Corey sat atop a cement barricade. It was broken in half, clearly a relic of some past construction, with rebar poking through the sides like broken radial bones long bereft of hands. He took a draw on his vape, the sole vice he allowed himself, and let the smoky strawberry flavor play in his mouth as he observed the hulking XWF truck in the near distance. The crew was hastily unloading equipment through the rear docks. Technical gear, material from the costume department tarped in plastic so as to not be sullied by the soggy flakes of snow, a bucket of wire. But that wasn’t what Corey had been waiting all morning to see.

Green Bay’s winter chill bit, even through his leather jacket, gloves and wool beanie cap. But it was a small inconvenience to pay for such a critical piece of his mental preparation for the brutal TLC Match. The match itself was like a bloodied horizon, getting closer like some nightmare scar cutting the sky. Surely, he and Lux (and The Engineer) had been in extreme circumstances before. Corey’s body had bled plenty of times. But this somehow felt unique. Perhaps it was in how alone Corey felt in this match, with a partner he was loath to trust. Or maybe it was his fear of Thad thinking him a failure if he couldn’t get it done.

Whatever the case, the object of Corey’s reconnaissance was now coming into view. A stack of cheap particle board tables borne on a wheeled metal cart. Another cart carrying steel ladders, tethered down together. And finally, a cart of metal folding chairs. Each cart was innocuously labeled “TLC”, the suffering of 6 human beings later tonight writ as small as three simple letters.

A wry smile crossed Corey’s lips as he considered that maybe not even a day ago, these implements were nothing but benign products sitting on the shelves at Lowes or Home Depot. Those chairs were probably a warehouse store closeout special, or bought in bulk from an office supply company. Now, he asked himself, at one point did these banal innocent things become objet d’(brutal) art? Was there some sort of dark Christening involved? Or maybe the ride over was sufficient enough?

Or maybe, maybe, that grim metamorphosis did not occur until the very moment one of them would take hold of these things with the sole intent of wounding another human being. The Christening would be real time. In blood. The everyday twisted by the dark heart of man into something awful and unspeakable, live on glorious Hi-Def PAY PER VIEW!

By the time Corey emerged from his ruminations, the tables, ladders, and chairs were already in the building. See you later, alligator. He mumbled, going for levity but not quite getting there. He took another draw from his vape, and some of the smoke curled out of his nostrils.

We need to get our shit together. Corey spoke aloud without turning towards the subject of his declaration. Doctor Louis D’Ville stood just behind Corey. Just how long he had been there was up for debate. He too was clad in a long dark coat with a fashionable wool hat, complete with ear flaps. Corey spun about on his perch to look at the Doc. He doubted this thing could even feel the cold, and Corey was almost insulted by Doc’s germane winter wear and pretensions of humanity.

Doc breathed in some of the cold air, and then expelled it, creating near perfect donuts of frosty air with his rounded lips. Nothing quite like a cool breeze to remind a man they’re alive.

Sometimes, I think you must be in my head 24/7, for the sole purpose of knowing exactly what will piss me off at all times.

Flattery will get you nowhere, dear boy. But I do agree, it seems we have been working at….cross purposes… Corey snorts derisively, but Doc continues. Or at least, what seem like cross purposes to you. So, Corey, I’m willing to give you your moment of Kumbaya if it will make you feel better. What did you have in mind?

The truth was, Corey had absolutely nothing in mind. He didn’t even know where to begin. Look, contrary to what our opponents think, this match means a hell of a lot to me. It’s bigger than that tag championship I just got handed. Hell man, it’s not even really about that…

It’s about the boy. Doc glances at Corey. Oh, I know.

It IS about Thad! It’s always been about Thad. For me. So I need to know, for one night only, can I expect some vague approximation of trustworthiness out of you?

D’Ville chuckles. A low bar…

You set it there. Corey retorts icily. But then, he mellows, sighing a plume of icy mist into the air. No...nevermind that. No more of that. He looks at D’Ville dead on. We’re never going to be friends. But I want to survive this night and to do that I need to rely on you. So, give me something, man. Anything! Make me feel like there is something in you worth relying on!

Doc looks at him for a protracted moment, before replying. Very well.

"Very well" what?

Let’s do it.

Doc raises a black gloved hand in the air, and clenches his fist. And from that clenched fist, reality itself seems to ripple in a concentric circle, as though the fist was a stone dropped from on high into calm waters. Corey can’t help but marvel as everything around them rides that reality altering wave, until they are fully eclipsed by it and even the ground beneath their feet has transmutated. He takes a moment to consider their new surroundings, breath heavy and loud for the shock of it all. I’ll never get used to it. He mumbles.

At least you didn’t throw up. Some people throw up.



They find themselves in a police interrogation room. It’s dingy, nondescript, and the smell of acrid nicotine still permeates it. The smell isn’t improved any as Doc lights a cigar, and then gestures for Corey to have a seat.

An interrogation room? Interesting choice of locale for a team building exercise. He notes bitterly.

Doc just rolls his hand to again indicate for Corey to sit. Just sit down already. I’ll explain. There’s a small bite of irritation to match Corey’s bitterness.

Corey reluctantly pulls out a chair, causing an uncomfortable sound as he drags the legs across the battered tile. It sounds louder than it should. Doc does the same, though with considerably less hesitance. So what are we doing?

Doc leans forward, another drag of his cigar causing the end to seem on the verge of breathing fire. We get to know each other. Simple as that.

Nothing’s ever that simple. Corey sighs, reclining in his seat. So, what, we just….ask?

Yes. Oh! But within the confines of this room, neither of us can tell a lie!

Corey sputters out a laugh. For real?! He doesn’t wait for a response. Did Doc just cast Zone of Truth?

What is that?

It’s a Spell from Dungeons and Dragons. He raps his knuckles on the table. And I’m pretty sure this is all bullshit.

Try to tell a lie then!

Corey’s smirk draws down into a sneer, as though even considering this game was beneath him. But inevitably, he decides to play. My name is L- He stops suddenly, as though his tongue had become engorged and immobile. His hand goes to his mouth, and he tries again. My name is L-! But still, he can’t complete the thought. He sucks his teeth in frustration.

What did you try to say?

I tried to say “My name is Lux.” Corey folds his arms. Your turn.

D’Ville contemplates a moment, before a small half smile pricks his lip up. Corey Smith is my b-b… He stammers, but makes a solid go of it before giving up.

And what did YOU try to say?

I tried to say “Corey Smith is my better.”

You’re such an asshole. He breathes out the words, looking up at the flickering halogen lights a moment. A fly was dead inside one of them, and slowly being cooked. Corey throws his arms out as though taking the entire environs of this room into his embrace. And once again, this is YOUR show. Your rules! How can I possibly know if you’re playing fair?

As usual, I suppose you can’t possibly know. But I will guarantee you this. Ask the right questions and you’ll understand my motivations heading into Snow Job. He puts his hands on the table, palms down. Corey can trace the protruding veins on them, the weathering, the lines etched by time. And just like that, he swerves hard left. Ok then. I got one. He leans in, challenge written on his expression. Are you human?

D’Ville takes a long contemplative puff on the cigar, and exhales more spoke than one would have thought possible from a single toke. Corey is forced to bat some of it away. Do I not see? Do I not breathe? Heh. Do I not bleed?

So, a non-answer answer. Corey looks frustrated. But technically not a lie. Corey decides to plow through to the heart of the matter. Why are you so interested in Thad?

Why are you? I’m just here to win a championship.

But why him SPECIFICALLY? You could have won a championship with just about anyone.

Why him? Doc smiles and shrugs. Look how he shines. Doc’s tone is aberrant, somehow equal parts complementary and sardonic.

Corey, white knuckled with barely restrained anger, growls That’s not a fucking answer. What is the point of everything you’ve done with Thad?

Doc’s features change, any trace of a playful smirk is leveled, and instead he goes steely. Corey, do you know who the real longest reigning tag team champion of all time is? Don’t answer. ‘Tis I. And yet, I have been sitting in these shadows for so long as men like Robert Main and Chris Page embarked on their tedious quest to make 2020 “their year”. But they have forgotten, Corey, they have forgotten! The word “forgotten” is spat out like a predatory hiss. It’s absurd. These pathetic wannabes. How dare they?! He pulls another drag of the cigar again, and this time the smoke pours from his nostrils, whisping up towards the lights and likening him to a dragon in repose. So after seeing that little Duke of mine get throttled day after day by that snake Robert Main and that penultimate Beta Chris Page, I decided a Duke resurrection was in order. He pauses, sinking back in his seat a bit and blowing aside a bit of the lingering smoke. I chose Thaddeus Duke to win the tag team championships with. And whether it’s him or you in my corner, the good Doctor will retain his championship.

Corey’s eyes narrow at D’Ville’s invocation of the word “his”. But he lets it drop. So that’s all it’s about for you? The tag team championships.

Doc eases into a mollifying smile, putting his hands out to his sides as if to say "that's it".

Corey thrummed his fingers on the table. If true, D’Ville’s statement actually did put him at ease. Corey was under no illusion that Doc’s motives were benevolent. But self interested? That he could believe. That he could wrap his head around. The only question was, what would become of Thad if he outlived his usefulness?

So do I pass?

Corey stands up. I suppose it’s as good as I’m going to get. But yeah, at the very least it seems like our motives at Snow Job align.

Oh bully! He taps the ash from his cigar into a tray that wasn’t there a moment before. But where are you off to so quickly?

I’m done. Thanks for your time. With that perfunctory attempt at extrication, Corey goes to the door.

It opens into an abyss.



Corey gasps and instinctively pulls away from the threshold, stumbling back onto his rear and crab walking away from the endless expanse outside the door. D’Ville glides past him and closes the door. Quid pro quo, my friend! You didn’t think I had some questions for you?

The young man pushes himself to his feet, getting face to face with D’Ville. The Doc doesn’t flinch, retaining that impossibly, irritatingly calm demeanor. What do you want to know? Corey spits the question venomously. Doc replies by simply gesturing to the table again.

Corey, shoulders hunched and eyes like fire, rips the chair out and drops himself into it. D’Ville returns to his seat as well. This whole trust thing is a two way street, you know.

Just get on with it.

Very well! Doc rubs his hands together in a playful display of glee. Now here’s a question I’ve always been dying to know! A theatrical pause, as Doc plants his chin atop his fist and holds in there. Did Lux ever talk about me?

Corey scoffs. That’s what you want? Fine. Yeah. She did. Because she wasn’t sure what you were, and thought you could have played a role in the future she came from. She thought maybe you were a fallen elder God like Aiwass, and thus worthy of some scrutiny.

My, my….. He plays at being flattered, and removes his fist from his chin. Second question….

How many of these will there be?

Enough He utters, as if it’s an answer in it of itself. Second question: Are you comfortable carrying the burden of putting your gut feelings aside for the sake of your friend? How do you fare with all that weight on your shoulders, unsure of what to expect but desperate not to let Thad down?

I have no problem answering this truthfully. Am I comfortable with it? Of course not. Every fiber of my being is screaming at me to leave this place, leave you, and forget this match at Snow Job ever existed. Then, a resoluteness enters his tone. But at the same time I wouldn’t dream of running. I am more than willing to suffer THIS...HERE….with YOU….he pronounces those words like the condemnations they are….because I care about Thad Duke. Because I’ve never in my life had a friend like Thad Duke. Not even Lux. Corey’s gaze gets lost in a corner. I love that man. Then, eyes forward and locked on D’Ville again. It’s the least I can do for him. And no, I don’t expect you to understand that kind of loyalty. Corey looks exasperated. We good?

Maybe one more… His imperious mien is in full force as he cocks his head to the side. I’m beginning to think these feelings of yours may go a bit deeper than they seem.

Corey struggles valiantly to look impassive, but something deep within him buckles. He slouches ever so slightly as he shifts in his seat. That doesn’t sound like a question.

Then let me be more specific. How do you truly feel about Thad?

I told you. A nervous lick of the lips. Look, man….

Answer it.

Corey’s body language screams “batten down the hatches”. His body goes rigid, face tight as war wages within. Thad is my friend.

That’s true. But is that all there is?

Y….A desperate, nervous smile. Y…. He looks at the table, shamefaced. D’Ville has his answer for a lack of one.

Don’t despair, Corey. You’ve just given me immeasurably more faith in you.

When the boy looks up, even D’Ville is a bit surprised by what he sees. Corey’s expression is a maelstrom, a twitching shattered mirror of embarrassment, longing, and the kind of desolate exhaustion that comes from mental toil being birthed into reality; howling, kicking and screaming. His eyes are rid rimmed and tearful. Are we done? All trace of animosity is gone. He’s begging for it to be over. He’s too near the edge.

Doc folds his hands in front of him. We are. See you later, alligator. He smiles, and from that Cheshire serration, reality shatters around them. But it’s not the gentle ebb from before, but an explosion of shards, twinkling in the air. Corey finds himself dumped out of his seat, falling...falling….

Even in his panic, he still manages to catch sight of the transient images in those falling shards. And each one is a vision of his time spent with Thaddeus Duke. Time slows, allowing Corey the opportunity to pluck one of those images from the void. It’s the first thing he saw when he woke from his coma. A hazy image of Thad, standing at the foot of his bed, desperate to believe in his friend. He closes his hand around it, and the edge bites his flesh instantly. He closes it even tighter, and then presses his eyes shut, taking in a deep breath and holding it as though he’s about to plunge into an icy depth of water.


Corey comes to, sitting on that cement block just outside the arena. A few members of the ring crew surround him. Their voices are concerned, but indistinct. Reality is just now trickling in.

Corey opens his hand, and it is bloodied but empty.

Later, at the Bay Beach Wildlife Sanctuary.

Corey walked beneath a canopy of snow laden branches. Every so often, one would give way. A reverberating crack would pierce the solemn crisp air, and a branch would lay down it’s burden. The young man’s Timberland boots made soft crunching noises in the fresh powder. His cheeks were starting to bear a slightly reddish hue. But you could tell from the expression on his face that he was at peace here.

Every so often, as I travel the world, I like to pick out little places like this that remind me beauty still exists. We live in a world that is often terrible. I’m employed in a sport that is frequently vicious and painful. And so it shall be tomorrow. But today….

He looks up at the white crystalline skeletons of trees guarding both sides of the trail. We just barely catch the glimpse of a small bird, flitting from one tree to another, before disappearing into the depths of the forest.

…..today I live for today. And today I allow myself to appreciate the fact that the world is not just shameless grifters or psychotic pain worshipping bon vivants. Or inscrutable devils with a penchant for Freudian psychoanalysis, for that matter.

Sometimes it’s just pure driven snow. Frozen streams. The hidden life of the forest. Peace. Serenity. Solitude.

But then I’m reminded that for some people, such things are beyond them. And I’m tempted to feel sorry for those people. I’m tempted to pity them.

But then I remember who they are.

Some of Corey’s peaceful countenance from before is eclipsed by a certain bitter energy now. He keeps walking as he speaks, punctuating the air with frosty breaths.

The Left Hand has been preaching a parable of death for weeks now, making it clear that things like beauty, selflessness, or hell, even common sense, are concepts beyond their ken.

He smirks a bit.

Lycana with the swears, huh. If I had known your personality was that pliable, I would have made fun of you for something else. Gotten you to do something a bit more self effacing perhaps.

So guys, I have to let you in on a little secret. This whole “we didn’t lose as bad as Corey said we did” tack? Yeahhhhh, it’s not the clap back you think it is. After all, I’m still keeping the focus on The Left Hand’s rapidly growing list of failures, botches, and just outright “can’t read the room for shit” humiliations.

Speaking of the latter, let’s talk Andrew Logan some more. And before you squawk about him not even being in the match, you’re the ones who claim you’re ride or die together. Too bad you’re just dyin’. I notice you had absolutely nothing to retort when I brought him up. Why’s that? Because you know (too late) what a catastrophic PR mistake it was to hype up such a prolific wet fart? That his grand debut was met by the shrieks and protests of absolutely fuck all NO ONE? Ok, okay! I mean, to be fair, it’s not like NOBODY noticed. I did. And I issued the man a challenge. Corey checks his watch. A challenge that has gone unanswered for almost exactly 9 whole days. You know who did answer that challenge though? Charlie goddamn Nickles. Now that’s a lunatic with a set of juevos. But you guys? Not so much.

Kind of reminds me of that time I challenged Baphomet and he muttered something about getting in line behind Chris Chaos before hoping I forgot about him forever.

Next on the old agenda, let’s talk about this super team of Marf and Lycana. Who have spent the entire week frantically screeching “we’re not owned, we’re not owned!” into the void as they try to dress up a loss as an overwhelming victory. This supposedly bonded team, and just what the hell are you guys bonded over anyway? Decent sex? Did ya drink each other’s blood? Reading the entire Libris Mortis cover to cover together?

And by the by Lycana, when I talk cliches, trying to point out that I’m cliched just by pointing out all the ways YOU are a walking cliche is galaxy level idiocy if I’ve ever seen it.

Hell was I saying…? Oh yeah, these two fuckwits who’ve spent all of couple months together, well they’re just a bonded pair. Like Jacob the Werewolf and...that unborn baby in Twilight. Corey shudders. Clearly….CLEARLY, they have what it takes to beat out the epitome of dysfunction that is my team. Except….they don’t. Because, once again, with FEELING, they lost to Corey’s weirdo and Chris Chaos’ broken wind up toy! Welllllll DOOOOOONE! Corey claps his hands sarcastically. And you know what? You pricks can try to spin it any which way you want. “Jenny ran”. “We beat up Alias afterwards”. But all that shit after the bell? Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. You know maybe if you had channeled all that energy you spent going full bitch mode and beating on a man two on one...maybe if you had bottled that up and put it into actually winning the match, you wouldn’t have walked away from that show looking like a couple of sore losers.

Yeah, I’ll just bet if Marf and Lycana lost in their first outing to a team as haphazard and polar opposite as Alias and Jenny Myst….I'm betting lightning can strike twice and you incompetent shits will fuck up against another odd couple.

And you know what else? It is probably the least shocking thing in the world that The Left Hand would have such a monumentally selfish view of the dynamics of tag team wrestling. What am I talking about? Well, just look at how fast they were to crow about who did and didn’t eat the pinfalls in those lost tag matches. As if it’s as simple as that. As if that kind of thinking makes for good team dynamics. News flash: You win or lose...AS A TEAM. It’s in the name! The fact that Lycana hasn’t been pinned in a tag match doesn’t make her a superior athlete, it just means she SUCKS at supporting her partners.

For as much as I may dislike the Doc, if he falls in this match it’s just as much on me as it is on him. If he goes down, it’s because I wasn’t eyes on enough. And THAT is the mentality that is required to win tag matches. But I wouldn’t expect that level of insight from two floaters in the shallow end.

But you guys ARE right about one thing. I declared war on the Left Hand. And yet, there you are! Like drainflies feasting on pipe scum, you “people” continue to infest the XWF with your unique brand of tedious promo’ing, mediocre wrestling (and that’s generous!), and all around failure to understand that a place like the XWF eats up and shits out weak ass acts like yours on the regular.

So I’m gonna rectify that mistake. I propose this. One match on every episode of Warfare leading up to the next pay per view. Each match will be me versus any single member of The Left Hand. And for each match, an XWF contract will be hanging in the balance. Hoooo weeee, we got a hot one here! Corey clamors, getting riled up now. That’s right, I am volunteering for a Loser Leaves Town match, a series of them! Against every member of The Left Hand! I’ll take you people out one by one. But if I get beat anywhere along the way, it's back to my day job as a Korean teen heart throb.

But I can hear ‘em already. The crickets. The conspicuously unaccepted challenges. The cowardice. Baphomet wanted nothing to do with me. Andrew Logan wants nothing to do with me. And I’d bet dollars to donuts that bitch made mindset is shot through the whole Left Hand. And that’s why you’ll fail as a team again. It’s why you’ll never have the credibility you so desperately crave, and it’s why you will never, EVER, be Tag Team Champions.

Corey reaches a fork in the path. How symbolic! He looks over to the left, then shakes his head “no” and decides on the right. As he goes, he holds his gloved hands up to his mouth and blows in them, adding some warmth to his face.

Is it ever cold. Let’s put this to bed.

TK, I’m sorry I missed your brush with the 13th Commandment. Must have missed out on the opportunity while I was learning to control my bowels again. Buuut, it still doesn’t change the fact that you sold out to Grandma Lemon Tits though. And knowing her like I do, I’m sure her motives were less because she didn’t think she could win, and more because she just wanted to humble you. And you rolled right over for her! Huh.

And dude, I never expected you to actually take the fall for me. In fact, if you had, I would have been kinda pissed. I figured you of all people would appreciate the running gag. My bad.

I got to say though, this match really is a hell of an opportunity for you, isn’t it? This is the big leagues, eh?! You’re sharing that ring with TWO former Universal Champions, and the guy who housed a third. But man, you’ve been here, what, a year and a half? Sure you’ve spent some good time with the TV title, but if you were gonna make it big, if you were really gonna shine, you would have done it by now. The effort you’ve put forth has been more than sufficient to keep you coasting at your level, but this? Don’t let the presence of The Dissentients fool you, this is not the mid card anymore TK. You got what it takes? Honestly….I kinda hope you do. Like I said, I don’t HATE you. You’re even somewhat entertaining. But no one, anywhere, has ever spoken the words “Thunder Knuckles” and “Main Event Draw” together. At least, not seriously. I’m sorry. That’s just the facts. You are officially in the deep end of the pool. It is cold, and unfamiliar. You can’t touch the bottom and it’s scary. That simply isn’t an issue on my side of the ring. Doc is the epitome of a main event talent. And I have the collected knowledge and experience of two main eventers kicking around in this ‘ol noggin.

You got this? He shrugs. I guess we’ll see. But if I were a betting man, I don’t think I could bet on the guy who laid down for Grandma Lemon Tits. He chuckles a bit. Though “Grandma Lemon Tits” IS pretty funny. I’ll let you have that one.

Corey arrives at a picturesque wooden bridge over a half frozen babbling stream. He playfully scoops the snow off the handrail and piles it into his hand into a ball, which he then pings off a nearby tree upon leaving the bridge.

And then there was one. And let me start out by admitting something. You get top billing in my last spot for this match because, despite your faults, I do acknowledge you as the biggest threat in this match. Don’t think for a second that I don’t see that. I’m not walking in blind to the kind of carnage that Robbie Bourbon is capable of. When he’s on, that is.

But something occurred to me when I woke up this morning. And it goes part and parcel with this argument I’ve made that you’re inconsistent. He pauses. Why is it that the guy who beat Thad Duke...future Universal Champion Thad Duke... back to back couldn’t retain his Hart champion ship against Ned Kaye? And I mean no disrespect to Ned here. But I think even he would agree that at this point, he and Thad are just playing the game at different levels. I mean, how the hell does that happen? Well, naturally, I got some guesses.

Maybe Robbie just got BORED. He doesn’t seem to have a very long attention span considering how he flits from identity to identity faster than you can blink. So maybe he give his Hart Championship run the same treatment he give his Universal Championship run. Except this time, with a touch more pride in himself.

Or maybe, he just decided he didn’t give a shit. For exhibit B of this, see the High Stakes battle royale, where despite being a multi-time champion, he got eliminated early with the rest of the chaff by yours truly.

Come to think of it, High Stakes all around was just not a good night for you was it Bobbo? I mean, if I was your partner, I’d be a little nervous about how bad you screwed the pooch at the last big pay per view.

Or option 3, and this is the most damning one of all. When Robbie fails like he did at High Stakes, he was actually trying. Which, again, for TK, should be a pretty goddamn terrifying proposition. Because that means this big bad monster isn’t actually the 24/7/365 beast he says he is. It means he’s fallable. Especially if your name is Ned fucking Kaye of all people.

Well, Doc and I aren’t Ned Kaye. We’re quite a bit more problematic. So Knuckles, I hope you got your hustle on tomorrow, because there’s about a 50/50 spread on you having to carry some serious dead weight. He pauses. Why am I using so many gambling metaphors NOW? He shakes his head.

Corey reaches the site of a partially frozen series of small waterfalls. He stops to admire their beauty for a moment. His features relax, but then, he starts to squint at the water. He looks confused, and he blinks a few times in rapid succession. Finally, he seems to settle, and is able to refocus.

There’s been a lot said about the other personas this body has housed in the run up to this match. But I am not the latest iteration of some shallow gimmick, that’s Robbie's bag and that’s why he cant conceive of me as anything more than that. Its also been said that I am somehow the least of my trifecta of personas. I will cop to not being as great as Lux. She was braver and wiser than I ever will be. But if you think that none of her lives on in me….go watch the fuckin’ tapes. The crispness of those kicks. The speed. The ring awareness. The moves. That don’t look the tiniest bit familiar to you? You think I went all those months with Lux in my head and learned NOTHING? The abilities that won her a Universal Championship live on in me. I will never claim to deserve those gifts. But if I can use them in the service of something good and decent, you bet your ass I will.

And for the Lycanas of the world who say I’m something less than The Engineer. You would A: Because you’re the same breed of tedious, insipid nihilist that he was. And B: because you have the IQ of a pet rock. Riddle me this Lycana, how can I be the weak one when I’m the identity that SURVIVED? For as much as you exalt The Engineer, who the fuck do you think is the one standing before you know? He died! I lived! Corey thumps his chest. We shared the exact same experience and I am the one here to tell the tale, not him! You think he was the strong one?! Corey collapses into a bout of incredulous laughter. He tamps it down and wipes his sleeve across some frost forming on his lips. Sure.

The chill has started to set into Corey’s bones again, so he starts moving back onto the path once more to get the blood pumping.

I know we’re not exactly viewed as the favorites to win this match. Doc and I are very different people. However, while our drives are different, our end goals are in perfect alignment: winning this match. Doc wants to continue his legacy of tearing up the tag team division, relighting the fire of his earlier legendary run. And me….? He suddenly looks pensive, as though choosing his next words were a delicate balancing act with no net. Finally, with resolve, he grins. And he speaks.

I just want to see Thad Duke smile.

And it’s the most powerful motivator I’ve ever had.

Snow Job is not the end of the road for me, Doc, and Thad. Because for as disparate as we are, when you look closer, when you look real, real deep, there is an intersecting matrix of drives and ambitions that hold this ship together.

You know, the other day, the word Continuum sprung to mind. A continuum is a sequence in which its adjacent elements seem uniform, and yet the extremes are incredibly distinct. And I thought about what a suitable metaphor that was for us.

So Thad, Doc, I’m doing the name thing.

We are Continuum.

And our story is not over.

Corey nods subtly at the camera operator, indicating that that was a wrap. He shoots Corey a thumbs up and starts to shut down the camera.

Corey turns to face that expanse of white gilded woods one last time. But that peculiar feeling from earlier had returned, and this time it had a visual component too. He squinted down the trail, something bright seemed to be at the far end of it. Swallowing deep, he wordlessly walks away from the camera operator. He’s semi-aware of the crew member calling after him as he walks away, but his words taper out to an indistinct hiss as Corey remains fixated on this oddity before him.

His blood sings in his veins, and his heart beat steadily rises as he gets closer and closer. Almost breaking into a run now, Corey is simultaneously desperate to see what this is, and abjectly terrified of it.

When he reaches it, his worst suspicions are confirmed.



The fiery scene seems etched into reality itself, displacing the real and overwriting it. The passenger, the Engineer’s remnant, is there, glued to an old fashioned TV set. He doesn’t even seem to be aware of Corey’s presence. Shaking, Corey makes his way around to his back and sees what’s playing out on the TV. It’s a first person view of Corey shooting the passenger over and over again. The young man gasps at the sight of his own rage twisted face, a face that is his and not his.

He looks down at the reedy boy sitting on the ground, and he starts to become aware that he’s whispering something to himself.

hurts….hurts….hurts….hurts….

Corey finds himself speaking the word too as he realizes that perhaps he and his partner aren't as far from each other on the continuum as he thought.