Friday, January 17th, 2014 - 11:59 PM PST - Some Shifty Alleyway - Los Angeles, California

This is incredibly familiar; I'm not sure that's a particularly good thing.

I'm out in public, somehow these people who didn't see me as fit to even stand up a couple weeks ago is so willing to send me back out into the same place I supposedly managed to hide out in for months right under their noses. Something tells me not everything is right with them. Either way, the weird mask and accompanying skin tight body suit doesn't fly here, so I had to change into something more socially acceptable. By some miracle, covering my face with a hat, sunglasses and a bandanna over the mouth is completely okay, and the accompanying black hoodie and pair of jeans isn't garish. I feel like a common street thug, why is this familiar?

Fuck it. I should be focusing on the more than likely armed guy standing in front of me.

"You Shadow freaks really know how ta make a guy feel uneasy," noted the more than likely armed thug as his eyes studied my get up carefully, looking for anything that could reveal my identity to him. I take one of my hands out of the resting place in the hoodie's pockets and slam it down hard on his right shoulder.

"That's enough of that," I say gruffly. They said my voice would be like that for a while, but it wasn't permanent. Good, I'd go fucking crazy if it was. Wait. "What did you call me?"

"Shit, you're one of them Shadows, ain't ya?" He was trembling slightly. Good.

Right, that's what we're called to people who aren't directly involved in the organization. I wonder what possibly provoked that nickname...

"I'm whatever the fuck you wanna call me; but I'll warn you right now if we don't get this fucking show on the road you're gonna be calling me the guy who shoved an AK-47 down your throat."

"Man, whatever! We just gotta wait for my homie Jorge. He's got the goods."

My hands balled into fists in the pocket, and I stifled back the urge to punch the guy in the face. No, beating the shit out of him wouldn't help me in the longrun. It's at this time I decide to check the missed call I got a while back when I first stepped into this alley. I pull my phone out of my pants pocket and step away from the gangbanger to check the number. Or more accurately, the name.

Eli James IV. I'll find out what he wants when this is over.

"Shit ese, ya didn't have to send me on a wild fuckin' goose chase!" shouts a voice back towards the opening of the alleyway. I assume this is the fabled Jorge. Somehow, I expected more though I knew my hopes would be dashed the second he showed up. His voice seemed slightly familiar though, but I'm not sure if I'm making memories up where none exist at this point or not. So fuck it, I have no idea who this asshole is aside from the fact that he's the friend of the asshole they told me to meet with. So, as any sensible impatient man with a concealed identity would do, I leaned against a wall, just waiting for him to get his fat ass across the stretch of concrete towards us. This could take a while.

"Finally! This is Jorge, man," says the first asshole.

"I caught on."

"This the guy you was talkin' about?" asks a severely out of breath (and out of shape) Jorge, inbetween gluttonous gasps for air.

"No, I'm with the NSA bitch. I watch you at all times. Ain't hard when you spend seventy five percent of that time shoving Whoppers down your gullet."

"Fuck you, man."

"You wanna go down that road with me? Oh, let me answer that for you: no you fucking don't fatty." Getting pissed off at fat people? The weirdest shit makes me nostalgic, I swear. Next thing I know I'm going to be reminiscing over going to a strip club with a gang of crazies.

"Dead that shit homie; you got what he came for?"

"Hell the fuck yeah I got it!" he said with a smile; finally some good news.

"Can we get on with it then?"

"Last I checked, you needed us not the other way around." How fucking stupid was this guy?

"I don't need shit from you, the people I work for need shit from you and they aren't the types to piss off. You should already know that. You know how scary it would be to have a price on your head from them? Well, multiply that by three fucking hundred and you'll understand what'll happen if you two jackasses try to stall for one more goddamned second."

"You won't do shit."

"Are you really willing to risk it?"

"No! No we aren't! Dead that shit, Jorge."

"Ugh, fine. Let's go you fucking freak."

With that, he led me and his friend down the alleyway from which he came out onto the sidewalk. In the dead of the night, the lack of street lights made shit a lot harder to make out. The man I originally met with pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up, slightly illuminating the area directly around him, which while doing well to make sure we weren't cast in pitch black, didn't do much for helping us see. Just then, the blinding flash of headlights caught me off guard and if it wasn't for the sunglasses, would've probably blinded me for a short period of time. That was the least of my concerns though.

"Oh shit! Driveby!" screamed Jorge as the first bullets began to fly from inside the car.

Shit.

Episode 2: Let's Talk Chess with Our Legitimate King: Theo Pryce

RECORDING.

"Y'all know the game chess, right?"

Keep the camera pointed at darkness. That's a thing, right?

"Specifically, I want to have a word about the game of chess with the man whose title some would call a term of royalty and regality. The King. Theo Pryce. But, let's rip tha fuckin' royal connotations right outta the word and put it in the terms of a game. Chess. Ya see, in chess the King really isn't powerful. All he does is backpedal and run away because once he gets taken, you lose. The entire object of the game is ta capture tha enemy's King. To assert ya own rule over the subjects formerly under his jurisdiction. To spread your army; your ideas.

No doubt that's what Theo Pryce is thinkin'. I'm here tryin' ta weaken his ass fa Eli James. He'll use every trick in the book ta try an twist this so that it's the Congregation against the Company when in reality it's me, him, and the others. No loyalties. No higher purpose. Just, tha better man walkin' out with the victory.

Theo Pryce is the King of the XWF.

Theo Pryce is the King I'm fixin' ta take in this game of chess. He ain't nothin' if not the same figure'ead of the Company. Not callin' the shots, not really the one with the plans. Definitely not the self sufficient and "take on all comers" type that he wants ta make himself out ta be.

Look at the Kinwrathi incident. Kinwrathi calls him out and point blank calls him a pussy fa not makin' their match for that title he claims to care so little about in the first place. Theo Pryce responds unlike a man willin' ta fight them claims but instead cowers back and uses the ol' 'but ya don't deserve it' excuse.

Then what happens? Kinwrathi beats him.

Let me repeat: Kinwrathi, the man who is hardly eva here long enough to have one damn match beats our prestigious King."

Round of applause. Sarcastically.

"There, did that Kinwrathi prove himself worthy of a fuckin' King match? Oh, he did and since ya a pussy who's scared of losin' the only thing people care about that ya got, ya quickly bring him inta ya little conglomerate to hopefully not outshine ya. And since Kinwrathi's a little bitch too, he accepted ya offer instead of layin' ya ass out and claimin' that he definitely deserved tha shot he shoulda been gettin' in tha first time.

Fuck ya too Kinwrathi, ya little fuckin' bitch.

Oh, I'm sure he's got himself a convenient little excuse ta get himself outta this one: 'Oh, I got screwed by that damn ref!'

Newsflash: ya lost cuz ya wasn't good enough ta win.

Keep on backpedalin' and distancin' yaself from ya failures. Be a good little King and hide at the far end of the battlefield. Call me a pawn! Bring tha Congregation inta this despite what I already said.

Too bad none of ya pawns can come in and try ta fuck shit up. Too bad for ya that this pawn is comin' for ya on an empty battlefield. As of right now, tha others ain't important ta me, what I want is ta take ya.

What excuse are ya gonna make when the headline for this match reads - Pawn takes King?

Whatcha gonna do then, King?

Check."

END RECORDING.