A woman is sitting in traffic. Outside the windows of her midsize 8 year old Sedan, a metropolitan city looms over her. The woman looks to be in her mid 30's, late 30's at the very oldest. Moderately conventionally attractive, the only signs of time's indelible march are a slight fleck of gray in her bangs and the very beginnings of creasing in the corners of her eyes.

She's wearing a smart business suit, dark blue with a skirt and blazer. The radio airs some mundane talk radio chatter, the volume turned down so that it's almost indiscernible from the idling hum of the engine.

Her hands coil tightly about the wheel, chapped and peeling skin pulled taut against the faux leather of the wheel cover. Her eyes are locked straight ahead, but not focused on anything particular. They're just....searching. But not finding. Distant. Far away.

The blare of the horn from the SUV just behind her pulls her from the daydream. Frowning a bit into the rear view mirror, she gently nudges the gas and pulls forward.

Familiar, no? A snapshot of one of thousands of daily morning commutes. Isn't it funny how this simple scene resonates for such a dramatic cross section of you? 15 seconds and we've just summed up how the vast majority of you, millions of you, spend roughly 5% percent of your lives. Stuck in traffic.

Going nowhere.

We check in on the woman again. She's in a nondescript office, across the desk from a white guy in his 50's, or thereabouts. Khaki slacks, a lint brushed shirt and a narrow tie guarantee he's middle management. We cannot hear what is being said, but the woman is speaking while the man considers a form in his hand. Down the side of the form are a series of numbers in red ink, mostly “3's” and “4's”.

The woman's expression is one of reserved advocacy. She's pleading a case, but in the checked manner of the fearful. Pleading her case, but not TOO hard. Musn't be pushy. Musn't seem greedy or selfish.

The manager makes a show of considering the woman. He nods understandingly. Makes a play at seeing her point of view. But she didn't have a chance. His lips part and while we still can't hear the words YOU know what he's saying. “Tough fiscal times”. “Maybe next year.” “But don't forget to grab a free donut from the break room.”

She gets up and leaves quietly.

You did it all right. Did what they told you.

But then why does it feel so wrong?

We see the woman coming through the door. She kicks off one of her heels, and then the other, placing them in the shoe rack before making her way towards the living room. A man is sitting in the recliner, clad in pajama pants and a Rick and Morty T-shirt. His lips move to speak the words “Hey, honey!” She smiles limply back at him, returns the greeting in rote fashion.

She proceeds to the kitchen. The stove is cold and there is no meal prepared. She turns her head in response to the man calling out something from the other room. Her lips set in a firm line as she opens the fridge.

But this was the way things were supposed to be, right? How it's supposed to go? Oh sure, it's not perfect. But it's respectable. The neighbors don't question it. You get invited to all the soirees sent to you on Facebook. Mom and Dad are happy. They're proud. And to you, at first, it feels like a warm blanket. Inviting. Secure. Relatable. Predictable.

But sometimes blankets smother.

The woman walks into a baby's room, her stocking feet making nary a sound on the carpeting as she nears the crib. She looks over the side at the small human there. It's small eyes blink open, the body squirms and a slight smile works it's way into the infant's face. It holds up one tiny arm, opens its tiny hand and splays it's little fingers. Reaching.

The woman doesn't reach back. Her expression is the same as it was in the car that morning. All searching eyes and nothing. Not looking at the baby but through it. As though it's not even there. But the child keeps reaching. It keeps reaching. The woman eyes the blanket in the crib. She remembers that sometimes blankets smother. She can't remember where she heard that. Guilt washes over her.

You made a life. The pinnacle of human purpose. The very apex of mankind's awesome power. And your entire life you were told how meaningful this would be. How world shattering and amazing and beautiful it would be pushing this thing out of you and having it suckle from you and learn from you. You were promised so many things.

But what if it's not amazing? What if you look at that little face, that miracle, and it just feels like something is missing? You're not allowed to talk about those feelings. Those feeling are WRONG, you are told. Those feelings get you left out of all the mommy groups and earn you the stink eye from all the Donna's and Karen's.

What's wrong with me? Why do I feel this way?

Why me?

Finally, we see the woman in church. The man is sitting next to her, holding the baby in his arms as it starts to fuss a bit. But the woman's not paying any attention to that. Head canted aloft, she stares into the face of the Lord.



And as she beholds that face, for the first time in many, many Sundays, she actually utters a silent prayer. She asks “why?” Why does it feel so bad to do everything right? Why does it all feel so empty? Is that how everyone feels and they're just afraid to say? Or is there something wrong with me?

Why?

She waits a long time for an answer. Her husband prods her to stand for the Gospel but she scarcely notices as everyone else stands in unison. She's still waiting for her answer. Still waiting for her answer.

But there is nothing.

Is nothing.

Is nothing.

Is nothing.

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The shot reopens on The Engineer. He is seated in a simple metal chair in the middle of the aisle at the church we just saw. All of the parishioners appear frozen in time. The champion is seated casually, one leg propped atop the knee of the other. A cigarette is hanging out of his mouth, and before he speaks he casually flicks it onto the patterned tile. It's nice that we finally have time to chat. You and I. He gestures back and forth between himself and the camera. Because I think I have something of great value to offer you.

Now, as I begin to launch into this, you're probably going to think one of two things. Some of you will think, “My God, you're beautiful. I'll follow you anywhere.” To which I say, THANKS! But some of you, the more discerning half, are going to think that “This sounds like some cult bullshit.”

The Engineer splays his arms out to his sides disarmingly. To which I say, “it's not your everyday cult”!

On this cue, a banner unfurls at the front of the church, covering the massive crucified form of Jesus Christ. The banner reads:

XWF AND UNIVERSAL CHAMPION THE ENGINEER PRESENT..... …..THE CHURCH OF THE DARK STAR!

TA DA! I present to you, The Church of the Dark Star. Or, “aforementioned cult bullshit”. Now, you may be wondering why I'm so flippant about my own movement. And it's simple. All religions are cults. And all cults are religion (with bad PR). But what all cults and all religions are is a supposed path to salvation. That is what they all have in common.

Let me ask you, for any of you who have ever dabbed your toe in one of the big three monotheistic philosophies, how many times have you actually had your prayers answered? Lunatics, schizophrenics, and pill poppers need not apply. I'm talking to the normies. How many of you can concretely and confidently say you have turned to your great patron in the sky and found solace? Respite? Reprieve from your problems? How many of you have seen an actual end to your suffering? Or even an adequate accounting for the meaninglessness you feel deep inside? Be honest with yourselves.

The Engineer stops and the camera cuts in on a close up. How many times has Jesus truly spoken to you? He speaks the words with a cynical playfulness. He uncrosses his legs and sighs. Here's where things get different. Here's where things get REAL. You know what the Church of the Dark Star promises you?

Nothing.

Nada. Zilch. Zero.

How many of your prayers do you think our patron Aiwass will answer?

See previously cited goose egg.

Whoa, wait a minute! He pretends to be shocked. So what the hell good is The Church of the Dark Star? Why would I want to be a part of it if it has nothing to offer me?!

But think about it....The Engineer leans in. ….you're already getting nothing. Life already seems like an endless cycle of drudgery, a chaotic void into which you leave all your hopes and dreams and toil and get not even so much as a pat on the back from your sky child of choice. So what the hell is the difference?

I'll tell you the difference! The difference is that, with Aiwass, with MY church, we won't piss on your leg and tell you it's raining. We make no false promises of paradise or salvation. And don't even bother with that prayer shit unless you just like talking to yourself. In short, Aiwass means HONESTY. Brutal truth. Reality. And you won't get that ANYWHERE else.

“Heaven” is here. On THIS world. It's all we've got. And look around you. How much time do you think this world has? Hmmmm? Come on, you watch the news, right? Huddled on your couch just before bed, drifting off to sleep as a parade of absurdities and horrors fill you flush with nightmare fuel. Yeah, you know. He points to his head. You know.

He flashes an understanding look at the camera now, taking a moment to let all of what he just said sink in. Stay tuned everyone. There will be more. And best of all? We won't even ask you for money. He winks, and then makes a slicing motion across his throat, followed by someone from off camera calling out “that's a wrap!” All of the actors playing the church goers relax, dropping their frozen poses. The Engineer turns to them, casting his arms out. Excellent work everyone. You all get a round on me!

A smattering of hoots and hollers arise from the group as they trickle out from between the pews. We follow The Engineer off set and he points out a man wearing a headset. We still got that time slot on The Good Doctor, right? And the Youtube deal, all good?

The man, probably a director, shoots a thumbs up in return. Good on all fronts, champ!

The Engineer pumps a fist in the air and continues walking backstage, turning down a hall and into a dressing room. As he opens the door, you're startled to see a hooded figure standing on the other side.



The champion however, is totally unmoved. Hey friend, I sure could use a Double-Double. Could you pick one up for me?

The eerie figure nods beneath his hood.

Excellent. Don't forget the stirrer. Might wanna do something with the.... He gestures casually towards the hood. Wordlessly, the figure nods again and slips out the door. The Engineer takes a moment to consider himself in the mirror, tossing back a single unruly lock of hair before going to a purple leather couch opposite the mirror and dropping down into it. Finally, we are alone. He smirks and grabs for a pack of cigarettes off the table next to him. Lighting one up, he takes it to his lips and draws in a drag, holds it, and then releases it. It merges with the smoke from the lit burner, and in the blink of an eye, you seem to make out something within the smoke. The barest hint of a body, a torso.



The Engineer sighs contently and sinks back into the couch. Atara. Be still my heart, woman. He pats his chest where, ostensibly, a heart should be. I'm so glad Madison was wrong about you. She told me you were just some guileless twit, some flash in the pan iota of nothing. But you're not. He shoots forward, like an excited child spotting a flesh gift under the Christmas tree. By Aiwass, you get it! He slaps his knee and cuts a little chuckle. You get that this thing we do need not be just some tawdry spectacle. That we are, hand in hand, creating modern day Herculean epics. The baton of the ubermench, the superman, the iconoclastic hero paradigm, was passed to the XWF. We are MODERN FABLE.

Yes Atara, we are of the same high minded ideal when it comes to this insane little corner of the entertainment universe. That it can all be so much more. Lux realized it too, she saw its potential for rallying a people and uplifting their spirits. It's why she bothered with the XWF in the first place. In a way, I'm carrying on in that spirit. Towards, rather different ends perhaps, but.... He waves his hand dismissively. Ehhh, we're not talking about all that. We're talking about YOU, love. Beautiful, literate, pugnacious Atara. You know, some would accuse you of pretentiousness. But not I. I love it. It's perfect. This whole thing you're doing. And please, be my guest, consult your oracle. Read those tea leaves and scatter those bones about the ground. I'm almost loathe to disappoint you, but disappoint I must. Because your oracle will turn up nothing.

Six months ago I was but a twinkle in the eye of a mad man. I have no past. I am no Christ, though you may walk on my water whenever you wish and I do appreciate the sentiment. No Atara, what I am is meme made flesh. Thought contagion made corporeal. Idea weaponized. Whereas you are birthed in notions of antiquity I am very much of the modern world. In an era where information is no longer dependent on an oral tradition, but races across the globe in the blink of an eye on high speed internet, or is instantly beamed into the hearth's of millions from the glow of an omnipresent screen, The Engineer is instantaneous thought machine. And while there is certainly a primitive sort of artistry to who you are and what you represent, I cannot help but think it all rings a bit inadequate. Like, sticks and stones lobbed at a nuclear device. Don't get me wrong, beauty is always relevant. But myth is transformative. It's never static. It evolves. I am that evolution.

Nonetheless, my offer? It still stands. You are welcome to join me if your heart desires it. Perhaps I can secure you an upgrade.

He takes another drag from the cigarette. His features relax, lose a bit of that giddiness from before. And from gold, we come to lead. Jessalyn Hart and Mastermind. Jessalyn, do you know Macbeth? He clears his throat with a touch of playfulness, holding one arm aloft in a poncy display of oratory.

“Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

Shakepeare was not thinking specifically of you, Jessalyn, but he might as well have been. Despite your pretensions of being something more, you are but a brief, depthless thing of little substance. You are of little meaning to the overall machinations of the XWF, and of zero import to the world despite your trafficking with the supernatural. Now, far be it from me to doubt the uncanny, but the fact that you are of such an unusual mien yet are nowhere close to being on my movement's radar says quite a bit about your utter lack of significance.

And yes, yes, you are a former champion. You and COUNTLESS others. Why hell, somehow even Mastermind saw fit to be a record breaking TV Champion despite being an utter wellspring of incompetence. More on that later. My point is this. Anyone can win a fight. But few can amass the level of accolade that makes them a legend, that makes them worthy of achieving that level of myth that I discussed before.

You were a two time tag team champion with Vita Valenteen, yes? So tell me Jessalyn, why is it that she has gone on to capture the hearts and mind's of so many while you have been left behind to languish? What is the X-factor that separates those who are written about from those who merely catalogue the greatness of others? Allow me to answer that for you, Jessalyn.

It's purpose. It's living your life as though an epic ending has already been written and everything else is but a cluttering irrelevancy to be overcome on the way to it. And some people have that purpose, Jessalyn. They have that drive, that temerity. And others, like you, simply allow life to happen. They allow themselves to be waylaid, to have their momentum halted, and when halted they simply stand still like a drooling idiot waiting for chance to drop them a line before deciding to give a damn again. Well, girl, chance dropped you a line. Are you going to rouse from your idiot stupor or are you going to flow with the currents of your tepid existence once again? Don't bother answering. It's going to be the latter.

The Engineer stubs out the nub of his cigarette on the arm of the couch, letting it linger and watching the leather sizzle and bake. He continues to speak without looking at the camera.

Madison strongly encouraged me to address all of my opponent's. “That's just what you do.” He smacks his lips, drawing them down into a sneer. That offends me, though. It offends me that I should have to spend even a fraction of my existence dignifying the base and mediocre with my attention. That I should have to spell out for the masses why a perennial loser will lose again. The Engineer laughs cynically. “Oh, but he gave you a gift...” He speaks the words in a mocking tone. Suddenly, he reels back like a viper and spits directly into the lens of the camera. Then, with a voice suddenly deeper and more gutteral, he snarls. Wipe it off!

The camera opera wastes no time complying with the request, and when the sputum is removed it's as though a transformation has come over the champion. On the surface of things, he still appears serene. But there is a tension about him now, a barely checked vitriol that should it be untethered, could be capable of the unspeakable. All in all, an unnerving display.

“Chump, that's right I said CHUMP.” The Engineer looks aghast uttering the quote from Mastermind like he's mimicking a child. Justify my time. DO IT! Justify the time I need to spend, the oxygen I need to utilize, to address YOU. You miserable worm. Oh, oh....before you lay claim to some kind of hollow victory, let me clarify, because you definitely seem like the type who requires it, I'm not angry because of what you said. Because frankly, what you said, is the kind of puerile trash I would expect out of a remedial child. No, I'm angry because I had to watch it. I'm angry that you have somehow managed to fail upwards in this company for the better part of a year. I'm angry that due to the failure and insouciance of this roster you can somehow, in defiance of all logic, claim to have held any championships at all. I'm angry that, I DO in fact have to deal with the calibre of YOU, rather than the calibre of people like Robert Main, James Raven, or my good departed friend, Unknown Soldier. I'm angry because someone remotely interesting, or exciting, or challenging could have been in your spot. I'm angry about all that potential lost, sucked up into the churning abyss of complete mundanity that is YOU. I'm angry that yes, I have to “get my feet dirty” kicking the holy living fuck out of you on prime time television when I could have been doing literally anything else.

Mastermind, are you comprehending what I'm saying? I'm going to resent every single moment I have to waste breaking your body. I'm so angry about having to spend any amount of time on you at all, that I can't even enjoy the thought of making you vomit blood. It's just waste, it's all just waste!

The fact is Mastermind, I have more respect for the man who has kept his mouth shut in this contest than you, who have opened your mouth to unleash a fountain of confirmation that you do not belong within an ocean's reach of this match. You complete dimwit. You tedious dullard. You excruciating waste of effort.

With that, he spits directly into the lens of the camera for a second time.

Let Mastermind clean it off this time. It's my gift to him.

//end function