1A: Backstage Wit’ Da Boss

23 December 2020
Venice, Italy
After The Incident

Derrick Diamond hastily walked through the backstage area of Pier Luigi Penzo Stadium in Venice, Italy as XWF Wednesday Night Warfare comes to an end. As he rushed down the corridor, a couple of staff reached out at various times to draw his attention to the minutia of their day-to-day work. He waved them off. As his mission took him around a corner, the sound of a commotion began to grow louder and louder. The source quickly became clear as he approached a group gathered around the trainer’s room.

XWF Chief of Security, Little Feather, stood guard in front of the door surrounded by a swarm of referees and corporate staff. Derrick approached and noticed that the trainers themselves were amongst those gathered. Seeing Derrick push his way through the crowd, Little Feather tapped Head Referee, Chaz Bobo, on the shoulder and pointed in Derrick’s direction. Chaz nodded and started directing traffic, making an easy pathway for Derrick to get through to him.

“How is it?” Derrick asked as he stopped in front of Chaz, Little Feather, and the door.

“Not good, boss,” Chaz admitted. “None of these guys will go back in there.”

“That’s not good…” Derrick muttered under his breath. Through the door, an incomprehensible stream of unfettered rambling could be heard alongside several loud thumps and crashes. Derrick glanced around looking for any hope of assistance. He turned back to Chaz. “Who has been in there?”

“He has,” Chaz said, identifying a small balding man sitting quietly on a bench to the side of the pack.

“And… who is that?” Derrick obliviously asked.

Chaz shrugged.

“You know as well as I do that our medical staff aren’t named,” he replied, pointing out an obvious gap in the information available on www.xwf99.com.

“All right…” Derrick said, drawing a deep breath. With Chaz and Little Feather’s assistance, he pushed his way back through the crowd again. The trainer didn’t even look up as Derrick sat down on the bench next to him.

A lull hung in the air that Derrick needed to find a way through. He shuffled slightly closer and placed a hand on the trainer’s back.

A shockwave rippled through the trainer’s body and he lurched up from the bench. His erratic movements drew the attention of some of the nearby congregation. Derrick motioned with his head towards Little Feather, who with the help of Chaz Bobo and the other assembled officials, helped to redirect the group. The trainer paced back and forward in front of Derrick, who rose to meet him.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey…” Derrick repeated, stepping in front of the trainer and grasping each shoulder, gently holding him still. “Are you okay, buddy?”

“What do you think?” the trainer sobbed, struggling to make eye contact.

“What happened?” Derrick pushed, moving his head to try and meet the trainer’s eyes as they flitted about in avoidance.

“He tried to wrap me in gauze like a mummy,” the trainer fearfully described. “He kept saying that! ‘I’m going to make you a mummy! I’m going to make you a mummy!’ He kept threatening it!”

“Okay…” Derrick breathed. In the back of his mind, he thought that the threats the trainer received weren’t even that bad in the grand scheme of things. Not for the XWF. “How… how is he?”

“He’s fucking insane!” the trainer screamed back. Derrick again flicked his eyes back towards the mustered crowd behind him, but Little Feather and Chaz Bobo were already on it. On their orders, the masses were dispersing. “He tried to shove a bottle of antiseptic cream up my ass!”

“Gotcha’,” Derrick acknowledged. That was a little more like it. Derrick could understand how that might be traumatic for some. Still… kind of par for the course for XWF staff. This guy must be new. “Look man, I’m sure it was just a breakdown in communication. Get someone to take you back to your hotel, and I’ll check in on you tomorrow, okay?”

The trainer stammered to himself.

“You hear me?” Derrick shook him. “Get someone to take you home. Can you promise me that?”

The trainer nodded, and Derrick escorted him back to the bench. He waved over to the thinning group, and referee Lawanda Sass responded. Derrick met her halfway across the corridor and inaudibly whispered something into her ear. Lawanda headed towards the trainer, while Derrick cut back through the remaining staff. He made a beeline straight for the door, but Chaz cut him off.

“I’m not so sure you should go in there, boss”, Chaz stated.

“It’ll be okay. It’s just a breakdown in communication,” Derrick reassured him. Little Feather glanced at him, and Derrick nodded.

He opened the door.

---

1B: Left-Handed

23 December 2020
Venice, Italy
The same time as the above

While Derrick Diamond was focused on the welfare of the staff outside, inside the trainer’s room, the walls were closing in.

A wounded man raged as he marched from one side of the room to the other. A raving mess, he shouted to himself and periodically smacked loose laying items across the room.

With his left hand.

A box of latex gloves went flying as the man huffed. With long, unyielding strides, he left no corner of the room spared. Masks, pens, clipboards, test tubes, syringes, gauze, bandage wraps, blankets, cold packs, a stethoscope, a flashlight, an oral thermometer, a rectal thermometer, the dildo named Chris that Thaddeus Duke fucks himself with after every show (because Thad – that pretentious twat – only fucks with things called Chris. It’s more fun when it needs to be explained) – all of it received its time in the air as the whirlwind whipped around the room.

He kept his eyes locked in upon his right hand: scarred, burned, branded.

Staring back it him, framed by fresh red blisters that were still expanding their reach and boiling through the skin of his palm, was an upside-down pentagram with a left hand imprinted inside it.

On his right hand.

His new left.

Between whistling whines and guttural grunts, each thrash of his body drew the walls closer and closer to him.

He raved, disoriented within an ever-shrinking space:

“My right hand is my left.

My right hand is my left.

My right hand is my left.

What is left?

Is this my left?

Or my right?

What is right?

My right hand is my left.

My left hand is my right.

What is this?

Left?

Right?

Centre?

Left?

Right?

Is this centre?

Is this left?

Is this right?

What is right?

Is this my right?

Is this my left?

My right hand is my left.

What is right?

Is the Left Hand right?

Is this right?

Is this left?

Find my centre.

My right hand is my left.

My left hand is my left.

Find my centre.

My left hand is my left.

My right hand is my right.

Am I right?

Find my centre.

Two lefts.

Make a right.

I’m right.

Find my centre.

My right hand is my left.

Your left hand is my right.

The Left Hand is in the centre.

The Left Hand is in the centre.

Centre.

Right.

Left.

My left hand is my right.

What direction?”

With a rattling click, the door latch loosened, and the door creaked open.

Whoosh.

The outside world rushed in through the opening and filled the space, pushing at the walls until they buckled and expanded under the weight of time and space.

As the universe within the room expanded, the man shrunk. A speck in the vastness of existence.

Terrified and meaningless.

---

1C: Broken Record

23 December 2020
Venice, Italy
After both of the above

Derrick Diamond entered the trainer’s room door and quickly hit the deck as a different dildo (i.e. not Chris) came flying towards his head. This one was black, with little wings on it. Like a raven. Because Raven’s a dick. The flying latex weiner flapped its way out of the room, and a yelp was heard that sounded distinctly like Chaz Bobo’s voice.

“Why do we have so many of those lying around?” Derrick asked out loud as he picked himself up off the floor. He already knew the answer though. “Oh right… leftovers from the Shane era.”

With a whisper to Little Feather, who was still standing guard outside, Derrick gently shut the door behind him. He cautiously turned to face the once raging bull who now lay on his back, eyes closed, draped half across the trainer’s bed. The scruff of his hair dusted the rubber mats that provided a makeshift floor over the natural concrete beneath it. His feet stuck up in the air, tapping against the brick wall next to the bed in an uneven but strangely soothing rhythm.

“Hey…” Derrick quietly announced his presence, stirring the Thrower of Dildos from his daze. He opened his eyes and licked his lips, catching the saliva that had begun pooling at the corners of his upside-down mouth and lapping it away. “Can I come in?”



“Do you mind maybe turning over so that you’re a bit easier to understand?” Derrick asked. The upside-down man turned right way up and spoke a little clearer this time.

“He answered the question before he asked it.”

“Thanks for that.” Derrick paused. Though the man was easier to understand, his eyes were darting around the room. Still, they remained vacant. He rambled to himself as Derrick stepped forward into the room.


“That’s uh… that’s kinda what I’m here about.” Derrick picked up a chair that had been knocked over in the prior turmoil and set it upright in front of the bed, cautiously out of reach from the man waving his legs behind his head. The wheels squeaked as they compressed into the mats when Derrick took his seat. “Can I… can I see it?”

“He saw.

He saw.

He haw, he haw, he saw."

“Yeah… I did,” Derrick conceded, somewhat understanding what the man was saying. “I’m sorry that happened to you. Those guys… those guys are…”

“Empty, vacant, false.

Empty, vacant, false.

Empty, vacant, false.”

His eyes locked into an unblinking gaze, staring right through Derrick and into the void beyond.


“Yeah… right…” Derrick struggled to find something to say. “Can I see what the hand looks like now?”

Derrick reached forward towards the man’s arm. Instantly, the man recoiled.

“No!

No!

My right hand is my left!”

He shuffled up the bed, sitting up and pulling his knees towards his chest in the foetal position. He tucked his right hand inside his legs, protected from the world and all its dangers.

“Okay… sorry, man!” Derrick, being as far removed from dangerous as possible, backed off. The man’s eyes flittered around the room once more, avoiding Derrick’s face. “I guess people don’t really want to be touched today. I just need to understand how bad it is. You wouldn’t let the trainer have a look…”

“He touched!

He touched IT!

The naughty bits.

My naughty…

fiendish…

right hand.”

“I mean, the trainer kinda needed to,” Derrick stated. “To… you know… treat and bandage it…”


The scarred man’s lips smacked hard enough to ricochet from wall to wall.

“Woah,” Derrick startled at the aggression. Remembering the trainer’s story, he rolled his chair back even further out of reach.

“My right hand is my left.”

“Look, man,” he started again. “You need to let someone look at your hand.”


“I know it is.” Derrick stood up and took two small steps towards the man rocking back and forth on the bed. He reached out once more, though he had no idea why – it hadn’t exactly gone his way today. He didn’t reach for the man’s hand though, just his shoulder. The man continued rocking.

“My right hand is my left.”

“Let me have a look,” he asked once more. Just as his hand was about to land on the man’s shoulder, gnashing teeth nearly took his thumb off. Derrick jumped back, keeping his digits intact. He backtracked all the way towards the door. “Look… if you don’t let anybody get that hand checked out, I can’t let you compete. Especially if you keep threatening to wrap people up and throwing dildos at their heads. This isn’t 2013.”

The man leaped from the bed and charged at Derrick.

He stopped, just an inch from Derrick’s face. He grinded his teeth while his head jerked around atop his neck.

“Throw me out or keep me.

I’m hungry.”

The man pushed past Derrick Diamond, opening the door and heading out into the hallway amongst what little crowd remained. He mumbled to himself en repeat as he stomped off down the hallway. After a few moments, Derrick also stepped out of the door.

“Little Feather,” he said, drawing the attention of the seductive Chief of Security. “That man can’t come in the building next Warfare, got it? Make sure Smokin’ Bill knows, and make sure Sayors announces it publicly too. Everyone needs to keep that man out of the building. He needs help.”

Little Feather nodded and looked over to Chaz Bobo who also heard the conversation. Bobo motioned for someone to spread the word and the remaining staff dispersed.

Somewhere in the building, the familiar refrain echoed around the corridors.

“My right hand is my left.”

---

1D: Dissent

07 January 2021
Somewhere in Italy
A day after the most recent Warfare

“You got me.

You got me really fucking bad.

It still hurts – my right hand.

You got what you wanted.

You fucking pricks.

Every day, for the rest of my life, I’m going to have this little memento of our time together. All the fun we had.

Fun. That’s what this is for you, right? You’re having fun. Well I’m glad to hear it.

I’m having fun too.

Yeah, you heard me.

I’ve had some time to reflect, to get myself…

…right.

And now?

Now all this pain, this torture, this assault on my existence, this is fun for me.

It’s fun watching you throw everything at the wall for one lone dissentient.

It’s fun watching you fail.

Rest a-fucking-ssured, that’s what’s happened here, guys.

You’ve failed.

That brand you left me with, it’s gone.

Poof!

Burned away.

By me.

Because I’m in control of my destiny. Not you.

Never you!

You, The Left Hand, wanted me. You did. Big man Baph’ asked me to raise my hand and swear fealty to an order other than my own; a purpose I wasn’t built for. He wanted me to willingly give up my self-determination.

Not on your life.

Or mine.

And I’ll give it if I have to – my life. If Warfare showed you all one thing, it’s that whatever you’re able to do to me, I’m willing to do it and more to myself.

To resist.

To remain autonomous.

This isn’t just a fight for me. I’m not out here braying like B.O.B., seeking my pound of flesh. Nor am I crowing like The Misfits, seeking a moment of relevance.

This is about me.

And how you can’t have me.

You know you want it.

Don’t lie to me.

You know you want me.

It really tickles me to know that if I stepped out on that stage in Milan this coming Warfare and put my… good… hand in the air, you’d all blow your loads on the spot.

Right then and fucking there.

I can practically smell you frothing at your blood-tinged south-mouths over the mere thought of it.

Not happening, team.

That hasn’t changed.

And won’t.

What has changed though, is something else I said to Baph’ before The Incident.

I told him that even though he couldn’t have me, he could take everyone else. Chris Chaos? Take him. Tommy Romeo? Take him. Jenny Myst? Take her.

I said that.

You could have had them all, friends!

You stupid motherfuckers.

That isn’t the case anymore.

I know now, that as long as you exist, my very sovereignty is threatened.

So now… everyone is coming out of the woodworks to step up against The Left Hand.

Everyone is galvanised.

The entire XWF – enemies and friends alike.

Even that BITCH!!!

Hell… you even got me a man-date with Corey Smith! I suppose I should thank you for that.

But the walls… they’re closing in on you.

And I’m leading the fucking charge.

With Baph’ in the big house, who is leading you? Who is guiding your divine path?

Nobody who can stop me.

Nobody who can enthral me.

Even your lowliest sheep has abandoned you back to the ashes they came from – a queen of dust.

Not that that’ll save her.

Once Left Hand, always Left Hand in my books.

Damnation to you all.

Funny thing about that is… those of you who remained will likely enjoy it a lot more than those who left.

What a stupid girl.

How is Baph’ doing, by the way, fellas? He’s a big boy – looks like he could take a fair dicking down in prison.

It’s a shame he won’t be there for the reckoning.

Still… where there’s a will there’s a way. I’m sure I could find a way to catch up with him.

I’m not exactly innocent.

I certainly won’t be after I’m done with all of you.

I’d say that it wasn’t personal, but… you made it that way.

But there’s one person who you haven’t been able to make your victim.

Jenny Myst.

You keep trying.

You keep failing.

Just like I’ve ripped away the damage you caused to me, she’s spoiled your party every single time.

You can take her Shooting Star championship, but you’ve never been able to take her.

She dissents.

Always.

Jenny Myst has a heart that can’t be broken.

Jenny Myst has a resolve that can’t be subdued.

Jenny Myst has a will that is can’t be conquered.

That’s why I chose her.

To not have a repeat.

To not make me feel that way again…

I remember it.

I’ll always remember it.”

Uh oh! It's Marf’s magic word!

Eyes loll to the side, fading to a lighter shade of ice blue.

“…remember…

…remember feeling…”

---

1E: The Rememberer

06 January 2020
Somewhere in Italy
After The Reclamation

Stop.

I remember hitting the off button on the camera that projected my face and voice into the Fiera Milano Stadium in Milan. For those in attendance for Warfare, the feed cut out. On an old, grainy screen next to me, I saw Jenny Myst happily stomp backstage. I knew then and there that I had chosen the right one. She’s a hero, through and through that one. I turned the dial on the side of the ancient screen, it zapped off. I was left staring at my reflection in the dead screen.

I remember pausing and wondering to myself… who am I? That had been the question, hadn’t it? From the moment I announced my entry into the High Stakes Battle Royal, people asked me to reveal myself. Even with my face bare for all to see, they still asked. The Baphomet was one of them. He asked me to take off my mask. I asked him what mask he was talking about, but I knew what he meant. Truthfully, if I could have taken it off, I would have. I just didn’t know how. That much hasn’t changed.

Who am I?

I remember raising my scarred hand in the television’s black mirror. It throbbed from what I just did to it. Each pump of my heart sent a searing flood of blood and pus out from it. I scanned down to the ground where the bandages I had wrapped around my hand prior to its reveal on Warfare had fallen. The blowtorch had clanked on top of them, but there was enough of them still visible for me to notice that they were clean. The bloody scars of the initial injury had found time to heal over the previous two weeks of my General Manager-enforced absence. But now… what’s done is done.

I looked at my hand once again in the flesh, although with what’s left of it, ‘flesh’ might not have been the right word. My hand quivered. The initial searing pain from the flames subsided as the nerve endings themselves burned away.

I remember my vision flashing white. My knees buckled. I fell to the ground.

Blinking, my palm came into view once again.

I remember a symbol piercing through the blur.



I remember panicking. I shouted ‘No!’. Violently I shook my arm to rid myself of the parasite. Droplets of blood flicked around the room, across furniture, floor, ceilings and my person. But the symbol didn’t budge. It just grew stronger.



I remember a soft, haunting, feminine voice calling out to me from the aether.

“Raise the left hand.”

I remember shutting my eyes and scrambling to my feet. I shouted ‘No!’ again. On my way up, my hip collided with the TV process with a loud thud. It wobbled on an unobservable axis with a vibrating pitch that rapidly rose in frequency. The wavering monitor pulled tension on the cords connected to it, causing the camera on the table next to it to fall backwards. I stumbled over to a large basin and turned the cold water on. The pipes groaned as they were fed them for the first time in years. Water sputtered out of the faucet, tinged brown and smelling of sewage. I didn’t care. I plunged my hand into the cold flow. The water wicked away dead skin and other remnants of my hand’s past life, discolouring the water further. The cold provided momentary relief from the burn I had been blocking out.

I remember hearing the voice again.

“Raise the left hand.”

I remember screaming this time. ‘No! No! No!’ My body trembled. I began to whisper.

“My right hand is my left.

My right hand is my left.”

I remember pulling my hand from the water and turn my palm up so my eyes could see it. It still burned. But like the brand itself, the symbol was gone.

I remember a flood of relief washing over me, taking with it any pain. I exhaled.

“My right hand is my left.”

I remember thinking, ‘who am I?’ The voice replied, reaching across space and time.

“Raise the left hand.”

I remember trying to block it out. My little secret.

…remember secret…

…remember…

---

1F: Taking Back My Hand

14 January 2021
Somewhere in Italy
In the now

“You guys got a week off. I don’t know if he’s raised his hand in secret, but Derrick Diamond kept me away from you for one Warfare. Just the one though. He wanted me to see a doctor, but it’s amazing what a doctor will do for you when you threaten to put things up their ass.

But now we can get back to playtime.

It could have been so much more fun though, if Marf hadn’t gone and done something stupid like raising his left hand. Why’d you have to do that, Marf? We could’ve had something special. Picture it, man! You and me, travelling the world, getting into all sorts of mischief and adventures! Climbing Everest; breaking into the Louvre; shark diving off the coast of South Africa – we could have done it all!

And I know what you’re into, man. I could’ve peppered in some stalking of the ladyfolk too. I’m talking way better quality stalking than that Renee broad. That’s weak shit, bro. How does this sound? Panty raiding the Bundestag; sneaking onto North Sentinel island to give us a bit of that National Geographic flair; getting a peak at the British crown jewels – if you catch my drift. That could have been us, man! And with The Left Hand being how it is, there are so many honeys there for you to spy on!

You botched it though, man. And now it’s come to fisticuffs. Such a shame. If there’s a silver lining in this, you never did get in that kick in the balls that you promised me back at High Stakes. But that’s more in your favour, not mine. What do I get out of this?

More meat for the fire.

Pre-tenderised too. I saw how you and Lycana beat the shit out of each other. Hell, you had pulverised Ash before that, and took some shots at Atara. Pretty sure you would have jumped at the chance to do so to Geri, too. But that’s your schtick, right? You’re into the violence. Cool. We bonded over the chaos before – the unpredictability. This fight? It’s X-Treme Rules. Apparently the XWF doesn’t like booking me in regular matches. But I expect you to be into it. Again, cool. In case you hadn’t noticed, bud… I am way into this.

You enjoyed getting your hands on Tommy Romeo. Why? Because he’s a loudmouth?

HI!!!

Is that loud enough?

Come on Marf, fire up. Drop me on my neck like you did to Tommy. I double dare you. Take photos of my family and taunt me with them like you did to Shawn. Good fucking luck. You can’t hurt me, Marf. Your buddies tried. They pressed that hot steel into my palm and still I’m here defying them. Defying you.

You weren’t there when they branded me. You saw that and still thought it sounded like a good idea. You backed the wrong horse.

I know you’ve got a thing about that R word, but it sounds like there’s another R word that’s a bit more fitting for you.

You know damn well what’s coming next. You know what you saw in me when we first met. I’m not the sheep that these others are. I don’t just follow the first goat-headed cunt who comes along talking about destiny. As much as Baph’ wanted to say I was, I’m not lost. I just make my own path. And that path is running right through your depressing, empty excuse for an existence. You want the violence? You’ve fucking got it. But you’re not getting the destiny promised you. All that talk from Baph’, it’s a myth. Your being led along with a carrot on a stick and like the dumb fuck you are, you’re following. What do you think is at the end of this path, huh Marf? He hasn’t told you has he?

Because he doesn’t fucking know.

Just like he didn’t know he was getting put in the slammer.

Just like he didn’t know that in the slammer, things are being put in him.

The Baphomet doesn’t know a fucking thing.

There is no great darkness coming to the land – though I can see how that might be appealing to a blind bastard like you. It’d even the scales after all. All there is, big guy, is this. The here and the now. Your friends took my dignity. I took it back. Then I took your Heavymetalweight championship. The scales still aren’t even though.

You will all suffer.

But then we’re back to square one though. Right Marf? Right Lycana? You guys enjoy the suffering, right?

Oh no, friends!

That just means you haven’t actually suffered yet.

Warfare is just the beginning. The beginning of the end. And I’m not coming alone.

For 101 days Jenny Myst reigned as the Shooting Star Champion. Geri Vayden only got a shot because… well… why was that again? She talked her way into it?

Ooh… a spooky talky girl! So good at ‘earning’ things.

When push came to shove, Jenny Myst didn’t get pinned. Jenny Myst didn’t tap. That’s how damn tough she is. And now she’s motivated, more than ever before. For weeks you’ve been targeting her. You set alight her championship. You doused her with gasoline. You were lurking around every corner, in every shadow. But in me, she’s found a kindred spirit. Not like the cripple and his merry band of bastards, or the bozos in B.O.B. They’ve all been asking for this fight.

Jenny and I never wanted it, but you idiots drew us in.

The table is set.

And you’re the ones who set it.
You haven’t ever truly suffered.

Lycana, I’m talking to you, dear. You’ve got the same problem Baph’ did. You trumpet about great pretenders and look to hold them to account. I support that. I told Baph’ as much. The XWF is ripe for the picking. But… what do you do when you’re one of them?

You got it twisted, last Warfare, Lycana. You tried to paint my bae as one of the pretenders. His friend, Thad, sure. But Corey? That’s who you tried to hone in on? Because he’s no longer an unholy, immoral, machine? He fucking knows that, moron! He owns that. That’s his truth. What’s yours? That you’re no longer ‘dissatisfied and unfocused’? I beg to fucking differ. Your fixation on the dark has you as lost as ever. You’re fumbling around trying to attach meaning to anything that you can.

I know you think you’ve found it. You say it often enough. I’ve seen it too. The way you writhe in the ring. The way the goosebumps on your arms prick up when you take a beating. I’ve got a newsflash for you though, dumbass, pain isn’t meaning. Darkness isn’t meaning. None of the shit that your spewing is meaning. Your entire fucking order is meaningless! Pointless! Futile!

There is no meaning!

The natural state of the world isn’t light versus dark. It’s nothingness. In the beginning there was nothing, and in the end, the nothingness will return. Not the dark. Dark means nothing without light. But you… you’ve attached yourself to this idea of the dark because you can’t handle the fucking truth. You need meaning.

Because you’re still ‘dissatisfied and unfocused’.

But I’ve got you covered. I’ve got the entire Left Hand covered. Because your love for the dark… I’m going to rip it away. I’m going to bring you and this entire conglomerate of necro-cunts to a place where light and dark don’t even exist. A place beyond your fucking reckoning.

DO YOU HEAR ME?

I’m going to pull the darkness that supposedly lives inside you straight out of your ass, tie it up, flush it away, and leave you as empty as Marf’s fucking skull. No pain for you to get off on, no torment, no agony, no dark! Nothing!

And I won’t replace it. I’m going to leave you there without anything to fill the void.

Lycana, I’m going to show you the truth of the world. And then, and only then, will you know what suffering really is.

I’m the one you never planned for. I’m the one that doesn’t fit into your binary world. Not Left. Not Right.

Just defiant.

This won’t stop after just one week, either. Every week you show up, I’m going to be there. Every time The Left Hand wants to claim another victim, I’m going to tear them apart. Over and over again. This is my meaning. This is my truth.

This is my world.

I’m hungry.

The table is set.

It’s time to Eat The Left Hand.”

---

1G: Animal Instincts

Around the same time
Rome, Italy
But maybe in the future

The back of a moving truck rattled open. Out hopped a wounded man. He slammed the rolling door shut behind him and gave the side of the truck two loud smacks. A left hand gives a thumbs up from the driver’s window and the truck drives off. The man dusted the shoulders of his finest cardigan with a gloved hand and walked off whistling. He bumped fists with his best friend, The Salmon-Coloured Minotaur, who was puffing on a cigar while leaning against an ancient brick wall. The man disappeared from sight, but something caught The Salmon-Coloured Minotaur’s eye. It growled, tossing the cigar to the ground and crushed the embers under its hoof, before plodding over towards a black van parked thirty yards down the street. A light flashed in the window of the car, and it quickly fired up its engine and took off. The Salmon-Coloured Minotaur’s eyes glowed. It recognised the car.