Darkness?

You claim my weakness is the darkness?

Do you want to see the darkness, Nero? Just open your eyes...

Darkness is only as the blinding as the beholder is unfamiliar with darkness.

If you’re a stranger to the blackness…

If you only have a passing familiarity with the Beast within…

Then certainly, with your naiveté, the darkness I reside in seems empty and obscure. Without danger.

But, spend some time with me in here, Nero…

And slowly…

But surely…

You’ll see the world that populates the darkness I live in…

You’ll see the method behind my ‘madness’…

You’ll see shapes fade in at the corners of your eyes and never be able to unsee them…

You’ll see the bitterness and torment within the hearts of every pathetic no one that crawls through these doors desperate for their deaths to only come quicker like the ant challenging the spider…

You’ll see what I see…

But you’re still young, little Nero.

And you’ve proven to be too stupid to comprehend simple metaphor and analogy, no matter how dependent you are on your uninteresting historical metaphors...

If you’re to truly understand your downfall and how doomed you were from the start of your reign…

To The End of you career...

Perhaps, I need to shed some light on the situation…

***

A thunder strike.


Stage lights come alive and illuminate the darkness.

A quiet empty comedy club.

Chairs unoccupied but pulled out and facing the stage.

A stage without any equipment or even a curtain.

Meals on tables, alcoholic drinks and burgers with frees, that go on touched.

Deafeningly silent.

An empty packed house.

Full of no ones and nothings. Just quiet enough to hear the pouring rain outside...

A sizzling microphone almost overpowers the voice that booms over the PA system. The voice is unenthusiastically monotone. But present.

“And now. For your collective enjoyment.”

“The Comedy Stylings of Mark Flynn.”

The mike gives one last buzz before dying with a click. A shadow enters from the side door and walks to the stage, his steps clacking as he walks across the space. Large square briefcases rest at his sides, one in each hand.

As he enters the light, the shadow becomes a man. A disheveled man in a tattered ancient suit.

Mark Flynn.

Former European Champion Mark Flynn.

Former Tag Team Champion Mark Flynn.

Former Respected XWF Superstar Mark Flynn.

While his suit has always been made of rags and torn collars, there’s something different about his attire this evening…

He’s covered in dirt and mud. Sweat and rain pouring down his face.

As if he’d spending an evening pulling himself out of a shallow grave.

He drops the briefcase in his left hand.

CLACK. It lands loudly on the floor, echoing quietly through the space.

His fingers eagerly twitch and click open the case and fold down the sides.

Resting within…

Is a small wooden stool. He slips it out and flips it up right onto the stage.

He then gently rests the second briefcase onto the stool. And pulls out…

A dismantled microphone stand. And a wireless microphone.

He quickly places the microphone stand center stage close to the non-audience. He lengthens the stand to his height through twisting the middle and pulling the end.

He finally rests the microphone in the stand.

He tries to straighten his tie as he stares out into the darkness. But it snaps off in his hands.

It doesn’t seem to bother him much as he continues to brush dirt off his sleeves before finally bringing his chin to the mike.

“Well… well… well…”

His voice drains from his throat like waste from a cess pool. His white bloodless face fills in with color…

Coming back to life…

“Guy spends a couple months here and a couple days in the ground... And he’s suddenly the old guard. The last of a dying breed.”

“I could comment that Meltdown and Mr. Natural have been here longer than I have. Or that Eric Lewis’ whole gimmick is being too old to be good.”

“But honestly. I understand why I’m being called the last of the old guard. After all…”

“I’m the last decent wrestler in this company. A champion of a bygone era.”

“So, let me say instead.”

“If you think I’m going to let you (CENSORED) kids (CENSORED) my company by stealing one of these belts.”

“Then I’m going to have to remind you why Slater, Page and Tax all moved onto an elderly folk’s home where they could take it easy as they step carefully into funeral plots.”

“While I stuck around and thrived.”

“And sure... Conceivably, there are a couple of things that could keep me from winning this tournament…”

“Like the return of Future Legend Jordi. Or the rules being changed on the fly to reward those who can get the highest score at Bubble Shooter or those who output bullsh(CENSORED no work trash-talk instead of actually possessing in-ring ability...”

“Hey, Duke. How are you?”

“I’m saving the best jokes for last. So, I’ll hit you next time more completely and devastatingly. But until then…”

“Why don’t we start this little clean-up by sweeping the bile and human waste off the stage?"

“Crimson Dong. Honestly, I was impressed by you obliterating Raymond Hatcher and think the only thing that kept you from beating someone that took down a United States Champion was a fast count.”

“Seriously, the rest of you, how sad is it when the most threatening lower tier trash name I read is THE CRIMSON DONG?!?”

“On second thought, how could I not feel disappointed by this list of names…”

“I mean, just look at it.”

“JB Colt and Tommy Carlos King? Seriously, JB, who the (CENSORED) are you? And Thomas, exactly how many times can you put the word debut in a promo? We get it. You’re inexperienced around here. That’s probably why your trash talk and appearances have been so unimpressive and uninspired at this point.”

“When you’re done bullying ring crew, why don’t you go look up the last chump that tried to jump in a massive championship opportunity, The European Ladder match to be exact, and tried to square off with me before ever even having a match in this company.”

“Name: Deion Phillips. Record: 0-1. Career: Ended.”

“And I left the undisputed champion of Madness.”

“Speaking of people whose wrestling careers ended a long time ago, Mr. Natural!”

“It’s so nice to see you back! Didn’t you lose three times to Zydeco before revealing that you threw those three matches so Zydeco would look good and you were in cahoots the whole time?”

“And then neither of you ever won a match again except for that time you got assaulted by Mike Mayhem and were barely able to wrap in a small package for a quick three count? Ah... Memories…”

“But doesn’t that first introduction to you perfectly sum up your existence, Natural? Doesn’t that little twist that you made Zydeco look like a monster for three weeks before he tapped out to everyone under the sun make it clear where you are on the totem pole, what your purpose is in the XWF?”

“You only exist in the XWF… to lose. To make the weaker no ones in the company look moderately competent at their jobs.”

“And while if you luck out and face off one of these nobodies, a Dexter Bale or a Benjamin Crane.”

“One of these precious little saplings Wallace is trying to tend and grow into beautiful roses that can move t-shirts and sell tickets.”

“Then you’ll get to do what you do best. And lose to an only barely passable talent.”

“But if you get in the ring with me. If in the first round, you cross paths with an angry, wronged Mark Flynn and actually have the GALL to crawl up those ring steps and take on someone so blatantly superior to you in every way.”

“I’m not just going to beat you like everyone else will.”

“I’m going to physically decimate you. I’m going to dissect you like a frog for my personal amusement, to make it clear to fourteen other superstars how (CENSORED) they are.”

“And when I’m done playing ‘Wishbone’ with your spinal column.”

“This time, you’re not going to disappear because no one cares about you.”

“You’re going to disappear from PHYSICAL DISABILITY.”

“This is where I usually say this will be your finest moment in the XWF. But since Wallace runs a ‘clean show’, our little altercation will probably be cut from television screens.”

“Shame… but they’re only realistically going to lose forty-five seconds of footage.”

“And someone whose promos can end in an unclever pun.”

“Naturally Yours… Hardy Har Har.”

“Of course, now they have John Michael White’s ‘Fade to White’ to replace it… So, that’s something, I guess?”

“Between White, Bale, AJ Powell and Neil Capra being considered legitimate possibilities for holding this championship, I’m stunned Witastick would even bother having a ‘top’ title."

“With Powell, Capra and White not having a real win between them and Dexter Bale only having wins off two of these pathetic slobs, the only real prize here is the enjoyment out of assaulting a bunch of water vapor children pretending to be the New Era of the XWF.”

"Cyren is putting on a better show than half of the Warfare roster at this point and HE'S A DISEMBODIED HEAD!!!!!"

"..."


“No wonder Duke wants this championship so bad.”

“He wants to reach the highest point you can on this pathetic anthill…"

“Ah… the temptation is killing me… I can’t sate myself off of pathetic trash not worth my time any longer… The need to take a bite into higher class is driving me mad…”

“But… this kind of meal needs to age a few minutes more…”

“…So, instead… Let me deliver an overall message… A mission statement for this Wednesday if you will.”

Flynn turns from the stage...

Then quickly turns back to the stage...

"I hope the use of props in this little set doesn't bring back memories of Carrot Top. I assure you..."

"It's necessary for my illustration."

Flynn lets the mike rest in the stand as he turns back to his suitcase. He reaches in and pulls out his tool...

A small tape player. He sets it on the stool and crosses back to the microphone.

He takes a deep breath...

And smiles.

"Ladies and gentlemen. In the spirit of comedy, I thought I'd close my show with a couple of jokes."

Flynn clears his throat. Slowly drops his mouth behind the mike...

And speaks...

"Chasm returns and wins the US Title!"

Flynn smiles and nods to both sides of the audience, pleased at the delivery of his brilliant one-liner.

The silence is deafening.

All of a sudden, the smile slides off his face quick enough to hit the floor. His hands drop to his sides.

He takes two steps back...

His hand reaches from his side to the tape player on the stool...

And he hits play...

A few seconds of the tape clicking away. Flynn grimaces silently, hatefully at the device, grinding his teeth, demanding it to function.

Suddenly...

Laughter! A loud 80s style laugh track fills the room, loud and unreasoning. No though goes without positive audible response.

Flynn turns back to the crowd, still furious and silent. But when he steps up to the microphone, the cheesy smile and laughing face return, soaking in the canned approval. He points to the empty room, connecting with the void.

"Benjamin Crane proves he DIDN'T just ride Johnny Madison over an under performing Sid Feder and wins the US Title!"

Almost on cue, the laugh rumbles and builds to a crying bit of applause. The King of the Mid-Carders nods, agreeing that that was a good one.

As he puts his chignon his mike once again and lingers a moment...

The tape... Slows just a tad...

"AJ Powell actually wins a match that matters... Then three more! US Champion!"

The laughter continues... Slowing... Getting deeper...

This new sound feels more... Insidious... Malicious...

Flynn's stage grin disappears as this new laughter takes on a mocking tone.

He stares out for a moment, the multiple laughs melding into one distorted evil howl.

"And Mark Flynn..."

The dark laughter overpowers his voice...

Flynn turns...

Takes a couple steps...

And punts the player off the stool.

The laugh stops after the kick. Thanks to the principles of inertia and Newton's Second Law however...

The player does not.

Crack! It slams against a first row table and shatters into electrical components and plastic.

Flynn sighs... He allows the last of his breath... To escape his body...

Before re-approaching the mike.

"All these thoughts you buffoons are sharing... that you're going to overcome the odds and win... Good stuff."

"Funny."

"But, I'm done laughing..."

"Mark Flynn..."

"..."

"Is done being a joke."

Dead.

Silence.