Xander stepped into an illustration of American excess; Shawn’s mansion couldn’t had been more the polar opposite of Xander’s spartan ranch home back in San Diego. Shawn ruled over a delicately decorated expanse, stables, marble and iron, oil paintings wall-to-wall, vases and then glass cases protecting bronze awards. Everything fit like a perfect puzzle, time and thought and money poured into this design. Everything curved, nothing bluntly straight withing eyesight, perhaps some worship to feng shui; maybe Xander would have encountered serenity if it hadn’t been the alien nature of the decadence around him. He had to stop to wonder, all those millions upon millions of dollars Xander had squandered over the year, could he had achieved something remotely palatial as this? And now, reminded how life sucked in a dusty attic apartment over a stench-ridden gym, he kept all his money in a bank account, a squirrel burying his nuts for another long winter of legal ligation, waiting on the moment where Xander fucked up again. Before him, Shawn flashed his movie star dollar bills, no concern towards any pending doom or fall from grace.
They lived two completely different lives. They shared little in common. Shawn lived while Xander survived. Shawn hadn’t had a care in the world, Xander burdened by the shadows of his worries. Shawn soared high, on the currents of affluence, while Xander swam desperately in a sea of despair, not trying to be pulled down by his wickedness’s undertow. But more importantly, Xander recognized, if had had been born with any semblance of stability, mental, physical, emotional, instead of bipolar disorders and schizophrenia, trauma and absence, this comfort could have been his to have. In another world, he would have supported Calli and Connor, wrap them with the silks of luxury, ignorant of fear for the next violent blackout. Their upmost concern would had been what private school to place their very special child in. Xander gagged on the regret he never knew he had.
Four high-raise stools lined up on one side of the kitchen island. The jet-black soapstone counters with their smooth oily touch amused Xander as he ran his hands across the surface while positioning himself onto the leather cushioned perch. Shawn drew two coffee mugs from a cabinet. From a steaming brass contraption, Shawn poured a dark liquid into each mug. Espresso? Xander didn’t know. Shawn didn’t bother to ask the customary, creamer or sugar? Instead, he concocted the brew and placed it before his former enemy, rightfully assuming Xander bore nothing but ignorance about the complexities of real brew. Xander sipped immediately the hot drink, but the earthiness of the drink presented Xander with a pleasant surprise. Immediately too, he perked up. Shawn didn’t even bother to inquiry about Xander’s rare surprised look, instead settled in on the far seat, indulging himself in his own share.
“Lovely home, isn’t it? Must be a far cry from the squalor you’re used to?” Shawn started with a half-twitched grin showing the fox’s pearly white teeth.
“You keep up on me?” Xander countered.
“I’ve heard things. People like to gossip. They also found amusement in your financial ruin.”
“I’m doing better.”
“Are you now?”
“Now I have a nice house, close to the sea down near the border. Nothing much, but I always like to keep things simple. I don’t find much enjoyment in spending money, especially on… excesses,” Xander explained. He turned towards Shawn, dispensing with a glare. The man better not get confused. Xander didn’t find himself entangled in envy, wanting to live in this palace, but instead simply wished he could have the obvious sense of security Winters benefited from. Not to worry.
“No, it’s nothing about being a simple man. You’re not a simple man, Xander. You’re much more complex, complicated as you ever admit to. You don’t believe that you have the right to treat yourself. If there’s one thing I know for certain about you, no matter how much I despised your mere existence, you hated yourself even more. You’re cursed,” Shawn commented, breaking to slurp at his drink before setting it down onto twine coaster. Xander raised a questioning eyebrow towards Shawn’s assessment. Xander dared him to continue, and Shawn pursued that line of thought, “You achieved great things in that ring. There’s a reason why I wanted you to retire me. You earned yourself some comfort, some luxury. Looking back, I wanted you to be the final feather in my cap. The great Xander fucking Valentine.”
“Flattery? That’s not like you.”
“Don’t kid yourself. It’s not flattery. See, I’m able to live life at it’s fullest because I don’t let myself dabble in shame. Xander, I see you hang your head in defeat, even when your arm is raised. You hold yourself up to unachievable standard, always falling short. And I think to my self, what the hell is wrong with this meathead? You had Calli, but you were never satisfied. You were at the top of the wrestling world, but you withered away, not able to handle such success,” Shawn opined. Xander cringed at the assessment, turning back towards his drink, not wanting Shawn to see that his words actually touched him. Reflecting back on what could have been, the future that had once been predicted by fans and experts alike, stirred up a whirlwind of confusion. Guilt, regret, longingness, sorrow.
“What are you, some shrink? You given this a lot of thought,” Xander returned.
“Some. I’ve been asked several times, why I chose you to be my last opponent, and maybe because I simply loathed how you had all this potential and fanfare, and came up so fucking short,” Shawn fired back. Xander’s blood started racing. Breathing heavily, fingernails dug his thighs. He wanted to return that condescending tone with a haymaker. But to assault, a Hollywood star in his mansion in the hills, what a fucking stupid endeavor that would have been.
“Glad we had this talk,” Xander quipped sarcastically as he climbed from his stool, hinting at his departure. “Good coffee. I don’t know about your theories. Seems like you have too much time on your hands since you’ve retired.”
“Is that so?” Shawn shrugged off Xander’s remark, finishing his coffee with an emphasized sigh of solace. Xander started towards the door, but his arm blocked his way. “Enough with the small talk. Haven’t your forgotten the reason why you came here. You’re supposed to convince me, somehow, to go board a plane, fly across the country, to walk straight into Chad’s trap.”
“While I think you’re a complete ass, I never mistook you for an idiot,” Xander immediately response, shoving Winters arm away. He backstepped a few feet, giving Shawn room to swing his legs off and land his Adidas on the mosaic tiled floor. “I did my due diligence. Chad can go fuck himself if it’s not enough. Let him be pepper-sprayed by nieces. Chase by guard dogs.”
“You weren’t going to come kidnap me. Hood me, drive me cross country, hogtied?”
“Now you mistook me for an idiot. Glad, I’m not that stupid or I’d been dead. I bet your entire premise is canvased by security surveillance. And what kind of fool would try to abduct a celebrity from their home? That’s stupid. It’s not like people wouldn’t notice you missing. And with your money, people obviously would care,” Xander laughed. What was with the stupid question? Xander side eyed him, wondering if he saw any nervousness of a return visit. Shawn held his head high, amused by some thought in his head as he strolled past Xander towards a glass wall.
“I think we already know I think you’re stupid.”
“Now you’re just baiting me.”
“I mean I’m left wondering… how the hell did Chad manage to get you in his back pocket? I’m actually curious. This is some intriguing shit, better than daytime television or 60 minutes report. Please man, explain how you ended up running errands for that asshole!” Shawn finally crossed the line, making that dreadful inquiry. Xander retreated immediately, offering up a dismissive grunt, escaping to the glass wall to look out at the property. The sun arose over the white walled perimeter, basking the entire room with it’s blinding morning glory. The outdoors had been painstakingly landscaped, bushes meticulously trimmed, stone gardens precisely oriented. There was even a god damn pond with a gargling brook. Xander didn’t want to get into this with anyone, definitely not with this asshole.
Was he actually embarrassed? Xander Valentine, the Executioner, the Slayer of Modern Day Heroes, flustered, blushing underneath his placid exterior. He might not be showing rosy cheeks, but that heat flash singed this nerve endings, wrought his body with a fever that left him feeling every single sweat drop wanderings the desert cervices of his body. He hadn’t felt such a way since high school. He fumbled about a his only slick condom in the supply closet, dropping it on a filthy. All during this, he failed at undoing the clasp of her bra, he inserted his fingers too violently, and the seven minutes in heaven was ended with her storming out, frustrated at his ineptitude.
“Guess.”
“Too easy. Blackmail.”
“Bingo. Happy now? You want a goddamn toy in your happy meal?”
“Not quite. What could Chad possibly have on you that turned the lone wolf, Xander Valentine into a lapdog, wagging his tail, chasing after tennis balls,” Shawn Winters stepped beside Xander now. In the glint of the window, Xander saw the reflection of his old rival’s sadistic grin. Xander clenched his fists. Shame had left. Nothing more resentment and anger warmed him. “You’re not going to leave me hanging, are you?”
“None of your business. Keep asking, you might shit the bed.”
“You know, I know things. I can probably give you some good advice. I’ll do it just this once, for old time’s sake.”
“I know that you want an excuse to talk down to me. You want to climb up on a high horse, mock me, jaw with me a little bit, and trot away the victor, humored at my expense. No, thank you,” Xander shook his head violently. He couldn’t stand for such humiliation, definitely not by Shawn’s hand. He already had one over Xander, Xander didn’t want anymore. It bad enough being on Chad’s leash. How much more will God make Xander suffer through. He had repented. He tried to be a better man, whether or not he succeed was a different point of contention. Whose fault was it that he was gravely unfit for modern day society? Xander flushed that self-pity out of his mind. He turned back that intoxicating weakness; excuses and finger-pointing did little to absolve him of his problems.
“I’ll guess again. He has something incriminating about Calli’s tragic death. Xander, did you actually murder her? You’re even shittier—,”
Xander didn’t allow him to finish that thought, “I might be many things, but I’m no murderer. I didn’t kill her. I would never. But that’s not to say that I treated her right.”
“You think it’s some grand secret that you’re a wifebeater? Everyone knows, man. Don’t tell me that, that’s what he has dangling over your head, some damning information that would mar your perfect public image. News flash, moron, everyone knows you’re a piece of shit,” Shawn paused to chuckle. He found amusement. Arrogant to insult Xander to his face, perhaps he was getting a little too comfortable. Chad and Shawn, they were two peas in a fucking pod as far as Xander was concerned.
He immediately swung around, leaning forward with all his weight, popping his hips to deliver a hard straight across Shawn’s gloating chin. Shawn hit the floor like a sack of bricks, but that didn’t stop Xander. He climbed over Shawn’s legs, leaned over, yanked on the man’s collar, lifting his head up for a better angle for his punches to crash down upon Shawn’s skill. The wet, sloppy noise of blood splattering against the fucker’s beautiful hardwood floor, he didn’t stop the barrage until Shawn’s head caved in like a smashed pumpkin.
Or at least, that was what Xander fantasized when he turned around to face Shawn. But instead, his fists remained by his sides, and the supposed bad ass managed only a cautionary glare as a warning shot across the bow. Shawn didn’t seem to realize the look’s intent. Or he didn’t care.
“Damn, I’m so good. Xander, Xander! Has the thought never occurred to you, hire a PR rep! You act like you’re the one piece of shit that got rich and famous. There’s a whole lot of bad apples that won the lottery, and they get caught doing fucked up shit to fucked up people. You could have been going to therapy, donating to women’s shelters, becoming a domestic violence advocate; instead, you choose to suck on Chad’s dick? No way,” Shawn shook his hands towards the heavens, as if to ask God if this was truly reality. He snickered, enjoying parting unwanted advice on his former foe. And Xander loved how he made everything seem so simple, so trivial. See, that what people always tended to do when listening to people’s problems. Minimalize them. True, Xander probably could have tried that route, but that wasn’t him. He wasn’t a fraud. He couldn’t act like he was some born again Christian, found God and turned over a new leaf. He wasn’t a good actor. And people, they’d see right through that bullshit.
“Easier said than done. But that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Let’s just say that I was stupid enough to dig my grave deeper. Chad’s a snake. He’s the devil. He tricked me running some errands that if they came to light, I’m finished… his reach is—,” Xander struggled to explain this chaotic mess he got him caught up in. And what was he revealing all of this to Shawn? Confiding in another devil? Smart going. Luckily, Shawn stopped him before he even started about Hunter. Yeah, how would that go over? Yeah, I raped a random woman, he videotaped it, and now I’m supporting her as she recovered from the trauma I inflicted on her poor soul. Yes, that’s a redeemable quality right there.
Shawn’s interjected knocked Xander back to reality, “— It’s all an act, dude! All Chad have is money. That’s it. Friends? Fuck no. His connections? They’re all flimsy, dependent on bribes. No one has loyalty to him. It’s all smoke and mirrors, and you fell for it, hook, line and fucking sinker. You’re allowed him to get into your head, now he controls you. This is just beautiful!”
“Lap it up.”
“I’m impressed though. Look at all this self-control… or is it submission? I thought by now I’ll trigger you, you’ll start throwing punches,” Shawn put a pause on the laughter as he popped his hands on his hips, puffed out his chest triumphantly. Shawn’s eyes appraised Xander, judging him. Xander had started to think Xander’s been defanged, declawed, venom-milked, and if he raised his hand, Xander will whimper backwards, tail beneath his legs. Xander was about to be triggered alright.
“There’s still time for that.”
“To go a few rounds, that’d be a nice change in pace. I wonder if I’m a bit rusty after all these years.”
“Be careful of what you ask for. I’m through this shit. I’m not going to stand here, be made a laughingstock. I’m out. Don’t worry, Shawn, I won’t be back,” Xander decided he better leave before he actually did leave his cool. He didn’t know what Shawn’s end game was, but Xander suspected he risked walking into Shawn’s trap if he stayed. He found solace by checking his shoulder against Shawn’s chest.
Unfortunately, Shawn’s hand reached out, latched onto Xander’s shoulder. Xander tried to shrug off his grip, but Shawn jerked him around, as Xander spun around, he instinctively throwing a hook but Shawn gracefully ducked underneath the punch. He leapt out of range, knowing very well more projectiles could be fired his way. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m coming with.”
“You’re what?”
“This sounds too much fun. I can’t pass out on this.”
“I was wrong. You are an idiot,” Xander turned, ignoring Shawn’s sudden eagerness to play along. He didn’t trust this sudden change in direction from the man. Xander’s head hurt enough, his pride been battered enough, he didn’t have time for any of this man’s cruel tricks.
“All of this control and domination, has gone to Chad’s head. He thought he could fuck with me? No, I’ll be the man doing the fucking. And you’re going to help me out,” Shawn Winters declared. Xander turned, his faced withered questioning with his jaw slightly gaped. Shawn winked. Xander shuddered at the man’s gesture. “It’s going to be in your best interest, man. You’re going to enjoy what I have planned.”
“Why would I help you? I can’t trust you.”
“Because once we’re done humiliating Chad, he’s going to avoid us like the plague. If there’s one thing sums up Chad, he’s the biggest sore loser that has ever existed. He acts like he’s above it, but he’s really a fragile little bitch who only has pettiness to cling onto. And I’m about to expose him. Just you watch, my guy,” Shawn proclaimed. Xander understood immediately that Shawn meant every single word. He didn’t understand though, what could possibly motivate Shawn Winters to go out of his way and accept Chad’s invitation. Didn’t he associate the risks involved on playing against Chad with his home field advantage. It’s one thing to play with fire; sure, you’ll get burned, but nothing that ointment can’t soothe. But he’s playing with a superpower’s nuclear arsenal, and Doctor Strangelove here probably didn’t care about all the bystanders might die of radioactive poisoning. He was right, Shawn was no better than fucking Chad.
“I would love to see it,” Xander expressed his doubt.
“Don’t underestimate me, Xander. You should have learned that a long time ago.”
—————————————-
A driver met Hunter at the Norfolk International Airport. Black suit, black hat, white gloves, all too fancy while holding a poster board with her real named spelt out in not so fancy letters. Hunter cringed the sight of that arrangement of letters, configured in the fashion connived by her mother as a perfect, whimsical sound to represent her. What’s behind a name? Her beautiful bouncing baby girl was dead. Buried in a deep grave. She might occupy the same earthly vessel as her former self, but she was a different person. She had been reborn strong. No longer weak, no longer a victim. Strong. Brave. Even with all those fears dancing about her, ghosts from both the past and future, she found courage to confront those demons. She had enough of being bruised. She had enough pain and suffering. Xander, he would finally see her for what she had become. She no longer was a damsel in distress, a lamb to be carried to safety, she could stand on her own feet now. She could fend for herself. And Chad? He wasn’t going to recognize her for what she has become either. He didn’t wasn’t going to see her for the threat she was to him.
Minus the usual courtesies, the driver didn’t speak much on the car ride. The black sedan rolled out from the dense cityscape of Richmond, out into the Virginia backcountry, and soon they crossed over the North Carolina state line. Hunter wanted to ask about their destination, but as soon as she chirped up, the window closed to blot his view. She fell back into the seat, arms crossed but her gaze found its way out into the beautiful splendor of a green world amidst the later summer heat. She hadn’t seen much nature for some time. She had seen the insides of enough airports, hotel rooms, and arenas, but when was the last time she went for a hike on a mountain trail? When was the last time she went the beach, soaked in the rays and swim in the ocean waters? She only lived a few blocks from the Pacific, but when home, she never left the house, cloistering herself a nun.
After what must have been a while, a haze of natural admiration, the car left the cement county highway onto a gravel back road, cutting right though the middle of a thick forest that blocked the sun. Where there were breaks in the foliage, the sun’s ray swayed with a mesmerizing dance, jeweled piercing on the abdomen of a fiery goddess, seducing Hunter. The child in her wanted to frolic through a field of flowers, before London Bridge is falling down onto an outlaid quilt to enjoy a picnic from a wicker basket. That was the old her speaking. She was supposed to be dead.
The car reached a clearing in the forest, harboring a lone wooden dock that jutted out into the dark sleepy tidewater, a place where the lips of the salty ocean kissed the mouths of freshwater streams. A lone boat waited at the very end. Beside the boat, Hunter spotted a skinny man leaning on one of the dock’s molded pillars. The drive disembarked, tended to the luggage in the trunk, leaving Hunter to step out and stretch out his sore legs, tired of the compact confinement of plane, then car. The driver circled around to her, dropping her carry-on onto her shoulder and the suitcase at her feet. She had to labor up the dock, creaky, chuckling with every step as she approached the man at the end of the dock.
The man stood up. At first glance, she thought he seemed innocent enough. But with a closer look, she noticed the void in his dark eyes, thin eyebrows tilted inwards, a predatory stare which designated her as his prey. Was this finally the end? Had Chad mustered enough the courage to have her killed, silenced because of her insight into his crimes and other biographical details? She knew Chad once ordered Xander to depose of her properly; luckily, Xander wasn’t a murderer. This man on the other hand, she couldn’t tell.
As she approached, he called out her name, her real name again. Chad’s taunting lived through this scarecrow. She corrected him, “My name’s Hunter. And I’m here. In one piece, thankfully.”
“Where’s your boyfriend? Didn’t he travel with you?” The man glanced past Hunter, expectantly. When the sedan crackled back up that gravel road, disappointment flashed across his face. He bit his bottom lip.
“Who?” If he hadn’t called her by her real name, she had wondered if this was one big mistake in identity. She felt stupid for a moment, before coming to realization: “You mean, Xander?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“What’s it to you?” Hunter challenged him. That seemed to snap him out of whatever freakish trance he was locked into. Suddenly, humanity returned into the man’s face. His expression softened. While that only furthered creepiness surrounding him, she found some solace in the fact he was affected by her aggression. “Your boss canceled his ticket last second. Probably aiming spilt us up… for whatever reason. Help me with this?”
“Oh, right,” the man answered in a daze. His eyes flickered, suddenly aware of the luggage. And his neglected duties. He hopped into the boat, balanced himself despite the recoil from the jump. She handed him her bags and he placed them into a waterproof container in the boat’s rear.
“You’re a big fan of his?”
“Who’s?”
“Xander. You seem disappointed that you didn’t get to meet him,” Hunter probed. And like that, the darkness returned to the man. He kept his head low though, trying to conceal himself as if ashamed. But she could tell that danger returned when he mentioned Xander’s name. A hatred brewed within him. This man wanted to hurt Xander. And if he thought Hunter could be used as means, he would. She had to be careful. Damn, she came to realization that if anyone watched this event transpire, they be screaming at her for the stupidity you thought you only saw in horror films.
“Yeah, fan. You might say that,” she heard his lie. And like that, she was alone on open water with this threat. She steeled herself with resolve to fight while she braced herself against the wind. The boat sped out from the black waters, out into the bright blue. The sun welcomed her back. She forced herself to relax at the front of the boat, keeping one eye on the driver and one eye off the bow. She noticed that the man did the same.
What had she gotten herself into? Did she bite off more than she could chew? She discovered then, she missed Xander. He was her shadow. Now in the light, there was no where for her to hide. No, she couldn’t hide. She needed to fight.
—————————————-
Supreme Championship Wrestling, the circus where the curtain never drops. The never-ending show, featuring clowns masquerading under the guise of importance, but everyone can see through their red and white face paint, everyone can see their farce. Humor’s hidden in their obsessions, their vanity, the balancing-act of selfish desires and pandering. We’re living in a time where heroes wither away from their broken promises, never accepting responsibility, never owning up to unfulfilled pledges. They audaciously move the goalposts back. They lower the bar. They cheapen the gold standard they set. But the ones that truly steal the shows are their millions of fans, up high in the rafters, doing mental aerobics to justify their undying love, their adulation of these false heroes, con-artists through and through. Hell, they want to be deceived. They want to believe. They want to be fools. Blissful ignorance. Bread and circuses.
Fuck it, let them grow fat on the bullshit being heaved down their throats.
I don’t care.
See, if there’s one thing that I can say, one thing that is paramount to me as a person, a redeeming quality maybe that I’ve displayed throughout my sixteen-year career, I don’t pander to anyone. I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. You’ve seen the good, the bad, and the ugly from me, unfiltered, uncensored, unapologetic. And I sense the envious pangs my peers experience as they watch me be so free of such chains, such a burden. I’m not controlled by anyone, anything. I don’t let anyone else dictate who I am, who I should be, or what I want. I march to the drum of self-interest, self-preservation, selfishness. Call it what you want, coin it any which way with silver tongued charm, spin your propaganda, but we all know, that I’m the only person on this stage not acting.
I’m a man, I’m grit, I’m the scum. It’s they that label me a monster, cast me in the role of the behemoth, the big bad wolf. They need a dragon to slay. They need a public enemy. Demonize me. It’s all part of your plan, to keep in the good graces of the masses, entertain the simple minded with comic book plotlines, juvenile dynamics to line your pockets and keep yourself positioned in that spotlight glory. Fuck it. Posture all you want. Pose all you want. I don’t bother with either. I don’t posture. I don’t pose. You see what you get. I’m all the only honest man in this company, in this sport, I don’t hide the dirt under my nails, the blood on my hands. Disney princesses are best left animated. Buffy the Vampire is a television relic, a fantasy created from male testosterone, there’s nothing charming about your resting bitch face.
So believe it when I say, that only hell exists in me. The only hell is in my ring. I’m the gatekeeper. No, I’m the devil, the master and the commander. I am hell. Your reckoning.
I take pride knowing that every match, win or lose, I take a piece from my opponent. In the ring, between the tolling bells, I bite a part of my enemies’ soul. Now look deep into Selena’s eyes, she thought she had finally gotten ride of me, escaped my clutches, but she’s wounded. I robbed her of what’s left of her innocence. The light in her eye is gone. She’s a flickering shadow, desperation trying to find that fire again. Burnt out. Snuffed out. Watch her go through the motions, trying to hard to dispel what we all can obviously see. Let her cling onto her sister’s arm, but I’m about to collect the same debt from the cat, who always been domesticated despite her loud roar. A lion, she’s not. A tiger, she’s not. Here kitty, kitty.
I’m a living testament that there are no real heroes left. There is no such thing as hope. They set out to destroy me. One after another, they line up, toy soldiers, a row of dominoes, but one after another they fall. They were supposed to end my reign of terror, turn the guillotine on its creator, off with my head, rolling around to the applause of the mob. But they failed. Again, again, they challenge me, and, in the end, I get the last laugh. I stand, still present, still dominant, still defiant. They take their consolation, citing they still breathe, watch them squirm, fleeing from those bold proclamations of yesterday. We’re going on two years, Regan! Two years since you said you’ll shut me up! SELENA! A year ago, you told me you’ll finish me, you’ll end me, you’ll the day, super girl! But here I am encroaching, the inevitable end, the reaper always harvests what is sowed. Time marches on. I march on.
And watch how they offer up others as sacrifice! Lucas! Konrad! Now Dylan Howell? How many people have to suffer for your debts, ladies? How many more innocence must be put in harm’s way to keep yourself safe! Fight your own battles. Stop hiding behind others. The real monsters are the both of you, generals commanding troops from the back. “
Why am I standing alone? The lone white hunter. And I look around me, and the army of so-called brave souls approach me. They can’t defeat me on their own. Together they’ll unite. But let’s see if they can withstand my wrath. We’ll find out very soon on Wednesday night, shall we? This all set up too perfectly for an ambush. I’m not paranoid. I know Regan, Selena, Konrad, and a host of others aren’t going to stay in the back. They going to take advantage of the chaos. And let them. Let’s see how many it will take to save Dylan Howell? It won’t be enough.
Dylan, have I insulted you? I’ve made this all about the existential crisis that has fallen on Frozen Hell. I’ve left you feeling alone. At the ball without the dance partner, watching on the sidelines, wishing for someone to notice you, to pick you out and offer a hand. But aren’t we all?
You’re part of this. You’ve made yourself part of this. Even though you’re simply another pawn on the board, another empty gesture, for me another page for me to write my blood-soak script, a letter to pen a warning to Regan and Selena. Like Konrad was.
You’re going to avenge him, aren’t you? You’re going to stand up for Regan, aren’t you? You’re going to sock me right in my big mouth, give me a fat lip, hoping that’d be enough to shut me up. Well, I’m only going to hit you back, harder. This time, my back isn’t going to face you. This isn’t going to be wrestling. This isn’t some other match. This is a fight. This is a struggle for survival. This is bloody purgatory. Maybe, Dylan, maybe you are the David to knock down Goliath, maybe you have hidden behind your back that sling, that silver bullet to put down this werewolf, but let’s not forget, you’re stepping into the Tiger’s Den, and this beast wants to play with his meal. Let’s not forget my cruel intentions. I want Selena. I want Regan. I want the whole god damn world feel the punishment I inflict upon you. I want them to cringe with every punch. I want their hearts to drop with every blow. I will use you to make them understand the meaning behind my words. The legitimacy behind my actions. If they’re not crying tears at the match’s finish, begging for mercy to be stowed upon you, asking for a stay on your electric chair execution, then I’ve failed in my goal.
But honestly, what makes you any different than all the other challengers? What makes you special, Dylan? Seek guidance from all those that escaped me, but don’t take solace in their advice. They got lucky. They got spared. They are still living on borrowed time. They can’t give you any wisdom, any insight, because it’s one thing to watch the tape, to hear the accounts, its an entirely different, being on the battlefield, cannons roaring, and I’m hunting you down, bayonet in hand, uniformed Dracula looking to impale you.
But maybe you’ll see my purpose in my vengeance? Maybe you’ll understand.
I want them for once to take responsibility. I want them for once to admit their weakness. I want them for once to accept that there are times, that we all are helpless to the forces in motion. Dylan, through your struggle, they will feel. You’re the perfect canvas for me to paint their dark portraits. Your suffering is a crystal ball into their future. They will know what awaits them. With each passing day, Dylan, you’re going to be reminder of their fate, their pending demise. All great empires collapse with time.
Yes, I know you’re going to try to spoil this homecoming, but my return to Rochester is going to be momentous. Once again, I’m going to show to the entire world, that there is no force in SCW that is more dominant, more demanding, more dreadful, than Xander Valentine.
And you’re simply another causality.
Executioner's Plight 