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JackCain · (08-19-2017)

“Don’t push him around like that! I don’t think he’s even conscious!”

“You know who this guy is? He can take a shove or two.”

Brock squints his eyes, opening himself to the world around him. His hands are trapped behind his back. He’s also on his side in the corner of the room, and based on the context, he probably got shoved down only moments before. This is further proven by a metal chair right next to Brock.

“I think he’s waking up.”

“I told you we needed to rattle him a little bit.”

Brock starts to sit up, and the two men, dressed in all black, tower above Brock.

“Tell us your name.”

The men look intently at the Clone of Brock Lesnar, testing to see if he is cognitively functioning. His body is finally recovering from the intense tranquilizers given to him several hours before.

“Brock…I’m Brock Lesnar.”

Ever so slowly, one of the Counter Intelligence Agents pulls out a polaroid from his pocket.

“Now, Brock, I want you to be comfortable answering this question. Your words are safe with us, we’ll protect you and watch out for you. So tell us what you know about this.”

The agent reveals a photograph. A low quality picture of an eight year old boy holding a dead lizard in his hand.

“I never seen that kid in my life!”

The CIA Agent that is clearly playing ‘bad cop’ in this scene strikes Brock over the head.

“Not the kid! Do you have a god damn rat brain? The lizard! What do you know about the lizards?”

Brock is momentarily dumb founded. In his half conscious state, his memory of the lizard people comes back in bits and pieces.

“Uhhhhh, they had lots of sandwiches. That shit was good. And they would let me fuck anyone, and I mean anyone! And there was all the beer I could get.”

Brock smiles, remembering the day to day life of fucking clones. The CIA Agents are perplexed. They give Brock a look of confusion, and they turn their back to him.

“What the fuck is he talking about?”

“I don’t know. I hope we didn’t fry his brain.”

“There’s gotta be an explanation.”

“What should we do?”

“Fuck, we need to get this dummy to tell us something.”

They turn back to The Clone who is still in a haze.

“So Brock, what were your plans when you were walking around in Philadelphia?”

A scared look crosses Brock’s face.

“They were after me. They wanted to catch me, and they wanted to hurt me.”

But then Brock’s face contorts to an angry expression.

“I still had to finish business, I had to take care of Jack, and they wouldn’t let me. They wouldn’t let me put my hands on him!”

“Okay, okay, okay. Calm down, Brock.”

Brock’s head falls to the side, and he starts to snore quietly. Another tranquilizer is lodged in the side of his neck.

“What the hell?!”

“The big fucker was getting crazy. And I think he told us just enough.”

The Clone of Brock Lesnar would never remember this series of events. He would not remember being abducted by the CIA, and he would not know that a chip was inserted in the back of his skull that could triangulate on his position anywhere in the world.

Instead, The Clone of Brock Lesnar came to his senses in an airport, just passed security. He holds a carry on by his side, and a dull head ache.

The only thing on his mind is one thing, and that’s making Jack Cain pay for all the grandstanding and shit he’s talked over the last two months.

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