6.30.02 Spartanburg county lies dormant on this Sunday morning. Everyone is in church, worshipfully quoting or reading scripture, singing hymns, asking God for his grace. All is quiet, and traffic won't begin choking the streets for at least another hour. Ichabod wanders around the parking lot of the Correctional Center. He comes upon the gate of the recreational area and slips inside, product of some careless guard leaving it unlocked. No matter, of course, the door to the inner sanctum was secure, and no inmates gathered within the fenced confines of this place. The guards would check every door before time for recreation, and the fence would be locked before anyone came out. But not before Ichabod came in. As he wanders around he comes upon a large square in the fence that looks much different, newer somehow, than the rest. He runs his hand along the welded joints where this new section had been attatched. Ichabod new the reason for this repair, it had been over a year since he'd hung crucified from the section that used to be here, while inmates beat him half to death before Steve tore the fence free with the Monster, dragging Ichabod down the highway at top speed. A year... a year has passed since that time. I pushed myself far beyond the limitations of any normal man, far beyond what I should have. And for what? Glory? Bragging rights? Who knows... but when it was all said and done, I won. No, I was not King Karnage, I was only one pinfall short of that barbedwire crown. But I won, nonetheless. I secured my spot in WoW history. No one will ever forget that battle, or how both men walked away wearing some crown, some sort of gold, be it a material crown sitting atop his head, or a new disposition, knowing there were no losers in this battle. But that was that match, and this is another. Men had to fall for Ichabod and Ti Konflict to rise to glory. Rounds one and two of the competition were nothing but hell, a disorganized blur, naught but the knives of brutality cold cut through it. This is round one Jecht. Last year I put Toxin and Mastermind in their places... you remember them don't you? You don't? You will... But you see, back then, round one, I faced two men who I studied very very well. And I beat them. This time, I face two men of sorts, the man I knew, and the man you are now. The only thing is that this time I know who I face while you don't even know who you are.I know, and take it from me, you are a bitch. You make me sick man. You are a huge joke. Oh I have this mask and I can't remember who I am or why I am here... You dumb ass, take off your friggin mask and look in a damn mirror. I've made it easy for you. I've given you magazines with faces in them, faces you should recognize. How hard is it to look in a damn mirror? Thumbing through those magazines, you should feel like you are looking in a mirror. But if you want to carry on this masquerade of pretending that you are helpless against your amnesia, so be it. I've longed to stomp your ass in the ring long before you donned a mask and started whining about your lost memory. I've studied you both when you were... him, and while you are this, a ragged piece of shit pretending to be something, some form of your past self, I'll take out that aggression. I know you better than you know yourself, and I'm more than ready to lay this beating down for you. For two long years I've had to deal with the fact that I was never given the chance to put you in your place. Now all of that is over, Jecht. Strap match from hell. Four exploding turnbuckles. Sound's right up my alley. One way or another, you will find out who you are, because if four impact explosives can't rip that silly mask off your face, I'll beat the knowledge into you. I'm tired of you, and all the bragging you used to do has finally come full circle. Its too bad I won't see the look on your face when I pin you, but before its all over, I'll see that blood dripping from your unmasked vissage. And thats enough. The years of our unspoken rivalry will finally end now, and you are not even close to being ready for it. Why? Because the pent up aggression I have toward you... and you... has more meaning than you can grasp. Your former self would have been ready, but you don't even know your former self. When you lost him, you lost whatever knowledge of me, or readiness you had for me, and its all gone now. Now its only me, my knowledge of your old ring tactics combined with your new, and you, a lost little puppy. Ichabod has not noticed that a guard has come out. He turns now to face him, as the guard leans foward from the waist, scruffy chin jutting, and although the stench of the man--sweat and thick cheap cologne--is near overpowering, Ichabod does not give ground. There are no bars between them; the Guard, who's nameplate says Beson, has yet to fear anyone, and certainly feels no fear of this cocky redneck. Beson is fifty, short, broad of shoulder, deep in the gut. Beson balls his fist and shakes it under Ichy's nose. His right hand slides into a pocket and closes around the smooth cylinder of a roll of quarters. One hard smash with that loaded fist would break a man's jaw... Beson had done it before. What the hell do you think you are doing here? This is state property, you are under arrest. With his free hand, Beson goes for his handcuffs. You are in danger of making an extremely bad mistake. What did you say? You heard me, you fuckin choad, and next time you speak to me, use some respect. You don't know who you are dealing with. For a moment, Beson can't reply. His mouth stands gaping, opening and closing like a fish... although any fisherman who caught something as ugly as Beson would probably throw it back. Beson's mouth finally closes and then splits into a smile, revealing some very ugly crooked teeth. Now about to attack, he moves with grace, and his hand comes out of the pocket wrapped around the roll of quarters. Ichabod takes a step backward, his eyes moving from the fisted hands to Beson's face and then back. Beson moves foward in a rush and swings the weighted fist. He grins... Ichabod's screams as he falls to the ground with a smashed and squirting nose clutched in his hands would be shrill and babyish. Ichabod moves back easily, his feet moving like he's dancing. He seizes Beson's fist and is not surprised by the feel of it... he had seen the brown paper of the roll. Ichabod pulls with a good strength, spinning Beson through the air and letting him hit the inside of a post holding up the fence, clattering the ugly teeth in his mouth. Stars explode in his head. The roll of quarters roll from his fist and across the ground. Before Beson can even begin to recover, Ichabod springs after it and seizes it. Bellowing with rage, Beson comes off the ground, shaking his head to clear it, and charges Ichabod, who has folded the roll of metal into his own right hand. Now that Ichy has gotten that away from him, Beson has no interest in free for all fist swinging that he considers boxing. He comes with his arms outstretched, meaning to close with Ichabod, grapple with him, drive him to the ground, land on top of him, and then choke him unconscious. But the spot where Ichy stood has been emptied with magical suddenness as he steps aside and drops into a crouch. As the fat guard flies past trying to turn, Ichabod nails him three times with the quartered fist. Each punch is driven from the shoulder, economical punches, and Beson feels like he's been kicked three times in rapid succession by a small pony with big hoofs. There is a flare of agony across the left side of his face as his cheekbone breaks. To Beson, it sounds like a small branch has snapped inside his face. He is driven to the fence again. He hits it like a rag doll and bounces back buckle-kneed. He stares at Ichabod with eyes begging for mercy. But almost in a blink, Beson flings himself at Ichabod again with a roar. This time, Ichy doesn't expect it and the guard has his keys in his hand. Be draws a bloody line down Ichabods left cheek as he flails by. The cut zigzags from temple to jaw, missing Ichy's eye by a half inch. His cheek falls open in a flap, and he knows there will be yet another permanent scar to add to his face. Ichabod loses it. All the things he's been thinking about Jecht, and Jechts true identity seem to slam together in his head, and he is angry enough to kill the guard, or at least teach him a lesson he will never, never forget. As Beson turns he is rocked by lefts and rights, jabs and hooks, kicks and punches, head butts, elbows, shoulders, a flying frenzy of attacks from various parts of Ichabod's bodily weapons. The loaded fist is like a torpedo. Beson roars with pain and tries once more to close with Ichy--a mistake as he feels his nose crunch and break in a bloody sickening sound. The blood floods over his mouth and chin, and drips onto his uniform as a bright flare of pain begins to overtake him...but the flare is replaced by a new one when Ichabod's right hand smashes his lips back. Beson spits a tooth onto the ground and tries to circle away. He has forgotten his earlier anger... not from the pain not from the punches. The thing that has made him forget is the look in Ichabod's eyes, and almost blind fury, as if it wasn't Beson he sees. Now Beson realizes his anger is replaced by a blind desire to survive. Ichabod drives Beson once more to the fence and measures the distance to his chin, bringing the loaded fist back behind him. Beson's eyes go wide... and Ichabod begins to drop his arm. Just as Beson breathes a sigh of relief, Ichabod connects the punch, shattering his chin and causing him to suck blood and tooth fragments in with that gasp. Ichabod lets him crumple before turning and walking out of the recreational area. All hell has broken loose JECHT! I can't wait until Malice. Show yourself. I'm right here in Spartanburg County. Why don't you fly down here and meet up with me? Lets finish this right here and right now, how about it? Come on! Ichabod tosses the quarters with all of his strength, shattering the passenger window of some police cruiser, and breaking the roll. Glass and silver litters the ground and the seat as an alarm goes off. Ichabod jumps up into the waiting monster and roars out of the parking lot, into the city which will soon fill with traffic so thick that no pigs will be able to follow.