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The Horseman · **10-19-2014, 12:47 PM**

A run down motel in the slums of Chicago. That's where we'll start. A cloudless, starless night hangs over the city, drowning most of the area in darkness. The tacky neon sign in front of the parking lot shines dim and flickering; the Y in VACANCY burnt out entirely. A gray, tattered, and largely rust covered van pulls into the parking lot with headlights slicing through the dark. The headlights also reveal that only two cars occupied spots in the rather large lot, something that put the driver's mind at ease. Pulling into a spot near the front entrance of the building, the driver puts the vehicle in park before unfastening his seatbelt and killing the engine. Cracking his knuckles and neck, he pushes the driver's side door. It opens slowly, screeching as the rusted metals scrape against each other. The driver covers his ears, cursing under his breath before swinging his legs out over the newly created edge and hopping out of the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind him with the same headache inducing screech. After locking the door, he turns his attention to the motel and looks down at his gloved hands. He starts for the building, taking one look over his shoulder at his beloved van.

DRIVER: Piece of shit...

He shakes his head as he turns his focus back to the building ahead. A short walk later, and he finds himself pushing open the glass door leading to the front desk. The man standing behind it is a pale, dark haired man of average build; a little bigger than the driver. He's obviously busy with something, as he stands bent over and staring down at a piece of paper on the desk. However, his eyes dart upward as he hears the ding that accompanies the front door's opening. His eyes widen in shock and he backpedals, throwing his hands in the air.

RECEPTIONIST: Oh Christ! I'll give you anything you want just don't hurt me!

Taken aback by this reaction, the driver takes one step back and cocks his head to the right.

DRIVER: What the hell is your problem? Wait a second, I still have the mask on, don't I?

He bursts into laughter as the reception still cowers in fear behind the desk. The driver shakes his head and gestures for the man to stand up, which he does on shaky legs.

DRIVER/THE HORSEMAN: Nah man, it's not like that. Long story short, I may have forgotten I was still wearing this thing. I've worn it so long it's practically fused with my face is all. No need to panic.

Yet, he thought but kept his lips sealed as not to arouse any more unneeded suspicion. The receptionist straightens himself out and returns to his desk, snatching the paper off the surface and shoving it into his pocket.

RECEPTIONIST: Well, if that's the case, could you please take it off?

The Horseman shakes his head no with a chuckle.

THE HORSEMAN: Nope. Not a chance.

RECEPTIONIST: Please?

THE HORSEMAN: How about we just hurry this along? I'd like to rent a room for tonight.

The receptionist decides to stand his ground and crosses his arms, placing them on the desk. He leans his head further over the desk and grins at the Horseman, shaking his head.

RECEPTIONIST: Take off the mask.

THE HORSEMAN: Are you trying to threaten me? Is that where you're going with this? You won't rent me a room unless I take off my fucking mask?

The Horseman reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket, grabbing onto something before opening his hand pulling it out of the pocket. The receptionist's eyes widen and he once again backs away from the desk, this time backing away until he hits his back against the wall. He bounces off the wall slightly before falling back into it, holding his arms out and balling his hands into fists.

RECEPTIONIST: Stay back!

Laughter. The Horseman's only audible response as he took one step closer to the desk out of spite. And then another. And another. In a matter of seconds, he's at the desk. He places both black gloved hands on the surface and pushes himself up off the ground, swinging his legs over the other end of the desk, so that he's sitting on it. The receptionist begins to breathe heavily, in through the nose and out through the mouth.

THE HORSEMAN: Or what?

RECEPTIONIST: I'll call the cops!

THE HORSEMAN: You'll call the cops? That's low, man. I thought we were really getting somewhere back there!

He hops off the desk, now on the receptionist's side.

THE HORSEMAN: Tell me, do you think the cops will get here in time to save you?

The reception shoves a shaky hand into his right pants pocket.

THE HORSEMAN: Is that a yes?

A ragged breath escapes the receptionist's mouth as he pulls his hand out empty. He sucks in air and keeps it trapped in his lungs as he keeps his eyes locked on the Horseman. Chuckling, the Horseman backs up and hops over the desk.

THE HORSEMAN: So, we have an understanding.

RECEPTION: Just leave, please. Leave and I swear not to call the police when you're gone.

THE HORSEMAN: I know you won't do that. What can you say I did?

He snickers, turning back to the door.

THE HORSEMAN: But fine, I'll go if it'll make ya more comfortable. After all, you're the one losing business, not me.

With that, he exits the building and makes his way back to his car. The receptionist breaks into a full on sprint back to the desk and almost collapses atop it, straining his eyes to see into the dark abyss that was the motel's parking lot. He hears the screech of metal, then nothing for a few seconds. The silence adds another layer of tension to the weight pressing on his shoulders, but the revving of the engine puts him at some sense of ease. Tires roll over the cracked asphalt of the parking lot and it isn't until the sound of the chugging engine has faded from earshot, that he finally comes back down to earth.

Meanwhile, in the van, the Horseman is pounding on the dashboard with his right hand.

THE HORSEMAN: Fuck fuck fuck!

He lets out a sigh before pulling the van into the parking lot of a strip mall. None of the neon signs are powered and four of the five storefronts bear "FOR RENT" signs, and the fifth is a Chinese restaurant that wouldn't open again for ten more hours. Killing the engine and unfastening the seatbelt, the Horseman climbs into the back of the van and pulls a cellphone from his suit jacket's other pocket. Flipping it open, he dials a number and puts it against his ear, waiting for the person on the other end to answer.

VOICE: Yes?

The voice is low pitched and gruff, speaking with a thick Eastern European accent.

THE HORSEMAN: I'm in Chicago. Your hotel recommendation was a dead end though. Our guy wasn't working tonight it seems.

VOICE: So?

THE HORSEMAN: So, he freaked out when he saw the mask and thought I was robbing him or something. Wouldn't rent me a fuckin' room.

VOICE: You didn't...

THE HORSEMAN: No, of course I fucking didn't. If I did, I would've said so.

VOICE: Good, we can't afford any incidents right now.

THE HORSEMAN: You're telling me. Anyway, I decided I'm gonna sleep in the van tonight. No sense in trying to find a place that won't mind the mask.

VOICE: Go right ahead.

The Horseman laughs.

THE HORSEMAN: Wasn't asking permission.

Click. He flips the phone shut and tosses it behind him into the empty back of the van, before hopping through the gap between the two front seats and laying out like a spread eagle atop the freezing floor. Soon, he'd meet his contact and realize just why he's here. Though for now, he needed sleep and the frozen floor of his nearly broken down panel van felt like a king size bed. Without bothering to remove the mask, he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.

Let's Dance

Hello, XWF.

You don't know me, but that's soon to change. My real name isn't important, so you may call me the Horseman. Why the Horseman? Why not? What, did you expect a long motive rant where I detailed out why I go by that name or something? If so, tsk tsk. I'm already disappointed. Though then again, I doubt most people care that much about a rookie's disapproval. Speaking of rookies, I'm not the only one in my debut match. As a matter of fact, no one in my match has ever had a match in the XWF! So, what does that mean? I don't really care what that means, if that's some real precedent or something but what I do care about are my two opponents. Evan Strong and Virgil. Two people who, like me, choose not to go by their real names. Though that part is largely irrelevant. What is important about them, isn't what they go by, but who they are. Yes, who they are. Not what they've done because as I've already said, neither of them have done anything yet.

Let's start with Evan Strong. The "nice" guy. Tell me, Evan. What good is being nice in an industry where the only way succeed is by battering your opponent until that can't fight back? Really? I hardly see the point in pleasantries and niceties here. When you're too concerned about making friends than winning matches, how well do you think you're going to perform? Unless of course your goal is to make a stable of friends to do your heavy lifting for you. Is that the case? No, because I doubt you'd think that far ahead, Strong. I feel dirty calling you that, especially because it's a name you thought of for yourself. If it was your real last name it'd be one thing, but it's not. It's a pseudonym you gave yourself, despite being so physically unimposing. Yes, I know I'm one to talk there, being shorter and lighter than him, but I don't name myself "Strong". Especially when you list a major weakness of yours as being unable to lift larger opponents. Come on, it's like you're handing me things to demean you with. Though, given the XWF's affinity for leaking applications to the roster, that's to be expected. So, Evan. What are you going to do in our match? Are you going to hit me? Or are you going to be too focused on playing nice to play smart? Come on, tell me. Please. I'm waiting.

And then there's Virgil. Virgil. The "King of Hardcore". Right. I had hoped that the edgy, hardcore phase had died down, but one look at him reminds me why all of that was a terrible idea in the first place. Virgil, who claims that no one's as hardcore as him. Christ, it's worse than I thought. It's like Virgil took all of the worst elements of that phase and absorbed them into himself in hopes that it'd scare people away from him. I'm not scared, Virgil. So while you're busy, brooding in gutters about how hard your life was and how you're going to make people suffer for your misfortunes, I'm just going to be sitting there laughing. Laughing as you try and fail to be threatening. Laughing as you continue to be "hardcore". And laughing as you and Evan fall before me.

Let's dance, boys.

Let's fucking dance.

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