MC76 - Mushroom'd

Crystal Falls, Michigan

Stepping through endless, dense trees, Montague’s coat catches slightly on the underbrush as he moves with purpose. It being early September, the air is crisp, carrying the damp scent of earth and decaying leaves. There’s a constant cycle of life and death here on the forest floor.

The fleeting lives of trees and woodland creatures do not hold his thoughts at the moment, however, for he is focused on finding something far more ancient, something enduring, which holds dominion over that very cycle here in this wilderness.

As a clearing opens before him, Monty knows he’s reached the home of the wood’s most enigmatic resident. As his gaze sweeps around the clearing, he knows that observing the organism as a whole is impossible. This isn’t something so mundane as a flower or interesting shrubbery that can be appreciated and admired at a glance. This being lives below the surface, much like the Doctor-Professor himself, ruling over an empire of mycelium that stretches for miles, navigating through the soil, wrapping around roots, consuming and creating, consuming and creating, never abandoning the dance of life and death…

The Showman takes a knee, running velvet-gloved fingers over the surface of the mossy floor.

Montague: The Humungus Fungus. One hundred, fifty thousand square meters of mushroom growth, one single, thriving organism that weighs some four hundred tons. It’s not only the largest living thing on earth, it’s perhaps the oldest. When the glaciers retreated and formed the first two great lakes–Lake Algonquin and Lake Duluth–Humungus was there. When Siberian nomads crossed the Bering Strait and began to hunt and fish the Michigan basin, Humungus was there. Humungus outlived the Three Fires nations when French trappers came to stamp them out. Humungus has seen race riots, gangs, the creation and fall of the automobile industry, and the erection of the Mackinac Bridge. When Michigan celebrates its two hundredth birthday in 2037, it will be roughly one percent the age of Humungus.

Monty sighs as he’s overwhelmed by the impressive creature, the fungus sparking something profound within him. Absently, he has begun tracing branching lines with his index finger, as if imagining the invisible web of mycelium below.

Montague: It’s fascinating, isn’t it? This colossal entity, hiding in plain sight, exists just beneath the surface where no one thinks to look. It takes what it needs and keeps growing, keeps expanding, a silent conqueror of the underground.

The Mothman’s eyes gleam.

Montague: This is what we are building. A network, vast and unseen, connecting our people across the globe. Our roots spread wide and deep, feeding on the rot of a decaying society, growing stronger with every day. Like Humungus, we are patient, thriving in shadows and biding our time. We are not a cult; we are an organism, a living entity grown from the spores of the forgotten, the overlooked, the ignored. And just like this ancient fungus, we will continue to expand, to spread, until we’ve woven ourselves into the very fabric of the world.

Monty rises as an example, pulling his cloak around himself as the chill of a September sunset fills his lungs.

Montague: Much like the Armillaria, our kind has thrived in secret for millennia, our tendrils stretching ever further, an unstoppable, unseen force beneath the surface. We form the bedrock of everything you stand on, and with a mere whisper of intent, we can erode that foundation until, one by one, you fall like the towering trees of this forest, decaying to nourish us, dying to become part of us. Look around and see who’s ready to fall… it’s impossible to predict.

Taking one last adoring look, Montague begins to trek back through the forest. He’s almost intoxicated by the silent power of the ancient organism he witnessed today. Like Humungus, Monty’s creation will endure, spreading through the forgotten corners of the world, growing ever stronger in the dark. He lingers once he finds the path, his thoughts turning to the next phase of his grand design: recruitment.

Like Humungus, so too will he continue to seek new sources of sustenance, drawing in new members, new lifeblood, and new fuel for its growth.

Montague: Recruitment is the key to our survival and expansion. Humungus seeks out the vulnerable, plants already rotten at their roots, on the verge of collapse. It wraps itself around them, accepting their diseased bodies into the collective, giving them new purpose in their sacrifice. Each trunk absorbed allows the network to reach ever further, ever onward.

A sly smirk cracks the serious expression he was wearing.

Montague: I am seeking those who are lost, disillusioned, and disenchanted with the world above. If you’ve been cast aside, forgotten, we’ll take you in. We’ll make you part of something greater, give you a purpose. It starts with whispers; a rumor here, a hint there. A note left in an old book, a symbol etched into a wall, a conversation meant to be overheard. The curious, the restless, you’ll find us. No need to force or coerce, we’re happy to let you come to us, to allow you the sensation of discovering something forbidden and powerful…

He raises his fist to punctuate his point, then relaxes and shrugs.

Montague: We don’t need millions. We need the right people—the ones willing to sacrifice, to understand, and to pursue the vision. Those who will guard the secret and nurture the organism as it grows. Join us, and become part of the unstoppable force, the one no one ever sees coming, the one no one can contain.

With a tip of his hat and a wink, Montague turns and begins to make his way back through the woods, his mind already planning the next steps in his recruitment strategy.

A rustic diner creates a warm ambiance around Cervantes as he reclines in an overstuffed chair in front of an irregularly-shaped coffee table. The atmosphere is enriched by exposed wooden beams, dim, amber lighting, and faint, proto-punk rock being played in the kitchen. On the table before him, the wild mushroom soup wafts a rich scent that titillates his nostrils. Before digging in, he sips from a mushroom-infused whiskey, wincing a bit at the earthy flavor.

As he goes for a second sip, a young waiter approaches his table. When the youth looks up from refilling Monty’s sweating water glass, a flicker of recognition lights up his face. The Showman clocks it, and takes the moment to get a good look at him. He’s a lean and earnest-looking teenager with a hint of something deeper–older–behind his eyes.

Waiter: Excuse me, sir, but aren’t you Montague Cervantes? The UGWC wrestler? You’ve got a big one coming up against Sean Parker for the Conquest Championship, right?

Montague smiles warmly and nods, gesturing for the waiter to sit.

Montague: And you are?

Waiter: Ryan!

His jaw snaps closed, realizing how excited and nervous he’s letting on. Monty eases his moment of embarrassment by gesturing toward the chair again. Miraculously, it scoots away from the table, seemingly of its own accord.

Montague: Ryan, hmm.

As he repeats the name, rolling the name around as if tasting it, Ryan finally takes a seat.

Montague: Let’s talk about Sean Parker, shall we? An honorable man, a warrior with a cause, someone who fights with a certain… righteousness, don’t you think?

Ryan nods, clearly eager to hear more.

Ryan: Yeah, he’s got that honorable vibe. Like an assassin in the ring, but you can tell he’s fighting for something bigger.

With a flippant, dismissive wave, the Mothman acknowledges this assessment.

Montague: Ah, yes. The honorable assassin. But let’s delve a little deeper, Ryan. History is full of figures who, on the surface, seem noble, heroic even. Take Florence Nightingale, for example—a name synonymous with compassion and care. But did you know she was also a fierce critic of women’s rights, someone who believed women should be subservient to men, who used her influence to reinforce traditional gender roles? Her methods, while effective, were often cold, calculated, and dismissive of those she deemed unworthy of her attention.

Ryan’s brow furrows as he absorbs this, clearly intrigued by the unexpected perspective.

Ryan: I didn’t know that about her.

Montague nods, savoring the moment.

Montague: And then there’s Abraham Lincoln. The Great Emancipator, they call him. But the truth is more complicated. Lincoln was a shrewd politician who, while ultimately abolishing slavery, did so not out of pure moral conviction but as a calculated move to preserve the Union. He was willing to tolerate slavery if it meant keeping the nation together. And let’s not forget his suspension of habeas corpus, imprisoning thousands without trial, all in the name of security. A man of contradictions, wouldn’t you say?

Ryan leans in closer, clearly captivated by Montague’s words.

Ryan: Alright, now do Ghandi

The Doctor-Professor bursts out in a raucous chuckle, his voice rising to a shout.

Montague: The paragon of peaceful resistance, a man who brought an empire to its knees without ever lifting a weapon.

His voice drops lower, almost conspiratorial.

Montague: But even Gandhi had his darker sides. He harbored deeply troubling views on race, seeing Africans as inferior, and his methods of resistance often included personal austerity measures that bordered on the fanatical. He was a man who manipulated public perception to maintain his image, who preached nonviolence yet turned a blind eye to violence within his own movements when it served his purpose.

Slowly-blinking eyes widen as the illusions of these historical figures crumble under Montague’s scrutiny. Montague smiles at Ryan’s inability to respond, leaning back with a satisfied air.

Montague: You see, Ryan, Sean Parker is cut from the same cloth. He appears noble, righteous, fighting for a cause, but beneath that veneer lies a man bound by his own contradictions, his own need to be seen as the hero. It makes him predictable, tethered to an image he can’t deviate from without losing everything he stands for.

Ryan: How do you go up against someone like that?

Montague’s smile widened, a glint of something wild and dangerous in his eyes. He knits his fingers together behind his top hat.

Montague: I am free, Ryan. I am unbound by the need to appear honorable. Where Sean is careful and deliberate, I embrace going in without a plan. My unpredictability is my greatest weapon. If I turn the tide with a sleight of hand, I’m suddenly more dangerous than someone like Sean could ever hope to be.

He leans in closer, his voice taking on an almost hypnotic cadence.

Montague: You see, Ryan, Sean plays by the rules, even if he occasionally bends them. But I understand that true power when you throw the script away and rewrite it in real-time. That’s why I will triumph over Sean—because he’s predictable, bound by the very image he tries to project. He can’t stray too far from the path he’s set for himself without losing everything. I, on the other hand, am the path. I create it as I go, and no one—not even someone as disciplined as Sean Parker—can anticipate my next move.

Ryan was silent, clearly processing the depth of The Showman’s words.

Montague: And it’s not just unpredictability, Ryan. It’s the freedom to embrace every possibility, to move beyond the constraints of honor and nobility, to wield the darkness as well as the light. That’s what makes me truly unstoppable. Parker may be a master of his craft, but he’s playing a game I’ve already rewritten the rule sheet for. And that, Ryan, is why I will be the one to take the Conquest Championship and end Sean Parker’s fifteen minutes in UGWC.

Ryan: This isn’t really how I pictured this conversation, going, heh. But I’m into it.

Montague’s eyes softened, and his smile turned warm again.

Montague: That’s quite alright, Ryan. Most people live their lives bound by the expectations of others, by the need to appear a certain way. But you… you strike me as someone who sees beyond that, who is searching for something more, yes?

Caught off-guard, Ryan nods slowly. Montague grins, like a cat closing in on a canary.

Montague: That’s why I’m offering you a chance to be part of something greater, something that transcends the ordinary, the mundane.

Ryan's gaze falls upon a delicate paper crane floating on the surface of his ice water pitcher. He picks it up, furrowing his brow in curiosity. Meanwhile, Montague drops a handful of heavy coins onto the table, then stands, wiping his mouth with a napkin and retrieving his cane. As Ryan begins to unfold the intricate paper crane, Montague leans in, dipping his shoulder to whisper something in his ear, his voice low and filled with promise.

Montague: Follow the instructions here. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do.

As Montague exits the diner, Ryan unfolds the crane to reveal an image of a moth lighting on a mushroom.

MC75 - Dropbox'd

INT. OUDE KERK CELLAR - NIGHT

Camera glides in smoothly, revealing the cellar's aged, slick, stone walls. Draped in ivy, old barrels and crates line the passageways.

A shadow flickers across the far wall, but as the camera moves closer, it appears to have been nothing more than a playfully swaying tapestry, stirred by an unseen draft.

The camera begins to move down a narrow, winding staircase The cellar opens up into a vaulted chamber supported by moss-clung pillars. Through a discreet archway partially obscured by hanging roots, the camera drifts into a narrow tunnel. Walls curve and twist, becoming disorienting. The camera continues relentlessly.

All around, faded markings and symbols might hint at the purpose of these depths, but the camera is moving far too quickly.

1.2s DISSOLVE:

Further along, and the stone walls have given way to brickwork, revealing the Vondelbunker's underbelly. Vivid, colorful graffiti art adorns the walls, a sharp contrast with the ancient architecture.

1.2s DISSOLVE:

The camera reveals a Nazi-era bunker. Steel beams reinforce thick concrete walls that still bear the marks of hurried construction. Faded and torn propaganda posters barely cling to the walls. Through the cold, sterile corridors the camera discovers the remnants of military equipment and disused machinery. The flickering bulb above casts long, eerie shadows.

1.2s DISSOLVE:

In a darker, wetter, and more rugged tunnel beneath the Amstel River, the walls are naturally-cut earth, rough and raw, with veins of rock cutting through the soil. Water trickles down the walls of the passage, cutting rivulets through the faint outlines of old smugglers' markings. The camera lingers on a rusted iron hook embedded in the ceiling, then moves on.

1.2s DISSOLVE:

The camera has entered the hidden chamber of the Schreierstoren. Tarnished nautical instruments and stained maps scatter across dusty tables. A large, ornate compass lies cracked on the floor, its needle frozen, pointing north.

For the first time, the camera begins to pick up a faint, musical sound

1.2s DISSOLVE:

The tunnel opens into a vast cavern. Pausing here, the camera takes in the grandeur of the scene:

In the center stands the Greathead Shield, a colossal circular structure. Its iron surface is aged to a deep patina. The interior is subdivided into nine chambers. Massive rivets stud the rim.

The Greathead has become a vibrant enclave, bursting with color and life. Multicolored lights are strung elegantly across and through the structure, illuminating the interior with a warm glow. Banners and flags of various fabrics and sizes flutter gently, lending an air of festivity to the otherwise cold, industrial structure.

Around and within the shield, the Kunstner Kaleidoskopisk practice their crafts. Acrobats in shimmering costumes, painters creating portraiture of one another. A young musician serenades a pretty girl with his guitar, while her eyes keep drifting to the contortionist slithering through the beams of the structure above.

Intricately decorated tents are dotted here and there in the cave, serving as workshops and living spaces. Their exteriors are adorned with elaborate murals and tapestries; the interiors glow with the soft light of candles and lanterns.

The camera weaves through this lively scene, capturing moments of laughter, concentration, and artistry, eventually taking in the Greathead itself in all its imposing glory. A runway stage extends from the heart of the shield. Above the stage, a massive chandelier has been cobbled together from an astonishing cornucopia of reclaimed materials. It creates a stunning, living mosaic, the multifaceted ornaments reflecting light in all directions. The chandelier represents the unity and creativity thriving in this hidden sanctuary beneath Amsterdam, something beautiful and whole, painstakingly, lovingly grown, piece by piece.

The camera slowly rises to the level of the stage as a ball type handheld mic lowers from the center of the chandelier. A great red curtain parts, and out walks the Doctor-Professor, Montague Cervantes.

He steps up to the edge of the stage and gazes out over this underground hearth with a smile. Tucking his cane under his right arm, Monty takes the mic in his left hand and clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is broadcast with an analog warmth and a tinny, vinyl crackle.

Montague: Gather 'round, you extraordinary denizens of this marvelous undercity! Allow your humble guest to express his deepest gratitude for the warm welcome to the real kingdom of The Netherlands! To be sure, all the guilders in the kingdom couldn’t purchase the charm and comfort of your wondrous world beneath the surface.

Now, let me extend a most tantalizing invitation!

There was a time when I believed our Creative Director's spark had flickered out, his genius reduced to mere embers. But lo and behold, he has deigned to be kind, and rewind the clock to an era when UGWC thrived on a bit more… lawlessness. In two nights, we'll ascend upon the Venice of the North to christen Sin City with all the pomp and mayhem it deserves!

At first glance, the tired metaphors of casinos and gambling might seem stale, but look closer, my skeptical showpersons! The only features are two chaotic contests, crafted to twist the minds and test the mettle of any brave soul who dares to enter, where the stakes and outcomes shift with every passing moment.

Wow, Deimos! What a difference!

Frustration, disappointment, betrayal, and discord are guaranteed in stock. For those unprepared for the storm that’s brewing, this type of contest guarantees that those without the mind for entertainment made easy will certainly not go home happy!

And here’s where it gets really interesting: The Embodiment of Fear, in a flash of dwindling wisdom, has extended a rare and exclusive offer for anyone to join this madcap tournament. That means each and every one of you has the chance to rise with me, to storm the ring and flood it with bodies ready to rewrite the story as it unfolds, to reshape the Cooperative Roulette into our vision of absolute, unrestrained bedlam!

Join me, and I promise you this: We’re going to make it a blockbuster night!

The cavern reverberates with sharp echoes as the motley throng erupts in applause for the Mothman’s evening plans. Pity the improvisational team that finds itself facing a potential pairing of Cervantes and one of these fearless acrobats!

MC74 - Seal'd

He blended seamlessly into the tour group, gazing up at the ancient temple's towering spires. His eyes, however, weren't drawn to the intricate carvings or the revered deity, Maha Vishnu. Instead, he noted aesthetically placed security cameras and the guards' repeated patrol routes.

Making their way into the temple, the group doesn’t notice him paying little attention to the guide’s voice.

Guide: The Padmanabhaswamy Temple is one of the 108 Divya Desams, which are sacred sites revered by Vaishnavites.

Nodding absently, his attention shifted to the layout. He committed every doorway, corridor, and chamber to memory. His gaze lingered on the sealed entrance to Vault B, adorned with serpent imagery and yakshi.

Guide: The temple's construction dates back to the 6th century AD, with later renovations by the Travancore royal family.

He discreetly snapped mental notes of the temple's ventilation system, potential entry points, and the positioning of the ante-chambers.

As they approached Vault B, the guide’s voice took on an exaggerated, warning tone.

Guide: Legend has it that this vault is sealed with Naga Paasam mantras, requiring a sage or saint to unlock it.

He glanced at his wrist, where a moth tattoo served as a reminder of his true purpose. His expression remained impassive, belying his racing thoughts as the guide pointed out the serpent imagery and yakshi.

Guide: These symbols ward off evil spirits and treasure hunters.

He pretended to take photos, capturing instead detailed images of the vault's door and its surroundings. He continued to gather intel, his mind already formulating strategies for a future, clandestine visit. The secrets hidden within Vault B beckoned, and he aimed to uncover them, undeterred by the whispers of curses and supernatural guardians.

Montague: Among all the new faces I’ve eagerly anticipated sharing the stage with, Gideon, you are perhaps the one I’ve desired the least.

Don’t take this the wrong way—I don’t dread our upcoming encounter because I’m sure it’ll be an easy victory. Some might glance at our names on the playbill and dismiss it as a predictable outcome—a swift, academic defeat at the hands of the Showman, nothing worth dwelling on.

But not me, Gideon. I see an opportunity here, one I simply cannot ignore. An opportunity to make a statement.

She trailed behind the tour group, her eyes fixed on the narrow passageway leading to the Gantenbrink Door. The droning voice of the guide echoed off the ancient limestone blocks.

Guide: The Great Pyramid's construction is estimated to have taken about 20 years, with a workforce of around 100,000 laborers! Current historians now speculate that the pyramids were not, in fact, built with slave labor.

Approaching the door, she noted the two large, eroded, copper pins. Perhaps remnants of a long-forgotten mechanism? Her gaze lingered on the limestone slab, wondering what secrets lay beyond. She mentally cataloged the door's dimensions, the copper pins' placement, and the surrounding stonework. Her wrist tattoo, a moth, seemed to flutter with excitement.

Guide: The Djedi Project discovered hieroglyphics reading '121' – which is the length of the shaft in cubits!

She committed this detail to memory. As the group moved on, she lingered, pretending to examine the door's surface. In reality, she was searching for hidden markings or weaknesses.

With a final glance, she rejoined the group, her mind whirling with possibilities. The Gantenbrink Door remained an enigma, but she vowed to uncover its secrets.

Montague: Gideon, your approach is as predictable as the ticking of a clock. Every match, every opponent—you treat them all the same, never adapting, never evolving. Your preparation is routine, your tactics remain unaltered, and you face each challenge with the same inflexible strategy.

That static method of yours—it’s stagnant, unyielding, and utterly foreseeable. It’s as if you’ve decided that the same old playbook, used time and again, will somehow yield different outcomes. It’s why your performances have been lackluster, why you’ve struggled to find any real success since you first stepped into this company.

You embody the very essence of stagnation, Gideon. Your approach is stuck in time, frozen in place, and resistant to change. And that’s where the danger lies—not just for you, but for UGWC as a whole. Without the dynamic influence of someone like me, this organization risks falling into the same rut you’re in, repeating the same mistakes, and failing to progress.

You represent everything I oppose. My technique is fluid, ever-changing, constantly adjusting to new challenges. It’s alive, breathing, and evolving. When we step into that ring, the flaws in your rigid methods will be laid bare for everyone to see. My versatile style will shine through, setting me apart, and making it unmistakable what true evolution looks like.

Unfortunately for you, Gideon, this means I can’t treat our match as just another day on the job. I have a duty to show, beyond any doubt, that your rigid, outdated approach is not only ineffective but a threat to the ongoing evolution and survival of this company. I’m compelled to crush you and everything you stand for.

And for that, I’m sorry. Truly, I am.

Lagging as the group rounded an upcoming corner, she studied the sealed doors nestled within Mount Shasta's rugged terrain. The guide's voice, growing fainter with each word, carried back to her through the cave.

Guide: Legend has it that Telos, the ancient City of Light, lies hidden beneath our feet.

As she approached the doors, she noted the intricate carvings and symbols etched into the stone. Her gaze lingered on the rusty hinges and the thick dust coating the doors, hinting at years of disuse. She pretended to take photos, capturing instead detailed images of the doors and surrounding area. Her mind whirled with possibilities, committing every detail to memory. The guide’s voice grew fainter, almost imperceptible.

Guide: Mount Shasta's unique energy draws spiritual seekers and UFO enthusiasts alike.

She lingered anyway, searching for hidden markings or weaknesses, her eyes scanning the doors and surrounding rock face. A fellow tourist, having also fallen behind, huffs and calls out as he passes her.

Tourist: Hey, you coming?

She nodded, tucking her camera away, her wrist tattoo – a moth – hidden beneath her sleeve. As she rejoined the group, she smiled to herself, her true purpose hidden. The sealed doors beckoned, and she vowed to return, prepared to uncover their secrets. For now, she blended back into the group, her eyes never leaving the doors, her mind already formulating a plan for her next solo visit.

MC73 - Pachyderm'd

The stairs complain one after another as the polished brown shoes ascend. On the fourth landing, the courier turns, his leather apron lifting slightly as he scans the numbers above the doors. With the back of his hand, he tips his cap back and sighs, out of breath from the climb.

Spotting his target, the courier strides over to the door sporting ‘2099’ on its sign. With three loud raps, he signals the tenant, then straightens his bowtie.

As the door creaks open, a warm light spills into the humble, one-room studio apartment, stirring the dusty air. Rolling chalkboards, worn smooth by years of use, encircle a weathered desk, their surfaces etched with the ghosts of forgotten equations. Towering stacks of ancient tomes threaten to topple, their leather bindings cracked and worn, while an assortment of curious artifacts teeter precariously on shelves and side tables.

But it's the apartment's occupant who commands attention. The tenant regards the courier with an air of expectant curiosity. His attire is a testament to his scholarly pursuits: a faded gray tweed suit, worn and frayed, adorned with a brass pocket watch chain. Eraser crumbs cling to his jacket, while chalk dust coats his unusually large… hands?

A pencil nestles behind his ear, a habitual perch, drawing attention to the remarkable features that set him apart: sweeping tusks, polished to a warm sheen, and a majestic trunk, curling and uncurling with a life of its own. Perched at the root of this prodigious proboscis, a set of gold-rimmed spectacles through which the mastodon peers wearily.

 

Before the courier can utter a reaction, the trunk of the mammoth scholar reaches out and retrieves the sealed cardboard envelope the courier was holding up to chest height. Reflexively, the stunned courier’s hand rises, palm up.

With a resigned huff, the elephant digs into his pocket and produces a few coins, plunking them into the gloved hand absently gesturing in his direction. With the exchange complete, the courier departs in a daze, leaving the elephant to close the door and shuffle over to his cluttered desk.

Removing his spectacles, the academic rubs the bridge of the nose and allows himself another sigh before examining the address.

‘The Elephant in the Room’

He snorts, which you can imagine is a significant expression for someone of his genus. As if he hadn’t heard that cleverness a dozen times or more. Prying open the seal, a curled sheaf of hand-calligraphed parchment falls out and settles onto his blotter.

---

---

My esteemed colleague,

Since my return, and especially given my machinations so far, I've been reflecting on the remarkable journey of Larry Tact in UGWC. He's undoubtedly a workhorse, boasting an impressive resume with not one, but two stints as Conquest Champion. This feat has earned him arguably the most demanding schedule of any champion in the company. Moreover, the Tactful One has aggressively pursued every tournament opportunity and made a meaningful impact in each competition.

In the Global Challenge, Larry Tact fought valiantly, reaching the final before succumbing to my beloved partner, The Raven's, formidable prowess. Although he fell short, Larry stands out as one of the few Global Challenge competitors still thriving in UGWC today.

His Conquest Championship triumph elevated him to an elite class of Entertainment Professionals. Though he didn't capitalize on his subsequent opportunity, completing the Conquest is a rare achievement. However, Trent Steel's meddling had begun to overshadow Larry's rising star.

As ambition took hold, Larry persevered in the face of Steel's lingering influence. He earned another shot at Alan Wallace's World Championship, but again fell short. Was the usually unflappable tactician unsettled by Steel's insidious presence? Imagine the turmoil: possessing immense potential, yet struggling to realize it.

The subsequent weeks unfold with predictable routine: tournaments, near misses, and unfulfilled potential. Larry Tact consistently reaches the cusp of prestige, only to falter at the final hurdle. Three opportunities to dethrone Alan Wallace have slipped through his grasp.

Fortunately, my timely return to UGWC proves a turning point. I had a score to settle with Trent Steel, whose toxic influence had become an all-consuming obsession. With Steel neutralized, Larry is finally unshackled, free to pursue greatness unencumbered.

Emboldened, Larry recaptures the Conquest Championship, only to be halted by newcomer Sean Parker, fresh from his District Conquest victory. Despite Steel's removal, Larry's progress is stalled, hinting at a lingering deficiency – a crucial element still missing from his arsenal.

He recognizes the need to evolve, displaying his capacity for growth and tactical thinking. He confronts his mistakes, including underestimating opponents like Lord Raab and Ezra Wolf, and acknowledges feelings of stagnation…

Diligent reader, I know your true identity - the elephant in Larry Tact's room, the embodiment of the attribute he lacks. By defeating Trent Steel, I've liberated Larry from your suffocating grip. My victory lifted the weight of Steel's presence, exposing the deficiency that held him back. I've given him the tools to shatter the mental and strategic shackles. Though he hasn’t yet capitalized on this gift, I consider it a debt owed.

Now, I'm calling in that debt. By removing Steel, I paved the way for his growth. I must acknowledge his strategic brilliance and adaptability, which have propelled him to the cusp of greatness, mere inches from the pinnacle. I draw parallels with my own encounter with Sebastian Everett-Bryce in a grueling Battleground final a few years back. Though I fell short, I felt pride, not shame. Let me be crystal clear: I hold your performance in the highest esteem.

Diligent reader, I'll help Larry bridge the final 1% gap to greatness. Together, we'll fuel his ascent, but my guidance comes with a price. As I settle his existing debt, I'll impart further assistance, targeting the crucial element holding him back: his untested tactical mind.

Enter the Mothman, Larry’s tutor in unpredictability. While not the most unbeatable opponent, I'm the most mercurial. Larry's strategic prowess will face its ultimate test in our Chaos Rules match at Synergy.

Win or lose, this lesson will push his tactical mind to its limits, forging innovative stratagems and defenses. Through our sustained campaign, he'll shatter his operating framework's boundaries, poised to achieve career-defining, history-making accolades that have eluded him until now.

When Larry reaches his pinnacle, I'll remind him of the new debt he now owes - unlocking his full potential, courtesy of my mentorship. This match is designed to propel him forward, while I collect my prior due and set the stage for our next encounter.

Do you wonder how I differ from Trent Steel? Am I a hindrance or a catalyst?

Unlike Trent, who sought to destroy Larry, I aim to unleash his true potential, empowering him to surpass his limitations. I want Larry at his strongest, most prestigious, and most powerful.

It's my role to guide him to greatness and ultimately become the final challenge he must overcome to solidify his reign. Unlike Trent's destructive intentions, I'll be a patient, calculating force, awaiting Larry's ascension before collecting the debt he'll owe me.

But wait, diligent reader, the letter isn't over yet!

You might assume I've arrived at these insights without self-reflection, but you'd be mistaken. I've indeed examined my own 'elephant in the room' – the Brat out of Hell, the Scorpion Queen, my beloved Ragdoll.

Her underwhelming performance in the Global Challenge, where Larry Tact began his remarkable run, was alarming. It seemed almost... impersonal, as if simulacra had taken her place.

The whispers have already begun: 'Why didn't Jaclyn Pierrot return with Montague Cervntes?'

Last I knew, she was exploring the Aether, witnessing wonders beyond our spheres. Attack ships ablaze off Orion's shoulder, C-beams glittering near the Tannhäuser Gate... Moments lost in time, like tears in rain…

Forgive my tangent, I'm in awe of Ragdoll's celestial pursuits, envying her freedom. Yet, my terrestrial ambitions remain unwavering, inspired by her example. I strive to make this world worthy of her attention once again.

Recently, the Red-Eyed Warrior recognized my guiding light, grasping calamity's reins. This week, my benevolent influence grants another boon, as Larry Tact takes the stage.

Remarkably yours,

Montague Cervantes

The Showman, The Mothman, The Doctor-Professor

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MC72 - Olympia'd

The preferred path through the Underlook is one of kismet, but this week’s expedition finds him burdened with glorious purpose.

As Montague steps confidently through the lusterless crypt, he quizzes himself silently, checking to see how many names and statistics he can recall before checking his phone. Advocating for future athletes, after all, will require a perfect recall of their skills and accomplishments.

Through an arched and ornately-carved doorway, the Showman sweeps into the nave of a massive, Gothic sanctuary. This is the Lausanne Cathedral in Switzerland, and the current devotees turn, watching with indignation as the ostentatiously-dressed gentleman mutters his way down the aisle between pews.

Montague: Mimeo’s record is… forty-two hours? Forty-three? Oh, Barnum help me…

He whips out his phone as he makes his exit, utterly oblivious to the death stares hiding prayers being sent skyward posthaste to beg for a targeted bolt of electricity to scorch the steps of the cathedral. The doors close behind him.

Montague: Ah! Forty… forty-nine hours? Vincent Price’s mustache, this kid’s going to be a legend!

Tucking the phone into one of the innumerable pockets of his cloak, Monty greets the warm, Swiss morning, strolling away from the massive church as he decides where to spend his day in preparation for tomorrow’s appointment. Stepping out onto the Rue Pierre-Viret, he summons a Lyft, destined for the waterfront south of the city.

The terrace is adorned with wrought-iron tables and chairs, each set with crisp white linens and delicate china. Large parasols provide shade, creating a comfortable environment for dining. Montague sits alone, absently casting his gaze across Lake Geneva and admiring the French Alps in the distance. He’s shaken from his reverie by a server clearing her throat.

Server: Bonjour, Monsieur. Bienvenue au Château d'Ouchy. Êtes-vous prêt à commander?

Montague: Ah, bonjour! Oui, je suis prêt. Quelle journée magnifique pour déjeuner ici. Pourriez-vous me dire quel est le plat du jour?

Server: Bien sûr, Monsieur. Aujourd'hui, nous avons en spécialité un filet de perche du lac, servi avec un risotto aux herbes fraîches et des légumes de saison. C'est un plat très apprécié par nos clients.

Montague: Merveilleux! Je vais prendre cela. Et pour accompagner ce délice, que me recommandez-vous comme vin?

Server: Je vous suggérerais un verre de notre Chasselas local, un vin blanc frais et léger, parfait pour accompagner le poisson. Voulez-vous essayer?

Montague: Excellente suggestion! Je prendrai un verre de Chasselas. Et peut-être une entrée pour commencer?

Server: Nous avons une délicieuse salade de chèvre chaud, avec des noix et du miel. C'est un choix très populaire.

Montague: C'est exactement ce que je voulais entendre. Je prendrai la salade de chèvre chaud comme entrée. Et pour finir, que recommandez-vous comme dessert?

Server: Nous avons une tarte aux fruits de saison avec une crème pâtissière maison, ou un moelleux au chocolat avec un cœur fondant. Les deux sont exquis.

Montague: Hmm, c'est un choix difficile... Je vais opter pour le moelleux au chocolat. Rien de tel pour terminer en beauté!

Server: Très bon choix, Monsieur. Je vais transmettre votre commande à la cuisine. Souhaitez-vous quelque chose d'autre pour le moment?

Montague: Non, c'est parfait. Merci beaucoup. J'ai hâte de déguster ces merveilles culinaires.

Server: Avec plaisir, Monsieur. Votre commande sera prête dans quelques minutes. Profitez de la vue et de votre déjeuner.

Montague: Merci infiniment. Vous êtes un hôte exceptionnel!

Server: Merci, Monsieur. Bon appétit!  

The server makes her way to the kitchen as the Doctor-Professor’s phone buzzes on the table. He picks it up, and his expression immediately brightens, excited anticipation illuminating his eyes and the corners of his mouth.

Montague: Je n'en reviens pas! Not very far removed from my return at Wrestlestock and the retirement of the pest Trent Steel, and already the company wishes to reward me. Perhaps Director Deimos has finally learned to appreciate the unique and irreplaceable value that I, the Mothman, bring to UGWC.

The server reappears with shocking efficiency, a cold bottle wrapped in a damp towel cradled in her hands. She presents the Chasselas, describing the heartiness of the alpine grapes and the backbreaking, dangerous work that goes into their cultivation at nearby Dézaley. Montague nods along politely, unable to hide his impatience to get back to his phone. After pouring him a glass, the server places the bottle in a caddy full of ice next to the table before stepping away again to retrieve Monty’s appetizer.

He resumes with similar fervor:

Montague: Oh Chaos Championship, from the moment my eyes beheld your illustrious form, I knew that you were destined to be mine. You are not merely a title; you are the embodiment of everything I cherish and aspire to. My heart races with anticipation and admiration for the boundless opportunities you offer. You are the ultimate canvas for creativity. You beckon to those of us who yearn to transcend the ordinary, to craft moments that will be etched into the annals of history. The ring becomes our stage, and the match becomes our masterpiece. With you, every move, every strategy, and every moment can be transformed into a symphony of tumult, where innovation knows no bounds. In your embrace, entertainment finds its purest form. The audience, who are the lifeblood of our sport, revel in the spectacle you create. They come to witness the extraordinary, to be mesmerized by the drama and excitement that only you can provide. Your presence ensures that each match is not merely a contest of strength but a performance of epic proportions, where every twist and turn is designed to captivate and…

He only realizes how high his volume setting has been cast when the server once again cuts him off.

Server: Hem. Votre salade de chèvre tiède, monsieur…

Setting the plate down, she momentarily meets Montague’s eyes, curiosity mixing with circumspection behind her own. Indifferent to her reaction–or that of the handful of other diners on the terrace–Monty thanks the server, and watches until she’s well out of earshot before continuing and a more conversational tone.

Montague: The current champion is Ezra Wolf, a man who has had something of a renaissance this year. After a mediocre run through the Global Challenge, the Red-Eyed Warrior acquitted himself gloriously against The Avenger at Alchemy, and has done a passable job as the interim champion in my absence.

He pauses, savoring a mouthful of salad, holding up one hand and closing his eyes as he chews.

Montague: These days, it appears Ezra is far more comfortable competing with the upper echelon of elites. He’s put up respectable performances against the likes of Lucy Wylde and Alan Wallace, and despite flubbing the Battleground tournament, Ezra absolutely shined at Wrestlestock. He won the coveted cup and key, as well as a guaranteed chance at a shot for an opportunity to possibly, perhaps maybe even, earn a main event showing at the end of the year.

This time, the Showman notices the server approaching, but he’s on a roll now. He continues orating at no one in particular while she approaches with a beautifully dressed dish of lake perch.

Montague: Merci. Bravo, Ezra. You’ve shaken off the shackles of the baneful benefaction which held you back before, and now your competitive prowess is undeniable. By my estimation, you’re ready to take your game to the next level.

With a dramatic flourish, Montague unfurls his linen napkin and drapes it over his lap. He picks up his fork and knife, the polished silverware catching the light. He pauses, casting a glance at his audience, which now consists of his fellow diners, his server, and several other staff at the door to the dining room. He cuts into the perch filet with deliberate precision, the knife gliding effortlessly through the tender flesh. He lifts the first bite to his lips, pausing momentarily to savor the anticipation. As he takes the bite, a low, appreciative hum escapes his lips.

Montague: I know, I can already hear the righteous indignation in your voice. Didn’t I just offer laurels for competing with the elites? Absolutely, and I meant every word. But you’re the Chaos Champion, my boy, and you haven’t competed with me.

He takes another bite, this time pairing it with a spoonful of the herb risotto. Monty’s expression is one of sheer delight as he savors the harmonious blend of flavors. He raises his glass of chilled white wine, the light catching the crystal and sending a cascade of light across his face as his expression turns sinister.

Montague: You’re at the top of the game, but that’s not the game for which you’re carrying the flag, is it? There aren’t any levels in the Chaos game, Ezra. There are depths, and so far, your rise hasn’t revealed any evidence that you’re prepared to descend.  

He pauses to continue enjoying his meal, and Montague’s expressions of delight and satisfaction become a lurid performance in themselves. He savors each bite with the reverence of a true glutton, making sure that everyone around him can share in the joy of the experience, whether they want to or not.

Montague: I stand as a devil at your crossroads. Surrender your Chaos Championship, and you may tread the mundane path toward becoming a cookie-cutter folk hero later this year, lost in the annals of predictability on your long trek to the ‘big’ prize. But, should you embrace the darkness I offer, unleashing your full creative violence upon our match, you will proudly wear the thorny crown and carve your name into legend through infamy. I look forward to witnessing your choice.

He finishes with gusto, utensils clamoring as he drops them on the center of the plate.

Montague: And Ezra, do not disappoint me as Trent did. 

Nestled on the banks of Lake Geneva, the Maison Olympique is a nauseating glass and steel testament to gaudy modern architecture. It sticks out in the gorgeous landscape like a cheap, capped tooth. The expansive lobby is bathed in natural light, streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows that offer panoramic views of the picturesque landscape the building is betraying by existing.

Upstairs, in the Petition Hall, the air is silent and thick. At one end of the oak conference table, Montague grows increasingly impatient as a diverse trio quietly examines the documents he’s submitted. Every few seconds, one of the committee members frowns deeply and makes a mark on the papers he so carefully typed.

When he has reached his limit, the Doctor-Professor begins drumming on the tabletop with his rings. The committee looks up, startled and annoyed. They share a meaningful look, before one speaks up.

Coventry: Mr. Cervantes, after careful review, we must deny your petitions.

Montague blinks, his mouth agape, clearly unprepared for this development.

Oswald: We don’t feel that any of your proposed events comport with the Olympic spirit of competition–

Montague: I am baffled, sir. This committee has, in the past, allowed for all manner of creative expression when adding new events! Skateboarding, surfing… there are several different forms of dance. Just this year you’ve added breakdancing and kite flying!

Mitchell: All of these events test physical skill and endurance. The athleticism is inherent to the art.

The Mothman stands, sweeping off his hat and holding it to his heart as he raises his eyes to the ceiling.

Montague: "The time has come to take the next step, and to restore the Olympiad to its original beauty. In the high times of Olympia, the fine arts were combined harmoniously with the Olympic Games to create their glory. This is to become reality once again."

Coventry: Are you quoting De Coubertin?

Montague: Indeed! Artistic expression was always meant to be woven into the fabric of international goodwill, alongside sport. There was a time when medals were awarded for painting, sculpture, and singing. This tradition was halted, ostensibly to preserve the amateur spirit of the Games, as most of the competing artists were professionals. In the nineties, professional athletes were welcomed back with open arms, yet the artists remained in the shadows, as we so often do. We don’t make for compelling viewing on your international broadcasts. Why would our nations rally behind us now, when they have long since forgotten our contributions?

The member from Switzerland, who seems particularly annoyed, flicks the sheaf of papers in his hand and reads aloud.

Oswald: Balloon art, while a delightful amusement for children's parties, lacks the athletic rigor and competitive integrity we require for Olympic events. The very notion of awarding a medal for twisting balloons into animals or shapes is an affront to the tradition and prestige of the Games. Speed Painting. We must consider the practicality and viewership appeal. Speed painting is highly subjective, with artistic quality varying drastically from one judge to another. Moreover, the essence of athletic competition is about physical prowess and endurance, not how quickly one can finish a canvas. Ventriloquists? I struggle to understand how anyone could see this as an Olympic event. It would be preposterous to pit ventriloquists against each other in a sports arena. Feather Fan Dance and Fire Fans, while they require grace and coordination, do not align with the Olympic spirit of athletic competition. They are better suited for cultural showcases, like the opening ceremonies, than an Olympic medal event. The Human Pincushion… The idea of including an act of self-mutilation as an Olympic event is beyond the pale. The Olympics celebrate the pinnacle of human physical achievement, not acts of grotesque self-harm. This suggestion is not only inappropriate but also deeply disturbing.

He takes a deep breath, going in for the kill.

Oswald: Finally, the Mime. This one particularly vexes me. How do you judge a mime's performance? On silence? On imaginary box creation? How far they can tug an imaginary weight? Miming is barely an art form. It lacks any competitive framework. Including mime as an Olympic event would only serve to bring ridicule upon the Games. The very essence of the Olympics is to celebrate human physical excellence and competitive spirit. These proposals, if sincere, betray a fundamental misunderstanding of what the Olympics represent. I cannot help but feel this is an attempt to mock our committee and the Games themselves. We cannot, in good conscience, entertain these suggestions any further. I must ask you to leave, Mr. Cervantes, this meeting is over.

Montague’s nostrils flare as he locks eyes with the committee member. He places his hat back upon his head and sweeps toward the heavy oak doors. As he opens them, he turns and looks over his shoulder.

Montague: I’m not laughing…

With that, he strides out of the Petition Hall and disappears through the atrium.

MC71 - Return'd

La Ciudad Sumergida de Cuba

“We’ve got a new leak opening in corridor five of the Southernmost structure.”

“Do we have any available engineers?”

“There’s an ex-Imagineer that arrived yesterday…”

“It’ll have to do. Get me status updates every ten minutes, the Doctor-Professor isn’t going to be happy if lose another bunker area.”

Bisaro Anima, British Colombia, Canada

“What are these?”

“Ultraviolet lights, boys. For hydroponics.”

“Kitchen area then?”

“No, we’re going to need them closer to the Gate. Take ‘em all the way to the bottom, boys.”

Chicago Tunnels, Chicago, USA

“I found another room in the central tunnel.”

“How long to excavate it?”

“That’s the best part, once I knocked the bricks out, it opened a completely empty twelve-by-twelve room. We’ll have to tear out the built in shelves, but we should be ready to set up bunks in there before the day’s out.”

“Did you let Cervantes know?”

“Thought I’d tell you first, but I’ll call him once I’m on the surface again.”

“Best head up there now, then.”

Monty sits sideways in his chair on the dais of his recording studio. He sips from a goblet as he admires the silver handle of his cane.

Montague: This is your big insurrection? After a handful of matches against JC that most UGWC fans didn’t even watch, this was your plan to destabilize the company and tear it from its moorings? I have to say, I’m a little let down.

Draining the goblet, he sighs and pushes himself to his feet. The studio is mostly dark, save for a single hanging bulb over the chair. Monty walks to the control podium and throws a toggle there, illuminating the multitude of broken mannequins arranged in chairs around all sides of the stage.  

Montague: I know you think no one is hearing you when you lament ‘how things are done’ around here. If anyone understands how quickly this company can stagnate, it’s the Mothman. UGWC atrophies without the occasional Tragedia, am I right? But, for all your might and ruthlessness, which I don’t for a moment deny, you thrust your fists against the post and still insist you see the ghosts. It’s time to try something different if you want results.

Cervantes crouches, and with an unsettling synchrony, a quarter of the mannequin heads incline ever so slightly, their vacant faces seeming to lean in with an unblinking gaze. The sound of glass clinking can be heard before he stands again, carrying a cask of some dark liquid.

Montague: So far, other than screaming all your many and varied grievances into the void, your reign of destruction has consisted of such terror as… trying to slow down Larry Tact?

Monty chuckles as he refills his glass.

Montague: Don’t get me wrong, I get endlessly griefing a single target. Watching the cracks form, racing across their face like the veins of some corruption, until they fall apart spectacularly. If that was in your vision statement, perhaps I would understand your methods.

He switches the lights back off, but now that you’ve seen them, the eyes of the mannequins glint in the light of one remaining bulb. They continue to brighten as they follow Monty back to his seat.

Montague: That said, this is the slowest scorched-earth campaign I’ve ever seen. For how long will you continue to harass the individual who has recently experienced almost a half-dozen failed attempts at the World Championship before it becomes the turning point that leads to the company's collapse? Forgive me if I feel like you’ve missed a few steps in there somewhere, but if Sherman’s march to the sea moved at your pace, he’d still be trying to take Atlanta today.

Monty punctuates this with a sweeping gesture that sloshes some of the liquid over the rim of the goblet.

Montague: What you need is some orchestration. Sure, you’ve spewed invective in whatever direction Deimos schedules you to from one week to another, but you’re barely making waves, my friend. Maybe your problem–with your mission, with UGWC, with everything you see here–is that you’re shackled by tradition. It’s not the way you’d have booked it, scheduled it, stipulated it… . Valid enough, but we’re supposed to be men of action, Mr. Steel. If it’s not the way you’d do it, then do it your way.

He finally sits, throwing both legs over one arm of the chair as he reclines gracefully in a position that would have been torture to someone less flexible.

Montague: So I’m here to provide a… distraction… from the rut you don’t realize you’ve dug. We’ve got a nice, no frills singles match on Saturday night at the Wrestlestock festival. Is that what either of us really wants? Would you have done it differently?

Montague takes a sip, savoring the drink before continuing.

Montague: Please show me. Please show them.

   

 

ddddd“