3A: Jimny

Just outside Selat, Karangasem Regency, Bali, Indonesia
Next week

“Disini!” shouts a short, police officer with stocky shoulders and a crumb-filled paintbrush of a moustache. ‘Over here!’ Drabs of grey paint cling to the brush’s fibres.

His partner, taller and leaner, clean shaven, with a blue baseball cap pulled close down above his eyebrows, turns and flicks a flashlight in the first officer’s direction. The light bobs through the dark as his feet scuff along the gravelly road. He joins his partner on the grass verge, and dims his light towards the ground to allow the other’s torch to work unimpeded. It shines through the thick overgrowth of trees at the base of the volcano.

“Dimana?” the taller policeman asks. ‘Where?’ Then he sees it. The light reflects back off a red reflector on the truck. With the location clear, he adds his own light to it. Two torches shine on the jungle green vehicle, expertly camouflaged within the bush. “Apakah panggilan telepon menyebutkan jika ada orang?”

“Tidak,” the shorter one responds, letting his partner know that the phone call that tipped them off said nothing about whether there were any people seen.

“Mari kita lihat,” the tall man says, stepping forward. ‘Let’s check it out’. He flits the beam of his flashlight between focusing on his destination and illuminating his path through tall, moist grass. His partner lags behind, his light unintentionally helping to provide additional security against any ‘people’ of a different kind of temperament than what had been asked about. Soon enough, however, the shorter cop begins pushing through the twenty or thirty yards of grass from the road’s edge to where the vehicle is semi-hidden. It’s as they get closer that they both notice broken branches hastily arranged over the hood and roof, a contribution to the previously obscured visibility of the truck.

That’s not the worst of it. The truck carries a spare tire on the centre of its rear, just above where the logos of Suzuki and the Jimny model are emblazoned on the bottom-left and bottom-right respectively.

The tire is absolutely riddled with bullet holes.

The whole rear end is. Save for that one reflector, every other piece of glassware in the tail-light region has been shot out. The number plate hangs from just one loose screw and the tire itself has deflated substantially.

“Periksa bagian depan,” the taller officer - evidently the superior - instructs the other. ‘Check the front’. With his light as his weapon, he anxiously steps around the side of the vehicle. Pre-trampled thickets of bush make it easy going, but then he notices it…

The driver’s side door is completely open.

“Tidak ada supir!” he calls back. ‘No driver’. The more experienced officer pokes his head around the side and his torch traces from where the shorter man stands, downwards and along the ground. It follows the faintly flattened bushes back towards the road.

“Tanda-tanda perjuangan?” he thinks aloud. ‘Signs of struggle?’

“Apakah kamu yakin?” the shorter officer asks. ‘Are you sure?’ The tall man pauses to think. He shakes his head.

“Saya tidak tahu. Ada yang tidak beres di sini. Panggil stasiun.” ‘I don’t know. Something’s wrong here. Call the station.’ “Kita perlu mencari pengemudinya.”

‘We need to find the driver.’

---

---

---

3B: The Missing Second

Kerobokan Penitentiary Institute, Kerobokan Badung Residency, Bali, Indonesia.





Kieran King.
XWF Universal Champion.
XWF World Champion.
XWF Lord of the Ring 2010.
XWF X-Mas X-Treme winner 2009.
All in the span of just 12 months!


Governor Tonny Nainggolan holds the metal door open for me as I step from the water-stained and mould-ridden hallways into a largely vacant cell. Crumbs of stone litter the corners of the cubic space, lit through one barred window high up on the opposite side of the room to the door. The only other things in the room are a plastic table of a dull grey shade and two white, plastic lawn chairs.

Seated on the opposite side of the table, the once young and handsome Kieran King stares at me through sullen eyes. His face is gaunt, cheekbones jutting out of splotchy skin. His blue eyes are washed and faded. I’ve seen that look before. I’ve felt that look before.

I step past The Governor and he gives me a quizzical look. I reassure him with a nod and he takes a half-step backwards - out into the corridor. The door shuts behind him, leaving Kieran and I alone. Cut off. Not just from other people, but from any hope of air flow too. Here, behind that locked door, the humidity is the only king.

As I approach the table, I see beads of sweat drip down Kieran’s face. It doesn’t seem to faze him. He studiously watches me. I studiously watch him. I hesitate before sitting, standing high above him and looking down.

Then I sit.

In silence so much is said.

But Kieran isn’t one for silence. He begins to laugh. It starts as a stifled snort, but it escalates from there: a chuckle, a chortle, and soon a full-blown, riotous belly laugh.

I know why he’s laughing.

He’s laughing at me.

Tears mix with his sweat - an extra dose of salt. I do my best to not react, while I wait for him to stop.

I’m waiting a while.

Eventually it does happen though. His lurching body calms and he wipes away at his eyes. His chest gives one final heave as he settles, leaning forward on the table with his arms propping himself up. He raises a finger, pointing and wiggling it in my direction.

“I’ve got to say, I did not expect to see you ever again,” he says.


I can’t even remember meeting him. I know the name. Even before the Obsidian Mirror, that is. I knew it. I think. But we are not connected. This isn’t like some cheesy, clichéd trainee turns on trainee deal.


This is just a man in a similar… profession? I guess that’s the right word. Or at least, it was. He hasn’t been seen or heard from in ten years.


A seed struggles to grow in the soil next to its mother.

Still… the mirror told me. Those men in white coats took me away that night in Germany - the only Anarchy show I’ve ever competed on. But it was not James Raven who steered them in my direction. It was him. Kieran. Fucking. King.

It doesn’t make any goddamn sense!

I remember the name of the man I put down that night: Morten Saint, even if today that name simply begs the question: who? I remember then stepping backstage - I traversed through the crowd much less frequently back then (less control) - and then… I remember them taking me. I remember their double chins and fat fingers; their crusted nostrils and pocked skin. I remember the sour, musty aroma that seeped from their armpits.

And I remember losing ten fucking years.

“Why?” I spit. Short and sharp.

“What, we’re not going to do introductions?” he smiles, his mouth and teeth perfectly symmetrical - an off-putting contrast against his scraggy frame. With the final contractions of his mockery put aside, his thick Kiwi accent shines through. “Bro, let me start! My name is Kieran, and yours is…?”

He grins again. He fucking grins!

How does he know? What does he know?

It’s okay. It’s okay!


I’ve got this.

“Vengeance.” Oh fuck, maybe I am that cheesy.

“Ooh…” he lifts his arms, handcuffed to each other at the wrists, and wiggles his fingers with wide eyes. “I’m trembling in my booties!”

“Why,” I say again. Not ask.

“You’re going to have to elaborate, my man!” Kieran pleads. He’s feigning ignorance, I know it.

“France,” I call him on it.


Kieran does his best not to sell it, but the whisper of a twitch in his left eye gives him away.

Got him.

“You know exactly what I’m fucking talking about,” I hiss.

His near-perfectly concealed facade holds and we sit in a silent battle of wills for what feels like another ten years. This decade wouldn’t be wasted though.

Never again.

I win.

In a battle of wills, I fucking win.

“I guess I’m caught!” he playfully throws his cuffed hands in the air. “It was me!”





“Why?” I repeat again, questioning.

“Why what?” he scoffs. “Why’d I rat you out to the loony bin?”

“WHY?!” My fists slam against the table and it rattles in place on the concrete floor. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans back, bound hands in his lap and one leg crossed tightly over the other.

He looks me dead in the eye.

“Because I was asked,” he states as a matter of fact. “And you pissed me off.”

(03-20-2021, 08:20 PM)James Raven Said: “You pissed me off, so I made my choice. That’s how it worked. Not everything’s about you, ya know.”

That turn of phrase spins me. Is it any wonder I mixed these two up? Still…

“Pissed you off?” I animate. “We’ve never met!”

“Sure we have!” His tone is calm, almost jovial even. “I was there that night, renewing my contract thanks to that dumb cunt Lee Stone. I stepped out of his shitfuck excuse for a makeshift office, and your crackhead ass bumped into me.”

I wait for any further explanation. It doesn’t come.

“Is that it?” I press. “Is that fucking it?”

“Well… yeah.” He looks at me like ‘duh’. My eyes, my face, my fucking soul reddens.

“I fucking bumped into you?” I begin. “That’s all it was? For that you had me stripped of everything I fucking had? Everything I am? Locked away for an entire fucking decade? For fucking bumping you!?!?”

“It was pretty rude, bro,” he shrugs.

“You called the fucking white coats on me!” I scream. His eyebrows furrow.

“Ah, you might wanna back your fun bus up there, son,” he warns. “I didn’t make any calls. That’s waaaaay too much effort for an unwashed asshole like you.”

“So how’d they find me then?” I ask. I’m well past the point of believing Kieran only knows half the story.

“Newsflash, cunt,” he says, leaning forward again, getting as close to my face as he can. His voice lowers to a hush. “They were already there. They were already looking for you. They were there. They asked. So I told them.”

We spend time together in eternity again. The vacant room around us becomes truly nothing, if just for a second.

A void.

The beyond.

In time, truth becomes subjective. In truth, so does time.

“Why?” That one word, the story of both my truth and time.

“Uh… ‘cause they paid me a shit-ton of moolah. How ‘bout that?” With his linked hands he rubs his thumbs across the tips of his fingers as if he were flicking bills out.

“You sold me out?!” in a rage, I ask. “You sold me.”

“You know what they say, everybody’s got a price!” He’s smiling again. He’s really smiling again! “And you, my friend… got me a damn good price!”

SNAP!

With one quick movement, Kieran snaps his hands to the side. The chains that link the cuffs together snap and break. His hands are free.

Almost on cue when the ping of the break echoes off the first wall, the metal door behind bursts open. With a vengeance it rotates a full 180 degrees and slams against the wall.

Men in nondescript black suits and sunglasses file in.


They’re here for me.

“Oh calm your tits, you little bitch,” Kieran says as he stands, completely unconstrained. “They’re here for me. You… you’re exactly where they wanted you. And ten minutes ago, they got your little friend too. You know, that driver who brought you here? Bro, they’ve been watching you since the moment you got into this fucking country.”

“Putra!” I exclaim, with barely a chance to mourn. I try to push my chair back, but as the men wrap around the room, a forceful kick from one of the goons drives my gut right into the edge of the table.

“Oof…” the wind knocks out of me. But at least…

Fuck. This one’s different.

Kieran walks around the table. The suited troopers flank him, putting their bodies between he and I, though his face is never obscured. It watches me. The entire way round, it watches me; his head a ghostly apparition floating above others’ shoulders. I follow him with my leering gaze, trapped as I am against the table in my chair.

“It’s him?” Governor Tonny Nainggolan asks Kieran in perfect English as he meets him at the door.

“Yeah, it’s him,” Kieran says as the two shake hands. Something in their hands, passed from the governor to the shell of the former champion, catches my eye, but I don’t see what it is.

“Thank you,” the governor says. Kieran glances back at me one more time before stepping through the door and disappearing into the corridors of the prison. One-by-one the suited men file back out the room, passing by the governor on their way out. Only two remain (I feel like I’ve seen these two before) - one of whom has their boot still lodged in the back of my chair - before the governor makes any sort of movement. All he offers is a shake of the head, as if he pities me. After that, he leaves. They leave.

And I’m alone.

I didn’t bother arguing.

Some things are inevitable.

The door locks behind them.

---

---

---

3C: Green Option

A lonely cell.


My right hand is my left.
My left hand is my right.
My centre may be bereft
Of life, but not of fight.

I charge the door. I know how this ends, but I do it anyway. No matter how hard I wrench upon the door handle, it does not budge.

“Come back here!” I shout, calling out to any of the men who locked me in. “Come back here you cowardly fucks!”

BANG! BANG! BANG!

My fist pounds on the door, banging against steel with such force that the vibration ricochets and reverberates down my entire arm and makes my joints tingle..

BANG! BANG! BANG!

I wait.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Nobody comes.

I’m trapped.

---

I don’t know how long that door remains locked. Occasionally I feel like I hear the remnants of a human voice, but no matter how often I pound that door, nobody comes.

There’s no food nor drink so it can’t be that long. Surely?

Surely?


I wait.

---

“Relive your trauma,” I hear

“Who said that?” A flicker of movement appears on my peripheral. I spin to face it. It’s gone. “Show yourself!”

It doesn’t.

---

Time passes. Incalculable and obtuse. The silence becomes my greatest foe, and thus, I fill the void with my own music. The light piercing through the one lone window, safely beyond my reach in the upper echelons of the wall, casts shadows against the walls and floor, and through them my hands become characters.

The tales start off absurd and derivative: stories of lions and hyenas and meerkats and warthogs, jostling to become the king of the savannah.


Over time, the shadow sagas shift to familiar stories of love and loss. Through them, I emote.


Secluded.


Lock me up and throw away the key.

Caged!

---

“Shiny!” I comment, as the sunlight hits the table. It’s more reflective than it should be. I bend over it - the table - and somehow, someway, I fucking see myself in its glow!

Not a table. A mirror!

My face!

“AHHHH!”

I retreat and scuttle along the ground. Back against the wall I fret!

A housefly flutters over the reflective table. Its translucent wings catch the light.

An angel!


The light sets fire to the wings!

“No!” I shout, but I’m too late. The angel catches fire.

“Angel!”

“Fire!”

“Angel!”

“Fire!”

“Angel!”

“I feel like if I say this three times that Bloody Mary blue bitch will appear.”

Flies die.

The average lifespan of a housefly is 28 days.

<1 day.

---


“That’s not true!”


“I mean… I guess that is.”


“Hang on… that’s not what I…”


“That’s okay! That’s okay! Christian is…”


“That’s not you!”


“Yes you will! I’m not alone. I’m not alone.

I’M NOT ALONE!”

Caged.


Static and repetitive.

“My right hand is my left.

My right hand is my left.

My right hand is my left.

My right hand is my left.”

Regression.

Deconstruction.

Pointed and callous.


No cure.

Patient.

Myth.

Past.

“My right hand is my left.”

Que será, será.

---

---

---

3D: Get Out!

Throughout the prison.

BANG!

BANG! BANG!

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Under the force of my shoulder, it budges.

Holy fucking shit it budges!

BANG!

Ajar!

I ROAR!





BANG!

No cage can hold me!

Smashing through the door, I careen forwards. With a splat, I sprawl across the floor in the corridor outside. My heart pounds. Darting my head from one side to another, I check if the coast is clear. My entire body swells with hope as I notice no guards in sight. With a life-saving heave I push up from the ground and get to my feet. I need to recall the way I came. It was right, right?

Right?


Right!


Not now!

I turn right.

Slinking and sprinting, if there is such a combo, I trek down the rotting corridor. Fortunately, I’m right, and this is the way that the Governor had led me. Unfortunately, there is quadruple the amount of armed guards at the entranceway.

‘Tis for I the stars explode.

I don’t need to wait for what happens next. I hightail it out of there, backtracking to whence I came and determining that the only logical way forward is to take the other path.

I go left.

The corridors here look the same, but I know there’s an otherness about the route that leaves me feeling uneasy. I have to push past it, just as I have to find a way out.


Just as when I arrived, arrowslit-like openings hint at people in a courtyard on the other side of a stone wall. I do my best to avoid that area. The last thing that I need is to set off a goddamn prison riot. The good news is that it seems like I’m not in the heart of the prison. On the peripherals here, there may be some other form of staff quarters that could provide a better way out. It might be a tall order though - I’m through security already, and given my prior meeting with Kieran, clearly the prisoners do come into this space. I have to try though. I just need to make sure those suited men don’t catch me first.

Fuck, there some are!

I dive into a room as three men in black round a corner. It’s not graceful, but I don’t need it to be. I just need it to be quiet.

Was I quiet? Was I quiet enough?

Hiding behind the room’s door, I press my ear to it. It’s hard to hear over the sound of my chest thumping away, but I do what I can. Above my thudding body, I think I hear the men’s stomping boots pass by. I wait a little longer to be sure, and when I can hear nothing again, I let out a mighty sigh. Jesus, I didn’t even realise I was holding my breath! Taking the opportunity as it presents itself, I allow myself time to breathe and actually look around the room that I’ve taken refuge in.

“Oh…”



Well there goes my genius idea of trying to find a way out in one of these rooms. And my plan to avoid any of the inmates! The prisoners clearly still occupy these rooms, which means there is no hope in hell of me finding an open window to slip on out of. They’ll all be barred like these ones. More pressing, however, are the silent faces staring at me in the room.

I raise my finger to my lips, asking them to remain quiet. They do, for a time. With the palms of my hands pressed together, I bow slightly in appreciation. Just as I turn to the door again and begin to refocus on plotting my escape, one of the men stands. He doesn’t approach, he just stands there, staring at me.

Then another joins him. Two men, watching me with expressionless faces.

Another stands.

And another.

Another.

Another.

The entire room stands, shoulders squared in my direction.

“Uh… hey guys…” I stammer.

In unison, each of the inmates takes one step forward.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” I plead, en repeat. “Let’s not do anything hasty!”

They step forward again in a choreographed menace.

“Yeah… k… bye!” Like lightning I zip out the door. My legs whisk me away, desperately battering down upon the concrete floor in their search for an escape. Behind me, I hear the inmates usher out into the corridor themselves. Each of their footsteps still sounds as if it is being taken as a collective, but they don’t appear to be in a hurry.

I just might make it.

HOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWLLLLL!

What was that?

It came from behind me. With the path in front clear, I take a spare second to glance behind me.

HOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWLLLLL!
HOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWLLLLL!

“What the fuck?” The inmates are howling!

Uh-uh! Not for me!

I run. I keep running. I’m near the end of the corridor (when the fuck did it become so long?) and another decision tree presents itself.


I turn right.

HOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWLLLLL!

Nope! Wrong choice! Another small pack of inmates blocks the way. They’re fucking howling too!

On my heels I turn. I pass back to the prior choice and go left. Again. I sprint down the new (though still stained and half-rotted) hallway. Both groups of inmates unite behind me. They howl to greet each other. But they’re in no hurry.

The hallway ends. Same choice: left or right? The choice is not mine. A third group of inmates howls to my right, so to my left I run.

On and on this game of wolf-and-man (read: cat-and-mouse but spookier) continues. Choices made for me; no free will, no autonomy. I’m hounded into the central bowels of the prison complex. Into a courtyard.

It’s square and dusty, with no vegetation of any kind, not even weeds. The only hope of shade would come from the sun’s natural movements overhead, when it dips in and out of view from behind the prison’s roof. As I rush out into the space, however, Sol observes from directly above. No shade. Exposed.


There are four different entrances into the courtyard, one perfectly centred on each wall. Three of them, including the one that I emerged from, are more arches in the wall than anything. Across from me, however, is a solid (dread) oak door. I think to myself, ‘different is good, right?’ so I sprint to it. Desperately I claw at the handle and try to get it to move. It doesn’t budge. I remember the locked room from before, and try to replicate my success there, ramming my shoulder against it in the hopes of setting it ajar.

It doesn’t work.

I’m out of options.

With my back now against the door, I see the inmates begin pouring in from each of the other three entrances.


HOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWLLLLL!
HOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWLLLLL!
HOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWLLLLL!
HOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWLLLLL!
HOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWLLLLL!
HOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWLLLLL!
HOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWLLLLL!


The pitch pains me! It’s chaos. Disorganised and feral!

The pack corners me.

And he chuckles.

Kieran King weaves his way through the crowd, pushing gently on the shoulders of the inmates at the front to make a small gap that he can slip his nimble frame through. Like I said, he chuckles. The sun catches his hair and catches speckled greys I hadn’t noticed before. With his arms stretched wide, he accepts the sun’s jugement.

“How do you like my little wolfpack here?” he asks, referencing the gathered crowd. “Watch this… SIT!”

His voice carries more strength than his withered look would suggest. On his command, every single gathered prisoner drops to the ground. Each crosses their right leg under their left, and takes their spot in the dirt. King just can’t stop smiling.

“Oh man, you are fucked!” he exclaims, turning his attention back to me. Lowering his head a little, the sun retreats from his face. It darkens and his voice drops to match. “This is my prison. Everybody in this place answers to me.”

“To us!” The governor steps out from one of the courtyard arches. He makes his way through the seated prisoners, stepping over them where he can and stepping on them when he must, until he joins Kieran and I in the small semi-circular clearing that separates me from the rest of the interned.

As he and Kieran share a storied look, shadows move in the arches. They fill with the men in suits, who file in and spread out along the walls of the courtyard.

All entrances are blocked.

For a brief second I shut my eyes. I breathe, deep and heavy, and roll a gloved hand into a ball, clenching tight.

I release.

Eyes open, I step forward. Ever forward.

Defiant ‘till I die.

“What do you want from me?” I ask, a monotonous sea of tranquility.

“Not us,” the governor says with a shake of his head. Kieran remains silent, but raises that wiggly, pointing finger again. As if tapping in the air, he motions with it behind me.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

BANG! BANG!

BANG!

The door behind me flings off its hinges and smacks me in the back, spilling me to the ground.

CLINK!

What was that?

I look to my right and see it. Of course! Why didn’t I think of that sooner?

Noone else has noticed. Good! I just need to keep it that way. Hang on... what are they all looking at?

Dazed, I roll onto my back - moving in the direction I need to go. In the opening where the (dread) oak door was once latched to the stone wall, two figures stand. One is short and plump, with three chins and eyes as sullen as Kieran’s. A short white cap sits upon her head.

I know her.

I don’t understand!

“You’re supposed to be dead!” I cry out, as the doctor I call ‘angel’ comes into full view. Once more she comes to me in captivity. “Not again! Not again!”

Then the light hits the second figure. His face is unfamiliar, but something about the way he stands… oh… his ring. Wait… she has one too!

“NO!” I scream, and lurch for the radiant, blue stone. Knocked loose from my pocket when the door fucking exploded, it’s just beyond the reach of my finger tips. Everyone spots what I’m trying to do.

Kieran dives!

I reach!

I grab it!

Kieran eats dirt as I pull the stone tight to my chest. It beats in my hand. It hums. It glows! From my position on the ground, I thrust it into the sky. The luminous waves crash against my foes with unforgiving force. They raise their hands to shield their eyes but still the waves keep barrelling down upon them, blinding them from their goals.

Above I hear it!



“Impossible!” the governor remarks as Excellence pops into reality above us.

“Grab on!” Betsy Granger shouts from above as a wobbly rope ladder drops down above me. I jump to my feet, stone safely secured in my pocket again, and leap for the ladder. Grabbing it’s bottom rung, Excellence begins to rise up into the air. Some of Kieran’s pack try to catch my legs but in the nick of time I hoist myself up the ladder and out of reach. The ladder begins to withdraw back towards Excellence, making my climb a little easier. As I get to the top, Betsy grabs a hold of me and helps yank me in.

I catch my breath. Inside a fucking time machine. That’s also a spaceship. And who knows what else?


Betsy’s long legs tower above me, and I skid myself back towards a wall to lean upon.

“Busy day?” she jokes.

“Something like that.” I’m not much in the mood for jokes right now. I just… I need time to process everything. If what I saw means what I think it does… I’ll probably need to tell her about it. But right now...

Betsy understands.

“Where to?” she asks, changing the subject.

I look up at her, and can’t believe the words I’m about to fucking say.

“The moon, I guess.”

---

---

---

3E: Unidentical

Somewhere else. Sometime else.

“So much alike, allegedly, yet one of us has nothing bad to say, while the other has plenty.

Which one do you think I am, Lycana?

Ah fuck it, let’s can the pretenses. You know damn well which one I am. You don’t have anything bad to say? Then stop fucking talking. Jesus! PLEASE stop talking!

Is it a bit too on-the-nose to wanna take myself out with a shotgun after hearing you?

Just what the fuck do you think this is? We’re not about to braid each other’s hair, girl. This ain’t an after-school special. We’re not hanging with fucking Barney & Friends. The only great big hug you’re about to get is from Marfy Marf when he consoles you after not just one but two devastating losses back to back. You’ve seen Bobby Bourbon’s arms, right?

HAWT!

Tell you what though, boo, you wanna play ring around the rosey with me? Well I’ll pucker up and Barney-fy this shit with a kiss from me to you. The kiss o’ fucking death. On the moon no less! How… dramatic.

MWAH!

Hey… quick question, does your whole she-wolf shtick just happen under a full moon, or is it something else? If it is lunar-related… uh… how is that gonna work when you’re literally on that fucking rock? Are you just gonna be full-blown wolf or something? Or like… super wolf, even? Have you even thought about that? It’d be pretty hard to climb a cage, that’s for sure! I guess it might not matter whether I want to see that or not - it might be out of either of our hands!

How the fuck are you gonna stand there, though, and talk about the origins (Jesus finger-banging Christ, I think we’ve all heard quite enough of that word this month!) of all this, while also trying to be all buddy-buddy? Are you sure you’re remembering those ‘origins’ (excuse me while I vomit) correctly, Ly’? That knife you mentioned, that wasn’t for you and you know it. It was for your big bad booty daddy Baphy Boy. First Blood was the game, so I turned up to play. Just like he did. And no, I’m not talking about you and the rest of the sex cult that he was trying to set up.

Them Knights Templars were down to get freaky, that’s for sure!

Google it.

Baph’ brought a weapon too. A itsy bitsy little letter opener.

I guess mine was bigger!

But that night he made a fundamental error. He said he’d punish me for my blasphemy. But here’s my hand…



...and where the fuck is he?

See, that’s the part you're glossing over in your take on this origin story. That knife was never meant for you. It was for him. And when it left my hands, it was flung willy-nilly. If I’m being honest with myself, it was a shit shot too!

Because it wasn’t meant for you.

But I still should’ve got you with it

Don’t over-inflate your fucking ego, Ly’. Throw Marf and Fury to the side, the only reason you’re in this match with me, the reason I asked for you was simply because you were there that night, and anyone else who was has faded away. There’s no more Big Bitch Baph’, no more Venereal Vayden, no more Trashley, just you. Now if you really want to play the reacharound game with me, then maybe there’s a compliment in there for you after all. You’re a Peter Gilmour-level cockroach who just keeps hanging around even when nobody wants them anymore. Congratu-fucking-lations. But whatever it is you’re feeling about this; whatever overwhelming urge that’s driving you to to lube up your fingers in blood and flick that rotten clitty, I’m just not there with you.

Holy fucking shit! Hey Corey! I’m heart-breaker now!

Sorry, Flicky Lycky, I know the smoke of my handy-hand got your lupin loins a’growlin’, but I’m just not about it. I think I’ll stick to human booty holes if it’s all the same to you. But if you want another doggy bone® to get us on the same side here, I’ll give you this: I’d have loved you to stay that night too. It would have been fan-damn-tastic to have you there as I knelt in that ring clutching at my hand. Because then I’d have had somewhere to shove it.

Sorry if those two words bring up bad memories, Louis.

At least I do now though, right? I’m gonna shove this mangled fucking thing so far down your throat I’d be able to milk your prostate if you had one.

But didn’t you get to see those emotions, Ly’? Didn’t you get to feel my horror? Feel my despair? Feel my acceptance even? Shit, I know you felt my rage. I might be the only person in this goddamn company who doesn’t hate Jenny Myst, but we all know that it was my rage that led to you and Marf eating ass that night - and I don’t mean the good kind of ass-eating, either! That was your first match as a team, wasn’t it? Your first loss, too. Courtesy of little ol’ me. Shit, are we even going to pretend that Jenny would’ve ever gotten out of the Left Hand’s crosshairs if it wasn’t for me?

My story, cunt. Not yours.

You’ve felt my rage. I don’t think I can say that I’ve felt yours though. You’ve taken your potshots here and there, but I’ve never really felt like you meant it. It’s almost like all of that shit about seeing the path that lay before us was a load of Baph-shit. I’m not buying this narrative you’re selling. You’ve viewed me as a nuisance, a gnat. Just like Buttfuck Baph’ did. That is what led to this match, Ly’. On your end, it sounds like you wanted to rush it. The way you spoke it was like you wanted to cram all the supposed fun of my emotions into one little session. It’s almost as if you had no clue that this was gonna be any more than it became. Funny how these things work, right?

Logic. It’s a damnable thing. Like saying ‘everybody escaped me’, when I’m pretty sure the story before that was that I only had eyes for Baph’. I didn’t say a thing about ‘eating’ you wart-caked fuckholes one at a time. Shit, if you want to get technical, look at the language actually used.

Eat The Left Hand.

Where’s the subject? The pronoun? Who’s doing the eating?

The Left Hand has already been devoured.

By me; by others; by itself. For the most part, anyway. There’s just the desert to go, and Leap of Faith is just that. When I put you down, and then Them No Good Bastards put you down, everything that you came here to do will be rendered fucking meaningless. And oddly enough, I’m not going to take anywhere near the level of joy in it as you think I am. Because we’re not the same, Ly’. We’re not.

I don’t enjoy the pain. I know that sounds weird to hear in such a macho-bullshit line of work, but it’s true, I don’t. I don’t enjoy giving it, and I don’t enjoy receiving it. I’m just good at it. Some might say the best, even.

We don’t need briefcases or championships, Cor’.

That’s not what this is about for me. It’s bigger than that. There isn’t a single fucking thing that you can do to rile me up any further, in that match or outside it.

I AM ALREADY FUCKING THERE.

I’m going to rip that blue hair from your scalp and fucking hang you with it. I’ll smoosh that pasty fucking face of yours so hard into that cage wall that the mesh is gonna leave imprints on your fucking corneas. Team Edward, bitch! Fuck you!

Everything I’m going to do, isn’t coming from a place of personal enjoyment. It’s just what needs to be done. You echoed my words and called yourself the face of my adversity, but in doing so you overplayed your own role again. It’s not you that’s important here, Vanity Smurf, it’s the adversity itself. I’m not overcoming you, I’m overcoming it.

It’s. What. I. Do.

I’ve taken control of the situation, and set it up so that I can put you and everything else related to this fucking ordeal behind me. That doesn’t make me like you, Ly’. It makes me better than you. And you’re out here continuously playing up that I might not win. I’m here telling you that you definitely won’t. Note the difference? We’re not the same. Miss me with that amateur-hour baloney. You’re here for a match, a fight even. I’m here for survival. There’s a big fucking difference!

You want to take credit for everything I’ve accomplished? Girl, you’re overstating your role again. I thought you were done with The Left Hand? If so, how are you gonna try to
and latch on to anything that resulted from Darth Baph’s fascism and pass it off as your own? Fuck me, what’s worse is that you’re hitching your wagon to the effects of Ash fucking Quinn’s actions. Oh my lanta! None of that was you, Ly’. You did not get me to where I am. But you will get me to where I need to be. Your role in that has already been assigned. First I slay the bitch, then everything is mine.

This has been a long journey for me. Yes, grudges have been buried, but quit the ego-trip, hon’. You wanna know why I hated Betsy Granger so much? Easy. Because of James Raven. I held him responsible for acts that led to my predicament when it turns out he did none of what I accused him of. I was wrong for that. On James’s account, and doubly-so on Betsy’s. I shouldn’t have tarred her with the same brush even if James was the cunt that condemned me. I’ve learned that; and people like Corey Smith and Dolly Waters have helped illustrate that despite how close they are with Thaddeus Duke. The sins of the father are not the sins of the son. Or more… the sins of one friend are not the sins of another.

By your own admission though, Ly’, it sounds more like I helped drive you. Apparently my middle finger inspired you to keep fucking with me, long after the spark was lit on my end. You wanted to see when I’d bend or break, and you speak about how neither of us have yet. But this story ain’t over. When it is, one of us will break.

You.

You want to talk about doubters? Well I’m one of yours. From the sounds of it though, you’re not one of mine. Am I supposed to be flattered? The bitch with the gas flame hair (if only, right? Hope that shit catches!) is impressed with the way I pull myself up by my bootstraps?

Oh gee golly gosh! Thanks, teacher!

Really? Fucking really?

Let me repeat: We. Are. Not. The. Same.

Riddle me this, cuntface, just what adversity have you faced? You’ve lost a few matches, had your goat-orgy harem fall apart and abandon you, and... what? You’ve found out that your fascination with dog dong is a little bit more acceptable given your own physiology? In a twisted way, that actually sounds like a win! What else? You found a non-penetrative life-partner? Again… where’s the issue? If you’re out here thinking that people saying mean things about you represents adversity, then you have chosen the wrong field of interest. The odds have always been in your favour, Ly’. By never being alone, you would deliberately set it up that way, just like I have for this match. But this time you couldn’t do it. We’re not coming into this match in a similar position. But we’re not the same.

This isn’t dark vs. light; cold vs. hot; death vs. birth. It’s not even right vs. wrong. You don’t think I see that twinkle in your eye whenever you get a chance to trade sniffs of the asshole with a Corey Smith, a Thaddeus Duke, or more recently an Andre Dixon? That’s not death that’s driving it - it’s a lot more closely related to birth, if you catch The Brand’s drift.

Except nobody does, because that damp fart won’t ever come take his catchphrase back.

It’s just you vs. me, now. Allegories won’t help us. Being an asshole doesn’t make you some big, dark mistress, Ly’. You’re a monster-of-the-week at best. But that doesn’t excuse the fucking contradictions. Are we the same or are we opposites? Locked inside, we’ll know, because yeah… those cages are a prison and prisons aren’t built to be escaped from.

I fucking do it anyway.

How are you gonna criticise me in one breath for allegedly thinking those cages will help prevent us from getting away from each other, and then go straight into saying how you want to stay in the cages as long as possible? Aren’t those the same fucking things? Well let’s get this straight - yeah, this is going to end when I, let me repeat that: I exit those cages, but I won’t be fleeing. I won’t be trying to get this over as soon as possible. As I said to the magic microphones that appeared in front of me, I’m going to take all the time I need. I climb, when you stop moving.

That’s a guaran-dam-fucking-tee.

It’s not about dropping you. It’s about ending you. And yeah, I know these are big fucking claims, but it’s not like there haven’t been fucking murders on XWF television before, right? Wasn’t it Shawn Wylde who killed Peter Gilmour?

I’m not even gonna try to understand Michael Graves.

But up there, on the moon… I’m pretty sure the laws down here don’t really count.

Que será, será.

Kind of like how Rel Dixon doesn’t count. Don’t read into that, Elvira-lite. She was annoying, just as Demos is annoying - wait, is he pinning me right now? Eh… he can wait. What’s another couple of hours in the face of a lifetime of irrelevancy, you know?

You haven’t confused me though, Ly’. I’ve got twenty-twenty vision when it comes to you. All these half-hearted plaudits are just a backdoor excuse. I’m pretty fucking good at spotting them by now - I mean, fuck! Chris Page has been laying them in for weeks, just in case! But they give you away. Just like everyone else, you know what’s coming. I’m not Baph’s reaper I’m yours. Shit, I almost feel bad for Marf. He’s going to have to face Bobby Bourbon’s biceps and Thunder Knuckles - uh… knuckles? - all by his lonesome!

Ask yourself, what’s the bigger motivation? The chance to prove yourself like you’ve flouted, or the chance to lay the past to rest so that one can focus on everything that the future is going to offer? It’s a crystal clear choice for me! I have more on the line here than you’ll ever be able to appreciate. You’ve already shown that you don’t even understand what true adversity is! Well no matter, I overcome.

I overcome.

I overcome.

I know, I know, you say it won’t happen!

Disrespectfully, I disagree.

Everyone has their time to die. This is yours. Shit, if you think that you’re so into the dark, the cold, the death (even though I’ve already shat on that), then do us all a favour and don’t even bother showing up.

Just fucking kill yourself.

It’d make it easier for all of us.

I know you have this idea in your head that you’re the kind of person that just keeps on trucking, but I’ve got to be the bearer of bad news for you here: you’re not. That’s just not in your chemical makeup. You’re the kind of person that relies on others - like Marf - to prop you up. But he’s shut out. And you and I? We’re shut in.

You want to know what I’ll do ‘if’ [sic] the thing I want doesn’t happen?

I’ll fucking make it happen.

You want to know what my response will be ‘if’ [sic] you get back to your feet once the dust has settled?

I’ll cut off your fucking legs.

You want to know what happens ‘if’ [sic] you climb out of those cages first?

You’ll wake up.

Because the only way you’re climbing out at all is in your fucking dreams. And your imagination doesn’t have shit on mine.

This is the end. The end of it all.

You’re just a representation of my own failings. That’s not a credit to you, it’s a slur towards myself. A little self-deprecating humour, if I do say so myself. So I’m going to fucking remedy those failings.

Sunday. We’re done. On my end anyway. I put you in my rearview mirror.

That gives you a choice on how… personal… you want to take it from here.

Personal…

After I Eat Tavora.”

---

---

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3E: To Infinity. Or Beyond.

Excellence. On the way to the fucking moon!

As Betsy Granger steers us to the moon, I’m afforded a moment of quiet reflection.

This is it.

The chance to take back control of my life, whatever that looks like.

But all I can think about is what I saw on those rings.

Suddenly everything makes sense. I’ve seen it before, over and over again.

It has been there, literally right in front of me this entire time. It has filled blank dark spaces that nobody even thought to look in. But it was there. It’s still there, if people care to try and find it.

Not that they need to. With those rings… it’s out in the open now…

In the hands of those who had detained me, I saw...