Posted by Eric Dane
Posted by Brian Hollywood
Posted by Cancer Jiles
Posted by High Flyer
Posted by Darin Matthews
Posted by Mike Best
Posted by Doozer
Posted by Conor Fuse
Posted by Mike Best
Posted by Cancer Jiles
“All we can do now is wait,” said the Commander.
“How will we know he was able to change anything?” asked Brenton’s wife.
Suddenly the entire compound shakes from a blast. Alarms siren.
“Breach. Breach. Breach. Breach,” repeats a robotic voice over the intercom.
Another blast hits.
“Get to the armory!” yelled the Commander.
Yet another blast hits, this time crippling the compound’s blast doors. Hands reach in between the doors as men begin pulling the doors open. Brenton’s wife and other soldiers send fire into the doors, hitting the hands of the intruders. But their places are quickly substituted and the doors fly open. Shots fire into the compound as every takes cover and returns fire of their own.
“It’s the Koreans!” relayed the Commander.
“I thought they all got wiped out?!” yelled Brenton’s wife.
“Apparently not! We need outside reinforcements! We need to give Brenton time!” he yelled back.
“We’re out of time!”
The commander abandoned his cover to make a flank move, but as soon as he rose, he was pelleted by four bullets to the chest.
“NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” screamed Brenton’s wife.
“Yes, Mr. Woodson. We’ll be sure to arrive early for a briefing prior to Brenton’s match.”
Dr. Michaels leaned back in his chair, and rested his feet, legs crossed on his desk. The phone pressed against his ear next to his weaselly smile. He pushed his glasses up his nose and pressed buttons on a remote control that changed screens on his security monitor. He stopped at Brenton Cross’ room. A view looking down from ceiling in the corner of the room. Brenton lying in his bed, tossing a tennis ball up and down to himself.
“I just have reiterate the progress we have made with Brenton over the past month. I’d hate for this interview cause any regression in his rehabilitation. I strongly request that I be given any questions that you plan on asking him.”
His smile disappears.
“Mr. Woodson. I must insist….Mr. Woodson?…. Mr. Woodson?”
He hangs up the phone, then picks it back up, pressing a single button on the keypad.
“Hi, yes. Can you bring Brenton into my office please…and a cup of coffee. Thank you.”
Dr. Michaels watches the security monitor to see Brenton being escorted from his room. In a few moments his door knocks.
Brenton walks into Dr. Michaels’ office, followed by an orderly. The orderly sits Brenton down in the chair across the desk and hands the doctor his coffee.
“Evening, Brenton. I just wanted to take a few minutes before lights out to discuss your interview with Scott Woodson at the Refueled. You’ve been making so much progress here at our facility, and I would hate to see any sort of relapse because of some controversial questions by somebody who is trying to get ratings.”
“You’re suggesting that questioning by Mr. Woodson would trigger thoughts or responses pertaining to my disorder?” Brenton replies.
Dr. Michaels sits up, surprised at the response. “Well… exactly, Brenton.”
“Dr. Michaels, you are correct in your assessment of my progression here. We have indeed made some very large strides. Contrary maybe to your present beliefs, I wish to fully rehabilitate so I can rejoin society as a contributing citizen. I wish to become a major player in HOW, and be taken seriously.”
Brenton rips off his eye patch, revealing a perfectly good set of eyes.
“These delusions of time travel and saving the world have just been a defense mechanism to hide the real pain that I have recently suffered, and with the help of you and your staff, I’ve learned to train my brain to be able to cope with trauma is more efficient ways, like a normal person. The medication you’ve given me has given me a clear mind, and I truly feel like I finally have a goal,” continued Brenton.
Dr. Michaels removes his classes, instrigued.
“That goal is to become the best in HOW. Be the star that you’ve told me I can become.”
“That’s amazing, Brenton. It truly is. That being said, I have been authorized by Scott Woodson to be present at the interview, just to make sure everything goes smoothly. I strongly suggest that you enter this interview with this same frame of mind, and I think you will be great,” says Dr. Michaels.
“I think so too, doctor.”
“Get some rest, you have sessions tomorrow.”
The doctor makes eye contact with the orderly, a clear instruction to escort Brenton to his room. They leave as the doctor sits back his chair again.
The diaphragm expands pressuring a pair of the lungs. Air is released from the sacs within the lungs and is pushed up through a larynx. The air reaches the vocal chords, vibrating immensely. The sound of screaming is sent from the vocals chords, to the throat, over the tongue and through a set of teeth.
Every muscle tightens as if being attached to bones for the very first time. His skin burns and body hair stands on end. Levitating three feet from the ground, the body of Brenton Cross is in full spasm, then THUMP, he drops to the ground. He falls face first into dry sand. Taking in what seems like a breath first from the womb, the intake of air includes the sand that practically causes him to choke. He gets to all fours and coughs out the stand, his sweaty body half covered in the yellowish dirt. He looks around and finds himself on a beach. He stands and turns, exposing that he not only completely nude, but void of eye-patch, exposing a scarred sewn shut eye, surrounded by old burned flesh. He breathes heavily and make his way up to the beach towards grass dunes. Once reaching the summit of the beach, he receives a few of a city.
“What the fuck,” still gasping for air. “We fucking did it.”
Dr. Michaels opens the door to the security office of the Psych Facility.
“Heading to a dinner meeting, then heading home. I’ll be back in the morning,” he says to the security guard.
“How we looking?”
“Lights out. Got three sleeping suicidals, one crying bipolar, and one screaming rager, the usual.”
“Still lying there playing with that damn tennis ball.”
“Hmmmm, keep a close eye on him,” orders the doctor.
“You got it, sir.”
Dr. Michaels exits.
Down the florescent lit hallway, past each room at the end is Brenton Cross’ room. Yet, not playing with a tennis ball, Cross is perched up on his bed fiddling with the back of the security camera. Looping the playback, he hops off the bed and sticks his finger down his own throat. He hacks up saliva and bile only. He sticks his finger down his throat again. This time his face turns red, eyes tear and he vomits a piece of metal onto the ground. He picks it up and wipes the grossness off of it, revealing he has stolen a key. He unlocks his room door, opens it and sticks his head out. Not finding a soul, he slowly makes his way down the hallway, walking the edge. He checks a corner and turn down another hallway. He reaches a door, unlocks it and enters, closing the door behind him. The glass on the door reads: “Dr. Calvin Michaels M.D.”.
Brenton locks the door behind him and sits at Michael’s desk, turning on his desktop computer. The black screen slowly fades in and reaches a password protected screen. Brenton takes a deep breath and bends over the desk. He reaches his hand down the back of his face and groans. He pulls a USB flashdrive, literally out of his ass, wipes it off on his clothing, and inserts it into a USB port on the computer. Several windows pop up and close on the screen, and then a password types itself onto the screen, hacking Brenton into the doctor’s computer.
He navigates his way through several folders on the computer, he begins getting frustrated as all he seems to find is files on other patients. he does a search using his name and is saddened to find no results.
An alert is heard from the computer, and a little window pops up in the lower right hand corner of the screen, with a mail icon.
Brenton clicks on it and reads the e-mail:
Dear Dr. Michaels,
Gratitude for your generous donation to our campaign. We’d also like to take this opportunity to formally invite you to a meeting to discuss your future with our company as we take our business in a more international direction. One of my associates will be contacting you soon to arrange.
“Hmmm,” Brenton wondered. Then he went back to the search and typed in “LB” and this time dozens of secured files showed up. A folder named “LB HOK” appeared and he clicked on it.
“Son of a fucking bitches.” Brenton said allowed.
The screen shows an entire readout of NORAD’s defense system.
Brenton Cross’ face appears on dozens of platforms.
“This is Brenton Cross, sergeant of the third regiment of the Last Allied Forces. I’m broadcasting on One January, the year 2020. I’m broadcasting in hopes that certain individuals of intelligence are being reached to hear important information that could assist in intervening great conflict. I have successfully infiltrated the facility of Dr. Calvin Michaels. I’ve been here for twenty-seven days, completing Phase 5 of my mission. As predicted, Dr. Michaels led me to the correct assumption that covert plans are being made between multiple individuals to incite disagreements between high ranking individuals which eventually cause strife on a government level. Dr. Michaels has been acting as a middle man, slash translator for High Octane Wrestling officials for dealing with North Korea. Unfortunately at this moment, I do not have the intel to figure out what the dealings actually are, but if the simplest explanation is the most correct, I would assume that these dealings would have to involve Max Kael and the LSD Championship.”
He clears his throat.
“Intel does, however, show that North Korea in this very year, becomes so hostile, that other countries are to eventually intervene, leading us to war. An inevitability. Phase 7 calls for me to interrupt these dealings to prevent extinction. So as I continue with my mission, Phase 5 calls for me to defeat Darin Zion and explain to the world my ultimate directive. This week at Refueled, I will use Zion as a stepping stone, as I did with Dr. Michaels, to further pursue my mission. Then I’ll tell the world via Scott Woodson, things I have been holding onto since the day I arrived here. Expose those who are to blame for the oncoming devastation and obliteration of your livelihoods, in hopes that these people are bought to justice, or even exterminated, all for the greater good.
Darin Zion. Another HOW superstar starving to make a name for himself. Trying to impress Lee Best with whatever talent he believe he may have. Like Noah Hanson, on a seemingly never ending quest to prove that he is championship material and can stand with the best. Darin, I’m sorry, but you need a rude awakening like you need slap in the face. People think I’m crazy, but the only real disability that I’m able to see at the moment is your disability to see that you’re truly nothing but low to mid card space taker. A card filler.
Okay, now that I’ve gotten that bullshit out of the way to give you something to say about me, like Noah Hanson did, I can get down to the real business. I actually don’t really even know a fuckin thing about you, Darin. Truthfully, during my training to visit this time, there wasn’t even a file on you. I’m sorry to say, you were just a name during this phase. That’s the amount of significance you hold, sir. Some people are remembered, Jefferson, King Jr., Lennon, Ghandi. The best you have going for you is the HoTV archives. You bring you best at Refueled, and will give me a good match up. But you’re simply a vessel for me. And when it’s said and done, I won’t even remember you. I’d wish you good luck, but that’s obsolete.”