Tremble

He strode down the desert embankment. His boots pounded the ground. Dusty ghosts rose. In the next moment, forty thousand other boots stepped into the march. The ground trembled under their tread. The tremor rolled down the slope and beneath the feet of the waiting Phyrexians. In their midst, the way of noise crashed against another wave sent from the army of Agnate. The Phrexians would be caught in a war on two fronts, in the Metathran Pincer. They would writhe in that claw but never escape. They would die.

~J. Robert King

-[ Rain trickles down in a dark back-alley of downtown Detroit. Visibility is low due to the heavy amount of fog surrounding the area as you hear the squeaks of rusty fire escapes that line the alleyway. Footsteps are heard echoing in the background, but the source of them is not seen. Just then, a ladder to one of the fire escapes comes clanking down to the ground as the camera quickly looks to see what caused the commotion. There on the ladder, sits B-Pac. ]-

B-Pac: " You cannot place any particular word on me and expect it to fully describe me, Max. There isn't a particular genre that I belong to... that is what separates me from the whole goth picture. You see, the goths go around wearing themselves... by that I mean, they all dress alike, they all act the same, they all lack a positive direction in life. They write their little poetry, they wear their little mascara, they paint their fingernails... Their mentality is so depressed that they will jump aboard the first ship that makes them feel that it's okay to be "different" so that they can inturn be normal. But in their quest to be different, they all end up the same... thus why their entire being is wasted. But unlike these people, I cannot be classified with one word or by any specific genre... is that understandable? Max, this Monday you will have much more serious things to worry about than opening the pickle jar and the growing price of Tetley's tea. You'll have to contend with with Intercontinental Perfection... without the prize if you win. Either way, you're going to leave this match a loser. Ask anybody... you don't finish a match with me without bearing a lifelong reminder that you faced me in the ring. Losing doesn't matter to me anymore... the only thing I care about now is dishing out as much hate and pain as I have built up during my lifetime; which is plenty enough to spread around the world five times and again. Do not get me wrong, Sir Max, I am not neglecting my beautiful and well-deserved Intercontinental Title... but it doesn't define who I am; I define what it is. It is a reflection of my achievements. As far as I am concerned, this belt has been mine since my conception and will be my possession until the day I decide to pass it on at death. But one thing I do not have to worry about is passing it on to you. Not only because our match is non-title... but because I know that you couldn't stand up to the responsibilities of wearing this esteemed trophy; this crown of sorts. "

-[ B-Pac hops down from the ladder and paces back and forth as a scream is heard from a distance. B-Pac looks down the alley and back at the camera. ]-

B-Pac: " Max, in my book, you are a very respectable and worthy opponent. I do not underestimate your ability as you do mine... and that is why I will be prepared while you will be left wondering what happened. But even with your talent, I despise your very existance. In fact, Max, you disgust me. You critisize the lack of attention I show towards you when YOU are the one running around like a woman in the grocery store arguing over the prices and very oddly hanging around with Michael Miller (whom isn't even a part of this federation). I don't know if it is a friendship thing or you two play with each other's private parts... but calling each other "brother" 250 times in a single paragraph is very annoying and actually quite homosexual. I hope that when you sleep at night, in your king size bed, in your royal mansion... whether it be next to your beloved Miller or with the QUEER... oops, the QUEEN of England, that your dreams frighten you. And believe me, they will. Be assured that your sins will find you out. And when they do, I will be there to collect the interest. But until then, Max, sleep well... and do not worry about the horrible dreams that haunt you... they're only dreams and cannot harm you... or can they? The decision is up to you, Max. If you can withstand the horror of your nightmares, then you are worry-free. BUT if you doubt for one second that your dream was just a dream, then you are in serious trouble. Because that, Max, is when I have done my job; that is when I control your mind... and soon after, you will exist no more. And Max, please try not to soil your pants next time... doing that on live television is just pathetic. "

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