...
~~
Wake up! Are you alive? Will you listen to me?
Oh great, another dream... are you going to talk about some freaky shit now?
Someone is going to die... will you listen to me?
Die?! Who? Why?
Let the living die, for the living die...
What?
Are you breathing now? The wicked are searching even now for you, they see you. You must make them known.
What the hell are you talking about?
You're still breathing.
Look, what is this about? Of course I'm still breathing.
I wonder, why won't you listen to me? They are making you think, feel, see, and do some freaky shit now.
Oh, you mean Necron. Spatter. Those guys. I wonder if Graves knows its Spatter yet. I've been trying to call him for the past two days, but all I get is... "We're sorry, the wireless customer you are trying to reach is..."
Necron is insane. You're going to die.
Is this Necron speaking?
Ichabod wakes up on the warm floor of the forest. He sits up and stretches, seeing all the tall, majestic redwoods around him. The soil beneath him felt like it was breathing, alive, thats where the warmth had come from. The day had leaked a lot of sunshine beneath the leafy caps, and in the twilight, the heat tried in vane to return to the sun through the jungle of branches.
Dammit. I can still hear the voices. Necron, or Spatter, or Brimstone, or whatever it is, still trying to leak through and get to me. Well, I don't want to listen. Necron thinks he can strap me down with his Jedi mind tricks, well thats all right. Darren gave me the match I wanted, and all of his Miss Cleo bullshit won't amount to jack this time. Mr. Black or no Mr. Black, there will be men all around that ring, and anyone who might interfere will be seen and accounted for long before the match begins. And this time I'll be ready. I mistook Necron for a real fighter, one who was as powerful as he says he is, one who could cash the checks his mouth wrote. Damn, I was wrong. Apparantly Necron deposits those checks into the 1st Bank of Twenty Guys on One.
Ichabod stands and walks about through the myriad of greens, browns, and reds. He feels safe here, and he knows it is so. The voices can reach him, sure, but so what? He's beginning to feel like the voices don't even matter anymore. Chairs and Bells may break my face, but Mindgames will never hurt me. If only Necron could figure that out, put aside his game, and just fight, one on one, man to man. If only he could look Ichabod in the eye and really bring himself, and only himself, one hundred percent, then maybe, just maybe, the fight would mean something. But Necron wants a war of numbers. He wants to rip Ichabod apart, but only after Mr. Black has sprayed shit in his face, and Spatter has carved him up, and Brimstone has set him on fire, and there's basically no fight left in him. Thats how Necron wants him, broken, bruised, and bloody before he ever lays hands on him. That way the hard part is over, and Necron can play with his dead thing, just like he always does.
Ichabod had taken special care to see that he'd be alone and undisturbed in this forest. He had handpicked the camera crew, blindfolded them, drove them and their equipment out here, and then pitched deep into the forest before letting them see. Where was it? Only Ichabod knows.
Is he hiding? Hell no. He just knows that Spatter apparantly likes to rile up Necron's foes before a match, and as much as Ichabod would love to lay hands on Spatter if he got within ten miles, he knows he needs to focus. As little distraction as possible. He wants it so no one knows where he is. Not even the men he's with. He sleeps on the forest floor in peace, and he gives the trucks cab and bed to the crew. A generous offer for their silence and obeisance.
Necron, picking up the pieces of whatever failed plan he and the others had had for James, and desperately trying to put those pieces back together in some sensical way. He lives in a dream. He sings the words to a sermon that no one really cares about but him. He watches the stars, lives in the minds of others, wearing some mask he dug up out of God knows where. All this to what effect? Fear? Hardly accomplished with me, my foe. Hardly accomplished. I've seen faces even a mother couldn't love, I've fought those faces, both physically and emotionally. And you? Merely a design gone wrong, and nothing more. You're face doesn't shock me, it is a good countenance for a fool. Do you really believe the things you say, Necron? Honestly, do you see so clearly that you know the grand design of things, and you think they will bend for you? You, amongst all men? Who are you to be so special?
But, if you know so much, then you'll be ready to accept my challenge. Why? Because you'll know already what it entails. You'll know that you can prepare for it. Besides, you're Necron, you're all powerful, you'll rip people's guts out. Have you ever ripped someone's guts out, Necron? I wanna hear this, I want to see if you really know what that's like.
But back to the challenge.
Ichabod wipes the dirt from his arms and legs as he speaks. He looks like a freshly animated corpse from the grave, one who has fed on a soul recently and is nearly complete, and only needs a cleanup. It is the fire behind his eyes, that unnatural fire that he's always trying to explain, but never finds the words. That's what gives him the nearly demonic look, the hellbent determination. The desire to walk once again among the gloriuos living. Ichabod has been nearly a dead figure in the wrestling world up until now, and the loss two weeks ago wasn't the starting point. Sunday is. Ichabod will be resurrected to all those who watch, non believers and faithful alike.
Dispose of your ref, Necron. Somehow you've made it possible for him to be involved in matches that concern me or my loved ones. And each time, he's turned the tide of the fight out of our favor. Can you be so successful without him making the calls? I'm sure you will say yes. That is only the first part of my challenge.
Ichabod smiles.
Let me choose the referee for this match, Necron. It has been seen that with the ref swayed to your own side, and with more than a little outside help, you can beat me. So lets see what you can do with a ref in my corner, and outside help on both sides... do you accept?
Ichabod smirks, and then his face changes. There is a barely perceptible change in atmosphere. He spins around wildly, looking for the intruder, whatever it may be. In a flash of what sounds like great leather wings, the trees part, showing that day has died. The figure descends upon Ichabod in an instant. Ichabod is ready to fight, but the mysterious figure casts a pale white hand up to stop his would be assailant. Ichabod blinks and then his face softens.
Judas...
Long time no see, my friend.
How did you find me?
Judas gives Ichabod an incredulous look, as if he doesn't believe Ichabod doesn't know how. The two of them have had a psychic link since the Forsaken of WoW.
You know why I am here. I've waited patiently for an answer. Will you join me in the NWWO?
I don't know, Judas. You left me hanging in Forsaken. How do I owe you anything?
I'd think you'd know by now that the Powers run their own show and that I'm a pawn in their game. If they move me, I move.
I thought we were done with them.
They are more powerful than I expected. Apparantly you can check out, but you can never leave. I will only be free when they have lost interest in me, and in saving my soul. Enough of this chatter, what is your answer?
Your answer will come. Where do you stand for Sunday?
With you of course. Seneca as well.
And Rammer?
It depends. Do you think he and Deidre can put aside their differences?
I guess we'll leave that up to them to decide... I hope they will decide before the show.
And who else have you got in mind?
Well, if BG ever gets any of my messages, I'm hoping he will back me up in that match. I sent him a voicemail telling him I'm alright and asking him if he'd be a lumberjack. Besides him, Scorpion would be nice for a little added muscle. Jack Frost, I've never seen him in action, but he seems to have his head on straight. Oh, and AC Charisma... that guy has got what it takes. I think he'll take that damn pedophile out this week, how about you?
You mean Dick? I still owe him for Gladiator last year. Son of a bitch. Hey what about that Matt Styles guy?
Hmmm... I haven't seen anything from him what with being out here in the woods, but I'll look into him. Hell, if he's willing to help me, I'll be glad to have him.
Are you going to spend all week out here?
Who's to say? I may be in Portland tomorrow, maybe in Rome, maybe in Brisbane. Who knows. You know how to reach me.
Judas nods. He reaches out to shake Ichabod's hand, and then in an instant is gone. Ichabod stops beneath a tree and leans back against hit. He lights a Po't and puffs on it thoughtfully.
The war of numbers has begun, Necron. Will you win? Will it matter? You wanted all these others involved, so I've brought my guns. Are you ready to fight? Will you now keep the match between us two, finally letting me prove that I am better than you in everyway; or, as I'd love to see, let it spill out and cause all hell to break loose? The choice is yours. Prepare for the end, ya fuckin choad.
Ichabod continues to puff on his cigarette as the shadows overtake him. The shroud of night closes in and one can't be sure if the camera has faded, or if it is just finally too dark to see.
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