago but chose not to because I’m… such a horrible person… I guess?

I haven’t had a new insult in three years? C’mon man… Insults aren’t even my bag. I’m not Bobby or TK dude, I don’t need to rely on juvenile nothing filled promos disguised as ‘shit talk’ to get by. I’m not who you think I am but coming off the bench the way you are, I’ll overlook your own stupidity for now.

Greatest to ever lace them though? Come on dude, despite your “championship” you’re not even the best competitor on the “C” show. But hey, at least we finally found a good reason for you to lose to me… amirite? Silver linings and all.

Estrada’s Angels? I’m sure no less than a dozen people have already asked it but why is that team named after the last draft pick Betsy had? And I fully expect Shawn Warstein to be dressed like a woman otherwise, the whole team name is just ridiculously lame. I’d talk more about them, but let’s be real… BoB is already popping champagne corks in victory because the Bastards are about to eat Warstein alive. I hate to say it because Betsy’s a sweetheart and I love her to death but… good night Angels.

Charlie’s Carnies? Filled with a whole lot of losses to yours truly. Charlie? 3 time loser. Main? Twice. Marf? See Main. Dolly Waters?

Fuck.

You're my sister from another mister and I love you to death but your own worst enemy has always been yourself and you never win that battle. You’re not even 20 yet and you’ve already had what? Two retirements? I’d say you’re like the second coming of Chris Page but I don’t want to knock Chris Page.

I hope it's different this time because as your friend and your brother, I want to see you win the big one.

Aww, my pal Jimmy Caedus calls me Thaddeus Fluke as if his whole re-emergence isn’t in and of itself a fluke. He calls me a whiny bitch that takes my ball and goes home while, one, I’ve been running roughshod over the XWF for more than a year and he himself… takes his conspiracy ball and goes home within six months of his comebacks almost without fail. How long has he been back? We’re about the halfway point aren’t we? I’m sure the conspiracy ball is already in flight, just waiting to hit him right in the chest.

And he talks about Dolly being unreliable?

Laugh.

My.

Ass.

Off.

I guess we all need a mental break every now and then, don’t we?

Your boy didn’t “let” me win, Jimmy. He lost because I’m better than he is. He lost because as you said, he’s living down to his Omega moniker just as I always live up to mine. And I liked your little Alpha Beats Omega analogy because Alpha is exactly what I’ve been since I’ve come back to this business and your boy learned it the hard way just like so many others have. Thanks for helping me out there Jimmy.

I’d remind you that I’m not the same guy you didn’t beat four years ago, but it's not like you’re making it past the Carnies anyway.

War Games.

Less games, more war.

It’s like the Civil War and we’re all just… turning on each other.

---

No longer floating through the void, I’ve begun free falling. My heart stopped beating, the blood stopped oozing from the wound in my chest. Dryness sets in on my eyeballs as I stare blankly and motionless toward the blank void above. Soon though, I land with a thud on a dirt surface and bounce upward before coming to rest again. On impact, the little remaining air in my lungs is knocked out. The ancient remnants of a past severe concussion rings through my skull in the form of tinnitus. My once dry eyes are soaked with moisture again and the hole in my chest is no more.

Gasping for air, I lift my head from the surface for a moment but I’m too weak to go any further, so I lay my head back down. Placing my hand on my chest, I can feel my heart working hard. Too hard, if I’m being honest. My hand bounces ever so slightly as my heart races to save my own life.

With my chest heaving and my heart beginning to calm, I roll to one side and climb to my feet. Once vertical, I tear open the chest of my uniform, feeling the old wound, long since mostly removed, over my heart and not the one left there by Corey Smith. Looking around in the darkness, a single ‘light’ flips on overhead. There is no physical light bulb, just… light.

Advancing forward, the light follows me and ahead, the light reflects off of a small shining object lying on the dirt surface. Reaching the object, I reach down to pick it up.

One of Harold Jenkins dog tags… bloodstained. Picking it up, I look at it a moment and place it in my pocket before continuing on this path. I thought the light was following me… instead… it’s leading me. Ahead, the light shines on another object. Jenkins’ other bloodstained dog tag. Like the first, I pick it up and slide it in my pocket.

Further up the path, a lit cigar with its cherry glowing red. Reaching it, I bend down to pick it up. Clearly I’m not sticking this in my pocket. Sticking it in my mouth and taking a puff, I travel further down the path.

Further still, another small shimmering object lies on the surface. Bending to pick it up: my grandfathers Illuminatus Iron Cross ring. Staring at it a moment, the realization hits me… each object is linked to memories I’d like to forget but never truly have. Memories of the boy that this man once was.

Next is a long object that I can’t quite make out until I’m almost right on it. My sword from the other time with ‘LeoCor’ (or Lionheart) etched and gilded on the blade. It floats in space and just as I touch the hilt, my fatigues are gone and in their place: the nickel and gold plated armor with its roaring lion heads on my shoulder plates from a time long since passed.

Sheathing my sword and moving further, the next object reminds me that not all memories are bad. Phobos stands in his glory beneath the light, staring at me. The all black brute of a warhorse with his black armor and all black saddle lets out a knowing snort of acknowledgment as I approach.

”Phobos,” I say with a smile as I stroke the length of his head. He steps forward, and turns, urging me to mount. Pulling his reigns toward me, he looks at me and leans his head down against mine before turning his body a little more. Relenting, I climb upon the warhorse. ”Alright boy,” I say with a pat on the side of his neck. ”Take me there.”

With a click of my spurs on his side, his powerful legs are set in motion. The light leads him further and faster for a few minutes until up ahead, armored knights stand on either side of two large wooden doors. As we near, Phobos slows before coming to a stop outside the doors. The two knights kneel with the points of their swords in the dirt.

”Your Grace,” the knight on the right says and I wave him to his feet. He reaches behind him and turns toward me, now holding a crimson colored cushion. On it: my crown. He approaches before kneeling again. Leaning over the side of Phobos, I retrieve the crown and spin it on my middle finger like a basketball before flipping it in one swift motion and placing it upon my head.

The two knights pull open the doors and Phobos strolls inside.

The castle throne room… from the other time.

Entering, a row of knights are on either side of the great hall with their swords out and pointed forward and upward. A dozen each, but all of them alternating between Andre Dixon and Chris Chaos. As Phobos and I make our way slowly from the entrance toward the vacant throne, the alternating Dixon and Chaos knights kneel, digging their sword tips into the cobblestone surface.

Reaching the foot of the throne steps, Phobos stops and I climb down. Looking back toward the entrance, the Dixon and Chaos knights are no more. Turning toward the throne, one Chaos and one Dixon knight have returned, flanking the throne in which I’ll sit.

Climbing the steps, something lies on the seat cushion: my German Luger pistol from yet another memory I’d prefer not to remember. Lifting it from the seat, I turn, sit and at once, Phobos kneels and bows his head. What a loyal beast.

With a click and a click of heels on the cobblestone, Doc enters the throne room. Coming to a stop beside Phobos who rises from his knees, Doc bends slightly at the hip in a bow with his hands clasped behind his back. I know he appears differently to others… but to me? Regardless of what version of himself he embodies, to me, he appears always as the creepy old man with the clean face and the slicked back gray hair.

”Your Grace,” he greets me.

”Your Highness,” I return the gesture.

”Powerful beast,” he says, eyeing Phobos a second.

”Not unlike the men we’re both staring at right now.”

D’Ville grins and advances up the steps toward me.

”Are you ready, Young Duke?”

Nodding quickly, ”Yes.”

”For months and months you’ve been resistant,” Doc begins. ”What’s changed?”

”A lot has changed,” I insist.

”For you?”

Vigorously, I shake my head.

”Rats are rats Louis,” I try to explain. ”I haven’t changed a single bit. But I can’t say the same thing for... everyone.”

He grins ever so slightly.

”Have you ever thought about just how unstoppable you’d be… if only… you’d embrace the darkness within you boy?”

”That’s one of very few things I fear, Louis.”

”It will hurt, you know?” he warns. ”If we follow through with what I’m planning for your session.”

”Lou I’ve lived my life in pain in one form or another,” I say as I stand to my feet and holster the Luger. Stepping forward coming face to face with him, ”I’m used to it.”

”Not this kind of pain,” he warns.

In an abundance of caution, I unstrap both my sword and my holster, tossing them back toward the throne. D’Ville looks at Chaos and Dixon and gives a nod. Stepping forward, each grabs a hold of either of my arms, then step on the inside of my knee, forcing me to my knees. Revealing his hands, D‘Ville reaches his gauntlet over and grips my skull. Instantly searing pain courses through my body and I grit my jaw, my muscles all turn rigid. The pain is unimaginable and I want to kill the man doing this to me. The pain fades in my body and concentrates in my left arm. Staring at it, the gauntlet emerges on my left hand.

At once, I break free of Chaos’s grip on my left arm and jump to my feet throwing a gauntlet punch at Dixon, knocking him unconscious. Chaos tries to grab hold of my arm again but I backhand him with the gauntlet and he too falls unconscious.

I stare forward at the grinning D’Ville as the pain subsides.

”How does it feel?” he asks but I don’t answer. ”Mirror, mirror,” he says and instantly a mirror appears before me.

I know who I am. I know that I’m not the man staring back at me, but I can’t shake the image.

In a fit of rage, I headbutt and shatter the mirror, yet the image remains.