OOC reminder: This = hover with your mouse

2A: Rinse and Repeat

“Man, we’re really doing this again, aren’t we, Reg’?

We’re really going to be out here rehashing the same old schtick; the same old lines; the same delusions, huh? Rinse and fucking repeat.

God damn, here I was thinking that I was the one supposed to be throwing a ‘pity party’? You fucking accussed me of that, man. Yet here you are going on a digital streaming platform talking about how ‘mediocre’ you are. That’s a worldwide platform that you spit that from, yet it’s still my fault, right? I’m still to blame.

Wait… is Vevo worldwide? Couldn’t get on YouTube, huh?

Shit, maybe you are mediocre...

I tell you what, chum. It didn’t feel mediocre when we were beating the shit out of each other at Snow Job. It didn’t feel like you weren’t on my level. Sure, I won, and I will again, but all this ‘mediocre’ nonsense is coming from you and only you. I wanted this to work out well for you! And, friend, if you didn’t want to fight me, why the hell did you accept my challenge? You could have said ‘no’. That wouldn’t look bad for you, man. It would actually end all this! You could have stepped up to the plate, said ‘hey, I don’t want do this anymore’, and that would be it. We’d be done!

But you didn’t do that. You throw your toys after the fact, but you’re the one who put yourself into this fucking position. You’re the one who kept hunting me. You’re the one who sent your doofus friends after me. I gave you a chance to get it out of your system then, by not turning the tables immediately. I then gave you another chance to say ‘no’ when I laid out the challenge, on the provision that you cut out the rest of your bullshit then too. But you just couldn’t do it, could you? Instead, you’re out here saying the same old shit. I’m the ‘golden boy’, right? Jesus titty-fucking Christ! Where do you get this from? Is it just because I’m winning matches? Is that what your issue is? I mean, championships and accolades, like you’ve been talking about, are just a result of what happens in the ring. You’ve been in the ring with me, boy, so you know first hand whether that’s all warranted or not. But again, that’s not me. That’s them. The rest of the world. The institution. Have you heard me clamouring for anyone’s adulation? Have you heard me begging for approval?

Didn’t think so.

This is why I’m flipping this shit on you now. This is why I am promising to be the hunter now. I’ve been crystal clear about what I’ve been wanting since the moment I returned to the XWF: The Universe. Everything I’ve done since I came back has been in service of that. The rest is all superfluous. But I’m not going to allow myself to get distracted by any of that. Hell, it seems like you’re getting more distracted by it than I am. There’s this whole undercurrent to everything your saying that you still haven’t addressed even though I’ve called you out on it before. Do you think I’m somehow trying to take your spotlight? Really? Your spotlight? Just what spotlight did you even have?

STOP! I’m going to interrupt whatever you’re thinking right there.

What I just said, that is not a comment on whether you’re mediocre or not. Instead, it’s a comment on one really glaring hole in your salty tantrum: You haven’t been getting in the fucking ring! This will be your second match since fucking November! How the fuck do you expect to be spotlighted in any way if you don’t even sack up and scrap for it?

Tell me, how does that stack up for you on those streets that you claim to come from? To be bitching about how someone else is getting acclaim when you’re not even squaring up to fight for it yourself. Is that something that ‘the streets’ respects? A lot must have changed there since I was sleeping on them. Oh… you missed that part, right? You missed my life; my history. Fuck, you miss what I’m doing right now! Do you see me out here living a life of luxury? Do you see me making it rain? Do you pay attention to anything that occurs outside of your own little sad-sack bubble?

Look, I’m glad to hear that you recognise it was wrong to send Tommy and Johnny after me. But practically, that’s a worthless sentiment. You made it clear a little over a month ago - yeah, Snow Job was that recent, man, not three months, check a fucking calendar - you made it clear that you weren’t to be trusted. So you can save those worthless platitudes. Fuck you. I’m taking your goddamn head.

One thing I’m glad about though, is you’re finally being clear that you want the X-Treme Championship back. Now we’re getting somewhere! But this isn’t a David and Goliath battle. This extends far beyond one religion. But if you insist on this being ‘kill or be killed’, you better get your funeral plans in order. Because I didn’t bury you, Reg.

Not fucking yet.

Signed, CWG.

Oh, and Valencia isn’t that hard to say, man. Like… you speak Spanish, right? English speakers are even fine with that one.”

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2B: Crossroads

Chugging along in a vintage canary yellow GMC 1300, he watches as paint flakes off the side of the truck leaving a scattered trail of breadcrumbs on the path behind. As the green rushes past, it all feels eerily familiar. With good reason. When last he made a journey like this, he sought a treasure at the end of a misty rainbow. On this day he seeks treasure once more.

His intrepid chaperone sits beside him. Well, kind of. Just this morning, The Salmon-Coloured Minotaur was forced to tear the driver's seat from its base and cast it to the side, just as he had the entire roof of the truck's cabin in weeks past. His exponential growth has forced him to now sit in the backseat, and he reaches forward with beefy limbs to control their fate.

Above their head the moon and sun waltz with each other across the sky with a strikingly unfamiliar commonality. Though they dance this dance with regularity, it always feel unique. Craning his head, he sneaks glimpses of the fated duo through the half-canopy that reaches across the road to a trimmed mate on the other side.

Puffs of smoke cough behind the truck, obscuring the past. History doomed to repeat.

BUMP.

“What was that?” He fearfully thinks of deer and squirrels, or what someone did last summer. The Salmon-Coloured Minotaur dismissively grunts in reply. Glancing back, he sees no sign of a body through the fog, roadkill or other. Hesitantly he rests back into his chair.

BUMP.

He lurches up. Eyes wide, he scans the blurred path behind them again. Still nothing.

“What’s going on?” he asks again of his companion.

BUMP.

No reply.

BUMP.

“Hey!”

BUMP.

BUMP.

BUMP.

Brakes grind and screech as the truck comes to halt. Befuddled eyes scan the surroundings.

“Well this isn’t ominous at all…”

The lines of trees have grown darker, and have near-completely overgrown the blue. They’re darker now, and more deciduous than green. A wind whistles. The Salmon-Coloured Minotaur exits the vehicle and motions for the passenger to do the same. Dutifully he complies. They step out onto the road, feet crunching leaves gathered in mounds across the ground as they join together in front of the truck.

“Have you got the map?” the man asks the beast. It shakes his head and growls. He motions with his hand, as if presenting their world to him. The man spins in a slow circle, taking it all in. They are at a crossroads. Four arches made of dead branches enframe identical roads - including the direction from whence they came.

“Are you sure?” he doubts. “This kind of feels like the exact situation in which a map would be helpful…”

He pleads to his gargantuan consort, but receives no help. The choice is his. Grinding his teeth, he steps forward towards the decision. Four paths. No discernible direction. Save for…

A beacon of hope. A light. A star in the bright of day, piercing through the thickage of twigs and bare branches. Not Sol - something more distant; fleeting and suggestive of a better world.

“Coreytopia!” he shouts with joy. The label meaning something different to him than it does for others.

His gift gives back. It illuminates the way.

From whence they came.

“What the…?” He turns to face his guide, who also sees the light. “Did you make a wrong turn or something?”

It’s a jest, but that’s oft where truth can be found.


Without waiting for a response from the big guy he makes his way to the back of the truck and stares down the foreboding road they had just driven upon. He does not remember it looking how it does now. In the distance, a bloated raven flutters from branch to branch. Its squawk echoes, giving it an unearned gravitas. Then, it vanishes. The gothic southern woods in which it was nesting recede, replaced by mangrove marshes. A timber footbridge stretches across the swampy estuaries.

He crouches down, and picks up a yellow breadcrumb. Studying the bridge further, the yellow trail grows pronounced, leading off into the distance. A hulking mass steps beside him.

“Why do I get the feeling that the truck isn’t going to fit on that bridge?” he asks, rhetorically. He knows the answer. He steps forward towards the crossroad, spending one last moment looking at the other options.

They’re gone.

Stone monoliths block the way; each emblazoned with an image

A planet.

A woman.

A hand.

Each path; its own story.

He sighs, accepting what must be.

“Are you coming?” He looks to his friend. Solemnly, approaching hooves clop against the road. The Salmon-Coloured Minotaur places a large hand on the man’s shoulders. Silently, he answers.

The man pulls back a little. His pursed lips ponder what lays beyond.

“What if we made a deal?” he suggests. The Salmon-Coloured Minotaur lets out a light chuckle.

So be it.

He steps to the arch, and passes through.

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2C: Through the Fire

The bridge extends across Cypress swamps and sawgrass marshes, anchored in sporadic tropical hardwood hammocks. The scenery changes at an abnormal rate; biomes typically spanning over hundreds of miles mesh together in a garish Floridian kaleidoscope of nature. Under each footstep, the timber creaks and groans. Rot eats away at the planks’ edges where they skim too close to the surface of claggy sloughs.

The intrepid traveller’s hand glides across unpolished handrails made of ancient conifer. The touch is unattainably smooth, extending eternally as a single piece undisturbed by even nails or screws. A lost ant finds no microscopic footholds on which to cling to as it takes shelter from the ignorant hand sweeping across its world. It gets swept up and tries to make the hand its new home, but there is nothing to cling to there either. The hand and its man are inviolable. The ant falls into the bog. It finds a new life alongside spiders and scorpions of tales already told.

The bridge wraps around a patch of pine forest and out into a coastal prairie. It stretches straight in front of him, and he follows the yellow breadcrumbs as they lead him - north - towards the glistening waters of Florida Bay. Beyond the sea, a domineering mountain oversees the psychedelic glades, reaching to the unknown beyond the clouds. One day, the mountain will be ascended and poems will be written about whomever lays claim to the throne at the top.


He reaches the deceptively calm ocean, and again the bridge stretches forward - out across the water. He follows the trail, one foot in front of the other. The mountain casts its shadow across the dank waves lapping against the walkway. Its climbers climb; he presses onwards. Ever forward.

A spray of water shoots from the sea next to him as a small North Atlantic right whale surfaces next to him. It floats along next to him in a youthful naivety, pleading for him to acknowledge it. He refuses to give it any further consideration. He follows the trail.

Softly, the whale sinks under the sea once more only to dramatically reemerge further down the path. Blasting from the water, it lands upon the bridge, completely blocking the path. The man continues on, a collision seemingly inevitable. As the impending conflict draws nigh, the humanity of the whale’s green eyes becomes apparent. They sing of compassion and understanding; an awareness of life and death that only one who can travel beyond the limitations of humanity can comprehend. Another burst from its blowhole rains down upon the journeyman. He flinches, expecting it to burn. It doesn’t.

The whale does.

From a small handprint upon its side, the whale bursts into flames. The fire spreads from the inside out, rendering its body to ash, then its tail. Its head follows soon after. The eyes are the last thing to go; still calm and loving in the midst of suffering. Soon, they fade to dust. The ebbing tide washes over the bridge and reclaims the charred remains. As the last remnants of the whale return to the sea, it ignites once more. Soon, the entire blue is replaced by flickering waves of red and orange. The man walks over the spot upon which the whale gave its life and his foot plods down upon the wooden plank, the flames shoot up higher.

The world burns in a sea of fire. All save the man, protected by the whale’s blow, and the bridge, protected by mystique and plot. Its timber resists the heat, never darkening or burning. Not an ember can survive upon the forever path. He pushes on.

Individual flames reach out like arms at him. They try to clutch at his possessions. He holds them tight. He will never let them go. Still the flames reach. They carry words with them, making threats and false promises. They lash him, but he resists. No mark is left upon him, not even on his hand, though not for a lack of trying.

The fire of the world grows and spreads. Its black smoke blankets everything. Even the mountain is obscured. The world becomes insular. Just a man and his journey. Every obstacle on the path is met with the same bull-headed resistance. He keeps going. Even when the fire becomes a wall, and the path leads straight through it. Head high, he keeps going.

Images taunt him from the flaming barrier. Blue hair; Scruffy beards; Infuriating masks; Goat faces. They do their best. He rebels.

The true Rebellious One.


He doesn’t bat an eye. The journey lasts months - years even. Some faces change but his resolve never waivers.

He walks through the fire.

Because he was made to emerge on the other side.

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2D: The Other Side

Stepping through the seemingly eternal wall of flames and assholes, he arrives at an iron and stone fence surrounding a sprawling manor. As he steps into the commune grounds he notes bodies tending to vegetables in a greenhouse, and others hand-sawing sheets of plywood for a structure of their own imagination. Others still are kicking a soccer ball around the estate grounds. A wayward kick sends the ball careening over towards the visitor, causing him to duck. The ball clangs off the fence next to him, and hushed murmurs ripple amongst the group now taking notice of their guest. By the time he walks up to the manor door, all eyes are silently fixated upon his presence.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Not paying attention to whether there is any other form of door knocker - electronic or otherwise - present, his bare hand bangs on the door. He can hear the echo throughout the mansion on the other side.

He can faintly hear the light pattering of steps above the sound of the butterflies in his stomach beating their wings. A latch unhooks on the other side, and the great door swings open.









































“He told me you’d be coming...”



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