The gun metal bay doors slammed shut behind them with an air of finality, a grim portent that would rattle lesser men. But Kristoffer Arroyo was not a lesser man.

FUUUUCK, MY DIZZICK IS SO HARD RIGHT NOW!!! 

And neither was Samael Dyson, although in his private, quiet moments Kristoffer had his misgivings. Misgivings that were then typically cleaned away by recollection. Namely, the recollection that Sam Dyson, this debauched cosmic eyesore of a human being, had saved his life. And for that, what passed for a dying gasp of a conscience within Kris voluntold him for servitude to Samael.

Leaving the machinations of history behind, Kris resolved himself to the present and surveyed their surroundings. A grim dimly lit factory that still faintly reeked of oil. The only lights that were provided came at the courtesy of the Secret Service cosplayers flanking them, black suited indiscriminate grunts lighting the way with high powered lamps that brought the rusted groaning hulks around them to bear.

And then, of course, there was Madison. Still tethered to a leash held in one of Samael’s dirty little hands, the exact magnitude of horror that Samael had inflicted on her was still a mystery even to Kris. But for it to have been enough to reduce such a brazen woman to this shell of a shell was enough to send a cold wave down even Kris’ stolid spine. Sam gave Madison’s leash an abrupt pull, jerking her into a passing semblance of awareness and prompting her to follow.

They continued their jaunt down the main corridor of the factory, and with each passing step Sam’s childlike giddiness only seemed to grow. He clutched his hands in front of him, muttering prayers to dark old ones intermixed with stream of consciousness vows to fuck everyone on the XWF roster who was even scarcely attractive. Finally, Sam emerged from his private revelry long enough to address Kris.

It’s almost in my hands, Kris. I can already feel its power. The power of the most prolific genius the XWF has ever known. Oh, those quibbling vaginas refuse to even utter his name, Kris. Such flagrant disrespect for a man of vision….of, of, of….TEMERITY! But I’m not afraid to say his name.

Sam skips ahead of Kris with Madison jankily in tow and turns to face him.



Samael speaks the name with the kind of reverence that befits speaking to God.

Did that feel good?

Like, you know when you’ve been waiting for an ungodly amount of time to take a shit, and then finally you get that moment of sweet release on some nervous corn pone twink’s face? Feels THAT good.

I’ll take your word for it.

The group continued on until they reached a wooden trapdoor built into an out of the way corner of the factory. A staircase underneath it took them further down, down, down the rabbit hole, through a subterranean tunnel and into a rounded room with a makeshift stage built into the center of it. Candelabras had been welded into the walls and, despite the ramshackle nature of their surroundings, the folding chairs in front of the stage were populated by people who were dressed quite opulently. As our trio passed through another set of doors into the room, their guards broke off to flank the door, and a man dressed in a tux wearing a rabbit mask handed Sam a brochure. Sam poured through it for a moment before remembering Kris existed and showing it to him.

See here buddy, all the best in stolen, confiscated, and purloined underground wrestling memorabilia! Sam pointed out the wares in the brochure being offered by the underground auction house, naming them off.

Breast implants actually worn by Jenny Myst!

A box with the remains of Bobby Bourbon’s shame!

Dim’s KKK hood!

Stolen love letters from Corey Smith to Alias!

The list of illicit goods went on and on until Sam reached the back of the pamphlet.

And last but not least….the very reason I’m here….the actual testicles of…



Kris winced. Why would he, or anyone really, auction off his testicles?

Sam shrugs, still wearing a profound grin. Who knows! I mean, there’s rumors! One rumor holds he lost them in a game of high stakes poker with THE DEVIL. Another one claims he had them replaced with high tech, military grade testicles! Whatever the case, these balls belonged to my HERO! And I must have them. I MUST!!!!

Sam’s outburst drew the attention of some of the other patrons, whom he promptly flicked off.

Come on, let's get some good seats. Sam waved them forward and they tramped through an entire row of beleaguered auction goers until they arrived at some empty seats. A man in a bear mask reached over and handed Sam a placard for the auction. Sam, in turn, pressed it into Madison’s limp hand and sheepishly told the bear mask man, She’s the one with the cash. I’m just the looks, baby!

Kristoffer leaned back in his seat and crossed his ankles, waiting for the shit show to begin.

TWO HOURS LATER….

The auctioneer on the stage, a corpulent man in a jet black suit wearing a plague doctors mask, was handed a glass case from one of his similarly masked underlings. He held it aloft and said, Finally, we come to our final piece for the evening!

Kristoffer nudged Sam, who had fallen asleep. Sam woke up blearily, rubbing his eyes, and mumbling….the-the fuck?

It’s the testicles, Sam. They’re on the auction block.

Kris wondered when he would ever again have cause to make such a statement as Sam instantly started to rouse.

Our final piece, which is none other than the very scrotum of the most infamous and reviled XWF owner of all time, SHANE !

Nah…nah….see? You’re getting censored. Sam spoke to the auctioneer.

I’m….I’m….what?

CENSORED! By these PRICKS! He points at the camera. Who don’t want to see a great man’s legacy live on! So you gotta put some bass and sparkle in your voice and say it like this!



The auctioneer shakes his head and continues on. At any rate, let the bidding commence at $500.

That cheap?! Sam marvels.

Well, that’s $500 well spent.

Shut up, Kris! Then, turning to Madison. Mommy! MONEY! He forces her to raise her paddle.

I have $500! Do I have $550? $550 anyone?

You have $666! Another voice cut through the room. Kris and Sam wheeled around to see a mysterious stranger in a long black jacket smoking a cigarette with a cell phone up to his ear. He was seated in the final row, holding up a black paddle.

We have $666 from the representative of the gentleman on the phone.

Sam scowled viciously. Oh, I know who that FUCKER is and he’s not getting Shane’s BALLS!

How much does Madison have left?

Enough!

Even after all the lavish orgies and keggers at her expense?

Listen Debbie fuckin’ Downer you’ve been shitting on this the whole….oh wait! He returns his attention to Madison and makes her lift the paddle while shouting $5,000!

But the mysterious agent in the backrow counters immediately. $6,666!

The crowd of auction goers start to murmur in interest and excitement.

Sam raises Madison’s paddle arm again, looking like he’s about to bust a capillary. $50,000!!!!

Gasps ensue, followed by more murmuring.

$66,666!

Oh my word! The auctioneer stammers.

That’s fucking IT!!!! Sam hollers. He yanks Madison’s paddle out of her hand and raises it himself as he rises to his feet. $100,000!!!!

$666,666!

Sam blanches and looks down at Kris. Kris, wide eyed, can only shrug and say Cut our losses?

NEVER, BITCH! He holds the placard up again, and those around him watch on with baited breath. Five. Million. Dollars. He speaks the words slowly and methodically. Someone nearby faints in their seat. The room goes eerily quiet. The auctioneer looks on with extreme greed tainted interest.

But then, without missing a beat, the representative in the back also rises to his feet, flicks his cigarette to the floor and says…..$6,666,666.66.

Louder incredulous murmuring now. The auctioneer pulls a hanky out of his suit jacket pocket and starts dabbing at himself under the mask. We have $6,666,666.66! Any further bids? Anyone?

Kris surveils the room and starts speaking before he looks at Sam. Come on, you know Madison doesn’t have that kind of money left, we need to ... .But then, when he looks up at Sam’s face, he sees Sam’s eyes rolled back in his head as he chants an unknown language under his breath.

Uh'eogg ot n'ghftog, ahlloigehye mggoka'ai ya uln.  Mgulnah ya ehye ot ymg' such cahf Y' ahor smite cahff cretins ahf' stand ph'nglui ya way….

Ah shit. Kristoffer breathed in annoyance. He got up from his seat and started making his way towards the only point of egress in the room.

Any more bids? Anyone?!

In Kris’ peripheral vision, he takes note of the stiletto blade as it whips across the room, lodging itself in the neck of the rival bidder’s representative. Kris doesn’t even look at what ensues as chaos soon reigns. He merely heads for the door, where he sees the two guard escorts that had accompanied them earlier peering inside in a state of shock. As Kris walks up to greet them, he jerks his thumb back towards the growing pandemonium and says, Might wanna check on that.

The guards hustle past him and immediately start barking orders and trying to find the assailant. But it’s too late. Whatever Samael had invoked is already in process. Kristoffer crosses the threshold into the hallway and closes the doors behind him. Spotting the piece of rebar in the corner he had noticed earlier, he takes it and jams it into the mechanism controlling the handles of the door.

From there, Kris can only imagine what Sam has unleashed. But he has a pretty good idea. He had seen him pull this trick before once when a drug deal went south in Baton Rouge two years ago. By now, the rival bidder’s man is on the floor, as a thick black ichor pours out of his neck wound. It’s not blood per se, but Kris honestly isn’t sure what the hell it is. Then, once the neck spray stops, a tiny little multi armed squid can be seen amongst the black gunk. But it’s not a squid. It has far too many tentacles. In fact the whole thing is tentacles, except for the piercing milky red eye in the center of it.

Before long, the little creature, cosmic hell spawn, what have you, starts to grow exponentially. And based on the screams of terror Kris is now hearing from behind the door he’d jammed, he assumes his thinking is right on cue. Gun shots ring out, but the bullets simply lodge in the creature's amorphous form harmlessly. That’s about when it starts thrashing about wildly. Oh, and it grows a mouth. Somewhere. Everywhere. The whole thing becomes tentacles and mouths. And in its wild thrashing (with tentacles at this point that vary in length from about 6 to 10 feet) it starts grabbing up whoever and whatever it can find and pulling them into one of its many expectant maws.

Not Sam or Maddy though. They’re safe.

Some of the now desperate and terrified auction goers try to pass through the door only to find it barred from the outside. Kris watches the door carefully to make sure they aren’t able to force it open, but the mad scramble for escape is very quickly cut short by the beast taking hold of them and ingesting them.

Kris turns away from the cacophony just behind him and levels his gaze at the camera. Addressing the camera operator, he intones evenly, I’m sure you’ve seen worse, right?

The camera operator bobs the camera up and down in agreement. Kris claps his hands together.

Well, no time like the present. Sarah Wolf, as I live and breathe! Fun fact: I actually do neither.

You know what though, the fact that I drew you as an opponent is not at all surprising to me. In fact, as I heard rumors of who was signing appearance contracts for this Warfare, and your name came up? I thought to myself: that’s it. She’s the one. I didn’t request this match mind you, I just had this innate feeling it would be you and I as dance partners this time around.

Goody goody.

I’m glad it was you. Truly. Because you and I, if you’ll forgive the cliche, are really quite alike. We’re both victims of small minds and smaller hearts. Those who do not know us are quick to judge us based on the surface level, facile elements of our respective personalities. In fact, I’m afraid that’s what you’re going to do.

I’ve seen your promo stylings, dear. You thrive when there’s a thick, meaty backstory to tear into. You revel in the history, ripping, tearing and clawing through the years like an apex predator surrounded by a glut of prey.

But I’m not giving you that, am I?

No. Instead I offer you ambiguity. And I sense you don’t do well with ambiguity. I sense that out of desperation, you’ll sully the respect I have for you and leap to conclusions, to low hanging fruit. You’ll attack what I am rather than who I am for want of anything else to attack.

More’s the pity.

Because I like you, Sarah. I respect you. And I’m ashamed to admit that before I got to know you I assumed there was little else to you but that twisted snarl and the trappings of a hurt woman hurting the world before it could do her further damage. But there’s more to you, isn’t there? There are people that you care about. That you love, even. Regina. Vhodka. Even your brothers, though you may be at odds with them at times.

And that’s precisely what people don’t understand about us, Sarah. And what I fear you may not understand about ME. Is that though we both revel in the damage we cause, there is so much more waiting beneath the surface. So much…..LIFE.

The entire time Kris has been talking, the chaos on the other side of the door has failed to relent. The screams of the dying. More gun shots. Before long there is another desperate rattling at the locked door. Kris smirks at the camera.

Excuse me a moment.

He turns towards the door.

Die more quietly, please. I’m trying to have a moment with my opponent!

Almost as if on cue, the rattling at the door stops in lock step with a pained moan followed by a dragging noise. By this point, the commotion in the next room seems to be abating.

Where was I? Oh yes, LIFE. It’s funny, Sarah, that despite the trappings of who and what I am ... .despite who I choose to associate with ... .despite everything I’m CAPABLE of ... .the word I choose to define me is “life”.

Imagine if you will, the ability to sort the masses as you wish and grant those who pass your scrutiny as worthy of an eternity of wellbeing. That! That is my daily existence. And THAT is what motivates me. It’s not all the bloodshed, the insanity, the death….it’s the ability to give my gift to others and watch them grow and mold into a more perfect being alongside me.

You see, Sarah, I’m not a monster. I’m life’s breath. And I love those I’ve given my gift to. Spiritually. Emotionally. A smirk. Physically.

Kris casts his arms out dramatically and his impish smile grows ever wider.

And thus the other shoe drops, as it is wont to do. And we come to the crossroads where we part ways, Sarah. Because our respective lifetimes, and our respective suffering, seem to have taught us different lessons. And amidst the sea of your cultured words and vicious verbal assaults, there was one solitary quote that struck me more than anything else you said. Yeah. It was in your segment against XXXVI. You said, “cruelty is a gift one gives to themselves” And you went on to encourage XXXVI to become a “perfect monster.”

Kris rubs his forehead a bit, and his brilliant grin sags.

Disappointing.

Disappointing because I thought you were better than that, Sarah. I thought you were more well rounded. I thought you were more MATURE. But that statement? It’s a whelp’s statement. An emotional invalid’s statement. It’s the kind of vapidity I would expect from the caricature I once thought you were.

Sarah, you think cruelty is a gift?

No,no,no child.

The Sam Dyson’s of the world would agree with you. But not the Kristoffer Arroyo’s. No. Cruelty is just part of the path we walk towards beauty. After all, I must inflict violence and draw blood before I can offer existence everlasting. I may enjoy the cruelty at times, true, but the cruelty is not the point. The BEAUTY is the point. The GIFT is the point. The BONDS we form with others like us is the POINT.

Disappointing, Sarah. Very disappointing.

But I suppose you think your viciousness makes you stronger.

Has it?  

You’re talented to be sure. But your career certainly hasn’t been without its missteps. You yourself once defined your record as W-L-W-L-W-L. So I ask you, has the spite made you better? You’ve collected your share of scalps. But you’ve also lost to people you probably should have beaten. To say nothing of your haphazard “reign” with the Xtreme Championship that saw you get picked over by Charlie Nickles after not even two weeks. I mean if there was ever a championship that called out to one who worships at the altar of cruelty it's that one! But you just couldn't quite hack it, could you?

At that moment, it occurs to you the adjoining room has become deathly silent. Pun intended, perhaps. But then, the silence is interrupted by a series of raps at the door to the tune of “shave and a hair cut, two bits.”

Ah, that’ll be Samael.

Kris turns and removes the rebar from the door, and he scarcely has time to move out of the way before a blood soaked Samael Dyson tosses the doors open. Madison is equally blood soaked but still bearing a vacant, far away expression. We catch a glimpse of the carnage in the next room ever so briefly before the doors swing shut behind Sam. Sam walks up to Kris and shoves a pair of half rotted testicles in his face. Kris recoils and takes a few steps back.

….really?

Do you see this?!!!

I see a pair of decaying testicles, Sam.

Sam scowls. They’re a fake…A FORGERY! He hurls the testicles at the wall where they strike with a meaty slap before slowly sliding down the wall leaving a trail of pus and blood in their wake. Everybody knows that Shane had THREE testicles, not just two! Those weren’t his balls, Kris!

How terrible. Kris deadpans.

Yeah! Then, noticing the camera, Sam jerks his head towards it. You talking to that Sarah Wolf cunt?

I am.

Did you tell that tiny titty boo hoo bitch that her angsty perpetually on the rag shtick is as fucking weak as it comes?

In not so many words.

Well then let me add some words. Sam cracks his neck performatively before squaring up with the camera. Listen bitch, I bet Kris was all civil and shit with you because that’s his bag. But me? I’m my mother’s son. And I go for the THROAT every time.

Do you know how exhausting people like you are? With your stupid ass mopey face and pathetic ass “woe is me, let me cry and shit some bats” attitude you sad sack Lydia Dietz motherfucker!

You got trauma?! Welcome to the club! We all got trauma! I got trauma. Mom’s got trauma (especially the trauma I gave her), Kris has like 300 years of trauma! But the difference between you and the rest of us?

We don’t make our shit the basis for our entire personalities!

And the fact that you do, the fact that you’re so fuckin’ CONSUMED by all your SHIT tells me everything I need to know about whether Kris is gonna whoop your ass or not!

Sam points back at Kris.

Do you know that when I found this fucker he was literally being drawn and quartered by some racist MAGA fucks? And not even because he’s a vampire! But because he’s gay and Mexican!

I’m Spanish, but thanks.

Fine! Because he’s gay and Spanish! Point being, this man has suffered too. And that would give him a license to act as shitty and petty as you. But he doesn’t. You know why? Because he’s STRONG. Because he’s IN CONTROL. But you? Feh!

Sam makes a motion indicative of a frenetic masturbatory session followed by an explosive ejaculation.

One more thing! I know it’s probably kind of confusing seeing as how the word “personality” is right in the name, but having borderline personality disorder does not constitute a fully formed persona and no I don’t care how many times watching Girl, Interrupted has suggested otherwise to you. Now fuck off you insufferable cooze!

An enormous wet throaty belch can be heard from behind the door. Both Kris and Sam turn to look at it, then at each other.

Sounds like he’s full.

Yeah. Time to put this interdimensional horror back in his box. Sam tugs Madison along behind him as he goes to the door, but stops short and turns towards the camera one last time. Oh, and Sarah? Despite all that shit I just said, I still wouldn’t be opposed to you sitting on my face. Sam makes the “call me” gesture up next to his ear before disappearing back into the adjoining room again. Kris reorients himself back towards the camera.

Well, that’s Sam for you. But at any rate Sarah, I am looking forward to our contest at Warfare. I couldn’t think of anything more suitably epic quite frankly. The bitterness of death versus the vitality of life! Truly one for the record books.

And if afterwards, you’re feeling inclined to give eternal life a whirl…well…I’m sure we can work something out.

Then, we hear Kris’ phone ring from his pocket. He takes it in hand, looks at it, and makes a throat cut gesture towards the camera signifying he wants it off. He doesn’t notice that it stays on as he answers the call.

Yes, Matty.

……


The blood packs are in the fridge, the same place they always are.


……


You WHAT?!

…..

I can’t come down right now, I have a match this Monday. Jesus, Matty, I told you this! And I told you you need to be careful you’re too….Kris shoots a look back at the door as if making sure Sam can’t hear him and lowers his voice….you’re too young to have thralls. You need to destroy it.

….

I don’t care! It was very foolish of you! We’ll deal with it together when I come back home. But Matty, for Christ sakes, Matty….

……

Yeah, fine. I gotta go. Bye.

Kris hangs up the phone with a look of deep consternation. Then, he pockets it and heads into the adjoining room to meet up with Sam and Madison.