Biloxi National Cemetery
Biloxi, Mississippi



It's a pristine Spring Day in the deep south as Lux picks her way through the headstones at the Biloxi National Cemetery, a place of rest for members of the American armed forces. Lux pauses a moment to scan the rows of tombstones, her expression rueful and contemplative.

If you're expecting this to be some kind of “rah-rah” ball-washing of American exceptionalism you've come to the wrong place. I've never had any time for jingoism, or flags, or the simplistic trappings of a nationalist mindset. I've seen too much and suffered too much to think any of that shit matters anymore. Nor do I think that America, as a whole, has always fought for what's right. That becomes especially apparent where and when I come from.

She looks at the camera now, squinting a bit for the sunshine.

But that doesn't mean I don't respect the warriors. Deliberately putting yourself in harm's way to protect and fight with your comrades in arms is a signifier of bravery, no matter what. I respect those who fight, even if I may not always respect the reason. And it's because, though they would be loathe to admit it, those same warriors are victims.

War is an all consuming beast. It devours the men and women who fight in it. It devours their families. It devours the land, the sky, and the sea. War makes victims of us all, it's abuse to the n-th power. But somehow those who fight still come away from their experiences feeling like they need to suck it up. They feel like vulnerability is to be avoided at all costs, and that the horror, anxiety, or revulsion they feel in the wake of dancing with that all consuming beast is best left ignored.

But it can't be ignored. War stays hungry. And it keeps feeding even when we try to pretend it's not.

Joshua, and I'm going to use your real name if you'll permit me, we have a lot more in common than you may think. And I felt it very important that I address you myself, because while Corey may be wise beyond his years in some respects, this is just not something he understands. Corey likened you to a drunken frat boy, an immature man child whose life is a nonstop bender holding you back from any real success. But I've seen this before. Not you exactly of course, but that devil may care attitude. The recklessness, the crude jokes, that inability to take most facets of life seriously. I get it, Joshua. It's how you cope.

You made no bones about the fact that you have PTSD. You even included it in your write up on the XWF web site. And responses to PTSD vary like the shifting winds. Some drink themselves into oblivion. Some descend into rages, or panic in public spaces. Some throw themselves into their careers. And yes, some try to heal. Now Josh, I gather you're not the touchy-feely type so this isn't an invitation to come have a good cry on my shoulder and tell me what still keeps you up at night. What this is however is an acknowledgment of understanding and respect.

Now, you might be asking yourself what the hell kind of understanding I could possibly have. But the fact is that I'm a solider, like you. I fought in a time different from yours, against an enemy different (and in some disheartening ways, not so different) from the ones you faced. But I have fought. And I died.

Lux lets that profound pronouncement hang in the air for a moment. A cloud passes in front of the sun, casting the surrounding headstones in a brief overcast.

I lost my war and I died, and that is how I ended up here in Corey Smith's body. I bore the indignity of watching my enemy butcher my body and hold my decapitated head aloft like a sick trophy. So yes, yes I damn well understand that hurt and that loss. I still wake up at night sometimes choking and bringing my hands to my neck to make sure it hasn't been severed. I struggle every day to keep the faces of those that I've lost fresh in my mind, but I couldn't bring any photos with me so sometimes I'm scared that maybe I'm getting the details wrong. Was Josiah's nose that thin? Which side of Okumbe's face had that acne scar? Was Cora's ankle tattoo a bee or a dragonfly? These wonderful people I fought beside, who I entrusted my life too. Devoured. And now I can't even remember what color eyes they had. I should be able to do at least that much, right?

Lux gets quiet for a moment, working her jaw and looking away from the camera. Finally, she's able to refocus.

Obviously, I can't understand the specifics of YOUR experience. It's yours alone and nobody can cope with it or fight it for you. But what I can offer you is this advice: don't let it eat you anymore. Unlike me, you've been able to set down your burden and reenter society. You know as well as I do that the battle never fully goes away, but you can recommit yourself to something else you care about. Find a new purpose and carry on. Ostensibly, it's seems like you've TRIED to make that new purpose the XWF, but it just hasn't completely “taken” for you. The one thing Corey was right about is that you're capable of more, and I think so too. And maybe it's just that you haven't fully embraced that new purpose yet. Maybe part of you is still getting gnawed on in your field of battle, I don't know.

Embrace the new purpose Joshua. You're a good fighter, you're funny and you're charismatic. There's no reason you shouldn't be at the top. Don't be afraid to put yourself there.

Lux grins a bit.

Don't worry, I'll let Corey get back to the “funny” next time, but I felt like I'd be remiss if I didn't say this. I look forward to kicking your ass pillar to post on Saturday. Oh, and I know Corey digs the beard but did you catch the articles recently about how beards have more germs than dogs? Jee-SUS those things are a disease vector. Do they make a hair net for beards? I'd really appreciate you wearing one.

With a chuckle, Lux offers the camera her own salute as it fades to black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~WHERE MONSTERS FEAR TO TREAD~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Madison Dyson, flanked on either side by Blackwater mercenaries, throws open the double doors into a warehouse like setting. It's well lit, with numerous halogen overheads beaming crisscrossing patterns of multi-colored lights throughout the environs. It has a dizzying effect, and while Madison pretends not to notice the mercenaries cast furtive glances about.

Reaching the center of the large room, they start to pass through an unnerving sight. Nude mannequins surround them on all sides, splayed out in various poses. But in each case the mannequins face has been carved out, and an old fashioned camera placed in the recess. In some cases, the lens peeks out where one would presume an eye socket would be, giving the effect of the mannequin having a single cyclopean black eye. The weathered mercs' anxiety only seems to increase. One of them steps closer to Madison, whispering an aside. What the holy fuck Madison?

I told you he was eccentric. Deal with it. Madison stops dead center in the room, scans it for a bit, and then raises her hands to her mouth to call out. Razors! Where the hell are you?! The sound of her voice echoes throughout the mostly empty space.

Bienvenue, Madison! A voice calls out in response, bearing a French accent. The Blackwater grunts snap to attention, hands going to their sidearms but Madison waves them to stand at ease. A figure steps to the fore, arms tucked under a garish black fibrous jacket, his lips painted a crimson veneer.



One of the mercs starts to snicker at the sight of him, and Madison turns to glower at him, silencing him instantly. Turning back to this strange figure, she plasters on a smile. Why you lurkin'? She offers up playfully.

Razors makes a show of looking aghast. Lurking? Oh my dear people like me don't LURK. We SLINK. He gestures disdainfully at the mercenaries. What's with the plebians?

One can't be too careful with a lunatic assassin from the future on one's tail.

Ah yes, this “Lux”. The lacquered lips part into a smirk. I was wondering when this would arrive on my plate. Follow me into my studio.

Razors gestures for the group to follow him and they do so (though the mercs somewhat tentatively). Razors leads them into a smaller adjoining room, but this one is chock a block with painted on canvases. However, the paintings on each canvas are each singularly horrific or dark, brooding, and inscrutable, from swirling black vortices of abstract art, to unsightly paintings of sharp objects puncturing various pieces of human anatomy, but instead of blood pouring out it's rose petals, or flies, or in one case worms. Madison's retinue can be seen muttering in response. Razor's turns back to the group, smiling wide and stopping atop a huge blank canvas on the floor. And then he begins to undress.

Still doing the whole art thing, huh? Madison notes with relative disinterest.

Oh but of course! Razors slides his jacket off and tosses it aside. Art is the very distilled essence of our humanity. It's the philosophy of the human condition. He unbuttons the lace shirt underneath, sliding it off and revealing a pallid but toned figure beneath. Madison ogles him lecherously for a moment and smirks.

Ohhh, are we about to be treated to one of your vaunted “gallery” premieres?

Naturally! It's the least I could do for an old friend. Razors slides his pants and underwear off, stripping himself completely. He kicks them playfully aside. Madison's mercenaries avert their gaze, swear, or nervously chuckle in response. Razors considers them disdainfully. Oh you absolute prudes!

Is this one gonna be messy? If so I want a slicker.

Razors rolls his eyes and steps off the canvas, retreating towards the back of the studio and returning with a yellow rain poncho, which he tosses to Madison. Here.

Madison slides it on while the grunts look at her with confusion. Razors then takes hold of a remote control that was laying on a nearby easel and presses a large red button on it. A whirring and grinding sound screeches from above, drawing their attention skyward. The men gasp and sputter in response. A human body is lowered from the ceiling by two hydraulic winches. It's held horizontally and face down, with one meat hook buried in the corpse's upper chest cavity and the other just below that. Jesus Christ! One of Madison's guards bellows as the ghoulish scene comes fully into view, hovering over Razors and his giant canvas. Madison, seemingly unaffected, scrunches up her nose. You got eye protection?

Close your eyes. Razors replies sarcastically. He then presses another button on the remote, and the meat hooks start to pull apart, carried on by the motors in their respective winches as they pull along the racks built into the ceiling. Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to have your minds EXPANDED! Razors tosses the remote away and casts out his arms, face lifted heavenward as the body is pulled apart with a sickening tearing and rending sound, accompanied by the crack of the rib cage splitting the air like a thunder strike. Razors becomes sexually aroused as the anticipation sets his body alight with pleasure. The body's abdomen yawns open, and first it's just a pitter pat of blood droplets falling down upon his face. But then the flood gates abruptly open, and gore streams forth from the body as it's pulled nearly in half, dumping blood and entrails all over Razors and his canvas. Madison recoils from the splash, turning her head to avoid any errant matter from striking her face. One of her guards starts to sputter and choke, and pukes copiously on the floor.

Jesus Christ Buck, how many towel heads did you incinerate in Kandahar?! I would have thought you'd be made of stronger stuff by now.

The body is nearly rent now, held together by solely the spine as the flesh and viscera has been completely parted. And then, with a dramatic shatter, even that gives way, and the two halves of the corpse start to sway wantonly in the air, sending more blood splatter all over the place. The guards back away, their faces ashen and terrified. But Madison remains, and considers her ghastly associate once more. Razors, now covered head to toe in blood and gore, drops down onto the canvas. His face is contorted in ecstasy, and he begins to roll about, “painting” the canvas with his own body, feeling himself all over and supping on the blood by flicking his tongue out and drawing it into his mouth.

Madison reaches under her rain jacket and pulls out a compact, holding it up to her face to see if she got any on her. With a low growl, she spots some blood on her cheek. Fuuuuuck, I got plebe all over me. Razors, why do I always end up suffering for YOUR art? She takes a step closer to Razors' writhing form. So you gonna kill Lux for me or what?

Razors flips onto his stomach, eyes feral and unfocused. What's in it for me?

You can do whatever you want with Lux's disgustingly adorable body. And a million dollars.

Sold. Razors purrs, turning onto his back and arching it, eyes rolling back in his head as he is overwrought with pleasure.

Madison claps her hands together. SPLENDID! I'll have one of my minions contact you with the specifics of the transaction. Madison turns towards the Blackwater grunts. Obviously, you saw NOTHING here today. And if any one of you decides to suddenly grow a conscience I'll turn you over to Razors here for his next installation.

Razors gasps in pleasure behind her. Ohhhhhhh....

I don't think any of you want that, do you?

All the men shake their heads “no” fearfully.