Our scene opens as Chris Page, Miss Fury, Thunder Knuckles, Bobby Bourbon, and Andre Dixon are shown in a private VIP room at Caesars Palace where a little bit of the bubbly is flowing through their cups and down their throats. Miss Fury is shown sitting in the lap of Chris Page as the Universal Title, the BoB World Title, and the XWF Tag Titles are all resting in a seated position on a large oval table with a black skirt.

Chris, Fury, Dixon, Bourbon, and Thunder Knuckles are dressed in various suits while Miss Fury sports a wicked ‘sexy’ black skin-tight number that accentuates all the curves you wish she didn’t have before she gets off the lap of Chris Page. As she rises to her own oversized feet she snatches a bottle of champagne from an ice bend. Miss Fury pops the cork and sends it flying across the room missing Thunder Knuckles head by just a matter of inches, about the size of Chris Page’s smallest BoB member.

Fury takes the bottle and starts to fill all the glasses for Andre, Page, Bourbon, Thunder Knuckles and even herself as Chris stands up from his seat looking down at the team that he has had a very large part in putting together. A team that Oswald supposedly helped in no way, shape, or form.

There is a huge sense of satisfaction amongst the private room that overlooks the dance floor at the Omnia Nightclub. The bass is thumping, laser lights on display, and a room full of patrons below them. Miss Fury walks a Champagne glass over to Chris handing it to him. Chris wraps his arm around the large and manly waist of Miss Fury as he pulls her in tight against his side.

“Do you remember when we first met? Of course, you do because that one moment in time has led us to this point here and now where we can stand on top of the XWF collectively as a dominant group with all the hardware on firm display for all to see.”

Bobby, Thunder Knuckles, and Andre look on as Chris tilts Miss Fury's head in his direction before planting a soft kiss on her fuzzy lips. He draws his head back as he looks her in the eyes.

“Without you pulling the strings none of this would be possible, babe.”

The scene suddenly stills. The frame freezes as Page goes to plant another boozy kiss below Miss Fury’s very feminine mustache. The camera begins to zoom out as we see an old school photograph of the scene sitting atop a concrete floor.

“Look how closely that treacherous whore stays to the universal championship belt! My soul must be trapped in there, I know it!”

A voice incredibly similar to Herschel Kiss’s echoes through the room as the camera zooms out to show the new scene in its entirety. The walls and ceiling, much like the floor, are made of concrete. Demos is sitting next to the photograph while staring down at it intently. He is dressed in a tattered brown jumpsuit and his soon to be classic leather mask. One small overhead light flickers on and off as it swings from side to side on a small chain. Behind Demos, laying against the wall, is a seemingly empty black body bag. There is a wooden door reinforced with a metal frame and a locked door bar on the wall to the left of the masked man.

“Could it be so simple? So easy?”

The gaze of the Demos slowly elevated until he was looking directly across from himself, his chin forming a ninety degree angle with his neck as his unflinching gaze steadfastly observed the empty space in front of him. An uncomfortable amount of silence goes by as Demos nods and smiles every once in a while. His gaze eventually drifts back down to the photograph on the floor.

“If you are right, Ramesses, then my oath to you will be fulfilled on April 17th. The body of the Demos has beaten each of these troublesome delinquents before. The body of the Demos has thrown Dixon and Bourbon over the top rope. The body of the Demos has defeated Thunder Knuckles three times. The body of the Demos defeated Miss Fury on her own show.

This bloody vessel of flesh and muscle has conquered that entire echelon in seasons past.

Except for one man….”

The eyes of the Demos are drawn to the puckered up face of the universal champion. Then, they slowly drift over each and every face in the photograph.

“If Chris Page sees the future of professional wrestling inside of Andre Dixon’s soul, he must see the seven wonders of the world when he gazes upon the man who threw the winless runt over the top rope with such grandiose gusto.

If our universal champion thought Miss Fury had a good run in the tournament, surely he must be doubly impressed by the man who actually made it to the finals. Of course, it was no surprise to the toiling masses that the hammer of the people outlasted the gender swapped child molestor. If Charlie Nickles could defeat Miss Fury, of course the Demos was going to prove himself the better wrestler as well.

If the Chronic sees any value in Thunder Knuckles, he must see three times that value inside of my soul…..it’s only reasonable, after all, given the history of routine humiliation this body has given unto the ever deserving TeeKay.

And Bobby, Bobby Bourbon. Sweet Bobby Bourbon. When he takes the mask off, Charlie’s scars are still there.”

Demos brushes Bobby’s face tenderly with his excessively dry and scaly hand. The man’s inflection suddenly shifts as a remorseful tone takes hold of his words.

“Those glass shards were buried deep inside of your skull. It is terrible what Charlie did to you, to your psyche. After Charlie laid you out with a Devil Hook Drop onto a bed of glass you became a different man. Perhaps you pulled those bloody shards out of your skull too hastily. Perhaps some glass broke off as you desperately tore it free from your face.

Those little glass specks must have torn through to your brain to affect you so dearly. I wonder if a few shards of glass remain stuck inside of your cerebral matter to this day, rolling around and embedding themselves within each new wrinkle that grows.

Perhaps Bobby Bourbon was born in the glass just as I was.

When Charlie threw Bobby over the top rope in the retro royale, I’m sure that those glass shards sunk in even deeper once his skull slammed against the blacktop….”

The masked man’s hand slowly drifted down the photograph until the tips of his fingers made contact with the cold concrete floor. His voice returned to it’s normal grizzled grovel when he spoke again. The eyes of the Demos are drawn to Chris Page’s face once more.

“None of your compatriots are strong enough to withstand the will of the Demos, Chris Page. What makes you think your fortitude will prove more resolute?

If one Devil Hook Drop from Charlie Nickles is enough to turn Robbie into Bobby, what could one Devil Hook Drop from Demos do to “Chronic” Chris Page? Do you think yourself so much stronger than the Borbs?

What fills you with such grandiose delusion?

Is it because your reign at the top has been longer, more glorious, more noteworthy?”

Demos brings his finger up to his chin as he ponders for a few moments. Then, his head shakes horizontally.

“No, no, that can’t be it. The gold plated chalice was with Bourbon for far longer than it will ever be around your waist. For 95 days Bourbon was the man at the top of the pinnacle. You will never reach that bar, Page. No matter how hard you scratch and claw to stay on top, it will be your flesh that hangs like ribbons from the ringside to celebrate my savage coronation. At this tumultuous point in history the old order is hanging in the balance as a new era grows inside the belly of the beast. It will be the mutilation of your body that signifies the dawning of a new day in the XWF. Upon your solemn remains a new temple shall be built to celebrate the triumph of the Demos.

You have done everything you can to keep that golden plate inside of your palms. Your backroom negotiations, your favor peddling, your wheelin’ and dealin’, it’s taken you to heights most thought you would never be able to reach. Even just a few short months ago no one could have imagined that your wings would let you fly so high.

But now, here you stand, as the reigning and ‘defending’ champion for some 60 odd days. History tells no lies, my friend.

Of course, it’s better if no one asks who exactly you ‘defended’ that precious gold against. Unfortunately for you, Chris Page, it turns out that letting Vinnie and Theo take turns with Miss Fury can only take you so far. It can only take you to April 17th, in fact.

Surely you couldn’t have expected Miss Fury’s sloppy toppy to grant you lackluster opponents indefinitely…..

Your defeat of Anarchy does not impress the Demos. Failure is the sweet flour baked into anarchism. It is a worthless practice with nothing to offer the masses in their quest for retribution. Communists know firsthand the weakness of anarchists. Anarchists have nothing in common with the Demos. Anarchists lack discipline, coordination, tact, patience, all of it. Every valuable trait for war and struggle is found lacking in the mind of the anarchist.

Anarchy is nothing but a foolish blindfold the weak willed put on to shield themselves from reality. The anarchist impulses are a trifecta of self-indulging impotence. Individualism, impatience, and infantilism run amok within the anarchist mind, clouding the ontic realities that we communists lay bare.

If you thought you bloodied the anarchist, you would be amazed by the historical legacy of the self-conscious demoses. Leon Trotsky laid waste to the rebellious anarchist encampment at Kronstadt. Joseph Stalin brought his righteous hammer down upon the catalonian anarchists with no remorse. The self-conscious demoses have accomplished so much on this terrain. If the blood of anarchists is what fertilizes the soil of a champion, the Demos will soon be reaping the seeds planted by my ancestors oh so long ago. My sickle stands at the ready.”

Demos theatrically reaches into his baggy jumpsuit and pulls out a rusty sickle. He chuckles softly as he taps the aging metal tip of the sickle against Chris Page’s face.

“Your charade as champion ends now.

The ever seeing eyes of the Demos are upon you.

Your crimes have already been exposed. Now is the time for your judgement!”

Demos taps the sickle against Page’s face a few more times before swiftly scraping the photograph from corner to corner with the rusty sickle. Demos scratches the photo again in the opposite direction. The steely stare of the Demos locks in on the photograph as he releases the sickle from his choking grip.

Demos exhales harshly before turning his gaze onto the door on the side wall. The masked man pushes himself to his feet. He brushes his hands together before sweeping the dust off of the tattered rags covering his scarred body. He stepped on the photograph as he walked towards the wooden door with the metal bar. The masked man grabbed the large bar and lifted it with ease, tossing it to the side of the concrete room. The bar clanked loudly as it slammed against the concrete walls and floors. A few bits of concrete chipped off of the wall upon contact. Demos pushed the door open and stepped through the frame.

“Ayyyy brotha! You got anotha letter!”

Demos glanced to his side as Charlie Dimes approached with an envelope in hand. The harsh desert winds rolled right through both men’s kilts, blowing them back with great force as grains of sand pounded against their exposed skin. Demos hastily reached out for the letter, snatching it away from Dimes with great haste. The masked man looked down at the envelope, staring at it closely.

“The seal is broken.”

“Well yeah, brotha! I had to read it to make sure it was the real dealio!”

“I told you not to break the seals.”

“Ohhhh I thought you were just playin, playa!”

Beneath the mask the man’s eyebrows narrowed as Charlie Dimes shrugged off the concern.

“Did you now?”

“You know how it is, G!”

Dimes softly taps Demos on the shoulder with a playful fist. Demos places his hand on Dimes’s chest and forces him to take a few steps back. Dimes looks surprised. Demos turns his eyes back to the opened envelope. The opened seal was made of yellow wax stamped with a crown. Demos looked past the seal of the King as he reached into the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. Demos let the wind steal the envelope from his grasp as he turned his focus to the letter. He unfolded the paper before scanning it’s contents. He grunted as he reached the valediction at the end of the King’s letter.

“The big man upstairs said he wanted to see you in his court! Guess he’s got the offer of a lifetime or sum shit, I dunno. That petty bitch even said he’d pin you again if you didn’t go hear him out….”

Demos sighed softly as his eyes rolled around in their sockets. Even in his dreams the Demos could not escape the ridicule.

"Which way to the armory? I need to have a chat with the smith. His swords and shields have failed me for the last time."

"Uhhhh...."

Dimes turns around and scans the surrounding area hastily. He scratches his head before turning back to face the masked man.

"Uhhhh go right down the stairs, then take a left, then go on straight until you get to that sexy lil statue. If you get to the museum of all the nazis Joseph Stalin killed with his bare hands you've gone way, way too far my man!"

"Go prepare the stables at once. I want the bronze courser ready for immediate departure."

Demos pushed the letter into Dimes's chest as he stepped past the playful man. Dimes clumsily tries to get a handle on the loose piece of paper blowing around in the breeze. Demos struggles to offer a proper salutation to Demos as he marches down the stone stairs.

"Y-yes, lord Demo- oh shit, you don't like that- uh, yes, playa!"

Demos paid no mind to the neon buffoon as he made a beeline across his astral palace. Demos hurriedly walked the grounds of his estate with a singular purpose in mind. Demos didn't offer a single glance to the growing gardens behind the rows of sandstone fences. His gaze did not once drift up to the gold plated heights atop the roofs of his palace. The masked man had no time to admire the statue of Kim Il Sung receiving oral sex from George Washington. The hurried pace of the Demos didn't slow down at all until he approached a brick building tucked away on the corner of the property.

Demos slowed to a stop as he stood about fifteen yards away from his destination. Two brick chimneys run across opposite walls, each chimney releasing a thick stack of black smoke into the air. The single story building may have been small but it's carbon footprint certainly wasn't. Demos nodded his head before approaching the oak door with the metal frame. Demos placed his left hand on the door handle as he approached. The door was extremely hot but the masked man did not recoil. He pushed open the door and stepped into the blacksmithing shop.

Soot and ash began to collect on Demos's bare skin immediately. There was a foggy cloud of smoke that choked and suffocated the entire room. The sound of a hammer clanging against metal is head from the corner of the room. Demos whips his head around, looking past the collection of ores, metals, and blueprints strewn across a rickety old table. His eyes roll right past the stacks and stacks of armor littering the far side of the room. The Demos's gaze would ultimately settle upon the small woman pounding away at an ebony breastplate. She held the plate armor firmly atop her blacksmithing forge with one hand while banging away on it with a comically sized hammer held in her other hand. The plate armor was practically the size of the short woman, who must've been no more than four feet tall. Brown curly hair hung over her should blades and down to the small of her back. A black choker with metallic rings was wrapped around the woman's plump neck. The dwarf glanced up at the visitor as soon as the door slammed shut behind Demos. A dimpled smile cracked her face when they made eye contact. The woman immediately set her hammer down and hopped out of her seat.

"Oh goodness! I didn't know you were coming, I would've tidied up! How can I help you, senpai?"

The pudgy dwarf uwued at the masked man as she placed her calloused and blistered hands underneath the dry skin of her chin.

"This place is unholy..."

Demos spoke harshly as he immediately turned about face. A sour combination of disappointment and frustration took shape beneath his leather mask. His shattered and disfigured left hand reached for the door handle.

"Oh no, don't leave! I'm sorry! That's what Charlie told me to say every time he came to visit."

Demos turned back around to face the small woman. His lips stretched back in disgust.

"Dimes is the degenerate responsible for this depravity."

Demos spoke with curtly confidence. The small woman's cheeks turned rosy red as she held her hands together behind her back. She looked down at the worn out floorboards sheepishly as her right foot twirled around on the dusty wooden boards.

"No....Charlie Nickles....he said that if I was a good girl who did what he said I wouldn't have problems with him anymore....this was his boiler room. He wouldn't let me leave."

The dwarf points to the choker around her neck.

"Charlie told me Jim made it to punish naughty dolphins. It....it hurts when it shocks me....that's why I work so hard."

The small woman gestures to the stacks and stacks of breastplates cluttering the room.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to be making, but I'm making a lot of it! He said if I don't make enough to outfit a whole army, he's going to hogtie me and throw me in the furnace! Charlie gave me the blueprint before he left to go travel to the Snowy Lambeus.....but I haven't seen him since.....tell him I'm doing my best!"

Demos eyed the woman curious as he took a few steps towards her. The small woman backed away instinctively as her hands came up to protect her face. A shrill shriek shot out from her small mouth.

"No! Please! I'll be good!"

Demos was taken aback. A look of concern crept onto his hobbled face. He spoke with a tender tone as he placed his arms out and his palms down.

"Do not worry. You are always safe in the presence of a Demos. I- I am so sorry for what must have happened to you. Charlie's gone now. I made sure of it."

The woman instantly cheers up. Jubilation flashes across her somewhat rectangular face. Her hands fly down to her side as her fists ball up in excitement.

"Oh, say it isn't so! That's amazing! I can finally stop working on all this junk!"

The woman gleefully kicks the breastplate off of the forge. Immediate regret overtakes her as she begins clutching her scorching hot foot.

"Oooooww! Ahhhh!"

"Now now, don't be hasty.....what did Charlie have you working on? What could have been so precious to him?"

The woman takes a few seconds to compose herself. She breathes in deeply, then exhales slowly. She closes her eyes and repeats the process a few more times. Demos waits patiently as his eyes begin scanning the various ebony armor pieces strewn around the room.

"He ummmm, well he said that he needed something to help him take the crown! He said if he was going to battle his way to the top then he needed armor fit for a king! He said this stuff was the best material out there, and boy he wasn't lying! It's so firm and resolute, but it molds to shape perfectly, like the ore itself was destined for war! It's so heavy but so pliable! It's almost like the ore is working with me, like it wants to be crafted! Charlie called it loathestone. I had never heard of it before, but he brought a whole warehouse full of the stuff back with him from his relentless night with Lady Lacklan!"

"Loathestone? Interesting....but why does he need so much of it? Shouldn't one suit of armor suffice? Why work you to the bones like a slave?"

"Well I'm not sure if you know Charlie or not, but he's not exactly gentle! I mean, you try making that guy a suit of armor that lasts! He'll tear it up in a steel cage X-tron match and then complain to me about how it doesn't fit the same anymore! Or like that one time, he jumped through a flaming table! A FLAMING TABLE! Then he came and punished ME because the armor was burned!"

Demos steps up near the forge. The woman looks up at him with a warm smile. Demos looks past her, his gaze lingering on the loathestone breastplate laying near the forge. Demos took a step towards it before getting down on one knee to inspect the armor closely. He brought his grotesquely disfigured left hand up to the plate. He gently stroked the warm armor.

The Demos pulled his hand back from the armor. His left hand trembled as jolts of pain shot through each and every bone fracture left from Marf's victory. He rose to his feet before taking a few cautious steps back. His gaze fell back upon the ever excitable dwarf.

"What is your name, smithie?"

"Charlie called me two things! When I was good, he called me waifu! When he said I was bad, he called me bitch...."

"But what is your name?"

"What do you mean?"

The Demos stared at the woman in perplexion. Yellow exclamation points appeared over his head momentarily.

"Your...name."

"Just call me whatever you like! What's your name?"

Demos stood there silently for a few seconds. He eyed the dwarven woman up and down. He looked down at the loathestone breastplate, then back to the woman.

"You don't have a name?"

"Well, why would I?"

Demos cringed.

"Oh come on big guy! Why are you being so silly?"

Demos cocked his head to the side.

"Well you know I'm just a specter of the imaginary! I'm only real because Charlie has SERIOUS woman issues! I'm just a little part of Charlie's relationship to society, I guess. Or his desired relationship, more like! I used to run around these lands and frolic and play in the fields of wonder! Charlie would come see me every once and a while and try to figure me out. Who am I, what I want, he would chase me through the fields. It was good fun! Until Connie left him....

Then he wouldn't let me go after he ran me down in the fields.

Now I'm here......"

Demos sighed as his head hung softly. He took a few seconds to meet the woman's gaze once more.

"Those days are behind you. The Demos has made sure of it. Charlie's foul crimes did not go unpunished, I assure you. But now he's gone, and you're a free woman."

"Well he's not really gone, or else I would be gone too, you know, being that I'm just a specter of the refracted signifiers inside of the symoblic registers of his mind."

".....right. Well, what do you want me to call you now that you are freed from his clutches?"

The woman put one hand on her chin. She supported the elbow of that arm with her other hand. She gazed off into the distance as she pondered the question. The Demos waited patiently.

A promotional video rolls across the screen.

Call me when you want
Call me when you need
Call me in the morning
I'll be on the way
Call me when you want
Call me when you need
Call me out by your name

"Call you out by MY name? Are you, too, a self conscious Demos?"

The woman smiled happily as she tilted back and forth.

"If you want me to be!"

"Well met, comrade in arms!"

"Well met indeed!"

"If there is a self-conscious Demos at the helm of this forge then I know our armory is in good hands! We shall win this struggle yet! Just when the world had counted out the Demos, another soul joins the fray and picks up the hammer in the righteous quest for our glory and liberation! The class war rages on like never before. This loathestone is barbaric, absolutely unacceptable- dispose of it at once. It will not serve out purposes as we reach out for the crown. While this crude material may have served Charlie well in his selfish pursuits, it will do us no good.

Charlie reached out for the crown to place it on his own soiled mane. He did not care the consequences, what that crown would do to him or his family. He would do anything, be anything, just to touch those precious jewels.

The Demos reaches out for the crown to smash it. To liberate the masses who have been entranced by it's shining beauty. To put an end to the worship of false idols once and for all. Our young people, our fans, our audiences- they are distracted by their own idolatry. They are distracted from the real traumas and horrors in their life. They are a shown a false image of an impenetrable hero. They are sold a false story of being who overcomes all odds through his sheer magnificence alone. When the people gaze upon that golden jewel they always see it around the waist of a truly ferocious warrior.

They see something they could never be. They see someone who can tear through whatever barrier is put in front of them. They see someone who is strong enough to stand against the world and bend the tides of history to their will. They see a true agent of the world. They see something they could never be. It is only when the Demos smashes the crown that their spirts will be freed from the shackles of observance.

It is only when the crown is in the ever loving hands of the Demos that the people will see themselves for what they truly are. When they gaze upon the man who holds the crown they will gaze upon themselves. They will no longer be blinded by the false heroes of yesterday. They will see that they too are powerful agents of this world!"

The woman nodded along with each and every word, eagerly going along with whatever happened to be said at any moments notice.

"Demoses like you and I are the reflections of the working people. The Kim Family taught me this. The toiling masses have been counted out time and time again, told that they have no power in this world. The people are told time and time again that they should not rise up, that every time they rise up and take what is rightfully theirs they will be put down like unruly cattle. The elites propagate their lies constantly, convincing legions of workers that every uprising is bound to failure. If it didn't work before, it can never possibly work in the future. That is the logic we the people are forced to accept every day that we go on with the drudgery of our servitude. Every time the oppressed masses rally to the cause the cynics chide them for their foolishness. They should just accept their dreadful lot in life, for going against the grain and asserting your own sovereignty will only end in slaughter!

But you and I can lay these ill conceived narratives to rest once and for all. If the Demos is able to snatch the crown jewel from Chris Page's bleach blonde head the masses will see these deceptions for what they truly are. In a hundred years there has not been an opportunity so ripe for the taking. Not since October of 1917 has the sun shined so brightly upon the communist movement..."

"Yeah, definitely! TOTES! What uh, exactly do you mean by all that though?"

The dwarf scratched her head as she tried to follow along the best she could.

"You must be a fresh Demos, a soul newly baptized in the flames of the class struggle. Let me guide you, comrade."

Demos approached the small woman. He placed his right hand on her shoulder tenderly as he looked down at her with the patient smile of a mentor. He crouched down a bit to get at a more even level with her.

"I have been mocked and marginalized. My name has been dragged through the mud these last few weeks. Perhaps it is rightfully so. I have been defeated, routed, submitted, and pinned in front of the whole world. I rose through the battle royale swiftly, only to crash spectacularly when it mattered. Like the peasants storming the Winter Palace my initial victory was a thrilling rush, a demonstration of expertly wielded power. But then, the Demos lived through the fall of the Soviet Union within my own body. A cold war that finally heated up left me scarred, burned, and running on empty. When the major players came knocking, the Demos was put out. Just like that. Dissolved within the blink of an eye, as if I had never existed. My sweet success nothing but a memory, my glory worth nothing more than a dusty soviet flag stuffed inside a long abandoned attic.

But still, from this foundation, the Demos reaches for the crown.

The people have seen Demos lose before. They have seen him come up short when all the chips were on the line. They have seen it time and time again, as my detractors like to publicize to all within earshot. Just as they've seen communist regime after communist regime collapse as the waves of history crash into their castles of sand.

But even if after all that, the Demos can rise....

Then imagine what the people can do.

If the lowly Demos, who is nothing more than a common street urchin or train hopper, can defeat the mighty Chris Page for the grandest prize of them all......

Then just imagine what abused tenants can do to their slumlord leeches. Just imagine what the workers of Bessemer can do to Darth Bezos. Courage would flow into them like I was passing them crystal meth through a needle.

If they witness Demos defeating Chris Page, they'll truly know anything is possible. They'll know that the world really is theirs to win, just there for the taking.

No longer will the waitresses bite their tongue at work while their boss gropes them in the kitchen. The fighting spirit will fill them with joyful militancy!

When the Demos can finally secure the all mighty crown the people will truly know that a new era is being born, and they will gleefully take the role of militarized midwifes working to bring Montero to fruition!"

"Oh yeah, that sounds totally rad!"

Demos looked around the messy workshop. His eyes scanned the room, hastily passing through the spaces filled with loathestone armor.

"But no war can be won without the proper munitions. As Chairman Mao Zedong so eloquently stated, power grows out of the barrel of a gun. Those who wield the most weapons wield the most power. But these weapons are simply not fit."

"I can make different stuff for you, if that would make you happy!"

"Yes, comrade! We must begin our preparations if we are going to inspire the workers to take up arms and end the class war once and for all. I have urgent matters to attend to in the Mad King's court- but do not wait for me to return to begin prepartions. You seem a knowledgeable smithie. Dispose of this hatefilled stone and make some fine weapons for the struggle. Our people can not be caught unprepared. I will inspect them when I return. I am sure I will be pleased with what I find."

"Yes, Daddy!"

"No...do not call me that. Call me comrade."

"Yes, Comrade!"

The dwarf saluted Demos. Demos nodded in her direction in return. The woman turned back around to the forge to begin work anew. Demos smiled beneath his mask, relieved to find a friendly soul in this barren imagination. Demos turned to walk through the door, looking back once more at the hardworking woman with pride in his heart before stepping back out into the harsh desert winds of Montero.......