The preferred path through the Underlook is one of kismet, but this week’s expedition finds him burdened with glorious purpose.
As Montague steps confidently through the lusterless crypt, he quizzes himself silently, checking to see how many names and statistics he can recall before checking his phone. Advocating for future athletes, after all, will require a perfect recall of their skills and accomplishments.
Through an arched and ornately-carved doorway, the Showman sweeps into the nave of a massive, Gothic sanctuary. This is the Lausanne Cathedral in Switzerland, and the current devotees turn, watching with indignation as the ostentatiously-dressed gentleman mutters his way down the aisle between pews.
Montague: Mimeo’s record is… forty-two hours? Forty-three? Oh, Barnum help me…
He whips out his phone as he makes his exit, utterly oblivious to the death stares hiding prayers being sent skyward posthaste to beg for a targeted bolt of electricity to scorch the steps of the cathedral. The doors close behind him.
Montague: Ah! Forty… forty-nine hours? Vincent Price’s mustache, this kid’s going to be a legend!
Tucking the phone into one of the innumerable pockets of his cloak, Monty greets the warm, Swiss morning, strolling away from the massive church as he decides where to spend his day in preparation for tomorrow’s appointment. Stepping out onto the Rue Pierre-Viret, he summons a Lyft, destined for the waterfront south of the city.
The terrace is adorned with wrought-iron tables and chairs, each set with crisp white linens and delicate china. Large parasols provide shade, creating a comfortable environment for dining. Montague sits alone, absently casting his gaze across Lake Geneva and admiring the French Alps in the distance. He’s shaken from his reverie by a server clearing her throat.
Server: Bonjour, Monsieur. Bienvenue au Château d'Ouchy. Êtes-vous prêt à commander?
Montague: Ah, bonjour! Oui, je suis prêt. Quelle journée magnifique pour déjeuner ici. Pourriez-vous me dire quel est le plat du jour?
Server: Bien sûr, Monsieur. Aujourd'hui, nous avons en spécialité un filet de perche du lac, servi avec un risotto aux herbes fraîches et des légumes de saison. C'est un plat très apprécié par nos clients.
Montague: Merveilleux! Je vais prendre cela. Et pour accompagner ce délice, que me recommandez-vous comme vin?
Server: Je vous suggérerais un verre de notre Chasselas local, un vin blanc frais et léger, parfait pour accompagner le poisson. Voulez-vous essayer?
Montague: Excellente suggestion! Je prendrai un verre de Chasselas. Et peut-être une entrée pour commencer?
Server: Nous avons une délicieuse salade de chèvre chaud, avec des noix et du miel. C'est un choix très populaire.
Montague: C'est exactement ce que je voulais entendre. Je prendrai la salade de chèvre chaud comme entrée. Et pour finir, que recommandez-vous comme dessert?
Server: Nous avons une tarte aux fruits de saison avec une crème pâtissière maison, ou un moelleux au chocolat avec un cœur fondant. Les deux sont exquis.
Montague: Hmm, c'est un choix difficile... Je vais opter pour le moelleux au chocolat. Rien de tel pour terminer en beauté!
Server: Très bon choix, Monsieur. Je vais transmettre votre commande à la cuisine. Souhaitez-vous quelque chose d'autre pour le moment?
Montague: Non, c'est parfait. Merci beaucoup. J'ai hâte de déguster ces merveilles culinaires.
Server: Avec plaisir, Monsieur. Votre commande sera prête dans quelques minutes. Profitez de la vue et de votre déjeuner.
Montague: Merci infiniment. Vous êtes un hôte exceptionnel!
Server: Merci, Monsieur. Bon appétit!
The server makes her way to the kitchen as the Doctor-Professor’s phone buzzes on the table. He picks it up, and his expression immediately brightens, excited anticipation illuminating his eyes and the corners of his mouth.
Montague: Je n'en reviens pas! Not very far removed from my return at Wrestlestock and the retirement of the pest Trent Steel, and already the company wishes to reward me. Perhaps Director Deimos has finally learned to appreciate the unique and irreplaceable value that I, the Mothman, bring to UGWC.
The server reappears with shocking efficiency, a cold bottle wrapped in a damp towel cradled in her hands. She presents the Chasselas, describing the heartiness of the alpine grapes and the backbreaking, dangerous work that goes into their cultivation at nearby Dézaley. Montague nods along politely, unable to hide his impatience to get back to his phone. After pouring him a glass, the server places the bottle in a caddy full of ice next to the table before stepping away again to retrieve Monty’s appetizer.
He resumes with similar fervor:
Montague: Oh Chaos Championship, from the moment my eyes beheld your illustrious form, I knew that you were destined to be mine. You are not merely a title; you are the embodiment of everything I cherish and aspire to. My heart races with anticipation and admiration for the boundless opportunities you offer. You are the ultimate canvas for creativity. You beckon to those of us who yearn to transcend the ordinary, to craft moments that will be etched into the annals of history. The ring becomes our stage, and the match becomes our masterpiece. With you, every move, every strategy, and every moment can be transformed into a symphony of tumult, where innovation knows no bounds. In your embrace, entertainment finds its purest form. The audience, who are the lifeblood of our sport, revel in the spectacle you create. They come to witness the extraordinary, to be mesmerized by the drama and excitement that only you can provide. Your presence ensures that each match is not merely a contest of strength but a performance of epic proportions, where every twist and turn is designed to captivate and…
He only realizes how high his volume setting has been cast when the server once again cuts him off.
Server: Hem. Votre salade de chèvre tiède, monsieur…
Setting the plate down, she momentarily meets Montague’s eyes, curiosity mixing with circumspection behind her own. Indifferent to her reaction–or that of the handful of other diners on the terrace–Monty thanks the server, and watches until she’s well out of earshot before continuing and a more conversational tone.
Montague: The current champion is Ezra Wolf, a man who has had something of a renaissance this year. After a mediocre run through the Global Challenge, the Red-Eyed Warrior acquitted himself gloriously against The Avenger at Alchemy, and has done a passable job as the interim champion in my absence.
He pauses, savoring a mouthful of salad, holding up one hand and closing his eyes as he chews.
Montague: These days, it appears Ezra is far more comfortable competing with the upper echelon of elites. He’s put up respectable performances against the likes of Lucy Wylde and Alan Wallace, and despite flubbing the Battleground tournament, Ezra absolutely shined at Wrestlestock. He won the coveted cup and key, as well as a guaranteed chance at a shot for an opportunity to possibly, perhaps maybe even, earn a main event showing at the end of the year.
This time, the Showman notices the server approaching, but he’s on a roll now. He continues orating at no one in particular while she approaches with a beautifully dressed dish of lake perch.
Montague: Merci. Bravo, Ezra. You’ve shaken off the shackles of the baneful benefaction which held you back before, and now your competitive prowess is undeniable. By my estimation, you’re ready to take your game to the next level.
With a dramatic flourish, Montague unfurls his linen napkin and drapes it over his lap. He picks up his fork and knife, the polished silverware catching the light. He pauses, casting a glance at his audience, which now consists of his fellow diners, his server, and several other staff at the door to the dining room. He cuts into the perch filet with deliberate precision, the knife gliding effortlessly through the tender flesh. He lifts the first bite to his lips, pausing momentarily to savor the anticipation. As he takes the bite, a low, appreciative hum escapes his lips.
Montague: I know, I can already hear the righteous indignation in your voice. Didn’t I just offer laurels for competing with the elites? Absolutely, and I meant every word. But you’re the Chaos Champion, my boy, and you haven’t competed with me.
He takes another bite, this time pairing it with a spoonful of the herb risotto. Monty’s expression is one of sheer delight as he savors the harmonious blend of flavors. He raises his glass of chilled white wine, the light catching the crystal and sending a cascade of light across his face as his expression turns sinister.
Montague: You’re at the top of the game, but that’s not the game for which you’re carrying the flag, is it? There aren’t any levels in the Chaos game, Ezra. There are depths, and so far, your rise hasn’t revealed any evidence that you’re prepared to descend.
He pauses to continue enjoying his meal, and Montague’s expressions of delight and satisfaction become a lurid performance in themselves. He savors each bite with the reverence of a true glutton, making sure that everyone around him can share in the joy of the experience, whether they want to or not.
Montague: I stand as a devil at your crossroads. Surrender your Chaos Championship, and you may tread the mundane path toward becoming a cookie-cutter folk hero later this year, lost in the annals of predictability on your long trek to the ‘big’ prize. But, should you embrace the darkness I offer, unleashing your full creative violence upon our match, you will proudly wear the thorny crown and carve your name into legend through infamy. I look forward to witnessing your choice.
He finishes with gusto, utensils clamoring as he drops them on the center of the plate.
Montague: And Ezra, do not disappoint me as Trent did.
Nestled on the banks of Lake Geneva, the Maison Olympique is a nauseating glass and steel testament to gaudy modern architecture. It sticks out in the gorgeous landscape like a cheap, capped tooth. The expansive lobby is bathed in natural light, streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows that offer panoramic views of the picturesque landscape the building is betraying by existing.
Upstairs, in the Petition Hall, the air is silent and thick. At one end of the oak conference table, Montague grows increasingly impatient as a diverse trio quietly examines the documents he’s submitted. Every few seconds, one of the committee members frowns deeply and makes a mark on the papers he so carefully typed.
When he has reached his limit, the Doctor-Professor begins drumming on the tabletop with his rings. The committee looks up, startled and annoyed. They share a meaningful look, before one speaks up.
Coventry: Mr. Cervantes, after careful review, we must deny your petitions.
Montague blinks, his mouth agape, clearly unprepared for this development.
Oswald: We don’t feel that any of your proposed events comport with the Olympic spirit of competition–
Montague: I am baffled, sir. This committee has, in the past, allowed for all manner of creative expression when adding new events! Skateboarding, surfing… there are several different forms of dance. Just this year you’ve added breakdancing and kite flying!
Mitchell: All of these events test physical skill and endurance. The athleticism is inherent to the art.
The Mothman stands, sweeping off his hat and holding it to his heart as he raises his eyes to the ceiling.
Montague: "The time has come to take the next step, and to restore the Olympiad to its original beauty. In the high times of Olympia, the fine arts were combined harmoniously with the Olympic Games to create their glory. This is to become reality once again."
Coventry: Are you quoting De Coubertin?
Montague: Indeed! Artistic expression was always meant to be woven into the fabric of international goodwill, alongside sport. There was a time when medals were awarded for painting, sculpture, and singing. This tradition was halted, ostensibly to preserve the amateur spirit of the Games, as most of the competing artists were professionals. In the nineties, professional athletes were welcomed back with open arms, yet the artists remained in the shadows, as we so often do. We don’t make for compelling viewing on your international broadcasts. Why would our nations rally behind us now, when they have long since forgotten our contributions?
The member from Switzerland, who seems particularly annoyed, flicks the sheaf of papers in his hand and reads aloud.
Oswald: Balloon art, while a delightful amusement for children's parties, lacks the athletic rigor and competitive integrity we require for Olympic events. The very notion of awarding a medal for twisting balloons into animals or shapes is an affront to the tradition and prestige of the Games. Speed Painting. We must consider the practicality and viewership appeal. Speed painting is highly subjective, with artistic quality varying drastically from one judge to another. Moreover, the essence of athletic competition is about physical prowess and endurance, not how quickly one can finish a canvas. Ventriloquists? I struggle to understand how anyone could see this as an Olympic event. It would be preposterous to pit ventriloquists against each other in a sports arena. Feather Fan Dance and Fire Fans, while they require grace and coordination, do not align with the Olympic spirit of athletic competition. They are better suited for cultural showcases, like the opening ceremonies, than an Olympic medal event. The Human Pincushion… The idea of including an act of self-mutilation as an Olympic event is beyond the pale. The Olympics celebrate the pinnacle of human physical achievement, not acts of grotesque self-harm. This suggestion is not only inappropriate but also deeply disturbing.
He takes a deep breath, going in for the kill.
Oswald: Finally, the Mime. This one particularly vexes me. How do you judge a mime's performance? On silence? On imaginary box creation? How far they can tug an imaginary weight? Miming is barely an art form. It lacks any competitive framework. Including mime as an Olympic event would only serve to bring ridicule upon the Games. The very essence of the Olympics is to celebrate human physical excellence and competitive spirit. These proposals, if sincere, betray a fundamental misunderstanding of what the Olympics represent. I cannot help but feel this is an attempt to mock our committee and the Games themselves. We cannot, in good conscience, entertain these suggestions any further. I must ask you to leave, Mr. Cervantes, this meeting is over.
Montague’s nostrils flare as he locks eyes with the committee member. He places his hat back upon his head and sweeps toward the heavy oak doors. As he opens them, he turns and looks over his shoulder.
Montague: I’m not laughing…
With that, he strides out of the Petition Hall and disappears through the atrium.
