You know, ever since I climbed the mountaintop, people stop me in the street. They ask me, Mark Flynn, you’re so great, what’s the secret to success?

How can WE be like YOU?

What’s the secret to the Optimal Path?

And I say back to the people, I says… AVERT YOUR FUCKING EYES, YOU PEASANTS. WHO SAID YOU COULD SPEAK TO ME?

…

Then I say, I'll tell ya!

OPTIMAL_PATH_STEP_ONE: ELIMINATE ALL OBSTACLES…

***

“...Billy?”

A raven-haired girl with glasses (because that’s Hollywood code for unattractive. Picture a… Miss Fury type. Y’know, before the Re-Animator treatment…) and a long-sleeved shirt (carefully not showing midriff! Gotta sell this picture to the WASPS in Middle America) peeks her head around the corner…

She enters the camp mess hall… Empty…

Hanging above? A sign with a smiling cartoon fish, reading “Camp Crystal Lake!”

“This isn’t funny, Billy! I’m really scared!” She calls out… (telegraphing to the audience she has no clue what’s lurking around her… Cue, in the backstage…)

Behind her, a shadowy figure looms… (There he is. Just shadow, though. Don’t show too much…)

Towing a machete in his right hand… (Identifiable branding.)



At the mess hall’s front, resting on checkerboard red-and-white plastic liner… Is a bubbling pot. Streaks of red, meaty chunks run down the pot’s sides…

The girl curiously dabs a finger against the streak, raising it to her eye. “Chili?” (Haha, no. But, be quiet, this part’s great…)

That moment, the girl sees in the corner of her vision, resting around the pot… A PAIR OF HANDS!

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!”

…Connected to arms!

“...?”

The arms are wearing a short-sleeved camp counselour t-shirt. Connected to a body donning shorts. (Classic retro short-shorts, available from the XWF ShopZone!)

She scoffs, scowling angrily. “Billy! You jerk!” She swats the pot out of the way…

…

TO REVEAL THAT BILLY’S BODY IS MISSING ITS HEAD!

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” (wait, wait, here comes the best part!)

She panickedly swipes her hands, knocking over the lid to the pot… She reflexively looks down…

AND SEES BILLY’S DISEMBODIED HEAD IN THE CHILI POT! (haha! CLASSIC! Put THAT on a t-shirt!)

“OH GOD NO!” She croaks, agonzied by the loss of her beau… “BILLY!” She shrieks… She terrified backs away from the visceral horror…

…Right into… What feels like a brick wall…

A meaty brick wall…

The girl… dry-swallows… whimpering and weeping… as she slowly turns around…

Into the massive monster…

Jason Voorhees.

A voice beckons him forth…



She screams…

JUST AS HE SWINGS DOWN HIS MACHETE!

…

She dives right!

“EEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

…The blade swipes across her shoulder!

The girl scrambles like a wounded animal, blood running down her dangling arm. She desperately shoves chairs behind her to block the path…

She dives, stumbling behind the double-doors of the kitchen. (I’ve seen enough.)

Jason skulks after her… Lifting his machete… Preparing for the killing blow! (Therese, send him in…)

He shoves open the double-doors…

***

Revealing… No dark camp kitchen…

But a brightly-lit waiting room.

Pond sludge from the depths of Crystal Lake drips off his soaked machete… Onto the immaculate white tile below him.

Voorhees curiously tilts his head to the left…

Then, the right…

*BZZZZZZZZZZT*

“Mister Voorhees.” The intercom at the front desk buzzes. Jason steps up to the unoccupied desk, hovering silently above the voice.

“He’ll see you n-”

BRRRRRK! In a flash, Jason slams his dull machete onto the intercom, bludgeoning it into scraps and circuits…

“Oooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwww…” The voice slooooooooooows dooooooooooooooooown…

…

Behind Jason, a door opens.

“Mister Voorhees!”

Suddenly, a massive weight. A fucking anchor seems to hang off Voorhees’ machete arm. He’s held.

The harder Voorhees struggles, the heaver the weight feels.

“Thanks so much for coming in. Please… take a se-.”

*bzzzzzt*

The gentle sound of a silenced cellphone alarm.

“Oooooh, 12pm! Perfect timing, Jay-Vee! Lemme take you to lunch…”

A snap. The office scene around Jason blips out of existence.

Replaced with a charming outdoor bistro. Umbrellas hooked into outdoor tables. A charming sun hidden behind towering skyscrapers.

“Al fresco dining! Perfect for a business-casual lunch.”

Jason looks around… Left… Right…

Somehow, this foreign voice is nowhere. And everywhere.

“Whaddya like, Jay-Vee? You live at the bottom of a lake. You a seafood guy?”

BZZZZZZT.

“Garçon, get us a couple salmon plates, si vous plais.”

…

“And, uh, hold the tartar sauce, wouldja? Looks like Jason’s corpsey, water-logged punum isn’t the only thing BLOATED around here…”

Voorhees’ body stiffens! A hand bunches around his stomach, squeezing some girth around his gut.

Enraged! Voorhees swings his machete downwards!

…Striking nothing.

“Jeez, J-Man, coulda sworn you were faster with that thing. But, of course, maybe I’m picturing you 15 movies… Two reboots… And one crossover with Freddy Krueger ago…”

SWIP, a gust of wind blows past Jason…

“We won’t even mention Jason X.” Jason hears a little mocking whisper behind his ear.

SWOOOOOOOP! Jason, quick as a hiccup, slashes the machete in a 180 degree turn backwards, turning to eviscerate this mysterious force.

…Again, no one is there.

…Jason spins! Again! … and Again.

…Empty space.

Just a silent outdoor patio outside a darkened bistro.

…

Voorhees stampedes up to the bistro… Shoulder-forward like a linebacker…

KERASH! Like a knife through butter, he slams his way through the glass door into the restaurant.

“Not big on outdoor eating, Jason? Fine, I’lll accommodate.” The voice mockingly calls out behind Jason.

SNAP.

Jason spins again…

The glass door he destroyed…

…Restored to its former, immaculate state. So glisteningly clean, Voorhees can see his reflection in it.

Not a shard of broken glass on the floor. Not a particle of plastic out of place.

A bell chimes.

“Finally. Lunch is here. I’m starving.”

Beside Jason, a table appears…

He stares down curiously…

When two glass plates slam down! They clink loudly against the wooden surface!

Atop them, two glistening, sizzling cuts of salmon, oil rapidly melting into the meat…

“Sit, Jason.”

WHIP! Voorhees’ ankles cut at the heel, like razor wire. His massive frame collapses like hello under his now-structurally-compromised legs.

He crumples into a chair, right in front of the sizzling fish dish.

JASON. CAN YOU HEAR ME?

Voorhees’ malformed ears perk and twitch… He glances about… Looking for the source of that voice…

“…You’re neglecting your fish. Not hungry?”

The voice chuckles.

“I am, Jason. It’s funny. I thought I’d feel sated… fulfilled… Once I climbed the mountaintop… After I ate all that competition in my way…”

I’M HERE, JASON. MOMMY IS HERE.

Jason stops… It’s coming from… Inside his head…

“Truth is, I’m emptier than ever. I’m so… FUCKING… HUNGRY…”

The baked salmon wriggles across the plate, up to Voorhees’ deformed face. Its tail slaps against the porcelain, leaving salty residue on the plate.

“Sure you don’t want a bite? So fresh, it’s trying to get back in the lake… Haha…”

The fish goes limp… An unseen force… Plucks it into the air…

“See, I’m all-protein. Doing the whole keto fad. No carbs. Gotta stay up on trends if you wanna stay on top, Jay-Vee.”

Suddenly, a toothy CRUNCH eviscerates the gut of the hopping salmon… It shudders and jerks in mid-air…

The voice grunts, savoring the seafood.

“Of course, I’ve been around long enough, Jay, I remember when Keto was Atkins. And before Atkins, it was South Beach. Different name, same substance.”

The fish seizes and shivers, agonized in the air… Until…

KER-AUNCH… The next bite decapitates the sea-creature… The salmon’s corpse wilts like a dying lilly…

…And KLAP!...It’s cast to the floor with a disgusting splat. Innards splattered and spill against the immaculate tile… Flattened like a bug against a windshield.

“See… Mmmmm…” Jason can *hear* the voice licking its lips, savoring the fishy residue on its mouth… “I’ve been around for TEN YEARS, Jay-Man. And I’m starting to think I’ve LITERALLY seen it all. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my career? Fashion… wrestling… SUCCESS™… It’s cyclical. You understand?”

“SUCCESS™ is a direct function of time. It’s not ABILITY to climb the mountaintop… It’s CHOOSING the right moment to climb.”

“Long-Term SUCCESS™? Operates on a schedule so certain, you could set your watch to it.”

“The key to SUCCESS™… is WAITING. For the opportune moment.”

Jason’s left arm clamps against the chair’s arm…

“Motionless… Like a crocodile, floating on the Nile… With its jaws splayed wide open…”

Then, Voorhees’ right arm matches it. Jason stomps his feet on the ground to free himself… But he’s held firm. The harder he fights, the tighter he’s held…

Voorhees grips his machete in his right hand as tight as he can…

HE’S IN FRONT OF YOU, JASON. STAY STILL… LET HIM COME CLOSER…

…A deep breath.

“A bird swoops in the croc’s gaping maw… Seeking to pick the remnants of your last meal out of your teeth.”

The legs of the table before Jason buckles… Like it’s taken on weight…

A slow release of his muscles…

“And still… You don’t move.”

HOLD, JASON. LET HIM WASTE HIS BREATH… HE’S ALMOST HERE…

…Jason, following his mother’s order… de-tenses best he can…

“The avian grinds its beak against your teeth, nipping at your gums… Retrieving sweet morsels which it bobbles its gullet to stuff down its filthy, diseased gob. You can feel it ripping your insides, blood running down your incisors from your TORN GUMS…”

Jason can feel hot breath under his chin… Right under his neck…

ALMOST, JASON… MOMMY WILL SAY WHEN…

“And STILL… you DON’T. MOVE.”

…

“Because Mister Crocodile knows *almost-the-right-time* leaves its belly empty… *almost-the-right-time* won’t SATE its HUNGER…”

Traces of spittle flick onto Jason’s face…

“It’s not until you feel your prey’s little talons relax… Flatten… on your tongue…”

“Until the oh-so-subtle sound of its wings eases…”

Jason feels STABBING PAIN IN HIS LEFT WRIST…

“That you SNAP.”

…But!

“SHUT.”

…His right hand’s free!

NOW, JASON!

Jason grips his machete…

AND SLASHES ACROSS HIS FRONT…

…

In an instant, this invisible presence… is clear…

A black-suited vision.

Face-to-face…

Or rather Hockey Mask to… Not-Face.

This faceless, ever-changing shape…

A gash across its throat…

A Blood-geyser running down its chest…

GOOD, JASON. MY GOOD BOY…

The force’s head leans back, its neck wound widens… Red gushes down its throat… The trickle becomes a raging river…

…

And in a flash, it tilts its neck down…

Quick as it came…

The wound… CLOSES.

“There you are, Mrs. Voorhees.”

NO! NO! STRIKE AGAIN, JA-.

SNAP. The figure’s fingers click together.

…And in an instant, the voice in Jason’s head is gone.

…

Voorhees is alone.

…A shiver takes his spine.

He wriggles. He panics.

He drops the machete.

The faceless figure… shakes its head back and forth.

The only way you can tell is its blurry outline of a nose going left-and-right.

“Really, Jason? Once you’ve been in the business for THREE DECADES? It’s… INAPPROPRIATE to bring MOMMY to meetings.”

Jason desperately kicks his legs, trying to flee… but the harder he kicks, the heavier the weight on his legs… The deeper he sinks into the chair…

“Maybe that’s why you didn’t touch your fish, Jason. I should have gotten you an order of Dinosaur-shaped Chicken Nuggets. After so long in this business, you’re still a FUCKING CHILD.”

All-at-once, the chair tilts backwards… Gravity shifts… And Jason, flat on his back, is held… strapped to the floor. Immobile.

“And BUSINESS is a MAN’S game, Jason.”

The figure grasps at the top of its head with both hands… And twists its skull to the right… A SHARP CRACK!

“I’m sorry, Jason. But, if it wasn’t clear already. This wasn’t a casual meet-up. Mommy Voorhees was listed as an interloper… A HAZARD in my upcoming defense, Jason. And I needed her… resolved.”

…

“But, while I’m here…”

…The gash Jason made in the creature’s neck…

Opens…

And a large tongue unfurls…

“Your assets are… valuable. Ripe for re-branding.”

“I *did* just eat, but… It’d be a waste of… GREAT PRODUCT… to let you go…”

A geyser of saliva drips down the neckline of the figure…

“Mmmmmmm… Time for a...”

The tongue runs up and down… Lapping at the figure’s neckmeats…

“HOSTILE TAKEOVER…”

The creature bends its neck down onto Voorhees’ and the ‘wound’... widens…

Wider… Wider…

Voorhees whips his head back and forth in a frenzy… Hyper-ventilating… The breath fogging the inside of his mask…

As he sinks… Deeping and deeper…

The neck wound.

SNAPS…

SHUT.

***

Hands clap.

“Dick Powers!”

A folder opens on a tabletop.

“Thanks for swinging through my office. Let’s see… Whatchya here for? Brand Evaluation? Sexual Harrasment Seminar?”

Papers scatter onto its surface…

“...AHHHHHH! PROMOTION REQUEST!”

“Looking to become Uni Champ, huh? Wanting a seat upgrade to the big boy table? Gunning for my job? Wanna send me packing, looking for a new gig?”

…

“HAHAHA! I LOVE IT! I LOVE IT, DICK! This is BUSINESS, Powers. DOG-EAT-DOG. You show up to my office, open up my fridge and EAT MY LUNCH. THAT’S HOW THIS GAME IS PLAYED. I have NOTHING but respect for it.”

A fist smashes against the table. The files leap a few inches into the air, before coming down with a clatter.

“BUT! ‘Wanting it’ and ‘possessing the fucking cajones to take it’? Big diff there, Dicky, baby.”

The hands clap. They grind against each other, wringing fiendishly…

“All right! Let’s dive into it, shall we? Let’s take a gander at your… METRICS.”

The folder glides open, as if taken by the wind.

“DICK POWERS. Debut:... April 8th, 2015! Hot damn, Dick! You’re like an awkward boner… You’ve been around for too long; you won’t go away; and you frequently pop up around middle-school girls.”

The sound of a slapped knee.

“Haha, sorry, I shouldn’t make that joke. At least not until those allegations are confirmed… Most likely, next week.”

The page turns…

“And what a debut, Dick! A 3-and-0 start to your career! A bright future for ol’ Dick Powers?”

…Another page.

“...Oof, Not when it’s followed by another 5 wins and 11 losses.”

Tsk-tsk-tsk.

“In seven years, your Career record is 8 wins, 11 losses? Ouch, Dick. Check my fucking math…”

A chuckle…

“Stat #1: Dick, you’ve wrestled 19 matches in SEVEN YEARS. I think ol’ Vaughnie wrestled nineteen matches last fucking week.”

“Stat #2: In your seven-year career, you’ve taken FOUR hiatuses.”

“April-2015 to May-2020? Gone.”

“November-2020 to May-2021? Out-of-office.”

“September-2021 to January-2022? DICKLESS.”

“AFTER ONE MONTH? From February 2022 to July 2022? Call the XWF a eunuch, cuz it is WITHOUT DICK.”

“Just sayin’, I know you millennials love your mental health, but… That’s a lotttttttttttta vacation time. What’s-a-matter, Dick? Can’t get it up in the mornings?”

The folder snaps shut.

“See, Powers. In this industry, the audience craves WORKHORSES. These mouth-breathers, lying in bed at 2AM, phone pressed into their disgusting face, BINGING our product? These backwoods rubes, representing the worst of Middle America?”

“They WANT somebody who works hard to be at the top of a sport.”

“This is, of course, despite the fact that THEIR primary sources of income are disability fraud and cashing their dead relative’s social security checks.”

“So, when they see you, Dick. A vanilla midget prancing across their screen in your sparkly, dance leotard.”

“Someone with a 3-7 career PPV record? (Stat #3)”

“1-3 career Title Match record? (Stat #4)”

“They see a LOSER, Dick”

“They see a PRE-TEND-ER.”

“They see themselves.”

“They see…”

“ME-DEE-OCH-RI-TEE.”

“And they don’t want that, Dick.”

…

“But! We’re not out of metrics yet, Richard. Let’s scope your profile for brand associations.”

…

“Jeez… Horny? Sex puns?...”

A venomous guffaw.

“Jeezus CHRIST, Dick, Austin Powers 3 came out 20 years ago and the act was wearing thin BACK THEN.”

“Don’t you know, times have changed, Dill Pickle? People might’ve chuckled watching an underfed hypersexual in the mystical far off year of 2002. Nowadays, you’re what the GenZ-ers call ‘problematic’. And what the 24 hour news cycle calls ‘a sexual deviant’.”

“Let’s just say, if you tell a female XWF fan you hate Dick Powers? Odds are she’ll say ‘#MeToo.’”

…A gust of wind. The folder blows back off the desk.

“Sorry, Dick. You’re a sexual-misconduct lawsuit waiting to happen, your workrate is trash, your record is laughable and in a big-match environment? Ol’ Dick goes limp. You’re so hopeless, you even signed onto Madness! MADNESS! With the rest of the shit-tier talent Vinnie wouldn’t let WORK RING-CREW on the A-Show.”

“Hell, Dicky. You’re not even riding MOMENTUM going into this fight: You lost your only career title last Savage to Micheal Graves, a guy I swatted out of the sky like a fucking mosquito on my way to my SUCCESS STORY™.”

“That’s an 0-for-6. So… So, With heavy heart, I have to DENY your promotion request.”

…

“...But. Saaaaaaaay. I just got… a MARVELOUS idea…”

“How would you like a… shot, Dick?”

“I know you’re itching for a moment.”

“(Or maybe that’s just the itch that comes with your myriad of venereal diseases…)”

“I see you, Dick. A regular quote-of-the-month feature! An occasional promo-of-the-month nominee! A diamond in the rough!”

“You know what I see? A stock that is UNDER-FUCKING-VALUED! Waiting for someone to buy before it SOOOOOOOARS TO THE TOP!”

“I see you, Dick! And I want to invest.”

“There’s just… one thing we need to do.”

“One small redirection that’ll send your flight pattern straight to the top of the wrestling industry.”

“You need a LOSS, Dick.”

“An embarrassing… HUMILIATING… EMASCULATING FAILURE.”

“For the hero to rise? He must fall, Dick.”

“Or, put in terms you might prefer, to ERECT a monument to your greatness… We must start with pliable earth… Moveable dirt… LIMP and FLEXIBLE.”

“DICK POWERS. CONGRAT-U-FUCKING-LATIONS.”

“You just earned the chance of a lifetime.”

“The opportunity to get FUCKING DEMOLISHED.”

“By Uni Champ.”

“And Success Story™.”

“Mark.”

“Fucking.”

“Flynn.”

“And in doing so?”

“Ensured that you would be broken down. Destroyed.”

“And in perfect position to... REBUILD.”

"Better. Stronger. Girthier."

“Ready to take your first step…”

“Onto the Optimal Path.”

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