"Get the fuck off my concrete" -Scissorfight
They don't realize that I'm the same monster without the mask, that I am with it.
They think I'm a gimmick. They think I'm a character. They think I'm an act.
Many of them can't possibly comprehend that I'm sincere in my actions.
I call myself Tempest. In these parts, I've given a face to the word. You can't say the word tempest without my face popping up like a specter in the mirror, glaring at you.
I've been in this business for two and a half years. I took six months away from the business recently. Despite what Konrad Raab might try to convince you, it wasn't Konrad who injured me. I wasn't even injured. I just stepped away. Konrad also teases that he might join the Astro Creeps. Unlike the WrestleStock Open, we are exclusive. We're not open invitation.
I'd like to see Konrad try to join us. I'd like to see Kosnar and Pisces tear him apart while Daedalus and I watched. Montague, too, if he's around.
Konrad is one of the High Societies that you don't think about when you think of High Societies. Typically, you think of people like Eden Morgan and Sebastian Everett Bryce... and Lucy Wylde.
I haven't liked Konrad for a long time. I probably never will.
I don't really even know why I'm writing this down. Phrixus Deimos keeps a journal, so I guess that's where the inspiration is coming from.
I'm headlining WrestleStock. In the past, I'd blow it off as being unimportant or something I'm just doing for the fun of it. That isn't true this year. I'm facing Lucy Wylde.
I fucking hate Lucy Wylde.
I want to slice her face off like a piece of lunchmeat and wear it on my own like Ed Gein.
I bet you were expecting me to say Bubba Sawyer there, or Leatherface, as he's better known.
The Butcher of Plainfield is a little scarier than Leatherface. Because he was real.
Like me.
I want to hurt Lucy. Not for the joy of it. I want to hurt her to release this rage that I've had built up inside me for my entire career in this business.
She's a High Society. And I hate High Societies.
I still have a dead man's corpse sitting in my farmhouse. He smells bad. But I can't seem to let him go. I need him.
I named him Dead Seb.
I think I'm starting to lose it. I can hear the birds outside, and I live thirty feet beneath the soil.
Not just the birds. I can hear the worms too. They've found some kind of alliance with me, because they know I hate the birds. So they come to me.
They come to me, begging me to save them from being eaten alive.
"Please, Tempest," they shriek, burrowing themselves deeper into my walls. "Please don't let them feed us to their babies. If you do, our families will eat you. See how you like that!"
I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.
My name is Tempest.
I've been a Chaos Champion, twice. I've been a Cross-Hemisphere Champion, and no one ever beat me for it.
I won Battleground.
And now I'll have my first World Championship match.
And this is where I belong, haunting the top tier of the company.
There will be NO Final Girl on this night... only blood...
And the desolate... disappointment... of Lucy Wylde's demise.
Gnaw Bone, Indiana
The sound of Moonlight Sonata on the piano echoes throughout the Underlook. Somewhere, perhaps in the Underlook's rooms, or maybe even inside its walls, the Doctor-Professor lurks with uncertainty as his own self-doubt confronts him.
On the third floor of the Underlook, Tempest closes the door of Room 313 holding an orange glass bowl. Sticking out the top are pizza rolls. A spiral staircase stands in the far-right corner of the room, leading to an upstairs loft. The staircase is as narrow as a lighthouse. Tempest ascends it and strides to the dark green sofa in the center. The dead body he found weeks ago sits quietly. The smell of his rotting body is overwhelming. The fact that none of the Creeps knew how to embalm a body is as disappointing to Tempest as it might be to the Creeps' audience.
Tempest sets the bowl of pizza rolls on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Beyond the coffee table, sitting on the floor, is an old television set with the original Halloween playing on the fuzzy screen.
The corpse no longer looks like Seb, and maggots have made a home in different areas of his flesh. Tempest knows that his time with the corpse is limited at this point. He'll have to say goodbye to him soon.
He snatches a pizza roll from the glass bowl and sits next to the corpse, facing him. A beetle scurries out of the eye socket to say hello, as Tempest pries open the dead man's mouth and pops the pizza roll in. It sticks on the back of the corpse's tongue and stays, even when Tempest manually closes his mouth. Sighing, Tempest turns towards the television and watches Michael Myers stab his sister to death.
From the room below, Moonlight Sonata plays ominously on speakers in each corner. Tempest sighs and looks over at the corpse.
Tempest: Everyone seems to gravitate to Michael Myers. Many think that he's perhaps the best villain in any of the slashics, but I just... I don't like him, you know? Realistically, he wouldn't survive against Freddy Kreuger or Jason Voorhees. Pennywise would have his way with him, too, I think. Maybe.
He sighs, looking over his shoulder.
Tempest: I wish Montague was here. Nothing against you, Dead Seb. You just don't really have the insight that he does. I mean... you're fucking dead, you know?
He howls with laughter and claps the corpse on the back, sending his body lurching forward, and finally falling face down into the bowl of pizza rolls. This makes Tempest laugh harder as he rocks back on the sofa and holds his belly.
Daedalus: What the hell is going on in here!? I can hear you from all the way upstairs!
The laughter stops abruptly, and Tempest looks over his shoulder at the Architect standing below with his arms crossed and foot tapping on the hardwood. The mask hides Tempest's expression of disbelief. All the way upstairs? Three stories away? And he just started laughing five seconds ago, there's no way Daedalus could get down here that quickly.
Behind Daedalus, Kosnar and Pisces flank him, gazing up at Tempest with expressions as dead as the man sitting next to him.
Tempest: Daedalus, who is the best slasher in horror film history?
Daedalus seems surprised by the question. His posture changes as he gives the question some thought. After a few moments, he grins.
Daedalus: I'd have to go with the Nyarlthotep. The Crawling Chaos.
Tempest rolls his eyes.
Tempest: Okay, why are you really down here?
Daedalus: We've got work to do. If you weren't aware already, you're headlining WrestleStock. You're finally getting the moment that all of those High Societies said you wouldn't get. And, it turns out, you'll get to have your moment at one of the High Society's expense.
Daedalus grins and gives Tempest a wink. The Spider King crawls onto the back of the sofa and sits, legs hanging off the back, as he stares down at the Astro Creeps.
Tempest: Lucy Wylde...
The Architect nods, the grin growing impossibly wide on his thin face.
The Sonoran Desert
A million diamonds sparkle against a dark blue blanket high above the desert. A scorpion creeps along the desert floor and is inevitably killed and eaten by an Arizona desert tarantula.
Tempest stands on the edge of a dark highway. It was a highway he imagines Rogan MacLean has seen a time or two. The Walkin' Dude, some people call him. The Dark Man. The Man in Black.
The mask looks eerie beneath the moon. He wears a dark jump suit. It might be navy blue, or a dark shade of gray. It's difficult to tell. The left eye of the mask is the one with the circle around it. It's the one the Arsonist took from him.
He stands on the side of the highway, surrounded by his three closest Creeps: Daedalus, Kosnar, and Pisces. They all stand off the highway, though, in the desert stand. In some other dimension, an infected policeman pulls innocent people over and detains them, while sneezing blood into a handkerchief and randomly spouting the name
Tempest: Tak!
He twitches as he vomits the name of the demon from his throat. Behind him, Daedalus smiles knowingly. In the distance, a set of headlights, dim and far away, appear on the horizon.
Tempest: For two and a half years, there's been a feeling of dread weighing in the stomachs of all in the Coalition. For two and a half years, a thought, rotten like tainted meat, has bruised the brains of everyone here, in the Coalition. This feeling and this thought, I've let it linger like an omen on this company. What I'm describing is the reality in which the Spider King finally claims his throne for the simple reason that he can.
The Creeps nod in unison obediently. Daedalus continues to smirk, clasping his hands in front of him as he watches like a proud mother.
Tempest: For two and a half years, I've been a psalm in napalm that everyone has feared, whether they want to admit it or they don't. This moment? This black cloud hovering over this company in the Sonoran Desert? This is what Phrixus Deimos has been trying to stop for over a year. This is the moment that his prophecy has warned you to keep from happening. But it's here. Just as sure as the grim reaper rapping at your door, it's here.
He tilts his head, gazing into the camera that rests on a tripod across the highway. In the distance, the headlights grow closer.
Tempest: And, like the grim reaper rapping at your door, I'm not going away. It was by design that I didn't rush to the top of the company so I could brag and boast about my quick rise to stardom, like so many before me have made the mistake of doing. Because then when they fall, they rarely have an answer to their sudden failures. And then they fade away. Into the purgatory of mediocrity, where they perhaps belonged in the first place. It was by design that I lingered within the bowels of the company. It was by design that my ascension has been paced as slow as it has been. Don't you think that if I wanted the Coalition's most prestigious prize before I do now, that my will would be done? Look at what I did with the Cross-Hemisphere championship and its division. Everyone wanted a shot to dethrone me of that championship. And since then? Well... It's not quite what it was, is it? You see, the idea is to be subtle enough that your disease spreads and manifests itself before the host realizes what you've done. And when they do? It's too late.
The desert floor begins to tremble as the vehicle in the distance grows closer. The headlights are still a good distance away, however.
Tempest: Is it coincidence that a year ago at this event, I began my Cross-Hemisphere title reign? Which was perhaps the most notable championship reign in a long time with that belt. Is it a coincidence that two years ago at this event, I passed the Chaos championship onto Sloane Taylor, The Final Girl?
He shook his head and his smile could be felt, if not seen, behind the mask.
Tempest: No... it's not coincidence. It's by design. It's a prophecy for things to come. If you pay attention, you'll find those patterns scattered throughout the Astro Creeps' entire existence. This year, it's no accident that the Coalition's most advertised event is headlined by the Spider King. I'm a top attraction, you understand. I'm more than just face paint and a scary mask. Everyone who comes to an event in the Coalition is coming to see me. It's like... a car accident. You know it's ugly, and you can say whatever you want to make you feel better about yourself, but the fact is... you need to slow down and see it. You need that as a human being. And I am that car crash you just have to see. And how many people here want to see Lucy Wylde in the middle of this car crash? I'm going to bet that many of you would simply love to see it. And who am I to deny you that?
The headlights finally get close enough that Tempest stops speaking and waits for the vehicle to pass. When it does, he watches it closely. It looks black, so clean it's shiny. He tilts his head again and glances over his shoulder at Daedalus. He felt it, too.
Tempest: So, is it then a coincidence that on the other side of this main event is Lucy Wylde? No, I don't think it is. I think that, just as our prophecy has found its way into this fateful moment, the powers that work against our own have placed Lucy Wylde in my way. Because she's the only one worthy of keeping me away from fulfilling the prophecy. It's no secret that of all the opponents and enemies that I've stood across, it's Lucy Wylde who eludes me.
He pauses, looking down at the desert floor. He looks back at Daedalus for one brief moment, and then back into the camera.
Tempest: You know... Daedalus doesn't want me to address it, but I'm going to. You know the feeling I've described as the Creeps? About how, in the pit of the stomachs of everyone else, there's a feeling of anxiety there, a feeling of dread?
Daedalus takes a step forward, a look of uncertainty on his face, holding his arms out.
Daedalus: What... what are you doing?
Tempest holds up a silencing hand and the Architect retreats as commanded.
Tempest: Well, I also have that feeling of dread. I have this... this anxiety that I can't deny. And as long as I'm being transparent about what all of you High Societies feel, it's only fair for me to be as transparent with myself. We're all ghosts in the end, aren't we? That dread in the pit of my stomach? That's you, Lucy Wylde. Every time I step into the ring with you, you seem unphased. You're a different type of Final Girl than Sloane Taylor.
He gazes out at the taillights of the impossibly black car that soared past them a few moments ago.
Tempest: In relation to me, Ms. Wylde, you're an omen. You're everything to me, that I've described myself as to everyone else. Perhaps it's fate, then, that this moment sees you standing across from me. Isn't it your mantra to say, 'There is no fate but what we make for ourselves'? I wonder how many people hear you say that and actually take it with them to think about? Perhaps they'll learn a little more about themselves if they do.
He pauses. Behind him, Daedalus is shaking his head, hands on his hips. The other two monsters only peer out at Tempest from the darkness of the desert.
Tempest: Anyone who doubts your accomplishments, your presence, or your abilities, Lucy Wylde... is a fool. And that's why, I hate you. I hate you from the deepest recesses of my heart. I hate you because I haven't found a way to manifest myself within your mind. I hate you because I can't deny what you've done to me. Because you've stamped out my own accomplishments like they were nothing. At WrestleStock? Here, in the Sonoran Desert? The Spider King will reciprocate.
He grins behind the mask.
Tempest: I know you're looking for a lengthy world championship reign... but I'll finally overcome you and fulfill Phrixus Deimos's prophecy that he's been so desperate to neutralize. And your world title reign will be as insignificant as your significant other's lone world title reign.
He chuckles softly.
Tempest: And then you'll truly be... the perfect couple.
Daedalus seems to ease back into a supportive position at this point. Tempest walks across the highway. When he reaches the camera, he crouches in front of it and takes a deep breath.
Tempest: At WrestleStock, it will be "The Spider King" against "The Omen" ...because that's what you are to me. On Monday, you brought out a few of your friends to... even the odds, yeah? You can expect me to bring a few of mine, too. I certainly hope JC doesn't take too much out of Rogan that he can't be there to support you. Wouldn't that be ironic?
He reaches out and rests his fingers on the camera, grinning behind his mask once more.
Tempest: I've acknowledged what you've done to me, and what you can do to me. I haven't said much about what I'm going to do to you, though. I guess I just don't like giving away surprises. I'm sure after watching this, your confidence will receive a healthy boost... until I say this: We are at a precipice right now. You and me. I can assure you, that if this pivotal moment swings in my favor, the future of the Coalition will be as dark as you can imagine it to be. I know that many before me have made similar threats. But the difference between them and me?
He lurches forward, and Tempest's mask fills the screen. His one good eye glares into the camera, while the other rolls wildly in its socket.
Tempest: They don't mean it like I do. Let me now give you something to think about. Let me give you something to doubt within your own confident mind. All of the weight is on your shoulders. The only one who can stop me now is you, Lucy Wylde. The Omen. Will you be the diamond that the Dark Man claims that you are? Or will you simply buckle under pressure? Will you just be the pier stretching into the ocean that gets overtaken by the tempest and pulled undertow? And then you'll have to rebuild yourself again, just like you've had to do with every... single... storm that you've faced in the past.
He pauses, giggling softly.
Tempest: There is no fate... because I feast on it. The paths of fate in this company end where I begin. I consume them. And I'll consume you on July seventeenth.
He stops and stares into the camera, and for a long time, it's as if the feed is frozen. Then, the Spider King winks, and the feed cuts out to blackness.