Xander didn’t want any part of Chad’s game. Really. He didn’t. He recognized Chad held a libertine lust, a spirit that must have been only the byproduct of a cuddled, yet deformed upbringing. He never had the challenges of survival like Xander had, so Xander instinctively hated him for having such a luxury to approach life in such a hedonistic fashion. Like a cuckold getting off on his wife’s promiscuity, Chad held possessions, drove to subversion, perverting nature in order to feel like a conqueror, commanding the greater narrative. And when Chad found the opportunity to entangle much-hated foes in his devilish web, he didn’t pass up the opportunity, tying them to his dark desires. Choking them, strangling them, cutting off their oxygen supply under his filth. Chad derived pleasure from denying a man’s inert nature to seek the surface of the water when drowning, taking satisfaction in depriving them the opportunity to ever breathe again.
And they called Xander ‘sick’.
Once more, Xander had been forced into the role of the pawn in Chad’s game of chess, conscripted to serve the player. He had been the instrument to force Katelyn into checkmate. Xander found himself at a loss though. He didn’t understand why, but he actually cared about Katelyn, a strange but also a suitable mother to three wonderful children; was did stem to sinister possessiveness? Did he wish to control Katelyn, wanted her for himself, to steal Chad’s toy? No, he wanted to be a protector of sorts, despite being quite alien to his established character. He rather harbor Katelyn in the safety of the port in this shitstorm Chad started to brew. But like with Xander, Chad held a specific hatred for Katelyn. That meant Chad would want to press her to her outer limits, pulling her apart at the steams, removing one limb at a time to see how she crack. Mirrors never crack in the same way twice, each break unique. The same can be said about a human psyche, Xander guessed. And Xander made Chad’s wish a reality. Shortly after seeing Xander’s photograph of Kayla, Xander suspected the good mother sacrificed herself to keep daughters safe. Xander wondered such acquiesce empowered Chad, cementing as a master of puppets. We are all dancing on fucking strings.
Now it’s Shawn Winters’ turn to suffer. Xander didn’t care about that asshole’s wellbeing. Xander had been purported as the devil incarnate, but Xander lacked the ability decision. He had always been caught up his rage, a wind that steered his gallon at sea. Chad’s rage was cold brewed; surgical even, Chad dissected those he hated. Katelyn’s upmost concern were naturally her offspring. Shawn Winters? He held a certain enjoyment in being the fun uncle, taking a certain liking towards a niece. 19201 bore a certain pride, to foster a child into adulthood amongst the sons and daughters of Hollywood elite, such surroundings bred promise. Xander understood the stark contrast between being born with a silver spoon and having your nursery rhythms being the sighs of ecstasy the heroin addict delivers next to your crib with a needle stabbed in their arm. The privileged never acknowledge the fact that origins bore more weight in a person’s future than natural abilities. Rich sons always acted entitled to their father’s accomplishments, almost if they were their own successes. Assholes. But when your classroom had a never-ending leak, your money doesn’t buy lawyers but warranted public defenders, there was a world of different between Beverly Hills and the war-torn pavement of Compton. While Xander treasured his bright skin, he knew Chad never understood his privilege.
The world owed Chad. Xander knew the world no one nothing. That what separated them.
Shawn Winters’s celebrity earned Ashley roles, but the directors’ and producers’ inclusion stemmed from their desire to impress Winters. The shame was that this underrepresented Ashley’s actual acting ability. In fact, Xander recalled a certain scene (and for Xander to recognize anyone in a Hollywood film, cameo or not, was a testament to Ashley’s commanding presence) where she portrayed a waitress in a roadside diner. While Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes had a passionate discourse about nature of men and their desires, Ashely’s neutrality in taking their orders and delivering their gluttonous wishes facilitated the scene, providing much needed interrupt to let certain thoughts linger as she poured coffee without removing an ounce of focus away from the importance. Once again, perhaps this control over her function in the scene was the byproduct of her privilege, a starved actress would have tried to assert herself between the established stars, neglecting her role, because they were desperate to keep on the silver screen than some second-rate Pornhub account.
Like her famed uncle, Ashley Morrison was one of the beautiful people. That too brought certain privilege. She had her uncle’s dirty blonde hair, a genetic inheritance which flowed gracefully over her shoulders. Xander wouldn’t describe her as petite, but she was not voluptuous either, she held a perfect balance, curvy enough to prompt attention to certain areas while all lacking the clumsiness that big tits, thick thighs, and plump ass carried. Xander watched her comings and goings at her Beverly Hills flat, donning oversized sunglasses regardless of time and never without a designer purse. The property stood adjacent to Shawn Winters’ mansion. The tour guide mentioned that Shawn hated the previous owners so much he snatched up the property when went up for auction in bankruptcy court, to prevent any tension with future neighbors. Shawn always seemed to benefit from another man’s demise. He now rented out the property to a cast of young starlets, Ashley included, and also a certain celebrity lawyer’s daughter-turned-Instagram-influencer. Xander really did hate this generation as much as the last.
On the third evening, with under the guise of gathering clouds of storm and emboldened by the vacancy of the flat, Xander approached Ashley. With his hood up, he intercepted her immediately after her uber left. She removed her sunglasses to process the situation while also discerning the features of the ogre blocking her path. Reddened eyes either spoke of a long shoot on the set or indulgent behavior. The tightening of facial features, narrowing of her bright blue eyes, expressed her fear.
“Ashley Morrison? Is that really you?” Xander asked, already knowing the answer.
“Do I know you? I’m certain we have never met.”
“Now, now, don’t be alarmed. I’m only a fan.”
“Stay away,” Ashley responded, already brandishing a bottle of pepper spray.
“No need to be alarmed, Ashley. I’m not here to hurt you. I only want autograph,” Xander believed his clever ruse would suffice as enough evidence of intent for Shawn to understand. Unfortunately, not having been cast in any considerable roles really killed that approach. Only stalkers knew of Ashley Morrison. Like with any threat on the street, the young woman doused their eyes with pepper spray without any hesitation. Empowerment in the twenty-first century burned. While Xander waved his hand, opening to deflect any further spray, Ashley fled to the safety of her home, clanging closed the iron gates before going further in to call the cops. Xander didn’t wait to see if his notion had been correct, fleeing the scene. His eyes burned with the heat of a thousand suns. Tears gushed but did nothing to put out of the fire. He ran blind. Luckily the street had been vacated of other pedestrians at that time of night.
—————————-
The hotel room hadn’t been remodeled for at least fifty years, and it showed its age. While the bellboy eagerly claimed they went for a vintage look, Xander took that measure as cutting corners. Sure, speaking of corners, the room’s elaborate wallpaper only curled in some corners, through the pattern reminded him of a design belonging to Victorian times, not 2020. Unsurprisingly, the mildew stains from the odd leak were sparse yet present across the vanilla sea of the ceiling. He suspected to find black mold underneath the bathroom’s sink if wanted a gander, but Xander didn’t care enough to complain. He planned on a brief stay; and the handful of hours he did occupy the space, he slept, out cold, with linens that smelt clean enough. He suffered worse.
Xander returned, managing to fondle the old brick phone to call room service before barreling into the bathroom. There laid this scene of his anguished vulnerability, thrashing about, a hound blighted for his ill-fortune curiosity, porcupine quills acupuncture across his face. Hellraiser. The room service came quickly, knocking upon the opened door. He heard Xander’s beckoning grunt. The man’s white-gloved hand offered the whole gallon of milk. Xander snatched the plastic vessel, ripped the plastic lid, and without uttering a single world, he doused his eyes to cleanse the pepper spray. Instant relief, he blinked away the pain. He didn’t stop until the jug laid empty, finding himself now a soppy mess, milk soaking through all his clothes, snot streaming down either side of his face.
“Err… sir, are you okay? I can call for an ambulance,” The errand boy offered.
Xander returned with a dangerous look across the bow, conveying his current state of savagery. The waiter recoiled, having lifted rock to be greeted with a rattlesnake’s snarl. Xander recognized hesitation in the man’s body language; on one hand, the waiter wanted to book it, to remove himself from this strange situation, but on the other, there was still the matter of tip. Capitalism’s driving force. Xander growled while he thrust his hand into his pocket, slapped a soggy twenty on the man’s hand. That sent the boy running, spurs sank into his rear quarter, the racehorse galloped back to the bowels of the hotel with enough sense to close the door behind him. Xander circled around to the shower, turning the knob fully counterclockwise to summon steam. He stripped. The cloud of steam, no doubt going to worsen the mold problem, blasted against Xander’s exposed skin. He let the relief soak into his pores. He twisted the knob back before he stepped into the full blast of the shower head. He retreated in his head as he stood there, his hands pressed against the tiled wall.
Of course, his plan failed. Xander’s laziness and dearth of imagination resulted into a dead end, a brick wall he had crashed into, stopping his momentum. He needed to get back to Hunter. Was she safe? He thought he had been clever, going after Shawn’s favorite niece, poorly imitating Chad’s strategy of leveraging Katelyn’s maternal instincts against her. The stark difference laid in Ashley’s age. She had washed way naivety one might have associated with a brat spoiled by her rich uncle’s favoritism, instead knew how to defend herself against the many predators that lurk in the Hollywood hills. He would leave her alone. If he continued to beat around the bush, Ashley would most definitely report him as a stalker, and then there come the sirens, red and blue flashing light. Xander wanted to avoid police at all costs.
He ran his hand through the stubbled hair carpeting his head, before tilting forward to allow the scorching spray to assault his scalp. His hands balled as fists. He wanted to punch the wall. Enough with these games, he wasn’t a puppet master. He wasn’t going to manipulate Shawn. He lacked the deft hand required for such a gambit. No, he was going to do what he always do, approach the matter head on, pound his opposition into submission. He was going to approach Shawn, laid down the facts, issue a warning about continuing to ignore Chad’s invitations. He won’t sugarcoat, no need for such bullshit, Shawn will know well Chad’s dubious intentions to entangle him int whatever madness awaited them all at Chad’s secret hideaway, somewhere on the East Coast.
—————————-
Right before dawn, Xander left the hotel room, in the guise of another drawn hoody. Only difference, he was sparklingly clean and clear-sighted. He returned to the scene of the crime, nothing stood out of the ordinary. The empty street featured the occasion passing car, early commuters. Xander didn’t feel like he had accosted a woman an hour earlier. Nothing changed. He hurried past the flat, and to the cast iron gates of Shawn’s mansion. The black metal bars twisted towards the center of the gate, forming a brazen SW Not only did Shawn must own the largest property on the street, he wanted everyone knew who resided in that modern-day palace. Hubris bought down many a titans, but not so in Hollywood, flashiness kept the attention fixated on you, which is a challenge itself given the ADHD-raddled minds of the agents, directors, and producers that controlled Tinsel Town. Xander tossed his now discarded sweatshirt onto the dull spikes threatening to the open skies above. He threw himself up and over, nimbly dropping down on his feet. Most everyone would have not been able to manage such a feat, Xander had been gifted a giant’s height, a stallion’s lean muscle, and ballerina’s grace. He should had been a basketball player.
Xander turned to collect his hoody before reverting to go up the serpentine driveway, a guttural snarl paralyzed him. Xander barely found the time to get his arms up to shield himself from the attack before a large mass knocked into him. Slobbering spit soaked his face, Xander cursed, readying himself for the pain of puncturing fangs, sinking into his exposed forearms. The dog ripped free Xander’s hoody instead before bounding off with his new trophy, whipping it violently around while prancing, an angry reindeer dancing on a fucking rooftop. Xander considered himself eternally grateful, having had some bad experiences with dogs in his youth, infections and other complications that came by a pitbull attack.
Xander dusted himself off, now seated on the smooth black asphalt. He started to lean forward, to labor to his feet, a task in itself given his massive frame. That was when he heard the click, the sound of a pistol being pulled back, ready to be discharged. His heart sank sickly. Next second, his brains would be splattered across the Earth, home intruder shot dead in self-defense. Xander slowly raised his arms up into the air to show his vulnerability, to give the gunman’s sense of security.
“For fuck’s sake, never would I have ever believed I would find myself blessed with the opportunity to unload a clip into the Executioner,” Shawn Winters spoke, chuckling. Xander shied away from the gun, eying it in the corner of his eye. Shawn thankfully lowered the weapon. “Don’t tell me, you’re the same asshole who harassed Ashley earlier tonight. My trigger finger might be twitchy enough.”
“Put that away.”
“What? You think I can trust you?”
“No. That’s the last thing you should do. I wouldn’t trust me for a second. I’ll admit that much,” Xander caught himself being a little too honest for his own good. After all, if the situation had been reversed, Xander would have already filled Shawn with lead. Fuck, he knew he was in the palm of Shawn’s hand now, he didn’t know how much better that was versus Chad’s marionette strings. “And yes, I am that same asshole. I thought maybe getting her autograph would make this conversation go a little more the way I want it to.”
“You still can’t get over the fact that I dropped your ass all those years ago. I must say, perfect way to go out. Right up there on top. Though, I never thought you’d be this petty to come after me. Thought you’d be over it by now.”
“I’m not that petty. Why does everyone think that losses keep me up at night? If we met again, I’ll murder you.”
“Well, good thing I’m holding a gun. Your wrestling days might be over it I shot up your leg,” Shawn Winters knelt down, drawing the revolver closer to Xander’s legs, though never actually directing the gun. Xander spotted the safety on and the trigger finger removed. Shawn was fucking with him, maybe hoping for a piss stain. “What the fuck brought you to my doorstep?”
“That’s a story in itself. Can I stand?” Xander asked. Like it or not, you always asked for permission to move when held at gunpoint. Shawn holstered the gun, nodded as he backpedaled. His hand remained near the gun, for security’s sake. Xander never needed a firearm to feel safe. He smirked at his comparison. “You’re not going to believe me.”
“Try me.”
“Chad sent me. He’s upset that you never accepted his invitation.”
“Invitation? Chad actually wrote that? Hilarious. I thought that was a prank. He’s even stupider than I remember. He really thought I’d come, that I’m at his beck call? That’s rich. Real rich,” Shawn erupted in a throaty laughter. Xander gave Sahwn a once over; Winters had a track suit on. Xander interrupted Shawn on his way out for his morning job. From the leash trailing the German Shepherd mauling Xander’s sweatshirt, he probably brought his best friend on his morning runs. The handgun? It’s not unheard of a celebrity owning a concealed carry permit; after all, a celebrity, even male, had to protect himself from stalkers and abductors, looking for a ransom of some kind, be it some kind of perverse love or a briefcase of unmarked bills.
“You should see the lengths he’s going to. Chad won’t stop, until he gets his way.”
“How the hell are you caught up in this mess? The big bad Xander Valentine is Chad’s errand boy… now I’d never, in my wildest dream thought I’d live to see a day where you’re someone’s bitch. What kind of dirt does Chad have on you?” Shawn showed actual surprised. His shifting eyes betrayed deep thought. He shrugged off whatever answer he arrived at.
“Enough.”
“You do realize, the longer you play bitch, the harder it’ll be to climb out from underneath his thumb?”
“Duly-fucking-noted,” Xander dismissed Shawn’s sage advice. Shawn tilted is head, almost winked at Xander as he gauged how far his trophy kill from a long ago Rise to Greatness had been blemished by rust spots. Shawn, no longer threatened by Xander’s appearance, waved him on as he strolled up the driveway. “Where the fuck are you going?”
“Coffee. It’s too early.”
“What?”
“Come on, I’ll even pour you a cup. I want to hear all about this mess. I’m interested, curious.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Oh, I’ve only started,” Shawn continued. He didn’t even bother to look back to see if Xander followed him. Xander did. They both knew that if he had gone this far, Xander wasn’t going to turn around and leave empty-handed. As they made the way to fully glass exterior of the front wall, Shawn finally glanced over his shoulder to ask, “Have you ever thought about ringing the doorbell? I’m certain that would have avoided any risk of being shot.”
“Like you’ll let me in.”
“Oh, I would have eventually. Especially if you started shouting. I might be an asshole, but I’m a great neighbor.”
“You’re enjoying this too much,” Xander complained.
“Maybe I’m just as bored as Chad.”
—————————-
Konrad Raab, I can’t deny that you possess the brave heart of lion, a hero’s right of way. Color me impressed when I lay my eyes upon you, seeing a man untainted by the evil in this harsh world we share. You’re an ideal. One that I thought might have been unattainable. But behold, there you are. Standing in front of me, defying my beliefs.
I know you’re one of the few people who would rush to help a strange put on a spare tire on the side of the road. You’d run headfirst into a burning build to save children. And as the case was on Breakdown, you came to the defense of Selena and Regan without hesitation. They needed saving. You came to their recue. Bravo. I hope they thanked you, I suspect if they did, they did so begrudgingly, their prides preventing them to full accept your aide, though much needed. I wasn’t going to stop until Selena was a shit stain. And to do so in such quick change, transforming from opponent, challenger to ally, defender. You threw yourself recklessly into the fray. Selflessly. You possess the type of character Selena wished she had. The time of heroism she pretends she embodies in order to enslave her legions of brainwashed fans. But you’re not imitation, you’re the real fucking deal. You harbor the humanity that alludes Regan. She can’t even fathom your self-sacrifice.
Furthermore, you didn’t act because you expected a pat on the back, a favor owed even, a debt incurred. Neither did you act in order to be celebrated by the fans, uncaring to pander to the crowd. No, you acted out of the goodness of your heart. Because it was the right thing to do, yeah? That wasn’t part of a marketing strategy. No, you’re one of the few good people remaining this world, armored with principles. Most of the time that is. Until you don a silly mask. But that’s why people like you, Konrad. They like the kindness. They appreciate the softness.
But let’s be honest for a moment, no one respects you, Konrad.
Go ahead, drape a cape over your shoulders, step forward, acting like you’re brandishing a ‘S’ on your chest, but you’re not Hercules, just a run-of-a-mill mortal. Enough grit to stick it out. All the heart in the world isn’t enough though, you endure loss after loss, beating after beating, whipping boy for all of us to watch. You always given a half-smile, formed out of pity, not respect. This isn’t little league; we don’t hand out participation trophies. We’re here to win. We’re here to dominate. The strong eat the weak. Some might draw inspiration from your resiliency, your loudly thudding heart, but your tenure here is an affront. Because you’re not a carnivore. You’re a part of the herd, somehow avoiding being culled despite lagging behind.
But that’s all about to be changed.
Too bad karma’s a fool’s fancy. Fate would reward you for your good deed. But instead, you’re going to be punished. You think I’m not going to respond to your act of heroism. You think I’m going to gie you a pass because you’re a Good Samaritan. No, I’m going to exact my revenge. Your actions left me with this hunger, this longing, while I watch my prey get away.
Now, I’m going to deliver upon you such a disappointment. Imagine this. In your home country, in front of your people, legions of fans cheering you on to dethrone me, I’m going to string you up. The shouts of excitement from the German people will fade into sobs they witness me mangling you in my jaws. Once again Germany will face absolute defeat at the hand of the American alpha male. I stand before them with the same idolized authority they always fell sort of attaining. I’ll attack you with a bit of familiarity, demonstrating efficiency in the way I disremember you in that ring, my butcher block. I’m going to enjoy this. Don’t worry, I’ll know you be coming, swinging with furious fists, trying to fulfill that beloved Cinderella tale. I make you earn your Iron Cross, but you’re not going to walk away with my United States Championship. You’re not going to take my prized reminder, the physical manifestation of the joy I stole from Selena. This is going to be my trophy, a buck with pointed antlers upon my wall, hanging from my waist.
But don’t feel alone, Konrad, you’re not the only one being punished.
I’ll enjoy preying on you, but that’s short-sighted to think that’s my only intention. No, my joy will be multi-faceted, hold depth. I’m going to use this exercise as a means to awaken the tiny bit of human that is left with in Selena’s frozen husk that we call a heart. This public execution will conjure up alien feelings for Regan, leaving her sociopathic world for a whole new reality. Continuation of my dismantling of Selena at Under Attack, the guilt will stain Regan’s soul even darker. No, though you, I’ll make them writhe in sorrow, making them empathize with your disappointment. They won’t be able to sleep at night. Knowing that your good gesture towards them resulted in your tragedy. They’re not going to be able to repay you for the sacrifice you made. And I’m going to make them painfully aware.
Every hit, ever cry, it’s all their fault. This is on them. This is their punishment for not fighting their own battle.
Executioner's Plight 