[He stalked through the grocer's like a beast on the prowl. He'd spent all day thinking about it. He worried all day, asking himself the same questions over and over.]

"What were they thinking? Pre-show. Summary footage. What's the point?"

[Now he wanders through the pharmacy, in search of his elixer. Not a big bottle. He would merely fall asleep. Just a few ounces would do. He gazes hurriedly through the cough remedies in search of the cure. Finally finding the box he needs, the beast makes his way toward the check out lines. He leaves a five dollar bill in front of the cashier and walks out the door. He stops outside, ripping open the box and throwing it in a nearby trashcan. He has no time to fiddle with the child-proof cap, and uses his brute force to open the bottle. He immediately puts the elixer to his lips, chugging greedily. His questions would be answered in just a short time.]

[Static fills your television screen. You might take the time to flip the channel, assuming that the cable company isn't doing it's job. But you might not. Maybe you take the time to consider why you waste your life sitting in front of a magic box showing you pictures of heros, villains, and other people that actually leave their homes to make a difference. Then again, maybe you don't.]

[The static lasts only a short time, hardly even giving you the chance to humor a thought before the specks of black, white, and gray freeze still. A form begins to take shape, appearing in a computer-generated third dimension. The form is the outline of a man. The lack of definition leaves us confused at first, but the form becomes sharper by every fraction of a second. It becomes clear to see that the man has his back turned toward the camera, his upper body totally slack and his head dangling between his shoulders as if the muscles in his neck had been replaced with Jell-O.]

[The static suddenly shatters, as if made of glass. As the shards burst free and fall off the screen like snow, a more lively scene is revealed in full color. The man remains in the same position he was in before, head hanging, facing a black backdrop. He twitches slightly, and breathes softly. Perhaps he is asleep. Probably not. He lifts his head, causing the light to glimmer off of his greasy blonde locks, and speaks.]

"Overdrive. OWC's flagship event. A spectacle to behold. Surely, all of the 'big' names are on the card. The arena will be packed, the region glued to television sets. All of the puppets at home, watching the song and dance. Drooling with mind-numbing anticipation, just waiting for the next 'big' name to come out and accept their worship. 'Big' names like Curt Olsen. Alex Blade. Eddie Shaw. Cheshire. Rick Plant. Static Syndrome. Kestrel Falcos. London Freemantle. Each one, a 'big' name in their own right. Everybody wants to the see the big guys. The big names. The big guys with the big names."

[The man turns and looks over his shoulder, adding emphasis to his following words.]

"And I'm sure you already know... You don't get much bigger than me."

[Even though his stringy hair gets in the way, it's plain to see that the man is Victor Payne. Holocaust. One man war machine. As if the voice, the massive frame, or the name written on the VHS hadn't already given it away. His head rolls back off his shoulder, leaving him staring at the ground.]

"Unfortunately, the OWC's office must not realize this. Unfortunately, the powers that be have chosen to put me in a pre-show match-up to be shown in summary format. Unfortunately, I must be in the same league as a worthless never-will-be. How... Unfortunate. Not only for me. For everyone. No. I haven't been sitting in here brooding and pouting about the fact that I have to start off on the bottom rung all over again. No. If you want an example of someone whose sole motivation in life is to feed his over-developed ego, then I suggest you look at my 'business associate'. No. Unlike he, I've been plagued with morals. A consience. A heart. I don't pity myself. I pity the OWC itself, for mistaking me as a has-been. I pity the fans, for they may only see half of the slaughter... If they're lucky. But most of all, I pity Filth."

[Victor chuckles to himself. God only knows what 'happy' thoughts dance around inside his head.]

"Hero. Isn't that what you called yourself? Weren't you ranting on about some deep, nonsensical meaning that films had in your life? Heroes, you said."

[He spits.]

"Heroes make me sick. Heroes are nothing more than fools. Tricking themselves into believing they can make a difference. Thinking they're better. Different than the pitiful masses. Cut from a richer cloth. What you don't understand, 'hero', is that they're all the same. Here are idiots, rushing into battle only to die and be forgotten. Fools, believing their superiors will remember them for what brave little soldiers they were. Imbiciles, thinking the world will remember them as more than the pools of blood staining her fields."

[He pauses.]

"You really are blind, aren't you?"

[Victor chuckles again, his leather-clad body shaking with the effort. Victor turns both himself and the stool he's been leaning towards the camera. He looks like shit, comparable to the recently resurrected undead, or just an obsessed man that hasn't slept for days. His pale blue eyes are blood shot. Strands of dirty, dark blonde hair either stay slick against his scalp or dangle in ropes in front of his face. His visage is pale and saggy, making Victor look twice his age. As a fourteen year old attempting to buy alcohol, his current state would be an advantage. A long leather coat, dirty and worn through in several places, hangs open on his large frame. Glistening ridges of muscle stand out shamelessly, hidden just a bit by patches of dark hair. A rock-hard abdemon convulses, accompanied by a burst of hearty laughter.]

"But far be it from me to crush your dreams, you dirty underling. You shall receive a fitting hero's end. And just like every stupid, dead hero before you, you will quickly be forgotten. Your name won't adorn any monumental walls. You won't even receive a ten bell salute at the next Unchained. Nobody will care enough to send your next of kin a letter of regret, let alone a gift. No. Nothing like that. All that will be left of you is the blood stain you leave on the mat after I break you in half. Your blaze of glory will be the gore erupting from your midsection, your body broken across my right knee."

"It will truly be a hero's fate. A pity you won't be able to witness a second."

"I know. I'm sure you're so proud of yourself. I'm sure you don't want anyone's pity. But I assure you. I don't pity for a second the hardships you've had to face in life. I pity you because when you're feeling around in your dark world, with your dark thoughts, and your black fingernails and black licorice, you won't be able to see the wall of bone and flesh standing in your path. I pity the fact that, as you scramble to climb this inpregnable wall, you will be unable to behold the light burning atop it."

[Victor leans forward a little more. A fire burns in his bloodshot eyes, and venom drips from his tongue.]

"A searing pain shoots through my very soul, knowing that you are denied the beauty which will be your mass of mangled limbs. I regret that you will not come to the realization that the light atop this wall is none other than the fires of Hell. I am genuinely, deeply sorry that you, Filth, will not have a chance to meet the gaze of the Devil himself, just seconds before he bites your fucking head off and spits it out."

[Pain. The Iron Man. The beast laughs once more, roaring like a lion.]

"But you can take solice, my friend, in the fact that you are merely the first lamb to be led senselessly to the slaughter. You, Filth, will be the sacrifice that begins the Holocaust anew. And those who follow are just as blind as you are."

[Fin.]