December.12.2022
I threw everything I had at her. I gave every bit of myself to my goal of overcoming her. I went to great lengths to gain every advantage I could, no matter how small.
But I still failed.
I rolled out of the ring, blood still racing to my wounds, while they embraced… while they celebrated… while they looked down on me, just as they always did.
I walked out on my own. Kosnar and Pisces were waiting on me near the aisle, but I couldn’t bring myself to look them in the eye. They turned and walked with me. I could hear the fans jeer at me… mock me… laugh at me… make fun of me. But most of all, I could hear them cheering… for her.
I couldn’t look Daedalus or Montague in the eye either. Instead, I walked with my head down, and the Astro Creeps walked out of Chicago with our tails between our legs.
As the others walked through the curtain to the backstage area, I took one final look over my shoulder.
She’s taken everything from me.
December.23.2022
Gnaw Bone, Indiana
The Farmhouse
Santa’s Slay plays on the old box television in the living room. The screen is hazy. Fuzzy. The lower left hand corner is green, as if something internal is damaged. Daedalus gazes longingly outside at the skeletal remains of the drive-in movie screen he built. Pisces sits on an old brown sofa with her legs folded up beneath her, a large black blanket wrapped around her. Kosnar sits next to her, still as a statue as always.
The weather outside truly is frightful. The analog gauge hanging just outside one of the barns reads -9. There are reports of the wind chill making it feel like -36. The farmhouse has been well-insulated since being rebuilt, so it retains heat well. If it were the old farmhouse, the Astro Creeps may be literally Iceinated right now. Thanks a lot, JC. You’re a life saver.
Footsteps can be heard descending the stairs attached to the living room. Daedalus is the only one who acknowledges Tempest as he sulks across the room and plops down in an old blue cloth chair. He isn’t wearing his mask. His hair is messy and starting to get long. He also isn’t wearing a shirt, and the wounds of his battle with Lucy Wylde are still very visible on his skin. His belly is starting to protrude over the waistband of his flannel pajama pants. For several minutes, Tempest stares blankly at the television, watching the demon in Santa’s suit crash a family Christmas get together.
Tempest: I fucking hate Lucy Wylde.
The Astro Creeps all turn their attention to him.
Daedalus: I know. You may not see it yet, my boy, but this is good for you. To have somebody who–
Tempest: It’s supposed to be Seb.
The Architect looks confused, tilting his head and squinting his eyes.
Daedalus: Excuse me?
Tempest: I know what you’re about to describe. You’re going to talk about a seemingly impossible enemy. A final boss. A worthy opponent. That’s supposed to be the Arsonist. Not the Omen. The Omen was supposed to die twelve days ago and give me the merriest of Christmases. There’s something different about her… moniker. The Final Girl and the Arsonist, I gave them those nicknames almost lovingly. They were terms of endearment, almost. We played games and they were fun.
He looks down at the stained carpet in front of the chair.
Tempest: At least, I thought they were fun. But the Omen? These games aren’t fun anymore.
Kosnar: You’re pathetic.
The Spider King’s head jolts to the side, and his one good eye glares at the monster on the sofa. Kosnar is also not wearing a mask. Long black hair hangs in front of his face, though, hiding many of his features. Usually quiet, the group’s muscle decides to elaborate.
Kosnar: You’re the kid who overturns the table after he loses in Monopoly. Instead of bitching and feeling sorry for yourself, why don’t you take some time away from her and liberate yourself from these chains that she’s bound you with? Find a new toy to play with. That blonde bitch has gotten the best of you a few times. And yet ironically, you’ve never considered the house you’ve built inside her mind, as well. Which is exactly what we’ve set out to do for the last three years. Championships, success, awards… they’ve distracted you.
Tempest: So what if I want to succeed? When we kill, do we not keep tabs on the headlines across the country to see our work and how it measures up to the competition?
The sound of Daedalus clearing his throat is heard, and the leader nervously adjusts his posture in his chair.
Daedalus: We… we, uh, don’t talk about that, T.
Tempest waves a dismissive hand in his direction, blowing a raspberry to illustrate his annoyance.
Tempest: Yeah, I know we don’t. Perhaps we should, though. We are what we are. Isn’t that what you’ve said?
Daedalus: Yes, but there’s a difference between being what we are in a business… and being what we are outside of that business, in our personal lives. It’s difficult to see, I get that. We are practically the same people in Chicago and when we show up on people’s television screens as we are here in Gnaw Bone. But we do have skeletons in the closet. Very big skeletons, I might add. And, if I may emphasize, skeletons that would haunt us forever if they were ever brought out to light.
Silence fills the farmhouse for several moments, the Creeps watching their movie absent-mindedly. The Spider King fights a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
Tempest: It is amusing that we’ve got a body count on our farm that JC wishes he had.
Sighing, Daedalus’s eyes shift to the side, and it’s his turn to glare at Tempest.
Daedalus: JC’s body count is a metaphor. He calls himself the boogeyman because he’s watched too many Michael Myers movies. Halloween is one of the most tedious franchises in the horror genre, if we’re being honest here. I’m sure I’ve broken the hearts of horror fans everywhere, but I don’t give a fuck. Michael Myers would get absolutely diced up by the likes of Voorhees, Krueger, or even Sadako.
Kosnar: Well, I should hope so. All three of them are killing from beyond the grave. Myers is a living, breathing human being. A more appropriate comparison would be Hannibal Lecter or the Firefly family.
Daedalus: Pick your poison. In any case, Michael Myers is grossly overrated.
He shrugs and waves a dismissive hand of his own.
Daedalus: Going back to the conversation at hand, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to succeed and see how deep your infections are getting inside the minds of your enemies. I don’t even think there’s anything wrong with becoming fixated and obsessed. As long as you know when to let go so that your own infections don’t travel backwards up your arms and into your own mind. And that’s what’s happened with Lucy Wylde. You’ve infected yourself with self-doubt, self-loathing, and rage stemming from the frustration of losing at what you perceive to be your own game. And Kosnar’s right, it is pathetic. It’s fucking disgusting, and I expect you to fix it real fucking quick, too.
He turns his full attention to Tempest across the room.
Daedalus: Everyone in that business goes through this. Most of them run away because they can’t handle being told they’re not good enough, or someone is better than they are. But we’ve been told that from the first day we stepped foot into that company. You know what makes us so different than everyone else? It’s the fact that when they think we’re dead, or we should be dead… just as they think they can relax… they see our soiled, skeletal fingers come up out of the dirt, and we crawl out of our graves. And that, my half-blind prince, is where we thrive. With the worms and the beetles and the maggots and all those underground things that they’re all afraid of.
Tempest: So what do you suggest?
Daedalus: I suggest exactly what Kosnar said to do. Take some time away from the Omen. For the time being, she’s winning this war. And quite decisively. It would do you good to find some new toys to play with. You’re the dog that doesn’t realize his chain is broken since losing your World Championship. But once you do, the whole goddamned neighborhood will be running away in a panic.
A devilish grin spreads across his face. Tempest glances down at his wounds on his belly and ponders quietly. Outside, the wind gusts angrily against the farmhouse. Snow drifts up and twirls, dancing in a spiral across the property. In a shallow grave in the woods beyond the property, Dead Seb shivers, frozen and lonesome. And somewhere beneath the farmhouse, Christine Johnson twitches in her sleep, dreaming of toppling dark towers and worlds being sucked into black holes, galaxies disappearing behind brand new blankets of stars, and butterflies stirring up tornados.
January.1.2023
Gnaw Bone, Indiana
The Farmhouse
The Spider King sits in front of the sewing machine. He peers through his mask at the lock of blonde hair he runs through his fingertips in one hand. In the other, one of his green dreadlocks. He wraps the lock of blonde hair around the dreadlock and begins sewing them together. The tat-tat-tat of the sewing machine is loud in the otherwise silent farmhouse. As he finishes, the heavy sound of boots can be heard stepping from the corridor outside the room. The Spider King turns in his chair, craning his neck to allow his good eye to fix on Kosnar.
The humongous man has a newspaper rolled up in one hand, and he unrolls it as he shows it to his smaller brother. Tempest turns his attention past the Missing Persons section and reads a headline:
UGWC’s Global Challenge to Determine Path of Many in 2023
Kosnar: I see you’ve finally added the new patch. Looks good.
Tempest brings his hand up to his mask and feels the new patch he sewed onto his mask: Lucy Wylde’s skin from the barbed wire spider net of the circus deathmatch at Horizons. It obviously feels different than the rest of his mask.
Tempest: Thank you. I hope to add to it soon.
The monster nods in the doorway, crossing his arms across his chest.
Tempest: Is this how I’m supposed to move on from my shortcomings against the Omen?
Kosnar: It is. You’ll have plenty of new toys to play with. And who knows what might come of it afterwards.
The Spider King nods, pulling his green and blonde dreadlock from the sewing machine and tossing it behind his head. He reaches up and once more runs his fingertips along the patch of Lucy Wylde’s skin on his mask.
Tempest: Thank you, Mr. Kosnar.
The large man disappears into the shadows in silence as Tempest turns his attention back to the newspaper headline.
January.7.2023
Gnaw Bone, Indiana
The Underlook
Tempest: Good morning, Ms. Johnson.
The Spider King sits backwards on a folding chair, his arms wrapped around the back of it and his head tilted to gaze into the waking eyes of Christine Johnson.
Tempest: I have some bad news, my love.
Her eyes flutter open as she comes to, trying to return to reality–or whatever reality is her default reality. The Spider King speaks differently than he has been over the last several weeks. He’s wearing a dark green jumpsuit. Reaching out, he runs the back of his hand along the woman’s cheek.
Tempest: I’ve been advised to move on from your daughter in my career–temporarily. So that’s what I’m doing. Unfortunately, what that means for you, is that you might be neglected a little down here in your little room. Don’t worry, you’ll still get fed. And taken care of, of course. You are a freak, after all.
He winks with his good eye behind his mask as he moves his fingertips down her neck to the edge of her gown, then pulls his hand away entirely.
Tempest: Worry not. Her head will be on a stick all in due time. But for now… I must make new friends.
Christine Johnson lays quietly, her eyes darting from side to side. They lock onto his green and blonde dreadlock protruding from the top of his mask like a spider leg. The King Freak notices, bashfully running the dreadlock through his fingers like a nervous valley girl.
Tempest: Thank you for noticing! I like it too. Oh… what’s that?
He leans closer as if Christine had said something. She didn’t.
Tempest: I’m so glad you asked!
He leans down, picking up a crumpled newspaper from the floor and spreading it out in front of him.
Tempest: Ah, here it is. It appears the first friend I’ll be making will be Ezra Wolf. I have to admit, I like the name. The legend is that he has red eyes, which, as you know, intrigues me.
He pauses, as if Christine is responding to him.
Tempest: A werewolf, you say?
The King Freak nods in agreement.
Tempest: Possibly. You know, Daedalus said I was a dog who broke free from my chain without realizing it. But Ezra? The problem I have with him is he’s quite the opposite. He’s a wolf bound by the silver chain of his mentor. Can you imagine the carnage he could raise without that washed up, pitiful has been holding him back?
He turns from Christine Johnson and fixates his gaze into the camera that watches him from beside the woman’s bed.
Tempest: Hello, Ezra. Apparently, you and I are to compete in this… challenge. The timing couldn’t be any worse for you, I’m afraid. You see, I just lost… well, everything that I had been striving for last year. And that’s just… put me in a really terrible mood. The only thing I’m thinking about is inflicting pain and taking my frustration out on somebody’s face. Who exactly did you piss off for them to put you, a domesticated pup, across from the most unstable human being to ever sign a contract with the Coalition? Am I even a human being at all? The fact that the answer to that question is as uncertain as it is should send you running with your tail between your legs, yelping all the way back to your little doghouse.
Saliva is building in his mouth, some of it dribbling out as he speaks. He doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he tilts his head curiously.
Tempest: What do you think you could possibly do to me at this point, Mr. Wolf? Am I underestimating you? …maybe I am. Maybe I’m doing just exactly what I warn everyone not to do to me. Or maybe…
He pauses, swallowing hard, and leans in closer to the camera. His voice shrinks to nearly a whisper.
Tempest: Have you ever thought about… breaking that leash that keeps you bound to the ideals of another man? Allow me to open your eyes a bit. In Gnaw Bone, you are free. You can be what you’re meant to be, in all of its primal perfection. Does that interest you?
He stares into the camera for a long time, as if he’s actually waiting on an answer. His eyes, both the good one and the dead one, gaze without moving, before he finally speaks.
Tempest: I hope those wheels are turning in your head… but don’t gaze longingly into our eyes, yet. Because first you have to take your medicine.
Behind him, Christine giggles in her bed.
Tempest: You heard me right, Ezra. You take your fucking medicine, you pup! Just like little Danny Torrance, you take your medicine!
He shouts insanely into the camera, spittle flying into the air and some catching the lens. His voice turns impossibly deeper, and his mouth almost seems to stretch into a huge black hole. His face is all that’s on the screen.
Tempest: Take your medicine, Ezra, you fucking pup! I said take your medicine! Take it, you little shit!
He stops screaming suddenly, pausing enough for Christine’s maniacal laughter to bleed through. Then, his voice drops back to the low, near whisper it was before.
Tempest: …and come face to face with your god.
He gives a short, chilling laugh, before reaching out and abruptly turning the camera off, leaving the screen black.