The Astro Creeps invade your living room.
Your television screen shows them in 4K, clear as glass, yet the picture still seems hazy.
Daedalus is in the center, a satisfied smirk on his face. Behind him, gazing over his manager’s right shoulder, is Tempest. He holds the UGWC World Championship, an object that seems misplaced among its surroundings. Flanking them are Kosnar and Pisces, and all four of them seem to be peering into your soul.
Daedalus: Run of the Mill. Its folklore and legend have now been expanded.
He has his hands clasped in front of him. As usual, Daedalus is wearing a suit that makes him look as though he works in a funeral parlor.
Daedalus: Thanks to my client, Tempest.
His smirk widens. The Astro Creeps behind him remain as still as statues, only their eyes darting from side to side.
Daedalus: You want me to acknowledge the others, don’t you? You want us to give them a nod of respect and tell them they pushed Tempest to his limits and he barely escaped by the skin of his teeth. Well… I’m not going to give it to you.
His smile fades into a hateful glare. He leans down so that his face fills your screen, to make sure that you’re paying attention to what he has to say… well, are you?
Daedalus: I’m not going to, because the truth is, it was nearly effortless on Tempest’s part. You think that he was ever worried, or afraid? Do you really think that my Tempest, my monster, ever felt anything other than joy at Run of the Mill? The truth is, you were all playing on the Devil’s playground.
He straightens back up and dusts off the front of his suit. His expression eases.
Daedalus: Does that get under your skin? Does it hurt your feelings? Are you going to tweet about it and cry? Because we aren’t going to stand here and tell our audience lies. We aren’t going to let them think that Lucy Wylde ever stood a chance in that type of match against this type of opponent.
He pops out his thumb and points it at Tempest without looking away. Tempest tilts his head, his fingertips clutching the faceplate of his newly won treasure.
Daedalus: Let’s not pretend that anyone else was even close to the spotlight of that match other than Lucy and Tempest. This was their war, and the other three were just fodder for the monsters.
He pauses, a knowing grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.
Daedalus: That bothers you too… doesn’t it Lucy? It bothers you to feel that someone got the better of you. A few months ago, you gave Tempest some advice. Let me give you some advice, now. Your loss, it doesn’t matter. It doesn't matter… yet. Depending on how you react, and depending on how you recover, will determine whether your loss matters, or whether it doesn't. Will you use it as a pivotal point in your story where your audience sees the heroine struggle against a somewhat new villain who’s just unexpectedly gotten the better of her? If so, then the loss didn’t matter. In fact, it served as a positive when it comes to the overall story of the mentioned heroine. Or…
His devilish grin spreads wider as he holds his hands out to the side.
Daedalus: Or… will this be the beginning of the end for Lucy Wylde? Will this be but the start of a downward spiral that will see you sink further and further into the abyss as you’ve done so many times in your career. Will it be the wedge that distances you from the love in your life, just as it’s done in the past? Will it spread within you like a disease? Until you’re only the shell of someone you once were, someone you put so much work into, just to watch her fall into darkness once more?
He pauses, his mischievous look never faltering.
Daedalus: There is a genus of fungi that I’d like you to think about, Lucy Wylde. They’re called cordyceps. And what they do is they spread their spores by infecting insects. It’s fascinating, because the insect host is turned into a mindless zombie, controlled by the cordyceps that infect it. Ever since Tempest got into your head several weeks ago, he’s begun controlling you just like cordyceps control their host. And you know it. You’ve begun feeling hopeless already. And Tempest can smell it on you. And that’s when Tempest is the most dangerous, when he can smell your fears and your doubts. Because then he feasts.
He giggles softly as the Creeps nod in agreement.
Daedalus: Phrixus Deimos has had a prophecy about our existence that’s been neglected by the rest of the roster here. Hitmaker, he can try to piggyback off us like he’s done to others his entire miserable career, but it isn’t he who spoke the prophecy of the Astro Creeps. It was Deimos. And if you’re listening, Phrixus… this is just the beginning.
Your television screen gets fuzzy for a moment. It looks like you may lose the picture, but then it comes back suddenly. And Daedalus and Tempest have switched places. Tempest’s eyes, both the good and the bad one, can be seen deep in the shadows of his mask. He speaks softly, like he’s done so many times before.
Tempest: But we’re not here to talk about them. Are we? We’re here to talk about you, Rogan. The Dark Man. The Man in Black. The Engine of Cthulhu. The Hydra. All of your aliases pale in comparison to the Spider King.
He pauses, his gaze locked onto the screen. It seems almost as if the screen has frozen entirely as all four Creeps remain still. But we’ve been here before, haven’t we? Eventually, Tempest finally moves his head and speaks once more.
Tempest: I’m sure you didn’t expect me to be the one standing at the end of your path. Just beyond the field of roses, right in front… of your beloved Dark Tower. It’s an object of infatuation that you’ve been chasing for some time now. And one in which you’ll be chasing for the rest of your life. Rogan MacLean will never reach the Dark Tower, because, quite simply… it doesn’t exist. Not for you. It is but an imaginary goal of impossible reach. And deep down, in the darkness of your heart, you know it. We all know it, Rogan. You simply will never be on the level that you saw yourself as being on five years ago. I use past tense because, despite the lies the Omen is telling you, and despite the lies that you’re telling yourself, you just… don’t have it. You’ve always played second fiddle in your career. You played fourth fiddle in the Engine of Chaos. Ichabod, Dr. Baal, and even Holden Orson are more significant in this company than you. You played second fiddle to Donovan Hastings last year in your quest to the Dark Tower. And now… you play second fiddle once more. Oh… not to me, Rogan.
He holds his hands up like an innocent man might in the moment of accusation.
Tempest: No, not me. You’re playing second fiddle, but this time to Lucy Wylde. She is truly your Omen. And the reasoning is very simple. She’s your Omen, because you’ll never leave her. And you’ll therefore always be in her shadow. And live up to your alias, as well: The Dark Man.
A gravelly chuckle rises in the back of his throat. He pauses long enough to look around amongst his fellow Creeps before turning his attention back to his audience.
Tempest: I could go on all day about you. Perhaps it surprises you a little to realize that I know so much about you. But the fact is, you and I? We are just two different storms circling the same ocean. We are just two different ghosts haunting the same house. Rogan… we are just different versions of madness wreaking havoc in the same mind.
The screen gets fuzzy again. When it flashes and comes clear once again, Tempest is leaning forward, filling the screen.
Tempest: And don’t worry, Dark Man. I won’t make you kneel for anyone but me.
He trails off with laughter, quiet at first but then growing. Daedalus cackles behind him, pleased. Kosnar and Pisces stare like lifeless mannequins. Your screen turns fuzzy for a moment, before flashing erratically. With each flash of the screen, the Astro Creeps stand in different positions. Finally, it goes fuzzy once more, then completely black, leaving you in the loneliness of your mind.
“There’s so much that goes into this, you know?”
Rogan sat beside me, cutting away at a steak. He was talking as he chewed up a bite. I wasn’t sure what I was thinking. How I was feeling. I wasn’t even sure who I was. I just knew that I was… happy.
“Oh. I’m sorry, let me get that for you.”
Rogan leaned over and cut a piece off of my own steak and fed it to me. But the cooked meat fell from my bottom lip as I tried to open my mouth, back down to the plate, along with a strand of drool. Rogan frowned.
“You know what my father used to tell me when I didn’t eat my dinner, Moseley? He used to recite that bit from that Pink Floyd song. You know, where he’s ranting and raving about how you can’t have your pudding if you don’t eat your meat?”
He laughed genuinely and clapped me on the shoulder. Moseley. Was that my name? No… I didn’t think it was.
“Yes it is,” the Dark Man said. And a shadow seemed to cover his face like a storm cloud. Had I spoken out loud? Just as suddenly as it appeared, that shadow went away, and Rogan went back to what he was saying.
“You see, we are two sides of the Gulf of Mexico. That’s His happy place. That’s where He finds serenity. It’s where He is completely at peace. And that’s where we exist.”
Who? I wanted to say. And, as if I had spoken that out loud, as well:
“Well… God, of course.”
Rogan looked at me and there was something eerie about him. I was scared of him.
God? …no God.
I could feel myself shaking my head slowly.
“Yes indeedy,” Rogan said cheerfully. “One, two, threedy. There’s a god, whether you want to believe in it or not.”
He paused to observe me. I found that I couldn’t move. But I didn’t know why.
“You see,” he continued, “I am the chaotic peace that He finds in the gulf. I’m the mystery of the ocean, you know? He thinks of me as being as deep and dark as the ocean itself. I represent something that reminds him directly of His own Son.”
Jesus? I wanted to say.
“No. Pay attention!” he screamed. And I was afraid. This was the true form of the Dark Man. And I was afraid of him.
“And while you’re a monstrosity, our God loves that. And you were created in that image. You never had a chance, Moseley. You represent the beauty in the storm that approaches the Gulf. You are the yellow light in the purple clouds, and the hurricane approaching. He likes that. In fact, He loves it. You are the Tempest. And like a hurricane, you have one eye. But it’s a dangerous one. A knowing one. A murderous one.”
I felt him stand beside me. I suddenly became vaguely aware that I had a headache. It was a bad one, I knew. But I couldn’t feel it in its entirety. If that makes sense. I still couldn’t move. Rogan chuckled.
“I want you to understand that this isn’t real, and at the same time, it’s the realest thing you’ll ever experience. I want you to understand that His world is different from the world we both live in. And I want you to understand that in His world, I’m the one who sits on the throne. And I outrank you. In His world, there’s a different Spyder King. Moseley… Tempest… Hey, how’s your meat?”
He fed me a bite and I managed to keep it in my mouth with his help. I chewed slowly and smiled. The taste was exquisite. I nodded in approval and felt the pang of a headache stab me. I winced. Rogan smiled down at me. And I was happy.
When I woke, I realized it never happened. It was a dream. A vivid dream, but it was a dream. And I knew why I had a headache. I knew why I couldn’t move. I knew why I couldn’t speak. I knew why I felt happy and dumb. But I never let my mind reach the point of true acceptance of it. So I pushed it into the darkness. I forgot all about it. And I wondered about God sometimes.
But every time I did, images of Ray Liota flooded my mind. Images of him sitting, unable to move or speak or feel it seemed like. And images of him eating meat. But I couldn’t ever figure out what it was that he was eating.