MC34 - Crow'd

Those who have panicked at the rise of the AstroCreeps are suddenly rabid at the thought of any perceived cracks, whether imagined or real.  Jacklyn Pierrot has been unburdened of the impossible choice: which path to take to the World Championship. For weeks she has complained that the Conquest Championship is an albatross, but now she can unleash her beautiful fury on the Keeper of the Keys event.  It's a simple enough to grasp concept, but those without comprehension only see absolutes. We choose to not be defined by championships, so we must hate them. We enjoy tearing down elites who dismiss us, so we want anyone and everyone of a higher income bracket to be crushed. We don't allow losses to faze us, so we must hate the glory of victory.  The mental gymnastics required to clumsily fit us into little boxes are almost impressive enough to warrant an audition for Ringling Bros..  Those who are wise enough to see beyond the confusion and frustration we've created are taking a much more strategic approach to the show. They're observing, taking notes, and recognizing our intrinsic worth.  We have to respect that. But we don't have to like them.  Montague: Wow, congratulations! How are you going to do the streak in her hair? The Doctor-Professor has two long thin rods in each hand, the ends of which have an ovular knob. They almost resemble the funny little microphone that Bob Barker was famous for using on The Price is Right. As he speaks to someone through his bluetooth headphones, he twirls these batons in long, flowing arcs around himself. Rett stands on a dresser nearby, swatting with his very human hands at the knobs anytime they pass through reaching distance. Montague: Of course you have a wig, ha! Well, have someone send me a video, I'm very excited to see your performance. Universal is a pretty big stage, congratulations again, really. With a flick of his wrists, the rods suddenly fan out, revealing that he has actually been twirling a bundle of four in each hand. Rett scampers in surprise.  Rett: Rett! The tai chi like movements now become more of a fan-dance as he continues the interpretative katas. The pregnant silence fills the room for a few moments, and it isn't clear if the person on the other end of the connection is giving a long monologue or if they've simply stopped speaking for several minutes. Eventually, Montague's face changes almost imperceptible. His brow knits with determined concentration and his lips thin, but he doesn't stop the motions he's describing in the air. Montague: Yes, I still intend to do it. And before you say it, no, you can't talk me out of it. It's been a few days since the unpleasantness involving Jacky's breakdown, and he has been turning over ideas in his head ever since--how to make a statement that truly displayed their strength. Finally, he'd settled on a decision. Needless to say, the person he's now chatting with does not agree that it's a wise decision. Montague: Your guidance and gentle urging has been a gods'send, my dear, it really has. Statistically speaking, however, it's impossible for you to be right every time, and therefore, I must follow my gut on this one.  Silence again. This time, with no facial reaction from The Showman, it must be assumed that neither are speaking. Montague: Jordana? He finally stops his twirling and tucks the batons under his right armpit. Reaching toward the dresser, where Rett has slowly overcome his surprise and begun to approach again, Montague grasps his phone and lifts it to check. The line is still live. Monty sighs and puts the phone back down. Rett takes an exploratory swipe at Montague's knuckles with blunted plastic fingers. Montague: I'll get it back, surely you have faith in that. He waits a moment, then nods. Montague: Glad to hear it.  One hundred fifty years ago, the city where UGWC is headquartered kicked off October with a bang. For three days Chicagoans were treated to a spectacular show of flame and smoke that completely changed the city forevermore. Legends, competitive sports, and weekly procedural dramas would spawn from the event, and one and a half century later, everyone would still vilify a dairy cow which may or may not have existed. From October 8 through October 10, the conflagration spread like a plague from south to north, consuming everything in its path. One hundred citizens perished each day as the blaze covered yet another mile between one sunset and another. Firebreaks, multiple fire and rescue teams, even the Chicago River itself, were not enough of a barrier to slow it down. It was as though the demonic fire was sentient, and intelligent enough to sustain itself by any means necessary.  Three days, three hundred people, three miles of destruction. Powerful number, when it comes to an impossible to resist force... Two hundred twenty million dollars in damages, seventeen thousand, five hundred buildings utterly razed, ninety thousand displaced souls. The United States Army was called in to establish Martial Law in the aftermath. It was an unfathomably beautiful devastation. Robert Ooley throws open the door to Holden Orson's office, allowing it to slam against the wall hard enough to force the rubber stopper meant to catch the doorknob through the drywall that held it. The Creative director looks up from the avocado-kombucha milkshake and salad of lacto-fermented greens with durian dressing he was having for lunch to see the Director of Human Resource clutching a parchment paper in the doorway. He's already mentally preparing himself by pre-loading a scoff at the back of his throat. Ooley: "Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls" He stops reading from the parchment to roll his eyes. Ooley: "It has come to my attention that, though the ratings of the AstroCreeps are currently soaring, almost no one in our viewing audience is quite cognizant of what it is they are actually seeing. They're enraptured, riveted, entranced, beguiled, exhilarated, perhaps even intoxicated by our demonstrations and dominations. They're not sure what has captured their attention, only that it's worth watching." Holden places his fork on the embroidered napkin next to his plate and folds his hands on the table. The Chaos Champion had already called him before dropping off that letter, and secured a strange promise from him that the match at Keeper of the Keys was set in stone and that, barring an injury or no show by one of the parties, would not be changed under any circumstances. Orson assumes the reason for that promise will be eventually revealed, if he tolerates Ooley's sarcastic reading for long enough. Ooley: "Recently, the AstroCreeps enjoyed a great boon, when a source of consternation for us was suddenly and unexpectedly sorted out by the current Conquest Champion, Centurion, and we were afforded the opportunity to move past that knot and continue with our celebrations. Much to our surprise, however, it seems the viewing audience misinterpreted that as a portent of our impending downfall. Perhaps they draw on their experience with failure and miscalculation when predicting that we would simply fall apart even before Spooky Season has concluded." The Engine of Contradiction stifled the urge to say 'Snicker'. As much as the social media shouters protested, they seemed to know better than to ask a former member of the Engine of Chaos to put a stop to the seemingly never-ending carnival that accompanied the AstroCreeps during some of their matches. Truth be told, Holden was enjoying watching them shake up the show some. It took pressure off of him to constantly come up with new ideas when he would rather be dusting his ColecoVision or perfecting his hoop-and-stick technique. Having them around gave him a certain air of nostalgia. Ooley: "This Monday everyone is either poised to watch the AstroCreeps extend the Season of the Witch beyond October, or eagerly anticipating more losses shake their foundation. I have become somewhat invested in the opinion of my opponent, since he seems to quietly acknowledge what's rotting in the state of Denmark, and what foul beast, it's time come 'round at last, is shuffling it's way toward Bethlehem to be born. I would wager that he's somewhere in the center aisle between these narrow-minded worldviews, rigidly reciting their morose hymns without hearing the rote words they're reciting from memory. Tony Savage lives in privilege, yes, but it's a privilege he put in the work and time to earn. With that comes a certain amount of world-weariness and cunning that knows how to shake off the Dunning-Kruger effect that cripples the minds of the rest of the roster." Holden has begun to nod slowly, though he feels somewhat anxious about where this is leading. Ooley: "To that end, if I am to keep up the... I don't know if I'd call it respect... attention? Maybe. If I want to keep the attention that I've earned from my opponent, then I must continue to slay expectations and change the nature of what passes as entertainment here. As successful as we've been, you should know by now that the AstroCreeps do not wish to be Anonymous. You will never expect us." Ooley pauses and fixes Holden with a heavy stare, taking a deep sigh before continuing. Orson feels himself actually getting excited for the conclusion of this letter. Ooley: "It is with this in mind that, before we meet to contest the Chaos Championship at Keeper of the Keys, I hereby abdicate it." Holden raises an eyebrow as Ooley reaches to the side, where the unseen Todd is holding the the title belt. Ooley: "May the best man become the new UGWC Chaos Champion. Signed, Doctor-Professor Montague Cervantes, 'The Showman.'" Later he'll never admit it, but as Ol' Bob stands there holding the championship, dumbfounded, Holden is simply at a loss for words. During most of the twentieth century, Detroit, Michigan was afflicted by a late October tradition. Devil's Night, the one before Halloween, was celebrated by the criminal element with a unique predilection; vandalism and arson. From 1984 to 2011, the single night count of fire-related incidents reached high into the hundreds. It was some kind of ecstasy, a mania that would drive residents to put the torch even to their very own neighborhoods in order to join the party.  Those who stood in the way fled to less volatile locations, such as Grosse Pointe. Our fascination with the Infamous celebration is Proof that tragedy and desolation is titillating and the statement issued from the inner-city and surrounding suburbs drew national interest for decades. Meanwhile, the politicians Crowed about how the statement cost them Top Dollar every year, even attempting to marshal volunteer do-gooders to patrol the streets they had lost control of.  On Devil's Night, the forgotten denizens of Detroit reminded the city who they were, that they indeed existed, and that, should they be so inclined, they could snuff the entire area code out with ashes and blood, Five AstroCreeps stand together on Eliot St. in the Belltown neighborhood of Seattle as the sun is setting. Montague wears a terry cloth, hooded robe with an American flag side by side with the Union Jack on the back and boxer shorts. The shorts have logos of several different wrestling promotions, and he also sports boxing shoes below that. Tempest is dressed as the Repo Man from the Genetic Opera, and he waits in silent respect as Montague prepares to explain why he wanted to gather here for their celebration. In her anthropomorphic potato costume, Jacky is almost vibrating with expectant excitement, while Re-Animator Daedalus looks around the slum cautiously. The look isn't fearful, of course, simply aware. For his part, the hulking Kosnar, somehow looking even more menacing in a Swamp Thing costume, merely stands silently as always. Daedalus: It will be fully dark soon. I assume you're waiting until then to tell us the plan? Montague: No, I'll tell you now. Seattle needs to know the AstroCreeps have arrived a few days early to celebrate. Tempest: I expect you have a unique announcement in store? The Showman nods. Montague: Did you know that Seattle hasn't really ever had a Great Fire? Kosnar: Actually, the Great Fire of Seattle happened in 1889. Montague shakes his head. Montague: That lasted less than a day. It was pitiful and disappointing. We've got three nights to really give this city an historic fire. What do you say we celebrate Devil's Night like they did thirty years ago? Everyone's eyes light up like the conflagrations they intend to set. Their heads immediately begin to swivel as they start picking out targets. Tempest: Only one thing left to say then.. They all begin pumping their arms in the air as they chant...