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Chris Chaos · (07-22-2018)

Puppets on strings, moving to the beat of invisible drums.

That is all we are.

Being controlled by a force we cannot see, hear, or even comprehend. Some people believe in spirits, and the dead watching over you. Some people believe in the supernatural.

Charles Brady never did. As a police officer, he had seen a lot of crazy things. Stuff he could never even explain. He liked to think it hardened him. He would never be prepared for what he was about to see.

It was a raining night, so thick you could barely see two feet in front of you. Mother nature never affected work, however, and people still were in a rush to leave at clock out time, causing traffic in the city. People couldn't drive in the nice weather, much less this. Charles chuckled to himself as he lit a cigarette.

The radio was chirping more than normal today, but nothing that really concerned him. In the distance, traffic seemed to be stopped more than usual. A yellowish light was glowing through the teeming rain. Florida was weird like that, it could be raining in one spot and not raining 10 feet away. Up the road about a half mile was cloudy, but a bright cloud. No rain.

What was that light? It looked too orange to be headlights, and too orange to be tail lights. A blur of white came into view as he drove out of the rain. It was a tractor trailor truck, and it was sitting across three lanes, the cab twisted and flames creeping from under the hood. Immediately, his training came into play. He sped over to the shoulder and jumped out of his patrol car. The darkness was creeping up as the sun was setting under the clouds. Inside the cabin was a man, one could only assume was the truck driver. He seemed to be fumbling with the seatbelt. The way the cab was twisted, he was pinned. Flames were creeping up over the hood and into the cabin.

Charles jumped onto the steprails and pulled open the door, assuring the man that he was okay and that state police were here to help. The man didn't seem so sure, as he was beginning to get agitated that he couldn't get something as simple as a seatbelt to unbuckle. Flames were now coming under the floorboards.

Both men wrestled for what seemed like an eternity before a poof of flames knocked Charles off the truck step rails and onto the pavement. The people in traffic behind watched in horror as the cabin burst into flames. Charles was a bit woozy from the fall, but when he came too he could hear the worst sound he ever thought he could hear. The man screaming, almost shrieking. It was the most soul-crushing sound he could ever hear. The door was wide open now, and the man's lower body and torso, along with one arm and side of face, were covered in the orange blaze.

The man was begging Charles to shoot him. Shoot him, just end it. Tell his wife he loves her, and to shoot him. In the day and age that this took place, there were certain protocals that police had to follow. Charles couldn't shoot him, because if he did he could be booked for murder.

Democracy, huh?

The man screamed again, pleading with Charles. He didn't want to die this way, he didn't want his wife to know he burned to death. He wanted to go peacefully, because he was already going to need a closed casket. Charles held onto his gun, it aimed at the man. His hands shook. He was contemplating throwing it all away for a simple act of compassion that was more like a Leap of Faith. This man was concerned about his wife, but what about Charles's wife and kids? If he was in jail.....

The man was already starting to melt a little, but still fully conscious. Charles took his leap of faith, made his decision. He pulled the trigger and the man stopped thrashing. He then sat down, shaking, as the rain began and the EMT's and firetrucks arrived.

Charles did face some legal reprecussions for this, but it helped him sleep at night knowing what he did. The truckers wife decided not to press charges, and in fact thanked him for his act of compassion during a time when compassion wasn't "protocal". All charges were eventually dropped, but the word got around about what Charles. Most civilians understood, and loved him for it. Most officers hated that he was loved for breaking protocal. The natural human emotion is jealousy in this situation.

Several years later, in fact, only a few short years ago, Charles was now happily retired. His kids were in college, his marriage was stable, and his pension paid the bills. He was driving down I-4 in Florida, the same road that the truck incident happened all those years ago, when it began to rain down in buckets again. Looking around, he couldn't help but think about those actions on the road. He began to question again if it was the right thing to do. There were tractor trailers seemingly all around him. I-4 was always loaded with the damned things. As the main road that leads between two of Florida's largest cities, a lot of stuff was transported this way. In front of him was a small car. Suddenly, the truck in front of the small sedan skidded to a stop. There was something in the road. Charles was too consumed in his flashbacks to see it. When he finally came to his senses, he noticed out of the corner of his eye--he had good perephrial vision from his years on the force--something next to him. He thought for sure he was hallucinating, but when he turne his head, there was a ghostly figure on the seat next to him, staring directly at him.

It was the man from the truck that he mercy-killed all those years ago. His shadowy face was grossly disfigured from the burns, and his hands were charred stubs, but Charles could still clearly make out fingers. Charred, but there. Just then, the ghost reached out and grabbed the wheel, having some mass behind it. It swerved the car out of the way as the tractor trailer behind his car, whose brakes gave out, came barreling forward.

It crashed into the car that was in front of him, crushing it against the stopped tractor trailer in front of it. The car flew into a ditch along the side of the road, but all Charles could see and hear was the explosion. That would have been him. The charred ghost was gone. That would have been him had the man not come back. The trucker had saved Charles in remembrence of the good deed he did all those years ago.

His leap of faith.

There was a makeshift platform set up on the edge of the graveyard, the hole from Jim's grave still sitting wide open in the earth all around it. The stage was rickety, and looked as though it could fall apart at any time. On the stage were puppets, all of which were decapitated, their heads on stakes behind them. Graves, Kuhn, Main, Erebus, Gilmour, Bourbon.

A puppet is free, as long as he loves his strings.

That is the confinement we all stay in. Puppets get puppeted, and for the members of this match, at least a number of them, were having their strings pulled long after the puppeteer had passed. Main and Graves were still being controlled by the dead puppet master Jim Caedus. Especially Main, who can't survive on his own. Graves needs to hang onto anything, and he always looms in the shadow of how "good he was" back when AX3 was around. Both of them needed Jim more than anything else and when he was taken they both lost their sense of direction. Main is lost without his father, the redneck known as Jim Caedus.

In a way, Caedus still has an impact on everyone here. He is sitting there on his ripped couch that sits in his front yard and surrdounded by crushed Busch Light cans. That sounds like the best kind of redneck afterlife. Robert Main isn't far behind. He already lives his life with the visions of a world where everyone wears biker gang cuts and doesn't wash their hair.

Bourbon tries to model himself after Jimmy by talking out of his ass and making outrageous claims, then getting butt hurt when someone else makes claims of a similar nature. So fat, but so sensitive. So fragile. A man with so much potential wasted on Golden Corral and internet trolling. Shame.

Gilmour is the same descriptive as above, except he at least is self concious about it.

Finn and Azrael, Jimmy doesn't really apply to them. Other than that time when Jim DOMINATED Finn, remember that? The King of the Ring tournament when Jim ate him alive? Other than that, these two have no relevance here, but they needed to lose their heads too because fuck them.

Chris sat there with a look on his face, almost as if in a trance. Almost possessed.

"Jim talks to me from beyond the grave. He talks to me everyday. He says he is no longer paranoid, no longer hates himself, and no longer worries. He tells me that my time is now, and that he wants to see me shine. Except, he has a lot of heaven cum on his beard so he kinda looks like Santa and that makes me smile. For real though, he told me to go win this match. He told me that Robert Main is an embarrassment to his legacy. That Graves is older than Larry King, and like Larry King was still trying to hang on to some sort of purpose in life. He told me to end him. Jimmy then told me that Azrael Erebus is a freak, and he trusts him less than he trusts the establishment. He thinks he is a

for holding the Bombshell Title and we all know how Jimmy feels about fags. The same way he feels about everyone else, really. The same way he feels about his so called "friends"."

Suddenly Chris breaks out in a maniacle laugh.

"I'm just kidding. Jim Caedus didn't say anything, because I killed him. I silenced him forever. Just like this Sunday Night I am going to silence every single one of my doubters and win that briefcase. Chris Chaos WILL be the next Universal Champion.......and any hope you have to stop it has about the same chance of survival as Jim did.......Jim was Equalized, and now at Leap of Faith, Chaos and EMPIRE will rise to the top."

Chris laughs like a hyena in the darkness as the camera pans to the puppets and their blank stares......somewhere in their eyes, it looked like.......fear.

Chaos Is Coming.

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