Storms, Creeps, and Zane! Oh My!
Womp. Womp womp womp. Womp-womp womp. Womp womp womp.
Hello.
Look at these Creepstas With Attitude.
I started this Creepster shit.
And this the muthafuckin’ thanks I get?
Record scratch.
What’s the difference between me and you?
Record scratch.
A lot of y’all Coalition, drama, casted
Cut, bitch, camera off, real shit, blast it
Record scratch.
Well if it’s on muthafucka then it’s on, G. Now if it’s on muthafucka then it’s on, G.
Hey, Mr. Peepster, Peepster, storybook Creepster.
Record scratch. Fade in.
Moseley Gein crouches on the roof of the farmhouse. He’s gazing out to the west at the darkening storm clouds forming. Daedalus is off somewhere overseeing the construction of what will inevitably be the Nightmare at Gnaw Bone event. Or perhaps he’s off pretending to be a creative director for the Coalition. Little does he know we can all see his puppet strings.
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
Somewhere within the farmhouse, Ice Cube’s “Hello” is shaking the walls. Moseley bobs his head as the storm clouds seem to circle in the distance.
Tempest: Well, I guess when I say that I’m ready to close the book on my rivalry with Lucy Wylde, Daedalus and the Consortium heard me loud and clear. And that’s why I’ve been booked across from the bitch for three weeks in a row now. Words that fall on deaf ears.
Thunder rolls in the distance.
Tempest: I have nothing in common with the living onomatopoeia, Holden Orson. But yes, let’s bring him to the farmhouse and let him explore and mock us. Nice move, Dr. Dae. How innovative! Well, at least Montague seemed excited for it. Words that fall on deaf ears.
A flash of lightning makes Moseley’s blind eye seem to glow in the darkening day.
Tempest: Dr. Dae, we should do things differently now that you’ve risen to power. I’m going to challenge the Arsonist for the Chaos Championship. What a perfect place for a perfect ending to this rivalry. Maybe we could do something other than cooperative matches? No? Words that fall on deaf ears.
The darkening clouds seem to approach the farmhouse. Inside, the music has switched to Eazy-E’s “It’s On.”
Tempest: I don’t know if you know this about me. But, I really, really like gangster rap from the 1990’s. There isn’t a whole lot out there that expresses hate quite like that type of music. And I really dig it. I’m sure you’re all wondering what that has to do with anything. It doesn’t. And the beauty of it is that it doesn’t have to. Anyway… what was I saying? Oh yes. I have no interest in another cooperative match that is a Frankenstein monster of my last two weeks. How many different ways can I say that I’m through with Lucy Wylde over the course of three months? You know what the problem–
Moseley stops and suddenly focuses all of his attention at the sky, curious.
Tempest: Oh. Hello Mr. Tornado. How I have longed to see you. Not up close, of course. But from a safe distance. I still want to see you, see.
He pauses, smirking behind his mask.
Tempest: Ah, yes. You know it. You and I, we’re not all that different. The Tempest and the Tornado. I mean, if you really want a cooperative match, Dr. Dae, then I propose that combination.
Another pause as he listens to the “tornado” respond to him.
Tempest: Understood. Let’s make this world a little more interesting, shall we?
—
Moose’s Saloon
Kalispell, MT
Moose’s Saloon is one of Kalispell’s most popular culinary destinations, loved for both its ambiance and especially for its pizza. At the present it’s not busy, being between the lunch and after-work dinner crowds. Music plays on the jukebox, the bar is patronized by a couple of rough looking men who look like they just rolled in from one of the local farms, the TVs above the bar and strategically placed in the corners of the restaurant show something on mute. At the moment it appears to be ESPN. Peanut shells litter the floor, the remnants of many pre-meal gnoshes. Most of the wallside booths are empty, except for a handful along the back wall, which consist of a mix of patrons, ranging from young couples to families out for an early dinner.
Zane Scott sits on one of them with his phone in his hand as he watches something. There’s a mostly empty beer in front of him to go with a mostly eaten sandwich, and a few surviving fries. He watches intently, with a slight look of amusement on his rugged face. Once it’s done, he places the phone down, finishes the beer, and grins.
“It seems that you have me at a bit of a disadvantage, Lucy,” Zane muses. “Or at least you wish to impose one on me.”
He pauses as a middle-aged, but still attractive in an “I’ve had a hell of a life” sort of way, picks up the empty glass.
“Can I get you a refill, Zane?” She asks, pushing a few strands of dark hair behind one ear.
Zane gives her a friendly smile. “No, thank you, Jolene,” he replies. “A Pepsi will do fine, thank you.”
Jolene nods and walks away, leaving Zane to look down at his phone and shake his head again, chuckling to himself.
“All of the Twitter bullshit aside, because that’s exactly what it is, you have this idea that only certain things you say are allowed to be commented upon when you go on UGWC.com and talk about your matches .”
He pauses as Jolene places a frost coated mug down in front of him, along with a steaming plate of fries.
“On the house, sweetie.” she says with a warm smile. “Courtesy of the boss as a ‘thank you’ for helping us out last weekend.”
“That’s mighty kind of all of you,” he answers, taking a fry and devouring it whole, seemingly unaffected by the heat. “Y’all know I like to help out here when I can. I don’t like seeing belligerent pricks cause you trouble.”
She pats him on the arm, then walks away when another customer summons her. Zane picks up another steaming fry and examines it before it too disappears into his mouth.
“What was I talking about,” he asks. “Oh yes…”
He takes a drink and places the mug down. “You, Lucy, and your arbitrary ‘rules’ about what has to be ignored when you flap your gums in front of a camera.”
He swallows another fry whole..
“What are these things,” he taps his finger against his chin, then shrugs. “Who the hell knows, but goddamnit, they exist!”
He looks down at his phone as the screen glows with a notification. He checks his watch, more out of habit than any sort of need given that his phone tells time, and nods his head. He fishes a couple of more fries from the container, then remembers that he’s forgotten any kind of condiment. He takes the ketchup and puts a light covering over them before he puts it back.
“It’s sad,” he shakes his head in disappointment. “I thought you were better than such childish, goalpost shifting nonsense.”
He pulls a couple of more out and devours them in two bites, washing it down with a large gulp from his drink. He looks up and waves as a large bearded man waves at him from behind the bar, then looks towards the door.
“It seems that I was wrong.”
“I have more to say,” he explains. “But I prefer to save it for our World Championship match in a few weeks. They’re things you need to hear, especially if you want to keep presenting yourself as the hero in the narrative that you’re trying to construct between us.”
He polishes off the soda, and another appears in front of him a few seconds later. Zane smiles and nods at the waitress, a different one this time. A twenty-something blonde. She walks off and he runs his finger over the rim of the glass.
“Granted, with the degree of contempt that you’ve been expressing towards me as of late, I really shouldn’t be surprised by this.”
The music changes, causing Zane to look upward with a curious expression. He listens to it for a few seconds before he shakes his head and pulls another fry off of his plate.
“It seems that someone is still a little upset with me over our past.” he mockingly rubs a hand under his eyes. “It’s not like you get to get all of that out of your system by kicking my ass for a living.”
He leans to the side in his seat and points at it.
“It’s right here,” he quips. “Just in case you somehow aren’t sure.”
He turns back around, sporting a Cheshire gin.
“Last week Tempest pinned your buddy in bad humor and bad match results,” he continues. “And then you did the heroic thing by ambushing Holden, Daedalus, and eventually Tempest.”
He whistles the “Curb Your Enthusiasm” theme to himself and chuckles.
“Now, on a personal level I don’t really give a shit.” he continues. “Act as petty and vengeful towards The Creeps as you want to. On some level, Tempest probably gets off on that.”
He pretends to shudder a bit, then picks the drink up, but doesn’t drink from it.
“On the other hand, I give your chair swinging technique maybe a six on a ten-point scale. It’s not bad. I recommend widening your stance a bit, and hold the chair a little higher and a little further back, that way when you swing, which should be done out of your core and waist, and not out of your shoulders, it has more torque behind it and you don’t throw yourself off balance. It makes one look a bit silly if one follows up a quality chair shot with an immediate faceplant.”
He makes a swinging gesture with his free hand, then drops it on the table with a thud.
“It’s fair to say that losing the match was a bit of a faceplant,” he slaps his hands together with a quick three count for emphasis. “Or maybe I’m just being an asshole. It certainly wouldn’t be the first, or millionth time, that someone’s called me that.”
“But who’s the bigger asshole here,” he asks. “Me, who fought you straight up and showed you respect both in and out of the ring? Or you, the sitting World Champion, who shit talks me at every turn, and then sucker punches her enemies after losing to them?”
He takes a drink and puts the glass down, then pulls another fry off of the plate.
“It’s food,” he waves the fry in front of him with a crooked grin. “for thought.”
“I would insult you here,” he explains. “But out of respect for Rogan, I won’t.”
“For now.”
The fry disappears and he looks down as his phone glows again. He makes a gesture to the bartender, drawing a single nod from him. Jolene appears with a box and dumps the fries into it for him. Zane gulps down the second sods, places it down, and pulls his wallet from his pocket. He pulls a bill from it and hands it to her, then places another one down on the table. He nods his head at something, presumably a question about change, and stands up, taking his food and a rucksack with him. He walks to the door and steps out just as a large black pickup pulls up outside. The driver honks once, drawing an acknowledging wave from Zane.
“Now, since there isn’t much more to say to you that can’t wait for two more weeks to be said, unless of course Daedalus sees fit to have us face off again next week, I’ll wait.” he opens the door to the truck that’s pulled up and throws his bag in the back. “And Seb, if the most you have on me is childish nonsense on Twitter to mock me for the same goalpost shifting bull that Lucy’s doing, then I really don’t have anything more to say to you. To your ‘credit’, at least when you’re being a petty little scumbag, it’s not a surprise to anyone.”
“Now, if you don’t mind, and even if you do, I have a flight to catch.” He steps up into the truck and shakes hands with the driver, then pulls the door closed and leans out of it.
“See you Monday,” he grins. “Unless some weird portal in their lawn swallows me. I don’t know. It’s the Creeps.”
—
Perhaps there is something to the chicanery. Just when I’d imagined I’ve been demoted to set dressing, there I go, dropping jaws again.
The most anyone in the business should strive for is an unforgettable performance, and the three of us stole the show. JC was an auteur, as expected, but Ezra… bravo.
Clearly there’s new prey to be found, even in unexpected places. Holden proved to be an ace up the sleeve, and color me pleasantly surprised when Zane Scott of all people rallied beside Tempest.
Of course, now that there are viable candidates for our influence, the analysis must begin. Which subconscious will bring about the greatest return on investment? Who suffers the least under the burden of their ego, and is ready to be changed?
Montague and Jordana, who is appearing as Lucyna from Cyberpunk, are set up behind a long table at the orchestra level of a tiny children’s community theater in Cincinnati.
Montague: At one time, I believed I was hiring you to book performances for me. But lately, it would seem your skills are being used to keep me in the audience.
Jordana: Hosting a talent show during Wrestlestock was your idea. Since then, every pie-eating contest and dog show in the midwest wants you as a judge.
The Showman can’t hide his exasperation.
Montague: But do you have to accept them all?
Her response is cut off by the smattering of applause from parents and faculty filling the seats behind them. The curtain parts on a third grader or so, twirling batons. They take turns bouncing off her pigtails as some elementary yankee doodle crap plays. The audience, at least, seems to be enjoying it, but only until Montague lets out a comically loud sigh. The girl’s face crumples, and she runs off stage.
Jordana casts him a stony glare as the curtain closes. Bored, he changes the subject.
Montague: I suspect this week we’re intended to make a spectacle?
Jordana: Come again?
Montague: I’m coming around to your way of thinking, you and Daedalus, and re-examining our prospective prey has been illuminating. This week we’re back in familiar territory, so I’m assuming this week’s outing has been planned to build fanfare for the looming Creeps homecoming?
The curtains part again, and this time a small boy child with glasses is juggling five miniature clubs while “Entry of the Gladiators” plays. Fifteen seconds in, he fumbles and loses one, which throws off his rhythm and causes him to miss the next catch. Montague guffaws as several members of the audience fix him with annoyed stares. Sensing he’s lost their attention, the juggler finally slips and two more batons clatter to the floor. Embarrassed, he rushes to gather his dropped clubs as the curtain begins to slide in again.
Jordana scowls.
Jordana: You remember that I’m not on the Consortium, right?
Montague: Of course, but I also know that you and Daedalus love to plot. I’m certain the Architect hopes for the Chaos and World Championship matches to heat up based on how Synergy turns out?
Jordana: That’s a reasonable, if obvious observation.
Montague: What’s interesting, though, is that he decided to include Travis and myself. As far as I know, the Icon isn’t coming to Gnaw Bone to share a ring with me, so what purpose do we serve?
Jordana: Are you complaining about being included in a high-profile match with high-profile opponents, again?
Montague: Travis Pierce, high profile? You’re pulling my leg.
She’s prevented from reacting again as the curtain parts a third time. Now we’re treated to another small boy with a guitar. He plays and sings along with a backing track for John Denver’s classic, Country Roads. Every fifth count, though, he plays a flat note. Not bothering to cover his wincing, Monty’s reactions are clearly weighing on the kid’s concentration, and now he’s missing every third key. Luckily–for him–the Mothman gets a call with the ringer on full volume, playing “Freaky Carnival” by Infected Rain.
The crowd looks practically mutinous as he takes far too long to decide whether or not to answer. Eventually, he presses the button to silence the ringer, but not before the parents of the guitar kid have stormed the stage and removed him in protest. Montague doesn’t seem to have noticed.
Montague: I’m not complaining, Jordana. I just want to make sure I’m with the program. To that end, I’m inferring that Daedalus has modified what might have been a simple cooperative match in order for the Astrocreeps to make a statement of intent.
Jordana: And you presume that the intent is…?
Montague: Get back to basics.
He echoes the advice she and Daedalus have been wise enough to impart to their lieutenants, but adds a cryptic smile. Jordana considers for a moment, then shares a half-smile.
The rest of the junior talent show continues as expected, with Montague noisily gulping his drink, belching, excusing himself to the restroom, and talking over performances. The crowd finally turns threatening, though, once Montague approaches the stage and yanks a violin away from the hands of the young girl awkwardly sawing at it. He launches into an uptempo, folksy fiddle demonstration.
Jordana shouts a warning that the entire audience has climbed to their feet and are now angrily marching toward the stage. Montague drops the fiddle and dives, rolling to his feet in front of the long table. He grabs Jordana by the hand and pulls her to her feet, half leading and half dragging her toward the exit.
—
The fields surrounding the Farmhouse in Gnaw Bone are normally a perfect view of life after people; splotchy, overgrown grass and knots of trees break up the acres and acres the Astrocreeps call home. From three borders of the property, the house itself isn’t even visible. Abandoned plows and picked-over tractors, silently rusting like memories, are only a few of the surprises one might find while venturing out across the forgotten meadows and trickling streams that make up the property. Wildlife slowly reclaims the fringes, inching ever closer to the house year after year.
Today, and for the last four days, however, surveyors and planners have disturbed the normally peaceful landscape. Workboots trample the recent early spring growth, and nervous foremen cast wary looks over their shoulders. Nearby, Pisces and Kosnar observe the work through gritted teeth.
To their relief, the Creeps seem to be distractedly stealing curious glances at the sky overhead. All week the sun has been kind enough to begin the slow progression of Spring, but today the sky is painted with angry hues of purple and green.
These Creeps are the first encountered by Zane as he strolls across the future location of Nightmare at Gnaw Bone. He gives them a wide berth as he goes, not because he’s uneasy, but because he’s wise enough to know how UGWC’s chess pieces are currently arranged, and he’s not in the mood for a gambit. Nothing wrong with checking out the board, though.
Tempest materializes from between his cohorts, and strides across the field to approach the man he will partner with again on Monday.
Tempest: I was expecting you to arrive through the Underlook, if I’m being honest. I guess my method of travel isn’t exactly ideal, though, is it?
Zane: I couldn’t locate the right shrub. Besides, UGWC pays me nicely and it seems impolite to let their money just sit when I can use it to come to their shows and piss them off. Although they booked Pierce for this apropos of nothing, so maybe they’re trying to piss ME off. I digress…which is normal when Pierce is involved.
Tempest snickers.
Tempest: The right shrub. Good one!
Zane: Contrary to popular belief, I do have a sense of humor.
Tempest: And I’m a swell guy… kidding, Mr. Scott. I know you have a very dry sense of humor. Most don’t get it. But I do. Anyway, welcome to our humble abode! We couldn’t be more excited to have the Personification of Pain here. Not just today, but also in two weeks when you challenge for the most sought out prize in the Coalition. Or… has that changed since the Arsonist has done what he has with the Chaos Championship?
Zane: That depends on how much value you place on Seb’s opinion. To him, it’s always more important than everyone else’s. The degree of unjustified rich kid smugness varies depending on how much he wants to be liked at the time.
Tempest considers, smirking darkly behind his mask.
Tempest: And what about my opinion? Perhaps I’m telling you that the Chaos Championship has surpassed the World Championship over the last year. It isn’t all that absurd, is it?
Zane: That depends on your perspective. We’ve both held both championships, and while I respect the Chaos Championship and enjoy seeing it look strong, the World Championship will always be the most valuable one to me. There are…broader uses…for the violence of the Chaos Championship depending on one’s motives.
Tempest: Valid points. I’ll be as transparent with you as the ghosts that haunt my mind, Zane. This event in Gnaw Bone, it’s meant to feature some of the most violent matches in your company’s history. I say ‘your’ because I know how much pride you take in waving the Coalition’s flag, despite the way they treat their most loyal soldier. I do, in fact, have motives. One is reigniting the hottest rivalry in this company: The Spider King and the Arsonist. Another is stealing the show right here on my home turf. That includes outshining the World Championship match.
Zane replies with a shrug and a smile.
Zane: I don’t have a problem with that. If I have to carry Lucy to a great match kicking and screaming to surpass what you have in mind, I will.
Tempest grins.
Tempest: I sincerely think that comment would stick in her craw. But, challenge accepted! In the meantime, as far as this week goes? I’ll assume we have the same understanding we did last week: we mind our own business. The aftermath of last week was a little unexpected, but that doesn’t change that we got into their heads.
Zane: The after match shenanigans certainly hint that we did. Overrated accommodations if you ask me. In regard to us, yes. We have the same understanding as last week. It worked well. That said, although there isn’t much left to say about Pierce that hasn’t been said, we probably should say something about UGWC’s resident network TV show host.
Sighing, Tempest shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand.
Tempest: Pierce is the insect that won’t die. I imagine I feel the same about Pierce that many feel about me. He never seems to go away, despite how many times the hand of hell pulls him back down to reality. People may think his perseverance is admirable, but I find it to be extremely annoying.
Zane nods and smiles, wordlessly agreeing with Tempest at first.
Zane: “Extremely annoying” describes him really well. I don’t like Pierce, never have, and never will. “There’s a thin line between hardcore and stupid’, as my grandfather likes to say. Pierce never figured out where that line is. In spite of that, he IS an extremely capable hand in the ring and he WILL beat you if you’re not careful. He beat me at “Horizons”, and I’d like to right the proverbial ledger. As long as we win, I’ll consider that to have happened. He doesn’t have to be pinned, or pinned by me. As long as we win, that’s all I care about.
Tempest doesn’t say anything at first, only looks at Zane, or perhaps through him. It’s difficult to tell.
Tempest: I remain in the mindset that it’s not about winning for me… it’s about sending a message. And thus far, I’m satisfied with the message I… the message we have been sending.
Zane: Wins ARE a message to them. Never forget that.
Tempest: It’s difficult to deny that, when I reflect on what happened last week. I guess I’ll give you that one, you make a good point.
Zane goes to reply, but is interrupted.
Montague: To what do we owe the pleasure of the company of the phony?
Zane bristles as Montague wanders into the scene.
Zane: You know why I’m here, Montague.
The Doctor-Professor raises his hands, palms out.
Montague: Hey, relax. It’s a literary allusion to Catcher in the Rye.
Zane: I’m some icon of teenage rebellion, am I? That’s an…amusing thought.
Montague snatches a blue handkerchief from the air.
Montague: My only intent is to point out the parallels in the way you constantly rail against the establishment, whether the fault lies with them or not.
Zane: I’m assuming you’re clumsily trying to frame that as a compliment while thinly veiling the indictment?
Monty stuffs the handkerchief into his closed fist.
Montague: You’re cleverer than I gave you credit for. Candidly, I’m only implying that you might find your ire is put to better use when it’s aimed in a more productive direction. For instance, perhaps instead of trying to injure the establishment, you could improve it instead?
He blows into his fist and opens it, allowing the bushtit there to fly away.
Zane: I realize that no one has noticed my…change of direction as of late, but “raging against the machine” hasn’t been my aim. I still don’t like or trust the people who run this company, but that’s a distraction I don’t need right now.
Montague: Then I’m forced to assume you’re here to talk shop.
Zane: More or less…
Montague: Well, let’s not waste breath on brainstorming names for double-team moves and voting on a special entrance song for the three of us.
Zane: I wasn’t aware Ezra Wolf would be joining us.
There’s a moment of tense, measuring looks between them, before Montague cracks at Zane’s joke and chortles merrily.
Montague: Very well then. Since the two of you are building heat for your upcoming engagements on this very battlefield, I’m there to throw more fuel on the flames?
Zane: Among other things. Since Lucy and Seb are so obsessed with their pasts and their current legacies, and Pierce never shuts the fuck up about his because it’s all he has now, why not press your “thumbs” a little further into their eyes?
Montague: And if I were to pluck some of them out in the process, so much the better. That being said, the statement I intend to make there isn’t bound for broadcast to just your Nightmare opponents. I can share the spotlight with you, as my brother here has already. Are you going to be bothered having to share the spotlight with me? You may not like the dance you’ve been conscripted into.
Tempest grunts.
Zane: I can play nice if you can. Being placed in situations I don’t like is hardly an unusual experience for me in this company. Tempest and I coexisted last week. There’s no reason the three of us can’t this week. In spite of my less than sterling reputation, I have a history as a reliable “team” member.
Montague: I can’t argue with that. You have been noticeably more… effective as of late, in a way that’s almost… impressive? But Zane, I don’t intend to play “nice”. A victory isn’t a motivating goal for me here. The message is paramount.
Zane: I don’t have a problem with that. Just as I didn’t come back to help Tempest last week, I wouldn’t come back to help Lucy or Seb if the tables were turned. And Pierce…well, I don’t think I need to explain that, do I?
Montague chuckles.
Montague: No, not at all. Everything that needs to be known about Pierce is right there on the surface, on display each week on his local access show. He has about as much depth as a drop of blood. I think we have an accord.
Zane: You’re being unfair to the drop of blood, and yes, we have an agreement.
Unseen to either of them, Orson has wandered up and is just kind of awkwardly standing nearby. They aren’t alerted to his presence until he vapes loudly. All three turn to regard him as if he’s a particularly interesting bug they’ve discovered.
Zane: Looks to me like you already have your own pet Holden.
Montague: He’s not my Holden!
Holden: Any of you know who Konrad Raab is?
Tempest groans. Zane grins obnoxiously. Montague rolls his eyes. Before any of them can offer an explanation, though, a peal of thunder cracks the dark sky and heralds the arrival of a sudden downpour. Across the field, in the direction of the farmhouse, a funnel descends.
Holden, Pisces, Kosnar, Zane, Montague, and the legion of workers scamper for shelter. Tempest, however, simply tilts his head up toward the maelstrom and smiles, the rain pattering his mask and scars.