MC80 - Damn'd (Tragedia Del Arte)

On any other given day, this tunnel would swallow all light and sound. Today, however, the echo of shuffling feet and the melancholy wail of brass and strings reverberate around as dim lantern light bobs against the walls. As the glow brightens, and the cacophony rises, a silhouette smudge of crimson and gold cuts through the oppressive gloom.

The Doctor-Professor leads the way, a red cape hanging limply over his right shoulder and a fan of black feathers tucked into the pink, silk band of his top hat. A hint of white accentuates the high points of his face, framing a sinister rictus in contrast to the atmosphere his troupe is creating.

Unfolding behind him, the procession is a surreal splendor of costumed performers marching with precise, exaggerated steps. Their faces, like Monty’s, are painted in stark contrasts of white and black patterns, skulls, cracked grins, and weeping, hollow eyes.

Carts and wagons are adorned in mourning colors. One cart, pulled by a horse painted up like a skeleton, drags a wagon with a huge pipe organ. The organ wheezes out a waltzing dirge, keeping time as the revelers march. The procession is equal parts haunt and jubilation, with the occasional trombone, trumpet, or tuba belting out with deliberate discord. Violins keen, while cymbals and tambourines clang in time.

Every so often, the Showman pauses, spreading his arms wide, his fingers curling as though weaving an invisible spell. Each member of this crew freezes in place when he does, and the dirge swells to a crescendo before falling silent. A few, tense moments pass, then, on some unspoken cue, the procession springs to life again with renewed vigor.

One of the Cabinet members, a thin woman wearing the classic, diamond-patterned Arlecchino costume and a plastic buskin mask steps from the arrangement. A trumpet is attached with a thin string that hangs from her shoulder. She begins a slow, elaborate dance, the cloth and instrument swirling as she moves. A swirl and the movement stops as suddenly as it began, her hand on the chin of the mask. With a final flourish, she removes the mask, revealing the Scorpion Queen, Jaclyn Pierrot.

They say there’s a fine line between love and hate. Chaos and order. Good and evil. The same muscles in your mouth that you use when you cry are the very same muscles you use when you laugh, it’s just the difference between a smile and a frown. This means that despite how hard we scratch and scream against the status quo, we are merely part of the established order.

Happiness. Sadness. Joy. Pain.

These are just words we use to try and explain these primal feelings we have inside and to justify the actions which we have chosen. But they’re all simply the same - the soul screaming to break free from the ordinary. The chaos inside, raging against our aging flesh. Fighting the losing war against time as we see substance in the soul. But what if there is none - it’s merely a big cosmic joke.

It’s as sad as it is funny, but I guess that’s just life. And so what we, the agents of chaos, if not simply the heralds of the storm. What then can we say that you can believe - do we spread a message of hope or fear? Either way, it’s noise just the same.

The clown holds the trumpet up to her lips, blowing a loud honk before pulling the mask over her face, then slipping back into the crowd.

It isn’t really a funeral, but the air of ritual, a strange reverence entwined with a barely-concealed glee, makes it feel like an unholy celebration. It’s as if they’re honoring some ancient, buried thing that has surfaced once more.

The Mothman pauses again beneath the cavernous ceiling, his arms spreading wide as before, and the procession dutifully stills. Before them looms a massive stone staircase, its steps uneven and crumbling, leading upward. Above it, a rusted iron sign hangs precariously, its letters weathered but legible:

HELL, MICHIGAN MUNICIPAL WORKS

The Showman turns to face his followers, smile sharper now, eyes glittering. He taps his cane once against the ground, the sound reverberating through the tunnel like a thunderclap, then leads the Cabinet up the steps…

—

A symphony of chaos and charm! A masterpiece of mistaken identities and deliciously tangled webs! It’s all set against a splendid 1930s backdrop kissed with sepia.

Imagine, a man accustomed to wielding power with an iron fist, who is suddenly thrust into a delicate ballet of decorum and civility, after deciding to go legit. He desperately strives to reform himself while the universe–and everyone around him–conspires to unravel his every effort. The story is brilliant in its orchestration—a farce of timing, the characters are conducted like players in an elaborate stage performance.

Sylvester Stallone, normally a typecast titan of schlocky action, sheds his rugged Rambo persona  to don a more polished veneer and become Angelo Provolone, a mobster navigating the treacherous waters of legitimacy. Inspired casting, if ever I’ve seen it.

But Oscar is a personal favorite, not for the humor, despite it being exceedingly clever, but for the  unrelenting embrace of theatricality. Each line is delivered as if to a live audience, each twist and turn exaggerated to operatic proportions. It’s a love letter to screwball comedies while being a story about the absurdity of transformation.

Oscar is a rare gem—a carnival of contradictions and a testament to the art of controlled pandemonium.

—

Montague: How will our opponents spin their win this time around the gyre?

The Mothman stands at the foot of the spiral of iron, diamond-plate stairs, watching as half his foot soldiers ascend through the waterworks, and the rest set up camp in the subterranean cavern.

Montague: Perhaps they’ll point out the lack of consistency, the starts and stops, the never-quite-gelling Cooperative team Jacky and I have held together on the purest of basis; a real friendship, something The E of C profess to understand as well as we do.

He winks at Jacky as she steps out of the crowd and removes her mask to take her place at his side.

Montague: What will really get my goat, so to speak, is that it will be implied that we’re not participating up to our potential, not putting in the time and work that once carried the both of us through the Global Challenge and to memorable reigns in both the World and Cross Hemisphere championship divisions.

The Showman and the Ragdoll share a nostalgic look, remembering the Season fondly.

Montague: The simple truth, the one that some simply can’t accept, is that not everyone hopes to become the next Lucy Wylde or Sebastian Everett-Bryce.

Montague rolls his eyes, and Jacky makes an exaggerated gagging sound.

Montague: I’m not shaming anyone who does… it’s not a stretch to assume that Sebastian is the best in the industry, and has been for a while. And Lucy, well… If there’s a single competitor during this decade of UGWC that could compare to the Hastings, Somers, or Morgan-Baal of the previous one, it’s her.

He shrugs.

Montague: They’ve worked hard to arrive where they are; they’re talented, experienced, driven, and have years left in their careers, if they don’t decide to retire as living legends next year.

Jacky fixes Montage with a look as though an entire gallon of spaghetti sprinkled with cheetos just dropped to the bottom of her stomach. She’s had all the bootlicking she can take, and takes her turn ascending the staircase.

Montague: I admitted that they have my professional respect ages ago; I simply have no quarrel with them anymore.

He raises a long, well manicured index finger on his left hand.

Montague: That being said, their journey simply isn’t for everyone. They’ll call that lazy, or fear, or complacency. Let them, because it vexes them that I’m comfortable finding my challenges and distractions in other pursuits.

The Doctor-Professor snorts.

Montague: I’ve proven my talent in the past, I’m satisfied. What interests me far more is finding ways to poke at the most successful. How to take Lucy Wylde and Sebastian Everett-Bryce off their nearly perfect game. The challenge of ending their historic Cooperative streak is far more satisfying than defending the championships will ever be.

Monty quirks his mouth and shrugs, as if to say ‘that’s how it is, take it or leave it.’ He falls into step with the rest of his endless troupe, rising up from below the town of Hell…

MC79 - Bust'd

Chief Meteorologist Demetrius Ivory says the temperature in Chicago tonight is forty-seven Fahrenheit, but the wind gusts and patchy rain make it feel closer to freezing. A drone shot reveals a late evening view of the UGWC arena. Contrasting its typical bustle, it now stands in an eerie, almost otherworldly stillness. Dim, automated lights illuminate its façade, casting elongated shadows across the sidewalks and parking lot, while discarded wrappers dance in the unpredictable gusts.

The automated sign outside the edge of the parking lot, which will flash glimpses of the card throughout the weekend, now cycles through a few-generically named local businesses. The large glass entrance doors, smudged with the fingerprints of thousands, reflect distorted images of the empty streetlights and the faint glow of Chicago's skyline. Despite its imposing size and familiarity during the day, the arena in these hours feels abandoned, as though the building itself is asleep,

Within, liminal spaces stretch down empty hallways lit by emergency lights you’d expect to flicker and buzz at any moment. Eventually, a flash of light near the floor at gorilla position indicates the presence of Montague’s tiny cat-gladiator android scaling the velvet curtains.

When Rett reaches the top, it holds out a paw as if batting at some imagined sprite, but his toe-beans retract. From inside his paw, several smaller devices rocket out to embed themselves into the lintel, red lights flashing on the side of each one. Rett slides back down the fabric, then scurries through into the main arena area.

After a few moments of watching Rett dart from turnbuckle to announce table to random arena seats, the scene changes to Montague, who is in the truck diligently turning on monitors as Rett sets his cameras. While your typical technician may tap absently at the toggles during a broadcast, the Doctor-Professor pauses to give each monitor its own moment to spring to life.

He’s surrounded by the now humming monitors, providing views of the locker rooms, the concession areas, even a boiler room where Rett’s diminutive form scurries to place cameras where Montague wouldn’t be able to reach.

Monty pauses for a moment and leans into the boiler room view, raising his left arm to scratch a fingernail against a suspicious smudge on the screen. Holding his hand a safe six inches from his face, Montague sniffs, then rolls his eyes.

Montague: Todd and his Christmas Tree cakes.

Satisfied with the views Rett has set up, Montague reaches for the handle of a footlocker, and rolls it out of the truck.

The next time we see the Mothman, he’s wielding a PKE meter that waves and beeps rhythmically as he walks through the stands. Rett sits on his right shoulder, his eye-beams sweeping left and right as ghostly pale dust motes trail lazily through his path.

The frequency of the beeping increases suddenly, and the arms of the meter lock into the open position. Rett and Monty follow the direction it’s pointing up to the nosebleeds, section A4 way up behind the announce table.

The perspective shifts to Rett’s recording, which is in thermal vision, revealing a blob of warm, summer hues swirling over one of the seats that, by the most generous interpretation possible, might resemble a vaguely humanoid shape. He sets Rett down on the announce table to record, and adds his own colorful blob to the recording as he makes his way closer to the cheap seat.

Montague: Rena? Ms. Samaras?

When he extends his hand to touch the blob, he finds no resistance, and no reaction.

Montague: Well, it certainly behaves like the errant newcomer…

Before he can do much to confirm, however, the blob of color fades.

Rett: Rett!

The Showman nods as his lips thin with disappointment.

Montague: Yes, you’re right, I no longer sense it…

With a sigh, he abandons the mysterious seat, making his way back down the stands to ringside with his PKE meter raised once again.

As Montague approaches the ring, the PKE meter suddenly spikes, its arms snapping open and locking onto the ring itself. He glances at Rett, but the cat doesn’t react—no indication it’s noticed anything unusual. Montague’s brow furrows. He kneels beside his footlocker, lifts the lid, and pulls out a small, dense box. Sliding it toward the ring, he watches as Rett suddenly scurries past him, grabs the box with surprising speed, and places it dead center in the ring.

Rett: Rett!

A flurry of amber-colored dots erupts, blanketing everything within the ring and spilling into the first five rows of seats. Montague freezes in place, his breathing shallow as the dots dance over him like flickering embers. He forces himself to stay calm, resisting the urge to flinch, his focus locked on Rett, who continues scanning for any sign of movement.

After a few minutes with no reaction, Montague signals to Rett, who springs up the ropes to execute a perfect 1080 suicide dive back onto Monty’s shoulder.

Now, the pair of investigators step through the curtain to the backstage area. Monty has replaced his PKE meter with another device, this one chirping static every few seconds as he watches a small LCD screen intently. He pauses suddenly as he passes Eden Morgan’s old locker room door, looking straight ahead into the impenetrable darkness further along. Rett looks up at him, expectantly.

Montague: Cold spot.

Rett: Rett!

They move on.

After some time, the spirit box, who’s chirping had up until now had remained steady and consistent, suddenly begins to bark out fragments of a voice:

Spirit Box: Sng

Montague: Synergy?

Spirit Box: Mch

Montague: Match.

Spirit Box: Pnt

Montague: Opponent!!

Rett: Rett!

With that, Rett’s eyebeams fix on the nearby door, specifically the nameplate: Rena Samaras. The door is ajar.

Montague: Eureka!

Flush with excitement, the Doctor-Professor pushes the door open and leads Rett into the locker room. He stows the spirit box away, and retrieves his PKE meter, but pauses when he hears the smack of water dripping loudly from the shower.

As he meets Rett’s eyes, the staccato slap increases in tempo, building until it resembles the applause that had filled the arena the previous Monday. Montague rushes toward the bathroom, throwing the door open and smacking the light switch.

The light flickers to life, revealing the room bathed in pale fluorescence. The shower isn’t running, but the window is fogged over as though it had been moments ago.

Montague: Rena?

Spotting a discarded towel on the floor, Montague grabs it and crosses to the mirror. He wipes a broad stroke across the fogged surface, clearing it to reveal his own faintly distorted reflection. He pauses, then narrows his eyes. His hand moves to the mirror’s edge, tugging it forward until it tilts at a sharp forty-five-degree angle.

A low, sudden sting of music cuts through the silence, heightening the tension—but the glass reflects only the empty room behind him. With a frustrated grunt and a defeated sigh, Montague’s shoulders slump as he exits the room.

Pulling the door closed behind him, he freezes when he notices there is no longer a placard there! Montague steps back, staring at the now-blank door where the nameplate for Rena Samaras had been just moments before. He glances at Rett, who tilts his head quizzically, his mechanical eye-beams dimming as if in contemplation.

Montague: No name. No presence.

His lips curl into a smirk, tinged with satisfaction. Montague adjusts his hat and sweeps an exaggerated bow toward the door, his voice dripping with theatrical gravitas as he straightens.

Montague: Ladies and gentlemen, the mystery of Rena Samaras: unworthy opponent, ethereal no-show, and now... an exorcised specter.

He turns on his heel, the soft whir of Rett’s servos echoing as the tiny android scuttles to his shoulder. Montague strides back toward the ring. Pausing at the edge of the curtains leading to the arena floor, Montague casts one last glance over his shoulder, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

Montague: This arena... is clean.

Debaters

The Aon Grand Ballroom at Navy Pier is alive with energy beneath the ballroom's grand, domed ceiling. With its lakefront views, sweeping windows, and elegant architecture, the ballroom feels like a grand stage set for drama. Rows of seats stretch toward the stage at the center, where two barstools stand illuminated under bright, theatrical lights. Above, the curved ceiling gives the room an open, arena-like feel, with acoustics that amplify every cheer, whistle, and laugh from the crowd.

Fans, many in UGWC t-shirts, fill nearly every seat. There's a faint scent of popcorn, pretzels, and the air off of Lake Michigan. The house lights fade, drawing all attention to the stools and the grand, colorful UGWC banner hanging behind them with the words ""UGWC’s Master Debaters," printed boldly in eye-catching gold.

From the left side of the ballroom, a spotlight bursts on as the music plays:

The Mothman practically floats out, twirling his cane and tipping his top hat to the audience members as he makes his way to his stool.

The Arsonist saunters onto the stage, his hands lazily pressed into his pockets. He offers a smile and a wink, before pulling his hands free in order to bend in a low bow to the crowd.

Without further ado, the first audience member rises, lifting a microphone to ask their question:

Concerned Citizen: I'm Ethan Thompson, 29, and a marketing specialist. I've been a huge Monty fan since I was a kid. Monty, many fans see your elaborate performances as 'style over substance.' How would you respond to critics who say your theatrics are just a cover for weaker wrestling skills?

Montague: This again… Listen, Ethan,  you must always play to your strengths. If you want to succeed as a janitor, for instance, and you’re better at cleaning windows than you are at mopping, then you’re going to make sure those windows are absolutely spotless. Does that mean the immaculate windows are a cover for a lack of mopping skills? Not at all. They’re unrelated. I do what I do best, and I do it better than anyone else. That doesn’t mean I’m hiding insecurity, I’m maximizing my talents.

Question from the Floor: Hi, I'm Maya Patel, a 25-year-old journalist covering local sports, and a big Seb fan. Seb, your rivalry with Donovan Hastings has been intense, but many fans see it as one-sided. How do you respond to critics who say you haven’t proven yourself against him?

Sebastian: I would beg the question, what the hell have you been watching? Donovan and I have faced each other three times this past few years, and do you know how those matches have ended? I retained my Chaos Championship in the first match, he barely survived me taking his Cross Hemisphere Title in the second, and I took that same Championship in the third. Donovan may have gotten the better of me in sneak attacks, but when we step into that ring? He will take any and all avenues available to try and beat me, because he can’t do it legitimately. And despite that, more often than not, I still kick seven shades out of him.

Wrestling Constituent: Hello, my name is Jesse Reed. I'm 42, own a business, and have followed wrestling for years. Monty, your ringmaster persona is fascinating, but you often rely on your allies in matches. Are you truly capable of winning on your own?

Montague: Let me answer your question with a question, Jesse. If I simply punched my clock, stepped into a ring, and defeated opponents left and right without variation, for say, I dunno, ballpark number off the top of my head… five hundred and four days straight… how bored would you be? All this value and pressure on winning. A binary, unimaginative standard by which to measure your career, in my opinion.

Attendee: Hey, Sofia Rodriguez here, 22 and a student. I've been a huge fan of Seb's work. Seb, you've dealt with every kind of competition pressure. How do you balance emotional vulnerability with being a cutthroat competitor?

Sebastian: *Smirk* With a smile and a good bottle of whiskey. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m okay with showing my emotions. And I’ve had more than enough reason to feel emotional this past year. More often than not, I’ll find away to put that to one side once I step into the thing - its almost cathartic. But then once the boots come off and the showers turn on, it all comes back. It has to - we’re human. What’s funny though? Is that I’ve found over time, people have tried to define me by my willingness to let my emotions out to play. But sooner rather than later, it backfires. Because if you’re making fun of me for being emotional, chances are you got beat by someone who’s emotional. My emotions make me stronger - sometimes they make me more cutthroat. But they always keep me in check.

Inquiring Mind: I'm David Lee, 38, a lawyer, and casual wrestling fan. Monty, you've lost to wrestlers like Sebastian Everett-Bryce many times. What have you learned from those losses, and do you think you have what it takes to beat him?

Montague: Let’s put to rest the assumption that Sebastian can’t be beaten. Not only is he not currently the vaunted Chaos Champion, but one of those Chaos reigns was cut short by yours truly, the Doctor-Professor himself. Of course I have what it takes to beat Sebastian, I’ve done it. Was there any education that came with it? Well, I learned that while he can be beat, it’s very hard for Sebastian to become beaten. You can put obstacles in his way, you can temporarily slow him down, you can even break his spirit. But it is nigh impossible to stop him. I have to begrudgingly respect that.

Member of the Public: Hi, Emily Chen, 28, graphic designer, and Seb fan. Seb, your in-ring character contrasts quite a bit with your real-life persona. How do you ensure your public image doesn’t negatively impact personal life?

Sebastian: I think that’s open to interpretation. I’m not just one thing - I can be the fool, I can be dramatic, I can be vengeful and I can be charming. All of that plays into who I am both in and outside of the ring - like I said earlier, I’m not afraid of any version of who I am. But facts are facts - this business does affect your personal life. And who I am with my friends is different to who I am with my family, because mostly, I wouldn’t choose the family I was born with. This career though, what we do? The stresses and strains of trying to be a success… It does negatively impact your personal life. Because no matter what choice you make, there are consequences. And it's impossible to compartmentalise it completely.

Participating Questioner: Hey, Ryan Hall here, 35, entrepreneur, and Monty supporter. Monty, as a former Champion, what makes you best for Cooperative Championships, given Lucy Wylde-level competition?

Montague: I would have to say, despite Sebastian’s claim, it’s quite easy to compartmentalize, when you do it with a ‘z’ instead of an ‘s’. Every Lucy Wylde match is tainted because it’s filtered through the lens of how it will impact whatever relationship is currently gnawing at her heart. Each week, both she and Sebastian have to weigh whether the choices they make between bells will follow them home, and they often do. I don’t have to worry in that regard, because my goal never changes. I prefer Jacky to accompany me to the ring, yes, but that’s because she uniquely respects that I’m not going to abandon my idiom because it might make things uncomfortable when I retreat to hearth and home.

Attendee: Hello, Ava Morales, 24, social media manager, Seb enthusiast. Seb, as a public figure, you face harsh criticism. How do you handle negative feedback, and does it affect performance?

Sebastian: Hold on, can I use the smile and whiskey answer again? *Chuckles*. Honestly, there’s nothing anyone can ever say about me that I haven’t heard from that little voice in the back of my head. I have no greater critic than myself, except maybe my father, but I don’t really listen to him anymore. I tend to believe that criticism is either the truth or lies. And if it’s true, that’s on me to fix, and if its lies then it’s on you for telling them. But if you think you’re going to tell me something I don’t know about myself, then you’re sadly mistaken. At best, you may shine a light on something I’ve kept in the shadows - but those kind of thoughts don’t live in the dark for long.

Julian Sanchez, Firefighter: Hey, Julian Sanchez, 40, firefighter, Monty fan. Monty, you’ve had violent matches. Are you just ‘hardcore’ or is there a deeper purpose?

Montague: *rolling his eyes* I guess I’m just that hardcore.

Starry-Eyed Fan: Hi, Lila Kim, teacher–

Montague: Wait, I wasn’t finished! Julian, I have to express doubt that you are really a Monty fan. It’s not about being ‘hardcore,’ it’s about being unpredictable. Expand your mind, my friend! My approach is far more than just the judicious use of foreign objects. Finding loopholes in the rules, creating distractions and misdirections, toying the format of championship reigns and established tournaments… I’m not ‘hardcore’, I’m chaotic.

Starry-Eyed Fan: Hi, Lila Kim, teacher, 26, Seb supporter. Seb, some argue you rely too heavily on teammates. What would you say to those who view you as unable to succeed solo?

Sebastian: I’d point to… Five hundred and four days as the UGWC Chaos Championship. I’d point to winning three of the four singles Championships in UGWC during a Grand Slam victory in which I never spent a day without a Championship. I may be standing here today as part of the greatest Cooperative team in the history of UGWC, but make no mistake, that doesn’t change the fact that I am still without a doubt the Best in the Business. And people here may not recognise the fact that I have won the highest honors, on my own, in Pro Wrestling Valor and XWF as well, but they were won by myself, without help from anyone. So, I guess you could say that being one of the greatest ever to pull on a pair of boots works for both singles and teams. I just do what I do - better than almost everyone else out there.

As Sebastian finishes, the Aon Grand Ballroom surges with more audience members trying to get their questions in. However, the town hall must come to a close, and ushers are busy collecting microphones from reluctant petitioners. The atmosphere remains charged, and despite the realization of disappointment, there's a sense of satisfaction in the air.

Sebastian and Montague stand to shake hands, each catching their breath from the heated back-and-forth that kept the crowd on the edge of their seats all evening. A few fans in the audience still hold up their hands, hoping for a last minute desperation question they can throw out, while others break free and begin filing out. Outside, the city lights of Chicago shine against the waters of Lake Michigan as the crowd spills out onto the pier.

MC77 - Reflect'd

"One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star" – Friedrich Nietzsche

The farms of Powdersville, SC barely cling to the shrinking green spaces left in the burgeoning suburban sprawl. White oaks, scarred but resilient—the ones that survived Helene–dot fields where dry grass is the only crop, and weather-beaten barns slowly collapse beneath the weight of time. Juxtaposed with these once-thriving centers for agriculture, gaudy, uniform housing developments perpetuate the institutions of homeowner’s associations, manicured lawns, and inflatable yard decorations.

Along one of these carefully planned cul-de-sacs, something is happening in front of the house with the least decorations. The curb inlet beneath the brown, plastic mailbox appears to be the source of the activity. The access cover clanks, its metal vibrating with each wobble, but doesn’t budge, and a human arm creeps out of the opening in the concrete to explore a bit. In the harsh, anti-diurnal blue streetlight, it couldn’t look more surreal. Eventually, the arm retracts, and a deafening boom heralds the lid flying into the air. It flips end over end in an arc that sends it splintering through a large “Pumpkin-Spice Up Your Life” sign that appears on at least four other porches.

From the maw left behind, The Mothman rises slowly as if being lifted mechanically. Montague's gaze lingered on the suburban landscape, his thoughts drifting to Ezra Wolf, the Red-Eyed Warrior. Their past encounters had left an indelible mark, and Montague couldn't help but wonder if Ezra's fixation on Sebastian's record would ultimately prove his undoing. When his feet clear the surface, he steps onto the street and strides toward the exit of the neighborhood.

Like most housing developments in the Upstate, Foxbrook Farms contains neither a brook nor a farm (jury’s out on if any foxes have been spotted). It also stands out as a symbol of sanitized modernity on an otherwise country highway curving between here and Berea. The Doctor-Professor now strolls this highway, devoid of traffic at this hour, gazing admiringly at the contrast in the pastoral setting in which he suddenly finds himself. He knows he’s moments from encountering yet another of the hastily-grown planned community, and for now relishes in the particular silence of an uninhabited stretch.

Then he fills that silence with his voice.

Montague: One would hope that ambition would drive an admirer of a legend to surpass that legend by doing something to set themself apart. Not by simply replicating their feats, hoping to eke out a marginal gain.Sebastian is, indeed, a living legend. However, merely mirroring his achievements, even if for a fraction longer, won't secure the Red-Eyed Warrior's iconic status in the annals of our history.

He pauses, sniffing the air as his eyes narrow and flick from side to side. As if pulled by the familiar aroma by the nostrils, Monty’s head leads his entire body to twist and then proceed in the complete opposite direction.

Montague: Wolf needs a realignment of his priorities. It’s infuriating to watch that much potential sit untapped, especially as this impulsive parvenu climbs on rungs of circumstance and good fortune. While he won’t actually eclipse the reign of the Chelsea Crippler, he’s making a real go of it. With only that singular focus, however, that’s all the reign will be remembered for. In emulating the legend, he forgets that glory lies not in duration, but in innovation. What a waste.

He passes Foxbrook Farms again without sparing it any of his valuable attention, but pauses a few yards further to cock his head with one eyebrow raised. Its counterpart joins it presently, and The Showman quickens his pace.

Montague: In that same vein, how much time will Ezra waste reminding me that he’s already defended against me recently? M ,The lessons from that evening will be lost on him, overlooked in his reflection. I warned Ezra back then that he was at a crossroads. He admiringly chose the path of more resistance, but learned absolutely nothing.

Before much longer, Montague comes around a hairpin turn to find a muddy field, the scent of kettle corn, and a blanket of fog that had to have been manufactured considering the lack of humidity since the hurricane passed through. Monty’s eyes light up, and he sprints toward the timber fence before vaulting over it into the field.

Slowly, admiring everything in detail as he goes, Montague steps through the gates of “Mad Hollow Haunted Farm”, noting the care taken to age the lumber and paint the giant panels of foam to resemble an ancient portcullis raised halfway. The silence instantly becomes something eerie, surrounding him like a comfortable shroud. There’s a vibration here, a residual exhilaration, despite the stillness that belies the bustle that brought this place to life only a few hours prior.

Enclosed by these buildings, the unseasonal heat of the late October weather causes sweat to bead across his forehead and over his neck. Signs announcing such scare zones as ‘Bloody Bayou’, ‘Slaughterhouse’, and ‘Haunted Harvest’ creak mysteriously while dried cornstalks, gathered around supporting beams, whisper despite the lack of breeze.

As Monty delves deeper into the attraction, the shadows grow longer and darker, the very night itself twisting around him. Beyond the axe-throwing range, a hearse stands at the entrance of ‘The Crematorium’, a large, ornately carved frame leaning askew against the windshield. Montague draws closer, curious about the tableau, and notices a significant scattering of mirror glass he hadn’t noticed in the darkness before.

The Doctor-Professor gazes up at the crematorium facade, realizing that it’s a fun house. In the open, shadowy second floor, he can make out rows of similarly sized and shaped frames, but can’t tell where the missing one might have fallen from.

Walking up to the hearse, Montague chuckles a bit.

Montague: What an appropriate display.

He runs his left hand lovingly over the bonnet of the dirty, black carriage.

Montague: The self-reflection that has been giving Ezra the drive to push past his inexperience and naivete, to form better alliances and seize each moment he’s put to the test, has been brought to a jarring halt by the unexpected appearance of the ferryman. What’s more, Ezra was tardy to Nora’s appointment with the collector. What a burden…

Montague's gaze falls upon the shattered mirror.

Montague: And now, the mirror lies broken, a reflection of Ezra's own fractured psyche. The self-doubt that once fueled his growth has given way to brash overconfidence.

He looks closer at the mirror frame, leaning in before rapping it with his kncukles. A flat smack echoes off the empty buildings around him. Nodding, he peers over the back of the frame, noticing the warped holes where the weight of the glass pulled the whole thing down.

Montague: Ah, crafted from cheap plastic instead of sturdy wood. A facade of elegance, masking a hollow core. What a waste.

He shakes his head sadly. The Showman's eyes rise to the crematorium facade, where the rows of frames stand like silent gargoyles. Soon the guard will change as the rest come falling down…

Montague: Ezra's recent successes have lulled him into complacency. He's forgotten the value of introspection.

With a calculated movement, Montague lifts the frame of the shattered mirror, and the reflections within its remaining fragments begin to distort and ripple.

Montague: It’s time for another lesson, Ezra. Your broken nature is not a weakness, but a strength. The shattered remnants of your self-reflection could reveal a new, twisted truth that would serve you well as you strive to overcome your grief with prestige, not to repeat Seb’s legacy, but to establish your own.

As Montague gazes into the mirror, the reflections transform, displaying a vivid and macabre scene. The haunted attraction, once deserted, now teems with life. Patrons scream with delight, fleeing from monstrous creatures. Strobes and lasers flash, casting an otherworldly glow. Montague's voice takes on a hypnotic quality.

Montague: Imagine it, Ezra: a world where your brokenness becomes the lens through which you perceive reality. The distortions, the cracks, the shattered remnants – all revealing a new landscape of possibilities.

The mirror's reflections seem to pulse with a spooky energy, as if beckoning for the viewer to embrace his fractured reality.

Montague's smile grows, his eyes glinting as his lips curl to reveal his teeth.

Montague: Come, Ezra, let’s shatter the illusions that bind you.

With that, the Mothman steps through the void in the center of the looking-glass, and doesn’t emerge from the other side. The frame falls against the hood of the hearse again, shaking the remaining shards free as the frame comes apart and clatters to the ground. Moments later, the silence is destroyed as the rest of the mirrors drop, one by one, to crash around the hearse.

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!