Ichabod is alone in Steve's facility. He steps hard on a treadmill. A fifteen foot eight by eight beam is lashed to his arms and shoulders. He steps hard and heavy under its weight. Sweat beads cross his forehead. But despite the weight he keeps his head up and looking straight ahead with determination. He picks up his speed and breathes the way he was taught, two in, one out, over and over. Soon he is running with the beam on his shoulders.
Bells and beeps go off all at once. Ichabod looks at the clock. The forty five minutes Steve prescribed was up. Ichabod stops only briefly, then looks at the wall in front of the treadmill. He keeps going...
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The six military style helicopters hover over the forest. Steve laughs as he thinks about the Dark Force somewhere down there, hiding from the world, standing behind their false security of God's redemption and wrath upon their enemies. They remind him of Robin Hood and his merry men, hiding in the woods from the law, pretending to be heroes, when in reality, they were really just criminals.
Prepare for weave formation. Make a ten count from ground eleven and drop it.
The copters spread out to the edges of the forest. They each have one of those black and orange biohazard barrels on the side. The choppers turn and head inward to the center. After ten seconds, the barrels flip, and raw toxic waste is dumped on the forest. The trees turn a strange burnt orange, and a life-like steam rises over the putrescence.
Fire at will.
Chaos takes place for the next few minutes as the aircraft fly in concentric circles firing from the mounted machine guns. Birds fly, wildlife scatters, foliage sprays into the air, and the waste ignites. The blaze in the forest is soon a raging inferno. It is ironic how the Hell that brimstone preaches is now surrounding his shack. But this suits the situation. Brimstone thinks all of his enemies are iniquitous, sinners. Really he is a hypocrite like the Pharisees that God struck down so long ago. Now he would wake up.
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An hour and a half of running on the treadmill has passed. Ichabod is nearly ready to collapse under the immense weight of the beam, but only nearly. Sweat pours from his body in a torrent. After he catches his breath, he takes a seat on a bench and pulls the release strings on the straps. The beam falls noisily to the floor behind him.
Rage, I hope you are ready. I hope you are training your heart out. I hopw you are thinking with all your heart and soul that you are going to win this. Because it is going to make it that much sweeter when I utterly destroy you in my ring on Ruffhouse.
You are probably wondering why I am training so hard if i know i am going to win. Its simple, the harder I train, the more I am going to outdo you. The knowledge that every second I spend in this facility edges me closer and closer to the top makes it all worthwhile. You can bench and lift whatever you want, but this, this is the real shit, man. This is the shit that maks you oblivious to pain, to the feelings of your opponent when he screams out to you and God for mercy.
Speaking of Him, you say you are a believer. Well do this for me. On saturday, I want you to get down on your knees, I want you to spread your arms, and I want you to look up to heaven, and i want you to pray. Pray and beg God to spare you from the pain. Beg him to save you the crippling that i am going to give you. Beg him not to let me end your damn career. Beg hard, my little flunkie, and make it good. I mean tears and grovelling and everything. Be sincere. Because I want you to realize after I beat you senseless that no, God didnt' forsake you, he just forgot about you. In fact he never cared. He laughs at you because he thinks you are a fuckin joke, ya choad. And so do I. and on Sunday, the whole world will laugh with me. You'll see.
He gets up and goest to the thermostat and turns it up from eighty degrees to ninety, then lifts the beam back up to his shoulders. He steps outside and begins to run the outdoor track, stubborn determination on his face.
