“It rests on 13 acres of earth over the very center of Hell.”
-The Last House on the Left
December of 2020
Gnaw Bone
It was before he referred to himself as The Bogeyman. And it was after he could have become so much more.
JC had an opportunity to become an Astro Creep, as bizarre as that does sound. Can you picture it? That monster roaming the catacombs of the farmhouse, then known as the Labyrinth? In the mind of Daedalus, he could have been the Astro Creeps’ greatest acquisition, even greater than Tempest himself. It was a year in which the Creeps were looking to expand their outfit. JC wasn’t the only acquisition Daedalus was eyeing. Dave Rydell had been scouted, as well.
He knew that now, in 2023, looking back, both JC and Rydell being part of the Astro Creeps is an absurd thought. But then… on this particular December afternoon, Daedalus was still trying to wrap his head around what had happened.
He thought Tempest was dead. Even here, in this moment:
Tendrils of smoke rise from the ashes of what was once the farmhouse. Daedalus stands with his hands clasped behind his back. When he exhales, white fog shoots forward like the breath of an extinguished dragon. And perhaps that’s what he is.
Daedalus: I don’t know if you’re in there. But I’ve been waiting for you to reach up from this rubble like Carrie White. You’re so fond of that movie. I remember the way you watched it; the way you watched her. And how her deer-in-the-headlights gaze captivated you. I can tell you, even without asking, that you’ve got an affinity for redheads.
He’s wearing a suit, tattered and torn. His hair is a mess. His face has black soot marks from the fire. He glances out at the skeletal remains of the big screen he had built, something he wouldn’t rebuild even two years later.
Daedalus: This should have been your crowning moment. You were supposed to end your inaugural year in this business on top of the world. But you didn’t. You ended it beneath the earth. How many feet down did he bury you before he left, satisfied with the destruction he’s brought upon us? How many acres? Even if you are down there… what do we do now? We’ve nowhere to go. I have nowhere to go.
He tries to laugh in spite of himself. It doesn’t work. His bottom lip quivers.
Daedalus: I underestimated him. I did what I swore we would never do to anyone in this business. And we didn’t up to this point. It just goes to show that just as you’re feeling comfortable… that’s when the monster under your bed crawls out of the shadows and through your dreams, right into your realm. He was supposed to be our monster, Tempest. He was supposed to be ours. But he isn’t. And you’re under there, either fighting for your life, or succumbing to the arms of death… wrapped around you and cradling you like the mother you never had. And I’m responsible.
He sighs and looks around the property. Daedalus looks lost, and if he weren’t so detestable, perhaps even pitiful.
Daedalus: I’ll wait here for you. And if you never rise, then they’ll find me laying on your grave, frozen for eternity. Without you… I am nothing. I could find other monsters to populate my vision, but no one will ever be you, Tempest.
He drops to both knees, a single tear falling to his cheek as the Architect mourns to himself. Hours later, Tempest would rise from the grave that JC buried him in, a ghost of his own farmhouse. And he would maliciously haunt the Coalition for the next two years.
But, in those two years, he would not come face to face with his boogeyman…
That wouldn’t happen until January of 2023. Ironically, he would be trying to move on from Lucy Wylde, someone JC was very familiar with.
Oh, what tangled webs we weave, huh?
January 28, 2023
Gnaw Bone
A lot has changed since then. Some might say that this match is two years in the making. Some might claim that this is a match better suited to be placed on an event that makes more money than Synergy. It would normally be a true statement to say that the Astro Creeps don’t dabble in those sorts of details, but with Daedalus being this year’s creative director, that statement is technically false. And who would have thought that Daedalus would put on his front office suit and help the Consortium call the shots for a year?
The truth is, and whoever appointed him as the creative director may or may not have expected this, but Daedalus isn’t consumed by the thought of ratings and what he can do to better the company. Daedalus has no interest in how well of a job he does in the eyes of the Coalition’s alumni. He’s not a lapdog like Jet Somers, whose constant search for validation was disturbing last year.
So what is the direction Daedalus has in mind as the creative director?
The answer is simple. He has no direction. His decisions will probably be impulsive, knee jerk reactions. He doesn’t intend on any of his ideas to make sense to anyone but himself.
That’s why he chose Montague Cervantes to challenge Lucy Wylde in the main event of Infinity. Not because Montague particularly deserves it, but because he expects–nay, he demands–the Mothman to avenge Tempest’s downfall at the end of 2022.
But it does make sense. The Mothman sacrificed himself at Keeper of the Keys to let Tempest have his moment at Horizons. That didn’t quite go the way the Astro Creeps envisioned it.
The last time we were here, Tempest was on a mission to save the carrots from a society of rabbits. In the dead of winter. The first step in his mission had been a success and the Astro Creeps enjoyed a meal with a salesman named Jeff Wetzel.
Mr. Wetzel had since been buried in the walls of the Underlook below. If you look really close, you’ll see one of his fingers protruding from the dirt beyond the dated wallpaper down there.
Well, go on then. Take a look.
You make a good point. They’ll have to bury him deeper if they want to escape the smell that’s already begun to fill the lobby.
He was bludgeoned to death, if you’re wondering. He didn’t have any children, but he did have a wife. She’s as snooty as he was. Days before his death, Jeff was assuring his vending customers that he wasn’t price gouging, while raising the prices of his products up to 200%. It’s funny the way people like Jeff work, isn’t it?
Enough about Mr. Wetzel. Come back upstairs now. What we’re talking about today doesn’t concern the basement or the Underlook. Watch your step, it’s quite dark in that little area down there, isn’t it?
That’s better.
Daedalus is standing there. Think about what else you see. This is, after all, your version of the picture that I’m painting for you. We’re very curious to know just what our farmhouse looks like inside your mind’s eye. Please… show us, Constant Reader. We are dying to know.
For now, I’ll help paint it for you.
Daedalus stands at the window of the kitchen. To his left, a sink full of dirty dishes. To his right, cabinets, a corner cabinet, more cabinets that crawl behind him, and finally an old refrigerator. The snow is falling outside. The snowflakes are big and it’s windy, the flakes swirling past the window. The field beyond the property is barren, and he can see further than he can in the summer, when the corn is at its highest.
Behind him, Tempest clears his throat, and he turns to face him.
Tempest: Can I show them who I am now?
The architect considers this for a few moments before smiling, nodding emphatically.
Daedalus: Yes. Yes, I think it’s time… Moseley.
It’s been two years since you buried me beneath my own home.
The two of us have been up to a lot since then, and perhaps unbelievably, we’ve not gone face to face since… until now.
You? You’ve been resurgent. You’ve resurrected a career that had been dead for a long time.
You have finally come up with a moniker better than “The Answer.”
I commend you.
Me?
I’ve lost vision in my left eye. I have endured third degree burns on my face that have permanently scarred me, physically… mentally… emotionally.
Since you thought you buried me, I have risen.
I have since held the Cross-Hemisphere Championship for one of the more impressive reigns in recent history. And I have held the World Championship.
Sometimes… we make a name for ourselves, without having to hold a championship or a trophy to prove it. Sometimes, the proof is right before our eyes. That’s what you have done since your return last July. Don’t think I haven’t been watching… plotting… calculating… for this moment that we will share on Monday.
It would be ignorant to not consider my own influence in your success, and vice versa. The truth is, JC… you live in my head, just as I live in yours. You’re not exactly a man who admits when another being is haunting him. But I’m there, a specter in the fog of your thoughts. And you know I’m there. I’m not going anywhere, JC. In fact… if I may use the terminology of this business, I owe you a receipt for all of the inconvenience you’ve brought upon me.
On Monday, I’m aware you’re in a precarious position, perhaps even a position of desperation, if we’re talking in terms of the Global Challenge. You must win this match if you want to be relevant. Isn’t it ironic that it must be against me, the Spider King?
You see… you are not the only one who has made a name for yourself.
Would you like to know my name, JC? Would you like to know, just who exactly I am?
I am the descendent of a significant name in American history.
You see, my Uncle Ed, he was a simple man. He lived in Wisconsin, on a farm.
He was a man, who made his own choices. He didn’t care what anyone thought. He didn’t care what anyone said, until the time came to the end… when he couldn’t make those choices anymore.
Tempest raises his mask sewn together with plastic and human flesh. He grins.
He made the choices inside of his own skin… and he made his choices inside of other people’s skin. I am the descendant of Edward… Theodore… Gein.
My name is Moseley Gein. And I am the Tempest.
He puts the mask on and cackles laughter.
Even The Bogeyman can be haunted. And I own thirteen acres of your imagination, JC. I hope you haven’t forgotten that.
Grinning behind the mask, Moseley “Tempest” Gein presses the power button, and darkness fills the screen.