Jordana Andrews, dressed in her lolita black dress, knee high sheer stockings, headband and cropped white wig, is a perfect depiction of 2b from Nier Automata. She strides through a crooked corridor in the farmhouse in Gnawbone, and raps on a cracked and peeling brownish-orange door. Flakes of ancient paint break off with each knock and scatter at her heeled feet, causing her to step back gingerly to avoid getting any on her them. From within, a voice responds.
Montague: Come in.
She pushes the door, which is barely held in the door frame, and comes upon a curious scene. Montague, his customary stop hat and ringmaster's coat draped over a nearby chair, is clicking and popping his tongue and lips, leading Dunkin' through a series of acrobatic exercises. At the Doctor-Professor's guidance, the capuchin monkey backpedals atop a cardboard cylinder, driving it forward to meet an endtable. From there, Dunkin' somersaults through a plastic hoop held by a stand on the table, and lands on his feet on a cushion that sits on the floor below the other side of the table.
As Montague claps, Jordana notices that Rett has been watching the entire proceeding carefully, his red, dot-matrix eyes rapidly alternating through a series of simple shapes. Montague had recently explained to her that the sequence meant that the cat-cyborg hybrid was processing the input he was receiving.
Montague turns to Rett.
Montague: Alright Rett, your turn.
The Showman gestures toward the set up as Dunkin' dutifully pushes the cardboard cylinder back across the room.
Rett: Rett!
With that, the cyborg cat turns and lights up the cardboard tube with it's eyebeams. Within miliseconds, the cylinder ignites with flame. Jordana gasps as Montague dives to smother the flame, but Rett is on a roll. He turns toward the plastic hoops and scans it, one centimeter at a time, de-rezzing it as if this were Tron, erasing it from existence one pixel at a time. Montague begins to shout incoherently, but before he can express a command to stop him, Rett's eyebeams explode the cushion in a mushroom cloud of feathers.
Rett: Rett!
Montague and Jordana share a look.
Jordana: Well, that was...
She doesn't have a chance to react fully before the door flies open, and Terrance, the dwarf from the Cabinet of Outcasts, advances into the room hefting a silver serving tray above his head. Jordana notes that the tray holds a selection of plain, unseasoned chicken strips and an unsliced glob of unidentifiable, processed meat byproduct. One of the plain, white strips has a tiny fork stuck into it. She also doesn't miss that the oversized, pink turtleneck he wears is embroidered with the name "Seb-I-Am".
Montague: That Seb-I-Am. I do not like that Seb-I-Am.
Terrance: Do you like grilled strips and spam?
Jordana crosses her arms and sighs, realizing that she's going to have to sit through this before she can speak to Montague. She makes her way to the chair, moving Montague's hat to the table as she sits and crosses her right leg over her left. Montague, not registering her with a look, plucsk the hat and places it on his head.
Montague: I do not like them Seb-I-Am. I do not like grilled strips and spam.
Terrance takes the tray in both hands and shifts it left and right to the extent of his reach.
Terrance: Would you like them here or there?
Montague: I would not like them here or there. I would not like them anywhere. I do not like grilled strips and spam, I do not like them, Seb-I-Am!
Terrance places the tray on his head, balancing it with ease. He rests his right elbow in his left palm and strokes his chin with his right forefinger and thumb. Eventually, he raises an index finger in an 'a-ha' gesture.
Terrance: Would you like them while doing Twitters, arguing humility with one James Edwards?
Montague: I do not like them doing Twitters, arguing humility with one James Edwards. I would not like them here or there. I would not like them anywhere. I do not like grilled strips and spam, I do not like them, Seb-I-Am!
Terrance begins to pace, the tray never wobblying on his head.
Terrance: Would you like them eating with Sloane, platonically sharing a mutual home?
Jordana snorts.
Montague: I do not like them eating with Sloane, platonically sharing a mutual home. I would not like them doing Twitters arguing with James Edwards. I would not like them here or there. I would not like them anywhere. I do not like grilled strips and spam, I do not like them, Seb-I-Am!
The dwarf leaps onto the table where Rett had just recently vaporized a plastic hoop. He spreads his arms confidently, while the chicken and spam remain delicately balanced.
Terrance: Would you, could you with the Piercing jerk, while you shill for his Network?
Montague: I would not, could not with the Piercing jerk, while I shill for his Network. I would not eating with Sloane, platonically sharing a home. I would not doing Twitters, arguing with James Edwards. I would not like them here or there. I would not like them anywhere. I do not like grilled strips and spam, I do not like them, Seb-I-Am!
To Jordana's utter amazement, the dwarf lifts the tray in both hands, then performers a somersault through the space under the tray. He lands on his knees, kneeling as if genuflecting, with the tray balanced on his back.
Terrance: The name you claimed! You could eat them while shouting Johnny's old stage name!
Montague: Not while shouting the name that I claimed. Not shilling for the jerk on his Network. Not eating with Sloane in our shared home. Not doing Twitters, arguing with Edwards. I would not like them here or there. I would not eat them anywhere. I do not like grilled strips and spam, I do not like them, Seb-I-Am!
Terrance: Try them, try them, you will see! You will like them, just trust me!
Jordana sighs heavily and mimics checking a wristwatch that she's not wearing. Montague glances her way, noting her impatience.
Montague: Seb! If you will let me be, I will try them and you will see. I will not like them shouting a name, the one I claimed. I will not like them with the jerk on his Network. I will not like them with Sloane in our shared home. I will not like them doing Twitters against James Edwards. I will not like them here or there. I will not like them anywhere. You'll see I don't like grilled strips and spam. You will see, Seb-I-Am!
Terrance climbs back to his feet, somehow still managing to keep the contents of the tray from spilling, and extends it toward the Showman. Montague makes a bit to-do about reaching gingerly for the fork and lifting it to his mouth, before chomping down and tearing the entire strip off with his teeth. He chews heartily for a moment, then pauses suddenly.
His brow furrows; he's obviously experiencing something unexpected, either in the flavor or texture. He manages, though, and swallows the bite. His next line is spoken unconvincingly.
Montague: I do like them, Seb-I-Am... I do like grilled strips and spam. And I would eat them shouting the name, the one I... oh gods...
Alarmed, Jordana starts when a throaty hiccup erupts from Monty's stomach. His left hand flies to his mouth, and he fixes her with panicked eyes. She starts to get up and assist if she can, but he gulps again and waves her off. She's not entirely relieved as he rattles off the next part:
Montague: I would eat them with the jerk on his Network, with Sloane in our home, doing Twitters against Edwards, herethereanywhere. I do like grilled strips and spam. I... excuse me...
Monty rushes from the room suddenly, leaving Terrance and Jordana to share a worried stare.
Rett: Rett!
We're back in the theatre room below the farmhouse where the fiberglass and plastic, dead-eyed audience stares more or less in the direction of the dais.
The Doctor-Professor sits comfortably on the dais in a mulberry tufted velvet wingback chair with walnut legs and trim. His cane rests against the left arm, and he lights a curved pipe as he begins to speak.
Montague: "What have you done since you've been here?"
He begins with a mocking tone.
Montague: What a stupid, lazy question. You made it so easy for yourself didn't you? Offer a loaded query only to set yourself up to frame the narrative. It's very easy to discount the influence I've had over the last year when you force your narrow focus on something so mundane as my win/loss record. How prosaic. How commonplace.
His lip curls in disgust before he puffs at the pipe and continues.
Montague: You have an out of fashion obsession with numbers, sir. Your plebian endeavor to enumerate my failures, all while making a concerted effort to omit my achievements--such as lasting just as long as you did in the Battleground Match--was so glaring that it only served to reveal your frustration with the company's continued interest in my brand. At least you tried.
Monty shrugs, right palm up, and gives the camera an indulgent look.
Montague: Maybe if I'd been around in 2018 when the best UGWC had to offer was Sarah Lacklan and Kem Dynamo trying to out-arithmetic one another, that would have been more effective, but, well, let's just say that it's a good thing having War there didn't leave much room in our match at And Then the Dragons Came for me to really get creative. Creativity, what a concept!
He inhales a puff, but his face turns green for a moment. His free hand goes to his stomach and clutches there as a grimace passes briefly over his visage.
Montague: How uninspired would it be for me to sit here and discuss your pass/fail rate? Could you imagine? Or maybe if I brought up your 'wear it down and get lucky' approach to the Grand Slam journey you're just so proud of? Imagine discounting such a monumental effort by pointing out that your one Cross Hemisphere reign was cut short by the elderly clown Deimos, or that your first run at the Cooperative titles was so much wishful thinking that it took the unfathomable machinations of the Grey-Lacklans to somehow accidentally wind up with you and Taylor scratching your heads as the referee handed you the belts. Maybe I could bring up that the far more entertaining Blessed Vanity ended that run in short order, and you spent the next several months taking inert swings at them while they basically held their palms to your foreheads and laughed. How many tries did it take before they finally grew weary of you, shrugged, and let you and Yamazaki take the belts? Speaking of Yamazaki, how dull would it be of me to bring up that you were barely a transitional World Champion while he took a brief break between his much more impressive reigns? Or that after hounding Tempest for more than six months so you could cross the Grand Slam finish line, you finally had to settle for beating on Wylde and her sister, whil nearly getting Taylor's brother killed with what was essentially a home-field advantage to finally claim your personal best?
The Showman chuckles, wincing as the laughter seems to cause him some discomfort in his abdomen.
Montague: It's quite effortless to discount the success of a peer by simply explicating their shortcomings while minimizing the importance of their accomplishments. It's indolent at best, and dishonest at worst. And I didn't even bring up that you achieved that fabled Grand Slam status after the eleventh hour. The conspicuous presence of the Conquest Championship renders the accolade practically moot. You know, the Championship I have held, that you haven't? I have far more ingenuity than to point out that the championship history of someone like, say, Angie Vaughn--the ineffable college girl you spent a week wondering if you had taken advantage of sexually--has one more UGWC title than you've held. No, I avoided bringing up the asterisk to your Grand Slam status. If the tables were turned, given that night of alcohol-driven indiscretion, I doubt you'd have the impulse control or decorum to resist the temptation as I have.
He smirks knowingly while removing a wine red handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping the beads of sweat that have suddenly formed across his forehead.
Montague: It's funny, we always assumed that your high-born privilege made you the 'wealth' in The Uncommonwealth. It turns out, you're the 'common'.
Monty shifts around in his seat, trying to find a more agreeable posture.
Montague: "What have you done since you've been here?" While we're being honest, let's clarify what you really meant by that question. Didn't you mean to say "What have you done for me since you've been here?"
He raises an eyebrow.
Montague: I submit that the worth you see in others is measured by how effectively you can further your own agenda by glomming onto them. Is there anyone on the roster you haven't tried or at least planned to build a controlling relationship with?
He's about to take another puff of his pipe, but thinks better of it, and reaches out to hang it on a holder set on top of the control podium nearby.
Montague: Your tainting of Taylor's fresh, but already impressive, legacy is well documented, as is your tantrum when you couldn't separate Yamazaki from Hitmaker to continue siphoning his talent unchecked. But only the keenest of observers might recognize the pathetic way you've tried to hitch your career wagon to everyone from Baal and Wylde to Vaughn and Cotton, and, unsurprisingly, even the buffoon Pierce and his floundering network.
The Doctor-Professor shakes his head with a look of disdain.
Montague: But the most embarassing and perplexing alliance you've formed lately is... Duncan Ryder? Truly, the petulant child who has a paroxysm everytime someone who isn't him has any success in UGWC. He hasn't even been signed with the company officially in roughly seven months. It wasn't very long ago that The Adversary was doing his level best to cast unfounded aspersions on your crush's greatest career acclaim thus far, and we all watched, disgusted, as he did everything he could to spoil her moment and make it about him.
His lip curls in a snarl at the memory, which goes perfectly with the growing evidence of gastric pain he seems to be feeling.
Montague: It was honestly baffling to viewers less insightful than myself to see you saunter out to back up the group of interlopers that your infatuation's biggest critic had assembled. As they tried ineffectually confront the AstroCreeps, it became even more obvious to me how willing you are to cast your lot with whoever, at any given moment, will add the most value to your own aspirations. It doesn't really matter what honor or loyalty you might have to compromise in the process, does it?
Crossing his arms over his midsection, Montague attempts to mask his cramping insides with a gesture that signals his unwillingness to concede this point.
Montague: Ryder might believe that you showed up to lend credibility to the eternal chip he carries on his shoulder, but you and I both know you were only out there to establish a connection you could later leverage, maybe somehwere like Level Up. It's all about how far and wide your influence can be spread, isn't it, Sebastian? Try to deny that, and maybe we can discuss your participation in Pro Wrestling Valor's Ascendance Super Card, where your impact is largely measured by how many likes and mentions you can get on social media. It's... distasteful. But it's your modus operandi, isn't it? I have to admit, seeing this level of self-indulgence kind of makes me sick.
When the word "sick" leaves his lips, Montague shudders, and the fingers of his left hand shoot up to wipe his lips. He glances down at them quickly, but takes a breath and continues.
Montague: How unfortunate for you that you missed the bus on seeking out involvement with the AstroCreeps. Perhaps you could have benefited from a few hard lessons in ingenuity and nuance. Maybe you could have injected some much needed focus into your questionable career path, rather than spreading yourself so thin that you'll eventually stop being the influencer you so desperately hope to be, and become a part of the stage dressing in every company you deign to shove yourself into.
Drawing another deep breath to steady himself, he blows out slowly through pursed lips, struggling to finish.
Montague: I know what you're thinking; who am I to talk, right? How hypocritical of me to say these things, since I recently attached myself to Tempest, Daedalus, and Kosnar. That would only confirm my analysis of you, Sebastian: that you don't understand innovation and evolution. I made it painstakingly clear at the beginning of this year that I was pursuing a connection that would complement my unique style and unorthodox goals. I bided my time, observing and noting the strengths and drawbacks of every competitor on the roster. Becoming an AstroCreep was a carefully considered next step in my story, and the recent arrival of Ragdoll and Pisces was a siren I couldn't ignore. The time of the AstroCreeps has comer. The expansion was unavoidable, and you missed it.
The Showman pushes himself to his feet, taking his cane in hand and leaning on it.
Montague: You won't miss the next one, Sebastian, I'll make sure of it: the crowning of Montague Cervantes, two time Chaos Champion, is the next fated progression. You get to be there, lucky you, because now you're all part of the show...
He leans forward, fixing the camera with a Kubrick smile, but before the camera can fade out, his head wobbles a bit and his eyes roll up. Montague wavers, and then his knees buckle as he collapses on the dais.
I'll spare you the graphic details, but he's violently sick for a long enough time to bring Jordana running into the room, followed by Pisces. Jordana darts to his side, trying to help. She turns and fixes Pisces with a desperate look.
Jordana: No, we can't have him fall ill right before such an important match! Who prepared those grilled strips and spam?
Impossibly, Pisces turns a few shades whiter, before growling the chef's name with disgust.
Jordana Andrews, dressed in her lolita black dress, knee high sheer stockings, headband and cropped white wig, is a perfect depiction of 2b from Nier Automata. She strides through a crooked corridor in the farmhouse in Gnawbone, and raps on a cracked and peeling brownish-orange door. Flakes of ancient paint break off with each knock and scatter at her heeled feet, causing her to step back gingerly to avoid getting any on her them. From within, a voice responds.
We're back in the theatre room below the farmhouse where the fiberglass and plastic, dead-eyed audience stares more or less in the direction of the dais.
