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!
