A recording.

Of Mark Flynn.

The quality of the film is a grainy camcorder style, filmed on location. Instead of his usual setting of being enveloped by darkness, he’s sitting what looks like an alley. Knees pressed against his chest, back against a curved concrete wall, his feet resting against an odd steel bar stuck to the ground.

Out of view, one can hear the whirring of cars down a busy street just out of view.

“Angelus.”

Mark Flynn sneers as he drags a finger against the edge of the rocky gravel beneath him. It blackens his digit, which he begins rubbing against his thumb.

“So by the book. So militant in your pursuit of… The light, as you insist on calling it… So much the epitome of a zealot for pioneering your self-titled 'good'.”

“So…”

Flynn’s fingers begin to slow. As he pulls them apart, slowly, carefully… He reveals that now the thumb is as black as the finger.

“Blind…”

Flynn twists his arm back against the curved wall. His palm slides up as his knees shift him off the concrete…

Suddenly, his hand slips… His knee sweeps around his leg and keeps him from further blackening his posterior.

However, there he remains. Trapped in a crouch. Apparently, he’s been sitting for so long that his legs have gone numb.

Flynn chuckles. “Guess I’m not ready to see the light yet…”

He bounces in his crouch, trying to warm up his legs.

“Don’t worry. This just means we have a minute to talk before I come into your home…”

“Your realm.”

“Your institution for the vision-impaired that you insist on never leaving.”

“Don’t worry, Anj. Your old pal Flynn has come to check you out so you can finally see what’s really going on around you.”

Flynn pats the side of the wall, trying to get a better footing on the ground.

“You see. Maybe I over-estimated your intelligence. That’s my mistake.”

“Maybe you don’t understand animal psychology. I’ll break it down for you on a fundamental level.”

“A dog doesn’t consider the human that feeds it and takes care of it, its master.”

“It sees the whole thing as a symbiotic relationship. It scratches your back, you scratch it.”

“The human however, knows that the dog is his property. His pet. His tool to use to further his own goals.”

“So, Anj. If you fetch like a dog when Witastick tells you to fetch, like you did when you attacked me as I guest refereed that number one contender’s match you had nothing to do with.”

“If you bark like a dog whenever Witastick tells you to bark, like you did the Warfare after I won the US Title.”

“If you roll over like a dog whenever Witastick tells you to roll over, like you did just accepting that Sebastian Duke gets his title shot before you do.”

“Then guess what, Rover? You’re his mutt, pretending the leash he keeps around your neck that digs into your throat whenever you have a free thought is for your own protection.”

“Just because Sebastian Duke is getting his tummy rubbed doesn’t mean you’re not his dog.”

“It just means you’re not his favorite dog.”

“And while you and Tyrone whine and beg for the attention of your beloved puppetmaster.”

“Take some semblance of comfort in the fact that Sebastian Duke…”

Flynn bites his lip.

“If you’ll pardon the pun… Screwed the pooch in his latest career move to start following along to the Black Circle’s step.”

“So, before long, you’ll be the one who gets his scratchies behind his ear.”

“Because you’re such a good boy, Anj. Who’s a good boy? You are.”

Flynn doesn’t say this tauntingly. Factually. He slides his back up against the brick wall behind him and remains sitting against the surface. His eyes squint and muscles clench before he surrenders back to a crouch.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head…

“You know what really offends me, Anj?

You know what leaves me truly sick to my stomach?

Facing a boy scout. Having Witastick's pet digging his teeth into my shoes whenever I try to walk into the house.

Do you still think this is really a duel between light and darkness?

Can you possibly be so dense to think that this is a part of some never ending fight between the forces of good and evil?

There are a lot of shades of gray between black and white.

You should have learned that when you attacked a man who had been ordered by management not to defend himself.

And got cheered for it.

You're the 'good guy' because those fat sweating disgusting people cheer for you?

Why don't I go out on this week's Warfare with a t-shirt gun and a crate of free corn dogs so I can call myself the good guy for a couple weeks?

No, Anj. I'm not crazy enough to think I'm a 'good guy.' But, neither are you.

This isn't Good versus Evil.

This is Security...

Versus Freedom.

See, if I was the angry one. If I was the one making the case on how I was going to hurt you, how beloved you are by the people makes me revoltingly jealous. Then you might have a case for this being the light versus the dark...

But, you're the angry one...”

Flynn tilts his head to the side, waiting for an answer to this quandary.

“How is that, Anj?

Because you sold your soul to get the push you've been getting. And it still hasn't given you the bright shiny toy you want.

Multiple Quotes of the moment. January Superstar of the Month immediately after I beat you for the US Title.

Everyone on the roster claiming that you're the number one on Warfare, main event week after week after week while Warfare's champion seems to not cross their minds...

Steve Sayors, XWF's stooge of choice, declared you the dark horse to win the US Title Tournament.

And yet. I'm still better.

Famous for my trash talk, heralded as the best trash talker in the XWF. Never awarded Quote of the Moment.

One of the best career records to ever grace XWF, one of the most accomplished XWF superstars of all-time. Never named Superstar of the Month.

Stockholders scream into headsets whenever I'm on the screen succeeding about how Sayors needs to list my nicknames.

'King of the MidCarders' -a crown given to me by a tyrant that I carried into battle when I vanquished him and obliterated what little credibility he had left.

'Most Hated Man in the XWF' - a flag I carry with pride. A sigil of my own design, to clarify my ideals as I plunge the blade at its end into a throat.

Two names XWF keeps alive to remind people how awful and boring I am.

And yet, notice the growing minority sporting Mark Flynn t-shirts...

Notice how everyone else doesn’t need to be reminded how twisted I am, they’re already cuing up the Flynn Sucks chants while my next newbie opponent marches down the ramp.

That's what's actually infuriating you. That's the reason visions of my broken neck dance in your head.

That's the reason you listen closer to what I say than anyone else. So you can scream louder than anyone else how no one is listening to me.

Because you gave up your freedom, your integrity, to become Witastick's puppet champion. And it didn’t pan out.

Because a man with an unbreakable sense of self. A man who refuses to conform to management's preferences. A man who didn't have to wear a t-shirt with his own face on it.

A free man.

Has found a way to latch onto the top prize in the XWF. And keep it from you.

You poor sick puppy.

The mistreatment you've suffered. You can't see with this 'WHOLE DAMN SHOW' t-shirt tied around your eyes, bashing your head into every wall, blindly hoping you'll find your way out of the maze. And you sink your jaws into anyone who tries to get it off your face.

You're the saddest most pathetic sight I've laid eyes on.

Don't worry though, Anj...

I'll be Your Angel of Mercy.”

Flynn wriggles up against the back wall and finally reaches his feet. His joints ache, his back still leans against the concrete, but he’s one step closer to standing…

“Do you know what to do when a dog bites your hand, Anj?”

Flynn gazes into his own right palm and then clamps his opposite hand around it. The long unkempt fingernails dig deep into Flynn’s flesh.

“Let me tell you...

Natural human reflex is to yank your hand back... Like an errant finger touching the stove.

But the dog's teeth are designed for this reaction. They tear through your skin and stay locked on.

That was my mistake, Anj. I tried to escape your grip. I tried to pull my hand away.

But, if you press yourself deeper into the dog's mouth. If your force very essence down that dog's throat. If you refuse to surrender even a micrometer of space to that dog.

Its jaws unlock.

It's teeth don't sink.

The natural design of the dog as a biter is rendered invalid.”

His hands release and he stumbles forward. His face is now framed by the camera….

“And once your feel my elbow down your throat.

Once you feel nauseous as I try to fit my entire arm down your throat, choking you out like I did the last time we danced in a fair fight.

I'm going to lean your head back.

And pull off your blindfold.

Because more than I want to beat you.

More than I want to break you in the center of an XWF wrestling ring.

I want you to see what a low price you sold your dignity for.

I want you to understand how sick and twisted you really are on the inside.

And I want you acknowledge.

That I.

Mark.

'King of the MidCarders'

Flynn.

Am b-...”

A loud ding from overrheard. A voice over a broken speaker, impossible to understand.

A horn.

Something large is coming forward is nearby.

Suddenly, Mark Flynn’s alley is lit.

The steel bar Flynn had pressed his legs up against. A track.

Flynn wrenches himself from the wall and starts to carefully ease himself up behind the camera.

As the sounds of the rushing car get louder and louder, Flynn turns the camera around. He sits behind the yellow line of a subway platform.

“I’ve seen the light, Angelus. I’ve met you halfway.”

The horn screams through the air. Louder and louder. Flynn turns to watch something off screen as a twisted grin washes over his face.

“Now…”

Flynn looks down at the camera.

“I want you to return the favor… And embrace the darkness…”

Flynn’s leg stretches and kicks the camera back onto the tracks.

The last image of the video is no more than a few frames of the Subway Train. Screaming down the tracks.

“Sit, Anjie.”

Then…

“Stay.”

Darkness.

“Good boy.”