On a fine morning in the decrepit farmlands of Gnaw Bone, Indiana, Montague Cervantes found himself with an itch he couldn’t define. It ate at him throughout the morning, vexing his breakfast and spoiling his roommates.
Disturbed by this unexplainable urge, the Showman takes himself out to the fields and wanders aimlessly toward the copse of woods between this farm and the next. The sun casts feeble rays through twisted branches of gnarled trees as Montague adjusts his top hat, and steps past the property line with a mischievous glint in his eye.
His quest begins where rusty tractors and dilapidated barns stretch as far as the eye can see. Montague notices an old, half-buried wagon filled with discarded, broken objects. Somersaulting gracefully onto the wagon, he begins juggling mismatched objects - a rubber chicken, a rusty shovel, and a tire - to the bewildered gaze of a wandering raven.
Montague:No, no, Mr. Raven. My time with you is done. Your cousin is now my dance partner.
As Montague continues his impromptu performance, a rustling in the nearby woods catches his attention. He can't resist the allure of the unknown. With a flourish, he grabs a twisted mass of vines that are growing around what’s left of the wheels of the wagon. Tying it around a broken trowel, he leaps from the wagon and ventures deeper into the woods, cracking it with a dramatic flourish.
Within the woods, the atmosphere grows more surreal. He stumbles upon an abandoned, overgrown maze of cornfields. Tucking away his makeshift weapon, Montague grins.
Montague: What an excellent precursor to Spooky Season.
With exaggerated leaps and twirls, he tumbles through the maze, much like a graceful, if somewhat deranged, dervish.
Suddenly, he comes face-to-face with a life-sized scarecrow, its tattered clothes flapping in the wind.
Montague: Ah, there you are! Mr. Raven and I were just talking about you.
With a courtly bow, he offers his gloved hand to the scarecrow. To his surprise, the scarecrow responds with a forlorn, straw-filled handshake. Montague reacts with a concerned gasp.
Montague: My dear fellow, as your new partner, I hope you’ll forgive my boldness, but you've been in dire need of a change of scenery!
With that, he commences a whirlwind makeover, adorning the scarecrow with a glittering, sequined jester’s hat, oversized, motley shirt, commedia mask, battacio, and a red velvet cape–all of which he seems to pluck from the very air itself.
As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, Montague and his newfound friend–dubbed Sir Jace Scarecrowington–begin their adventure. Together, they explore the abandoned farmsteads, dancing in the moonlight amidst rusted tractors and rotting hay bales.
Their escapade eventually leads them to an old, creaking windmill at the heart of Gnaw Bone. With a mischievous grin, Montague ascends the rickety stairs.
Montague:Sir Scarecrowington, it's time to put on the grandest show of all!
He leaps from the top of the windmill, his cape billowing dramatically as he executes a flawless somersault, landing safely in a pile of hay.
Seeing this spectacle, Sir Jace makes up his mind to take his turn, and rushes for the windmill. When he reaches the top, he mocks crossing himself, then executes an awkward, boneless swandive that rapidly becomes a face-first freefall.
Monty winces as the scarecrow faceplants on the hard-packed, unworked earth beside the haystack. Its body accordions downward, collapsing its torso and legs into its neck. A moment later, the Doctor-Professor explodes in laughter at the performance of his new partner.
—
Montague Cervantes abides inside the windmill, the feeble light of an oil lamp casts a dim, eerie glow upon him.
Montague: Are you starting to appreciate the marvel of misrule, the carnival of perplexity, the maelstrom that is Tragedia del'Arte? Isn’t this fun?
Montague's voice resonates with pleasure and contentment.
Montague: Now you understand, we are the purveyors of pandemonium, the architects of bedlam, and the sovereigns of disorder. But, let us not omit the illustrious contributions of our co-conspirators in this narrative - The Raven and The Bogeyman, The Suplex Cops.
From behind and all around him, its source unseen beyond the halo of the lamp, a muted medley of murmurs and meager applause recognizes their newest partners.
Montague: I’m sure you both discerned long ago that the realm of professional combat has forever enshrined itself in spectacle, theatrics, and the unpredictable. As for Tragedia del'Arte, however, we endeavor to elevate it to new echelons of transcendence! And now, the two of you are inextricably entwined in the violent tapestry we continue to weave.
A charismatic grin crosses his face, an equal mix of rapturous devotee and practiced charlatan.
Montague: Merely weeks past, we partook in a high-flying spectacle and, amidst the pandemonium, what marvel transpired? In concert with my esteemed rival, Matt Knox, we ascended to the status of champions! Oh, the exquisite irony of it all!
An impish chuckle escapes his lips.
Montague: Then ensued the company's earnest, if clumsy, endeavor to redress the balance. Suplex del’Arte, defending their honor and title against erstwhile confederates, Team Boogerclown! And what came to pass? Further turmoil, of course. Team Boogerclown, the latest Cooperative Champions! How serendipitous!
Montague's eyes gleam like a mischievous conjurer’s.
Montague: JC, Matt Knox, your careers have been resplendent in the annals of valor and achievement. Yet, what transpires when you confront unbridled disorder? When you confront the tumult known as Tragedia del'Arte? Behold, your armor crumbles, my dear compatriots.
He leans closer to the camera, his timbre taking on a more fervent cadence.
Montague Cervantes: Do you now comprehend? The Cooperative Championships are trifles in the grand theater of pandemonium. What enthralls us is the tumult we've forced into your accord. We delight in the verity that you, once steadfast comrades, now grapple within the maelstrom of discord.
Montague's oratory reaches a zenith of intensity.
Montague Cervantes: In our next exciting production, the victor may elect their compatriot for the Cooperative Championships. Yet, remember this: within this realm, true “champions” are not created via the transactional exchange of gold. They’re birthed solely from the chaos of malefaction. Once again we convene to attest that upheaval alone persists, and within this entropy, Tragedia del’Arte reigns supreme!
Early on, I said I couldn’t bring myself to work with someone with such limited vision. A high-caliber opponent, to be sure, and a dangerous competitor. Far too driven by an obsession with gold for he and I to ever share a common goal.
But then came Wrestlestock… an event where an abundance of opportunity for achievement presented itself. While I bet on one single race, The Raven threw his hat into any ring that would have him. Five matches, was it?
There’s no doubt Knox was the MVP of Wrestlestock, if not at least on the level with Larry Tact. That’s exposure you can’t buy without shedding blood for it.
The sun sets over the Amargosa Valley, the Bullfrog Hills casting long shadows across the desert. Nevada’s gold rush had scattered ghost towns throughout the state, but one of the most recognizable is Rhyolite.
Crumbling sandstone facades dot the landscape like the sun-bleached skeletons of fallen titans. Thousands of ancient tin cans, blackened by heat and age, collect in gullies and under the sparse scrub. A house made entirely of glass bottles mortared together shimmers eerily in the last orange rays of the dying daylight. Far to the south, phantom sculptures frozen in time rise from the hardpan.
Inside the remains of the Cook Bank building, Montague Cervantes, Jordana Andrews, and Rett sit in camping chairs on top of the vaults. Leaning forward uncomfortably, Jordana pulls her Survey Corps jacket around tighter, turning her collar up against the desert wind.
Jordana: It’s unsettling out here. We should move into the train depot for the evening.
Monty scoffs.
Montague: Where’s your sense of adventure?
Jordana: When you invited me to accompany you on vacation, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.
The Showman shrugs.
Montague: The Underlook leads you to where you need to be. Always.
Rett:Rett!!
Monty’s agent fixes him with a side glare.
Jordana: Meaning?
Tilting his head a little, Montague pauses to decide how to put it into words.
Montague: I could try to explain it… poorly… but I’ve come to understand that the passages under the farmhouse sort of… move around me depending on what I need at the moment.
Jordana: For UGWC?
The Doctor-Professor chuckles.
Montague: Sometimes. I’ll be honest, I don’t always understand the lesson that’s being provided.
She nods as if she understands, but then asks;
Jordana: So, when we came up out of that defunct mine up the hill, what clued you in that we needed to camp here?
Montague half-rolls his eyes.
Montague: I don’t know that we do, for sure, but there’s a lot going on out here. Something is going to happen, can’t you feel the anticipation in the air? It might come from the Goldwell sculptures, or up in the Montgomery Shoshone mine, or even the Bottle House. What I do know is we’re not going to know it’s happening if we’re cloistered inside the boarded up train depot.
Jordana sighs in resignation.
Jordana: How cold is it supposed to get out here at night?
Montague: Freezing desert nights are a very common myth that is still being perpetuated. Desert nights are not cold, in fact it’s still hot further down into Death Valley. Up here in the hills though, it’s refreshingly cool at night, even comfortable.
When she doesn’t show any sign of relief at this, he adds;
Montague: I can build a fire in one of the vaults when it gets darker, if you like.
Jordana: That would be helpful…
Rett: Rett!!
He smiles, knowing it’s the light she actually wants. Imagine someone in his inner circle being afraid of the dark… not that he’d ever tell her that he knew.
#
In the dead quiet of the night, a lone coyote belts out a mournful wail. Soon after, the sounds of metallic clanks begin to echo off the hills, along with a woman’s voice, which swears loudly;
Voice: Ah, fuck!
Rett: Rett!!
Jordana and Monty are on their feet and alert in an instant. From within the vault, where the campfire has dwindled down to embers, Jordana calls out to Monty.
Jordana: What was that?!
Montague: Someone’s out here.
He scoops up Rett, placing him on his shoulder, and climbs down from the perch where he’d been dozing. Without warning, he darts into the inky blackness of the desert.
Jordana: Montague! Wait!
Thankful she’s wearing boots and not high heels, she takes off in pursuit.
A blessing arrives in the form of the nearly-full moon cresting the edge of the cloud which had been hiding it, and Jordana can make out the Mothman’s cape, billowing as he races past the remains of the Overbury building. As Rhyolite Road veers to the southwest, Monty veers to his left at the gutted schoolhouse and crosses the road. He continues southward toward the Bottle House, and Jordana risks allowing herself to feel relief that he might be stopping there.
It’s a premature feeling.
Just before another gray cloud moves in to cover the moon, Montague bolts past the Bottle House, giving no sign of slowing.
In the total darkness of this wasteland, she’s forced to rely on her ears, straining to catch her client’s footfalls, or the occasional call of his robot kitty.
The problem is, those metal clangs ring out like hammers falling on her skull more often than she hears her quarry. Each time, Jordana winces and curses along with the rough, but feminine voice.
Voice: Shit!
Jordana: Shit!
Their voices echo until they’re punctuated by:
Rett: Rett!!
Laughing despite herself, the absurdity of the situation she’s in hitting her like a pillow to the face, Jordana slows to a brisk walk to catch her breath.
Jordana: If I can hear Rett… then they can hear me…
After panting for another minute, she leans back and cups her hands around her cheeks, intending to bellow out to Montague until he answers. Instead, she freezes, eyes wide in panic, as an amorphous form towers above her. The moon makes a return appearance, revealing the figure in stark relief, a pickaxe in its upraised arms.
She can also now see the giant penguin behind it, and realizes where she is. This is the sculpture garden. Chuckling with relief, she wanders south, assuming that’s the general direction Montague was heading. She’s fascinated by how the Ghost Rider and Last Supper sculptures glow in the moonlight.
Rett: Rett!!
Daring to hope she was catching up, she spies the red glow of Rett’s dot matrix eyes peering back at her from the distance. It’s eerie as hell. It also indicates that Montague is no longer moving.
With a renewed effort, Jordana picks up the pace again, determined to catch up this time.
There’s a stitch in her side when she catches up to Montague, who barely acknowledges her presence at first. As she stands there, impatiently catching her breath, the Showman finally gives a theatrical sigh.
Montague: Welcome to Bullfrog-Rhyolite Cemetery!
Straightening up, she looks around, noticing tall, thin slabs rising from inside cages. They lean this way and that, like broken, rotted teeth. Some are wooden, some sandstone, very few granite.
Montague: That voice we’ve been hearing… that husky, woman’s voice with the colorful language? It must be Panamint Annie!
Rett: Rett!!
Jordana: Peppermint Pattie?
Montague: Panamint Annie, a tenacious female prospector who thrived here despite the dried up gold mines. That’s who we’re looking for.
Jordana: How will we know which one is hers?
Montague: It’s the one with all the tributes.
They split up and wander about, Jordana following Rett to make use of his eyebeams. Soon, they come to a pile of stones beneath a Joshua tree. Scattered all over the mound are potted plants, liquor bottles, and women’s high heeled shoes.
Jordana: Montague! I found it!
The Doctor-Professor joins her at the foot of Mary Elizabeth Madison’s grave, reading the headstone in reverent silence.
Jordana: 1910 to 1979? She moved here after the mines went bust?
Montague: And prospered. She was very progressive for the early twentieth century, and very enterprising. Anyone who crossed her or told her no found themselves cut under her blistering tongue. She pulled no punches and suffered no man who saw her as inferior. It wasn’t about the gold, little as she found here, it was about turning a hostile environment into her vision board. You have to admire that.
Looking at her client she makes up her mind.
Jordana: I think I know what you need. Can we make a stop on the way back to Gnaw Bone later today?
Montague studies her face, intrigued that she’s puzzled out the lesson.
Montague: Sure. Let’s get some rest.
Jordana: We’re sleeping in the Bottle House!
For what it’s worth to anyone, he’s earned my respect.
I’m not ready to sing his praises, by any means. He still needs perspective, he still needs… something creative.
The Suplex Cops is a start, tame as it may be. It does indicate a spark of cynical expressiveness in there somewhere.
I’m sure all Matt sees in our next dance is my glittering belt, and he can’t see beyond it. This could be the start of so much more.
He just needs that spark cultivated… he just needs… the proper motivation…
Stacks upon stacks of shelves, in row after row, stretching onward into what felt like an endless void. Montague has no idea how many there are, far more than he had time to count.
Lining the shelves are infinite ranks of small, pint-sized jars set about two inches apart. They’re each lit from within by a dull, almost imperceptible glow, but it’s not enough to bring any sort of illumination to the surroundings. Cervantes still finds himself reaching out, grasping for the end of the next shelf, waving back and forth until his fingertips find purchase.
The ends of the rows carry no clues for how the jars are arranged or organized, so the Showman is forced to walk the length of each one, studying the jars as he passes. Eventually, he pauses in front of one glass and smirks.
Montague: This is how debtor’s prisons work in the Underlook.
He draws the jar closer, and inside, a dark mass begins to materialize. Hungrily, he bares his teeth in a hideous smile.
Montague: This one owes only a small debt, but she’s in the red nonetheless. It wasn’t long after she was marked as one of the greatest Chaos Champions of all time that she wandered into relative obscurity once again, at least as far as UGWC is concerned. I don’t know a lot about her, but they say she was an absolutely unhinged animal in the ring. That’s the High Society way of saying she was innovative or inventive in a way they didn’t approve. I can relate.
The mass grows more and more solid as he speaks, until eventually it takes on a vaguely humanoid shape. It’s hard to tell as, now that he’s examining one up close, he can see that the glass is lightly frosted. Another moment goes by, and a perfect female shape materializes, a silhouette with its fists pressed against the glass over its head.
Montague: Wrestlestock might be a chance for her to repay the debt. You see, LACKLAN robbed us of years of a worthy Chaos Champion. She left us without a suitable replacement. It wasn’t until Tempest, Sebastian, and I took the division under our guidance that the championship was raised to the stature it boasted when she last defended it.
Carefully, Monty places the jar back on the shelf.
Montague: Given the circumstances, it’s far more appropriate that Sebastian should call in this debt himself, rather than having her return to a proving grounds of sorts to earn the opportunity. If Konrad’s recent accusations carry any weight, though, Seb’s not going to bother.
The Mothman moves on quietly, scanning up, down, and eye-level. He draws up short as one of his eyebrows rises, and backpedals to look again at a jar on his right, about hip-high. He clucks his tongue and reaches for it, tilting it slightly side to side as if trying to activate the figure within.
Montague: I would have thought your debt paid in full, Scarecrow. I’ve taken a page from your, erm, journal, and taken the most opportune moments to collect what I’m owed. It’s been a pleasure reminding you why you once feared my name at the top of the marquee. I’m happy to continue working down the lien, if there are still a few pounds of flesh in our ledger…
A smirk crosses his face.
Montague: Or maybe this isn’t my debt at all? This might be the debt The Scarecrow has owed the entire industry for a long time: his retirement.
He replaces the jar again, and continues searching. Here and there he pauses, squinting at a jar that looks just like the millions all around him. Eventually, he gives a small shake of the head and moves on.
A few rows down the line, the Doctor-Professor calls out.
Montague: Ah! Mr. Wolf!
He holds the jar up to eye-level, balancing it on his left palm. The featureless figure inside rests against the glass, one leg out and one knee pulled up. It has one arm draped across that knee in a very relaxed, contented pose.
Montague: Your debt is different from the others, you see. It’s a gentlemen’s agreement, a violent handshake, which must be honored. The Bogeyman paid you a favor by introducing adversity into your astounding success. Now that he’s taken everything from you, you owe him the debt of gratitude.
Monty taps the glass with his free fingers, causing it to tip precariously before righting itself.
Montague: Unchallenged success prevents growth, if it goes on too long. Thanks to JC, you have a chance to reach way down and add more depth to your story. How will you ever repay him?
His eyes light up.
Montague: With violence. Face it, Mr. Wolf. You owe him.
As he moves away from Ezra’s jar, he speaks a bit louder, as if addressing all the figures within eyesight.
Montague: Will I find debts owed by all of my Wrestlestock Open opponents? I’m sure they’re here. Most of us take more than we’re given, as is our nature. I’d wager we all have receipts we either enjoy having as leverage, or hope to cash in as soon as possible. Unfortunately, I’m not as familiar with them. Your Atara Themis, Craig Cogan, Blakely, Avenger, Cache… I may have passed them already and didn’t know.
He pauses and shrugs.
Montague: How could I? I’m comfortable with that, though. It saves me from having to force a critique, comparison, or care for someone I know nothing about. Going on cold has never made me shy away from the spotlight. Oh, there’s Larry Tact.
This time he merely points as he passes. The figure inside appears to be going through a vigorous exercise routine. Montague gives him a bemused look before turning away.
Montague: Who is he working to pay off? Rydell?
Before he can finish the thought, he stops dead. His gaze drops into a Kubrick stare as a grinch smile curls up his cheeks.
Montague: There you are.
He steps to a shelf opposite from Tact’s and gingerly lifts a jar with the fingertips of both hands. Like a petulant child torturing a trapped frog, the Showman begins to shake the jar, causing the materializing figure inside to bounce like a ragdoll off the bottom and sides of the glass. The faint glow begins to flicker.
Montague: You owe me another dance, Mr. Poe. If we don’t cross paths in the tournament, it will have been a colossal waste of savagery. How unfortunate for the opponents we’ll trample in pursuit of one another if we only pass like ships in the night. Oh no, make no mistake, Mr. Poe. I auditioned to perform in this tournament for a chance to share the stage with you again.
Vamos a bailar, Señor Poe.
He drops the jar on the shelf haphazardly, causing it to land on its side and roll. It knocks into another jar, stopping, but knocking that jar to the floor. As Montague marches away through the shelves, the other jar shatters, releasing a gray mist into the aether.
When I enter, I am mildly surprised to find the little girl isn’t alone.
To my left is a four-legged creature covered in a thick coat of fur in patches of blue and pink. I can’t make out any eyes or nose, but it has a cavernous mouth filled with broad, blunt teeth. When I first notice it, the creature is crouched, as if ready for a pounce, against the top of the wall near the ceiling.
To my right floats a roundish entity floating with the help of three rubbery bladders extending from the top. Below, eleven individual tentacles hang, terminating in a cluster of opposable digits.
Finally, on the girl herself, her outfit seems to morph and flow around her as if it, too, is alive. Before I’d noticed the wall-climber, she was wearing an unzipped red hoodie over a yellow shirt with a white daisy on it and dark jeans. The next time I looked, the red jacket had become an oversized, knitted sweater and the jeans were now black leggings. There seems to be a low, rhythmic, auditory vibrating coming from the clothing.
The wall-climber descends and slinks over in front of the little girl, who carefully climbs up to sit upon its back before addressing me.
Girl: Are you a researcher?
Montague: You could say that.
I take in her unique physical characteristics; her hair is pink and brittle, her expression shy but curious, but it’s her eyes that stand out.
Her heterochromia presents as one normal, green eye and one eye with a yellow iris and black sclera. I note how she turns slightly to that side, to give the green eye the full view of her visitor.
Girl: What would you like to know?
Montague: I was told I could visit for some musical inspiration.
The girl covers her mouth as she lets out a tinkling giggle. I indulge her mirth with a soft smile, and wait patiently for her to answer.
Girl: Stand over there.
She indicates the corner where her mount had recently been crouching, and I follow her directions by moving toward it. I turn, expectantly, when she narrows her eyes as if concentrating on me.
After a few seconds, the floating creature begins to drift my way, its movement not betraying any sort of purposeful destination as it wafts this way and that on its way to me. Eventually, the being hovers over my head, its strange appendages caressing my neck, temples, and the base of my skull.
Gradually, a reedy but complex music begins to emanate from within the creature.
The Showman feels the music working its way through him, up from inside his stomach and up to where the tentacles touch his skin. Eventually, inspiration kicks in, and he begins to recite.
Montague: Conquest, such a military word. The first defense has occurred.
The second comes with a Blade
And all the comments he’s previously made.
We can count them all, can’t we, friends?
Another attack on Beretta, at my hands.
Interfering in his business
Has got John on his defenses.
Is it a wonder no one can see him?
This gimmick belongs in a museum.
He dreams of a golden shovel,
But winning matches proves too much trouble.
Another step on the Path has me excited,
But being honest I’ve been invited
To a break before the festival.
Blade can’t compare to the rest of all
The opponents against whom
I’ll defend against as I resume
Answering challenges on my way to cinco.
It kind of makes you think, though.
Is the Mothman truly abandoned?
Is this a gift from his Consortium companion?
As always, perhaps time will tell.
For now, I introduce John Blade to Hell.
The tentacles disengage as the creature floats upward a few inches. All eleven appendages curve upward and begin to snap. The little girl and her mount join in, all three congratulating my improvised verse.
As they step into the dimly lit corridor, Montague can't help but feel a sense of unease. The air is heavy with anticipation, and each step echoes ominously. Holding a flashlight, Holden leads the way, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of personnel. Montague's heart races as he imagines what sort of threats lurk in the shadows.
Suddenly, Holden stops, his gaze fixed on one of the many heavy, steel doors lining the halls. The number “173” is clearly stenciled in large, white letters on the door.
Holden: It's an animated statue that can snap the necks of any living beings when not directly observed. It's unsettling, to say the least.
Montague raises an eyebrow, his eyes darting from the door to Holden and back again.
Holden: Shrug. That’s what it is.
Without any further explanation, the hipster turns and continues their journey. Montague steps lively to catch back up. —
—
The contrast in styles for this match is unmistakable.
You have two creative types, known for their unorthodox fighting techniques and unpredictable shenanigans, and two straightforward types, known for routine combat and winning a lot.
Who you root for in this contest is going to depend largely on what you look for when you set out to be entertained by professional wrestling.
Do you come to see an exciting, one of a kind performance, delivered by artists who see the whole world as a stage? Are you hoping for death-defying stunts and narrow escapes? Are you desperate for something as surprising as it is intriguing?
Then you’ve ordered your Battleground ticket weeks in advance, and now you’re eagerly counting the days until your chance to see Holden Orson and Montague Cervantes!
Perhaps you’re the type who will purchase your ticket at the door, miss the opening dark matches by standing in line for watered down beer, and just wants to watch grown men punch each other for a while?
You fully expect JC and Matt Knox to retain their freshly reminted golden plates.
—
—
The next time Holden brings them up short, he shines his light on a door reading “914”.
Holden: This is one I’d love to mess around with. A massive clockwork machine that can alter the properties of any object placed inside it.
Montague: Sounds chaotic.
He reaches for the one of the many bolts latching the door, but feels Holden’s hand on his arm.
Holden: The results are enticingly unpredictable, sure, but I’d still prefer to test it in as controlled an environment as possible. At any rate, that’s not why we’re here.
Once again, he departs without making sure Montague is following.
Further down the corridor, the curiosity building in the Doctor-Professor’s chest becomes too much, and he clears his throat loudly. Holden pauses and shines the light back, seeing that Monty has stopped outside a door labeled “426”.
Orson looks at Montague quizzically, causing the Conquest Champion to tilt his head slightly toward the door.
Montague: Shall we go in?
Holden: Smirk. There’s nothing in there but Dave.
Monty starts, his brow furrowing.
Montague: Rydell?
Holden chuckles.
Holden: No, it’s a toaster. Named Dave. Kind of boring, actually. I doubt you’d enjoy it.
After his mouth opens and closes slowly, the Showman blinks and steps away from the door.
Montague: Are we going to check out any of these rooms?
Holden: You wanted an effective way to approach the challenge that we’ve somehow stumbled into, so that’s what we’ve come for. When we get to the room they keep it in, we’ll enter.
Cervantes sighs and nods, continuing to follow Holden through the facility.
—
—
Personally, I’ve enjoyed the few interactions I’ve had with JC this year. He’s just the type of measuring stick by which anyone worth their salt would be proud to compare themselves.
I know for a fact that some competitors quail when they see their name opposite his on the card. Who could blame them? He’s a beast in the ring, a real monster. He’s left dozens of bodies broken and bleeding in his wake. I’ve never had the pleasure of witnessing it myself, but I’m not entirely convinced JC couldn’t kick someone’s head off, if he really tried.
Others feel their heart rate quicken for an altogether different reason; they recognize the bump in influence when you conquer a monster like that. People don’t forget when you fight a grizzly bear with your bare hands and live to tell about it. They don’t forget when you assassinate an evil dictator. And they don’t forget when you beat JC.
You can imagine, then, why Matt Knox is so confident, since he gets to lace up his boots beside the Bogeyman.
You’d think I’d remember someone with the moniker of “The Raven,” but sadly, I don’t. It seems he might have been in the troupe that Sebastian and Duncan tried to introduce back when the Astro Creeps were stealing UGWC out from under everyone, but I don’t think I ever saw any of them after that. Talk about ineffectual…
I’d waste time wondering why this gentleman is so angry at me, but from what I’ve seen, he seems angry at literally everyone.
Including JC.
—
—
Encountering one room containing an unfathomable enigma after another, Holden and Monty trek further and further into the building, eventually ascending several flights in their search. From time to time, Holden pauses to share his favorite anomalies, only to move on quickly without exploring it. Monty occasionally indicates a door whenever he begins to feel as though they’re never going to reach the one Holden brought them here for.
Holden: “999” is this blob of slime that apparently has psychoactive effects when it touches you. It can calm any emotions and bring on euphoria…
Montague: When you touch it, you mean?
Holden: Hmm?
Montague: You said ‘when it touches you.’ You mean when you touch it, right?
Holden: No, if you go in there, it will come to you.
Montague: That… ok, I want it.
Holden: Bet you do…
Montague: What’s this one?
He indicates a door with “504” stenciled on it.
Holden: Exploding tomatoes.
Montague: Pull the other one.
Holden chuckles.
Holden: I’m not kidding. They explode immediately upon someone in their vicinity expressing any sort of dissatisfaction.
Monty’s mouth drops open.
Montague: That’s perfect! As dour as our opponents can be, they’ll be covered in explosive ketchup in no time.
Holden: Well, as far as I understand, we’re not competing under Chaos rules.
The Mothman’s face falls.
Montague: Pity. What about that one?
He points out a door with the numbers “682” written on it.
Holden: Best to steer clear of that one. It’s an unkillable dinosaur.
Montague: Holden, I’m afraid you’re going to have to show me some of these if you expect me to believe you.
Holden: I’m not here to convince you, Montague. I’m here to find a strategy.
Monty shakes his head.
Montague: Very well.
They walk on.
—
—
That’s one of the many unfortunate ramifications of being part of the High Societies in this industry. The anger.
The Raven is the poster child for everything we fight to defeat in this business. He’s obsessed with winning and championships. Look at recent footage of him, it’s all he can talk about.
This should come as no surprise; if he’s part of Sebastian’s circle–the ones who feel like our worth is only measured in how many companies you work for, how many likes you can collect on Twitter, and how much gold you’re now obligated to carry with you to every show.
When you’re driven by such fleeting and forgettable accolades, you can’t be blamed when a profound sense of discontent is your default mood. The braggadocio isn’t an effective mask when your bellicosity can clearly be seen through it.
The best of us understand that the outcome of the match is secondary to the journey, the story told in pursuit of that outcome, the emotional connection with the audience. Boastfully listing off your accomplishments over and over not only reveals your lack of humility and self-awareness, it indicates a compensation for something you’re missing.
Which is meaning.
I’ve taken a leap of faith by giving many of my opponents the benefit of the doubt this year, including JC. I simply can’t pay that same respect to Matt Knox. He’s no doubt an accomplished fighter; even if I couldn’t recall his name at the time, he won the Survival of the Fittest tournament and became the second Keyblade Master of 2023. He’s locked in his chance to headline Horizons, and you can’t get much more influential than that.
Unless something changes, Knox headlining Horizons will result in the most forgettable Horizons in this company’s history. The self-hate and rage he carries around is infectious; even JC, who is seeing a sort of Renaissance in his UGWC legacy, is starting to slip back into coming across like an aimless brute, mindlessly throwing fists and kicks in every direction hoping he hits something. Lucky for him, so far he has, every time.
If their team-up isn’t ended in short order, JC will go back to just being another belt-collecting, Twitter-camping, audience-alienating fighter with a carbon-copy personality unable to deal with losing to anyone with a modicum of charisma.
We’ll hold out hope for JC, but in the meantime, we’ll focus on delivering captivating performances, creating compelling storylines, and connecting with the fans on a deeper level. We’ll dampen their egos by having as much fun as we choose at Battleground, no matter the outcome.
Enough of the misplaced priorities. Wrestling is an art, and the greatest artists are the ones who leave a lasting impact, not just on the record books but on the hearts and minds of the people who watch them.
—
—
Holden: Here it is!
They approach a door that, to Montague, looks like the dozens they’ve passed already, except this one has the number “1981” emblazoned across it. Monty waits patiently as Holden fiddles with the relatively simple lock.
Once he's jimmied the latch, he swings the door outward and gestures for Montague to enter. The Showman steps in cautiously, eyes cautiously scanning the room as they light up with anticipation.
In the center of the room is an analog television ratchet-strapped to a rolling cart. On the shelf beneath the TV, some sort of video player sits with a single cassette tape on top.
Montague: Is that…?
Holden approaches with a look of awe.
Holden: A Betamax player.
Monty nods sagely. Of all the fascinating objects here, of course Holden was only interested in the archaic technology. He reaches for the case on top and pulls it out, reading the white label on which has been written with felt tip pen:
'RONALD REGAN CUT UP WHILE TALKING.'
Montague: They spelled it like The Exorcist.
Holden: Eye roll.
He grabs the betamax tape and loads it with his left hand, while turning on the TV with his right. He and Montague both back up to a comfortable viewing distance, and watch as the 40th president takes the podium.
Reagan: Thank you… Thank you very much…Thank you very much…Thank you very much…and, Reverend Clergy all, and Senator Hawkins, distinguished members of the Florida congressional delegation, and all of you: I can’t tell you how you have warmed my heart with your welcome. I’m delighted to be here today.
If you’re unfamiliar, this is the beginning of Reagan’s infamous “Evil Empire” speech, delivered in 1983, in which Reagan justifies the Cold War due to the Soviet Union’s ungodly Communist regime. It’s a speech that both Montague, being in his late forties, and Holden, being a veteran, are familiar with. At least, they’re familiar with the first seventy seconds. After that, the speech right angles into a word salad that would make John Blade’s battle raps intelligible.
Reagan: I’ve seen bodies burning by the thousands out there. Inhuman suffering. They eat the flesh and suck the marrow from their bones. Women, children, indigent, disabled… every color and creed, no one is excluded.
Holden glances over at Monty to gauge his reaction, but the Mothman only stares, wide-eyed at the screen, as a disbelieving smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
Reagan: When they put them in the trunks, they tie their wrists and ankles with wires that cut their flesh. You can imagine the taste as they force them eat the coronavirus vaccines, how they tear–
Montague: Did he just say…
Holden: Mm hmm
Reagan: And they packed three or four of them per box, with small holes drilled into the wood. This is happening at every port in the world, trading their bodies for cash and–
Monty gasps when a crescent-shaped wound suddenly opens at the top of Reagan’s left cheekbone and begins to slowly weep red tears.
Reagan: The things they put into this drink, it’s worse than the water in Flint, Michigan. But the teenagers buy it up like candy–
Montague: Ok… Holden, what is this? How could he know about those things?
Before Holden can explain, a red flower blooms behind his power tie, spreading as the hidden chest wound bleeds out. The Doctor-Professor stares incredulously as Dutch continues to orate while he steadily falls apart.
Holden: The wounds, like the words of his speech, change every time the tape is played. And look…
He points in the background to where the clergy men and women are arranged behind him. In the back row, seemingly unnoticed by its neighbors, a figure is cloaked in black, with a conical hood covering its entire head.
Holden: Whatever that is, it only appears in some playbacks, and in a different place each time.
Monty observes Reagan’s right eye suddenly burst from its socket, lying against his cheek like a half-cooked over easy egg.
Montague: That’s all curious, of course, but he’s referencing events that happened almost forty years after this was recorded.
Holden: Oh he’s predicted the outcomes of elections, wars, the tragic deaths of public figures, natural disasters… Sometimes he even predicts events before they happen.
Montague: That’s insanely useful. Has he ever predicted lottery numbers?
Holden: Scoff.
Picking the Betamax cassette case up again, Monty begins examining it inside and out.
Montague: Is this going to set off any alarms when we take it?
Holden’s head snaps toward Montague. On the screen, Reagan is gripping the podium so tightly his knuckles are turning white. Most likely, this is due to his left leg having been severed just below the knee, as it is now lying bloody on the stage next to the podium.
Holden: We’re not taking it, Montague. That’s the quickest way to wind up a D-Class personnel around here. Trust me, you don’t want that.
On the recording, the crowd has begun to applaud as the president collapses with the force of being struck with a sledgehammer. Holden reaches out and stops the player, then presses rewind.
Holden: We’re here to observe and, hopefully, get a clue for how to approach the Cooperative Champions at Battleground.
The second watch through is much the same as the first; Reagan begins the familiar speech, only for it to devolve into vague doom and gloom talk after the first full minute. Five minutes in, the wounds begin again, this time with his teeth falling out still covered in his oral viscera. Along the way, Mr. Trickle Down describes horrific assaults, mass casualties, and weather events both the entertainment professionals can remember.
Reagan: And they were, one and all, in their Nikes and black clothing, poisoned and asphyxiated, with black cloths over their heads. And then the tomatoes, the exploding tomatoes, drove the angry ones back. They put their heads on spikes and placed them around the–
Montague: Wait! Rewind it!
Holden: It’s no good rewinding, it will just play different words. But I heard it, too. Sigh.
Montague races out of the room without wasting any time trying to convince Holden. The hipster shakes his head and ejects the Betamax to place it back in its case. For a moment he entertains the idea of abandoning Monty to become a disposable asset in the facility’s roster, but ultimately decides the Showman has been good to him the last few months. With another spoken sigh, he exits the room, trying to work out how the two of them will smuggle the fruits out.
