Post by Dominator / Mortimer on Aug 12, 2019 22:28:11 GMT -5
Friday 9th August 2019 - 12.39am
Location: Residence of Horacio Mortimer, Totton, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
Location: Residence of Horacio Mortimer, Totton, Southampton, Hampshire, England, United Kingdom
So rare is it these days to approach slumber adjacent to candlelight.
Reading his well worn, dog-earred copy of ‘A Brief History of Time’ by the late Professor Stephen Hawking, Horacio moistens his thumb by running it briskly across his tongue before peeling another layer of fascinating literature into view. Even in the minimal light that the flame provides, one can distinguish the stains of age on each page. What were once pristine leaves of white paper have now been sullied by a miserly, octogenarian shade of yellow.
The sequence of Horacio’s face scrunching up preceding a long and gaping yawn is enough of an indication as to the duration of his reading binge. Memorising the page number that he had reached, he closes the thick book; the two halves thump together with the force of a slamming door. The flame flinches at the moment of impact, quivering once more as he places the book on the bedside table that houses the burning wick encased in wax. He lets out a long, drawn-out sigh as he looks to the unoccupied half of the bed reserved for his absent lover.
He had seen not a hair nor heard even a whisper from Dolores in almost four weeks to the day; since professing the most genuine feelings he had felt towards anything sans The Order itself. He had been met with brutal rejection that day. Either that or an unflattering example of acceptance. Either way, Horacio could not help but feel himself to be in the wrong, somehow. If only he had kept his big mouth shut! Everything would be the way it was meant to be. Of course, Horacio was accustomed to Dolores spending prolonged periods of time away from Horacio’s immediate vicinity. But she would at least attempt to have made contact by now. No matter how many times throughout the day he would check, there were no additional messages on his answering machine, no new texts on his mobile and no indication as to when she would return. If at all. His advances might well have scared her off for good.
Any other day, he would have lost himself in the realm of slumber at an hour considerably earlier than this. Even upon banishing his yearnings by lowering himself down until his head is caressed by the duck down pillows beneath it cannot entice sleep. Tonight, the ticking of the clocks lining the walls orchestrate an ineffective lullaby. Two minutes drag as if they were hours. He tosses and turns in a bid to get comfortable, yet the umbrage spurred by his lack of knowing only fuels his insomnia.
Thrashing his legs to kick the bedsheet to the floor, Horacio sits upright and pivots himself so that his feet reach the floor. The bed creaks as he stands. He cannot help but look towards the half of the room that Dolores’ had made her own; clothes are strewn across a seat that had been brought upstairs from the dining room so that she may sit affront a dresser that she had acquired, and subsequently dumped, against the back wall, wedging it between a chest of drawers and Horacio’s wardrobe.
“How does she possibly own so many clothes?” Horacio asks only to whoever is intrusive enough as to listen. “She only ever wears the same cloak. Day in, day out.” He stares at the mass of crumpled clothing. His obsessive nature begins to shine through as he leads with a grunt towards the seat. He begins picking up various articles of clothing and folds them as neatly as he can. Shirts, tank tops, pyjamas and tracksuit bottoms are all entangled in a coagulated matte of cotton and synthetic fibres. “If she isn‘t coming back, I might as well put them in a bag for her to collect,” he callously says, abandoning the tidiness of his folding and instead allows the clothing to fall from his hands and onto the bed. Conveniently, a black bin bag has been gathering dust on top of the wardrobe from his last major clearout some months prior. He immediately regrets loosening the flimsy plastic with a harsh shake, sending particles of dust scattering into the air. Horacio begins to cough and choke, trying to waft the dust away from his face with his hand.
Upon setting the bag on the floor, he begins to load the cargo one item at a time. As he grabs one of the aforementioned tracksuit bottoms, he notices something protruding from one of the pockets; a folded envelope that has been ripped open at it’s top. Letting go of the bag, he examines the front of it upon uncrumpling it. It is nameless. Curiously, he peers over his shoulder. It’s been four weeks. Surely Dolores’ timing is not so perfect that she would intrude at such a time? Horacio pulls out the letter, subsequently having to unfold it in order to read it’s text.
“51°09'59.6"N 1°41'46.8"W”
“EMP#13”
“090819 - 2040”
"DO NOT FAIL ME, DOLLY"
“EMP#13”
“090819 - 2040”
"DO NOT FAIL ME, DOLLY"
Horacio stares at the unusual sequence of numbers imprinted on the sheet. He immediately recognises the topmost digits as coordinates; latitude by longitude. The precise location that this translates is impossible to decipher without further investigation. The second row is something of an anomally. “EMP #13,” Horacio thinks aloud. “That surely can’t refer to… an electromagnetic pulse?” His eyebrows furrow. Why would Dolores possibly possess the coordinates to a device capable of causing an electromagnetic pulse. More portentously, the number ‘13’ following it, suggesting that there could potentially be at least twelve more. “I’m overthinking this, surely,” Horacio chuckles to himself. His amusement soon fades as he looks at next row. “Ninth of August, 2019. 8.40pm; Sunset,” he deduces. “That’s today!” he quickly gasps.
Without wasting any further time, he promptly reaches for his mobile phone and opens his internet browser. Methodically, he taps the coordinates into a readily available search engine and waits for the screen to load.
“It can’t be!” he exclaims. A surge of confliction flows through Horacio’s body with high voltage. He looks at the clock. It is far too early in the day, or rather late in the day, to make such an important decision as to what is the best course of action based on what has now transpired.
He does indeed recognise the location that appears before him.
“That’s… Grandpa’s house!”
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_________________________________________________________
“Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.”
― Carl Sandburg
_________________________________________________________
Friday 9th August 2019 - 11.58am
Location: Hangtown
The most efficacious way to describe the noonday sun would be that it has reached it’s zenith. It’s rays bounce off such an abundance of sweat that covers his bare torso, it appears to have formed a film over his skin. The sun makes it shimmer as if he were a lake. Even his fingertips are not exempt from moisture seeping through, his prints are left amidst the central most part of the base affixed to the spine of the book that he is reading. The heat alone is not the reason for the excess waste as his body attempts to regulate his temperature. It is aided by the incalculably large tree trunk that The Zenith drapes over his shoulder as if it were a gym towel, swinging it from side to side as he squats to exercise his core. He strains, but barely. If any part of his body is going to give, it would be his eyes.
It has reached the point in time that he has been undergoing this self-inflicted turmoil for so long, he cannot tell which of his callisthenics he has been working on longer; lifting or reading. Though the book is comprised of the exact same material as the log and weighing significantly less, The Temporal King feels like he is more likely to put the book down first. He takes a look towards the sky. The sun will not climb any higher today. That is as good enough a signal as any to end his workout. He allows the log to roll off his shoulder, rumbling heavily across the ground. As for the book, he simply closes it and begins to walk towards the porch of the wooden cabin just a few feet away from him. The Zenith wipes his brow and wrings out his beard with one hand.
He clomps heavy-footedly up the steps, yet is much more delicate when opening and closing the front door. A small couch and an armchair are arranged in front of an unlit wood-burner. Behind the furniture, a few feet away, an oval dinner table has been laid out with cutlery, crockery and glasses in preparation for an imminent meal. Dominic walks straight past all of this and heads for a table situated in the corner of the room; various belongings are waiting for him, including a towel that he immediately wipes himself down with. Stealthily, Ruth Dillinger attempts to creep up behind The Zenith, but is detected almost instantly and is notified of this with a snort.
“You‘re no fun,” she whines, placing the cruet set in her hand on the table instead. “Leaving so soon?” Ruth pouts with disheartened overtones that, while not feeling overly forced, certainly possesses a lining of illegitimacy. Dominic simply continues to gather his belongings, throwing a shirt the size of a tablecloth over his head in the process.
“I don’t want to outstay my welcome,” comes the feeble excuse from Dominic as he slings a duffel bag over his shoulder.
“Please. You’re part of the furniture at this point,” Ruth cracks a smile. “Are you sure you don’t want to stick around for a little while? I’m just about to fix some dinner for Granny and I. You wouldn’t want to set off on an empty stomach, would you?” Her means of manipulating Dominic with food is something of a tried and tested technique. He glances at Ruth, rolling his eyes ever so slightly.
“Just so long as it isn’t another one of your Butternut Squash soups,” he replies semi-warningly. Ruth’s grin widens.
“I’ll set another place at the table,” she says upon hearing the affirmative response from her houseguest, reacting almost immediately by fetching another set of crockery from a nearby cabinet. “Where were you going, anyway?”
“To find answers?” Dominic seems to question his own answer with uncertainty shrouding his judgement. “I’ve never done so much reading in my life. I would have thought at least one of the books in ‘Bad Omens’ might have some sort of manuscript pertaining to the town’s history.” This reminds him to set the book that he had been reading down on the dinner table. Ruth quickly scoops it up, deeming such positioning to make the table look tardy in appearance.
“I thought you were more interested in looking up your own history than that of Hangtown,” Ruth replies curiously, placing the book atop a stack on a nearby desk.
“If I am tied to one of the Bloodlines, then Hangtown is my history,” Dominic deduces. He had made this hypothesis long before now. Only through Ruth’s probing had he been prompted to come right out and say it. “The only helpful piece of script that’s come into my possession was from a random messenger nigh upon two weeks ago.” Ruth looks curiously towards Dominic without saying a word. “But even his message only raised more questions than answers.”
“What did the message say?” Ruth hums, trying to sound as nonchalant as she can without coming across as sardonic.
“It pertains to my late mother,” Dominic replies with an annoyed frown. “She had a nervous breakdown which led to her taking her own life when I was very young, so I didn’t really get to know a lot about her. Dad never really went into any great detail about what she was like, other than being completely psycho, apparently.” He lets out a dismissive shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I thought I might be able to find something in one of these books, but even going through every book in town, I’m no closer to finding out what I need to know.”
“Well… not every book,” she chortles mischievously.
“Let me guess,” Dominic growls, knowing exactly where this is leading. “The information I need is in ‘The Book Of The Black Hand,’ right?”
“You catch on fast,” Ruth replies in an almost mocking tone that The Zenith does not take too kindly to. “But let’s face it, you’ll never get your hands on that.” She follows up this comment with a laugh that is most definitely patronising.
“Never say never,” Dominic replies with a wicked grin in retaliation towards Ruth’s earlier mockery. Continuing to laugh to herself, Ruth walks right up to Dominic and motions with her hand for him to lower his head down to her level. For some reason, he obliged. Ruth’s laugh slowly trails off directly down Dominic’s earhole before reiterating;
“You’ll never get your hands on that.”
The sudden metamorphosis between jovial conversation and a stern caveat depicts somebody who possesses a split personality. Dominic slowly stands upright once more. He lets out a sly grin of his own designed solely to get Ruth’s goat. It appears to work as her stern look turns more into a frown.
“Where did you plan on going once you leave Hangtown, anyway?” her voice suddenly turns back into that almost flippant demeanour that makes it impossible to tell whether she is being sincere.
“My only real option is to track down my living family,” Dominic begins. “Like I said, my mother isn’t with us anymore. My father…” he pauses hesitantly. The very thought of the man disgusts him. He had made a personal vow never to think of him unless he absolutely had to; a promise to himself that he would unfortunately be forced to break. “My father is a dirty, lying scumbag who reaped the benefits of his only son’s efforts and lived only off of my blood, sweat and tears like the fucking vampire that he is.”
“Wash your mouth out!” Ruth’s sinister voice returns to her. “Granny will be here any minute now and I’d rather you not use that type of language in front of her. Have some respect.” Dominic begrudgingly bites his tongue, although he could go on a full-blown tirade that breaks down each and every aspect of his father’s life where he had failed; mostly about being a good father. “Your only living relative is your father?” her voice returns to a calmer tone.
“As far as I’m aware,” he replies with a snort, refusing to apologise for his profanities that laced his outburst. “I’m pretty sure that he’s the only person outside of Hangtown who might be able to help me. And even if I did know where he is, which I don‘t, I’m not entirely sure that he would help me.”
Their conversation is cut short upon experiencing a simultaneous alertness that has made it’s presence felt.
“Do you feel that?” Dominic says to Ruth. The sound of heavy footsteps slam against the ground outside that has dried akin to concrete courtesy of the baking sun. The source of this peculiarity encourages Ruth and Dominic to venture through the front door of the shack. The vibrations through the ground come from the hooves of the equine responsible for the cloud of dirt kicked up in its wake. The ground trembles beneath their feet as those of the stallion draw nearer.
The rider dismounts their steed. Dressed in a familiar black cloak that protects them from the dust, but surely amplifies the heat, as evident by the sweat that pours from their brow. Indeed, the rider seems to be equally as exhausted as his mode of transport. The rider is taken aback by the stoic figure of Dominic; warranted intimidation consumes her upon such a sight, yet she is quick to stave it away.
As Ruth offers the stallion a pale of water that is immediately accepted, the rider lowers her hood. Dolores Aurelian has a euphoric look of relief on her face, apparently delighted with herself.
“I can’t believe I found you!” Dolores yells excitedly, albeit wearily. She pants for a second, trying to catch her breath. “It feels like it took me forever, but I’ve finally managed to get here!” Ruth is nowhere near as enthralled as Dolores is currently, so much so that she walks straight up to Dolores confrontationally. Wishing to quell any untoward feelings before they surface, Dolores quickly flashes that cheeky smile of hers.
“How did you get here?” Ruth grimaces, clearly displeased at the prospect that she must now share the autumnal air of Hangtown with somebody as cretinous as Dolores Aurelian. “And if you say ’by horseback,’ I’ll…” she suddenly stops herself as she hears the front door jerkily creak open behind her. Granny Dillinger is stood there, cane in hand, peering through narrowed eyes using her free wizened hand as a visor to block out the harsh sun.
“What’s all the commotion out here?” Granny shakily enquires. “Ruth, dear. Do we have more guests?”
“Dominic will be joining us for lunch,” Ruth explains. “And we have just been interrupted… I mean joined by Dolores Aurelian.”
“Well, why don’t you come on inside,” Granny invites welcomingly. “You’ve clearly had a long journey, Dolores. We’re about to have lunch. Would you care to join us?” Ruth immediately shakes her head in protest. Noticing this, Dolores accepts Granny’s proposal more as a means to provoke Ruth as opposed to replenishing her stamina.
“That’s very kind of you,” Dolores beams gratefully towards Granny, yet in a more denigrating manner at Ruth once Granny’s back is turned. Ruth merely lets out a mildly irritated huff before following Granny indoors. Dolores looks back at Dominic, continuing to smile as if her very life depended on it.
“The Dillingers aren’t the sort of people you should antagonise if you are woefully unprepared,” Dominic warns.
“You seem to get on with Phinehas just fine,” Dolores retorts. “And you don’t exactly have the smoothest of friendships.” That might have been a little bit of an exaggeration, but to even call Dominic’s inclusion as part of The Black Hand a result of friendship is a severe stretch of the imagination. Mutual respect would be a far more aptly fitting description. After all, nobody comes to Pure Class Wrestling to make friends.
Even though Kyle Shane is allegedly dealing with an undisclosed injury that forced him out of the Return To Glory card, one could propose the argument that Kyle’s absence stems not from the trauma he sustained at the hands of David Hunter, but by falsely broadcasting the news of his injuries like a hypochondriac, using it as an excuse to evade the wrath of the man that he knew that he would be unable to conquer.
Such a mouth-watering concept; Kyle Shane versus Dominator; two of the very best imports from outside of PCW to make waves within the company in recent memory. The Zenith’s rise had practically eclipsed that of The Catalyst. Shane recognised this as such. Rather than prove his own worth, he has elected to take a step back and watch events unfold from afar; perhaps the more sensible approach rather than dip his fingers into the jaws of Death.
Even upon pulling off ‘the crime of the century’ by eliminating the competition to take his place, it is the backwards logic of David Hunter’s assault that is truly baffling to The Zenith. If he really wanted make a statement, he should have deployed such nefarious tactics against the reigning champion. Mind you, cerebral thinking is far from David Hunter’s strong point.
The last person who made such a ’forward’ approach to The Zenith was one Johnny Matthews. And look how far that got him.
Maybe David Hunter deserves a little more credit in that regard. He has just been voted the ‘Most Hated’ person in PCW, which speaks volumes about the man. But it at least somewhat warranted. The Zenith can’t stand the little fucktard either.
Kyle Shane may well be a former World Champion and is renowned for the length of his servitude as champion, but that does not discount the downward spiral he has experienced ever since losing out to Gerard Angelo. It is one thing to shoot a soaring eagle out of the sky, but it is quite different when such a raptor is on the ground nurturing a broken wing. Hunter has kicked Kyle Shane while he is down.
But what was the source of such betrayal amidst a fledgling friendship? Was David’s association with Kyle Shane born merely as a ruse to take his place upon such rapid deceit, or a spur of the moment decision made when other factors beyond their control came into play? Lest we not forget, both Kyle and David were keen on bringing down Sicko, given that he had managed to thwart Hunter’s advances at every turn. For so long, Hunter endeavoured to get one over on The Psycho Clown, only to be knocked back every single time. Having formulated a plan to reclaim The Underground Title for his own, a scheme deviously concocted alongside Holden Ross long before Kyle’s involvement, one can only imagine the embarrassment and feeling of ineptitude when Sicko is overthrown as the Underground King by Razor Blade.
It took Razor Blade just one attempt to accomplish what David Hunter had tried to achieve for months.
But.. does it truly come as any surprise?
David Hunter is Hypocrisy Incarnate. He has claimed on a seemingly daily basis that he does not receive the recognition that he believes he rightfully deserves. And yet, when he actually receives said appreciation in the form of multiple Icey Awards, he instantly shoots down the notion of such paltry awards holding any distinction. They say that any publicity is good publicity. Even for a man as unspectacular as David Hunter, that is still not enough. He wants to be the man at the top of the pecking order so badly? Then he will have to do what only two men have been able to do in as many years.
This is most certainly David’s most superlative opportunity to make the name for himself that he so desperately craves. And desperate men will do desperate things. The assault on Kyle Shane is evidence enough of that.
David Hunter will be making headlines… but for all the wrong reasons. Instead of his name glistening in lights, it will be written in blood amidst the canvas on which he is destined to stain. Instead of climbing to the top of the pile, David Hunter will be sent crashing down to Earth with such a meteoric impact, it could bring upon a second Ice Age.
Indeed, David Hunter has inadvertently spared Kyle Shane from the fate that now awaits his attacker in his place; the potency of such karma will be proof enough to the injured God of Game that every cloud does indeed have a silver lining.
For all the boasting and self promotion that Hunter had spouting in the build to The Icemann Invitational Tournament, his first true test came against The Temporal King himself. And he was disposed of with ease. Humbled, even, at the hands of Time itself. Hunter has so much more to prove before even daring to challenge The Zenith. There is a significant difference between being underrated and being under-prepared. Under-developed. Under-achieving. Yet, in such harsh and unforgiving environs as those ruled by The Zenith and The Black Hand, David Hunter has no choice but to play the role of a piranha amongst sharks.
How fitting it is then, that at Return To Glory, David Hunter is going to be eaten alive.
A grumble of The Zenith’s stomach is enough of an indication that his appetite requires appeasing. Granny sits between Dolores to her left and Dominic to her right. Ruth is in the midst of relaying the various foods to the table; from freshly made bread to a whole chicken that has been carved off the bone to a fully boiled gammon joint that has also been sliced into thick chunks. Dominic immediately tears a drumstick from the bird and tears into it with his teeth. Dolores is far more conservative, opting for a small slice of bread with a minimal amount of butter on top. As Ruth sits down, she cannot help but watch Dolores sceptically as she enjoys her first morsel of Hangtown cuisine. She does not get far through her meal before clearing her throat.
“I’m sorry. There’s something I have to get off my chest,” Dolores confesses, unable to bring herself to make eye contact with The Zenith. Taking a deep breath as to summon the courage to voice her surreptitious directives that had been bestowed to her. Out of Dominic and Ruth, it is The Hangtown Horror’s own sibling who parades a heightened level of intrigue.
“Here it comes,” Ruth grins to herself. “I figured this wasn’t solely a social visit.”
“I know that I’m no better than Horacio,” she begins. “What, considering he wanted me to pretend to be your deceased girlfriend’s twin sister for a time. I have tried to reel Horacio in a little bit. And, to an extent, I think it is working. But I’m afraid there is another hand in play. And the only way I can come clean has been by coming to Hangtown.” The Tyrant In Time merely tilts his head with justifiable uncertainty; a sentiment that he makes loud and clear to Dolores.
“If I may,” Dominic butts in before Dolores can speak any further. “Know that if you utter but one single lie to me over the course of the next few minutes, I will personally ensure that your Bloodline is eradicated from tomorrow’s pages of history.” His declaration is filled with an ominous level of calm like the silence before a storm. He does not blink; his eyes remain fixated on those belonging to Dolores. His threat sets instantly in Dolores’ ears like quick-drying cement, forcing her to take a nervous and subconscious step backwards. Realising her actions, she recomposes herself and stares Death right in the face. “Do I make myself clear?” the creeping smile forms on Dominic’s face, perceiving Dolores’ newfound open posture as affirmation. A nod of her head seconds this notion. Even Ruth and Granny have succumbed to the silence.
“Crystal,” Dolores confirms before taking a deep breath. “I didn’t want this,” Dolores solemnly states with her head hung low. “I thought that, over time, I would be able to convince Horacio to simply stop thinking about The Chronological Order and get him to settle down. I was prepared to give up my own life to settle down with Horacio as a matter of necessity; to stop The Chronological Order from gaining traction.” An unexpected chuckle escapes from her as she shakes her head. “The more I think about it, the more ridiculous it sounds,” she admits.
“You’re telling me!” Ruth rolls her eyes.
“But it really isn’t,” Dolores back-pedals. “I thought that I would have to live a loveless life just to appease the whims of my delusional father. I’ve spent years with Horacio, dedicating my very existence to his teachings, as per our plan to reach the upper echelons of The Order amidst it‘s resurgence.” Her pupils dilate. The more she thinks, the more enamoured she becomes with the memories of spending such a vast quantity of time with him. They are fond memories, even when things have looked bleak, she remains optimistically exultant. “But the deeper I got, the more I found that his notions are not the ramblings of a madman, but perhaps a true means of changing the world for the better. I grew to admire Horacio.”
“Admire?” Ruth scoffs in an otherwise suggestive tone. “Is that all?” She cannot hide the victory such pressure has expulsed from Dolores that manifests in her ever reddening face that, at first, she attempts to hide. The realisation then hits her. There is no need to hide her emotions.
“If you want me to come out and say it, then fine!” Dolores says sternly, yet confidently. “Yes, I care about him. And yes, there may be something more to it than that.” Unable to determine just how innocuous her revelations may or may not be, she sugar-coats her acknowledgment despite somewhat knowing that anyone could read through her blurred lines. “But it was never my intention. I didn’t mean for things to go as far as they have. And now, I fear that I’m going to have to make a choice that I’m going to regret one way or another.”
“How so, dear?” Granny says with a much more soothing tone of voice than either Ruth or Dominic had been able to provide up until this point. Dolores lets out another sigh.
“My father; Denzel Aurelian,” she shakes apprehensively. “He was assigned to dispose of the last of The Mortimers; Horacio and his grandfather, Zachary. Zachary learned of Denzel’s plan in advance and made a contingency plan. He would ensure Horacio would get to safety and would then sacrifice his own life in a gas explosion to ensure Denzel would also perish. Nobody knew that Denzel survived the blast; horrifically maimed and scarred for life from the attack, but alive.”
“He’s alive?” Granny murmurs to herself. “I thought as much.” Dominic notices how quiet Granny has become. She appears to be deep in thought, although is evidently taking notice of the conversation in full as it progresses.
“So then what is this big decision you have to make?” Ruth’s demeanour has changed. She is now listening intently to every word Dolores is saying.
“He raised me to loathe him. He wanted me to complete the job that he started all those years ago.” She holds back the waterworks, truly conflicted and appalled by her situation. “But I can’t go through with it. I can’t bring myself to harm Horacio more than I already have. He’s already confided his true feelings towards me, but how am I meant to reciprocate those feelings when I’ve been told that I have to kill him.”
“Well, the answer seems pretty obvious to me,” Dominic says through a mouthful of chicken. “Don‘t do it.”
“It’s not quite as simple as though,” she sighs. “He is planning something called ’The Chrono Trigger,’ whereby he sets off a series of EMP Bombs across Europe in the hope that it will cause chaos across a wide area, metaphorically stopping time. If Horacio is not killed in one of the blasts, there would be no CCTV or means of electronic evidence that would incriminate him, allowing for Horacio’s assassination to be performed more swiftly and effectively.”
“Why would he do that?” Granny frowns, shaking her head as she reaches for another slice of gammon.
“He says it’s to do with appeasing The Black Hand,” Dolores replies. “He wants to finish what he started by any means necessary.”
“Perchance you were ready to admit such truths to Dominic prior to your arrival as opposed to this change of heart being a spur of the moment kind of thing,” Ruth asks cryptically towards Dolores. The young Aurelian is taken a little by surprise by the abrupt fascination from Ruth.
“Well… yes,” Dolores somewhat hesitantly admits, wondering what reasoning Ruth might have for asking such a question. Ms. Dillinger bobs her head with approval towards her own levels of understanding.
“Then that would explain how you found Hangtown,” Ruth smiles. “You have chosen to take your own path and Hangtown understands that. That is how you were able to find us of your own merit.” Puzzled by this statement, Dolores lets out a small shrug.
“I guess I should express my gratitude to Hangtown,” Dolores bows her head respectfully. Ruth lets out a small cackle.
“This quite possibly isn’t my place to say,” Granny smirks, “but do you remember when I told you about the two men who founded The Chronological Order? Or rather, The Temporal Vanguard as it was known back then?” A haze descends across Dominic’s face for a brief moment as he desperately tries to recollect such a tale.
“Vaguely,” he lies. He couldn’t remember at all. Granny lets out a small sigh.
“Allow me to regale you once more,” she crows. “The man who first conceived the idea of Time being greater than any deity was an ancestor to the Mortimer Bloodline. He was incarcerated by The Black Hand who deemed his theorems to be too outlandish to the public that he wanted to divulge his opinions toward. Whilst imprisoned, he convinced his cell mate to follow his beliefs. The two then founded The Temporal Vanguard and, upon breaking free from captivity, began spreading their word throughout the land.”
“Ah yes, I remember now,” Dominic is able to recollect the story. Not in full, but these bare details were enough to start turning the cogs.
“There is one little detail that I left out of that story the first time around,” she sheepishly grins. Ruth looks towards her with a disapproving look, subtly trying to shake her head as trying to get across her point that this information should not be shared. “Oh, hush now, Deary,” Granny dismissively waves a hand at Ruth. “Like it or not, both of them are Black Hand. I’m not telling them anything that nobody else knows.”
“Excuse me? Ms Dillinger?” Dolores politely tries to interject, going so far as to raise her hand like a schoolgirl in class.
“Please,” the elderly woman smiles toothlessly. “Call me Granny.”
“Well, Granny,” Dolores says awkwardly. “Technically speaking, I’m not part of The Black Hand.”
“You’re a part of the Aurelian Bloodline,” Granny states. “You might not be the most experienced in our ways, but you are Black Hand.”
“More so than Dominic,” Ruth adds with a hint of distain.
“I wouldn’t quite say that, my dear,” Granny replies with a subtle little nod towards Dominic.
“What do you mean by that!?” Dominic snorts. “And what about the founders of The Order?”
“Let's just say that perhaps you should stop looking at your own family history and try to learn a little more about the founding Bloodlines," Granny smiles once more, taking a sip from her tea before settling it back down on the saucer. “As I was saying, the cell mate of Horacio’s ancestor was not just a some petty lowlife. He was, in fact, one of the first Aurelians,” Granny states. “As such, The Mortimers and The Aurelians are the true founders of the group you know today as The Chronological Order.”
Dolores falls completely silent, so too does Dominic and Ruth. Granny simply sits back and waits for the inevitable.
“He lied to me,” Dolores stammers. “He didn’t want to avenge The Black Hand. He wanted to run The Chronological Order himself.”
“I‘m afraid so, Dear,” Granny nods. “And while it is true that he is unable to patrol Hangtown for surveillance in the same manner as he can on the outside world, it is true that he enlisted the help of The Black Hand to plant the EMP Bombs, given his lack of mobility. We obliged, but only as a means to observe him. We wouldn’t be so foolish as to simply allow his plans to go ahead without it benefiting The Black Hand.”
“So, you knew about all of this!?” Dominic spits.
“Of course,” Granny smiles. “Such is the way of The Black Hand. We see all."
“As beneficial as it would be to rid ourselves of The Order, Horacio is doing too grand a job for us to just pull the plug like that,” Ruth states, snapping her fingers to signal how quickly they could spell his demise if they were so inclined. Dolores’ face curls beneath her hood.
All the while, Dominic is unable to make heads or tails of this scenario. He had been in Hangtown for so long, any notion that The Chronological Order might be in any sort of jeopardy has become something of a benign concept to him.
“So let me get this straight,” Dominic tries to reassess the situation in full. “Your father, the man who was assigned to assassinate Horacio and his grandfather, who was presumed dead when the latter blew them to kingdom come, somehow survived and is now plotting to set off a series of EMP bombs across the world and finish what he started by killing Horacio?” Dominic turns to Granny, his conniving nature begins to shine through. “If your operatives are already out on the field monitoring these bombs, why can’t they just deactivate them now before they all go off?” Dominic suggests with a puzzled look as to why nobody had thought of this solution sooner.
“My father would be notified the moment any single one of them is deactivated,” Dolores replies apologetically. “If he saw just one go offline, he’d most likely be inclined to detonate the rest. The only way we’re going to do this is if they’re all deactivated at the same time.”
“How many of these bombs are there?” Granny says out of curiosity.
“Thirteen,” Dolores confirms. “Eight of them are in major European cities; the likes of London, Paris, Lisbon, Berlin, Madrid, Rome, Stockholm and Vienna. The remaining five are more local to Totton; basically anywhere that Horacio might end up going.”
“You can leave those is Europe to us,” Ruth smirks. “We know precisely where they are. However, the same cannot be said for the remaining five. We will have to leave those to you.”
“I’ve already made a start on covering the last five,” Dolores declares. “Matthew and Marx were more than willing to assist. Unbeknownst to Horacio, I’ve managed to get the two of them back on side since he disbanded The Watchmen.”
“Have you tried Harley Weiss?” Dominic makes the suggestion, running his hand through his thick, bushy beard.
“I tried to get a hold of Harley as well, but I haven’t been able to contact him,” Dolores says worriedly. “I’m a little concerned, if I’m honest.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” Ruth quickly remarks, shooting a look towards Granny. “Out of all of The Watchmen, Harley seemed to be the least enthusiastic out of you all. And I certainly know he wasn’t the biggest fan of Horacio’s. Maybe he just wants out.”
“Maybe,” Dolores says uncertainly. “I guess I could keep trying to make contact. But we don’t have much time. Perhaps Phinehas might be able to assist us with…”
“Absolutely not,” Ruth decrees bluntly, utilising the same unyielding force that she had presented to Dominic upon discussing The Book Of The Black Hand.
“How long do we have?” Dominic clenches his fist. Dolores begins rummaging around her person for something, unable to place her fingers on whatever it is she has lost.
“Strange,” Dolores mutters to herself. “I could have sworn I brought it with me. I had an envelope that contained the details as to when he was going to set off the EMPs. I must have left it back at Horacio’s when I…”
She freezes on the spot. She remembers the exact location of it; the precarious position of being hidden in plain sight. Dominic glares at Dolores, cursing her internally for her error. Ruth and Granny simply glimpse at one another as The Zenith and Dolores quickly rise to their feet.
“Oh my God!” Dolores screeches, panic stricken. “Horacio!”
_________________________________________________________
“Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.”
― Carl Sandburg
_________________________________________________________
Friday 9th August 2019 - 11.58am
Location: Hangtown
The most efficacious way to describe the noonday sun would be that it has reached it’s zenith. It’s rays bounce off such an abundance of sweat that covers his bare torso, it appears to have formed a film over his skin. The sun makes it shimmer as if he were a lake. Even his fingertips are not exempt from moisture seeping through, his prints are left amidst the central most part of the base affixed to the spine of the book that he is reading. The heat alone is not the reason for the excess waste as his body attempts to regulate his temperature. It is aided by the incalculably large tree trunk that The Zenith drapes over his shoulder as if it were a gym towel, swinging it from side to side as he squats to exercise his core. He strains, but barely. If any part of his body is going to give, it would be his eyes.
It has reached the point in time that he has been undergoing this self-inflicted turmoil for so long, he cannot tell which of his callisthenics he has been working on longer; lifting or reading. Though the book is comprised of the exact same material as the log and weighing significantly less, The Temporal King feels like he is more likely to put the book down first. He takes a look towards the sky. The sun will not climb any higher today. That is as good enough a signal as any to end his workout. He allows the log to roll off his shoulder, rumbling heavily across the ground. As for the book, he simply closes it and begins to walk towards the porch of the wooden cabin just a few feet away from him. The Zenith wipes his brow and wrings out his beard with one hand.
He clomps heavy-footedly up the steps, yet is much more delicate when opening and closing the front door. A small couch and an armchair are arranged in front of an unlit wood-burner. Behind the furniture, a few feet away, an oval dinner table has been laid out with cutlery, crockery and glasses in preparation for an imminent meal. Dominic walks straight past all of this and heads for a table situated in the corner of the room; various belongings are waiting for him, including a towel that he immediately wipes himself down with. Stealthily, Ruth Dillinger attempts to creep up behind The Zenith, but is detected almost instantly and is notified of this with a snort.
“You‘re no fun,” she whines, placing the cruet set in her hand on the table instead. “Leaving so soon?” Ruth pouts with disheartened overtones that, while not feeling overly forced, certainly possesses a lining of illegitimacy. Dominic simply continues to gather his belongings, throwing a shirt the size of a tablecloth over his head in the process.
“I don’t want to outstay my welcome,” comes the feeble excuse from Dominic as he slings a duffel bag over his shoulder.
“Please. You’re part of the furniture at this point,” Ruth cracks a smile. “Are you sure you don’t want to stick around for a little while? I’m just about to fix some dinner for Granny and I. You wouldn’t want to set off on an empty stomach, would you?” Her means of manipulating Dominic with food is something of a tried and tested technique. He glances at Ruth, rolling his eyes ever so slightly.
“Just so long as it isn’t another one of your Butternut Squash soups,” he replies semi-warningly. Ruth’s grin widens.
“I’ll set another place at the table,” she says upon hearing the affirmative response from her houseguest, reacting almost immediately by fetching another set of crockery from a nearby cabinet. “Where were you going, anyway?”
“To find answers?” Dominic seems to question his own answer with uncertainty shrouding his judgement. “I’ve never done so much reading in my life. I would have thought at least one of the books in ‘Bad Omens’ might have some sort of manuscript pertaining to the town’s history.” This reminds him to set the book that he had been reading down on the dinner table. Ruth quickly scoops it up, deeming such positioning to make the table look tardy in appearance.
“I thought you were more interested in looking up your own history than that of Hangtown,” Ruth replies curiously, placing the book atop a stack on a nearby desk.
“If I am tied to one of the Bloodlines, then Hangtown is my history,” Dominic deduces. He had made this hypothesis long before now. Only through Ruth’s probing had he been prompted to come right out and say it. “The only helpful piece of script that’s come into my possession was from a random messenger nigh upon two weeks ago.” Ruth looks curiously towards Dominic without saying a word. “But even his message only raised more questions than answers.”
“What did the message say?” Ruth hums, trying to sound as nonchalant as she can without coming across as sardonic.
“It pertains to my late mother,” Dominic replies with an annoyed frown. “She had a nervous breakdown which led to her taking her own life when I was very young, so I didn’t really get to know a lot about her. Dad never really went into any great detail about what she was like, other than being completely psycho, apparently.” He lets out a dismissive shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I thought I might be able to find something in one of these books, but even going through every book in town, I’m no closer to finding out what I need to know.”
“Well… not every book,” she chortles mischievously.
“Let me guess,” Dominic growls, knowing exactly where this is leading. “The information I need is in ‘The Book Of The Black Hand,’ right?”
“You catch on fast,” Ruth replies in an almost mocking tone that The Zenith does not take too kindly to. “But let’s face it, you’ll never get your hands on that.” She follows up this comment with a laugh that is most definitely patronising.
“Never say never,” Dominic replies with a wicked grin in retaliation towards Ruth’s earlier mockery. Continuing to laugh to herself, Ruth walks right up to Dominic and motions with her hand for him to lower his head down to her level. For some reason, he obliged. Ruth’s laugh slowly trails off directly down Dominic’s earhole before reiterating;
“You’ll never get your hands on that.”
The sudden metamorphosis between jovial conversation and a stern caveat depicts somebody who possesses a split personality. Dominic slowly stands upright once more. He lets out a sly grin of his own designed solely to get Ruth’s goat. It appears to work as her stern look turns more into a frown.
“Where did you plan on going once you leave Hangtown, anyway?” her voice suddenly turns back into that almost flippant demeanour that makes it impossible to tell whether she is being sincere.
“My only real option is to track down my living family,” Dominic begins. “Like I said, my mother isn’t with us anymore. My father…” he pauses hesitantly. The very thought of the man disgusts him. He had made a personal vow never to think of him unless he absolutely had to; a promise to himself that he would unfortunately be forced to break. “My father is a dirty, lying scumbag who reaped the benefits of his only son’s efforts and lived only off of my blood, sweat and tears like the fucking vampire that he is.”
“Wash your mouth out!” Ruth’s sinister voice returns to her. “Granny will be here any minute now and I’d rather you not use that type of language in front of her. Have some respect.” Dominic begrudgingly bites his tongue, although he could go on a full-blown tirade that breaks down each and every aspect of his father’s life where he had failed; mostly about being a good father. “Your only living relative is your father?” her voice returns to a calmer tone.
“As far as I’m aware,” he replies with a snort, refusing to apologise for his profanities that laced his outburst. “I’m pretty sure that he’s the only person outside of Hangtown who might be able to help me. And even if I did know where he is, which I don‘t, I’m not entirely sure that he would help me.”
Their conversation is cut short upon experiencing a simultaneous alertness that has made it’s presence felt.
“Do you feel that?” Dominic says to Ruth. The sound of heavy footsteps slam against the ground outside that has dried akin to concrete courtesy of the baking sun. The source of this peculiarity encourages Ruth and Dominic to venture through the front door of the shack. The vibrations through the ground come from the hooves of the equine responsible for the cloud of dirt kicked up in its wake. The ground trembles beneath their feet as those of the stallion draw nearer.
The rider dismounts their steed. Dressed in a familiar black cloak that protects them from the dust, but surely amplifies the heat, as evident by the sweat that pours from their brow. Indeed, the rider seems to be equally as exhausted as his mode of transport. The rider is taken aback by the stoic figure of Dominic; warranted intimidation consumes her upon such a sight, yet she is quick to stave it away.
As Ruth offers the stallion a pale of water that is immediately accepted, the rider lowers her hood. Dolores Aurelian has a euphoric look of relief on her face, apparently delighted with herself.
“I can’t believe I found you!” Dolores yells excitedly, albeit wearily. She pants for a second, trying to catch her breath. “It feels like it took me forever, but I’ve finally managed to get here!” Ruth is nowhere near as enthralled as Dolores is currently, so much so that she walks straight up to Dolores confrontationally. Wishing to quell any untoward feelings before they surface, Dolores quickly flashes that cheeky smile of hers.
“How did you get here?” Ruth grimaces, clearly displeased at the prospect that she must now share the autumnal air of Hangtown with somebody as cretinous as Dolores Aurelian. “And if you say ’by horseback,’ I’ll…” she suddenly stops herself as she hears the front door jerkily creak open behind her. Granny Dillinger is stood there, cane in hand, peering through narrowed eyes using her free wizened hand as a visor to block out the harsh sun.
“What’s all the commotion out here?” Granny shakily enquires. “Ruth, dear. Do we have more guests?”
“Dominic will be joining us for lunch,” Ruth explains. “And we have just been interrupted… I mean joined by Dolores Aurelian.”
“Well, why don’t you come on inside,” Granny invites welcomingly. “You’ve clearly had a long journey, Dolores. We’re about to have lunch. Would you care to join us?” Ruth immediately shakes her head in protest. Noticing this, Dolores accepts Granny’s proposal more as a means to provoke Ruth as opposed to replenishing her stamina.
“That’s very kind of you,” Dolores beams gratefully towards Granny, yet in a more denigrating manner at Ruth once Granny’s back is turned. Ruth merely lets out a mildly irritated huff before following Granny indoors. Dolores looks back at Dominic, continuing to smile as if her very life depended on it.
“The Dillingers aren’t the sort of people you should antagonise if you are woefully unprepared,” Dominic warns.
“You seem to get on with Phinehas just fine,” Dolores retorts. “And you don’t exactly have the smoothest of friendships.” That might have been a little bit of an exaggeration, but to even call Dominic’s inclusion as part of The Black Hand a result of friendship is a severe stretch of the imagination. Mutual respect would be a far more aptly fitting description. After all, nobody comes to Pure Class Wrestling to make friends.
Even though Kyle Shane is allegedly dealing with an undisclosed injury that forced him out of the Return To Glory card, one could propose the argument that Kyle’s absence stems not from the trauma he sustained at the hands of David Hunter, but by falsely broadcasting the news of his injuries like a hypochondriac, using it as an excuse to evade the wrath of the man that he knew that he would be unable to conquer.
Such a mouth-watering concept; Kyle Shane versus Dominator; two of the very best imports from outside of PCW to make waves within the company in recent memory. The Zenith’s rise had practically eclipsed that of The Catalyst. Shane recognised this as such. Rather than prove his own worth, he has elected to take a step back and watch events unfold from afar; perhaps the more sensible approach rather than dip his fingers into the jaws of Death.
Even upon pulling off ‘the crime of the century’ by eliminating the competition to take his place, it is the backwards logic of David Hunter’s assault that is truly baffling to The Zenith. If he really wanted make a statement, he should have deployed such nefarious tactics against the reigning champion. Mind you, cerebral thinking is far from David Hunter’s strong point.
The last person who made such a ’forward’ approach to The Zenith was one Johnny Matthews. And look how far that got him.
Maybe David Hunter deserves a little more credit in that regard. He has just been voted the ‘Most Hated’ person in PCW, which speaks volumes about the man. But it at least somewhat warranted. The Zenith can’t stand the little fucktard either.
Kyle Shane may well be a former World Champion and is renowned for the length of his servitude as champion, but that does not discount the downward spiral he has experienced ever since losing out to Gerard Angelo. It is one thing to shoot a soaring eagle out of the sky, but it is quite different when such a raptor is on the ground nurturing a broken wing. Hunter has kicked Kyle Shane while he is down.
But what was the source of such betrayal amidst a fledgling friendship? Was David’s association with Kyle Shane born merely as a ruse to take his place upon such rapid deceit, or a spur of the moment decision made when other factors beyond their control came into play? Lest we not forget, both Kyle and David were keen on bringing down Sicko, given that he had managed to thwart Hunter’s advances at every turn. For so long, Hunter endeavoured to get one over on The Psycho Clown, only to be knocked back every single time. Having formulated a plan to reclaim The Underground Title for his own, a scheme deviously concocted alongside Holden Ross long before Kyle’s involvement, one can only imagine the embarrassment and feeling of ineptitude when Sicko is overthrown as the Underground King by Razor Blade.
It took Razor Blade just one attempt to accomplish what David Hunter had tried to achieve for months.
But.. does it truly come as any surprise?
David Hunter is Hypocrisy Incarnate. He has claimed on a seemingly daily basis that he does not receive the recognition that he believes he rightfully deserves. And yet, when he actually receives said appreciation in the form of multiple Icey Awards, he instantly shoots down the notion of such paltry awards holding any distinction. They say that any publicity is good publicity. Even for a man as unspectacular as David Hunter, that is still not enough. He wants to be the man at the top of the pecking order so badly? Then he will have to do what only two men have been able to do in as many years.
This is most certainly David’s most superlative opportunity to make the name for himself that he so desperately craves. And desperate men will do desperate things. The assault on Kyle Shane is evidence enough of that.
David Hunter will be making headlines… but for all the wrong reasons. Instead of his name glistening in lights, it will be written in blood amidst the canvas on which he is destined to stain. Instead of climbing to the top of the pile, David Hunter will be sent crashing down to Earth with such a meteoric impact, it could bring upon a second Ice Age.
Indeed, David Hunter has inadvertently spared Kyle Shane from the fate that now awaits his attacker in his place; the potency of such karma will be proof enough to the injured God of Game that every cloud does indeed have a silver lining.
For all the boasting and self promotion that Hunter had spouting in the build to The Icemann Invitational Tournament, his first true test came against The Temporal King himself. And he was disposed of with ease. Humbled, even, at the hands of Time itself. Hunter has so much more to prove before even daring to challenge The Zenith. There is a significant difference between being underrated and being under-prepared. Under-developed. Under-achieving. Yet, in such harsh and unforgiving environs as those ruled by The Zenith and The Black Hand, David Hunter has no choice but to play the role of a piranha amongst sharks.
How fitting it is then, that at Return To Glory, David Hunter is going to be eaten alive.
A grumble of The Zenith’s stomach is enough of an indication that his appetite requires appeasing. Granny sits between Dolores to her left and Dominic to her right. Ruth is in the midst of relaying the various foods to the table; from freshly made bread to a whole chicken that has been carved off the bone to a fully boiled gammon joint that has also been sliced into thick chunks. Dominic immediately tears a drumstick from the bird and tears into it with his teeth. Dolores is far more conservative, opting for a small slice of bread with a minimal amount of butter on top. As Ruth sits down, she cannot help but watch Dolores sceptically as she enjoys her first morsel of Hangtown cuisine. She does not get far through her meal before clearing her throat.
“I’m sorry. There’s something I have to get off my chest,” Dolores confesses, unable to bring herself to make eye contact with The Zenith. Taking a deep breath as to summon the courage to voice her surreptitious directives that had been bestowed to her. Out of Dominic and Ruth, it is The Hangtown Horror’s own sibling who parades a heightened level of intrigue.
“Here it comes,” Ruth grins to herself. “I figured this wasn’t solely a social visit.”
“I know that I’m no better than Horacio,” she begins. “What, considering he wanted me to pretend to be your deceased girlfriend’s twin sister for a time. I have tried to reel Horacio in a little bit. And, to an extent, I think it is working. But I’m afraid there is another hand in play. And the only way I can come clean has been by coming to Hangtown.” The Tyrant In Time merely tilts his head with justifiable uncertainty; a sentiment that he makes loud and clear to Dolores.
“If I may,” Dominic butts in before Dolores can speak any further. “Know that if you utter but one single lie to me over the course of the next few minutes, I will personally ensure that your Bloodline is eradicated from tomorrow’s pages of history.” His declaration is filled with an ominous level of calm like the silence before a storm. He does not blink; his eyes remain fixated on those belonging to Dolores. His threat sets instantly in Dolores’ ears like quick-drying cement, forcing her to take a nervous and subconscious step backwards. Realising her actions, she recomposes herself and stares Death right in the face. “Do I make myself clear?” the creeping smile forms on Dominic’s face, perceiving Dolores’ newfound open posture as affirmation. A nod of her head seconds this notion. Even Ruth and Granny have succumbed to the silence.
“Crystal,” Dolores confirms before taking a deep breath. “I didn’t want this,” Dolores solemnly states with her head hung low. “I thought that, over time, I would be able to convince Horacio to simply stop thinking about The Chronological Order and get him to settle down. I was prepared to give up my own life to settle down with Horacio as a matter of necessity; to stop The Chronological Order from gaining traction.” An unexpected chuckle escapes from her as she shakes her head. “The more I think about it, the more ridiculous it sounds,” she admits.
“You’re telling me!” Ruth rolls her eyes.
“But it really isn’t,” Dolores back-pedals. “I thought that I would have to live a loveless life just to appease the whims of my delusional father. I’ve spent years with Horacio, dedicating my very existence to his teachings, as per our plan to reach the upper echelons of The Order amidst it‘s resurgence.” Her pupils dilate. The more she thinks, the more enamoured she becomes with the memories of spending such a vast quantity of time with him. They are fond memories, even when things have looked bleak, she remains optimistically exultant. “But the deeper I got, the more I found that his notions are not the ramblings of a madman, but perhaps a true means of changing the world for the better. I grew to admire Horacio.”
“Admire?” Ruth scoffs in an otherwise suggestive tone. “Is that all?” She cannot hide the victory such pressure has expulsed from Dolores that manifests in her ever reddening face that, at first, she attempts to hide. The realisation then hits her. There is no need to hide her emotions.
“If you want me to come out and say it, then fine!” Dolores says sternly, yet confidently. “Yes, I care about him. And yes, there may be something more to it than that.” Unable to determine just how innocuous her revelations may or may not be, she sugar-coats her acknowledgment despite somewhat knowing that anyone could read through her blurred lines. “But it was never my intention. I didn’t mean for things to go as far as they have. And now, I fear that I’m going to have to make a choice that I’m going to regret one way or another.”
“How so, dear?” Granny says with a much more soothing tone of voice than either Ruth or Dominic had been able to provide up until this point. Dolores lets out another sigh.
“My father; Denzel Aurelian,” she shakes apprehensively. “He was assigned to dispose of the last of The Mortimers; Horacio and his grandfather, Zachary. Zachary learned of Denzel’s plan in advance and made a contingency plan. He would ensure Horacio would get to safety and would then sacrifice his own life in a gas explosion to ensure Denzel would also perish. Nobody knew that Denzel survived the blast; horrifically maimed and scarred for life from the attack, but alive.”
“He’s alive?” Granny murmurs to herself. “I thought as much.” Dominic notices how quiet Granny has become. She appears to be deep in thought, although is evidently taking notice of the conversation in full as it progresses.
“So then what is this big decision you have to make?” Ruth’s demeanour has changed. She is now listening intently to every word Dolores is saying.
“He raised me to loathe him. He wanted me to complete the job that he started all those years ago.” She holds back the waterworks, truly conflicted and appalled by her situation. “But I can’t go through with it. I can’t bring myself to harm Horacio more than I already have. He’s already confided his true feelings towards me, but how am I meant to reciprocate those feelings when I’ve been told that I have to kill him.”
“Well, the answer seems pretty obvious to me,” Dominic says through a mouthful of chicken. “Don‘t do it.”
“It’s not quite as simple as though,” she sighs. “He is planning something called ’The Chrono Trigger,’ whereby he sets off a series of EMP Bombs across Europe in the hope that it will cause chaos across a wide area, metaphorically stopping time. If Horacio is not killed in one of the blasts, there would be no CCTV or means of electronic evidence that would incriminate him, allowing for Horacio’s assassination to be performed more swiftly and effectively.”
“Why would he do that?” Granny frowns, shaking her head as she reaches for another slice of gammon.
“He says it’s to do with appeasing The Black Hand,” Dolores replies. “He wants to finish what he started by any means necessary.”
“Perchance you were ready to admit such truths to Dominic prior to your arrival as opposed to this change of heart being a spur of the moment kind of thing,” Ruth asks cryptically towards Dolores. The young Aurelian is taken a little by surprise by the abrupt fascination from Ruth.
“Well… yes,” Dolores somewhat hesitantly admits, wondering what reasoning Ruth might have for asking such a question. Ms. Dillinger bobs her head with approval towards her own levels of understanding.
“Then that would explain how you found Hangtown,” Ruth smiles. “You have chosen to take your own path and Hangtown understands that. That is how you were able to find us of your own merit.” Puzzled by this statement, Dolores lets out a small shrug.
“I guess I should express my gratitude to Hangtown,” Dolores bows her head respectfully. Ruth lets out a small cackle.
“This quite possibly isn’t my place to say,” Granny smirks, “but do you remember when I told you about the two men who founded The Chronological Order? Or rather, The Temporal Vanguard as it was known back then?” A haze descends across Dominic’s face for a brief moment as he desperately tries to recollect such a tale.
“Vaguely,” he lies. He couldn’t remember at all. Granny lets out a small sigh.
“Allow me to regale you once more,” she crows. “The man who first conceived the idea of Time being greater than any deity was an ancestor to the Mortimer Bloodline. He was incarcerated by The Black Hand who deemed his theorems to be too outlandish to the public that he wanted to divulge his opinions toward. Whilst imprisoned, he convinced his cell mate to follow his beliefs. The two then founded The Temporal Vanguard and, upon breaking free from captivity, began spreading their word throughout the land.”
“Ah yes, I remember now,” Dominic is able to recollect the story. Not in full, but these bare details were enough to start turning the cogs.
“There is one little detail that I left out of that story the first time around,” she sheepishly grins. Ruth looks towards her with a disapproving look, subtly trying to shake her head as trying to get across her point that this information should not be shared. “Oh, hush now, Deary,” Granny dismissively waves a hand at Ruth. “Like it or not, both of them are Black Hand. I’m not telling them anything that nobody else knows.”
“Excuse me? Ms Dillinger?” Dolores politely tries to interject, going so far as to raise her hand like a schoolgirl in class.
“Please,” the elderly woman smiles toothlessly. “Call me Granny.”
“Well, Granny,” Dolores says awkwardly. “Technically speaking, I’m not part of The Black Hand.”
“You’re a part of the Aurelian Bloodline,” Granny states. “You might not be the most experienced in our ways, but you are Black Hand.”
“More so than Dominic,” Ruth adds with a hint of distain.
“I wouldn’t quite say that, my dear,” Granny replies with a subtle little nod towards Dominic.
“What do you mean by that!?” Dominic snorts. “And what about the founders of The Order?”
“Let's just say that perhaps you should stop looking at your own family history and try to learn a little more about the founding Bloodlines," Granny smiles once more, taking a sip from her tea before settling it back down on the saucer. “As I was saying, the cell mate of Horacio’s ancestor was not just a some petty lowlife. He was, in fact, one of the first Aurelians,” Granny states. “As such, The Mortimers and The Aurelians are the true founders of the group you know today as The Chronological Order.”
Dolores falls completely silent, so too does Dominic and Ruth. Granny simply sits back and waits for the inevitable.
“He lied to me,” Dolores stammers. “He didn’t want to avenge The Black Hand. He wanted to run The Chronological Order himself.”
“I‘m afraid so, Dear,” Granny nods. “And while it is true that he is unable to patrol Hangtown for surveillance in the same manner as he can on the outside world, it is true that he enlisted the help of The Black Hand to plant the EMP Bombs, given his lack of mobility. We obliged, but only as a means to observe him. We wouldn’t be so foolish as to simply allow his plans to go ahead without it benefiting The Black Hand.”
“So, you knew about all of this!?” Dominic spits.
“Of course,” Granny smiles. “Such is the way of The Black Hand. We see all."
“As beneficial as it would be to rid ourselves of The Order, Horacio is doing too grand a job for us to just pull the plug like that,” Ruth states, snapping her fingers to signal how quickly they could spell his demise if they were so inclined. Dolores’ face curls beneath her hood.
All the while, Dominic is unable to make heads or tails of this scenario. He had been in Hangtown for so long, any notion that The Chronological Order might be in any sort of jeopardy has become something of a benign concept to him.
“So let me get this straight,” Dominic tries to reassess the situation in full. “Your father, the man who was assigned to assassinate Horacio and his grandfather, who was presumed dead when the latter blew them to kingdom come, somehow survived and is now plotting to set off a series of EMP bombs across the world and finish what he started by killing Horacio?” Dominic turns to Granny, his conniving nature begins to shine through. “If your operatives are already out on the field monitoring these bombs, why can’t they just deactivate them now before they all go off?” Dominic suggests with a puzzled look as to why nobody had thought of this solution sooner.
“My father would be notified the moment any single one of them is deactivated,” Dolores replies apologetically. “If he saw just one go offline, he’d most likely be inclined to detonate the rest. The only way we’re going to do this is if they’re all deactivated at the same time.”
“How many of these bombs are there?” Granny says out of curiosity.
“Thirteen,” Dolores confirms. “Eight of them are in major European cities; the likes of London, Paris, Lisbon, Berlin, Madrid, Rome, Stockholm and Vienna. The remaining five are more local to Totton; basically anywhere that Horacio might end up going.”
“You can leave those is Europe to us,” Ruth smirks. “We know precisely where they are. However, the same cannot be said for the remaining five. We will have to leave those to you.”
“I’ve already made a start on covering the last five,” Dolores declares. “Matthew and Marx were more than willing to assist. Unbeknownst to Horacio, I’ve managed to get the two of them back on side since he disbanded The Watchmen.”
“Have you tried Harley Weiss?” Dominic makes the suggestion, running his hand through his thick, bushy beard.
“I tried to get a hold of Harley as well, but I haven’t been able to contact him,” Dolores says worriedly. “I’m a little concerned, if I’m honest.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” Ruth quickly remarks, shooting a look towards Granny. “Out of all of The Watchmen, Harley seemed to be the least enthusiastic out of you all. And I certainly know he wasn’t the biggest fan of Horacio’s. Maybe he just wants out.”
“Maybe,” Dolores says uncertainly. “I guess I could keep trying to make contact. But we don’t have much time. Perhaps Phinehas might be able to assist us with…”
“Absolutely not,” Ruth decrees bluntly, utilising the same unyielding force that she had presented to Dominic upon discussing The Book Of The Black Hand.
“How long do we have?” Dominic clenches his fist. Dolores begins rummaging around her person for something, unable to place her fingers on whatever it is she has lost.
“Strange,” Dolores mutters to herself. “I could have sworn I brought it with me. I had an envelope that contained the details as to when he was going to set off the EMPs. I must have left it back at Horacio’s when I…”
She freezes on the spot. She remembers the exact location of it; the precarious position of being hidden in plain sight. Dominic glares at Dolores, cursing her internally for her error. Ruth and Granny simply glimpse at one another as The Zenith and Dolores quickly rise to their feet.
“Oh my God!” Dolores screeches, panic stricken. “Horacio!”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Friday 9th August 2019 - 8.29pm
Location: Former Residence of Zachary Mortimer, Newton Tony, Wiltshire, England, United Kingdom
Friday 9th August 2019 - 8.29pm
Location: Former Residence of Zachary Mortimer, Newton Tony, Wiltshire, England, United Kingdom
The tiniest blotch of orange remains visible on the horizon, being swallowed up by the darkness spreading infectiously overhead. The only other source of light visible in the immediate area are those of the stationary headlights shining above the front bumper of Horacio’s Volvo XC-90. Upon disengaging the engine and disembarking from the vehicle, Horacio takes a deep breath as he walks towards the rusted iron gate that he is parked right next to. It looks like it has not been opened in decades.
At least, that would be the case if not for a practically brand new chain and padlock securing the gates shut. He looks up and down the street. He hadn’t passed another car for miles, even in spite of this being a residential street. It is as though all the houses on this street are deserted, which, to be fair, is highly understandable, given the atrocities that occurred here while Horacio was but an infant. Knowing that he will be able to enter without detection from nosey neighbours, he plants one foot on the bonnet of his car, before hoisting himself over the eight foot gate and drops down to the stony, yet weed-ridden driveway. He brushes the lichen and rust from the front of his suit jacket.
Upon gazing at the property in full, Horacio rebuilds the derelict house, brick by brick, inside of his own mind, recreating and reminiscing the times that he had spent prior to it’s destruction. While he is somewhat elated to stand in it’s grounds after so much time has passed, he is overwhelmed by the sorry state that the home of so many fond memories now finds itself. Even though the gaps in the corroded wooden fence provided something of a glimpse within to outsiders, nobody seemed to have the decency to prevent such an eyesore from affecting neighbouring views. So overrun with weeds, grasses and nettles is the garden that dandelion seeds and other such pollinations latch themselves onto Horacio’s suit jacket and trouser legs. Various insects frenziedly fly around Horacio’s face as their homes are invaded, to which Horacio is quick to swat them away with an equally agitated hand.
With the pollens now acting as irritants against his skin, Horacio is eager to reach the building itself. What were once cream bricks have been tainted with mould. Heaps of rubble from what walls had collapsed have remained in place untouched for some twenty-seven years. Upon reaching a gap in the wall where the grass would no longer encumber him, Horacio takes his first step into his former home. Despite the height of summer, the ground remains noticeably damp; a haven for the slithering and scuttling molluscs that feast on the mould growing there. The sun’s perpetual light is being cut off by the Earth’s rotation.
Time is short. If he’s going to go deeper, he has to go now.
Though he had been unable to see what lay at his feet amidst the overgrowth of the garden, the glum lighting, or lack thereof, made traversing this terrain even more treacherous. Perambulating with caution, Horacio follows what he believes to be what is left of a corridor. He must have entered through the wall of what used to be the main hall. He wondered if he might be able to forage for anything that might have been left behind in his old bedroom. That is the direction that he opts to travel, though he has to squeeze through the most miniscule of gaps left by the caved-in ceiling. He feels his suit tear against the jagged stone, forcing a loud groan. As he examines the damage, he is suddenly caught off guard by something… or someone. He gets the horrid feeling that he is being watched.
“It’s been a long time… Horacio,” a meek voice calls croakily from nearby. Horacio stops on the spot immediately, trying to pinpoint where it might have come from. Considering the distortion of the voice, it is most likely coming through a form of speaker system that has been wired through the ruined building. There must be an electrical source for this to occur. As such, Horacio begins to feel the walls for anything that might give a clue as to where he might head; a socket, a wire, a switch, anything that might aid him.
“Who’s there?” Horacio attempts to make distractive conversation to bide him the time he needs.
“My, my, how you’ve grown!” the voice compliments. “Such a handsome young man you are. Now I know why my Dolly is so besotted with you.”
“Your Dolly?” Horacio parrots as he wraps his hand around a loose wire trailing down one of the walls. He tugs on it until it is taut, casting his eye along the length of cable. Though it is not wired to a speaker, he does notice a closed circuit television camera pointed directly at him. He glares into the lens, hiding his trepidation. It takes a few moments to register, but he recognises that name. “Your Dolly?” Horacio repeats to himself. The camera catches the exact moment Horacio turns white. “You… you’re the one!” he stammers. “You were here the day that Grandpa…” he stops himself. His fear makes way for the blinding anger that serves as it’s replacement. “You’re the reason he’s dead! And you have the gall to come back here!”
“Well, I always have admired the location,” the voice cackles with a tinny effect that is resultant of the poor wiring. “It’ll look a lot nicer once the brickwork is re-pointed,” he jokes maliciously.
“Denzel, right?” Horacio frowns. “Denzel Aurelian? Dolores‘ father?”
“Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner!” comes the mocking reply from Denzel. “So what are they going to be playing for tonight, Steve? The cash prize or the brand new car?”
“Quit goofing around,” Horacio snaps warningly as he struggles down the length of the corridor. He turns the corner that he recognises as one that leads to where his bedroom used to be, only to find that it is blocked off by a cast iron door. It looks modern in comparison to the ruins around him, most certainly installed after the house had been destroyed. “What are you even doing here?”
“I should be asking you the same thing,” Denzel replies with a huff. “You live all the way in Totton. There is no reason for you to be here.”
“I found a note in Dolores’ pocket,” Horacio replies. “It had the coordinates for this place, along with a date, a time, and the phrase EMP#13. Would you care to explain?”
“It’s all a part of my Environmental Management Plan,” Denzel lies. “EMP. Environmental Management Plan.”
“By the state of the garden outside, you have to forgive me when I say that I don’t believe you,” Horacio grimaces. Though the anger remains present, he cannot help but feel a little more anxious than he had been before. On the opposite side of that door was the man who, unbeknownst to Horacio until recently, was the source of so much of his heartache. What’s more, the sudden insight that this man’s continued existence is enough of an indication that Dolores has also been deceiving Horacio hits him like a piece of the crumbling walls. Horacio grits his teeth, running his hands through his hair in angst. “Don’t tell me… you’ve been Dolores’ puppeteer from the get-go? That’s how you know I live in Totton.”
“Oh, I know so much more than just your place of residence, Horacio,” Denzel cackles. “And I’m not going to lie to you,” he can barely contain himself as he says that particular line, “my precious little Dolly has done sterling work in keeping me up to speed with the workings of The Chronological Order. At least I know where to pick up from when I inherit The Order on behalf of The Black Hand.”
“Over my dead body!” Horacio proclaims, reaching for the handle of the iron door. It is a decision that he quickly regrets. He feels a horrific pain shoot through his entire body; a deadly dosage of electricity rips through his limbs. As he lets go, he drops to the damp ground unconscious. Denzel can be heard chuckling maniacally to himself over the tannoy system.
“If you insist,” Denzel chortles. “Shocking behaviour! I know.” The joke falls on deaf ears, but that does not detract from the crazed laughter than now echoes through the baron building. Slowly, the iron door creaks open. Blue light pours over Horacio’s body like a celestial spotlight from the afterlife. From within, a noose is wrapped around Horacio’s foot. Within seconds, he is winched into the room. The door slams behind him with a heavy thud.
From that moment on, all is silent.
TO BE CONTINUED
At least, that would be the case if not for a practically brand new chain and padlock securing the gates shut. He looks up and down the street. He hadn’t passed another car for miles, even in spite of this being a residential street. It is as though all the houses on this street are deserted, which, to be fair, is highly understandable, given the atrocities that occurred here while Horacio was but an infant. Knowing that he will be able to enter without detection from nosey neighbours, he plants one foot on the bonnet of his car, before hoisting himself over the eight foot gate and drops down to the stony, yet weed-ridden driveway. He brushes the lichen and rust from the front of his suit jacket.
Upon gazing at the property in full, Horacio rebuilds the derelict house, brick by brick, inside of his own mind, recreating and reminiscing the times that he had spent prior to it’s destruction. While he is somewhat elated to stand in it’s grounds after so much time has passed, he is overwhelmed by the sorry state that the home of so many fond memories now finds itself. Even though the gaps in the corroded wooden fence provided something of a glimpse within to outsiders, nobody seemed to have the decency to prevent such an eyesore from affecting neighbouring views. So overrun with weeds, grasses and nettles is the garden that dandelion seeds and other such pollinations latch themselves onto Horacio’s suit jacket and trouser legs. Various insects frenziedly fly around Horacio’s face as their homes are invaded, to which Horacio is quick to swat them away with an equally agitated hand.
With the pollens now acting as irritants against his skin, Horacio is eager to reach the building itself. What were once cream bricks have been tainted with mould. Heaps of rubble from what walls had collapsed have remained in place untouched for some twenty-seven years. Upon reaching a gap in the wall where the grass would no longer encumber him, Horacio takes his first step into his former home. Despite the height of summer, the ground remains noticeably damp; a haven for the slithering and scuttling molluscs that feast on the mould growing there. The sun’s perpetual light is being cut off by the Earth’s rotation.
Time is short. If he’s going to go deeper, he has to go now.
Though he had been unable to see what lay at his feet amidst the overgrowth of the garden, the glum lighting, or lack thereof, made traversing this terrain even more treacherous. Perambulating with caution, Horacio follows what he believes to be what is left of a corridor. He must have entered through the wall of what used to be the main hall. He wondered if he might be able to forage for anything that might have been left behind in his old bedroom. That is the direction that he opts to travel, though he has to squeeze through the most miniscule of gaps left by the caved-in ceiling. He feels his suit tear against the jagged stone, forcing a loud groan. As he examines the damage, he is suddenly caught off guard by something… or someone. He gets the horrid feeling that he is being watched.
“It’s been a long time… Horacio,” a meek voice calls croakily from nearby. Horacio stops on the spot immediately, trying to pinpoint where it might have come from. Considering the distortion of the voice, it is most likely coming through a form of speaker system that has been wired through the ruined building. There must be an electrical source for this to occur. As such, Horacio begins to feel the walls for anything that might give a clue as to where he might head; a socket, a wire, a switch, anything that might aid him.
“Who’s there?” Horacio attempts to make distractive conversation to bide him the time he needs.
“My, my, how you’ve grown!” the voice compliments. “Such a handsome young man you are. Now I know why my Dolly is so besotted with you.”
“Your Dolly?” Horacio parrots as he wraps his hand around a loose wire trailing down one of the walls. He tugs on it until it is taut, casting his eye along the length of cable. Though it is not wired to a speaker, he does notice a closed circuit television camera pointed directly at him. He glares into the lens, hiding his trepidation. It takes a few moments to register, but he recognises that name. “Your Dolly?” Horacio repeats to himself. The camera catches the exact moment Horacio turns white. “You… you’re the one!” he stammers. “You were here the day that Grandpa…” he stops himself. His fear makes way for the blinding anger that serves as it’s replacement. “You’re the reason he’s dead! And you have the gall to come back here!”
“Well, I always have admired the location,” the voice cackles with a tinny effect that is resultant of the poor wiring. “It’ll look a lot nicer once the brickwork is re-pointed,” he jokes maliciously.
“Denzel, right?” Horacio frowns. “Denzel Aurelian? Dolores‘ father?”
“Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner!” comes the mocking reply from Denzel. “So what are they going to be playing for tonight, Steve? The cash prize or the brand new car?”
“Quit goofing around,” Horacio snaps warningly as he struggles down the length of the corridor. He turns the corner that he recognises as one that leads to where his bedroom used to be, only to find that it is blocked off by a cast iron door. It looks modern in comparison to the ruins around him, most certainly installed after the house had been destroyed. “What are you even doing here?”
“I should be asking you the same thing,” Denzel replies with a huff. “You live all the way in Totton. There is no reason for you to be here.”
“I found a note in Dolores’ pocket,” Horacio replies. “It had the coordinates for this place, along with a date, a time, and the phrase EMP#13. Would you care to explain?”
“It’s all a part of my Environmental Management Plan,” Denzel lies. “EMP. Environmental Management Plan.”
“By the state of the garden outside, you have to forgive me when I say that I don’t believe you,” Horacio grimaces. Though the anger remains present, he cannot help but feel a little more anxious than he had been before. On the opposite side of that door was the man who, unbeknownst to Horacio until recently, was the source of so much of his heartache. What’s more, the sudden insight that this man’s continued existence is enough of an indication that Dolores has also been deceiving Horacio hits him like a piece of the crumbling walls. Horacio grits his teeth, running his hands through his hair in angst. “Don’t tell me… you’ve been Dolores’ puppeteer from the get-go? That’s how you know I live in Totton.”
“Oh, I know so much more than just your place of residence, Horacio,” Denzel cackles. “And I’m not going to lie to you,” he can barely contain himself as he says that particular line, “my precious little Dolly has done sterling work in keeping me up to speed with the workings of The Chronological Order. At least I know where to pick up from when I inherit The Order on behalf of The Black Hand.”
“Over my dead body!” Horacio proclaims, reaching for the handle of the iron door. It is a decision that he quickly regrets. He feels a horrific pain shoot through his entire body; a deadly dosage of electricity rips through his limbs. As he lets go, he drops to the damp ground unconscious. Denzel can be heard chuckling maniacally to himself over the tannoy system.
“If you insist,” Denzel chortles. “Shocking behaviour! I know.” The joke falls on deaf ears, but that does not detract from the crazed laughter than now echoes through the baron building. Slowly, the iron door creaks open. Blue light pours over Horacio’s body like a celestial spotlight from the afterlife. From within, a noose is wrapped around Horacio’s foot. Within seconds, he is winched into the room. The door slams behind him with a heavy thud.
From that moment on, all is silent.
TO BE CONTINUED
