What does the march of madness mean to the Demos?

Demos has given new life to the rickety body that once housed Charlie’s soul. He can feel himself pushing new heights and bringing a golden age of justice to the XWF: but still, the world casts aspersions and prejudices upon the born again acolyte as if Demos were Charlie himself. Can’t the people see that Charlie has been eradicated? Can’t they see that Demos has come to this earth to redeem the souls of the lost and forgotten?

These are the questions the masked man contemplated as he pounded the punching bags inside of Jim’s gym. The Demos has been cast into the world during an era of chaos. The legends of yesterday linger around the edges of the frame, trying to paint their way back into the main event picture with the masterful strokes of their brush. At the same time, new faces have landed on the shores of the XWF with remarkable furor and their own aspirations of glory. Chris Page and Big D battle it out for the most prestigious belt in all of professional wrestling. The world has been cast into disorder. The Demos has been sent to the world during the age of rebirth, to rise from the rubble and claim the mantle for all those who have been denied it before.

The television champion hammers away at the navy blue punching bag with a flurry of jabs, hooks, and crosses. The steel chain attaching the full size bag to the ceiling shakes loudly after every blow. The entire ceiling seems to rumble as the Demos hammers away at his punching bag. Sweat runs down the man’s body like a river system through a shaggy forest. Demos pays no mind to the aches and strains running through his body as he battles through the pain. Thad and Corey gave Demos a licking, but he was determined to push through it as best he could.

The body of the Demos was quickly approaching the longest television reign of all time. With title victories over former universal champions and top prospects, the scruffy man had proven time and time again that his lengthy reign was more than a flash in the pan. None the less, the insults flew and the disrespect mounted. The very same people who would salivate at the thought of holding another XWF record dismissed the skills and talents of the Demos as if he was nothing more than common fodder. If the word on the street was true, Demos was bound to fall flat on his face against primo competition once again.

Demos knew that the rumors and accusations weren’t true: but still, it bothered him deeply that so many people had fallen for the hype. Charlie's rise to the top was hampered time and time again by his own deviancy and old habits. Nickles had fallen far too deep into a web of degeneracy to ever pull himself out. Charlie would spend his free time smoking dope and buying lap dances, doing everything he could to bring just another molecule of serotonin to his deprived brain. Charlie had the natural skills, the raw aggression, and the desire to be one of the top heads in the federation. All he lacked was the discipline. He could never drag himself to the gym. He could never find the time to train and hone his skills. He could never become the best version of himself. He could never rise to the level of the Demos.

The masked man stopped punching the bag, allowing it to slowly rock back and forth on the chain. Demos stepped away from the bag and walked towards a concrete wall with a few blue banners hanging from the ceiling. Demos passed a few ellipticals and weight lifting benches as he approached a green water fountain. Demos leaned over and lapped up the water, his parched throat thanking him for each and every gulp.

The loss for the tag team championships genuinely took Demos by surprise. He knew that he was cut from a different cloth from Charlie Nickles, a different creature entirely. The Demos shook his head as he stepped away from the fountain. He wiped a few droplets of cold water off of his beard as regret swelled inside of him. Maybe everyone was right about Jim.

But the Demos knew they weren’t right about him.

The Demos had heard the accusation enough to know that the sentiment was deeply held in the locker room. Jenny Myst, Thaddeus Duke, Corey Smith, Doc D’Ville, they all uttered the same vile lies. They all claimed that the Demos was nothing more than a mediocre talent, an average wrestler who was blessed with a few lucky breaks. Demos was determined to prove them wrong.

Demos understood the aspersion. Empathized with it, even. The man that once occupied the halls of his mind was a devil made flesh. He was cruel, sinister, and indignant. Charlie Nickles was just another sorry bastard tearing his body apart only to lose the big match time after time. Charlie never had the discipline to reach the pinnacle of the federation. His short sightedness and hedonistic lifestyle took a toll on his body as hard as the toll he endured in the ring.

But the Demos was a new man. Demos wasn’t beholden to the impulses and obsessions that dictated Charlie’s rotten behavior. Demos was resolute in his mission. Confident of his place in the world.

The Demos was determined to prove the world wrong. Determined to show the world the new limits he could push this body to. Determined to atone for Charlie’s missteps in the eyes of the hungry masses and scowling critics.

Demos shook his head a few times. His dark mane shook from side to side as his masked head rotated atop his neck. A few fleas and ticks fell to the floor, thrown from Demos’ scalp by the force of his shaking head. The Demos cracked his knuckles as he gazed into the six sided ring that occupied the far corner of Jim’s gym. The Demos began the modest walk over to the squared circle.

The Demos could hear the bells chiming for him. Their sound was as ever present as the dripping of the leaky pipes inside the archaic gym. Demos walked towards the bells as he climbed atop the ring apron. Demos ducked under the top rope and stepped into the ring. Demos stood tall once inside the ring, placing his left hand upon the top rope as he gazed across the battlefield.

Redemption.

It is the story of man.

Some men crumble into the eternal darkness, their souls forever tarnished with the marks of failure and defeat.

The Demos is thankful. Not all men are granted the chance to atone for the stones thrown against them. Not all men are given the opportunity to redeem themselves in the eyes of all who will behold it.

It is no mistake that the Demos has been born again in this time of madness. As chaos spreads through the land, the world of professional wrestling calls for a savior. For a hero to stand tall and wear the crown with pride and honor. As ravenous factions and destructive forces lay siege to our lands, a champion has arisen from the ashes of a sinner to bring order to the world.

March Madness is just the ritual the Demos needs to begin his quest to reignite the soul of the world and bring light to the darkness. A win over the good Doctor will be quite a fine appetizer to my victories over Shawn Warstein and Noah Jackson.

But tell me, good Doctor....
Is 300 words all your dilapidated lungs could muster? I am disappointed in you, Doctor.

Your sore throat had the strength to give the Bearded War Pig over 400 limp lashings when you first spoke to him. Did War Pig run your tank empty?

I fear your condition is worse than Charlie told me…

You’re dying, aren’t you?

This whole ordeal to climb the mountain one last time. The familial regret, missing out on those valuable last days with your daughter just to try and die atop the pinnacle.

How predictable.

Of course, what level of complexity can be expected from a man who finds Tolkien and Lovecraft quotes to be deep statements on the human condition? Doc D’Ville’s mind has become a suburban wasteland over the years. His horrifying edge. His cerebral demeanor. Both have been lost to the sands of time. Lord of the Rings and Cthulhu have taken over inside the Doc’s squishy little brains. But how can you expect him to deliver his old school breakdowns and analysis when images of dwarves, frogs, and jackasses occupy his every thought?

Metaphors and stories, that’s all you can stir out of the good geezer anymore. Ample metaphors and tall tales are great. During storytime at the retirement home. Louis can tell Dorothy all about his trips to Oz while her dentures fall into her clam chowder for the seventh time.

But the wrestling ring isn’t the place for you to pull out your bedtime book and cozy up in the corner with your reading glasses. In this ring we go blow for blow, jab for jab, word for word until one of us spills so much blood that we collapse to the mat.

You should’ve called that zany little video production of yours ‘Weekend at Doc D’Ville’s’. The funny cast of wacky characters slinging around a dead body from spot to spot to spot all just to keep up with appearances.

You really are running low on ideas these days, aren’t you, Doc? Bringing in some of your friends to lighten your load and do the heavy lifting for you in your own video. It’s a cheap trick, but I did chuckle, I admit. It’s hard not to crack a smile when you’re watching a legend erode to dust in real time.

Did you let the frog and the cat write your sassy one liners and mean remarks? At least that would explain the lack of energy and worn out cliches. Those two nimrods never could figure out how to write a half decent script.

Where are your blows, Doc? Where are your jabs? Your hooks and your crosses?

Did you forget them at home? Perhaps dementia is setting in sooner than we all thought…I suppose a Steubenville Screwdriver onto a rooftop doesn’t help much with that.

I know a time like this must be hard for you, Louis.

But still, I can’t help but feel slighted. You gave nearly 500 words to Charlie Nickles the first time you spoke to him, after all! Has this body’s stock really fallen so far in your eyes? My my. It seems that my name is nothing but Gamestop stock in your UNIVERSE.

Demos chuckled as he shook his head from side to side. His dark mane jostled around on top of his skull. Strands of hair fell on top of the man’s dirty mask.

But I mean, really? How busy can your schedule be? Don’t you just spend most of your days laying around the house, trying not to feel the lung cancer pulverizing your innards?

You expect me to believe that you couldn’t find the time to submit anything more than a simple audio clip to promote our march madness bout? I hope you’re able to remember where you put your big boy pants so you can get in front of the camera and look decent this week. Your match with the Demos deserves at least that respect, does it not?

But what if Charlie’s right? What if you are a mastermind, plotting his every move with the utmost care in a one player game of three dimensional chess?

Why would you refuse to truly address the Demos during your first challenge on the way to the mountain?

You could only have two plots in play. Neither will bear you the fruit you so desperately seek.

Perhaps you plan to catch the Demos off guard. Keep my tongue in check by leaving me with nothing to respond to. But the Demos has oh so much to say. For far too long the voice of the Demos has been silenced and disregarded by the gatekeepers and oligarchs. Now, the Demos’ voice booms with the will of the people.

Or perhaps, even worse for your chances, you don’t know what to say to the Demos. You don’t know what to make of this new figure behind the mask. Maybe you just needed to buy yourself more time to analyze further. To find a weakness. To figure out which chink in my armor is waiting to receive your arrow. But if you don’t know who the Demos is by now, you will never understand.

The Demos is who the Demos has always been. Nothing more, nothing less.

You may just well free your tongue from the cat’s claws this week. I suspect you will. But what will you say when the very subject you’re speaking on perplexes you? Challenges you to the core? Even once the cat does not have your tongue you will still be left with nothing but empty words. Your aged mind will spew forth impotent proclamations alongside the applesauce you struggled to guzzle down this afternoon.

The Good Doctor has come to the end of his rope. Madness is in the air. The Demos marches forward.

Day by day the body of the doctor grows weaker with age. Day by day the body of the Demos grows more pure. With every passing hour the doctor pleads for the reaper’s mercy. With every passing hour the Demos bends the reaper to his will.


But D’Ville, don’t mistake the Demos for a cruel oppressor.

No family deserves to lose their patriarch so suddenly. I refuse to etch your name onto a tombstone. The Demos did not enter this tournament to destroy families and end legacies. I will make your first round exit as gentle as I possibly can.

Like the nursing aid who has to help the frail grandfather stuck on the floor and crying for help, I will wrap my arms around your brittle body with abundant caution. Inside my tight embrace you will be in charge of your own fate. I will not cause you any undue harm.

When I lock in the Charlie Crossface, I will let you leave the tournament on your own terms. It will be your choice when your hand slaps against the mat in submission. You will set your own breaking point. Want to fight the hold for a minute, giving the crowd their absolute money’s worth? That’s how an icon taps out, and I reckon that might be the path you want to go down.

The Demos is understanding.

The Doctor wants to look GOOD in his waning days.

The Demos does not wish to embarrass you.

Just make sure you have a spare pair of depends backstage. I don’t want it to happen, but if you hold out too long you may just defecate on yourself in front of 40,000 fans.