Epilogue: WoW (part 2)
So, he pulled a fast one on us. It's not the first time someone has got the drop on me, and it won't be the last time. Like all the others though, he won't get far. Run my little meat puppet, run like the wind. Because you know there is no way to stop me. You had your chance, you made your gamble, and you failed. When I find you, you'll wish you'd died in that explosion. When I get my hands on you, I'll make sure you scream until your voicebox explodes. And then, in your graveled hoarse whisper, you'll beg me to let you die. You'll squirm. You'll grovel at my feet. Whimpering and crying. But I won't stop. Not until you've thrown the door wide open for all time. Then, maybe...just maybe--if you're lucky...I'll let you die. Never forget that I have marked you, Mr. President, because there is no escaping my harvest.
--Necron
Slick bastard. Smart move. But not smart enough. Gonna take more than a little fire to keep me down. Not my time. Not yet. Only way I'm going down is in a hail of gunfire. And even then. Taking with me the ultimate high score. You're next on the list. My knife demands justice. Maybe peel your face off. Add it to the mask. Like all the others. Won't take long to find you. I never forget a face. Or a smell. Hunt's on. You're not getting away. Gonna make you number 54. Just you wait. Leave you smiling. Grinning. Ear to ear. Just like me.
--Spatter
He's played his trump card and it has failed, just as I expected. Man, what a foolish and arrogant little creature. So easy to predict. So easy to exploit. A little favor here. A little favor there. And just like that, they're hooked. But that--that is the old way. I have come to the realization that Temptation is beneath me. Temptation is child's play. It's a beginners tactic. I refuse to lower myself to making offers to those filthy monkeys from this day on. The world has had enough temptation, it's yesterday's news. For I have seen the world--seen throuth the lies and the delusions. I have seen the world. And it is pain. Thrashing, kicking, screaming, writhing, burning, gnashing pain--THAT is the future of this planet; one giant boot stomping down on the human face--forever. Pain gives way to fear. Fear gives way to anger. Anger gives way to hate. And hate gives way to suffering. It's a perfect cycle; and I'm going to unleash on him--the key--all the beauties, all the delicious horrors that only a lifetime of pain can offer. I have such wonderful sights to show him. He will open the door. Even if I have to tear his soul apart in the process.
--The good Reverend
A cold wind whips across the barren stretch of earth. A storm lingers just on the horizon. Thunder rumbles across a bleak unforgiving sky of dark clouds. Rain, ice cold, begins it's downward descent to the fruitless soil below. The opressive conditions outside serve only to mirror the far worse state of affairs inside. This place is not happy. Ever. Maybe it started that way; bad from the very beginning. Maybe it became that way over time; gone rotten from the inside. Either way, we can be sure of what our instincts tell us: this is a bad place. A very bad place. Where are we you ask? Take a look around: the old stone walls, the flith encrusted iron gate, the barren soil, the overwhelming presence of misery--where else could we be? The sign reads Blackfield Asylum.
And our instincts are right; truer now than they ever were before. This is a bad place. A very bad place. It is a place to put people away to forget about them. And that's just what he did. Certainly, the son was the one who put the old man away in the first place. But that wasn't enough, not for the new president of Worldwide Online Wrestling. The old man was dangerous, and with the right lawyer, could've wormed his way out of that state asylum. He knew everything! The pay cuts, the extra "taxes", the shady contract negotiations, the shoddy building materials, the bribed inspectors, the old man knew every one of his money making schemes--and was threatening to expose them to the media if he wasn't given a hefty portion of the profit. How did he know about it all?
It didn't matter what the old man knew, not now anyways. Because he was locked up in Blackfield. And, as long as the right wheels were greased with cold hard cash, the old man was going to stay there till the day he died. Today was supposed to be another payday for the asylum staff, but the check didn't come. Phone calls were made, and the events of the last night of Zill Towers were laid out. Noone had seen WoW President James since that night; he was presumed dead in the explosion, but there was no evidence yet to support or deny that possibility. That revelation had little effect on Gardner though. What mattered to him was the monthly payment. It wasn't there. And, following the logic of their agreement, since the money wasn't right there in his hand, that very moment, there was no more reason to keep the old man locked up. If Mr. President wanted the old man back inside, he was going to have to cut a new deal, and payment was going to be doubled. Mr. Gardner--Reverend to the few inside who were allowed out of their cells to attend his sunday morning service--was ever the shrewd businessman. The old man was just going to suck money out of his pocketbook if he kept him here. But...if he set him loose, he could make a fortune off whatever it was the old man knew.
Afterall, the old man didn't really belong here to begin with. This place was for the rare criminal, the once in a generation homocidal maniac--this place was for the freaks and the monsters too dangerous for the federal prisons. The old man was here only because he knew something. But what could the father of a porn star turned professional wrestler know? What secret did he stumble onto that caused Mr. President to lock him up? Gardner couldn't think of anything, but he knew just the way to get it out of the old man.
He would tell him everything; because confession was good for the soul.
Can you gimme a hallelujah?
We fade in on a dimly lit set. Bare stone walls frame the moderately decorated room. A small spotlight fades on, highlighting a large oak desk, darkly stained and polished to a shine. A small portrait of Jesus walking on the Sea of Galilee hangs on the wall above, an lit oil lamp on either side of the painting. Organ music echoes across the empty set, its haunting melody deepens and somewhere in the distance we can hear the sound of a churchbell ringing. The words "Night Chapel" fade in, occupying the foreground of our attention. The logo fades and the music dies down. A tall figure steps out from the darkness and up into the dim lighting, regarding us, his hands folded together before him. Beneath a full head of long white hair, the man's face seems unrealistically youthful--as if these chipped, vitally masculine features had been assisted, if not created entirely through plastic surgery. He has the look of a man who could sell anything anywhere to anybody. His clothes are as white as his hair; white suit, white shoes, white shirt, and silver buttons and a belt buckle. He removes his dark blue sunglasses, slipping them into his suitpocket, and smiles--long creases split his cheeks.
"Well, well, well. Where would I be without all of you out there? It's a glorious night, isn't it? Yes it is, Amen! Go right ahead and lay your burdens and your worries at the door, because I am Reverend Sunlight Gardner, and you're just in time for Night Chapel! And don't you go a reaching for that remote control just yet--tonight--I have a very special guest; the name is synanamous with success, with fame, with fortune, with entertainment...perverse adult entertainment: Gazinya. Richard "Dirty Dick", star of innumerable pornography home videos, turned professional wrestler, has made headlines across the globe. Tonight, I reveal the crime he comitted, to his own father no less!"
Gardner's face twists in a display of over-acted disgust and outrage. It's the sort of over-melodromatic cheesiness we expect to see on our television screens this late at night. We expect any minute for the man to throw out a sales pitch for some new amazing product, or to tug at our heart strings showing stock footage of starving people in Somolia, or some other distant third world country. We expect him to start asking us, any mintue now, to send our prayers--and our paychecks--to help his ministry in their "campagin against world hunger". But suprisingly, there's no sales pitch, and no scientist pops out from off camera holding his newest amazing invention for the low low price of 3 easy payments of $39.95 (sorry no COD's). Garder walks over to his desk, taking a seat in a shiny black leather chair. He folds his hands together over the desk, his eyes staring into us with their look of sincerity.
"It is a sign of just how sick our world is today, when a man's own flesh and blood, can lock him away and out of their life. The very thought should disturb you too. It's a precednt! And worse is on it's way, we can be sure of that. My guest tonight can tell us all too well just how wicked this generation has become. I came upon this poor man's plight almost by accident. But it was no accident, amen! This was the Lord's hand guiding me, Amen! I found tonights guest locked away in an asylum, his only crime being that he trusted and loved his son too much, much too much, to forsee the dagger that would be stuck in his back! Please welcome to Night Chapel my special guest, Mr. Gazinya himself."
Old Man Gazinya steps out onto the set, dressed in a dusty old overcoat. His aged face grizzled with the beginnings of a grey beard. He looks even older than the last time he was seen on live television. Time in Blackfield Asylum has not been kind to him at all. He looks pratically homeless! Taking a seat on the dull grey chair beside the desk, he looks around a moment before glancing over his host.
"Good evening, Mr. Gazinya, allow me to introduce myself, I am Reverend Gardner. You are here on Night Chapel. According to what I've gathered about you, Mr. Gazinya, you're the father of pornagraphy film star turned professional wrestler, "Slippery" Richard "Dirty Dick" Gazinya--is that correct Mr. Gazinya? What do you have to confess tonight? Night Chapel, you see, is a time for confession--and confession is good for the soul Amen!"
"You're a real bright one aren't you? It's not what I have to confess, it's what must be revealed! For the last few months I have sat in an insane asylum waiting for the right time to not only proove to myself my sanity, but to the world, that Old Man Gazinya is more then meets the eye!..Heh, of course I'm the father of Richard. His impression on the world of proffesional wrestling has not only launched the Gazinya name into superstardom but has also made this old man become what he is today--"
"--Yet this same "Dirty Dick" who you brought into the world later turned against you and had you thrown in an asylum, didn't he? Would you say the fault lies with his manager, one Doctor Evan Williams, or in your own obvious poor parenting skills?"
"Listen here you fool! Don't you EVER interrupt me again! You're just like the rest of your kind...But to answer your questions...YES, he is the same "Dirty Dick" who had me end up in that asylum! Richard knew that I knew something. He knew the old man was a threat in a way. He doesn't know exactly how...he just knows. It's not Dr. Williams or my parenting. It's the blood that runs through our veins. It's the same, and Richard could feel something was wrong. That's why he locked me up in the first place."
"Very well. Would you say it was a mistake getting yourself, and your son involved with Worldwide Online Wrestling Inc.?
Afterall, look at some of the events surrounding your stay with the company, your son is involved in a dangerous car crash, one of his close friends is murdered, his agent steals him away from you, he throws you into an institution, his team dissolves in a flash of anger in front of the whole world, and later he gains a serious neck injury--do you regret ever getting involved with the business?"
"...Is this interview about ME or Richard?? What I have to unveil tonight will shock the entire wrestling world. No matter what happened in the WoW, it won't change the direction in which we are about to head. Worldwide Online Wrestling was just a step in eveloution. Everything happens for a reason...the end of the WoW happened for a reason--corruption. Now I am here to make reason "right". Even you, Mr. Gardner, happened for a reason."
" Now now Mr Gazinya, there's no use getting all flustered about it! It's not my fault you were such a failure at parenting that
your own son, out of selfish greed, turned on you in favor of his manager, locking you up and throwing away the key. If you will but confess the truth Mr. Gazinya--"
"You want the truth Mr. Gardner? Fine...does the year 1950 ring a bell to you? No? Let me help. 1950 is when my life changed forever. I was a young man back in that day, confused and lost. I had no past previous to that time...I didn't belong there--and I never really did. Why? Because of one man: Proffessor Zandor! Yes, the madman of the WoW. Earlier this year at the WoW's "Ring Wars" Proffessor Zandor thought he did the wrestling world a favor when he kidknapped the WoW President Darren Zillaman and took him back--to the year 1950! From there, no one has heard from Darren since....until--TODAY!"
With a display of showmanship, Old Man gazinya hops up from the chair, tossing off the old dusty overcoat to reveal that underneath, he's wearing a green armani suit. President Darren's trademark outfit. With a gleam in his eye, he looks into the camera, his aged face showing a sudden surge of vitality and vigor. Gardner is speechless.
"That's right....I am President Darren!
...A little hard to believe? Sure it is...but let me fill in the blanks. Zandor brought me back to 1950 and left me stranded. I didn't know what to do. What choice did I have but to start over?....So I did: I got myself a job as a gas station attendant. Eventually, I married a beautiful woman and had a wonderful family of boys together. The eldest son, Richard, I encouraged to become a proffesional wrestler. Instead, he wanted to become an actor. He had a few small roles but he shocked the entire family when we realized he became a successful adult film star. After a year of arguing, Richard or "Dick" as his co-workers called him, decided to give wrestling a try while still maintaining his porn career. He landed a few small federation runs and eventually ended up in the WoW--MY CREATION!!--It took a long time, but I knew the day would come again when I would see the WoW flourish. It was up to me to see that it remained successful after Zandor had kidnapped my younger self at the same time resisting the urge to cross paths with my other self."
"So you mean to say you were there, the whole time?"
"Absolutely. I had to sit and watch it all over again. After my younger self was kidnapped, my no-good business partner, and Worldwide Online Vice President--James--took it upon himself to take the WoW in
his direction. And we all know where that ended. It crashed and burned! Where was I the whole time?? In that damn asylum that's where!!"
"So, while your company faltered, you were forced to sit and watch it fall apart from afar?"
"I didn't so much as actually see it fall apart, as much as I just KNEW that it would. But I don't blame my son for one moment. Richard locked me up, because he just knew it seemed right. Call it fate I guess. But the place wasn't really that bad...It was run by the state, and hell, it was almost as nice as my mansion. But I wasn't about to sit around while my partner ran my business to the ground! I got ahold of my lawyers, and we started working to get me out of the nuthouse. But that's probably why I was transfered to that other place...my partner found out; I knew all of his dirty secrets...They locked me up in a small cell. A leaky one at that. The whole place was run down, a real hellhole. No visitors, no phone calls, no mail, no anything. And I know, somehow, he was the one who sent me there. Until today, when you got me out."
"...Astounding!
"Indeed. Now that I'm back and free, I plan on dipping into my emergency bank accounts to begun construction of a NEW and more powerful wrestling organization than the WoW...an orgaization that will revolutionize the wrestling world just like the WoW did in it's day!"
"Well, we're out of time it seems Mr. Zillaman...err...Mr. Gazinya, I do thank you for coming. Any final words you'd like to add?"
"Yes, I invite all comers to participate, especially my own flesh and blood, Dick Gazinya!!"
AFTER NIGHT CHAPEL
Darren Gazinya slowly makes his way out from the small studio, he feels years younger after getting his story out to the public at last, and this surge of adrenaline has scattered his thoughts in every direction. He has alot of work ahead of him before his vision becomes a reality. But he's not in the least bit worried about the details--and why should he? Afterall, he built an empire up from nothing once, and hell he can damn well do it again. And this time, he'll make damn sure noone else ever gets their greasy filthy hands on what is, was, and always will be His. No more seconds in command for his vision, not after that bastard James brought his whole company down in flames and stuck him with the bill. He still couldn't get over the incredible shock as he looked upon the smouldering reamains of Zill Towers on the television off-stage. What the hell had happened there anyways? Whatever went down, he was sure James had something to do with it. As he made his way out into the barren stretch of old concrete that served as Balckfield Asylum's parkinglot, his mind countinued slaving away, trying to find an explination for everything, when he was brought out of his speeding train of thoughts.
"So, they finally let you out did they, old man? Enjoy your stay?"
The voice was unmistakeable. It could easily be the voice of Hell's twisted choirs, it could easily be the hiss of a deadly serpent, it could easily be the very embodiment of death in all it's grim graneure. A flash of flame in the dark parkinglot reveals a face, one all too familiar to us. Twin pairs of glassy eyes stare out into the world from beneath a dusty old black hat and long stringy black hair (it probably hasn't been washed in years, if ever); they are absent of all compassion. Any trace of humanity they once held was snuffed out. Necron takes a long drag on his cigarette, his hideous pale face contorted, twisted, mutliated into a perverse smile. Darren never did much care for the man...truth be told he gave him the creeps. What the Hell was he doing out here? More importantly, what did he want?
"...Not particularly, no."
Necron's perverse smile widened and he blew a trail of smoke up into the cold bleak air, his eyes ever locked on Darren; a predator keeping close eye on it's prey. He laughed for a moment or two, and the sound wasn't very comforting. He licked his lips a moment, glancing back towards the looming structure, then back to Darren again.
"A shame. The food wasn't half bad...if you could catch it. Ah, but in your state, I doubt you were much good at catching rats , were you: Darren?...My, how the mighty have fallen. Time has taken a heavy toll on you. I expected as much. You almost had me fooled for a while, certainly, you had the rest of the world blinded, but I knew there was something about you, that seemed...familiar. Your scent. It reeks of money. More money than you ever knew what to do with. Certainly, it took me a while to place just where I'd smelled that one before...but the revelation hit me just a few days ago."
"...Good for you. How about you skip this small talk and get to the point!"
"Business? You want to talk business already?...I can smell the sweat dripping down your skin. What's the matter dear old Darren...not happy to see me again?"
"...You keep your distance from me you twisted freak. I may not be young enough to kick your ass, but I think this more than makes up for it."
Darren slides open his green armani suit to reveal a handgun resting snugly on one of his inside pockets. Necron glances at it a moment, smirks, and takes another drag on his cigarette.
"Fine. You're obviously not in the mood for chit chat, so I suppose we'll skip any further babble and get directly to business. You and I both know James ruined your company. Left Zill Towers smouldering and ruined. Killed everything you built up. He cut every corner possible, everywhere and anywhere he could, he skimmed money off the top. And what you certainly must know by now, is that he was the one to send you here, he was the one who locked you up in Blackfield. You knew too much. An ironic fate for you, really. From riches to rags. From a mansion, to a rotting cell. And that massive act of ultimate betrayal, that surely must have given birth to a thirst for revenge...do tell me if I'm wrong on this one, but I know you too well."
"...Alright. So I want to see that son of a bitch pay for pulling off the ultimate screw job on me...what of it?"
"Ah, now we get to the real business. James didn't just screw you over, oh no. You weren't the only one. He did the same to everyone. But his greatest mistake was in trying to cheat myself, and the others.. For that mistake, he must pay...dearly."
"Others?"
"Come come now Darren, certainly you haven't forgotten the good Reverend, and certainly you couldn't possibly have forgotten my associate, Spatter--"
"--Ah, so he screwed you freaks over, did he? What, did he not give you a small animal to sacrafice every week, heh?"
"HOLD YOUR TOUNGE YOU WITHERED OLD BASTARD!"
In a frightening display of rage, the monster clad in black lunges at Darren in an instant. A heartbeat later, he's being held up some 7 feet into the air, Necron's pale hand squeezing his neck, threatening to snap it like a twig. The monster glares up at the old man, his cold dead eyes gleaming with anger. He could kill him right here--it would be all too easy--but that wouldn't serve the good Reverend's design. this display then, is merely to make a point; a way to make sure Darren remembers this message.
"Now you listen up, and you listen up well. Because I'm only going to say this once. And if you're the smart man I know you can be, Darren, you'll make certain to see to it that I get what I want. He got the better of us last time, or rather, he tried anyways. He wanted everyone to think he went up in that explosion that destroyed your tower, but that...well, that's a lie. One he planned out in minute detail. He knew we were coming for him. He stalled us until the very end. Tried to buy us off. And when all of his other plans had failed, he tried to destroy us, just like he tried to destroy you. He has something we want. Something more valuable than your lives' works combined. More valuable than gold. More valuable than your eternal soul. And he knows he has it. We want it. And we want it now. He knows there is no escapeing us. He can't hide forever. Now that I've seen to it that you've gotten your secret out to the public, he'll come to you for protection. The good Reverend has already forseen it. Now this...this is the important part Darren; you had better burn it into your memory. You'd better carve it into your own skin. Because if I find out that you've had contact with him, and havent told me about it, you will suffer a fate even worse than his. When he comes to you, begging for help--ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME DARREN!?...Or are you reaching for that stupid little gun of yours?"
Necron tightens his grip around Darren's throat, and the founder of Worldwide Online Wrestling gasps desperately for air, though still fumbling inside his armani suit, trying in vain to free his gun. The monster reaches into the suit, rips the gun free, and flings it off into the distance. Darren stops struggling, knowing now that there's no point. This freak is serious.
"Now then...when he comes begging at your doorstep for sanctuary, you go right ahead and let him in. You go right ahead and send him somewhere safe. And then, Mr, President, you call up my dear old friend, Mr. Gardner, and you tell him everything. Spare no detail. No matter how small, no matter how insignificant you think it may be. Because lest you forget, you've got alot riding on this. And don't even think about trying to call the copppicemen, or the FBI, or the Fox Protection Agency. They've got better things to do than get slaughtered. And the good Reverend has eyes everywhere, watching, waiting. If you two try anything, we'll find out, one way or another. And even if we don't. You won't stop us. We will track you down. NOONE ESCAPES THE GRIM HARVEST--Ever."
With that siad, the monster released his choking hold, allowing Darren Gazinya to drop to the ground in a heap, coughing and gasping for breath. Necron's face again twisted into his sneering smile. He stepped back into the darkness, taking one last drag on his cigarette. As Darren struggled to his feet, he caught one last glimpse of the monster. Necron half smirked, half glared at him, before turning and walking away into the night. A shiny stretch limo gently glided into the parkinglot, pulling right up by Darren. With an irritated look on his face, he dusts off his armani suit and climbs in. As the limo glides out of the parking lot, somewhere behind them, a batterd old hearse awakens to life with a terrible roar. It speeds right past them, dissappearing onto the bleak stretch of deserted highway, leading off to another bad place....a place even worse than this one. But that, that's certainly not the sort of trip we want to follow. The limo turns, headed the other way, dissapearing into the night.
It's destination is unknown to us, but we an be sure of one thing, wherever it's headed, it can't be any worse than here.
To be continued
