The whip cracks against the skin of the slacking workers.

The sweaty woman with the colorful hair howls in pain as the barbed tail breaks through her flesh.

Demos looked down upon the scene from atop the monument being carved in his own image. The masked man was dressed in a half pleated kilt and ancient looking sandals. His white kilt swayed gently in the wind. His entire torso was exposed. Each and every scar, bruise, and patch of missing flesh was fully visible to the camera. The television championship and heavymetalweight championship each hung over one of his shoulders.

Demos looked down upon the three figures toiling underneath the hot sun. The trio was hauling construction materials across the desert sand. The champion watched intently as the tail of the foreman’s whip traveled between each of their backs. Each of the workers cried out in pain as the whip bloodied their exposed flesh. The scarlet ichor dripped down their skin onto the beads of sand underneath their bare feet.

The foreman bore a striking resemblance to Demos himself. The heavyset overseer wore a half pleated kilt sewn with a combination of brightly colored fabrics. The foreman’s face was partially covered in a hefty brown beard. His dark hair hung well past his shoulders.

“You’ve found your whipping boys….they are suitable, for now. But do not lose focus of our real enemies.”

Ramesses appeared beside Demos. The emerging apparition towered over the champion as it came to form . Ramesses was dressed from neck to toe in leather. A trench coat, boots, the whole nine yards. A look of minor annoyance flashed across the ghost’s face. Demos kept his gaze fixed upon the trio slaving away a few dozen meters beneath him.

“I will draw Baphomet out of hiding one broken follower at a time. I know he’s watching me. Gauging my actions.”

Ramesses huffed as Demos continued to focus on the Left Hand.

“Baphomet has ordered Geri to leave the federation and head down to the regional circuits.

Why?

Because I exposed her. Showed how weak and vulnerable she really is when she’s roaming my halls.

I attacked Geri Vayden on national television for the world to see.

And what happened?

She was sent away, replaced by a man from my recent past. Hmph.”

Demos nods his head as his gaze fixates on the only masked man hauling construction materials across the sand. His eyes quickly move off of the masked slave and settle upon the much taller man with questionable facial hair.

“Baphomet does not wish to leave his nest.

So I attacked Marf. I cost him his only shot at greatness, nipped his march madness hopes in the bud.

And what happened?

The Left Hand retaliated against poor Becky. Beat her black and blue.

But they didn’t dare raise a hand against the Demos. They had every opportunity to get their revenge and they chose peace instead.

Our little backstage interaction? The Left Hand just wanted to joke around with the champion.

Saturday Night Savage? The Left Hand went to great lengths to avoid the Dolphin Destruction Squad. They wouldn’t even show their faces until my match was far back in the rear view mirror. They must’ve hoped I would go home after my match, letting them carry on with their delusions of grandeur without interference.

The Left Hand clearly knows nothing of the Demos.

To think I would let them run amok in my halls! On my show!

The disrespect is palpable. Their arrogance disgusts me.

Did they think I was merely playing with them like a mad dog plays with a newborn rabbit? That I would let them go if they merely played dead for me?”

Demos shook his head from side to side as he spat a loogie down upon the toiling laborers below. Dandruff, or perhaps lice, flew from the man’s mane as it shook loose.

“I will always cleanse my halls of impurity and corruption. I hold no regrets. I only did what needed to be done to get my point across. I left Lycana slumped over on the ramp. I stepped victoriously over her after humiliating her in front of thousands and thousands of fans.

But still the Baphomet refuses to crawl out of his crypt.

How many of his followers must I brutalize?

Must I begin maiming them?

Baphomet seems content to let his followers toil under my tyranny to no end…..”

The masked man trailed off into silence for a few moments before turning to face Ramesses. The massive apparition met his gaze.

“Why don’t they resist my efforts? Why does the Left Hand treat me so much differently than Alias, Ash, and Tula?”

“Why do you believe they let you run wild through their ranks?”

Demos looked down upon the hardworking trio as Ramesses’ question ran through his mind over and over again. An uncomfortable amount of silence passes. That silence is only interrupted by the cries of the thin woman slaving away in the sand. The foreman’s whip slices through her thick skin and collapses her to her knees. Demos turns towards Ramesses once more as the foreman begins to brutalize the downed woman with the brightly colored hair.

“They have been ordered to stand down by their leader. What an impotent Baphomet that sly devil is. He will lose follower after follower by playing these games with the Demos. The Demos does not get tired in it’s pursuit for justice. The Demos’ thirst for righteous vengeance is endless. The Demos fights for all those who could not fight for themselves. I will bring the Left Hand crumbling down no matter how hard they try to pretend that the Demos is not outside their gates.”

Demos let the hypothesis linger for a few seconds before turning back to face the workers on the job below. Demos gripped the championship belts on his shoulders with each hand.

“The Left Hand is right to fear the Demos. To cower before me. To scurry like roaches when I walk through my halls. I have been entrusted with these precious metals, golden and aluminum, because I am the warden of these lands. I did not earn this status by birthright. I built my prestige with blood and brick.

It has become my burden to protect these lands from foul influence. There are so many who are so vulnerable. The weak, the young, the infirm: they can not defend themselves against the evils of this world. It is I who must pick up the shield to protect the people from their would-be oppressors. It is I who must pick up the sword to strike down the malefactors.”

“But do not lose sight of the true evil in your midst! The Brotherhood is growing stronger by the day!”

Ramesses pleaded with Demos. The champion turned to look at Ramesses. He opened his mouth to speak, but the apparition’s words came out faster.

“The BWO is doing heinous things to my body, my champion! Oswald stole my soul, leaving my body a shriveling husk inside of a cryogenic freezer. Now, they’ve put the soul of one of their signees into my flesh! They are parading my body around on Anarchy as if Big Puddin’ is the mighty Ramesses himself! They are the ultimate evil, and you swore an oath to cleanse them from the land! You swore to me that you would free my soul and reunite me with my corporal form!”

“Their trespasses against you shall not go unpunished! I will uphold my oath. I have always held my word true to my heart. But can you not see all the powers at play? The Left Hand the Brotherhood are etched from the same stone. Their fates are one in the same. Both call to the same master!”

“No, I don’t believe it. The Left Hand is nothing but a passing phase. A sad scheme that preys upon the naivety of the young and the vulnerable. But the Brotherhood….their roots are deep in this world. Their influence spreads across the globe unyielding to all borders and nations. Their seeds of corruption have been sowed on every continent. The two are nothing alike. You are wasting precious time chasing after these misbehaving suburbanites!”

Demos held steadfast in his beliefs. He spoke with a firm confidence in his voice.

“Trust me, Ramesses. I promise you that the two factions of ne'er do wells will soon collide like two out of control comets. Miss Fury is the lynchpin that will fulfill all the prophecies. Let’s ask these miscreants what they know of Miss Fury and the Brotherhood. They will know something!”

Demos took a few steps forward. He leaned over the edge of the monument and hollered down at the foreman in the neon kilt.

“DIMES! DIMES!”

The foreman took a break from brutalizing the slaves to glance up at the pharaoh on high. The foreman placed his hand over his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun.

“BRING THEM TO ME!”

The foreman whipped the Left Hand into a single file line and marched them up to the top of the monument. The trio sulked up the steps, biting their tongues as Foreman Dimes held the whip firmly inside of his closed fist. As they reached the champion's elevated platform Demos turned around to greet them. As Demos turn back to face Dimes Ramesses dissipates into the evening air.

"Show tha propa respect to a real O.G. when you see one!"

Foreman Dimes kicks each member of the left hand in the back of the knee one after the other, forcing them to kneel in front of Demos. The champion steps up to the three slaves, his gaze drifting from one to the other as he analyzes each of them closely. The well built man kneeling on the far left carries a wrathful expression inside of the stress marks on his face. His muscles are well defined and he seems to know how to use them. He's muttering some words to himself as his eyes glue themselves to the bottom right corner of his sockets. The man's gaze is entirely upon the flooring of the elevated platform. Demos narrows his eyes at this slave before shifting his gaze to the man kneeling in the center. This husky man is a lot wider and a lot shorter than his companion. The man kneeling between his two accomplices is wearing a shitty and incredibly stained wrestling mask over his face, perhaps purchased at a goodwill or maybe even found in a dumpster. This man's worthless mask is unable to conceal the jubilant expression on his face. He sways from side to side as he leans forward on one knee, barely able to contain his genuine excitement at just being part of a team. Demos only glances briefly at the woman on the far right of the line up. She is dressed immodestly, yet something about here is extremely off putting. She eyes Demos up and down calmly with a neutral expression.

"You wanted to see these soggy turds, big boss man?"

Dimes inquired politely as he stood behind the kneeling laborers. Demos shifted his gaze up to make eye contact with his alter ego. He went to speak to him when, suddenly, the slave on the far left interjected angrily.

"Fuck you! Whatever the fuck you think you are.....do you have any idea at all what you've brought down upon yourself?"

Demos and Dimes both looked around the elevated platform alongside the in progress monument to Demos' face. Dimes placed his free hand on his bare stomach as he audibly chortled. Demos fired back in a mocking tone.

"What have I brought down upon myself? It appears to be nothing but hot air, you sniveling whelp."

The slave retorted quickly.

"Does your simple, below average in size brain even comprehend the cause and effect of what you did? You made your choice, you didn’t just throw a rock at a wasp’s nest. You flat out knocked the nest out of the tree and stomped on it.”

"Yes I did."

Demos makes a stomping gesture with his sandal, rubbing his leather footwear into the dusty platform as if squishing a big.

"I stomped on it gleefully."

Demos brings his foot up before sending it flying back down to the floor. He repeats this motion a few times for emphasis.

"Then I stomped a few more times for good measure!

Let's talk cause and effect, you insecure little man.

Cause: I thought Geri's face would look better with some dirt rubbed on it.

Effect: I rubbed her face into the ground and snipped some of her pretty little locks for my friend Alias.

Cause: I wanted you to fall flat on your face during the tournament because I can't stand your knock off Charlie Nickles cosplay.

Effect: I whooped your ass and let Betsy pick up the pieces.

Cause: I thought your little partner in crime was being quite a major bitch on my television show.

Effect: I brought her out to the stage and left her body a crumpled mess.

Is it starting to sink in? Are you starting to see a pattern here, you illiterate zealot?

I do what I want to the Left Hand with no consequence. I take their hair from them. I take opportunities from them. I force them to ship their weakest links off to the minor leagues!

You can never change that. It is a basic fact. A matter of fate. The Demos roams this earth for one reason and one reason alone: to cull the sycophants and tyrants from the flock. Humanity is a beautiful thing, to watch a soul grow through the years is wonderful, but deluded sadists like you threaten to poison the birth water!"

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

Dimes brings the whip down upon the mouthy slaves back precisely three times. Blood squirts out of the fresh wounds like a geyser. The slave cripples over in pain.

"Take him down to the tomb! Seal him away until he can learn some manners!"

The foreman grabs the slave by his scruffy hair. He literally drags him on his ass. The slave squirms and screams but it's no use, the grip of the foreman is simply too tight. A few paces into the journey and Dimes tires of the constant resistance. He turns around suddenly and brutalizes the slave with the whip a half dozen times. The slave cries out in pain after each and every lashing. The slave with the brightly colored hair leans away, trying to avoid the scene and drown out the cries for help entirely. The slave in the mask is watching the scene excitedly, bouncing up and down and clutching his thumbs inside his fists as his tongue sticks somewhat out of his mouth. A few bits of drool run down the man's face as he watches the entertainment thoughtlessly.

"Why don't you help him? Are you not blood bound? Is it not your duty to help him?"

Demos quips at the female slave as he gazes down upon her. She looks up at him with a hint of worry behind her calm expression.

"No. I am loyal to the Baphomet, and I am a part of the army of his, but each of us, our paths are blazed as individuals."

"No wonder you do not come out and help each other in your darkest hours. You all compete for the Baphomet's loyalty, his affections. You say your numbers are legion? Your brigades are countless? Well then, if one of your compatriots falls in battle that only opens up a career opportunity for you. No wonder it was so easy for me to fell Geri, Marf, and even you Lycana. Because none of you cared about the blows suffered by the other. You are all loyal only to the Baphomet, not each other. You blaze your paths, as you say, individuals."

Foreman Dimes grabs hold of the mostly unresponsive slave. He drags him down the monument, presumably to go seal him away into a room somewhere. Demos gazes upon the masked slave in front of him before the camera fades to black.

We're taken to a shot of RL Edgar standing in front of steel door. The old metal door with the rusty frame creaks open as RL pushes through it. His gaze is instantly captured by the scene across the disemboweled room. Ned Kaye is standing next to Demos. Demos is staring at the ground between himself and the concrete wall straight across from Edgar. A litany of old chairs, animatronic creatures, and long forgotten arcade games litter the floor with seemingly random placement.

Ned: “Hey, Charlie! Are you ok? Hey, Charlie!”

Ned Kaye waves a hand in front of the man’s mask with no response.

RL: “What’s wrong with him?!” Edgar shouts with a drastic sounding grumble as Demos remains still,

Ned: "I have no clue! He just… spaced out while standing here. I think it might be a medical thing…"

The masked man’s lips begin to move but no sound emits. His glossy eyes begin flickering around inside of their sockets.

“DEMOS!” Edgar claps his hands near the host of Charlie Nickles’ body, which seems to jolt the big man, “WAIT!” he bursts out in disgust, “WHAT IS THAT NASTY SHIT ON THE GROUND?”

Edgar and Ned both look down at dirty floorboards in the space between Demos and the nondescript wall. The camera follows their gaze. The far left panel of the frame is filled by the blood caked ‘Marf’ sock. Set a few inches away we see a tiny green sock, likely meant for an infant, with Buzz Lightyear imagery on the fabric. The far right of the frame settles upon a piece of brightly colored hair that has been hot glued onto the top of the ‘Lycana’ sock from Demos’ birthday party. Demos blinks a few times before cranking his neck to look at Ned and Edgar intermittently.

Demos: ”Why have you brought me here?!”

RL: ”Didn’t nobody BRING you here, brother! You jacked the rental back at the commune! The rental company’s GPS led us to this abandoned Chuck E Cheese!”

Demos snorts at Edgar’s comment. The masked man rolls his shoulders passive aggressively as he looks down upon the socks.

D”I was in the Astral plane! Handling business, ruling over my lands with an iron fist and a bleeding heart.”

R”Oh what is this, some sort of deep layered saving The Left Hand stuff… not like I would know ANYTHING about that. We can’t save them Demos! They’re DISSENTIENTS!”

Demos rolls his eyes at the sarcasm. His neck shifts his head to the side so he can gaze into Edgar’s dreamy eyes. Ned looks at the two, confused, trying to pick up if there's any observable chemistry.

D”Do you dream, Edgar?”

R”...who doesn’t?” he says with a miffed tone,

D”What is a dream?” Demos asked with pointed authoritativeness, as if he were lecturing a university course.

R”It’s a brief, uncontrollable fantasy that becomes a constant lingering reminder of what we long for…or, whatever.”

Demos chuckled heartily, his beer belly bouncing up and down with each guffaw.

Demos: “Perhaps YOU can not control the dream, Edgar: but do not mistake them for fantasies. Dreams live in us, with us, between us. They are ever present, constantly shifting. They are as real as the tectonic plates beneath our feet.”

R”Oh goddamnit… this IS going to be all deep…” he says dog-tired and slumping into the wall rubbing his forehead. Ned sighed as he buried his face into his palm.

D”Everything is a joke to you two? Is the world nothing but a series of experiences between forms to you? If you ignore the depths, you risk being swallowed by the currents of history.”

R”Of course I understand having a dream, Demos. It’s the only reason I’m here, it’s the only reason I fight. But dude, we’ve got to be back in Italy tomorrow!”

D”Why wait until Italy, when our opponents lay at our feet in this very moment?” Demos states flatly as he gestures towards the literal socks.

R”The socks, man?”

D”Jobbers, cans, socks, whatever terminology tickles your taint, Edgar. They’ve heard it all before.”

R”What have you been doing to them?”

D”Did you know that Marf dreams?” Demos asks as he dances around the question.

R”Yeah. I know that he dreams. He dreams all of the goddamn time. Every week on XWF television, and then he sleepwalks his tired ass into the ring to get it kicked around.”

D”You needn’t be so harsh on the young lad. If your dreams were as vivid and constant as his, you too would blow the XWF’s production budget hiring actors for the re-enactment.”

R”Man, if I could dream like THAT, I don’t think I’d be all tense and edgy and murdering people. I’d dream about cool shit. Like beer and… stuff.”

D”And women?”

R”With socks like Lycana lying around, who needs any other woman?”

Demos smiles as nods in agreement with Edgar.

D”If only Marf could have a turn with her. I know it eats at his soul. I know he wishes to dream about it. He wishes for her bleached hair to fall across his face as he lays in his bed at night. He wishes to dream for her touch. But I would never allow it. Marf only dreams what I command.”

Demos grinned sadistically as his gaze turned onto the gross Marf sock.

R”You sure as shit got in his head. He wouldn’t shut up about you whipping his ass in his promo.”

D”He cares about nothing else in the world. He said it himself: he will happily throw his next match just to meet the Demos once more.”

R”See! This is exactly the type dumb shit I’ve been warning that guy against, but he ain’t too bright. He can’t pry his lips away from The Baphomet’s asshole long enough to speak something sensible.”

D”The Baphomet is nothing more than a cheap televangelist. Religion is a foul tool, used by the mildly charismatic to pull the wool over the eyes of the sheep. Religion is a disease that spreads through the dispossessed and the alienated. Marf’s belief in the Baphomet’s teachings keep him obedient, blind and unquestionably loyal. Men enslave themselves to religion, shackling their own being to a false doctrine. It’s like trapping your soul inside of a tiny cage. You’ve no room to grow. No space to run free. Religious sentiment is a curse that afflicts the broken and the insecure among us. I’ve no respect for religions or those that preach them.”

R.L. is taken aback by Demos’ words. As an atheist he feels a great sense of shared morality between the two of them. Demos had just conveyed exactly what R.L. hated most about the Left Hand. Maybe these men have taken different paths, but he felt as if they were headed towards the same destination,

R”You know what?” Edgar says approaching holding his hand out towards his eccentric partner, “Charlie Nickles was kind of a dick…” he locks hands with Demos, “But I like you, just DON’T make a sock puppet out of me.”

D”What an odd request…” Demos chuckles as he shakes Edgar’s hand. “You know, you’re kind of a weird guy, Eddy.”

R”Takes one to know one.” he chuckles with a friendly glow,

D”I picked up some Arby’s on the way here. Got a few roast beefs for you and Neddy boy packed away safely underneath the false ceiling of the trunk. Placed them right inside the rim of the spare tire, so no criminals or miscreants would swipe them from the car.”

Edgar looks over Ned who appears tired and famished,

R”I ain’t above eating it… hell, I’m sure ol’ Marf over on the floor there can attest to the wonders of eating dried roast beef.”

Demos clasped Ned’s shoulder with his hand as he smiled at the former hart champion.

D”Why don’t you two go get the car started and dig into your roast beefs. I have a few things to clean up around here…”

Ned and Edgar shrugged before making their way out of the room. Ned and Edgar stepped carefully over the garbage and worn out machines scattered across the floor. Once the two of them left the room Demos turned his attention back to the trio of socks. Demos stepped towards the socks with a wry grin beneath his mask. The scene faded to black as Demos reached down to pick the socks up.