Bright white light.

Glowing golden spheres at the ceiling streaming a waterfall of shine down both side of the wall…

Resting under the source of the light, a beautifully wondrous light panel…

Sitting at the side of a simple square table.

Equipped with a chessboard with black and white pieces.

In a spectator’s chair.

Sits Mark Flynn.

“Hmm…”

Flynn rises up out of his chair.

And calmly eyes the board… Moving to the corner of the table.

He kneels, pressing his face to the board, cautiously eyeing every piece.

Eyeing back and forth from one side of the board to the other.

Before moving to a chair.

Seated in front of the white pawns…

“I really don’t know why you keep showing that girl off in your videos.”

“I haven’t bothered to call you by your preferred name, what the Hell makes you think I’ve learned this tied-up woman’s?”

“Just to clarify, since you’ve made it very clear this week that you might have a genuine hearing problem.”

“I’m a psychopath.”

“Do you understand?”

“I’m incapable of human empathy.”

“I hurt people in the center of a wrestling ring, end careers, cripple human beings for life.”

“And then sleep like a gurgling vomit-spewing child.”

“I trapped my two partners this week in what they thought was a ten year prison sentence.”

“And I don’t even realistically feel a little bit bad.”

“Why would I care about this random girl you seem to think I’ll react to? Are you used to dealing with ‘good people?’ People with moral compasses and heart strings to pluck that believe your magical miracle elixir is actually going to cure away their problems? That I'm one of those morons that actually buy into your 'big scary preacher' act?”

“Those strong young men who keep listening when you tell them salvation is just over the next hill.”

“You just have to keep believing.”

“Oh Elijah.”

Flynn shakes his head.

“You stupid boy.”

Flynn’s right hand reaches out gingerly…

Taking the tip of a pawn between his thumb and index finger.

And slowly lifting it off the board.

“This used to be my game.”

“Wrapping up the back-n-forth battle of wits I’d had with my adversary that week.”

“Tying in every salvo, every counter, ever close call, every time I found myself in a corner.”

“Into a chess analogy, where I, through the game I’ve crafted, through my ruse, leading the ass to the top of the hill to be slaughtered.”

Flynn presses the white pawn two spaces forward and sets it down back onto the board.

“Mutilated for sport.”

“However, I’m out of practice… And it’s hard to do that this week.”

“Theo and Azrael seem to be wrapped in some strange battle of words, both accusing each other of hiring actors and providing proof that the other could not have hired an actor. In his last promo, Azrael summoned a fictional character… for some reason…”

"As if summoning him and having him just say his name proved he wasn't an actor."

"Like, that's the point of an actor. To read lines you tell him to read."

"Just saying if I know that this guy you're presenting me with is a fictional character and he says his character's name, my first thought is that he's an actor acting since I know the character isn't a real person. I mean..."

Flynn retches.

“On second thought, disregard. Keep that shit between you two. I'm not touching it with a ten foot pole.”

Flynn shrugs, never taking his eyes off the board.

“Dimmalisher has cut literally the two greatest promos I’ve ever seen, so not much to comment on there.”

Flynn brings his fingers to his lips and kisses them into the air.

“Flawless.”

“Beautiful.”

“Would not change a thing."

“And I don’t really gain anything from trash talking a teammate in Luca.”

“So I once again have to try and make something entertaining about carving up the same dead horse.”

“Elijah.”

Flynn shakes his head.

“I can really tell how deeply I’m ingrained inside your head by the schoolyard tactics you’re trying to use to get me out of that space in between your ears.”

He swirls his finger in the air.

“OH YOU’RE GOING TO CALL ME BY MY LONG NAME? I’LL CALL YOU BY A LONG NAME! THEN CHANGE YOUR NAME LIKE YOU CHANGED MINE! SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT?”

Flynn rubs his temple.

“This really is sad, Elijah.”

“It’s hard to believe you can say with a straight face that my words aren’t burrowing in your skull and making you think twice about what you’re doing…”

“When all you’ve done this week is copy pages out of my playbook.”

“Then botch the delivery. It’s so incompetent, it borders on impressive.”

Flynn looks away from the board to his hand. Lifting a finger for every way Eli flubbed this week.

“Saying you understood the ‘making one’s name longer’ concept then changing Flynn to Flynt, which kept it the same length?”

“Trying to ‘make a funny’ by parodying my speaking style. And for whatever reason cutting off in the middle of words? As if that's the style I'm conveying?”

“Really.”

“I speak."

"In sentence fragments.”

“It’s not hard a thing to satirize. How did you manage to fuck that up?”

“Trying to tie together unique and creative simile to convey the disparity between the two of us and ending up describing what you refer to as ‘a kid fight’?”

“Seriously, what the fuck was that? Two kids say that they can lift a lot of weight and then the second one actually can? You’re saying that I said I’d outdo you and then I did it?”

“Um. I’m aware, Elijah. That’s what I’ve been saying this whole fucking week, you dense shit.”

“Meeting with your teammate this week in person and the only thing you could contribute was another meandering stupid paragraph about your ongoing obsession with how to counter my attacks?"

“How’d you come up with that one?”

Flynn closes his now open Paralympic back to a fist as his gaze returns to the board. He closes his eyes for a moment. As if the sight of the board itself is making it difficult to concentrate…

“You seem literally unable to understand the words that are coming out of my mouth.”

“Maybe English isn’t your first language or perhaps that third grade education you managed to pick up in the Bayou isn’t quite as applicable to a career in public speaking as you thought it would be.”

Flynn tilts his head to the side as he points from piece to piece, considering the perfect approach to respond to white’s first simple move.

“So, I came up with this visual representation in the form of a chess game.”

“To illustrate your behavior in a way you might be able to understand... Forgive me... I may be rusty..."

Flynn’s left hand comes to rest on the side of the table.

As his right hand hovers over black’s pieces.

…

“Watch…”

…

“Carefully…”

Flynn…

…

Drives his shoulder into the table like a linebacker.

And flips over the table…

Pieces go flying everywhere.

The spectator’s chair Flynn sat opposite is crushed under the flying furniture.

The table turns over twice, a leg breaking off the corner before it comes to rest on its side.

Flynn then victory marches around where the table used to be.

“I WIN.”

“I WIN.”

“SHUT UP.”

“I WIN.”

Flynn…

Stops…

Shakes his head.

And returns to his chair.

“Does that… Help you understand…?”

“I’m sorry Elijah. But this whole week.”

“For however you want people to perceive you? I’m not seeing it.”

“I agree with your sentiment that ‘It’s not a cult’ and that ‘you’re not a salesman.’ I can agree with those thoughts whole-heartedly.”

“Cults are made by people who can put two words together without shitting the bed.”

“Salesman can actually sell their product without accidentally making it clear that their wares are garbage, lint and sawdust.”

“How the fuck could you be a cult leader? How the fuck would anyone think you’re a salesman?”

Flynn spits.

“The only thing I can say is you tried.”

“You decided to focus all cannons on me. Fire everything you had.”

Flynn pinches his index and thumb and raises his hand to his eye.

“Everything your little pea brain could muster.”

Flynn's hand drops back to his side, exasperated.

“Most of it actually crashing into itself since you sent so many contradictory messages, I can't possibly discern what your real opinion is."

“How I make you laugh and I’m like a joke book, but only a few pages are funny?”

“How you told me your history to prove that you back up your words and speak the truth, as if liars couldn't succeed, then when I demand more proof, you deliver a tirade about how you never reveal the truth and prefer to shroud your message in mystery?”

“How only a whore (or Star Wars, I guess?) gets converts and yet your message is apparently 100 times the size of mine?”

“How apparently your message is so small only the strongest few will bond to your message, but also apparently so large that the gullible will flock in droves?”

“How you both, don’t get or want a lot of converts, only strong dedicated ones. AND that losing ownership of the XWF was like the owner of Wal-Mart losing a Louisiana only store?”

“Side note, is that really the best analogy you could come up with? Did you work really hard on that one, Elijah? Were you hoping you’d get a gold star?”

“I’m sorry. It’s hard to take you and what you’re saying seriously considering I can’t actually understand what you’re saying?"

“Should you maybe have outlined your speech beforehand? Figured out what ideas had potential and which ones you could save for another day?”

“Workshopped a little bit with that girl you’ve got tied up. Maybe bounce some ideas off of her?”

“Maybe waited until longer than 40 minutes after my dissection of your drool and waste you call a sermon so the anger could die down and you might actually be able to connect two words together that convey a complementary idea when said together?”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re not scared, Elijah.”

Flynn's nostrils flare.

“You’ve got me convinced.”

“You’re terrified. You're cursing yourself for your cowardice. For your lack of talent compared to the Genuine Article."

“You can’t even speak anymore. Every choice you make is wrong. Every idea falls flat. You feel the walls closing in. The deadline gets ever nearer.”

“And you’re still fumbling, trying to figure out how to get Flynn out of your head.”

“You really are trying your best to take me on.”

“And it still didn’t even make me feel a genuine emotion.”

“You’re a god damned preacher? Shouldn’t you at least be able to keep my attention after a certain point?”

“But no, keep claiming you don’t fear me.”

“That I’m lying to myself when I say I can see your fear, plain as day.”

“And I can.”

“It took you forty minutes.”

“Forty minutes to immediately drop a reply to my little analysis of your song and dance.”

"I forced you to react. You felt a permeating need to try and silence me. As if my message on its own could destroy you."

“You really do fear me, Elijah.”

“And if you don’t? You should.”

"Because I'm better than you."

“You disgust me, Elijah. Across the board."

"Nothing about you is real. All your characteristics I've learned this week are your failures as a human being."

“Your deceit.”

“Your inability to perform.”

“Your mumbling, stumbling, stuttering response.”

“Y-you… Y-you want p-p-p-proof? I…I c-can’t p-p-provide you the answer because… because a-a-all you need to know is w-w-what I r-r-reveal.”

“You know what that tells me? Like most men that claim to be holy.”

“It’s a con. It’s a trick.”

“You don’t know the answer. You don’t know where liars go. You don’t know the details you’re telling your ‘strong’ sheep not to worry about.”

“You know what’s a great con artist trick?”

“Telling the rube you’re scamming that you’re not a con artist.”

“But deep… deep down…”

“The thing that pisses me off the most.”

“Is how much you’re missing the point.”

Flynn bites his lip.

“If anything, that’s what I want you to take away from our time together, Eli.”

“That’s what I’m trying to personalize in my sermon to you.”

“That in order to truly open someone’s heart. In order to convert anyone.”

“Strong or weak. Wise or dumb.”

"You have to be playing the same game. Do you understand? You have to at least be working with the same pieces."

"I'm playing the game where I win when I confine you to a hospital bed for life."

"You win if in a hundred years, someone turns over your book in a library, sees that it's garbage, and puts it back on the shelf."

"We have two completely different conditions for victory... I don't give a shit about if you win the made up game you're yelling about. Your message still being alive in a month?"

"I just want to win my game."

"...Elijah...I wish I could just let you be wrong."

"Let you keep living in your sweet, self-deluding bliss like a boy with a balloon."

"Just letting you keep dream in your parables and your heavens and your sins and your fountains of youth."

"But I must tell you what I know."

"I know the truth."

"I am the keeper of the truth."

"And this truth? For you?"

"Won't be merciful?"

"Is never merciful."

"The truth is jagged and draws blood as you try to feed it to someone."

"They try to stop me. You've tried to stop me."

"And that's why I have to stay. I have to be with you in your last moment. Why I've tried my best to make you understand, no matter how much you refuse. You have to keep forcing down the shards of truth. I have to keep your mouth shut, hold you close in embrace as the blood fills up your throat and you begin to choke."

"To only hold you tighter as writhe and struggle to spit."

"Because you're my sacrificial lamb."

"I've already tasted fear. I usually have to wait for the match. But I've already savor end your weakness, your fear. Your suffering."

"I've won my game. One move from checkmate. I don't need you to agree or concede to do that. I already see my design for Wednesday coming together."

"I'm not trying to convert you, Elijah."

"I'm trying to cut your tongue out to silence you."

"To rip the vocal cords out of your throat."

"I'm using your body as the pulpit for my first sermon of violence, striking you down for your blasphemy."

"To illustrate, like I have, what happens to the deceivers. To the black sheep that try to lead the flock away from the true path."

"They get their tongues cut out first of all."

"And everyone still marches toward the slaughterhouse."

"Because your metaphor? Your big closing number about fonts?"

"It was what I already said. Whether or not your message is garbled gibberish..."

"Your message is taking up to much space."

"So I'm erasing it. To make my space for my truth."

"By taking away your ability to speak."

Flynn points up to the lights above him.

"And when you step up to the examination table for Wednesday's dissection?"

"As I pull out your intestines and show them to the crowd, to demonstrate what your message truly is. Where you've hidden the lies in your 'mystery'."

"I want you to know."

"You've won..."

"Eli."

"Eli."

"You'll be part of the truth. You'll be a brick in the wall that is my message."

"And as you bleed, sniveling, trying out of reflex to re-attach your arm to your shoulder joint."

"As your face turns white, as you fade into unconsciousness..."

"I know, Eli."

"You'll thank me."

Mark stares directly into the light.

Lost.

Blinking.

In rapture.

"Thank you, Mark..."

"Thank you..."

"For through the darkness..."

The camera tilts up toward the panel above.

"Helping me see..."

And the screen goes white.

"The light..."