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.
