“I can’t remember anything, can’t tell if this is true or a dream. Deep down inside I feel to scream, this terrible silence stops me.” – Benjamin Franklin upon discovering lightning or something. Could also be a Metallica lyric, I don’t know, use google and get off my nuts.
“And he won’t remember anything?”
Wilhelm Kael stared down at the six year old boy who laid asleep in the bed behind a wall of glass. Well into his fifties his hair looked like dark marble, streaks of pure white hair stood out like lightning against the night. His face was hardened like leather, a scowl permanently frozen across his lips in a perpetual look of disgust.
“It is experimental.” said a thin man with a pair of horn rimmed glasses and greasy black hair carefully combed over an ever growing patch of baldness. He spoke in a sharp, cruel sounding dialect of German that marked him as a Northerner, likely from Prussia. “..early testing with local children and a few monkey specimens have proven fruitful. There are.. Some.. side effects we have noted.”
The imperius gaze of Wilhelm Kael falls upon the frail looking man in a white lab coat. He doesn’t have to speak, the man withering beneath his baleful stare swallows slowly before continuing.
“There have been cases of.. Violence. Psychotic episodes. In one case it resulted in the termination of the subject.” the German doctor seemed to speak more quickly in an attempt to brush past the single fatality. Wilhelm’s cold blue eyes stayed on the doctor for a few more moments before they turned to look down at the boy once again.
He reached into his pocket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes, tapping one out before he slipped it between his lips. The doctor’s eyes flickered over for a moment before he retrieved a pipe from his pocket joining Wilhelm in the brief smoke break.
“Nicole is fertile enough, should the boy be terminated..” Wilhelm casually dismissed the threat to his son who lay unconscious before him. He retrieved a book of matches, folding one out and striking it to life before he lit his cigarette. Passing the still burning match to the doctor, Wilhelm took a deep drag before expelling two jets of smoke from his nostrils. “We will simply make another one.”
“It is also.. Very.. painful.” the doctor warned as he used the match he was given to light his pipe.
“Pain isn’t my concern.” Max’s father said in a dismissive tone. Taking another drag off his cigarette he returned his gaze to the doctor. “What is the name of it again? The thing you’re putting in his head.”
The Doctor chewed nervously on the end of his pipe before he answered with a half cocked smile.
Max’s eyes flickered open as he stared up at the bright blue sky above his head. The song “Smile” by Jimmy Durante carries on the warm summer breeze accompanied by the scent of fresh cut grass and flowers. Sitting up Max’s blue eyes scanned the rolling grass hills and pockets of trees that stretched out across the horizon.
“..the fuck is this?” he muttered to himself as he stood. He was dressed in his wrestling attire though no signs of damage were visible. Dusting himself off the Lord of Kaelsalvania turned his eyes back up to the sun that hung high in the cloudless blue sky.
He turned his eyes back on the desert of green that stretched out in all directions. It reminded him of the open fields and gentle hills of Kansas and wondered, idly, if that had been where he was unceremoniously dumped. His hand instinctively went to his pocket to find his phone only to discover it was gone. He swore under his breath as his hands rested on his hips.
Once again he turned his attention up to the sky and then sun, his brow furrowing as he squinted his eyes.
“Sun’s straight up so this must be noon. Rises from the East and sets in the West right? But I have no idea which way it’s actually going..” His voice carrying on the air as it seemed to reverberate all around him as though he had been standing in the center of an echo chamber. The LSD Champion’s head cocked to the side like a dog hearing an unfamiliar command more than a little spooked. “..okay..”
It was then, upon hearing his own voice, that he realized there was a surprisingly lack of sound. No bugs, no birds, no other animals of any kind, just the song “Smile” playing from some unseen source. Biting his lip Max closed his eyes and tried to focus as hard as he could on the music. It felt like it was coming from a small oasis of trees in the desert of grass a few hundred meters away.
Taking in a deep breath Max summoned his courage and set out to find the source of the music.
Two large warehouse doors were yanked open, the sound of old, rusted wheels dragging across metal rails like a banshee’s wail. The musky scent of mothballs and greasy metal poured from the threshold washing over the crooked nose of the Minister. His lips stretched into a smile as several workers poured passed him into the warehouse.
“It’s been over a year since we’ve reassembled this, repairs will need to be made to it before it’s fully functional.”
A voice chirped over Max’s shoulder belonging to a foreman wearing a HOTv logo on his helmet. He stood almost eye to eye with the Minister and sorted a heavy gut and a long, raggedy beard. A pair of yellow tinted safety glasses covered watery blue eyes.
“That’s fine,” Minister said as he turned his unpleasant, burning red eye back toward the mounds of metal fencing, poles and wires being dragged out of the warehouse. “Lee is expecting the cage to be completed at least a week before War Games so he can do publicity shots.”
Dressed in his pious white three piece suite with #97red tie, handkerchief and wing tipped shoes the Minister looked like a real Holy Roller. The hair atop his head that had started to grow in was a wild tangle of black and white hair he had put minimal effort into combing. A grisly, oozing cross that he had cut into his forehead glimmered in the light of the warehouse and caught the foreman off guard.
“Uh, you.. You got a little something..” the Foreman stuttered as he motioned to his own forehead.
Feigning ignorance the Minister’s expression dropped into confusion as gloved hands reached up and smeared the blood around his forehead before dropping his hands to stare at the blood. Shock and fear filled his face as his hands began to shake, looking back up at the Foreman.
“Oh my God, what happened?!” He cried as his blue eye was filled with wild panic. Without warning he reached out and grabbed the Foreman by the both shoulders pulling him closely. Panic was flushed away as a hideous smile crept over his face. “..don’t worry, it’s not real. It’s just fake, like Jack Harmen’s IMDB entry. Now get that FUCKING CAGE built.”
Shoving the man away Max turned to stare once again at the metal framework being slowly dragged out. Reaching into his pocket he retrieved a pack of cigarettes and a golden 24k zippo lighter.
“God be with you. Praise Lee and whatever.” Minister grunted as he pulled a cigarette out of the box between his lips before flipping open the zippo. Taking a few brief tugs to get the dart lit he snapped the lighter shut and dropped it back into his pocket.
Ripping the cigarette from his lips pinched between his thumb and middle finger he pulled free his phone and speed dialed Max’s lawyers, the morally questionable law offices of Fartharder and Shitemoore. As he waited for the pick up he began to pace, every few steps he would take a quick puff, the kind of habit you’d expect from a life-long addict.
“Yes, it’s me. Yes, Max Kael. You say there is something wrong with the way I sound?” Minister’s deeper, growling voice is far lower than Max’s more traditional, shrill manner of speaking. “I’ve decided to stop doing as much crack cocaine, it’s really done wonders for my singing career. Do you have what I asked for?”
The distant croak of Shitemoore’s voice could be heard, his tone chastising though the words were difficult to make out.
“Yes, I’m sure they were a mess, listen I don’t care if you think this kind of work is below you. I pay you, you do the work. If you don’t want the work, I’ll find someone else. I heard Lindsay Troy’s trying to be a shitty detective, maybe I’ll just hire her.” He sneered into the phone before he took another drag, this one deeper, luxuriating on the feeling of the smoke as it was sucked down his throat. He held it in and imagined choking Lindsay Troy again. Imagined his hands wrapped around her neck, the life slowly draining out of her face..
He imagined what Mike must have thought. He wanted to see Mike’s face seeing Max Kael attempting to murder Lindsay Troy.
Licking his lips as he allowed the smoke to flush back out of his body, rushing around his shiny metal teeth as the cloud poured from his smiling lips.
He imagined Mike smiling.
Fartharder’s dismissive voice crept over the phone as he began rattling off names and addresses jolted him back into the present. His smile stretched a little wider as he flicked the nearly dead cigarette away, the last spark of life snuffed out as it crashed to the ground.
“Could you text me all of that, I’m about to hit the road.”
Mike Best, you’re a shit person.
Part of me has always wondered if you know, if you’re in on the joke or if you’ve actually convinced yourself that you’re somehow better than a shit person. Don’t take that negatively, I love shit people, shit people are fucking real. Shit people know the score, they know this world doesn’t give a fuck about how badly they hurt people. Shit people will make fun of a man dying of cancer and laugh it off as a coping mechanism. Shit people will take the one thing that makes a person happy and fucking destroy it completely right in front of them. Shit people mentally abuse and control the weaker people around them to achieve their own goals.
Shit people get shit done.
And here we are Mike, two shit people sitting on top of a heap of our victims. You have the Group of Death and I have my own army of misfit toys.
Let’s take a quick look at them shall we?
Andy Murray, a giant from a far away land whose name strikes fear and awe amongst a few of the High Octane Loyal. You spoke highly of him but Mike, we both know, you speak highly of anyone who bats their eyelashes in your direction. He’s got bad knees and a pill addiction, I’m very excited to wade into that kiddy pool, might even get my ankles wet.
Then I’ve someone named Perfection. Lee assured me he would try his best. After seeing his last two performances he’ll need to find something beyond his “best”. I’ll be sure to keep him in my prayers and hope for that miracle.
Last and certainly least is MJFlair, a child so worthless she has to drag her father around to add some degree of value to that dog and pony show. I really shouldn’t be too hard on the dumb twat, without her brazen actions last War Games I probably wouldn’t be here right now. Still, between you and I, she was the best Lee and I could scrape out of this cesspool.
I mean, I love my team and team mates, they’re talented and will assuredly be instrumental in my victory.
Our victory, sorry.
But really Mike are they truly that much worse than what the Group of Death is?
Cecilworth Farthington? Well of course I am not going to go on the attack against a man who has been undefeated for a year, a man who has managed to go unpinned longer than any other talent in High Octane Wrestling history. But is he really Group of Death? Or is he actually a member of the eMpire who, much like Max, was simply roped into the Group of Death because you wanted expendable soldiers? He’ll fight very loyalty for you, I have no doubts he will be instrumental should you claim victory..
..but then Dan Ryan? Oh of course, Dan Ryan is reliable. He’s powerful, he’s big, he almost wins most of his matches. Now, I will give it to you, he did manage to put down Perfection and he could probably handle MJF but he won’t get past Andy Murray. Max outlasted that overbaked full loaded potato last year, I fully intend to continue that trend this year. Still, respect for throwing himself into the grinder on your behalf, Mike, truly your shitbaggery knows no depth of corruption. I am in humble awe.
Speaking of shallow, we round off things with Lindsay Troy. Oh Lindsay Troy. She should just keep doing what she’s doing, right Mike? How much longer does she have with the Group of Death anyway? If she washes out first at War Games will you Kitty Petrova her right away or let her sulk around awkwardly for a few weeks before you kick her out?
Or are you worried you’ll lose your loyal dog Dan Ryan when you cut her off?
Man, the Shitbag’s dilemma, do you cut away the deadweight for risk of losing your left hand? I think you were better without both of them but Dan Ryan does say some funny shit about people, real quality farm to table shitbaggery.
Look at me, over here, worried about what your plans are when I’ve got to my own to get back to! Best of luck heading into War Games, Mike, and to the rest of the Group of Death who I am certain are not underestimating my team at all.
GoD be with you.