Thus saith Demos, thus saith Demos
Thus saith Demos, thus saith Demos
Thus saith Demos, thus saith Demos
Thus saith Demos, thus saith Demos








Ivory sandals slam down on top of the stairs one after the other. The camera pans out to showcase Demos descending a sandstone staircase built inside of hieroglyphic walls. A few torchlights set along the far wall light the scene surprisingly well. Demos steps out of the staircase and onto the sandstone flooring of a cellar. The champion’s sweaty hair sticks like glue to his leather mask. His exposed torso has visibly reddened from the overbearing sun. The flickering flames from the torch reflect off of the golden belt hanging over his shoulder.

I send a pestilence and plague
Into your house, into your bed
Into your streams, into your streets
Into your drink, into your bread



A soft whimpering is heard from across the room. Demos smiles as he walks across the sandy floor. Demos walks right past the point of view as the camera does a 180 to follow his trail. The champion’s half pleated kilt sways gently as he walks towards the cell at the end of the room.

Upon Geri V, on poor Barney
Upon Lycana and Baphy
Into your dreams, into your sleep
Until you break, until you yield







The shot flips to a view from inside the cage. We see a tired man sitting next to his cell door wearing tattered rags covered in filth. He turns his gaze to the wall opposite the door as the shadow of the Demos was cast over the room.

All this pain and devastation
How it tortures me inside
All the innocent who suffer
From your stubbornness and pride


“Have the weeks of dreadful isolation brought you to your senses? Are you ready to submit to the Demos?”

A fat loogie landed on the sand flooring near Demos. The two men made bitter eye contact as a scowl spread across both faces. Tension lingered in the air for a few seconds before Demos let the slight pass. The champion’s facial features relaxed while the prisoner’s face remained sour.

“I trust you received my letter…”

Demos glances down towards the floor. An open envelope and a small journal laying on the sandstone catch his eye. Demos scoops the papers up before skimming through them. The envelope was simple enough, it was the envelope he had sent his letter to Marf in. The journal, however, was entirely unfamiliar. Demos dropped the envelope as he turned his focus onto the small journal made of loose paper wrapped with small roots from bush vegetation.

Demos flipped through the journal, visibly recoiling in disgust each time he turned a page. His eyes scoured the contents of the journal like it was a fatal trainwreck: Demos was absolutely repulsed, but still he could not look away. Once he flipped past the last page Demos tossed the booklet over his shoulder before stepping up against the bars of the cell.

“I have done all I can to inspire you. To bring you to greatness. To illuminate the path you must take if you wish to break the shackles that bind you.I have invited you to walk alongside me. I have offered you a spot beside me underneath the bright lights. I have given you the opportunity to compete for one of the finest prizes of them all.

You spit on my feet in return……

Teen sex and busty furries? That’s all that is on your delirious mind during the weeks leading up to the biggest match of your life?

You don’t respect this golden cow at all.”

Demos looks down at his championship belt with a tender smile before looking back upon the prisoner with a disappointed frown.

“Some of the autocrats and paper pushers say I have put too much on my plate, they whisper that I don’t have the focus needed to win all of my matches at the upcoming grand showcase…..but you truly don’t want to win our match at all, do you?”

The prisoner narrows his eyes before speaking with a truncated harshness.

“Fifteen minutes, Demos. I want your head on a platter but instead I’m supposed to settle for a title shot in a rushed fifteen minute match for a title I don’t care about. Instead of doing what I want to be doing, teaming with Lycana and mauling whoever is in front of us I get this shit. ”

The champion rolled his eyes dismissively.

“How many more Devil Hook Drops must I deliver to end your delusions? How much more can you lose before it even begins to chip away at your narcissism?

You and Lycana have done nothing but suffer defeat together! I let you run free for a night before resealing you inside this cell, don’t you remember? You teamed with her, and your other buddy too….and you fell flat on your face, embarrassing yourself in front of a sold out colosseum!

You had your chance to maul upon the Demos in the locker room that night. You had the chance to maul upon General Edgar as well! After your defeat you and Lycana only stuck around my halls long enough to make one snide remark. As soon as Edgar popped his head into the lounge to bash your bravado you fled! He and I searched those halls for you two for hours, but you quickly disappeared.

How typical of you. How predictable.

We needn’t read through the historical record of my dominance over your clan. It would take us too long to list every time you tucked your tail and ran from me in the locker rooms. Your skittishness has become such common knowledge that the court gossips have begun to speculate that you and I are the same person! They say Marf just never seems to be around when Demos shows up! I hope my pinfall victory over your tribe was able to lay those rumors to rest once and for all.

You have no future in the tag division with Lycana. You expect her to carry you to greatness? She has fewer wins than you! Pull yourself together. You two have never won a tag match, what ‘mauling’ could you possibly expect to do? Unsanctioned shakedowns and brawlings backstage? You needn’t be in a tag team to practice such unceremonious craft!

But this…….this right here….”

Demos grabbed the tv belt slung around his shoulder and jostled it merrily.

“This right here could change your life. Redefine your legacy. Lend undeniable credence to Baphomet’s Left Hand.

This belt has made stars, crafted icons. Corey Smith, Mastermind, Chris Chaos: they all built their legacies with this very belt. This golden cow has traveled alongside true legends, guiding them on their journey to valhalla. If you could wrap this belt around your waist, it could take you to lands you never even knew existed.

But you don’t care at all about it? You won’t even try to win our match? You’ll just fight like a brute, battle like a barbarian, and refuse to attempt a single submission?”

Demos shook his head disapprovingly.

“Perhaps your mood will change in the coming days. You are known to be more aggressive and outspoken in my absence. It’s odd, how you can ramble on and on for days about how you will smash my jaw when you see me…..but when you actually see me, you wind up flat on your ass outside the ring while I pick up the win for my brigade.

Your words are cheap and hollow just like your soul. You spill Baphomet’s regurgitated talking points out of your mouth as if it were his fruitful seed. Have his seeds bore you much fruit in this federation?

Everyone knows you care about winning, because we only wrestle for one reason. We all wrestle to win.

If you just want to brand people with rods and throw fire at the innocent, there are easier ways. With Oswald’s money in Miss Fury’s pockets you could find hundreds of Epstein style victims to torture and brutalize with no consequences. The money in your circle could easily pay for hundreds upon hundreds of bodies to be the ‘outlet’ for your creative release.

But you chose professional wrestling as the venue for your sadomasochism.

Why?

Because you want to win.

We all wrestle to win.

To win matches, to win titles, to win glory. To stand tall above our opponents and bask in the cries of the crowd. It’s the perfect space to find recruits for your merry little band of outlaws, too. Win some matches, put on some edgy shows, and win followers for your little cult.

Be truthful. You want to beat me for this championship belt.

You know it.

I know it.

Everyone knows.”

Demos lets the truth linger for a moment before tearing back into the prisoner.

“Your lies will not carry you to nirvana! I will cut you down like I always have when we meet inside that squared circle. Under the bright lights of the grand showcase your excuses will be dispelled for all to see.

Just like that evil masked man you wrote about in your little journal, I have ripped all your loved ones apart while you watched helplessly from the sidelines. Unwilling to lend your aid, you just freeze up and stare as I plunge your people into the murky waters they may never resurface from.

Even in your dreams, Marf, my overbearing presence lingers over you. The masked beast of a man that emerged from Camp Crystal Lake to devour the young woman…..what a crude depiction of your sovereign.”

A look of confusion breaks through the prisoner’s hardened demeanor.

“My, my, did you think your dream journal was entirely composed of irrelevant ramblings? While you were furiously scribbling down your dreams, sweat still dripping down your back, did you not think at all about the meaning of your night terrors?”

Demos chuckles.

“You have been lost in a sea of confusion. You have lost all control of yourself. You fail to understand the meaning of your own dreams….no wonder you can not understand your own failures to strike a real blow at the Demos!

You are more deluded than I thought if you think Emperor Lane is preventing you from going more than fifteen minutes with the greatest champion of the era! You have had MONTHS to strike your blow at the Demos! We have crossed paths in the locker room, you’ve watched from backstage while I’ve won match after match on Savage and Warfare. You have the whole of the grand showcase to have your way with the Demos! To strike terror into my heart!

The fifteen minute match is a floor, not a ceiling, you whimpering child! It is a one time obligation, not a lifelong marriage! Emperor Lane has put no such limitation on the Demos. I have made this clear time after time. Emperor Lane and Pasha Pryce only care that you show up to the grand showcase on time! What you do off the clock isn’t their problem!

In truth, Marf, the only one limiting you to just fifteen minutes with the Demos is YOURSELF. You are the only one refusing to raise your fist to me backstage. You are the only one refusing to take a chair to my skull as I walk towards the bathhouse. Do not blame Emperor Lane for your self-imposed weakness. Do not blame Pasha Pryce for your sniveling cowardice.

Be truthful with yourself. You are scared to face the Demos. My relentless assaults. My endless drive. They’re too much for you to bear. You’re just hoping that if you play dead the Demos will pass over you and move on to the next bandit in need of karma’s kiss. But the Demos will never tire on the pursuit for justice! For your ignorance alone I ought tie you behind the Emperor’s chariot and take you for a ride around the plaza!”

The prisoner snickered under his breath as he recalled his own misbehaviors with the chariot.

“Hopefully Jim’s skull didn’t scratch the paint too badly.”

Demos shook his head out of frustration as he grabbed the bars of the cell. He yanked on them a few times as the prisoner rose to his feet. As the bars held firm Demos settled for an accusatory finger pointed between the bars of the cell.

“Cease this carnival barking at once! You’re nothing but a barking mutt, a stray hound who bit a small child in need of protection! You could have been so much more than this! When you first came to this federation as a fresh gladiator, there was potential in you!

Centurion offered you a singles match, based on your strange name alone! You could’ve had a marquee singles match up that propelled you to the upper echelons through pure chance. But you threw it all away to take part in a losing Left Hand effort!

Your soul had potential. There are still seeds inside of you that have not been fertilized by the Baphomet. There is still a part of your soul that could go on and do great things. The Demos could have helped you! I could’ve guided you along the path of righteousness!

It didn’t have to be this way….

But now, now….

Now it’s far too late for that! You can never atone for what you’ve done! For the crimes you have committed against my people!

When I get my hands on you I’m going to unleash the wrath of each and every victim of your barbarism! You will pay for your viciousness a thousand times over, you sorry son of a Baphomet!

Your time as a lapdog of the Left Hand is over! The ever seeing eyes of judgement will be upon you at the grand showcase! You can scream, claw, fight, beg, and plead all your heart desires, but your sovereign will not be done with you until you SUBMIT!”



Is this what you wanted?
Then let my heart be hardened
And never mind how high the cost may grow
This will still be so
I will never let the Left Hand go



“DEMOS!”

Demos reluctantly peels away from the cell door. As he turns around the frustrated expression washes from his face. He runs his left hand through his sweaty mane, his burnt fingers roughly tearing through the wet knots tangling his luscious locks. The brightly dressed Foreman Dimes was carrying an envelope in one hand and his whip in the other. The foreman’s rainbow kilt and sandals somehow appeared free of any dust or sand. Surprisingly enough Dimes’s exposed chest and arms appeared unblemished from the harsh desert sun.

“We just received a raven from Pasha Pryce! You’re going to want to see this….”

Demos looked back at the prisoner and exchanged scowls with the man before stepping towards Charlie’s alter ego.

“What is it, Dimes?”

The foreman extends his hand out to Demos, offering him the envelope. The large beast of a masked man plucks the envelope before bringing it up to his face for a close inspection. His all seeing eyes are drawn to the wax seal of the Pasha.

“This has already been opened.”

“I got curious, my liege! It was juicy! Besides, once I read it, I instructed the servants to begin preparations at once! I also invited a few cool cats and skanky hos to spice up the vibes!”

Demos rolls his eyes as he flippantly tosses the envelope back at the foreman.

“If you know what he said already, don’t force me to sift through his long winded drool. What does Pasha want?”

“Pasha Pryce says the federation is hosting a final supper for all the gladiators and the big sponsors for the tournament! My brotha needed someone to hype it up, ye know? Pasha wanted a good spot for the bash to make it a real hit with the deep pocket suckas! So he wants you to host it at yo crib, Demos!”

“He….what?”

Demos blinks at the news.

“Yeah yeah! He wants it at yo palace cause you’re the main draw, ye dig? He said all the prime time playas are gonna be there. It’s just for the big boys and the boys with the big checks, ye hear?”

Foreman Dimes looks over Demos’s shoulder. He laughs at the prisoner.

“Sorry buckwheat, you’re not invited!”

“Enough foolishness, Dimes. If Pasha Pryce wants the Demos to host the final supper, we must begin preparations at once.”

“Don’t worry bout it, chief. I got all the servants already on it. I even got them poisoning the wine to give ye a little leg up tomorrow night.”

Dimes winked at Demos as he chuckled. Dimes playfully punched Demos in the chest with a hearty smile on his face. Demos squinted at the foreman. Opening the mail, poisoning the drinks….Demos was beginning to think it was a mistake to let this version of Charlie wander around the astral realm. Perhaps he ought to be locked away, just as Charlie Nickles was.

“Say brotha, you want me to keep that little sissy back there busy while you work out the details for this basherino? Pasha said he wants a fly ass party with kush, yayo, cocoa, the whole shebang. Don’t you worry, I’ll keep this little princess occupied while you handle the deetz.”

Dimes chuckled as he playfully snapped his whip a few times.

“Just remember, I need him alive for the grand showcase.”

“Of course, boss! Ain’t gonna be nothin a few dozen tylenol and a shot of meth can’t fix!”

Demos nodded at the foreman as he walked out of the cellar. Dimes cackled gleefully as he approached the prisoner. The scene faded to black as the two men walked through the two doorways of the cellar.

Thus saith Demos
Thus saith Demos
I will not
Let the left hand go