(November 16, 2006)

It was a dark day. Thick grey clouds hung heavy in the sky, threatening a downpour at any instant as thunder rumbled in the distance. Hot air sat stagnant and wafts of steam rose from nearly every sewer, while the only solace to this unforgiving humidity, resided in the muggy yet sweet, earthy aroma of the oncoming rain. A promise to end the relentless heat. Weather reports warned of a massive storm in the area and all the nearby surrounding locations as reporters wearily tacked on the suggestion that travelers should stay put and batten down the hatches, rather than brave the inclement conditions. This would be one for the books or so they proclaimed. A statement accented by immediate flashes of lightening, cracking the horizon and illuminating the gloomy backdrop, if but a moment. For a second everything seemed to stop silent and then, through the stillness, the heavens opened and a burst of showers spilled from the sky. Bringing a cleansing, refreshing, cool sense of calm to everything it touched.

From the window of Golden Vale Sanatorium, Dr. Marvin Kirschbaum wished; if only for a second, that he could fling all responsibility aside, leap from his second story office window, remove his clothes and do a dance within the rain. However, common sense and a fear of tarnishing his good name, quickly curbed that fleeting fantasy before it leapt from his mind and became any sort of reality. Some days were really too much for the aging physician but he couldn't... he wouldn't allow stress to ruin his reputation. Not after the great deal of effort and hard work it took; for years, to build it up to where it stood now. Dr. Marvin Kirschbaum was a pillar in the mental health community, praised for his dedication to the field and celebrated for his tireless research, he had become regarded as one of the top leading names in his profession. There was no way he'd permit a bad day to change that. He was the doctor after all, not the patient and he'd be damned before he would ever grant permission to the possibility of confusion in that matter.

With a defeated sigh, Dr. Kirschbaum turned his eyes from the storm and refocused on the heaps of paperwork that demanded his immediate attention. Case files, reports and various other notes were stacked into neat piles on his desk. A task that his secretary, Sherri had seen to while he was making his daily rounds. Every patient; even the new ones, seemed to be responding to their assorted medications and diverse set of treatments exceedingly well, healing at their own pace but still making some real, definite progress. Well, almost every patient. There was of course the unfortunate exception of Patient #0093247. Brought in a year ago to this day, Patient #0093247 came into the care of Dr. Kirschbaum under tragic circumstances. A dreadful incident that could induce chills, make you sick to your stomach, break your heart and cause you to desire way more scotch than an upstanding citizen should willfully consume in one sitting, it claimed the lives of Patient #0093247's parents and woefully left him the ward of the state.

Completely free from guilt regarding the terrible crime, Patient #0093247 now deemed a traumatized victim, was promptly committed for his own well being. Given the nature of it all, this ruling seemed perfectly reasonable, one couldn't witness and survive the horrors in which he had and not need an extensive amount of recovery time for their mind. However, from the moment Dr. Kirschbaum and Patient #0093247 met, he couldn't shake the oddness of how eerily calm Patient #0093247 was. Always well spoken, even tempered and at times even charming, Patient #0093247 barely resembled a young person that suffered through a great tragedy, let alone someone who experienced an incredible loss because of it. In fact, he rarely showed any true emotion at all. Rather, he seemed to adapt and change his demeanor like an actor might adjust his tone or words when he was attempting to sound sincere. Nothing was completely genuine or real but being as that no one else brought this concern to Kirschbaum's attention and the staff seemed fine with the lad, the good doctor feared there was a decent chance he was the only one who noticed this disconcerting trait. Choosing to keep his thoughts and worries to himself, he instead opted to double his time with the boy. Upping the number of counseling sessions was surely the answer. Yet this soon became a strained activity that jarred Marvin's nerves and left him feeling increasingly unsettled each and every time their visits were through and eventually, over time, he wondered... if a child could bear the face and soul of true evil.

---

(Present day)

Home again, home again, jiggity jig.

Returning home after an extended period of time away always felt weird for Dillinger. In his mind everything should be completely different, turned on its axis and destroyed but nothing ever was. Everything was always the same, change was barely a factor and things were usually organized rightfully in their places, the whole concept left him very disappointed.

Home.

Supposedly it's where your hat is.

Dillinger felt he never looked right in a hat, they didn't suit his face very well or accent his head properly in his opinion, so he didn't own one. Did that mean he wasn't ever home?

A preposterous passing thought, Dillinger climbed the three flights of stairs to his apartment and was greeted by the familiarity of its front door. A bittersweet welcoming, induced when his key refused to comply with the lock, he raised an eyebrow in confusion and did an immediate about face in order to make an inquiry with Mrs. Mathers; the building's landlord, about this sudden predicament. With the rent paid in full for many months to come, an issue like this shouldn't arise. At least not within a realm governed by logic anyway. Dillinger nearly knocked the woman over in his effort to make his way to her office because as luck would have it, Mrs. Mathers had planted herself right behind him, shortly after noticing his arrival. Dillinger had been gone, left without word or notice and was away for some time, being the nosy, busy body, worry wart that she was, Mrs. Mathers assumed the worst. Changing the locks on his apartment seemed like the right thing to do in this scenario. Couldn't chance anything unexpected or bad to happen, now could she.

"Heavens, you don't need to run a person over, I've got your new set of keys right here."

Mrs. Mathers stated in a fluster as she stepped back, holding up a set of keys in the air for Dillinger to see

"Should I even ask why you decided it was appropriate to change the locks despite having zero reason to do so?"

Technically, this situation was the chaos he yearned for or expected, that something out of step in the otherwise business as usual aspect of life yet instead of being pleased, Dillinger found himself frustrated. Which was an annoyance all in its itself. Quite the vicious cycle indeed.

"No reason to do so?"

Mrs. Mathers huffed. Was he serious?

"You left without notice and were gone for nearly a month. You could have been locked up for all I knew. Murdered in the streets. Hoodlums could have made off with your wallet and keys after they put you in the hospital. Or worse, left you for dead in the sewers. I was merely trying to do the right thing here. The safe thing. You should be thanking me for my efforts not trying to run me over in the hallway because of them."

Once again the universe stumbled across its forgotten solidarity and with its discovery Dillinger found his balance. Mrs. Mathers was a lunatic. A fundamental juxtapose or so he believed. She wasn't right in the head. No words could change that and Dillinger understood this. Her broken mind was one of the reasons he chose this place to live, her processing skills, judgement and logic were tremendously flawed and that made people automatically disbelieve almost everything she said. Still, there was no reason to upset her. Her delirium and knee jerk hysteria would come in handy one day and a happy nut was way easier to persuade over an irate one. Dillinger altered his tone to a more pleasant pitch, while he allowed a softer, more innocent look to enter his eyes.

"You're absolutely correct Mrs. Mathers and I apologize for not realizing that. You did the right thing, I vanished without an explanation and for all you knew, anything could have happened. I can't thank you enough for being so considerate. Unfortunately, I didn't have the luxury of time on my side when I left. You see, there were a few loose ends I needed to attend to and that task required me to leave in a hurry in order to take care of them. You know how bothersome stray strands are, especially when they start to fray, if left be long enough, you're liable to lose the whole carpet. Then what's even the point?"

Dillinger smiled and took the keys from Mrs. Mathers as she seemed to mull over the things that he said for a moment before breaking out into a giggle. He had a silly way of explaining things that could always make her forget whatever she was distressed about, easing her mind when so much made it rattle. Mrs. Mathers was glad Dillinger had returned and wasn't laying dead in a gutter somewhere. Pretty messed up, right? Weird? That was seriously how that train of thought went in her mind. No joke.

"You're a good boy, I'm happy you made it home safe and sound."

From there Mrs. Mathers shuffled off to her office/apartment. Her midday shows were due to begin any minute and she didn't want to miss out on anything juicy. Maury and his test results wait for no one, be it man, woman or sheep, when he has that sheet of paper in his hand and he starts reading, by god you better be listening. Dillinger took a breath and used his brand new front door key to enter his abode. Mrs. Mathers must have never entered his place in the entire stint of time he was gone, despite her irrational panic that caused her to change the locks. Otherwise, she would have definitely noticed the smell. Another tragic side effect from leaving in such a haste, Dillinger mentally kicked himself, this carelessness would not be repeated.

---

"Ah, there's nothing quite like a giant wrestling tournament where randomly selected entrants slowly fill the ring and battle it out in the hopes of being the last remaining fighter worthy of winning a shiny prize, to get folks crawling out of the woodwork in order to compete."

Dillinger does a quick three hundred and sixty degree spin with a smirk on his face and his hands raised slightly in a manner that would suggest he's presenting himself. When he stops, his hands drop but the smirk remains.

"Now, I've never been one for trinkets used to justify my supposed "worth" or glistening accolades most would require to prove their "station" in life but I am someone who can spot a good opportunity and this contest of combat is practically screaming for my attention."

"What better way to make my resurgence into this fine wrestling federation, than a Rumble?"

"In theory, this is my chance to face off against wrestlers from every spectrum of this field."

"Big to small, impressive to shit, the talk of the town to the guys who bunk in the sub-basement cause with their track records, they can't afford to live anywhere else. A rumble is a place to face them all."

"In theory."

"It's quite the opportunity."

"Which brings me to the actual participants."

"Shade and Drezdin."

"It's amazing that this company allows individuals with real, legitimate mental handicaps to not only be employed here but they actually have the option to compete in sanctioned matches as well. I mean, screw the fact that these schlubs spend most of their days smelling their fingers and giggling, whilst trying to determine which of their holes they last shoved them in, lets slap some wrestling gear on these guys and have them wrassle. I suppose that's all in the name of trying to make the feel normal. Who cares if the mongoloids are being pummeled into a state worse off than before? Being included! That's what counts in this day and age! Perhaps the next stage within this withering industry is opening the door for cripples and lepers. Or worse. I'm sure that standards could drop even lower than that. Don't have all your limbs? Paralyzed? Dead? Yeah, are you literally a rotting corpse? No problem. You're still qualified for the XWF. Ha! Won't that be inspiring? I know I can't wait to see the new breed of fighters when that kicks off."

"Whatever."

"Line 'em up, watch 'em fall and repeat until someone more interesting crosses your path. "

"Someone like Frodo Smackins, maybe?"

"Mr. Big Dick Playa, himself."

"I'd say it was an honor to share a ring with you, Mr. Smackins but I won't lie."

"Not that I have anything against you, I just don't hold a torch for you."

"I'm aware of who you are and what you've done but it ends there."

"Respect would be a stretch but contempt wouldn't be accurate either."

"I guess, if I had to define things, I'd say I have an understanding of you and while I haven't been around long enough for it to be mutual, perhaps one day that will change. For now, it simply is what it is and nothing more."

"Still, it would be a fuckin' hoot to see you claim the IC title."

"In fact, if we're the last two standing, I might just sacrifice myself in order to make that happen."

"I'm sure the look on Ophelia's face would be priceless."

"How exactly did you lose that title again, Ophie?"

"You passed a note in study hall or something weird, confusing and totally irrelevant like that. Did you seriously think your excuse came off as even remotely true? And if the folks in charge were that insane, which I'm well aware that most of them are but if they were so bent in their way of thinking that a note or letter penned by you could actually get them to rip that sparkly title away from you, what makes you think you'll be allowed to ever get it back? Seriously, think about that shit. Why do you think you can have a title back that you admitted to pissing away? What's even the point? Do you even know?"

"Of course you don't. You were born without a brain. There's a bowl of mac n' cheese sitting inside that noggin of yours instead. Why? Cause you're Ophelia McVeigh."

"The bleeding heart. Woebegone and cataclysmic. Someday that pathetic, downtrodden sapling will resemble a man but regrettably; for you, that day is so far off it's not even a speck on your horizon. Perhaps another thousand lashes will do the trick. Best let Annie get to work on that post haste. Lest your training not be complete by the end of this century."

"Who's really holding their breath for that though?"