We begin with a close cropped shot of Kristoffer Arroyo’s head laying on a nude male torso. Nevermind that the torso is pallid and completely, eerily, still.

Have you ever heard the phrase, “La petit mort”, my dear? It’s French for “the little death” and in modern parlance it’s come to refer to the sensation one has post orgasm. A state of pure bliss where one nearly transcends consciousness itself.

This is relevant, love.

I like to use the term to describe the state he’s in. Kristoffer jerks a thumb back at the torso he’s laying on. But it’s oh so relevant to the opposition as well. Both of them have experienced their own “petit mort’s”. Both of them thrive on that sensation of near carnal bliss. As I do! But theirs are pale imitations of what my friend here is going through.

Take our phantasm with the roman numerals. Que mysterioso, by the by. A state of bliss achieved by hiding his true face, embracing the romance of the unknown. I won’t fault him for that. Secrets are fun, right? A smile. What I will cast aspersions on is his bliss in winning the Revolution championship. Oh, I’m certain it was borderline orgasmic getting his hand raised in the air at Relentless. But what did he truly accomplish? A victory over a man who is past his prime, who despite his penchant for loquaciousness couldn’t be bothered to utter a word in defense of his own championship reign? The writing was on the wall. Good old Thunder Knuckles found the Revolution Championship beneath him and was scrambling to account for the sudden sidelining of Bobby Bourbon. XXXVI didn’t beat a former Universal champion, he beat a man who was floundering to save the one championship that mattered to him.

To say nothing for the fact that lucky number 36 was already defeated by my esteemed partner.

A wink offered to….whoever he’s talking to…

Now Clutch, that’s an entirely different story. A woman who gets off on the passion of the chase. “Le petit mort” cast in diesel fumes and thrumming engines. But with each petit mort, what is she really chasing? Twisted metal. Flesh flensed on asphalt. Fire incinerating bones. Oh dear heart, you’re chasing the real deal, aren’t you? Tut, tut, tut. Now this may surprise you, but a nihilist I am not! And I have no respect at all for one such as you, Clutch, whose only sense of orgasmic passion comes as you clutch (pun most definitely intended) for a dalliance with death itself. Chasing death is so drab, so boring, so passe!

No, dear child, the new vogue is living forever.

Life, Clutch….LIFE! That’s what I’m after.

Suddenly, a groan escapes from the body underneath Kris’ head.

Oooooh, it’s almost time, dear! But where was I? Ah. Clutch!

A more protracted groan follows.

Let me speak, boy. A pause. Clutch, your shtick is as tired as what you chase. The cute little thing whose bite is supposedly worse than her bark. But honey….sweety….lovey….I’ve been doing this a little bit longer than you. Not in a ring, mind. No. But bare knuckle fighting on the streets of Chan Chan, Peru….warring fist tooth and bayonet in the Revolution….exchanging gunfire from my perch above a Brooklyn speakeasy. The thrill of danger, love? It’s all I know. You’re trumped in that regard as much as you’re trumped in that ring.

Yet another groan. Kris finally lifts his head off the body and the shot pulls back to reveal an abject horror. The nude young man’s throat has nearly been torn out. The pillow on which he rests his head is sodden with blood. The walls above and around him coated in arterial spray. And yet this man, by all rights dead to the world….is starting to rouse…

The shot opens still further to disclose who Kris has been talking to the whole time. Naturally, it’s Summer Page. Her eyes are wide with shock, expression pulled taut in horror.

Wow, I don’t even know where to begin Kris, is it?

Summer asks with a bit of trepidation in her voice.

Look, all I need to know is that when we are in the ring with XXXVI and Clutch that you…

Summer points off in the distance.

Do what you do to the two of them at Anarchy…We good?

Kristoffer…laughs? Oh, we’re more than good. He claps his hands together. MORE THAN GOOD. With a mercenary attitude like that I’m sure we’ll get along splendidly.

Just then, the young man with his throat torn asunder suddenly sits up in bed. His eyes are wide and hollow, mouth drawn open in a rictus of pure terror. And then he starts to scream as the memory of what happened to him settles in, and new alien impulses take root.

Kristoffer rolls his eyes in annoyance and fans his hand down across the young man’s face. SLEEP!

And the young man drops off to sleep on command, head planting down on his crimson pillow.

Kristoffer returns his attention to Summer, who again stands by in shock.

But perhaps I should be more clear about my purpose in bringing you here, Summer. It’s not to horrify you, or even to tittilate…no, no. You see Summer, like that young man over there…..


….Baby, do you wanna live forever?

Kristoffer dramatically extends a hand towards Summer. A nervous Summer takes a step back as Kristoffer extends his hand.

You…You do whatever you just did to that guy to XXXVI, Clutch, and we’ll be great!

Summer takes another step back as she scans the room for the closest exit.

I’m never going to be able to watch Interview with a Vampire the same way.

Summer takes her leave, still clearly shaken. Kristoffer scowls and turns his head towards the nearly dearly departed man on the bed.

…..really cocked that up, didn’t you?