The note appeared on his desk one day, which was pretty odd considering the nature of Doc's office.  He looked at it for the third time to triple check the address.

Yep, this is it, he thought.

In front of him was one of two Hooter's restaurants in Phoenix and why he was standing there, he wasn't 100% sure.  Doc folded the already worn page once over and slid it back into the pocket against his chest.

He went inside and found the place mostly empty.  A few gentlemen sat at the bar, drinking, and watching a barrage of televisions.  In the corner, sitting alone, was a man with his mouth smeared in sauce chomping through a mountain of chicken wings.

Studying the room, Doc turned and had a short, bouncy waitress in his face.

"Hi!  Welcome to Hooter's!  I'm Justice and I'll be taking care of you tonight!  Just one?"  The waitress asked, smiling ear-to-ear.

He pulled on his pocket watch and read the time.  It was within thirty seconds of 10PM.  That's pretty sharp.  The waitress smiled wider, awaiting his reply.

I beg your pardon, my dear, but I believe someone was expecting me.

"Oh."

The bounciness and cheer ran out of her like she sprung a bad leak.

"That's probably Rick," she pointed to the chicken wing-guy, "This way."

Rick was grunting and gnawing on another bone when he noticed Doc being led to his table and waved him over anyway.

"Doc!"

He choked when he initially went to speak, then started licking his fingers one by one and extended his hand as Doc took a seat.

"Rick Good, glad to meet ya."

Doc looked over the greasy hand.


Hello, my friend.  My name is–

"Oh, no need for introductions from you, Doc!"  He laughed, "I know ya!"

Rick waved a wing slowly in the air.

"The great Doctor Louis D'Ville!  Hello, my friend!"

Doc smirked.

Then who ARE you?

Rick paused with a piece of chicken hanging off his lip.

"I just told you shithead.  I'm Rick!"

Yes, I'm aware of your name, but who are you and what is the meaning of this?

The wingman continued to mow noisily through the wings, angry-like, mid-conversation.  Like the wings wronged him at one time and this was his redemption.

"Oh!"  Rick said with a mouthful.  "They didn't tell you?"

Doc sat silent.

"I'm your new assistant!"  Rick shouted!  "I'm gonna handle all your shit and make you famous, baby!"

Doc hesitated.

You?"

"ME," Rick winked.

Doc about croaked.  It's not that he had forgotten about the conversation with Mister C all those months ago, it's just that it was all those months ago and nothing came of it.  At most, he thought his leg was given a tug and that all of that nonsense of better "Personal Relations" was just BS.

First, just so you're aware, I was never interested in any of this.  It sounded like a joke when it was presented and I took it as one.  Second, this was talked about months ago, and if I'm even supposed to take it seriously, what took so long?

"Yeah…"  Rick let out a sigh.  "They said you'd probably be uncooperative."

I'm not being uncooperative.  I'm being perfectly rational.  I handle my own business and I've never had a single issue in doing so.  The ones that have sent you, they tend to jump the gun at times and make rash decisions.  You understand, Mister Good, and I apologize, but I'm afraid you've wasted your time.  Your services are not wanted nor are they needed.

Doc stood up and walked towards the exit.  When he opened the door, he wasn't looking at the busy street that he left upon entering, not at all.  When the door opened, the darkness of the void was the only thing he saw.

"It's not that easy, you see."

Rick said, still sitting at the table chewing through his wings.  Doc allowed the door to shut itself then slowly turned back.

"You should come sit down."

Doc let out an exhausted sigh and rubbed his temple, but took the steps back to the table.  Apparently his new friend was more involved with this problem and isn't just some regular jag-off picked out of a bunch.  There was an obvious plan behind all of this that Doc had yet to figure out.  He hesitated, but then sat in the chair across from Rick who cleared his throat of any chicken debris and took a sip of his nearly full 22oz beer.

Leaning in, Rick asked, "So, what do you do for your image?"

Doc's brow raised.

My image?

"Yeah!  How the people, the public, see you and shit.  Your image!"

Doc paused before he answered.

My demeanor sends quite the message.

Rick stared at him, seemingly unconvinced.

"Oh, yeah…  So you're some kind of evil genius, right?"

Doc chuckled.

Some might say.

"Why no minions?  You probably wouldn't need an assistant if you had minions."

Minions?

Doc immediately thought of Mastermind and his "Misfits" or his old Asylum days.

"Yeah!  Ya know, to do your bidding.  The dirty work.  All that stupid shit.  Minions."

I don't do minions.  I've had a following once before, but it's been a long time."

"Perfect!  How many followers did you have?"

Doc puckered his lips and thought deep.

[doc]Eight if I would say the number off the top of my head.

"Eight?!"  Rick spit chicken across the table.  "Holy shit…"

Is that good?

"Rick…"  The waitress from earlier shuffled up to the table and whined.  "Do you and your dad need anything else?  We're going to close soon."

"Justice!  I'm glad you're here.  How many Instagram followers do you have?"

"I don't know…  Like 700k…  I should be over a million, but my account got, like, banned last year for some reason…  but I'm like a top 4% on OnlyFans."

While she was talking, Rick was slamming the mostly full 22oz beer he had.  He took every last drop then came up for air like he almost drowned.

"One— (BURP!)"  Rick gagged.  "One more, sweet cheeks."

Justice grabbed the glass and walked away with it.

"Sorry— (BURP!)  Sorry, did you want anything?"

Not at all,  Doc smiled and Rick bit into another wing.

"Did you– (BURP!)-- hear that?  700k followers on Instagram!  An average (BURP!..) say B- Hooter's girl that goes on the Internet and shakes her ass is more popular than you (hiccup) are."

That statement alone makes me care even less about all of this.

Doc stood up from the chair.

I don't thrive for 'followers', as you put them, and need to be 'liked' in this world, my friend.  I bring those same followers you speak of, those pigs, and force them to their knees and through fear and respect and with the strength of my stranglehold, I mold my image.

Rick stared blankly at Doc as he strangled the air.

"Right and how's all that working out for you?"

Doc shrugged, Fine?

"Fine, at most!  You have no presence anymore, Doc!  Followers and Likes aren't just numbers on the Internet…  Well..  They are…  Here's the deal, your stock's down."

My stock?

"Yeah, and consider yourself lucky you're getting the chance to redeem yourself.  How're your merchandise sales?"

Doc's head spun from the swerving conversation.

Merchandise?  What does that have to do with anything?  And what are you saying, 'Stock'?

Rick looked up from his glasses and shoved the large plate of bones and chicken particles aside.

"Listen, pal.  I've made a few deals in my day, too.  And there's a lot more Devils and Mister C's out there than just the ones we're talking about.  The easiest, simplest, and smartest thing for you to do now is just listen to me."

Doc frowned and folded his hands on the table.

"You ready to listen?"  Rick paused, but didn't get a response from Doc. 

"I'll take your silence as a 'Yes'.  You gotta get yourself out there, Doc!  Showing up and winning ain't enough anymore!  Your stranglehold at its strongest ain't enough.  When you were around and people were going out of their way to avoid you…  When fans were dying to see your next victim er patient or whatever….  When you showed up and everyone assumed your victory….  The negative energy that you pulled out of people was unheard of and that shit is what they thrive on, Doc…"

Mister C was quite excited about the briefcase in my possession.  I could fight more if it would please them, but I don't see the point of it.

Rick snapped his fingers and still managed to spit chicken across the table.

"That's it!  You have a briefcase…  and no one seems to really give a shit."

I wouldn't say that

"Fuck, I would!  Why not?  A couple of years ago if you had your hands on one of those things the entire XWF would've puked.  Now, there's no one around and no one important enough to even give a shit.  You're just another asshole to them."

I'd have to argue that, but if it were true, it wouldn't take much to convince them otherwise.  I'm fighting Mark Flynn this week.  He's this year's XWF Golden Boy and just seems to shine a little brighter than everyone else.  Defeating him will hardly do anything for my own sake, but will certainly turn a few heads.

"Is that animosity I smell?"  Rick sniffed.

Not at all. Mark Flynn, like all of you, has called me out for my absences while he has been an absolute role model in attendance. He has to show up every week. The man's ego controls his every move and while he calls it 'working', I call it a waste of time. He's working to keep his name on the tip of the tongue. Perhaps he didn't get the memo, but regardless of what he, you, or any-one else wants, I come as I please. I don't have to show up every week and I can't help but to at the very least stay in the back of everyone's mind. Every damn person on that roster knows and fears my name and whether I grace them with my presence week in and out changes none of that.

We stand in similar shoes, Mark Flynn and I. We both hold briefcases and we're both sitting at the top of the food chain. We're the two hawks just biding our time up in the sky waiting for our time to strike…. And I'm not in any hurry. Mark Flynn's partner, Bobby Bourbon's, stupid mistake will lead to a cleanse to the XWF Universe that it's needed for a long time.

What we will have this weekend is a showdown fit for something far greater, but this is what showing up every week gets you…. Epic battles that, in short, amount to nothing, but regardless, I will win. It's not the first time we've crossed paths and certainly will not be the last, but Mark Flynn will finally get a good session with the doctor.  And, when you sit with me, there are no bandages. There are no scalpels or forceps. There are Lobotomies, my friend. I am going to lift Mark Flynn up and drop him on his head and he will rue the day that he demanded my presence.  As I said, I come as I please.  I'll drop in and destroy Mark Flynn on my way to Free For All where I earn a shot at the Universal Championship.

"Hey, now don't get too far ahead of yourself, Doc."

Doc laughed.

Nonsense.  Mark Flynn is a mere stepping stone to something greater.  As the two greatest titans in this fine federation, we will battle over and over again.  I will tell him the same as I told his stupid, idiot partner, Bobby Bourbon...  You wanted this.  Now, here I am.