Post by The Anarchist on Sept 24, 2016 20:52:15 GMT -5
“Goodbye, Mrs. Thompson!”
“See you tomorrow, Mrs. Thompson!”
“Um, Mrs. Thompson? I um wanted to say I...um, like you.”
These were just a few of the warm sentiments from the children who occupied the second grade class of Alice Thompson. She worked at Absinthe Elementary, home of the Bulldogs. The children adored her and with good reason; She was very warm, likable, open and extremely caring. She now sat alone at her desk looking over the homework turned in. The bell ringing in the distance for the end of another day. Outside was picture perfect conditions. Blue skies which were clear of any cloud cover. The right balance of cool temperatures, fine for those who like it less warm with enough sun for others who preferred heat. The scattered laughter of children heading home which no doubt warmed Alice’s heart.
...a heart that was undergoing repair. Behind the ethereal beauty of Alice and her welcoming smile, lay very raw pain. She couldn’t allow such emotions to overwhelm her in front of the children, so she buried herself in her work. But every day when the bell rang, she could cast aside being a teacher and slip into becoming a student herself. What the children had no idea of, was in saying goodbye to Mrs. Thompson, it really was to become such. Alice quietly made a deal with the “powers that be” to finish out her last day. It was a stinging blow for someone who once was a shining star for the school.
But there in lies the power of rumor and in a small town like Absinthe, word spreads like wildfire, rather steeped in truth or mired in lie. Alice’s marriage had been ripped away by the adulterous actions of her husband. She had no idea how, but he was cheating on her with some unknown mail carrier. Oddly enough she hasn’t been seen in several weeks, and for that matter, neither has her soon-to-be ex husband. So while there was heartbreak there, rumor had it that Alice herself was engaging in acts that were not becoming of a role model to children. Rather than face scandal, Alice agreed to resign from teaching any longer. A secret like this dimmed any further prospects of relocation. But there was NO merit behind the viciousness. Still…
Alice couldn’t bare to look at the papers any longer. Her tears were becoming to much to handle and the pain was starting to suffocate. She slipped them inside of the drawer and pulled herself away from the oak desk. Alice turned to erase the lesson off the chalkboard one last time, wiping her eyes while doing so. She then let out a heavy sigh and gathered her belongings, solemnly looking around at what had been her classroom one last time. The memories filtered in her head as she slowly walked for the exit. Flipping off the light switch, Alice placed her hand over her heart and eeked out a “goodbye” in silence before closing the door behind herself.
She walked down the hall, oblivious to the fact that they didn’t resemble those she knew inside of the school. They had a decayed whimsical appearance. Scattered tiles of a checkerboard pattern lined her path. Oblong doors rested inside of the wall facing both sides. The faint sounds of screaming could be heard coming from behind them, and in the air was the smell of wormwood combined with a dark green haze that was thick as fog. Alice now looked up and noticed she wasn’t in Absinthe anymore…
“What the...”
“Hell? No, not quite my child. You just left the city limits of that place.”
Alice spun around frantically looking for the trace of the strange voice. She squinted in her fear, focusing on the shadow of an approacher. The steps sounded like cloven hoofs on cobblestone and only grew louder as the stranger drew near. Alice spun around and was faced with an awaiting second stranger in a rattlesnake mask. “Boo!” was the only word spoke. With the snap of the fingers, that concealing mist was no more. The occupier removed the mask and revealed to Alice to be…
“Don’t be scared, Alice. My name is Destiny. We’re glad you came.”
“Wh—whe---where am I?”
“Well that depends on where you think you are. Pick a destination and that will be where you are. Of course it won’t be true, but we’re willing to play along.”
Alice diverted her attention from the hysterical Destiny Willard to face her husband, whom had been the arriving mystery. “I like her, babe. Can we keep her?”
Destiny wrapped her left arm around Alice from behind, constricting her like a certain reptile would prey. Her right hand cupped the mouth so Alice was unable to speak any further. Jason looked her up and down with a calculating smile. He studied the fear that Alice was feeling. Reading behind her eyes and getting a gauge on what she hid within. Jason glanced at Destiny, whom was mouthing the word “please?” with pleading puppy dog eyes for further aid. Jason backed away and smiled with a nod, “Of course. Put her with the others. We’ve got one more to collect...”
“Did’ya hear? I get to keep you!” Destiny spoke in a baby voice “You be a good girl now and play nice.”
An iron door creaked open as if a furnace was opening. Inside and chained to seats was the previous strangers the married evil had found. Their eyes were clamped open (think A Clockwork Orange) as a video played in a continuous loop. The content of which was private and individual, but one could safely assume it was propagandist in nature. Alice Thompson would find herself filling seat #5 and when the process was done would become Noire, bearer of the Pig mask.
-----------
“Mr. Marra, I want to wrestle.”
“Come again?”
“I want to wrestle.”
“You?” laughter followed, the kind that would double someone over if they found something so outrageously funny that standing upright was no longer possible. “You...want to what?”
“Wrestle. I’ve been watching tapes and training really hard. I’ve been on a strict regimen of prayers, vitamins and believing in Martin-mania!”
The laughter from Patrick Marra only grew louder. Martin Quinn didn’t quite understand what was so funny, but he joined in on the laughter anyway. Patrick Marra worked out of an old boxing gym and occasionally would throw together a few wrestling matches for the fun of it inside of the crusty abode which resided on the outskirts of Orange County. The smells of its former glory were repugnant upon entering. The blood, sweat and tears of losers past never leaving the joint. The air of failure as Marra would say. But he had a dedicated group of wayward souls whom had nothing better to do to earn themselves twenty dollars.
Martin Quinn was a nerdy looking fellow. No one would mistake him for a serious threat of any endevor and judging by the fact he didn’t grasp he was being laughed at, was none too bright either. Patrick blotted his forehead of the dripping sweat which trickled. The musty stench in the air caused him to sharply cough while he also had to regain air in his lungs from all of the laughter.
“Look, kid...”
“Martin, sir. The name is Martin.”
“Martin.”
“No. Martin Quinn. My name is Martin. Quinn”
“I don’t really give a rat’s hairy posterior if your name is Martin Sheen. You---”
Patrick found himself being cut off again by the no-longer joking around Martin Quinn. “Madman. Martin. Quinn.” each word was punctuated by a jabbing of his finger into the chest of the scandalous promoter. “My name is ‘Madman’ Martin Quinn!”
…
The laughter returned from the wide eyed, open mouthed face of Patrick Marra. There were brief moments inbetween of him exasperating the name he was just given, but for the large part he wasn’t taking him seriously. Evidenced by him walking away to go about his business. Martin stood his ground and again, misunderstood the intent of being laughed at (or did he?).
“Martin, tonight you will have your debut match against the champion, Patrick Marra. What are your thoughts heading into the showdown?”
Martin flipped around so that his back now faced the gym, “That’s a great question. I guess you could say my only thought is to step inside of the ring, give it my all for the fans and bring down my opponent.”
Martin faced the gym as the self interview continued. “Do you have what it takes to come out on top?”
And again pointing away.
“That’s a stupid question. I have the heart of a champion and after the bell rings, will be known as one as well. Patrick Marra, whatcha gonna do when ‘Madman’ Martin Quinn dismembers...you.”
The tone was sharp in conclusion as Martin slowly turned his head around. His eyes enlarged, pupils dilated. His body shook and teeth clenched. Quinn now faced the direction of Marra, staring him down and mumbling to himself the very speech (well parts of) that was given to him.
“I don’t like the look in his eyes, Jim. I have never seen the challenger more focused that he is now.”
“Look at him, once a geek, always a geek. We’ll see how well he focuses when his eyes are rolled back into his skull, looking at where a brain was supposed to be before the Wizard ran out.”
So not only did Martin Quinn interview himself, he was also providing commentary for his walk inside of the crusty quarters. With purpose. Patrick Marra was getting things put away when he was approached from behind with a steel chair saying hello to the back of his head. Marra stumbled forward, unaware of what just hit him. Martin volleyed another pair of shots to the head, followed by a few to Patrick’s back.
...only they didn’t have enough force to deal much damage. Martin may have psyched himself up for a fight, but he wasn’t capable of bringing one to a man of such a larger stature as Patrick Marra. Screaming like a banshee, Martin traded steel for his feet and fists. “Quinn is going to town and having himself a good time as he works the champion over!”
“All he’s doing is using a feather on a bull and thinking he’s coming ahead. Martin Quinn is the king of idiots, John, and folks like you are his servants.”
Patrick manages to overpower Quinn to bring the quick assault to an end. A closed fist ROCKS his jaw with a sickening collision which drops Martin like a linebacker getting to the quarterback. Patrick Marra's eyes glaze over with glee when he sees who was foolish enough to lay a hand on him. Quinn for his part is laughing at what greeted him, while also wincing in pain.
“You little fucking shit! You want an opportunity? Fine. But this won’t be a match, this is going to be a one-sided fight that you’ll wish you never picked! This place needed a makeover and your blood will be a nice coat of paint!!”
Martin spits out blood from the first blow, punctuating it with crazed laughter. “You can start with that.”
Quinn is allowed to pick himself back up, but Marra closes in. Martin throws a few clotheslines for good effort...and then quickly feigns shock while shaking his arm out.
“Those had no effect on the much larger opponent!”
“Not with those noodle arms!”
Marra laughs at the feeble attempts, but they soon turn into gasps and gurgles. Patrick’s follow up find nothing but air as Quinn deftly sidesteps each. Unknown to Marra is the fact Quinn has switched over to using a knife to begin carving with the skill of a butcher with each miss. And he is going to town on the rotund body with the same crazed expression he walked in with. Patrick’s blood loss is becoming too much and eventually he collapses into the dirt. Quinn stands above, looking down at his handiwork and licking the blood off his blade. Gone are the goofy mannerisms and self talking. Replacing it is the cold stare of...well, a madman.
“I told you. I TOLD YOU. My name is Madman MARTIN QUINN!!”
“Madman.”
Slice.
“Martin.”
Slice! Slice!
“Quinn!!”
Patrick’s throat is slit from ear to ear like a knife cutting through a piece of tender meat. “What in the world has he done?!”
“I knew it all along! Martin Quinn was just playing possum with his victim. I always knew he had a few candies missing from the dish. I love it!”
Quinn begins laughing as the life of Patrick Marra reaches an expiration. But Martin never gets the chance to walk away from the scene of the crime.
...because he gets pulled inside of the same portal used by Seromine to jump between his realm and the real world. No speech. No introduction. Nothing but abduction. And on March 11, the puzzle was complete. Martin Quinn would later be assigned the name Jarvis and assigned the mask of the Ram.
------------
SEROMINE’S EFFIGY
“When I think of pirates, one of the first images that comes to mind is the flag. What happens to be on it? Why a skull and crossbones. CrossBONES. I remember someone who came to PCW with part of that name. A relative of our dear Sister, Alexandra Black. And said mortal was paired with us in a match which we should have walked out victorious...only the coward was unable to hold his weight and went down on the same ship High Tide will at Deadly Intentions.
I put a bounty on his head. I wanted BONES. Dead. Alive. It didn’t matter. His match never took place because Kelli Harlot decided to go make herself known. The SAME Dollface who PCW has decided to protect from us again. But...patience is a virtue when it comes to the matter of she and her master, brothers and sisters. Time is but a construct of man and both shall meet an end by our hands when the chance arrives. So, I digress back to No Show BONES.
The bounty on his head remains. PCW decided to give us Tyrone Smith instead, a self proclaimed “Crazy Boy” in the latest win for our cause. Sister Black decided she wanted to make herself known and get her destructive hands on him. That’s fine. In fact...I’ll take it as payment in the hope she’ll eliminate her cousin.
Which brings me to the new challenger. A returning challenger. A faux challenger that the company decided to throw into the lion’s den.”
Seromine motions for his followers to form a circle around the eternal flame which was the centerpiece of the lone clearing inside Labyrinth Grove. Stoically at the top of the chain, he raises the issued International Title in the air for everyone to gaze upon. It’s golden plates glisten in the night, the strap as black as the sky was. Seromine stares at the prize himself, before he hands it to his wife, whom as always was right by his side. She runs her fingers across the face and hands it off to Lylyth to continue the process.
“The rum guzzler has collected gold during his time in PCW. He is coming off a victory over the dethroned Underground Champion, so he is very capable of taking the individual trinket which rests with us. But his treasure chest shall not hold MY title after the bell rings. I don’t care about High Tide. His return. His so-called momentum. I have defeated every single person put in front of me since returning. My intent is deadly and that’s more than just some crummy name for a pay per view. Brothers and Sisters, High Tide musn’t be allowed a path to victory. While not an enemy to our message, he is an intruder sailing on International waters and because of that, I am going to sink him and move on to capturing MY RIGHT to the claim of being the next challenger to the World Title.
Whomever the champion may be is of little interest. At Collision Course, the bearer of the target will hand the referee the title. And the next time the ref hands it over, will be into the hands of the Shepherd of the Faithful. PCW’s fan base is our flock. Our words. Our actions shall be followed by the masses. I always knew they needed guidance...so too do the people of Absinthe.”
As if by design, Seromine is handed his International Title back. He throws it over his shoulder and stands behind Destiny, taking her hands and putting his arms around her. The followers link their own hands with other another and enclose around the leaders, with the glow of the fire dead center.
“Two victories in one night. Our patience, brothers and sisters, is about to be rewarded. The next phase can now get underway. And upon returning from our victories, it shall.”
“See you tomorrow, Mrs. Thompson!”
“Um, Mrs. Thompson? I um wanted to say I...um, like you.”
These were just a few of the warm sentiments from the children who occupied the second grade class of Alice Thompson. She worked at Absinthe Elementary, home of the Bulldogs. The children adored her and with good reason; She was very warm, likable, open and extremely caring. She now sat alone at her desk looking over the homework turned in. The bell ringing in the distance for the end of another day. Outside was picture perfect conditions. Blue skies which were clear of any cloud cover. The right balance of cool temperatures, fine for those who like it less warm with enough sun for others who preferred heat. The scattered laughter of children heading home which no doubt warmed Alice’s heart.
...a heart that was undergoing repair. Behind the ethereal beauty of Alice and her welcoming smile, lay very raw pain. She couldn’t allow such emotions to overwhelm her in front of the children, so she buried herself in her work. But every day when the bell rang, she could cast aside being a teacher and slip into becoming a student herself. What the children had no idea of, was in saying goodbye to Mrs. Thompson, it really was to become such. Alice quietly made a deal with the “powers that be” to finish out her last day. It was a stinging blow for someone who once was a shining star for the school.
But there in lies the power of rumor and in a small town like Absinthe, word spreads like wildfire, rather steeped in truth or mired in lie. Alice’s marriage had been ripped away by the adulterous actions of her husband. She had no idea how, but he was cheating on her with some unknown mail carrier. Oddly enough she hasn’t been seen in several weeks, and for that matter, neither has her soon-to-be ex husband. So while there was heartbreak there, rumor had it that Alice herself was engaging in acts that were not becoming of a role model to children. Rather than face scandal, Alice agreed to resign from teaching any longer. A secret like this dimmed any further prospects of relocation. But there was NO merit behind the viciousness. Still…
Alice couldn’t bare to look at the papers any longer. Her tears were becoming to much to handle and the pain was starting to suffocate. She slipped them inside of the drawer and pulled herself away from the oak desk. Alice turned to erase the lesson off the chalkboard one last time, wiping her eyes while doing so. She then let out a heavy sigh and gathered her belongings, solemnly looking around at what had been her classroom one last time. The memories filtered in her head as she slowly walked for the exit. Flipping off the light switch, Alice placed her hand over her heart and eeked out a “goodbye” in silence before closing the door behind herself.
She walked down the hall, oblivious to the fact that they didn’t resemble those she knew inside of the school. They had a decayed whimsical appearance. Scattered tiles of a checkerboard pattern lined her path. Oblong doors rested inside of the wall facing both sides. The faint sounds of screaming could be heard coming from behind them, and in the air was the smell of wormwood combined with a dark green haze that was thick as fog. Alice now looked up and noticed she wasn’t in Absinthe anymore…
“What the...”
“Hell? No, not quite my child. You just left the city limits of that place.”
Alice spun around frantically looking for the trace of the strange voice. She squinted in her fear, focusing on the shadow of an approacher. The steps sounded like cloven hoofs on cobblestone and only grew louder as the stranger drew near. Alice spun around and was faced with an awaiting second stranger in a rattlesnake mask. “Boo!” was the only word spoke. With the snap of the fingers, that concealing mist was no more. The occupier removed the mask and revealed to Alice to be…
“Don’t be scared, Alice. My name is Destiny. We’re glad you came.”
“Wh—whe---where am I?”
“Well that depends on where you think you are. Pick a destination and that will be where you are. Of course it won’t be true, but we’re willing to play along.”
Alice diverted her attention from the hysterical Destiny Willard to face her husband, whom had been the arriving mystery. “I like her, babe. Can we keep her?”
Destiny wrapped her left arm around Alice from behind, constricting her like a certain reptile would prey. Her right hand cupped the mouth so Alice was unable to speak any further. Jason looked her up and down with a calculating smile. He studied the fear that Alice was feeling. Reading behind her eyes and getting a gauge on what she hid within. Jason glanced at Destiny, whom was mouthing the word “please?” with pleading puppy dog eyes for further aid. Jason backed away and smiled with a nod, “Of course. Put her with the others. We’ve got one more to collect...”
“Did’ya hear? I get to keep you!” Destiny spoke in a baby voice “You be a good girl now and play nice.”
An iron door creaked open as if a furnace was opening. Inside and chained to seats was the previous strangers the married evil had found. Their eyes were clamped open (think A Clockwork Orange) as a video played in a continuous loop. The content of which was private and individual, but one could safely assume it was propagandist in nature. Alice Thompson would find herself filling seat #5 and when the process was done would become Noire, bearer of the Pig mask.
-----------
“Mr. Marra, I want to wrestle.”
“Come again?”
“I want to wrestle.”
“You?” laughter followed, the kind that would double someone over if they found something so outrageously funny that standing upright was no longer possible. “You...want to what?”
“Wrestle. I’ve been watching tapes and training really hard. I’ve been on a strict regimen of prayers, vitamins and believing in Martin-mania!”
The laughter from Patrick Marra only grew louder. Martin Quinn didn’t quite understand what was so funny, but he joined in on the laughter anyway. Patrick Marra worked out of an old boxing gym and occasionally would throw together a few wrestling matches for the fun of it inside of the crusty abode which resided on the outskirts of Orange County. The smells of its former glory were repugnant upon entering. The blood, sweat and tears of losers past never leaving the joint. The air of failure as Marra would say. But he had a dedicated group of wayward souls whom had nothing better to do to earn themselves twenty dollars.
Martin Quinn was a nerdy looking fellow. No one would mistake him for a serious threat of any endevor and judging by the fact he didn’t grasp he was being laughed at, was none too bright either. Patrick blotted his forehead of the dripping sweat which trickled. The musty stench in the air caused him to sharply cough while he also had to regain air in his lungs from all of the laughter.
“Look, kid...”
“Martin, sir. The name is Martin.”
“Martin.”
“No. Martin Quinn. My name is Martin. Quinn”
“I don’t really give a rat’s hairy posterior if your name is Martin Sheen. You---”
Patrick found himself being cut off again by the no-longer joking around Martin Quinn. “Madman. Martin. Quinn.” each word was punctuated by a jabbing of his finger into the chest of the scandalous promoter. “My name is ‘Madman’ Martin Quinn!”
…
The laughter returned from the wide eyed, open mouthed face of Patrick Marra. There were brief moments inbetween of him exasperating the name he was just given, but for the large part he wasn’t taking him seriously. Evidenced by him walking away to go about his business. Martin stood his ground and again, misunderstood the intent of being laughed at (or did he?).
“Martin, tonight you will have your debut match against the champion, Patrick Marra. What are your thoughts heading into the showdown?”
Martin flipped around so that his back now faced the gym, “That’s a great question. I guess you could say my only thought is to step inside of the ring, give it my all for the fans and bring down my opponent.”
Martin faced the gym as the self interview continued. “Do you have what it takes to come out on top?”
And again pointing away.
“That’s a stupid question. I have the heart of a champion and after the bell rings, will be known as one as well. Patrick Marra, whatcha gonna do when ‘Madman’ Martin Quinn dismembers...you.”
The tone was sharp in conclusion as Martin slowly turned his head around. His eyes enlarged, pupils dilated. His body shook and teeth clenched. Quinn now faced the direction of Marra, staring him down and mumbling to himself the very speech (well parts of) that was given to him.
“I don’t like the look in his eyes, Jim. I have never seen the challenger more focused that he is now.”
“Look at him, once a geek, always a geek. We’ll see how well he focuses when his eyes are rolled back into his skull, looking at where a brain was supposed to be before the Wizard ran out.”
So not only did Martin Quinn interview himself, he was also providing commentary for his walk inside of the crusty quarters. With purpose. Patrick Marra was getting things put away when he was approached from behind with a steel chair saying hello to the back of his head. Marra stumbled forward, unaware of what just hit him. Martin volleyed another pair of shots to the head, followed by a few to Patrick’s back.
...only they didn’t have enough force to deal much damage. Martin may have psyched himself up for a fight, but he wasn’t capable of bringing one to a man of such a larger stature as Patrick Marra. Screaming like a banshee, Martin traded steel for his feet and fists. “Quinn is going to town and having himself a good time as he works the champion over!”
“All he’s doing is using a feather on a bull and thinking he’s coming ahead. Martin Quinn is the king of idiots, John, and folks like you are his servants.”
Patrick manages to overpower Quinn to bring the quick assault to an end. A closed fist ROCKS his jaw with a sickening collision which drops Martin like a linebacker getting to the quarterback. Patrick Marra's eyes glaze over with glee when he sees who was foolish enough to lay a hand on him. Quinn for his part is laughing at what greeted him, while also wincing in pain.
“You little fucking shit! You want an opportunity? Fine. But this won’t be a match, this is going to be a one-sided fight that you’ll wish you never picked! This place needed a makeover and your blood will be a nice coat of paint!!”
Martin spits out blood from the first blow, punctuating it with crazed laughter. “You can start with that.”
Quinn is allowed to pick himself back up, but Marra closes in. Martin throws a few clotheslines for good effort...and then quickly feigns shock while shaking his arm out.
“Those had no effect on the much larger opponent!”
“Not with those noodle arms!”
Marra laughs at the feeble attempts, but they soon turn into gasps and gurgles. Patrick’s follow up find nothing but air as Quinn deftly sidesteps each. Unknown to Marra is the fact Quinn has switched over to using a knife to begin carving with the skill of a butcher with each miss. And he is going to town on the rotund body with the same crazed expression he walked in with. Patrick’s blood loss is becoming too much and eventually he collapses into the dirt. Quinn stands above, looking down at his handiwork and licking the blood off his blade. Gone are the goofy mannerisms and self talking. Replacing it is the cold stare of...well, a madman.
“I told you. I TOLD YOU. My name is Madman MARTIN QUINN!!”
“Madman.”
Slice.
“Martin.”
Slice! Slice!
“Quinn!!”
Patrick’s throat is slit from ear to ear like a knife cutting through a piece of tender meat. “What in the world has he done?!”
“I knew it all along! Martin Quinn was just playing possum with his victim. I always knew he had a few candies missing from the dish. I love it!”
Quinn begins laughing as the life of Patrick Marra reaches an expiration. But Martin never gets the chance to walk away from the scene of the crime.
...because he gets pulled inside of the same portal used by Seromine to jump between his realm and the real world. No speech. No introduction. Nothing but abduction. And on March 11, the puzzle was complete. Martin Quinn would later be assigned the name Jarvis and assigned the mask of the Ram.
------------
SEROMINE’S EFFIGY
“When I think of pirates, one of the first images that comes to mind is the flag. What happens to be on it? Why a skull and crossbones. CrossBONES. I remember someone who came to PCW with part of that name. A relative of our dear Sister, Alexandra Black. And said mortal was paired with us in a match which we should have walked out victorious...only the coward was unable to hold his weight and went down on the same ship High Tide will at Deadly Intentions.
I put a bounty on his head. I wanted BONES. Dead. Alive. It didn’t matter. His match never took place because Kelli Harlot decided to go make herself known. The SAME Dollface who PCW has decided to protect from us again. But...patience is a virtue when it comes to the matter of she and her master, brothers and sisters. Time is but a construct of man and both shall meet an end by our hands when the chance arrives. So, I digress back to No Show BONES.
The bounty on his head remains. PCW decided to give us Tyrone Smith instead, a self proclaimed “Crazy Boy” in the latest win for our cause. Sister Black decided she wanted to make herself known and get her destructive hands on him. That’s fine. In fact...I’ll take it as payment in the hope she’ll eliminate her cousin.
Which brings me to the new challenger. A returning challenger. A faux challenger that the company decided to throw into the lion’s den.”
Seromine motions for his followers to form a circle around the eternal flame which was the centerpiece of the lone clearing inside Labyrinth Grove. Stoically at the top of the chain, he raises the issued International Title in the air for everyone to gaze upon. It’s golden plates glisten in the night, the strap as black as the sky was. Seromine stares at the prize himself, before he hands it to his wife, whom as always was right by his side. She runs her fingers across the face and hands it off to Lylyth to continue the process.
“The rum guzzler has collected gold during his time in PCW. He is coming off a victory over the dethroned Underground Champion, so he is very capable of taking the individual trinket which rests with us. But his treasure chest shall not hold MY title after the bell rings. I don’t care about High Tide. His return. His so-called momentum. I have defeated every single person put in front of me since returning. My intent is deadly and that’s more than just some crummy name for a pay per view. Brothers and Sisters, High Tide musn’t be allowed a path to victory. While not an enemy to our message, he is an intruder sailing on International waters and because of that, I am going to sink him and move on to capturing MY RIGHT to the claim of being the next challenger to the World Title.
Whomever the champion may be is of little interest. At Collision Course, the bearer of the target will hand the referee the title. And the next time the ref hands it over, will be into the hands of the Shepherd of the Faithful. PCW’s fan base is our flock. Our words. Our actions shall be followed by the masses. I always knew they needed guidance...so too do the people of Absinthe.”
As if by design, Seromine is handed his International Title back. He throws it over his shoulder and stands behind Destiny, taking her hands and putting his arms around her. The followers link their own hands with other another and enclose around the leaders, with the glow of the fire dead center.
“Two victories in one night. Our patience, brothers and sisters, is about to be rewarded. The next phase can now get underway. And upon returning from our victories, it shall.”