"Stage IIIA lung cancer. If you look closely the cancer has spread through the lung and into the lymph nodes in the middle of the patients chest. The other lung, already dead from a previous incident, has no cancer."
The EX-Detective lies back in the hospital bed. He watches as the doctor explains to the flock of scrubs that follows closely behind him. The group stare at the doctor as he points to the row of x-rays pinned on the wall adjacent to the bed.
He's been coughing quite excessively for months now. He was ignoring that fact that he could be sick, just continued his horrid lifestyle. Everyday was a mission to remove the pain that he felt. Everyday was a trial. Everyday he was awake, it hurt.
His suspension didn't last very long. Shortly after it began the letter came that his services were no longer needed by the Los Angeles Police Department. With the little money he had and instead of sticking around in what seemed like a dead end, he moved east to Las Vegas.
Without much trouble he found a job working security in several different casinos. He was a small fellow, but his history on the force was his leg-in. Even after his "dishonerable" discharge. The cough began catching the attention of gamblers, guests, fellow officers, and other employees as it got far worse as the weeks went on. Continuing to ignore it, the EX-Detective ignored the same as his depression, his insomnia, his drug addictions... He used his drug addiictions against his depression and his insomnia. Which in the long run, actually only aided them. It took him losing conciousness, falling face first onto the ground in front of a ninety-three year old woman feeding nickles into a slot machine. 911 was called immediately, the EX-Detective was taken to the local hospital. Many tests lead to more tests. Those tests led him to be transferred to an even larger hospital. Which led to more of the same tests, over and over again. Until, a few short days later, when the news come out.
A nurse quickly walked into his room and over to the bed.
"How are we doing?"
She checked his vitals and looked around at the different monitors in the room. The EX-Detective pulled himself up in the bed. The nurse made her way on the other side of him and over to a small night stand. A large vase with dozens of flowers sit there with a small card attached to the front of it. Before the EX-Detective could answer the nurses first question, she came with another.
"OH HOW SWEET! Who sent you these beautiful things."
She reaches down and picks up the vase and smells the flowers. They were certainly beautiful.
The EX-Detective scratches his head for a moment.
"Well, if you didn't just bring them in, I don't know. They weren't sitting there a second ago."
The nurse looks at the EX-Detective with sad eyes. She places the vase back down on the stand and reaches over and pats him on the cheek.
"Awe, sweety. You feeling tired?"
The EX-Detective remains serious as the nurse turns around and leaves the room. He looks over at the mysterious vase and reaches for the card.
It's been a long time since I've sent you the letters, but I couldn't help myself as I see your not better. I've told you before if you're in need of a friend, my doors are always open just walk right in.
It's just like the old postcards he would receive two or three times a month while living in Los Angeles. Who could possibly know where I'm at right now? Who is sending these? They've always gone straight into the garbage before and the EX-Detective hasn't received one since he's moved to Las Vegas. He notices the same address listed on the front of the card, still no name. Maybe it's time to check this place out.
Four Weeks Earlier
"Take five, pal."
The EX-Detective plops himself down in a swivel chair beside his fellow security officer. In front of them were what seemed like hundreds of monitors. Showing different angles from different parts of the casino down the hallway. Bullet-proof, mirrored glass to their left gives them a birds-eye view of the entire casino floor.
He tosses a cigarette pack down onto the table filled with several small bags of white powder. The man picks it up and places it in his pocket as he exits the room. The EX-Detective sits back in the chair and rests his feet up on the console. He watches the monitors in front of him closely for a few moments and looks at his watch. He pushes himself across the room and looks out the window looking out to the casino. Several distinguished looking men walk in simulateneously from the back. As they enter the EX-Detective points a remote into the air and begins clicking buttons towards several different monitors.
As the several man make their way across the casino, the video survelence shows nothing. The samed relapse over and over again. The men sit around a table and begin their business.
For a few dollars on the side every week, the EX-Detective has made quite a living working from both sides of this corrupt world in Las Vegas. The man he works for behind the scenes is someone that not too many people in Las Vegas have had an opportunity of meeting. If they have had the chance of coming face to face with him, it was only because he his face to be the last they had ever seen. The EX-Detective was different however. The Fat Man had faith in this one. He chose the EX-Detective because he recognized his abilities, even beyond these horrible faults he's accumulated over the years.
It didn't take him long to make the decision. Los Angeles had nothing left for him. He had lost everything. Starting something new would probably do him best.
He wasn't going to visit some shrink. He knew that for sure.
Although that was one of his tickets to bounce back his career. All they wanted was for him to get a little help. He was having none of it. He didn't see the point of sitting on some old coot's couch and spilling your sorrows and sadness onto their notepad for them to just read it back to you and tell you how crazy you are. The business cards and postcards came nonstop. He figured it was just someone at the station trying to help him. He didn't need anyone's help.
Present Day
The EX-Detective walks through the halls of the hotel room in Gothensburg, Sweden, home of the next XWF Wednesday Warfare. He's carrying two large bags filled with assorted bottles of booze. He has a bounce to his walk and slightly whistles a theme that some Swedish lads would not be too familiar with.
He cuts around a few corners during his travel down the corridor and walks up to an elevator. He reaches his index finger out from holding the one bag and presses the button. After a few moments, the door opens and the EX-Detective walks in. He presses the number "Six" on the pad and waits patiently for the elevator to reach the sixth floor.
The elevator makes a ding noise as the doors slowly seperate and the EX-Detective walks through. He walks through more hallways until he comes to room sixty-six. He stop in front of it and opens it with his keycard.
He steps into the room and sets the bags down on the floor. He looks around and there is a red haze that fills the air, mixed with thick cigar smoke. Across the room a fireplace crackles and burns. The room is dark as there are no windows to reveal the sunny day from outside. The shadows dance and flicker off the bookshelves that line the room, all surrounding a large wooden desk in the middle. Behind the desk sits the Doctor, Louis D'Ville.
"Making yourself at home, Lou?"
Don't I always? Pour us a drink, my dear Trevor, we have much to discuss.
The EX-Detective walks the two bags of booze to a large table off to the side of the room. He begins taking different bottles from the bags and concocting different drinks and potions. Just as the Doctor had ordered.
Hello, my friends.
As you can see, I'm happy to be in a nice comfortable place long before our session. It's been a decent journey, back and forth through Europe. That's one of the benefits of being part of this Warfare tour, it's got us away from that boring old desert, aye Trevor?
The EX-Detective 'sort-of' nods as he takes a big drink.
I'm glad to see that you're just as pumped to be back in action as well, Mastermind. All ready to go are we? Splendid. Splendid indeed. What I don't really understand, however, is this big change that you're talking about now. Have you changed? Should I not recognize the same failure that stands before me now? You certainly look the same to me. A little dopey. I little mopey. Crack a smile, my friend.
So, what happened between the time that you were eating dinner with that woman's family, training in the gym, and your trip to Sweden that provided you with this big change? You're supposed to be darker now? More evil? The King of Xtreme? To me you already seemed pretty dark, so there's nothing really there I see different. As for evil, well, after watching you get all 'googly-eyed' around your sweetheart, you just remind me of a giant puppy dawg, is all.
Now the fact you call yourself a King yourself and claim that don't glorify the crown that I wear is absurd, my friend. King of Xtreme? Really. Well, as I said, with that big puppy dawg heart of yours, I don't see you being a King of anything. Being a King requires you to have no heart. No conscience. No ability to feel. You've failed in all three of those fields, Mastermind. That title you're holding for me, isn't yours to keep. It almost sounded like you were trying to convince me to let you hold onto it for three more weeks. I don't care whether you get a briefcase or not and neither does anyone else. You're not a factor in the XWF, you're not a threat, you're just a body. A filler for the card, my friend. You show up to every fight with the will of a warrior, but the skill of a pantywaist. I'm a King, because I have the will of a warrior AND the skill to back it up with. The skill, the strength, and the ability to rule over the XWF. My GOD GIVEN RIGHT? Honestly, my friend, you coudn't have used better wording. I don't believe God owes me anything right now. I've earned everything I have right now and I'm going to earn a lot more in the few short weeks to come. This year is going out with a huge bang and the XWF will never be the same again. The year 2015 will be the year of the Doctor and it's starting with you and your Xtreme Championship.
You should take pride in the fact that you're part of this, Mastermind. You are part of the beginning of the uphill slide that the XWF is heading in. You will forever be in the record books, December 3, 2014, Mastermind pinned by the Doctor, NEW Xtreme Champion. Then, I don't plan on earning a briefcase and giving this reign up. Oh no, my friends. It's obvious that those briefcases are far more valuable than this title. What would stop me from continuing my reign and just accumulate briefcase after briefcase after briefcase forever? There wouldn't be anything to stop me. That would nearly give me control over who would be the Universal Champion at any given time, selecting the rightful holders of those said briefcases, of course. Basically, the possibilities are endless, folks. Just know that when Warfare is finished with on Wednesday, the entire tide of the XWF changes along with it.
Keep talking about your kickouts too, Mastermind. Every tee shirt you've laid out can be your own personal memorabilia of your second reign as Xtreme Champion. Twenty-eight kickouts, is it? Impressive. I apologize for shorting you from before. Your devastating kickouts kept me intrigued each time as you would lay your challenger out with a viscous DDT and cover them with your mark. Every last one of them suffered the same fate as you reached down and picked up your Xtreme title, reached into your duffle bag, and placed a shirt across their chest. Then you walked away. I began to avoid my attempts just because I did NOT want another one of those shirts. I could throw them into the same closet as Peter Gilmour's lunchbox if I ever acquire the ridiculous thing. Pointless, ridiculous, worthless items.
I'm also glad your showing as much concern as I am with the whole 'private match' idea. It's not that I'm worried that someone is going to show up, but I was just concerned with your pride is all. Don't get me wrong, no one likes when a session is interrupted, as the same goes for the Doctor. Again, I say, I would not be surprised if we have company during our title bout, Mastermind.
This could perhaps be the last time I'm speaking to all of you as an XWF competitor without a championship. Of course, I am already recognized as your King, but no title is around my waist. No title is draped across my shoulder, just the one upon my head. You should all look forward to the next couple of months, because I am.
2003
The EX-Detective walks through the halls of the office building in Las Vegas, Nevada. He walks like a stiff board next to a man with a bit of a bounce in his walk, whistling something indecipherable to him.
He cuts around a few corners during his travel down the corridor and walks up to an elevator. He reaches his index finger out and presses the button. After a few moments, the door opens and the EX-Detective walks in. He presses the number "Six" on the pad and waits patiently for the elevator to reach the sixth floor. He looks down at the address on the small card.
The elevator makes a ding noise as the doors slowly seperate and the EX-Detective walks through. He walks through more hallways until he comes to room sixty-six. He stop in front of it, reaches for the handle, and opens it.
He looks around and there is a red haze that fills the air, mixed with thick cigar smoke. Across the room a fireplace crackles and burns. The room is dark as there are no windows to reveal the sunny day from outside. The shadows dance and flicker off the bookshelves that line the room, all surrounding a large wooden desk in the middle. Behind the desk sits an old looking man.
Hello, my friend! Please, come! Sit down!
The EX-Detective slowly walks into the room. He takes a seat across from the man.
"Are you the one who's been sending me all of the postcards and letters?"
Indeed I have, Trevor.
The EX-Detective's eyes shoot up. He looks deep into the other man and could almost see the fire reflecting from his one glass eye.
"How do you know my name?"
The man laughs a bit and turns around in his chair.
There is much more than just your name that I know about, my friend. Could I offer you a drink? We have much to discuss.
The EX-Detective doesn't answer, but took the drink.
You see, I've had my eye on you for quite some time, my boy. I could not help but notice your in a bit of a slump as of late.
"But how----"
The man holds his hand up and silences the EX-Detective.
Please, allow me to finish.
I see your occupation has changed in the past few years, several times, in fact. It also seems your a bit ill too, my friend.
"Listen just who the fuck are you anyway?"
I thought you would never ask. My name is Doctor Louis D'Ville, but you can just call me, Lou.
The stinging pain from the EX-Detective's memories shoot through his body in an instant. He shakes it off.
"That's my son's name."
Well, my! What a coincidence indeed. How old is the boy?
"He would be ten."
Would be, you say?
"He died. Along with my wife. It was a few years back."
How tragic. Is that what has finally brought you to my office, Mister Dedntik?
"I can't say that it is, Lou."
Then enlighten me, please.
"I'm going to die... and I don't think I can handle it."
The treatments haven't even begun yet, my friend. Have more faith.
"I don't have much faith anymore, Doc. I gave up on faith a long ass time ago. I don't have much more to go on here."
What if we just make the best out of the time you have left on Earth?
"What do you mean?"
Well, let's just say I have my ways and can make your time left seem like forever.
"I still don't know what the fuck you're talking about, man."
The Doctor pulls a large clipboard from what seemed like thin air. He pulls a feather from an ink bottle beside him and holds it out.
"What am I signing?"
Just an agreement, my friend. Simple stuff you know? Legal, medical, doctor things. Basically ensures your secrets are safe with me.
"Well, I don't feel comfortable really. This thing IS a mile long..."
The EX-Detective begins flipping through the pages.
"It looks like this is written in really dark red ink. What's the deal?"
You're just going to have to trust me, Trevor. This document entitles you to my services whenever you need them. Days from now. Years from now. Doesn't matter. All in agreement that you allow me to check-up on you every once in a while. Sign, my friend. Allow that pain in your chest to just go away. It's that simple.
The EX-Detective grabs the feather and scratches his signature across the bottom of the document.
The weight on his chest disappeared. His breathing no longer wheezed. The pain was gone.
![[Image: gttO4ZK.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/gttO4ZK.jpg)
![[Image: Kd641BT.png]](https://i.imgur.com/Kd641BT.png)
![[-]](https://xwf99.com/images/portal2/collapse.gif)
