The yellow letters of the 20 foot sign light up the rectangle of sky over the local waffle spot. It is impossible to ignore the giant shadow of the vehicle parked behind the restaurant. Inside, the door to the back room slams open and a flap of paper sticking out of a plastic case hits the women's bathroom sign, causing it to fall. Brandon Moore steps out, followed by his cousin Thomas Lawrence. Brandon looks pissed as all hell, and Thomas doesn't look happy. Brandon walks over to the high counter and yells at the cook to come over. He grabs him by the collar and looks him dead in his eyes.

You can tell Mike I said fuck you and I quit.

Thomas grabs Brandon and takes him outside, so he can avoid trouble with John Law, the fuckin red clad mounties that patrol this fucked up nation. They walk around to the back of the parking lot and climb up into the giant truck. Brandon jerks the stick into reverse, backing into a large dumpster, tipping it over and spilling it onto the backstore area. He jerks it straight into second forgetting about first.

I'm tired of the bullshit. You think working at the only fucking Waffle House in Canada I would make a decent dollar.

Well maybe if you used all that training you went through for something instead of wasting your time at a fucking Whore House.

What the hell are you talking about. Thomas pulls out his new Ericsson mobile phone, presses the voice call button. The phone responds.

What number would you like to call? On the other side is Mastermind, legion extraordinaire. Mastermind, you are not prone to perfection yourself. Finding a mistake in that oaf's performance will be a piece of cake. But i will be watching for yours as well. I have learned a little in my time here, and one thing that I have learned is that you are not much of a fighter, or a man for that son, without your legion buddies. YOu pick on women, which is a sad, sad, habit. And you eat too damn much. A smart man would know not to have meals that may cause gas before a match. And hey, I am sure Appollyon will have something to say about the sin of gluttony. How about watch that stomach for cramps, Mind, because it is the first place my foot hits when it comes time to Bitch Thump your little ass all around that cage and climb to my victory, you f'ckin choad. Make no mistake about it. I've been watching you since I came here, and you won't have even close to the chance that Arctic had in beating me. I will advance to round two where i hope to meet Arctic and give him that payback. But first I don't mind bouncing the coconuts of two choads together in a barbedwired cage. Its only the beginning of the tournament for me, but for the two of you, the buck stops there.

Having finished with the equipment, Ichabod runs to the edge of the roof and leaps off into the darkness.

Ichabod hangs from the side of the building suspended by two sets of ropes. The first set run his wrists to a pulley system on the roof. The other is connected to the belt on his waist, and keeps him from plummeting to the earth and certain death. Ichabod closes his eyes and breathes in and out. Then he flexes his arms and chest to pull on the ropes at his wrists. As he pulls, the tension lifts the belt rope and Ichabod is raised up the wall about a foot when his fists finally meet in front of him. He lets the ropes go slack again, but his progress up the wall is not stinted. Obviously this contraption is a climbing device. Ichabod breathes and then flexes again. Another foot is gained. Ichabod hangs in silence as the barbed wire match hangs in his mind. He sees his opponents clearly, and then flexes again. Foot by foot he makes his way up the wall. The imagined thought of Arctic Fox waiting for him on the roof, ready for that second round, gives him the will to flex again, and another foot is covered. Sweat pours from his body, and the wet ropes cut his already sliced wrists from the prison inicident. Ichabod flexes again.

At least two hours later, a sweaty hand grabs the edge of the roof, and Ichabod hauls his tired body up. He rolls to his back and watches the stars as he drinks in gulps of air and lets it back out in steam, a tribute to the cold Canadian night.