OOC:  Just wanted to shout out Dionysus.  First time reading your work and really enjoyed it!  Good luck to ya at Relentless, buddy!

---------------------------------------------

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“But I thought you said you loved playing strip FreeCell with me.”

“…”

“What?”

“We’re on air, bro.”

“Shit.”

“...and there you have it, folks!  Just a glimpse at the improv routine we’ve been working on!”

“Uh, yes!  Improv!  So much improv!”

“And you might be asking WHY are we doing improv live on air here at On The Apron?  Because we’re waiting on our infamous, strange caller to ring in and finish his Slade Durant story.”

“I say we give him another ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes of dead air is awfully ballsy, my friend.”

“You’re awfully ballsy.”

“Teehee...anyway, we’re just sitting here, waiting and...hold on!”

“Is that him?”

“It’s got to be!...hello, caller...you’re live with On The Apron!”

“Hey guys, love that improv work.  Very visceral.  Anyway, I’m calling in to chat a little bit about Dionysus, the XWF TV Champ, who-”

“Gone.”

“Yea, hang up on his ass.”

“We don’t have time for lame topics.  We’re, sadly, on the edge of our seats for this Slade Durant bullshit.”

“Exactly, I...hold on, is that another caller?”

“This has to be him…”

“Yo, Caller...you’re on the air with On The Apron!  Speaketh!”

“Fellas…”

“It’s him!”

“About damn time.”

“I can see you’re finally beginning to understand the power of Slade Durant.”

“No, not really.”

“It’s kind of a slow wrestling news day, to be honest.”

“Yea, not as though a whole bunch of wrestlers are being fired or anything.”

“That’s because the entire wrestling world sits and awaits the conclusion of how Slade Durant broke Dionysus.”

“I thought his name was Deion.”

“Yea.”

“No, it’s Dionysus.”

“Seem to remember it being Deion.”

“IT’S DIONYSUS!”

“Okay, fine, whatever...let’s just get to it.”

“Seriously.”

“The Dreaded Slade Durant waited for Deion to exit his Lake Charles dealership as a party boat sailed loudly by in the bay directly behind the parking lot.  Deion was unaware of the true horror that awaited him…”

---

“I’m walking on sunshine, wooooaahhh,” Deion sang as he unlocked the door to his van with an extra pep in his step.  The man loved making a sale.

Slade watched the vehicle exit leaving the entire enterprise unattended.  It was now or never.  Slade’s moment to do whatever dastardly deed he had planned.  And, not one to hesitate, Slade promptly exited his vehicle with a black gym back gripped tightly by his right hand.

Basking in the moment, the pre-crime buzz, Slade enjoyed a cigarette against the warm, bay breeze coasting off the salted waters of Lake Charles.  The image of the party boat reflected off the mirrored lenses of his aviator shades clouded only by the occasional puff of smoke emitted through his slightly parted lips and teeth so white they seemed to glow in the dark.

---

“Wait, wait, hold up...why is he wearing his sunglasses at night?”

“Slade Durant always wears his aviators whenever he’s in deep thought.”

“Ugh, whatever...and why is he taking so long to get in there?”

“You mustn’t rush perfection.  Slade Durant has to let the moment marinate before turning up the heat.”

“He’s gonna marinate himself right into prison.”

“The problem with you guys is you think like normies.  You can’t see the greater picture.  That is why Slade Durant is always one step ahead.”

“Just continue before I cut you off…”

“If you don’t do it, I will.”

“Alright, back to the demise of Dionysus.”

“Deion.”

---

Finished with his cigarette, Slade Durant flicked what remained into the grass, probably killing an ant in the process.  We can’t be entirely sure.  His heavy-heeled boots churned their way atop the loose bits of rocky debris that aged the pavement.  Reaching the front of the dealership, he grabbed the handle and pulled.  Locked.

“Fair play, Deion...fair play,” Slade smiled, admiring the lengths Deion had gone to to keep his establishment safe.

---

“Whoa...did he just expect the fuckin door to be unlocked?”

“Yea, like how is locking the damn door some type of ultra safeguarding power...it’s normal procedure!”

“But...and hear me out...just imagine if Deion HADN’T locked the door.”

“He locked the fuckin door like every other business owner in America!”

“And other countries, we don’t want to cast negative aspersions.”

“Right, my bad.”

“Can I finish or are you guys just gonna bash Greece some more?”

“Alright, fine, go ahead and finish.”

---

The stealthy calculated Slade Durant took a step back, staring at the locked door.  If only he had anticipated such a strong defense.  It was clear he’d have to resort to Plan B.

A man of nature, comfortable in the elements, Slade Durant eyed the area.  “Hehe,” he chuckled with devious calculation as he stepped forward, bent over, and grabbed a rock with a little gecko clutching the bottom of it.  Durant reared back and smashed the rock through the glass door, shattering an opening and murdering the gecko.

He took a long whiff of the night air, “Check Mate, Deion.” 

Durant stepped through the broken door, entering the establishment for the second time that evening.  This time it was lifeless.  Vulnerable.  Open to any and every sort of malevolence Durant had in mind.

He placed his black gym bag on the ground, atop the shattered glass and eyed the vehicle set for sale in the morning.  “You,” his sinister voice declared, raising his hand and pointing at the car as though it could hear him.

---

“Oh shit, so he’s gonna destroy that car?”

“I mean, I gotta say...that’s not half bad.  It’ll cost Deion like, what, fifty grand?  Sixty?  Cars are really expensive these days.”

“Haha oh how simplistic you pedestrians think.”

“Wait, worse than destroy the car?”

“Oh, so much worse.  This is psychological warfare, gentleman and Slade Durant is about to drop a nuke on ole Deion of Lake Charles.”

---

Durant reached into his black gym bag and felt around for a moment before removing...a can of spray paint.  He stood upright, his body shaking due to the light chuckles emanating from within as his evil machinations were close to bearing fruit. 

He shook the can and marched toward the vehicle.  Using his thumb, he snapped the cap off and began to spray...and spray and spray.  His laughter rose along with each second that passed.

Once finished, he took a step back and eyed his work.  The entire driver’s side of the vehicle was marked with the words ‘Deion of ISIS’.  Slade folded his arms and smirked.

---

“Wait, when did this guy become a member of ISIS?  Are you just making shit up now?”

“For real!”

“Don’t you two remember?”

“Obviously not.”

“Those two employees...in the break room...they said ‘ISIS’”

“I think he said ‘I insist’...Slade just misheard him.”

“Yea, that’s right.”

“Nope, wrong.  They said ISIS which means Deion is obviously a member of the terrorist organization.”

“You’ve taken some leaps in logic, caller but this one might trump them all.”

“So he’s just gonna spray paint ISIS all over that car...for what?”

“You simple-minded fools...it’ll ruin the car, rendering it useless, and...AND it’ll out the man as a member of the terrorist organization thus ruining his life!”

“I don’t think that’s going to work.  He’s clearly not a member of the group.”

“Yea, he’s got red hair.  Show me a ginger member of ISIS.”

“Oh but Slade’s treachery doesn’t just end there…”

---

The Dreaded Slade Durant finished tattooing the entire vehicle with the same phrase over and over again.  An act that was, no doubt, set to be the demise of Deion of ISIS.  He took stock of the rest of the showroom.  Several more cars.  Several more cans of spray paint were in his bag.  Several more hours of time to do damage.  He reached inside his bag for another can.

He shook the can, continuing to admire his work.  It slipped from his hand and slammed into the hard, tiled floor of the dealership.  The top of the can burst open and it shot out of the dealership, tearing through the air at an unbelievable rate of speed.  The can shot all the way across the bay, smashing directly into the bottom of the party boat.

Silence. 

Slade Durant shrugged it off.  A popular Taylor Swift song began to play on the boat, the party raging on.  He reached into his bag for another can of spray paint.  As he did, in the background, the bottom of the boat began to catch fire.

---

“Wait a minute…”

“I know, defacing all those vehicles.  So dreaded.”

“No, the boat...is that thing going to catch fire?”

“All those people drinking and partying...someone should warn them!”

“The boat?  Slade is ruining a man’s life and you two are concerned about a fuckin boat?  You guys clearly think on a lower level than Slade Durant.”

---

Durant snared not one but two spray cans out of his gym bag.  As he shook them, in the distance, the flames at the bottom of the boat continued to grow.  The partygoers aboard unaware of the havoc taking place just beneath their feet.

He shook and shook, laughing maniacally.  Once properly shaken, he popped both lids off and headed toward the next vehicle.  Paint spurted free, staining the next car with that same evil message. 

The night raged on, as did the fire.  Before long the entire boat was consumed by fire.  The flames eventually latched onto the copious amounts of booze, which acted as a stimulant. 

Eventually, Slade finished his task and leaned against the shattered entry, taking in his work.  His gym bag holds only the empty spray cans.  Each car is stained with ‘Deion of ISIS’.

“You’re finished, Deion,” Slade discerned as the screams and wails of drunk people burning to death tortured the night sky behind him. 

He picked up his cans and tossed them in the bag.  He slung the bag over his shoulder and lit a triumphant cigarette.  After burning half it down, he callously flicked it forward, onto the floor of the dealership before turning and leaving.  The party boat nearly half sunk in the bay...the screams dying out along with the life that once gave it such ebullience.

---

“…”

“Geezus.”

“I know.  Deion is ruined.  His top-of-the-line inventory was disfigured and his reputation crippled.  He will never, ever recover from this and, thus, will not have the heart to show up at Relentless to face the Dreaded Slade Durant.”

“What…are you...is this even real...I mean…”

“You wanna tell him or should I?”

“I’m flabbergasted, man.”

“The Dreaded Slade Durant will do that to a person.  His evil knows no bounds.  NO BOUNDS.  Every mere mortal put in his path always comes to rue the day when they were booked into dealing with Slade Durant.”

---

As the cigarette was left to smolder and burn on the floor the smoke rose, as smoke tends to do, toward the ceiling.  Eventually, the water system was activated, showering the entire showroom with liquid, and putting out what the system deemed to be a devastating inferno.

The following morning Deion showed up for an exciting day of work.  It wasn’t often he got to kick his day off with an immediate sale.

He found his door to be shattered and rushed inside, terrified someone might have robbed him blind.  After scouring his office, including the safe tucked under his desk, and inspecting every valuable he could think of within the building, he paused in the middle of the showroom.

The floor was soaked.  The cars, however, glistened.  They were free from any graffiti.  Deion wore a puzzled expression.  As far as he could tell someone broke into his business to...wash his cars?

With a sigh, he reached the conclusion he would have to call a glass company out to fix the door, most likely setting him back a few hundred bucks.  But, other than that, a quick mop job and everything would be the way it normally was...only with freshly washed vehicles.

Deion nodded, accepting the strange conclusion to what appeared to be a most calamitous event, and counted his lucky stars.  It was at that moment something caught his eye, bending over he plucked a soaked, half-smoked cigarette off the wet floor.  He gave it little thought before tossing it into the garbage and returning to his office.

---

“The Dreaded Slade Durant has struck once again, gentleman.  And at Relentless he will walk out with that Television Title.  If you ask me, Dionysus won’t even show up...and, I mean, why would he...after the way Slade has twisted and abused his psyche.  But, if he is foolish enough to appear then, well, he’ll regret making that decision, I can assure you.”

“What about the people?”

“Ah yes, the people.  I’m sure the people will rally around Dionysus, IF he shows up.  That’s a big if, by the way.  For no other reason than the fact fans live in ultimate fear of what Slade Durant might do to them should they ever cross his path.  And, yes, the people will also be upset that this weird, convoluted cage match may not take place...given Dionysus most likely calling in sick and handing over his belt.  A cage match in a cell with weapons scattered around it...sounds like something a five year old would come up with.  I remember having that same thought process when I’d hit the soda fountain up and mix every flavor together thinking it was the coolest thing ever only to taste the thing and realize it sucked.  But, ya know, I’d still pretend it was cool because I was young and stupid.  Sadly, Dionysus is no longer young.”

“How can you talk about a match...seriously, man.”

“Look, I get the stipulation is ridiculous and headache-inducing and, yea, probably not all that fun to continually reference so I’ll move on.  If Dionysus manages to show up then he’ll be forced to face Slade Durant in Hades...which I think is hell, to the layman.  Now is it actual hell or are they just set to fight in a Waffle House...that I cannot tell you.  All I know is that whether it be actual hell or a human substitute, Slade Durant will feel right at home.  Where dark things gather.  Where evil chatters.  And where sinister matters...that is where one must start if they hope to find Slade Durant.”

“I never thought I’d say this but, yea, Slade Durant definitely belongs in hell.”

“Finally, you two are coming to your senses...just like the rest of the XWF will at some point.  Sure, mock him all you want right now.  Say things like he’s a relic or he’s only focused on Chet Dakota.  And, yes, Chet Dakota is his primary goal...but he’s far more layered than that.  He knows you have to build up, level up if you want to gain the necessary strength to finally topple your nemesis.  That’s what this is all about.  Mental warfare, gentleman...psychological terror...putting it into practice and gauging the results.  We’ll see just how sharp and focused Dionysus is come Relentless.”

“Look man...we’re not gonna sit here and let you promo for your guy after what he’s done.  That’s not what this podcast is about.”

“Yea, we want to spread the good news of professional wrestling.  To be honest, you and your hero should be in jail.”

“I can see you two, just like Dionysus finds himself at this moment, are consumed with terror.  And I can’t say I blame you.  The Dreaded Slade Durant is the most feared human being to ever walk the Earth.  Relentless is just the beginning, mark my words.  When word reaches the XWF higher-ups that Dionysus cancelled his flight and Fedex’d the TV Title to Hades they will know...everyone will know...the reign of Slade Durant is officially underway.  And, once that happens, not just the world of professional wrestling, but society itself will never be the same.”

CLICK

“Is he gone?

“I think so.”

“Can you believe that shit?”

“You think he’s telling the truth?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

The podcast hosts do a quick Google search for Lake Charles news.  Their worst fears are immediately confirmed via the top headline.

“Dude…”

“Do they know?”

“It says here the result of the catastrophe remains a mystery.”

“Well, that’s it...we’ve gotta report this guy.  Fuck Slade Durant...we’ll make sure he’s the one who can’t show up to the match, not Dionysus.”

“Yes!  Let’s get this guy where he belongs...out of a wrestling ring and into prison.”

They locate the Lake Charles police department and find a place to file a report.  They begin typing what they know...it takes awhile.  The podcast host's fingers are jittery and shaky...for some reason, he can feel danger hanging over him.  Like someone’s watching him.

“You okay?”

“Yea, mouth is a little dry and my hands won’t stop shaking.”

“It’s okay, bro.  I got your back.”

He collects himself and manages to fumble his way across the keyboard coherently enough to get the message across.  Slowly, he scrolls to the submit button and is about to press it when the screen glitches.

“Huh?”

It glitches again.

“What’s wrong with your computer, man?”

It glitches and glitches until a live shot of Slade Durant appears staring right at them.  He slowly removes his aviator shades, his dull green eyes revealed behind them, staring right at the podcast host.  He says nothing.  He just stares.

SMACK!

The laptop is immediately closed shut.  The hosts look at one another.

“Did you…”

“Fuck that, man.  I ain’t reporting shit.”