Epic Number 2

(The scene fades in on a small patch of dense, gray fog. As if sensing a presence, it parts, revealing a pitch-black starless night. A compact row of buildings stands dauntingly before the lens, lying in wait along the cobblestoned street. Slowly, the camera glides down the road, peering into the display windows like a deranged peeping-tom. Some still have lights on inside, but most do not, as it is evidently very late. Dark glass with "Blacksmith" and "Cobbler" scrawled on them pass by, flanked by a lighted one reading "Apothecary". The camera proceeds down the queue until something appears just ahead. It zooms in slightly to find a long wooden bench and a large figure in black hunkered down on it, then moves backward to take in the whole view. The smog which had been steadily creeping in now quickly withdraws, revealing two men sitting on the long ledge. The Crucifier rests to the left, his eyes fixated on the silver cross hanging around his neck, which is gently cradled in his massive hands. Next to the already intimidating power is the enigma himself, perched Indian-style on the piece of wood, hands twined together casually, the ever-present cigarette dangling from his lips.)

"Some things are just inevitable, my friends. Here is living proof, right before your color-blind eyes. The Creator himself has given me a second chance at redemption. He always knows when something has gone away. I won't let him down this time. I CAN'T let him down this time. The Grand Evolution will continue even in the worst case scenario; but I am here to make things work smoothly. The ritual of the machine, if you will. Regardless, there is no time for regrets and lamentations at this point. The Universal Title match approaches rapidly, and if I am to carry out our Father's will, I must focus on more imperative matters at hand."

"I see that I am set to take on Jayzon Williams on this week's Anarchy card. Concordant crossroads? Divine intervention? Flat-out serendipity? It concerns me not. The circumstances surrounding the match are quite different.After disposing of that anathema Wannabe, I realize that I have a much bigger challenge on my golden brick road to nirvana. To be honest, the prizes that are given out really don't pique my interest much, nor does the official designation that goes along with it. No, the true joy in doing what I do is correcting people, however brusquely that may be. So many souls astray, wandering in the breeze, never knowing the light of day when they see it... the staggering amount of them alone is enough to make a lesser man break down. But I take great pride in my work. Every time I plant someone's head full-force into the canvas, the pleasure is not of a sadistic kind, but rather, in the dim hope that the victim will finally awaken and drop his cretinous ways like the bad habit that they are. Woefully, there is still an alarming rate of recidivism among these types. Idiocy is resilient, I guess. Nevertheless, if I can humble only one braggart, shut up only one chatterbox, show only one miserable creature the simple glory of the Euphoria Morning... then my efforts are not in vain, and the Evolution lives on in the hearts of its followers. Things will change for the better. They always do. I don't care if I have to tear my way through every f*cking person on this planet. I am more than willing to give up my own selfish needs for a greater cause."

"I must have done something wrong previously, Jayzone. Do you know what it is? I do. I always do. I attempted to help you. I gave you too much advice, too much information, and you capitalized. This only proves, and I say this with all possible modesty, how sagacious I am. My 'esoteric' factor has always accomplished wonders for me in the past; why did I willingly give it up? I don't know. Ah, such is the folly of human minds. Luckily, the proverbial lightning doesn't strike around these parts. See, Anthony, I'm admittedly a schizo. I'm crazy, daffy, touched, bonkers, demented, unsound, maniacal... whatever you want to call it. There's bats in my belfry and the elevator doesn't go to the top. I'm a few sandwiches short of a picnic, bricks short of a building, fries short of a Happy Meal, however you choose to word it. Don't confuse being insane with being a loose cannon, because that couldn't be farther from the truth. I'm much more cunning and calculating than your random John Doe. That's always been my strength. So here's the query at hand: Who will show up tonight? Will it be Vertigo? Or will it be Twisted Clown, Misfit, Kingfreak, or any other of the numerous personas that surely lurk in my twisted mind? The point I'm making here is that you can study all you want, but you have absolutely no guarantee that that practice will help you in the slightest. While I still hold the same sentiments about your valor, guile, skill, etcetera... I feel I can now scout YOU. You approach everything the same way, Jayzone. You don't play games or fool with trickery. Every ordeal you enter into is in a straightforward, candid, and steadfast mannerism. You don't seem to care whether you win or lose, only that you can do as well as you can and beat the odds. I've always been a good judge of character, but I can read you like a book. Even though you have the heart and spirit of a warrior - not a particularly adept one, but the fact remains - you must be wary of the ramifications. Heroes come and heroes go, but only the faithful remain. I, of all people, should know. Remember, clowns cry, angels fall, and saints sin. No preparations will deal with the fact that you're NOT PERFECT. You expect just to waltz on through every match because you're the "little guy". That's why the fans love you; they see their own white-trash, trailer-park lives in your own being. You're the one that everybody picked on in grade school, and now wants to take his revenge on the big, bad world. Well, you know what? I'm the bully. I'm the one you dreaded during those sweat-drenched, sleepless nights. I'm the wedgies, the swirlies, the wet willies, the out-and-out humiliation of it all. And I'm back in full force, b*tch. How many will perish under my hand before this gets through? *Sigh* It's not easy showing everyone how wrong they are. Don't get caught up in your quaint pseudo-masochist place, as I know you will, or I'll have to bring you right back down to the cold, harsh reality of your pathetic existence. No matter how many advantages you overcome, no matter how many opponents you trample, no matter how you choose to live your short lifetime... your trivial pursuits, excuse the pun, hold no purpose in the 'big picture', the grand scheme of things. You live and die, Jayzon, but I doubt you will truly either live or die. Your only motives are your own. Your only friend is yourself. Your only confidante is the little voice inside your own head. I've had just as hard a life as you. I've trained just as hard as you. I want the same vengeance you do. I have the same determination and perseverance as you... see where I'm going? We are two evenly matched combatants in earthly terms, child, but there is another force on my side. The unexplained push that puts the enlightened over the top and leaves the others to wallow in their own filth. You're stuck in between the two dimensions. I have done all I can to assist you; it is now up to you. If I had my way, I'd leave it up to another minion to teach you a much less harsh lesson. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, I am obliged to show you the Morning's illumination by my lonesome. To paraphrase another wrestler, you either run with the pack, or you're hunted by it. And get this: You're the pariah now, Jayzon. Guess where that leaves you in the pecking order?"

(Finished with his monologue, he grinds his cigarette out in the sandy dirt and flashes a quick, unintelligible hand signal to the Crucifier. His companion gives a small sign of assent, and climbs up off the bench. He does the same, and they both hoist the large piece of wood up. It is only now evident that their seat is not a mere log, but a full-size cross. Our protagonist gives a quiet countdown, and at the end of it, the two heave with all their might and send the cross flying through the window inscribed with "General Store". Glass shatters, seemingly ritardando, and shards of it fall all over the surrounding area. Both men vault through what remains of the pane; they are cut severely by the pieces of crystal still abiding around the edges, but neither of them appear to know or care. Quivering on the dusty floor is the store's clerk, obviously in a state of shock, holding his shaking hands in front of his snooty, bespactacled face as if this will hold off the monstrosities. The Crucifier backhands him across the face, and drags him by the hair over to the waiting cross. His partner stands by, watching, savoring the carnage. The Crucifier reaches into his trenchcoat pocket and extracts a half-dozen nails, putting them between his incisors. Next, of course, is a gargantuan hammer. He grabs the blubbering clerk's arm in a wrenching death-grip and slams it down on the cross' horizontal bar. He sizes a nail up on the quaking wrist, brings the hammer up behind his head, and lets it fly. The camera quickly turns away at the last second to spare our more sensitive viewers. There is a large splatter of blood that stains the lens, and a piercing, horrified scream. The last thing seen is the malicious fiend in black, nodding his demonic approval, a heartless, cruel grin running across his shadowed facade. The scene fades.)



Everybody's guessed
That baby can't be blessed
'Til she finally sees that she's like all the rest.

- Bob Dylan, "Just Like a Woman"