Post by Grimoire Xmyles on Mar 10, 2019 5:33:11 GMT -5
BZZT! BZZT! BZZT!
What kind of animal sets their alarm five minutes before the stroke of the hour?
He sprightly awakens with a smile on his face as he opens his eyes, rolling onto his side to reach out and replace the electronic droning of his radio alarm clock with something much more upbeat with a simple flick of a switch.
Flinging the covers from him, he swings his legs over the side of the bed so that his feet touch the floor. Using the springiness of his mattress to build momentum, he rocks himself upright and immediately lets out a refreshed yawn, stretching his arms out at his sides. Only now does he spread the curtains apart to greet the new morning, welcoming perpetual sunshine into his humble abode. He basks as the sunlight strokes his bare chest and face, showering in the kisses given to him by the sun. His body bare for all to see, sans a pair of stripy boxer shorts that keeps his dignity intact, he turns around to take his phone off charge, flicking through various applications.
“See you on the bus, handsome,” he reads a text message that he had received prior to his waking aloud. “Cammi.” He rolls his eyes and grins. “Bless.” Stepping over a small pile of dirty laundry that has gathered on the floor at the foot of his bed, he makes his way to a section of the room devoted to culinary preparation. He weaves his arm through an assortment of dirty crockery and discarded food packaging awaiting a one-way trip to the bin in order to flick the switch of an electric kettle, the volume of water visible through a transparent vertical slit. As the kettle wheezes into life, he makes his way into the bathroom. Within seconds, the oh-so recognisable sound of liquid impacting other liquid fills the property; like pouring water from a hose into a bucket.
It might not be the most impressive property, but it serves his ‘single-man’ lifestyle well; a room containing the bare essentials within four walls alone. His bed is situated on the furthest wall away from the door that grants entry and exit, perhaps to avoid the noise pollution that could come from the corridors. A bedside table is situated to the left of it, the aforementioned radio alarm clock sits beneath an unlit lamp. Wedged between the bed and the bedside table, a wooden baseball bat prays that it will never be needed for the purpose of its purchase; to protect its owner in case of a break-in. On the opposite side, a wardrobe unit with built in drawers house what clothes aren’t already heaped on the floor.
The kitchen area is sectioned off only by a change in the carpeting, changing from synthetic fibres to laminate wood flooring. The walls, ceiling and indeed even the carpeting has a dilapidated and tired look, stained from the cigarette smoke that thickens the air even now. Regardless, this studio-flat is the bachelor pad of his own wanting; the occupant can literally do as he pleases within. And if tidying up after himself isn’t something that pleases him, he doesn’t have to feel inclined to do it. After all, it isn’t as though he is still living with his parents or with room-mates.
An awkward amount of time passes before a flush of the cistern signals the total alleviation of his bladder. Just how long does it take to go for a piss in the morning!? Once a week for about twenty minutes.
He emerges. The kettle has now come to the boil, prompting him to source a mug. He pours a small amount of boiling water into his chosen cup, swirling it around to lift the dried-on dregs that linger from his previous beverage. As he gathers some ground coffee beans, some sugar, milk and a teaspoon, he notices the tinny music from the radio come to a close and is instead replaced by a dramatic jingle.
“This is the Fathom Radio News at seven o’clock, keeping you up to date will all of the local news in and around Fathom City. Our top news story this morning; Mayor Arthur Wright will be making a special appearance at ‘Fathom Telecommunications,’ which celebrates twenty-five years of continuous service today. He will be meeting with executives and employees alike and will unveil a plaque commemorating their achievements.”
With his piping hot coffee now tickling his tongue, he heads to his wardrobe and picks out perhaps the cleanest items in the entire flat; a dry-cleaned suit that hangs amongst various shirts and jackets.
“In other news, the Fathom City Police Department have issued a statement regarding the disappearance of the notorious Grimoire Xmyles. Xmyles, who is believed to have burned down Markmill Asylum prior to its reconstruction, has not been sighted within the city for almost a full year. Police Commissioner Melody Duckworth has stated that Xmyles has, quote; “fallen off the radar” and “is likely to be in hiding, or has left Fathom for pastures new.” Regardless, this man is considered highly dangerous and any sightings or incidents linking to Xmyles should be reported to the F.C.P.D immediately.”
“Sports News now; and what a huge game last night between the Fathom City Packers and…
--CLICK!--
Exasperated by the lack of upbeat music, he disengages the radio. He is now almost fully dressed. Indeed, the majority of his morning routine has been completed. Only a few loose buttons are left to fasten and a few more slugs of his coffee remain. He hadn’t allowed it to go cold at all. However, he attends to one more matter as he lazily kicks his readily-tied shoes onto his feet. Heading back to the kitchen area, he opens a cupboard to withdraw a sachet with a cartoon cat dominating the front cover. Tearing it open at the top, it slides gelatinously into the waiting bowl below. He separates the slab of cat food with a dirty butter knife conveniently placed near the edge of the kitchen sideboard.
“Max! Come on,” he entices his pet by placing the bowl of tinned food on the floor, puckering his lips and rapidly kissing the air multiple times. Although he expects his beloved companion to appear in place as fast as bolt of lightning, there is no pitter-pattering of feet to be heard. Scouring the room, he can only see a pile of laundry inflate and deflate in a regulated pattern.
He shakes his head with a chuckle.
“Still tired, huh?” he smiles. “Well, just try and make sure that you do your business in your litter tray this time. I don‘t want any of your ‘treats‘ waiting for me by the door when I get back.” With that, he motions for the door, patting his pockets as he leaves to ensure he has all that he needs; phone, cigarettes, lighter, wallet, keys. Perfect!
He traverses what feels like are a thousand different steps down a stairwell before reaching the exit. The staircase descends even further below, as if it reaches right the way down beyond the sewer systems and into the Earth’s core. Stepping outside, he feels the warmth of the premature spring hit his face. Even as he walks, he is still fastening buttons and adjusting his shoulder-length wiry hair. All the while, a cigarette hangs from his mouth, trying to find a suitable spot away from the soothing breeze in order to light it successfully.
“Good morning, Mr. Smilie,” a passer-by walking their dog greets cheerfully.
“Good morning,” he responds with equal kindness as he passes. This brief exchange fills Mr. Smilie with hope. He can feel it. Today is going to be a good day. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. He adjusts his tie one final time as a bus pulls up at the bus-stop that he has just reached, timing his arrival to perfection as he takes one last drag of his fag. The doors open with a gaseous hiss. The driver tips the rim of his cap towards Mr. Smilie as he boards, flashing his annual ticket.
“Mornin,’ Smilie,” the bus conductor grins.
“Call me Gerry,” Mr. Smilie smiles. The bus driver seems elated by this. The doors close and the bus slowly pulls out onto the road as Gerry walks the full length of the bus to a vacant seat. A sea of smiles and welcoming expressions greet him as he motions through the bus and sits down. He looks out of the window, watching the world go by as his commute to work continues.
The bus stops and starts many times. Sometimes to pick up more passengers, other times to drop them off. Sometimes to stop at a junction, other times slowing to accommodate for the sheer weight of rush hour traffic. Approximately halfway into the journey, just as the bus has pulled away from another
“Hey you,” another passenger says to Gerry, snapping him out of his daydream. He looks to his left. A dark haired girl who matches him in age lowers herself into the seat directly next to him, promptly leaning over and kissing him on the lips. Gerry seems a little surprised at first, but reciprocates as appropriate. “How’ve you been?”
“Uh, good!” Gerry replies, still in a little bit of a daze. “You?”
“Well, I’d be a lot better if the guy I was supposed to be dating called me every once in a while,” she replies with a hint of sarcasm.
“Who’s that, then?” Gerry mimics her tone of voice.
“You, you idiot!” she playfully jars her elbow into his side. “It feels like I haven’t seen or heard from you in weeks!”
“Sorry Cammi,” Gerry begins scratching his scalp through his mass of hair. “I’ve just been a bit tied up with work recently and when I get home I… just need a bit of ‘me time,’ y‘know?”
“I know,” she sympathises. “You haven’t been Employee of the Month for the last twelve months for no reason. You deserve a bit of a rest.”
“Not the last three though,” Gerry sighs. “I’m slipping somewhere. I just don’t know what it is.”
“You’ll pull through,” Cammi says reassuringly. “Maybe I’ve been distracting you. After all, it’s our six month anniversary today.” Gerry suddenly gasps.
“It is!?” Gerry guffaws. Cammi lets out a giggle.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t get you anything either.” Gerry can at least rest easy on that account. “Although, it would be nice to come to yours after work today. What do you think?”
“Uh… tonight’s not really a good night,” Gerry replies, looking back out of the window to break eye contact with Cammi. “The place is an absolute mess. I don’t want you to come over while it’s in such a state.”
“I don’t mind,” Cammi shrugs.
“Well, I do,” Gerry retorts bluntly. Cammi falls momentarily silent. “Sorry,” he mutters. He is answered by the same stillness from his would-be partner.
“You’ve changed recently,” Cammi thinks aloud. “I can’t put my finger on it, but there is definitely something about you that is different. When we first met, you were so romantic. You’d whisk me away for a weekend break away from Fathom City and out into the countryside, where the only crime that happens it when dog-walkers leave their dog’s shit on the footpath. Even with how busy you are with your work, you would still make the effort. Now, it just feels like you can’t be bothered.”
“Can’t be bothered!?” Gerry’s outburst raises some surprised looks from other passengers. “I’m trying to sort my life out here,” he hisses whilst leaning into Cammi’s ear. “If I don’t start improving, I’m going to be fired. And then I won’t be able to take us anywhere.”
“Fired?” Cammi repeats, slightly shocked. “Sheesh, what the hell has happened?” Before Gerry can pass any further comment, he recognises a building that is close to his work. He will need to disembark soon.
“Look, I’ll message you later,” Gerry says, depressing a button that rings a bell in the driver’s cabin and shuffling towards the aisle. Cammi frowns, giving Gerry a judgemental look. “And if really means that much to you… you can swing by my place later.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to put you out,” Cammi says light-heartedly, smiling towards her lover. Gerry smiles back and the two share a short kiss as the bus begins to grind to a halt. Cammi makes way for Gerry, sitting back down as he joins a queue of people also looking to get off. “See you later,“ she says, waving him off as he exits the vehicle. Having reached the fresh air, he takes a look at his surroundings. A tall building dominates the skyline directly in front of him, a swarm of passengers emerge from the bus behind him as more gather from either side of the sidewalk. He checks the time on his phone.
“Oh crap,” he exclaims. “How am I five minutes late!?” He rushes through the front door. In a mirror opposite of how he had left his home, he must now climb an equally countless number of steps. The lift from the ground floor leading up to the twelfth was out of order. “What is this? The Big Bang Theory’s lift!?” Gerry curses his luck prior to his ascent. At the halfway point, he is already starting to feel a stitch in his side due to his heightened sense of haste. As he finally reaches the door to his office space, he enters whilst adjusting his tie and walks towards his booth.
“Smilie!” a noticeably more stern voice shouts from across the office space. The chatter of his colleagues immediately ceases as everybody looks towards the source; an open door with a placard mounted centrally upon its surface, which reads ‘Mr. M. Vernon - HR Manager.’ A forty-something man, evidentially the titular employees, gestures with his finger for Gerry to come hither.
“Fuck, at least let me sit down and catch my breath,” he scowls. Today had started so promisingly. The sun was shining outside and it was an important day in the office. It was supposed to be the day that he turned everything around. Now, thanks to the lateness of the bus, he had immediately been summoned into the HR Manager’s office.
Mr. Vernon was one of those managers who liked to boast his position in the company by picking on the little man. He is sat behind his desk, staring straight into Gerry’s eyes as he enters and closes the door behind him.
“Would you care to explain why you are late this morning?” Mr Vernon says, taking great delight in Gerry’s plight.
“The bus was late, sir.” Gerry replies monotonously, rolling his eyes. He leans back in his chair, kicking his feet up onto the desk in an act of outlandish defiance. It seemed as though Mr. Vernon had some sort of personal vendetta against him lately. This must have been the third time in as many weeks that he had been sat in that chair directly opposite from the manager. He taps some nonsense into his laptop.
“I will be docking you half an hour’s pay,” Mr Vernon immediately declared his verdict. “And would you please remove your feet from my desk?”
“You mean fifteen minutes, right?” Gerry gawps in disgust, not relenting to his request to move his feet.
“New Timeliness policy,” Vernon replies bluntly. “We sent out an email on Friday explaining the changes.”
“Of course you did,” Gerry sighs, unsurprised by the underhandedness of his boss. “Will that be all, or do you want me to empty the contents of my wallet out for you as well?” Without further direction from Mr. Vernon, Gerry lowers his legs and takes his wallet out of his pocket. He opens it up, turning it upside down and shaking it violently. It’s contents spill everywhere.
“Mr. Smilie, I think that’s quite enough,” Mr. Vernon states authoritatively. Gerry begins to filter through the shrapnel that has landed on the desk regardless.
“See, I don’t think it is,” Gerry replies with frustration. “I don’t think anything is enough for you. Let’s see here. We’ve got twenty two dollars and fifty cents, my social security card, a credit card that has expired, a bus pass,” he tosses the latter item in Mr. Vernon’s vicinity. “You might as well have that, considering how it has just cost me about five bucks more than any other fucker who has paid for one.”
“I hardly think that language is appropriate,” Mr. Vernon warns.
“Do you know just how hard I have worked here over the years?” Gerry comments. “I’ve bust my ass in here for years and the only recognition I get is my face on the wall. I’m out there doing the grunt work better than anybody else and I’m still forced to catch the bus into Downtown Fathom whilst you just pull up in your fucking Humvie after sitting here and giving guys like me shit all day.”
“You work harder than anyone else, you say?“ Mr. Vernon prepares his counterargument. “Let us review your performance in recent weeks,” he smugly says, flicking through a small pile of paperwork to source some form of timesheet; detailing specific periods of time allocated to particular tasks alongside various quantities. “We’ve seen a decline in your statistics, Gerry,” he starts by forming another frown, “and, whilst it has started as a steady decrease, it’s been a literal plummet in the last three months. You were pulling through almost quadruple the number of successful sales this time last year. In fact, you had the highest success rate throughout the entire company at the end of 2018, that’s even with the expected drop off around Christmas and the decrease in your performance as of September.”
“And how long have I been pulling in high numbers for? A lot longer than six months, I’ll tell you that,” Gerry counters, scrunching up the dollar bills and stuffing them into his pockets rather than his wallet before putting his feet back up on the desk cockily.
“That may be,” Vernon sneers, “but exceeding for six months and then declining for the next makes you as average as the next man. Furthermore, I do not appreciate your outburst. Not at all. As such, I am demoting you back onto Telesales.” Gerry’s eyes furrow.
“What!? You can’t be serious.”
“I’m deadly serious. Unless you’d rather apply for a different position? We have an opening for a cleaner,” he remarks snidely.
Whilst maintaining his relaxed posture, Gerry turns his head slowly to directly face his employer. He cracks an amused smile, closing his eyes with a deep intake of breath through his nostrils. They flare as he exhales, lifting his feet off the desk and swinging them to the floor. He takes a look at Mr. Vernon’s desk, sliding a fountain pen and a stack of post-it notes in his own direction. Mr. Vernon seems a little confused as Gerry removes the lid from the pen and begins to draw on the top post-it.
“Tell me,” Gerry says, “do you enjoy being a pirate?”
Mr. Vernon looks completely perplexed.
“A pirate?” he asks.
“You don’t know what a pirate is?” Gerry chuckles as he scribbles. “A freebooter; someone who sails a mighty vessel for the sole purpose of pillaging and stealing from those he deems to be beneath him.” The nib of the fountain pen scrapes against the wooden desk beneath the paper. What Gerry has drawn resembles a circular blot filled with a thick cross-hatched pattern with a line that forms a loop going behind it; an eye-patch of sorts. It is then that he glares at Mr. Vernon with a menacing, almost psychotic expression.
“Consider this ship sunk.”
With that, Gerry lurches out of his seat. The nib of the fountain pen is thrust directly into the left eye of Mr. Vernon. Gerry hears a sickening squelch on impact, immediately preceded by a blood-curling scream that rings out throughout the office. Gerry peels the post-it note that he had drawn on away from the desk, tearing Mr. Vernon’s hand away from the injured eye that his agonisingly clutches. With a brutal thrust of his hand, he plants the post-it to his boss’s eyebrow with a slap. The makeshift eye patch is immediately soaked in blood. The commotion has drawn an even larger crowd outside. There had been one gathered anyway, but not for this reason alone.
A blow to the head with a paperweight knocks Mr. Vernon unconscious.
There, watching through the window in complete disbelief, are all of his colleagues, other executives and Mayor Arthur Wright, dressed in mayoral robes and a golden chain more akin to British customs than that of America. Gerry looks completely bewildered like a deer caught in the headlights. Panicked, he bursts out of Mr. Vernon’s office. His co-workers part like a Red Sea, fretful for their own well being.
Gerry simply runs. He runs and runs and runs. He doesn’t know how far. His legs do not relent, powered by pure adrenaline and nothing more.
--HOURS LATER--
He bursts through the front door, slamming it closed behind him and securing it with the sliding latch attached to a miniaturised chain that had been dangling from the door frame. With such vigor does his hand tremble that even the simple task of inserting the key he holds into the lock is made far more arduous. After a handful of missed attempts, he is finally able to insert the key, twisting it to his left. With his security assured, he turns around and slumps against that which he had just locked, trying to catch his breath.
It feels as though somebody is knocking forcefully against the door when in actuality it is his heart beating vigorously He savours the tranquillity provided by the newfound silence. Whatever sentences emerge consequentially to suit his crimes, he cares not for the ramifications for this brief moment. That is not to say that the immediate regret of his actions had not followed him home, preparing to morph into lingering guilt.
Where nervousness once took hold, he now possesses something even more harrowing than his sins.
A smile.
A content and heartless smile.
Just as he motions to sit on the bed for a moment, there is a loud knock on the door. Gerry swiftly removes his suit jacket, only to notice a peculiar stain on his shirt. He has no idea what it could be, but it seems to be some sort of dark liquid. He covers it by swiftly throwing his jacket back on. He does not answer the door, instead he tries to look for a way out. Perhaps coming back home was not the best idea, in hindsight. It’d be the first place someone would come looking.
Sure enough, another forceful knock is followed by that which had raised Gerry’s suspicions.
“F.C.P.D. Open up!”
Opting not to waste more time to rouse even more scepticism, Gerry unlocks the door, but keep the latch on. The door jars after opening a small distance. He peers through the slot. Two police officers are stood side by side in full uniform, guns drawn.
“Gerald Maximo Smilie?” one of the officers enquires.
“Uh, no,” Gerry blurts out, painting his face with feigned confusion.
“Oh?” the policeman reacts with surprise. “This is ‘Number 259, Fathom Heights,’ is it not?”
“Yes,” Gerry replies. “But I’m afraid the guy you’re looking for isn’t here.”
“Who are you then?” the officer frowns.
“Uh, I‘m his twin brother…uh… Barry,” Gerry lies smoothly. An awkward pause ensues. “Can I help you, or…?”
“I’m Officer Adam Bale of the Fathom City Police Department,” the officer finally introduces, “and this is Officer George Kilmer. We need to speak to Mr. Smilie as a matter of urgency. May we come in?” Gerry looks uncertainly towards the floor. It last not even a full second before he acknowledges with a smile, but it is certain long enough for the officer to have noticed.
“One moment, please,” Gerry says, closing the door in Officer Bale’s face. He looks around the room momentarily whilst patting down his pockets. He reaches into his pocket; the incriminating fountain pen is still hidden from view. As he withdraws it, he notices the ink oozing from the broken nip and over his hand, smeared from where it has been absorbed into the pocket’s lining. With a groan, he tries to find a suitable hiding place for ’Exhibit A,’ stuffing it into a sock on top of the laundry pile at the foot of the bed, before stuffing that even further into the pile. There is an angered hiss from within the laundry pile as Gerry’s hand impacts something that feels more solid than the fabrics of his clothes.
“Whoops! Sorry, Max.”
With the pen now hidden inside of the laundry pile like a leaky needle inside of a haystack that mildly smells of body odour, Gerry looks at his hand that has now been stained blue from the ink. He reaches for a towel from amongst the laundry pile and wraps it around his hand. An impatient knock hammers on the door. “I said one moment, please!” he exclaims, grabbing a bottle of washing up liquid that is ironically full, considering the volume of dirty plates lined up on the sidebaord waiting to be washed. He lifts the towel and squeezes the cleaning agent into his hand, tossing it back into the sink with an almighty clatter before hiding his hand once more. The knocking continues. At long last, Gerry is ready to face the music, or at the very least, provide a few bum notes to send such a symphony into disarray. He unclips the latch and turns the key that is still in the door. Finally, upon depressing the handle, the officer now has a full view to the unkempt interior of the flat.
“Thank you,” Bale says as he and Kilmer take a step inside. Gerry closes the door behind him, ensuring that his hand is hidden.
“Sorry about the delay,” Gerry says. “My hands were wet,” he adds, trying to make the towel look less conspicuous. Bale seems a little revolted by the state of the studio flat for it impedes his task of seeking out anything that might assist him with his investigation. “What seems to be the problem, Officer?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Smilie so that he can aid in the investigation of an assault that took place at his work; ‘Fathom Telecommunications’ this morning,” the officer explains whilst his comrade begins pacing back and forth around the flat, looking for evidence. “Our database shows that he is currently residing at this address. Yet, you say that he isn’t here? Do you know where he is?”
“He just asked me to watch over his place for a few days,” Gerry-slash-Barry replies. “He told me he’s taking his girlfriend away on a long weekend; some girl called Cammi, I think.” He is pulling off this new character perfectly. The police seem a little wary, but he somehow seems to be convincing them with his lie.
“Do you have any identification on you, sir?” Bale enquires to secure the truth behind their suspect’s claims.
“I’m afraid not,” Gerry lies yet again. He knows that he has a social security card in his wallet. He’d dumped it out onto Mr. Vernon’s desk earlier in the day prior to the attack. Of course, the police didn’t know that, although their concerned faces told a different story.
“I find it hard to believe that you have no identification whatsoever on the premises or about your person,” the officer says incredulously. Gerry simply shrugs his shoulders, reaching into his pocket to pull out a packet of cigarettes. A lighter has been nestled inside in the space that was once taken by cigarettes that have since been smoked.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” Gerry remarks, lighting the cigarette that now dangles from his mouth.
“Your I.D. That’s what I want from you,” the officer replies, frustration mounting in his voice. Coming to the realisation that this conversation is going nowhere fast, he begins to scour the room, looking for any sort of indication for something that might look amiss. “You don’t mind if we take a look around?” he states as an intention rather than a question.
“Go right ahead,” Gerry shrugs once more, reaching for a dirty saucer to use as a makeshift ashtray. “Just watch out for Max. He’s not very good with people.” The officer immediately flinches, his eyes darting around the room in order to allocate the impending danger that he has just been warned about.
“Max?” the policeman says hesitantly before catching sight of a litter tray on the kitchen floor, along with two empty bowls on the opposite side of the lino; one containing scraps of food and the other contains a shallow puddle of water. “Oh, it’s just a cat,” the policeman breathes a sigh of relief.
“Don’t be so quick to judge,” Gerry smirks. “He likes to sleep under that pile of laundry behind you.” Instantly, the man of the law leaps away with a fright, as if somebody had given him an electric shock. He glares at the pile of laundry at the foot of the bed. Sure enough, he can hear some form of purring from inside of it; not so much purring… more so growling. “He knows you’re here,” Gerry chuckles. The officer has become unnerved. Even Kilmer, who has been searching through the bathroom and kitchen areas throughout the conversation, lets out a small chuckle. Kilmer opens his wardrobe and peers inside.
“Bale, take a look at this,” he calls. Still glaring at the laundry pile, Bale joins his colleague by the wardrobe. Kilmer is shining a flashlight into the wardrobe. He reaches in and withdraws a purple trenchcoat of sorts. It is like nothing that one would expect to find in a high street store. “Does this look familiar to you at all?” Upon closer inspection, the stark realisation forms in Bale via a gasp. All the while, they do not notice Gerry slyly retrieve the baseball bat propped up by the side of his bed.
“Isn’t that the coat that belongs to…”
--THAT NIGHT--
The blue light of the television screen is all that illuminates the otherwise darkened room. Gerry lays in a ‘starfish’ position on his back, spreading himself across the bed.
“You know something?” he says, seemingly to no-one, “Today has been a good day. I tried, Max,” he sighs. “I genuinely tried. I tried to live what others define as a normal life but, alas, it just isn’t meant to be. This isn’t who I am.” Slowly, he lifts himself up from the bed and looks exasperatedly towards the pile of laundry at the foot of the bed. “Are you still hiding out under that laundry?” he frowns, a hint of malevolence growing in his voice as he approaches the wash heap. He grabs a clump of clothing with his hand and tosses it behind him, digging into the mountain of shirts, underwear and socks until he finds that what he is looking for; a small ball of hair protruding from the last few articles of clothing that remain. “Come on, boy,” he encourages by grabbing the ball of hair and yanking it out of hiding.
His ‘pet’ finally comes into view, his owner lets out a smirk. Where one might expect to find a dog, a cat or some other form of domesticated animal, what he actually produces is that of a wizened middle-aged man. His naked body trembles in the newfound cold, although it is more likely resultant of a resurgence of fear. So malnourished is the man, he looks to be more undead than human; a skeleton draped in a sheet of white skin. In spite of his cadaverous appearance, he bears a striking resemblance to his captor, as if the two could be indistinguishable if lethargy had not struck him.
The victim’s ankles and wrists had been shackled together by multiple cable ties which he did not have the strength to break free from. Red sores and cuts are visible around the ties from where they have rubbed and sliced into his skin. A kaleidoscope containing a million grey specks, scattering and swarming like flies across his closed eyelids until they consume his sight, leaving nothing but a pulsating apparition of white that spreads over what sight he has like an egg that has been cracked into a hot pan.
Even with his eyes as closed as humanly possibly, his retinas continue to burn; the image of the world around him scarring itself into his cerebellum, surely to haunt him for the rest of his days.
And yet, there is a faint comparison that could be made to this man and Gerry. His hair is roughly the same colour and length, perhaps a little longer. Beneath an underdeveloped beard that grows patchily around his face, the captive tries to speak, but cannot bring himself to do so.
“It isn’t often that I show such mercy,” ‘Gerry’ says slowly. His voice has become much more sinister than it has been; almost raspy. “You should be thankful that I am giving you your life back… or rather what is left of it.”
Mercy? This impostor had supposedly spent the last three months masquerading as the man he had held captive. Their physical similarities at that time prevented suspicion. However, their personalities had been slightly different. Perhaps that explained the distance between him and Cammi, the drop-off of working figures and the general tardiness of his home.
‘Gerry’ opens his wardrobe, withdrawing the jacket that had earned the ire and attention of the Bale and Kilmer earlier in the day. There are muffled yells from the base of the wardrobe. He looks down. Bound together with more cable ties and thick tape covering their mouths, the aforementioned officers are cramped into the small closet space, struggling to free themselves. Their faces are swollen, their blood is shared on the barrel of the baseball bat. Gerry simply closes the door on them, leaving them to rot as he slips the jacket on. He feels empowered upon feeling its material, letting out a wicked smirk.
“I’m sure it will take your body a little bit of time to adjust to foods that isn’t designed for the consumption of cats,” he grins back to ‘Max.‘ “And you might need to find another job,” he adds. “And another girlfriend,” he also adds upon giving himself a moment more to think. “And you’d better think of a good alibi as to why you’ve assaulted your former boss and abducted two policemen. Still, I suppose I should thank you. Everything has just been so convenient. Even your name…”
‘Gerry’ moves towards the fridge, which is littered with magnets of various letters of the alphabet. The name ‘Gerry Maximo Smilie’ is spelled out in one corner. Slowly, ‘Gerry’ begins to slide the letters to create a new phrase, one that explains this whole debacle.
GERRY MAXIMO SMILIE
becomes
I AM GRIMOIRE XMYLES
“Have a nice life,” Grimoire chuckles, motioning to leave this experience behind him. Just as he places his hand on the door handle, there is a sudden knock on the door. He freezes for a moment, clawing at the air as he stretches his arm for the bloodied baseball bat that now rests against the doorframe. He picks it up and slowly opens it.
“Sorry I’m late, I…” Cammi suddenly stops herself upon seeing the face of Grimoire. His face is ghostly white, his lips a lurid red. This was not the same man that Cammi had met on the bus today. Cammi suddenly lets out a shriek that is quickly muffled by Grimoire’s gloved hand, dragging her into the room as she kicks and thrashes around, trying desperately to break away. The door closes. The skirmish is over within seconds as evident by a heavy slump impacting the floorboards, followed by one final crazed laugh.
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“The WGWF is not rising with the grace of a phoenix from the ashes, spreading its burning wings proudly and taking off for the skies. Instead, it is the undead cadaver’s hand clawing through the soil and sprouting out of the ground. It is malformed, odious and brain-dead, existing only as a means to quench its own thirst for blood.”
“Nevertheless… this shouldn’t be happening! I thought I‘d finally killed this fucking place off once and for all.”
“Is this truly ’one last hurrah’ for the company that has been a haven for competitive talent? Or is it the pining of Chris Page to inflate his fucking ego one more time that has breathed life into this event? The fact that I was even invited creates doubt as to the legitimacy of this whole thing. After all, why would I, the man who succeeded in forcing closed the doors to the WGWF, be welcomed back with open arms?”
“Maybe it is because Chris Page knows. If there is one person who can hammer the final nail into the coffin without any regret, it is Grimoire Xmyles.”
“Like staring at a photograph of an old flame and the subsequent waking of emotions that have lay dormant for months or even years, a decision must be made in that moment what to do with it. Do you place it back in the drawer so that bittersweet memories can be brought back up at a later date? Do you tear the photograph into pieces so that such a moment can never be seen again? Maybe your rousing emotions hold such weight that you decide to act on impulse, believing that such moments can be replicated through compromise and understanding. Or, and this is my personal favourite, do you take the photograph to said old flame and force it down her throat and proceed to burn their house down?”
“This is what I have been brought here to do. I’m sure of it. And if that is the game that you are playing, Chris, for me to deliver the final blow that haemorrhages the WGWF for good, then I am more than willing to play my part down to the finest detail.”
“And my reward? My opportunity to showcase my malice against three individuals who have each staked a claim to match me in levels of psychosis; a bitter rival, an old nemesis and a distant memory. Not only that, but there is the potential to wreak even more havoc inside of the aptly named ’War Games’ match.”
“Ah, ’War.’ One of my favourite words. It is a word commonly associated with bloodshed, death, destruction and the like. It brings about a certain paradox. Without war, hope wouldn’t exist; the hope for more peaceful times. When peace finally comes, the hope instead morphs that war does not return, yet if it does, the cycle starts anew. Much like how no good can exist without evil to counter it, war and peace hold hands in a similar way.”
“This sentiment will only justify what I do to the likes of Lunacy, Tomoko Hanahara and Raven Hex, before I take my rightful place to maim what remains of the WGWF alumni that enter the dual-cage structure.”
“Dade and I have a well-documented history that dates even to the days leading to the WGWF’s closure. It was one-upmanship at it’s most malevolent; breaking barriers as well as bones. Hell, we each even used The Dark Fucking Shadow as part of our mind games in perhaps the most relevant thing the little cunt has ever done in his pathetic excuse for a career. This time though, things are different. Our animosity has not been amplified by weeks of build. Instead, our lingering detestation towards one another will reignite the flames of hatred. That fire will rapidly spread until it is uncontrollable…”
“And I personally cannot fucking wait.”
“I will admit it, Dade. You have always brought out the best in me. You garner a lupine instinct within me that makes me strive to become the Alpha of Madness. I feel as though even though you and I want nothing more than to tear each other’s flesh and break each other’s bones, you’re one of the few people who actually understands me. And the same can be said with the roles reversed; I get you too. It’s because we are two peas in a pod; two sides of the same coin.”
“And I know for a fact that hearing this must fucking tear you apart inside.”
“But what does separate us is that, in spite of the dreams we share of seeing the world lie in ruins, you strive to either lead or to follow. Your perception is not your own, Dade. It is one that is shared amongst you and others who affiliate themselves with you; The Jackdaw, Seth Stevens, even Chris Page to some extent. You lead the lesser men but are at the beg and call of those who are superior to you. As for me? My insanity is my own. Everything that I do, I do of my own accord. And in the rare instance that I am forced to join forces with someone, I do so begrudgingly.”
“You may have brought ‘Anarchy’ to the WGWF, Dade. But you never brought it to it’s knees in the way that I fucking did.”
“We’ve had our disputes about who is the ‘crazier’ of the two of us. From our ‘insane’ clinic last year, stretching even further back to crown a ‘King of Crazy.’ There are a ton of stipulations that promotes the violent tendencies that us ‘crazies’ tend to exhibit, each ranging in their own uniqueness. One such match is a Japanese Deathmatch; a supposed specialty of Tomoko Hanahara…”
“… in spite of the fact that the last time we faced, I had the absolute time of my life playing her at her own game.”
“What will you bring to the table this time, Tomoko? Will you awaken the darkness in your heart in the form of Yui? Or is that something that has long since been forgotten at this point? See, Tomoko does have what it takes to stand toe to toe with somebody like me, unflinching and unremorseful. It is the reason why, the last time we faced off in a match of your own design, I emerged triumphant. You tried to emulate me, but you couldn’t be me, not matter how hard you tried…”
“But Yui? Haaa… Yui is a far more interesting prospect. Why settle for regular lobster when you can have Lobster Thermidor? All that it requires is a little extra preparation… a little extra ’pizzazz,’ so to speak.”
“You’ve spent too much time laying dormant, Tomoko. You can play in a band and pick up a guitar years later and find that you can still play a melody, but you will find that your fingers get into a twist on certain chords, only for you to repeat the stanza until you get it right before continuing. Sure, even the most experienced musician will hit a couple of bum notes, but they will also be able to perform far more complex combinations in relative succession.”
“The same can be said for the body and the mind, as well as how you use them. A bodybuilder cannot break his own record after spending years without lifting a single weight. Whereas, as you may have just seen, I have maintained my wicked ways long since the WGWF turned it’s employees away. A few sporadic appearances in different places here and there… not to try my luck, but more to see whether maiming people elsewhere would be any fun.”
“After all, there’s no place like home, right?”
“But then again, the best jokes of all are made when you are left waiting for a punchline. You know it is coming, but you just don’t know when. Suddenly, BOOM! It hits you from out of nowhere.”
“You should know, Tomoko. After all, it was your actions that brought me here.”
“Well, you and Zach Rizza. But fuck that guy, am I right?”
“Remember way back when? I was content parading myself inside of a chicken suit, making the world fall in love with the concept of such a novelty character succeeding in such a harrowing place. The crowds surrendered their hearts to me each and every week. The punch line would come when I emerged from the chicken suit, ripping apart the gratitude, respect and… ugh… love that they had for me, or rather, Chicken Buu.”
“And it was you who tried to get under the chicken’s skin by burning his farm down to the ground. You, the great Tomoko Hanahara, troubled by a giant chicken to such an extent that your only resolve was to burn down his home! Don’t you see how ridiculous your actions were!?”
“However, your own foolishness was the catalyst for my emergence. I rid myself of the chicken suit and, with it, the shackles that had held me back from acting on the short, sharp one-liners that I had been itching to break out. A long, drawn out gag is good every once in a while, but there is something so much more satisfying about providing quick-fire laugh after quick-fire laugh in fast succession.”
“And now, here we are again, face to face. You don’t need to worry about what you’ve missed. All you need to be worried about is what you are going to be missing when I’m through. Teeth, dignity and an ovary, if I have my way.”
“Speaking of teeth, dignity and ovaries, let us turn our attention to Raziel’s number one squeeze.”
“Ah, sweet, sweet, Raven. From what winds have carried you on the wing to such a lowly place as this? In comparison to the Reboot of the XWF, your tenure in the WGWF was much more short lived. I suppose that is a blessing in disguise if ever there was one.”
“For someone who once held the moniker of ‘Little Miss Scare All,’ there is nothing truly ‘scary’ about you. For starters, your name sounds like the bastard love child of James Raven and Jonah Hex, or a cartoon villain like something out of the ’Ben 10’ franchise.”
“So I went on the Internet. And I found this…”
“And with that, all of our fates rests in ProBoards’ hands.”
“I also found this.”
“Brings back memories, huh? I wonder how often you remember soliciting a minor for the sake of a championship belt that barely holds more merit than the WGWF World Championship, that being because it is still active even today. I’m serious, go and see your mother; James Raven.”
“No matter how hard you try to forget, I never will. Not only were you cerebrally outsmarted by a fucking seventeen year old, but you were so ashamed by your failures that you ended up running back to the man who was supposedly at the heart of your trauma; Raziel.”
“I am instantly inclined to say ‘FUCK RAZIEL.’ But you probably already have. Literally.”
“I’ll happily knock one single tooth out of your mouth to give you the ability to give Raz a blowjob without having to open your mouth. The hole I’d make would be just the right size.”
“For, you see, I too have an affiliation with the Kid. Nowhere near as… intimate as that which you used to share prior to falling into the clutches of Raziel, but that is not to say that I haven’t been able to reach out to him from time to time to ‘aid’ me with certain matters. Of course, the Mighty Kid that you knew has long since hung up his cape. His legacy lives on throughout Fathom City though, I can tell you that.”
“If you’re really interested…”
“As the story goes; Jack Tyler, the original Mighty Kid, rescued Andrea Bubble. She was a fellow superhero who went by the name of Death Penalty. She had been abducted and tortured by her father; Bradley Leonard Zachary Bubble, better known as BLZ Bubb. Once the two had been reunited, Jack decided to hang up his cape for good and leave Fathom City behind with Andrea, vowing to keep her safe for always and always and always.”
“It’s so sweet. It’s enough to make me want to fucking hurl.”
“Yet, in Mighty Kid’s place, a second Mighty Kid appeared; the aptly named ‘Mighty Kid II,’ or ‘MKII’ for short. He still operates in Fathom to this day, but he is nowhere near as active as the original due to the severe decrease in crime, a more competent police force and the arrest of several high-level supervillians.”
“You are no supervillain, Raven. You are just a girl with a tainted heart. A little girl who is scared by all! I can assure you, Raven, you have no idea what pain and suffering truly feels like. Raziel might have attacked your mind in a direct and blunt fashion, but he didn’t have the guts to tears through your flesh and break through bone in order to reach into your heart with his bare hands. There are cultures in the world where female genital mutilation is the norm. In my culture, I will mutilate more than just that crusty, disease-riddled split between your legs.”
“I wonder how you will be able to focus with Raziel lurking so close by? Of course, you are not the only one who has brought their other half to work. Bigg Rigg has brought his non-achieving wife along for the ride just so he can remind the world where he rests his dick at night. For a man who calls bullshit on a lot of things, is it not ironic that he is facing Chris Page and Heather Halliwell, the King and Queen of Bullshit. When the match inevitably goes against his favour, Rigg’s face will likely turn as red as the tomato spread across the base of a fucking pizza and then disappear, leaving behind what dignity remains within his tarnished legacy.”
“Since we’re on the subject of War Games combatants…”
“Famine of the Vile and MDK are two of this company’s biggest former stars, allegedly. It’s nice to see that Famine is keeping up with the times and recognising Flash Rotten as nothing more than a color-fucking-commentator, never mind the fact that he has been a former General Manager-slash-Stakeholder within the company. He calls himself The Demon King, yet the only throne he should be sitting on is a fucking public toilet. What is a King to a Devil? One could argue ‘what is a devil to a non-believer?’ I would say I will make you believe, but that is not the right word. Experience. Behold. Suffer/ They are far more suitable.”
“MDK though, he was one of the last WGWF World Champions prior to the closure. This is what makes me laugh. There are going to a ton… a literal fuckton of people who are going to be boasting how they are ’former champions’ and ’former big match winners.’ Guess what? Those accomplishments don’t mean shit anymore. They have been rendered completely fucking obsolete by the company’s closure. It’s like boasting that you still have a Blockbuster Video Card.”
“The same, however, cannot be said for one man on the card. Kyle Shane. A man who, at this moment in time, is reigning as the World Champion over in Pure Class Wrestling. Yes, I’ve been watching you Kyle. I’ve also seen Dominator over there doing great things. Even Max Daemon has been cropping up in a minor capacity as a foil to one David Hunter. Believe me, I’ve thought about trying my hand over there myself, if not for the fact there is already some asshole going under the name of ‘Grimm’ and an even bigger fucktard called ‘Joka’ who, in essence, is trying to be ME!”
“It’s certainly been a long time, hasn’t it, Kyle? Maybe the XWF Reboot? Grimoire Xmyles versus. Kyle Shane has not really been a prospective match that has been on people’s radars. But it should have. We are two conflicting personalities. You’re the ultimate ‘achievement unlocker.’ You
“At the bottom of the spectrum, you’ve got perpetual underwhelmers like The Sentinel who are basically here to bolster numbers, not that they need to be. John Tolly never really got the start to his career that he wanted before the closure. The only time Richard Garcia hasn’t sucked is when he was tagging with Lucas Felix, and even then that is fucking debatable. Andy Johnson-Page has never had anything going for him outside of his relationship to Chris Page, which I suppose is as good a reason as any to rip his face off to use as toilet paper the next time I have a vindaloo. And seriously… how… HOW IN THE FUCK… in Terry Borden still alive? I don’t even need to strike Borden. He would be finished off by a winter cold snap… or Jenna Jameson taking off her top in front of him.”
“Mic Ferrari and Dan Fierce… here’s two guys that personify the word ‘almost.’ That personification being after sex, when their partners ask them if they’d came and they reply ‘Almost!’ In spite of their endless shortcomings, they are still recognised. Underrated, but recognised nonetheless. I can assure you, whichever one of you I end up facing in the War Games, you won’t be recognised when I’m fucking through with you. Did I say recognised? I meant recognisable.”
“And who are the next lucky so-and-sos that wish to step into my parlour? Why, if it isn’t Lucas Felix and Vegas. I’ll be honest, having Lucas Felix trying to take a page out of my book all those years ago was laughable. It is something that you will never live down and was something that absolutely ruined your fucking career. And I take great pride in that. You went from being lucky, to lightning, to lukewarm in a flash. And that had nothing to do with my influence. That was simply because you were too fucking inept and unwilling, which begs the question why you even wanted to entertain such an idea in the first place! And Vegas, well, he might as well go back to the fucking drawing board too. Luck hasn’t been kind to you at all, has it? Yet you’re still leaning on the concept like a crutch, apparently. Let me kick that crutch out from underneath you and bash you over the fucking head with it.”
“A lesbian and a black man inside of a wrestling ring? Someone get ‘Brazzers’ on the phone. So, the ex-Roderick-X has come back for more, eh? Jocelyn Camden… well, she always comes back for more. I can only assume that the two of you were under the same impression as the rest of us, Chris Page aside (as it was his fucking idea) that your participation would be an one-and-done affair. The War Games does add an extra element of intrigue, but it simply seals the fates of each of the victors in their respective matches. The War Games is a Lion’s Den… and I am the lion that has been starved for far too long. As much as I crave the taste of fresh meat, neither of you fit that bill. I guess I will have to do to you what the WGWF machine has already done to you; chew you up and spit you back out.”
“The Glorious New Breed sounds like a fucking conservation programme for a rare species of Bitch. That pretty much sums up the two of you. How fitting it is then that you’re facing The Ryan Brothers. Hunter, perhaps the only important person in this whole match, and the butt of every joke, Nick. Now, I know a few things about a good joke, but you four idiots are as basic as a joke that starts with the words ‘Knock, Knock.’ Here’s one for you…”
“Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there.”
“The Sick, Sick Bastard”
“The Sick, Sick Bastard who?”
“The Sick, Sick Bastard who is going to rectally punch you so fucking hard that people are going think Jeff Dunham has found a new protégé.”
“And then… there’s you.”
“The man who is truly the one behind the madness.”
“Chris Page.”
“You know what’s funny? Maybe it was my own ego talking earlier. Maybe I shouldn’t take the credit for making the WGWF fall into the state of disrepair that it had been prior to this event. No. It should be of little surprise that, after years upon years of abusing your position of power, that which you had created had crumbled apart around you.”
“It was your fault, Chris.”
“And there is not a single person on this roster that should forgive you for that. Especially me…”
“Because it was supposed to be MY fucking job!”
“So why? Why would you pull the plug at the time that you did? Was it because you knew that I was going to make your life a perpetual hell? By cutting ties with the WGWF, and by extension me, you could go back to rolling up fat ones and blazing it up as often and as regularly as you liked without fear of getting your teeth being knocked out to use as a grinder. There is a whole conspiracy here that can be read from this.”
“You had Lunacy screw me out of the West Coast Rumble last year. And even though I assaulted Adam Barker and made it look like suicide, you still had to try and put a stop to my malice. The key word here is ‘try.’ We have unfinished business, Chris. This is our last chance.”
“I will make good on my promise once and for all. I shall emerge from the War Games as the only survivor, leaving the WGWF in a fiery blaze from which no phoenix will ever be able to rise from.”
“This is the end.”
“And I will be the one who has the last laugh!”[/i]
What kind of animal sets their alarm five minutes before the stroke of the hour?
He sprightly awakens with a smile on his face as he opens his eyes, rolling onto his side to reach out and replace the electronic droning of his radio alarm clock with something much more upbeat with a simple flick of a switch.
Flinging the covers from him, he swings his legs over the side of the bed so that his feet touch the floor. Using the springiness of his mattress to build momentum, he rocks himself upright and immediately lets out a refreshed yawn, stretching his arms out at his sides. Only now does he spread the curtains apart to greet the new morning, welcoming perpetual sunshine into his humble abode. He basks as the sunlight strokes his bare chest and face, showering in the kisses given to him by the sun. His body bare for all to see, sans a pair of stripy boxer shorts that keeps his dignity intact, he turns around to take his phone off charge, flicking through various applications.
“See you on the bus, handsome,” he reads a text message that he had received prior to his waking aloud. “Cammi.” He rolls his eyes and grins. “Bless.” Stepping over a small pile of dirty laundry that has gathered on the floor at the foot of his bed, he makes his way to a section of the room devoted to culinary preparation. He weaves his arm through an assortment of dirty crockery and discarded food packaging awaiting a one-way trip to the bin in order to flick the switch of an electric kettle, the volume of water visible through a transparent vertical slit. As the kettle wheezes into life, he makes his way into the bathroom. Within seconds, the oh-so recognisable sound of liquid impacting other liquid fills the property; like pouring water from a hose into a bucket.
It might not be the most impressive property, but it serves his ‘single-man’ lifestyle well; a room containing the bare essentials within four walls alone. His bed is situated on the furthest wall away from the door that grants entry and exit, perhaps to avoid the noise pollution that could come from the corridors. A bedside table is situated to the left of it, the aforementioned radio alarm clock sits beneath an unlit lamp. Wedged between the bed and the bedside table, a wooden baseball bat prays that it will never be needed for the purpose of its purchase; to protect its owner in case of a break-in. On the opposite side, a wardrobe unit with built in drawers house what clothes aren’t already heaped on the floor.
The kitchen area is sectioned off only by a change in the carpeting, changing from synthetic fibres to laminate wood flooring. The walls, ceiling and indeed even the carpeting has a dilapidated and tired look, stained from the cigarette smoke that thickens the air even now. Regardless, this studio-flat is the bachelor pad of his own wanting; the occupant can literally do as he pleases within. And if tidying up after himself isn’t something that pleases him, he doesn’t have to feel inclined to do it. After all, it isn’t as though he is still living with his parents or with room-mates.
An awkward amount of time passes before a flush of the cistern signals the total alleviation of his bladder. Just how long does it take to go for a piss in the morning!? Once a week for about twenty minutes.
He emerges. The kettle has now come to the boil, prompting him to source a mug. He pours a small amount of boiling water into his chosen cup, swirling it around to lift the dried-on dregs that linger from his previous beverage. As he gathers some ground coffee beans, some sugar, milk and a teaspoon, he notices the tinny music from the radio come to a close and is instead replaced by a dramatic jingle.
“This is the Fathom Radio News at seven o’clock, keeping you up to date will all of the local news in and around Fathom City. Our top news story this morning; Mayor Arthur Wright will be making a special appearance at ‘Fathom Telecommunications,’ which celebrates twenty-five years of continuous service today. He will be meeting with executives and employees alike and will unveil a plaque commemorating their achievements.”
With his piping hot coffee now tickling his tongue, he heads to his wardrobe and picks out perhaps the cleanest items in the entire flat; a dry-cleaned suit that hangs amongst various shirts and jackets.
“In other news, the Fathom City Police Department have issued a statement regarding the disappearance of the notorious Grimoire Xmyles. Xmyles, who is believed to have burned down Markmill Asylum prior to its reconstruction, has not been sighted within the city for almost a full year. Police Commissioner Melody Duckworth has stated that Xmyles has, quote; “fallen off the radar” and “is likely to be in hiding, or has left Fathom for pastures new.” Regardless, this man is considered highly dangerous and any sightings or incidents linking to Xmyles should be reported to the F.C.P.D immediately.”
“Sports News now; and what a huge game last night between the Fathom City Packers and…
--CLICK!--
Exasperated by the lack of upbeat music, he disengages the radio. He is now almost fully dressed. Indeed, the majority of his morning routine has been completed. Only a few loose buttons are left to fasten and a few more slugs of his coffee remain. He hadn’t allowed it to go cold at all. However, he attends to one more matter as he lazily kicks his readily-tied shoes onto his feet. Heading back to the kitchen area, he opens a cupboard to withdraw a sachet with a cartoon cat dominating the front cover. Tearing it open at the top, it slides gelatinously into the waiting bowl below. He separates the slab of cat food with a dirty butter knife conveniently placed near the edge of the kitchen sideboard.
“Max! Come on,” he entices his pet by placing the bowl of tinned food on the floor, puckering his lips and rapidly kissing the air multiple times. Although he expects his beloved companion to appear in place as fast as bolt of lightning, there is no pitter-pattering of feet to be heard. Scouring the room, he can only see a pile of laundry inflate and deflate in a regulated pattern.
He shakes his head with a chuckle.
“Still tired, huh?” he smiles. “Well, just try and make sure that you do your business in your litter tray this time. I don‘t want any of your ‘treats‘ waiting for me by the door when I get back.” With that, he motions for the door, patting his pockets as he leaves to ensure he has all that he needs; phone, cigarettes, lighter, wallet, keys. Perfect!
He traverses what feels like are a thousand different steps down a stairwell before reaching the exit. The staircase descends even further below, as if it reaches right the way down beyond the sewer systems and into the Earth’s core. Stepping outside, he feels the warmth of the premature spring hit his face. Even as he walks, he is still fastening buttons and adjusting his shoulder-length wiry hair. All the while, a cigarette hangs from his mouth, trying to find a suitable spot away from the soothing breeze in order to light it successfully.
“Good morning, Mr. Smilie,” a passer-by walking their dog greets cheerfully.
“Good morning,” he responds with equal kindness as he passes. This brief exchange fills Mr. Smilie with hope. He can feel it. Today is going to be a good day. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. He adjusts his tie one final time as a bus pulls up at the bus-stop that he has just reached, timing his arrival to perfection as he takes one last drag of his fag. The doors open with a gaseous hiss. The driver tips the rim of his cap towards Mr. Smilie as he boards, flashing his annual ticket.
“Mornin,’ Smilie,” the bus conductor grins.
“Call me Gerry,” Mr. Smilie smiles. The bus driver seems elated by this. The doors close and the bus slowly pulls out onto the road as Gerry walks the full length of the bus to a vacant seat. A sea of smiles and welcoming expressions greet him as he motions through the bus and sits down. He looks out of the window, watching the world go by as his commute to work continues.
The bus stops and starts many times. Sometimes to pick up more passengers, other times to drop them off. Sometimes to stop at a junction, other times slowing to accommodate for the sheer weight of rush hour traffic. Approximately halfway into the journey, just as the bus has pulled away from another
“Hey you,” another passenger says to Gerry, snapping him out of his daydream. He looks to his left. A dark haired girl who matches him in age lowers herself into the seat directly next to him, promptly leaning over and kissing him on the lips. Gerry seems a little surprised at first, but reciprocates as appropriate. “How’ve you been?”
“Uh, good!” Gerry replies, still in a little bit of a daze. “You?”
“Well, I’d be a lot better if the guy I was supposed to be dating called me every once in a while,” she replies with a hint of sarcasm.
“Who’s that, then?” Gerry mimics her tone of voice.
“You, you idiot!” she playfully jars her elbow into his side. “It feels like I haven’t seen or heard from you in weeks!”
“Sorry Cammi,” Gerry begins scratching his scalp through his mass of hair. “I’ve just been a bit tied up with work recently and when I get home I… just need a bit of ‘me time,’ y‘know?”
“I know,” she sympathises. “You haven’t been Employee of the Month for the last twelve months for no reason. You deserve a bit of a rest.”
“Not the last three though,” Gerry sighs. “I’m slipping somewhere. I just don’t know what it is.”
“You’ll pull through,” Cammi says reassuringly. “Maybe I’ve been distracting you. After all, it’s our six month anniversary today.” Gerry suddenly gasps.
“It is!?” Gerry guffaws. Cammi lets out a giggle.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t get you anything either.” Gerry can at least rest easy on that account. “Although, it would be nice to come to yours after work today. What do you think?”
“Uh… tonight’s not really a good night,” Gerry replies, looking back out of the window to break eye contact with Cammi. “The place is an absolute mess. I don’t want you to come over while it’s in such a state.”
“I don’t mind,” Cammi shrugs.
“Well, I do,” Gerry retorts bluntly. Cammi falls momentarily silent. “Sorry,” he mutters. He is answered by the same stillness from his would-be partner.
“You’ve changed recently,” Cammi thinks aloud. “I can’t put my finger on it, but there is definitely something about you that is different. When we first met, you were so romantic. You’d whisk me away for a weekend break away from Fathom City and out into the countryside, where the only crime that happens it when dog-walkers leave their dog’s shit on the footpath. Even with how busy you are with your work, you would still make the effort. Now, it just feels like you can’t be bothered.”
“Can’t be bothered!?” Gerry’s outburst raises some surprised looks from other passengers. “I’m trying to sort my life out here,” he hisses whilst leaning into Cammi’s ear. “If I don’t start improving, I’m going to be fired. And then I won’t be able to take us anywhere.”
“Fired?” Cammi repeats, slightly shocked. “Sheesh, what the hell has happened?” Before Gerry can pass any further comment, he recognises a building that is close to his work. He will need to disembark soon.
“Look, I’ll message you later,” Gerry says, depressing a button that rings a bell in the driver’s cabin and shuffling towards the aisle. Cammi frowns, giving Gerry a judgemental look. “And if really means that much to you… you can swing by my place later.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to put you out,” Cammi says light-heartedly, smiling towards her lover. Gerry smiles back and the two share a short kiss as the bus begins to grind to a halt. Cammi makes way for Gerry, sitting back down as he joins a queue of people also looking to get off. “See you later,“ she says, waving him off as he exits the vehicle. Having reached the fresh air, he takes a look at his surroundings. A tall building dominates the skyline directly in front of him, a swarm of passengers emerge from the bus behind him as more gather from either side of the sidewalk. He checks the time on his phone.
“Oh crap,” he exclaims. “How am I five minutes late!?” He rushes through the front door. In a mirror opposite of how he had left his home, he must now climb an equally countless number of steps. The lift from the ground floor leading up to the twelfth was out of order. “What is this? The Big Bang Theory’s lift!?” Gerry curses his luck prior to his ascent. At the halfway point, he is already starting to feel a stitch in his side due to his heightened sense of haste. As he finally reaches the door to his office space, he enters whilst adjusting his tie and walks towards his booth.
“Smilie!” a noticeably more stern voice shouts from across the office space. The chatter of his colleagues immediately ceases as everybody looks towards the source; an open door with a placard mounted centrally upon its surface, which reads ‘Mr. M. Vernon - HR Manager.’ A forty-something man, evidentially the titular employees, gestures with his finger for Gerry to come hither.
“Fuck, at least let me sit down and catch my breath,” he scowls. Today had started so promisingly. The sun was shining outside and it was an important day in the office. It was supposed to be the day that he turned everything around. Now, thanks to the lateness of the bus, he had immediately been summoned into the HR Manager’s office.
Mr. Vernon was one of those managers who liked to boast his position in the company by picking on the little man. He is sat behind his desk, staring straight into Gerry’s eyes as he enters and closes the door behind him.
“Would you care to explain why you are late this morning?” Mr Vernon says, taking great delight in Gerry’s plight.
“The bus was late, sir.” Gerry replies monotonously, rolling his eyes. He leans back in his chair, kicking his feet up onto the desk in an act of outlandish defiance. It seemed as though Mr. Vernon had some sort of personal vendetta against him lately. This must have been the third time in as many weeks that he had been sat in that chair directly opposite from the manager. He taps some nonsense into his laptop.
“I will be docking you half an hour’s pay,” Mr Vernon immediately declared his verdict. “And would you please remove your feet from my desk?”
“You mean fifteen minutes, right?” Gerry gawps in disgust, not relenting to his request to move his feet.
“New Timeliness policy,” Vernon replies bluntly. “We sent out an email on Friday explaining the changes.”
“Of course you did,” Gerry sighs, unsurprised by the underhandedness of his boss. “Will that be all, or do you want me to empty the contents of my wallet out for you as well?” Without further direction from Mr. Vernon, Gerry lowers his legs and takes his wallet out of his pocket. He opens it up, turning it upside down and shaking it violently. It’s contents spill everywhere.
“Mr. Smilie, I think that’s quite enough,” Mr. Vernon states authoritatively. Gerry begins to filter through the shrapnel that has landed on the desk regardless.
“See, I don’t think it is,” Gerry replies with frustration. “I don’t think anything is enough for you. Let’s see here. We’ve got twenty two dollars and fifty cents, my social security card, a credit card that has expired, a bus pass,” he tosses the latter item in Mr. Vernon’s vicinity. “You might as well have that, considering how it has just cost me about five bucks more than any other fucker who has paid for one.”
“I hardly think that language is appropriate,” Mr. Vernon warns.
“Do you know just how hard I have worked here over the years?” Gerry comments. “I’ve bust my ass in here for years and the only recognition I get is my face on the wall. I’m out there doing the grunt work better than anybody else and I’m still forced to catch the bus into Downtown Fathom whilst you just pull up in your fucking Humvie after sitting here and giving guys like me shit all day.”
“You work harder than anyone else, you say?“ Mr. Vernon prepares his counterargument. “Let us review your performance in recent weeks,” he smugly says, flicking through a small pile of paperwork to source some form of timesheet; detailing specific periods of time allocated to particular tasks alongside various quantities. “We’ve seen a decline in your statistics, Gerry,” he starts by forming another frown, “and, whilst it has started as a steady decrease, it’s been a literal plummet in the last three months. You were pulling through almost quadruple the number of successful sales this time last year. In fact, you had the highest success rate throughout the entire company at the end of 2018, that’s even with the expected drop off around Christmas and the decrease in your performance as of September.”
“And how long have I been pulling in high numbers for? A lot longer than six months, I’ll tell you that,” Gerry counters, scrunching up the dollar bills and stuffing them into his pockets rather than his wallet before putting his feet back up on the desk cockily.
“That may be,” Vernon sneers, “but exceeding for six months and then declining for the next makes you as average as the next man. Furthermore, I do not appreciate your outburst. Not at all. As such, I am demoting you back onto Telesales.” Gerry’s eyes furrow.
“What!? You can’t be serious.”
“I’m deadly serious. Unless you’d rather apply for a different position? We have an opening for a cleaner,” he remarks snidely.
Whilst maintaining his relaxed posture, Gerry turns his head slowly to directly face his employer. He cracks an amused smile, closing his eyes with a deep intake of breath through his nostrils. They flare as he exhales, lifting his feet off the desk and swinging them to the floor. He takes a look at Mr. Vernon’s desk, sliding a fountain pen and a stack of post-it notes in his own direction. Mr. Vernon seems a little confused as Gerry removes the lid from the pen and begins to draw on the top post-it.
“Tell me,” Gerry says, “do you enjoy being a pirate?”
Mr. Vernon looks completely perplexed.
“A pirate?” he asks.
“You don’t know what a pirate is?” Gerry chuckles as he scribbles. “A freebooter; someone who sails a mighty vessel for the sole purpose of pillaging and stealing from those he deems to be beneath him.” The nib of the fountain pen scrapes against the wooden desk beneath the paper. What Gerry has drawn resembles a circular blot filled with a thick cross-hatched pattern with a line that forms a loop going behind it; an eye-patch of sorts. It is then that he glares at Mr. Vernon with a menacing, almost psychotic expression.
“Consider this ship sunk.”
With that, Gerry lurches out of his seat. The nib of the fountain pen is thrust directly into the left eye of Mr. Vernon. Gerry hears a sickening squelch on impact, immediately preceded by a blood-curling scream that rings out throughout the office. Gerry peels the post-it note that he had drawn on away from the desk, tearing Mr. Vernon’s hand away from the injured eye that his agonisingly clutches. With a brutal thrust of his hand, he plants the post-it to his boss’s eyebrow with a slap. The makeshift eye patch is immediately soaked in blood. The commotion has drawn an even larger crowd outside. There had been one gathered anyway, but not for this reason alone.
A blow to the head with a paperweight knocks Mr. Vernon unconscious.
There, watching through the window in complete disbelief, are all of his colleagues, other executives and Mayor Arthur Wright, dressed in mayoral robes and a golden chain more akin to British customs than that of America. Gerry looks completely bewildered like a deer caught in the headlights. Panicked, he bursts out of Mr. Vernon’s office. His co-workers part like a Red Sea, fretful for their own well being.
Gerry simply runs. He runs and runs and runs. He doesn’t know how far. His legs do not relent, powered by pure adrenaline and nothing more.
--HOURS LATER--
He bursts through the front door, slamming it closed behind him and securing it with the sliding latch attached to a miniaturised chain that had been dangling from the door frame. With such vigor does his hand tremble that even the simple task of inserting the key he holds into the lock is made far more arduous. After a handful of missed attempts, he is finally able to insert the key, twisting it to his left. With his security assured, he turns around and slumps against that which he had just locked, trying to catch his breath.
It feels as though somebody is knocking forcefully against the door when in actuality it is his heart beating vigorously He savours the tranquillity provided by the newfound silence. Whatever sentences emerge consequentially to suit his crimes, he cares not for the ramifications for this brief moment. That is not to say that the immediate regret of his actions had not followed him home, preparing to morph into lingering guilt.
Where nervousness once took hold, he now possesses something even more harrowing than his sins.
A smile.
A content and heartless smile.
Just as he motions to sit on the bed for a moment, there is a loud knock on the door. Gerry swiftly removes his suit jacket, only to notice a peculiar stain on his shirt. He has no idea what it could be, but it seems to be some sort of dark liquid. He covers it by swiftly throwing his jacket back on. He does not answer the door, instead he tries to look for a way out. Perhaps coming back home was not the best idea, in hindsight. It’d be the first place someone would come looking.
Sure enough, another forceful knock is followed by that which had raised Gerry’s suspicions.
“F.C.P.D. Open up!”
Opting not to waste more time to rouse even more scepticism, Gerry unlocks the door, but keep the latch on. The door jars after opening a small distance. He peers through the slot. Two police officers are stood side by side in full uniform, guns drawn.
“Gerald Maximo Smilie?” one of the officers enquires.
“Uh, no,” Gerry blurts out, painting his face with feigned confusion.
“Oh?” the policeman reacts with surprise. “This is ‘Number 259, Fathom Heights,’ is it not?”
“Yes,” Gerry replies. “But I’m afraid the guy you’re looking for isn’t here.”
“Who are you then?” the officer frowns.
“Uh, I‘m his twin brother…uh… Barry,” Gerry lies smoothly. An awkward pause ensues. “Can I help you, or…?”
“I’m Officer Adam Bale of the Fathom City Police Department,” the officer finally introduces, “and this is Officer George Kilmer. We need to speak to Mr. Smilie as a matter of urgency. May we come in?” Gerry looks uncertainly towards the floor. It last not even a full second before he acknowledges with a smile, but it is certain long enough for the officer to have noticed.
“One moment, please,” Gerry says, closing the door in Officer Bale’s face. He looks around the room momentarily whilst patting down his pockets. He reaches into his pocket; the incriminating fountain pen is still hidden from view. As he withdraws it, he notices the ink oozing from the broken nip and over his hand, smeared from where it has been absorbed into the pocket’s lining. With a groan, he tries to find a suitable hiding place for ’Exhibit A,’ stuffing it into a sock on top of the laundry pile at the foot of the bed, before stuffing that even further into the pile. There is an angered hiss from within the laundry pile as Gerry’s hand impacts something that feels more solid than the fabrics of his clothes.
“Whoops! Sorry, Max.”
With the pen now hidden inside of the laundry pile like a leaky needle inside of a haystack that mildly smells of body odour, Gerry looks at his hand that has now been stained blue from the ink. He reaches for a towel from amongst the laundry pile and wraps it around his hand. An impatient knock hammers on the door. “I said one moment, please!” he exclaims, grabbing a bottle of washing up liquid that is ironically full, considering the volume of dirty plates lined up on the sidebaord waiting to be washed. He lifts the towel and squeezes the cleaning agent into his hand, tossing it back into the sink with an almighty clatter before hiding his hand once more. The knocking continues. At long last, Gerry is ready to face the music, or at the very least, provide a few bum notes to send such a symphony into disarray. He unclips the latch and turns the key that is still in the door. Finally, upon depressing the handle, the officer now has a full view to the unkempt interior of the flat.
“Thank you,” Bale says as he and Kilmer take a step inside. Gerry closes the door behind him, ensuring that his hand is hidden.
“Sorry about the delay,” Gerry says. “My hands were wet,” he adds, trying to make the towel look less conspicuous. Bale seems a little revolted by the state of the studio flat for it impedes his task of seeking out anything that might assist him with his investigation. “What seems to be the problem, Officer?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Smilie so that he can aid in the investigation of an assault that took place at his work; ‘Fathom Telecommunications’ this morning,” the officer explains whilst his comrade begins pacing back and forth around the flat, looking for evidence. “Our database shows that he is currently residing at this address. Yet, you say that he isn’t here? Do you know where he is?”
“He just asked me to watch over his place for a few days,” Gerry-slash-Barry replies. “He told me he’s taking his girlfriend away on a long weekend; some girl called Cammi, I think.” He is pulling off this new character perfectly. The police seem a little wary, but he somehow seems to be convincing them with his lie.
“Do you have any identification on you, sir?” Bale enquires to secure the truth behind their suspect’s claims.
“I’m afraid not,” Gerry lies yet again. He knows that he has a social security card in his wallet. He’d dumped it out onto Mr. Vernon’s desk earlier in the day prior to the attack. Of course, the police didn’t know that, although their concerned faces told a different story.
“I find it hard to believe that you have no identification whatsoever on the premises or about your person,” the officer says incredulously. Gerry simply shrugs his shoulders, reaching into his pocket to pull out a packet of cigarettes. A lighter has been nestled inside in the space that was once taken by cigarettes that have since been smoked.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” Gerry remarks, lighting the cigarette that now dangles from his mouth.
“Your I.D. That’s what I want from you,” the officer replies, frustration mounting in his voice. Coming to the realisation that this conversation is going nowhere fast, he begins to scour the room, looking for any sort of indication for something that might look amiss. “You don’t mind if we take a look around?” he states as an intention rather than a question.
“Go right ahead,” Gerry shrugs once more, reaching for a dirty saucer to use as a makeshift ashtray. “Just watch out for Max. He’s not very good with people.” The officer immediately flinches, his eyes darting around the room in order to allocate the impending danger that he has just been warned about.
“Max?” the policeman says hesitantly before catching sight of a litter tray on the kitchen floor, along with two empty bowls on the opposite side of the lino; one containing scraps of food and the other contains a shallow puddle of water. “Oh, it’s just a cat,” the policeman breathes a sigh of relief.
“Don’t be so quick to judge,” Gerry smirks. “He likes to sleep under that pile of laundry behind you.” Instantly, the man of the law leaps away with a fright, as if somebody had given him an electric shock. He glares at the pile of laundry at the foot of the bed. Sure enough, he can hear some form of purring from inside of it; not so much purring… more so growling. “He knows you’re here,” Gerry chuckles. The officer has become unnerved. Even Kilmer, who has been searching through the bathroom and kitchen areas throughout the conversation, lets out a small chuckle. Kilmer opens his wardrobe and peers inside.
“Bale, take a look at this,” he calls. Still glaring at the laundry pile, Bale joins his colleague by the wardrobe. Kilmer is shining a flashlight into the wardrobe. He reaches in and withdraws a purple trenchcoat of sorts. It is like nothing that one would expect to find in a high street store. “Does this look familiar to you at all?” Upon closer inspection, the stark realisation forms in Bale via a gasp. All the while, they do not notice Gerry slyly retrieve the baseball bat propped up by the side of his bed.
“Isn’t that the coat that belongs to…”
--THAT NIGHT--
The blue light of the television screen is all that illuminates the otherwise darkened room. Gerry lays in a ‘starfish’ position on his back, spreading himself across the bed.
“You know something?” he says, seemingly to no-one, “Today has been a good day. I tried, Max,” he sighs. “I genuinely tried. I tried to live what others define as a normal life but, alas, it just isn’t meant to be. This isn’t who I am.” Slowly, he lifts himself up from the bed and looks exasperatedly towards the pile of laundry at the foot of the bed. “Are you still hiding out under that laundry?” he frowns, a hint of malevolence growing in his voice as he approaches the wash heap. He grabs a clump of clothing with his hand and tosses it behind him, digging into the mountain of shirts, underwear and socks until he finds that what he is looking for; a small ball of hair protruding from the last few articles of clothing that remain. “Come on, boy,” he encourages by grabbing the ball of hair and yanking it out of hiding.
His ‘pet’ finally comes into view, his owner lets out a smirk. Where one might expect to find a dog, a cat or some other form of domesticated animal, what he actually produces is that of a wizened middle-aged man. His naked body trembles in the newfound cold, although it is more likely resultant of a resurgence of fear. So malnourished is the man, he looks to be more undead than human; a skeleton draped in a sheet of white skin. In spite of his cadaverous appearance, he bears a striking resemblance to his captor, as if the two could be indistinguishable if lethargy had not struck him.
The victim’s ankles and wrists had been shackled together by multiple cable ties which he did not have the strength to break free from. Red sores and cuts are visible around the ties from where they have rubbed and sliced into his skin. A kaleidoscope containing a million grey specks, scattering and swarming like flies across his closed eyelids until they consume his sight, leaving nothing but a pulsating apparition of white that spreads over what sight he has like an egg that has been cracked into a hot pan.
Even with his eyes as closed as humanly possibly, his retinas continue to burn; the image of the world around him scarring itself into his cerebellum, surely to haunt him for the rest of his days.
And yet, there is a faint comparison that could be made to this man and Gerry. His hair is roughly the same colour and length, perhaps a little longer. Beneath an underdeveloped beard that grows patchily around his face, the captive tries to speak, but cannot bring himself to do so.
“It isn’t often that I show such mercy,” ‘Gerry’ says slowly. His voice has become much more sinister than it has been; almost raspy. “You should be thankful that I am giving you your life back… or rather what is left of it.”
Mercy? This impostor had supposedly spent the last three months masquerading as the man he had held captive. Their physical similarities at that time prevented suspicion. However, their personalities had been slightly different. Perhaps that explained the distance between him and Cammi, the drop-off of working figures and the general tardiness of his home.
‘Gerry’ opens his wardrobe, withdrawing the jacket that had earned the ire and attention of the Bale and Kilmer earlier in the day. There are muffled yells from the base of the wardrobe. He looks down. Bound together with more cable ties and thick tape covering their mouths, the aforementioned officers are cramped into the small closet space, struggling to free themselves. Their faces are swollen, their blood is shared on the barrel of the baseball bat. Gerry simply closes the door on them, leaving them to rot as he slips the jacket on. He feels empowered upon feeling its material, letting out a wicked smirk.
“I’m sure it will take your body a little bit of time to adjust to foods that isn’t designed for the consumption of cats,” he grins back to ‘Max.‘ “And you might need to find another job,” he adds. “And another girlfriend,” he also adds upon giving himself a moment more to think. “And you’d better think of a good alibi as to why you’ve assaulted your former boss and abducted two policemen. Still, I suppose I should thank you. Everything has just been so convenient. Even your name…”
‘Gerry’ moves towards the fridge, which is littered with magnets of various letters of the alphabet. The name ‘Gerry Maximo Smilie’ is spelled out in one corner. Slowly, ‘Gerry’ begins to slide the letters to create a new phrase, one that explains this whole debacle.
GERRY MAXIMO SMILIE
becomes
I AM GRIMOIRE XMYLES
“Have a nice life,” Grimoire chuckles, motioning to leave this experience behind him. Just as he places his hand on the door handle, there is a sudden knock on the door. He freezes for a moment, clawing at the air as he stretches his arm for the bloodied baseball bat that now rests against the doorframe. He picks it up and slowly opens it.
“Sorry I’m late, I…” Cammi suddenly stops herself upon seeing the face of Grimoire. His face is ghostly white, his lips a lurid red. This was not the same man that Cammi had met on the bus today. Cammi suddenly lets out a shriek that is quickly muffled by Grimoire’s gloved hand, dragging her into the room as she kicks and thrashes around, trying desperately to break away. The door closes. The skirmish is over within seconds as evident by a heavy slump impacting the floorboards, followed by one final crazed laugh.
________________________________________________
“The WGWF is not rising with the grace of a phoenix from the ashes, spreading its burning wings proudly and taking off for the skies. Instead, it is the undead cadaver’s hand clawing through the soil and sprouting out of the ground. It is malformed, odious and brain-dead, existing only as a means to quench its own thirst for blood.”
“Nevertheless… this shouldn’t be happening! I thought I‘d finally killed this fucking place off once and for all.”
“Is this truly ’one last hurrah’ for the company that has been a haven for competitive talent? Or is it the pining of Chris Page to inflate his fucking ego one more time that has breathed life into this event? The fact that I was even invited creates doubt as to the legitimacy of this whole thing. After all, why would I, the man who succeeded in forcing closed the doors to the WGWF, be welcomed back with open arms?”
“Maybe it is because Chris Page knows. If there is one person who can hammer the final nail into the coffin without any regret, it is Grimoire Xmyles.”
“Like staring at a photograph of an old flame and the subsequent waking of emotions that have lay dormant for months or even years, a decision must be made in that moment what to do with it. Do you place it back in the drawer so that bittersweet memories can be brought back up at a later date? Do you tear the photograph into pieces so that such a moment can never be seen again? Maybe your rousing emotions hold such weight that you decide to act on impulse, believing that such moments can be replicated through compromise and understanding. Or, and this is my personal favourite, do you take the photograph to said old flame and force it down her throat and proceed to burn their house down?”
“This is what I have been brought here to do. I’m sure of it. And if that is the game that you are playing, Chris, for me to deliver the final blow that haemorrhages the WGWF for good, then I am more than willing to play my part down to the finest detail.”
“And my reward? My opportunity to showcase my malice against three individuals who have each staked a claim to match me in levels of psychosis; a bitter rival, an old nemesis and a distant memory. Not only that, but there is the potential to wreak even more havoc inside of the aptly named ’War Games’ match.”
“Ah, ’War.’ One of my favourite words. It is a word commonly associated with bloodshed, death, destruction and the like. It brings about a certain paradox. Without war, hope wouldn’t exist; the hope for more peaceful times. When peace finally comes, the hope instead morphs that war does not return, yet if it does, the cycle starts anew. Much like how no good can exist without evil to counter it, war and peace hold hands in a similar way.”
“This sentiment will only justify what I do to the likes of Lunacy, Tomoko Hanahara and Raven Hex, before I take my rightful place to maim what remains of the WGWF alumni that enter the dual-cage structure.”
“Dade and I have a well-documented history that dates even to the days leading to the WGWF’s closure. It was one-upmanship at it’s most malevolent; breaking barriers as well as bones. Hell, we each even used The Dark Fucking Shadow as part of our mind games in perhaps the most relevant thing the little cunt has ever done in his pathetic excuse for a career. This time though, things are different. Our animosity has not been amplified by weeks of build. Instead, our lingering detestation towards one another will reignite the flames of hatred. That fire will rapidly spread until it is uncontrollable…”
“And I personally cannot fucking wait.”
“I will admit it, Dade. You have always brought out the best in me. You garner a lupine instinct within me that makes me strive to become the Alpha of Madness. I feel as though even though you and I want nothing more than to tear each other’s flesh and break each other’s bones, you’re one of the few people who actually understands me. And the same can be said with the roles reversed; I get you too. It’s because we are two peas in a pod; two sides of the same coin.”
“And I know for a fact that hearing this must fucking tear you apart inside.”
“But what does separate us is that, in spite of the dreams we share of seeing the world lie in ruins, you strive to either lead or to follow. Your perception is not your own, Dade. It is one that is shared amongst you and others who affiliate themselves with you; The Jackdaw, Seth Stevens, even Chris Page to some extent. You lead the lesser men but are at the beg and call of those who are superior to you. As for me? My insanity is my own. Everything that I do, I do of my own accord. And in the rare instance that I am forced to join forces with someone, I do so begrudgingly.”
“You may have brought ‘Anarchy’ to the WGWF, Dade. But you never brought it to it’s knees in the way that I fucking did.”
“We’ve had our disputes about who is the ‘crazier’ of the two of us. From our ‘insane’ clinic last year, stretching even further back to crown a ‘King of Crazy.’ There are a ton of stipulations that promotes the violent tendencies that us ‘crazies’ tend to exhibit, each ranging in their own uniqueness. One such match is a Japanese Deathmatch; a supposed specialty of Tomoko Hanahara…”
“… in spite of the fact that the last time we faced, I had the absolute time of my life playing her at her own game.”
“What will you bring to the table this time, Tomoko? Will you awaken the darkness in your heart in the form of Yui? Or is that something that has long since been forgotten at this point? See, Tomoko does have what it takes to stand toe to toe with somebody like me, unflinching and unremorseful. It is the reason why, the last time we faced off in a match of your own design, I emerged triumphant. You tried to emulate me, but you couldn’t be me, not matter how hard you tried…”
“But Yui? Haaa… Yui is a far more interesting prospect. Why settle for regular lobster when you can have Lobster Thermidor? All that it requires is a little extra preparation… a little extra ’pizzazz,’ so to speak.”
“You’ve spent too much time laying dormant, Tomoko. You can play in a band and pick up a guitar years later and find that you can still play a melody, but you will find that your fingers get into a twist on certain chords, only for you to repeat the stanza until you get it right before continuing. Sure, even the most experienced musician will hit a couple of bum notes, but they will also be able to perform far more complex combinations in relative succession.”
“The same can be said for the body and the mind, as well as how you use them. A bodybuilder cannot break his own record after spending years without lifting a single weight. Whereas, as you may have just seen, I have maintained my wicked ways long since the WGWF turned it’s employees away. A few sporadic appearances in different places here and there… not to try my luck, but more to see whether maiming people elsewhere would be any fun.”
“After all, there’s no place like home, right?”
“But then again, the best jokes of all are made when you are left waiting for a punchline. You know it is coming, but you just don’t know when. Suddenly, BOOM! It hits you from out of nowhere.”
“You should know, Tomoko. After all, it was your actions that brought me here.”
“Well, you and Zach Rizza. But fuck that guy, am I right?”
“Remember way back when? I was content parading myself inside of a chicken suit, making the world fall in love with the concept of such a novelty character succeeding in such a harrowing place. The crowds surrendered their hearts to me each and every week. The punch line would come when I emerged from the chicken suit, ripping apart the gratitude, respect and… ugh… love that they had for me, or rather, Chicken Buu.”
“And it was you who tried to get under the chicken’s skin by burning his farm down to the ground. You, the great Tomoko Hanahara, troubled by a giant chicken to such an extent that your only resolve was to burn down his home! Don’t you see how ridiculous your actions were!?”
“However, your own foolishness was the catalyst for my emergence. I rid myself of the chicken suit and, with it, the shackles that had held me back from acting on the short, sharp one-liners that I had been itching to break out. A long, drawn out gag is good every once in a while, but there is something so much more satisfying about providing quick-fire laugh after quick-fire laugh in fast succession.”
“And now, here we are again, face to face. You don’t need to worry about what you’ve missed. All you need to be worried about is what you are going to be missing when I’m through. Teeth, dignity and an ovary, if I have my way.”
“Speaking of teeth, dignity and ovaries, let us turn our attention to Raziel’s number one squeeze.”
“Ah, sweet, sweet, Raven. From what winds have carried you on the wing to such a lowly place as this? In comparison to the Reboot of the XWF, your tenure in the WGWF was much more short lived. I suppose that is a blessing in disguise if ever there was one.”
“For someone who once held the moniker of ‘Little Miss Scare All,’ there is nothing truly ‘scary’ about you. For starters, your name sounds like the bastard love child of James Raven and Jonah Hex, or a cartoon villain like something out of the ’Ben 10’ franchise.”
“So I went on the Internet. And I found this…”
“And with that, all of our fates rests in ProBoards’ hands.”
“I also found this.”
“Brings back memories, huh? I wonder how often you remember soliciting a minor for the sake of a championship belt that barely holds more merit than the WGWF World Championship, that being because it is still active even today. I’m serious, go and see your mother; James Raven.”
“No matter how hard you try to forget, I never will. Not only were you cerebrally outsmarted by a fucking seventeen year old, but you were so ashamed by your failures that you ended up running back to the man who was supposedly at the heart of your trauma; Raziel.”
“I am instantly inclined to say ‘FUCK RAZIEL.’ But you probably already have. Literally.”
“I’ll happily knock one single tooth out of your mouth to give you the ability to give Raz a blowjob without having to open your mouth. The hole I’d make would be just the right size.”
“For, you see, I too have an affiliation with the Kid. Nowhere near as… intimate as that which you used to share prior to falling into the clutches of Raziel, but that is not to say that I haven’t been able to reach out to him from time to time to ‘aid’ me with certain matters. Of course, the Mighty Kid that you knew has long since hung up his cape. His legacy lives on throughout Fathom City though, I can tell you that.”
“If you’re really interested…”
“As the story goes; Jack Tyler, the original Mighty Kid, rescued Andrea Bubble. She was a fellow superhero who went by the name of Death Penalty. She had been abducted and tortured by her father; Bradley Leonard Zachary Bubble, better known as BLZ Bubb. Once the two had been reunited, Jack decided to hang up his cape for good and leave Fathom City behind with Andrea, vowing to keep her safe for always and always and always.”
“It’s so sweet. It’s enough to make me want to fucking hurl.”
“Yet, in Mighty Kid’s place, a second Mighty Kid appeared; the aptly named ‘Mighty Kid II,’ or ‘MKII’ for short. He still operates in Fathom to this day, but he is nowhere near as active as the original due to the severe decrease in crime, a more competent police force and the arrest of several high-level supervillians.”
“You are no supervillain, Raven. You are just a girl with a tainted heart. A little girl who is scared by all! I can assure you, Raven, you have no idea what pain and suffering truly feels like. Raziel might have attacked your mind in a direct and blunt fashion, but he didn’t have the guts to tears through your flesh and break through bone in order to reach into your heart with his bare hands. There are cultures in the world where female genital mutilation is the norm. In my culture, I will mutilate more than just that crusty, disease-riddled split between your legs.”
“I wonder how you will be able to focus with Raziel lurking so close by? Of course, you are not the only one who has brought their other half to work. Bigg Rigg has brought his non-achieving wife along for the ride just so he can remind the world where he rests his dick at night. For a man who calls bullshit on a lot of things, is it not ironic that he is facing Chris Page and Heather Halliwell, the King and Queen of Bullshit. When the match inevitably goes against his favour, Rigg’s face will likely turn as red as the tomato spread across the base of a fucking pizza and then disappear, leaving behind what dignity remains within his tarnished legacy.”
“Since we’re on the subject of War Games combatants…”
“Famine of the Vile and MDK are two of this company’s biggest former stars, allegedly. It’s nice to see that Famine is keeping up with the times and recognising Flash Rotten as nothing more than a color-fucking-commentator, never mind the fact that he has been a former General Manager-slash-Stakeholder within the company. He calls himself The Demon King, yet the only throne he should be sitting on is a fucking public toilet. What is a King to a Devil? One could argue ‘what is a devil to a non-believer?’ I would say I will make you believe, but that is not the right word. Experience. Behold. Suffer/ They are far more suitable.”
“MDK though, he was one of the last WGWF World Champions prior to the closure. This is what makes me laugh. There are going to a ton… a literal fuckton of people who are going to be boasting how they are ’former champions’ and ’former big match winners.’ Guess what? Those accomplishments don’t mean shit anymore. They have been rendered completely fucking obsolete by the company’s closure. It’s like boasting that you still have a Blockbuster Video Card.”
“The same, however, cannot be said for one man on the card. Kyle Shane. A man who, at this moment in time, is reigning as the World Champion over in Pure Class Wrestling. Yes, I’ve been watching you Kyle. I’ve also seen Dominator over there doing great things. Even Max Daemon has been cropping up in a minor capacity as a foil to one David Hunter. Believe me, I’ve thought about trying my hand over there myself, if not for the fact there is already some asshole going under the name of ‘Grimm’ and an even bigger fucktard called ‘Joka’ who, in essence, is trying to be ME!”
“It’s certainly been a long time, hasn’t it, Kyle? Maybe the XWF Reboot? Grimoire Xmyles versus. Kyle Shane has not really been a prospective match that has been on people’s radars. But it should have. We are two conflicting personalities. You’re the ultimate ‘achievement unlocker.’ You
“At the bottom of the spectrum, you’ve got perpetual underwhelmers like The Sentinel who are basically here to bolster numbers, not that they need to be. John Tolly never really got the start to his career that he wanted before the closure. The only time Richard Garcia hasn’t sucked is when he was tagging with Lucas Felix, and even then that is fucking debatable. Andy Johnson-Page has never had anything going for him outside of his relationship to Chris Page, which I suppose is as good a reason as any to rip his face off to use as toilet paper the next time I have a vindaloo. And seriously… how… HOW IN THE FUCK… in Terry Borden still alive? I don’t even need to strike Borden. He would be finished off by a winter cold snap… or Jenna Jameson taking off her top in front of him.”
“Mic Ferrari and Dan Fierce… here’s two guys that personify the word ‘almost.’ That personification being after sex, when their partners ask them if they’d came and they reply ‘Almost!’ In spite of their endless shortcomings, they are still recognised. Underrated, but recognised nonetheless. I can assure you, whichever one of you I end up facing in the War Games, you won’t be recognised when I’m fucking through with you. Did I say recognised? I meant recognisable.”
“And who are the next lucky so-and-sos that wish to step into my parlour? Why, if it isn’t Lucas Felix and Vegas. I’ll be honest, having Lucas Felix trying to take a page out of my book all those years ago was laughable. It is something that you will never live down and was something that absolutely ruined your fucking career. And I take great pride in that. You went from being lucky, to lightning, to lukewarm in a flash. And that had nothing to do with my influence. That was simply because you were too fucking inept and unwilling, which begs the question why you even wanted to entertain such an idea in the first place! And Vegas, well, he might as well go back to the fucking drawing board too. Luck hasn’t been kind to you at all, has it? Yet you’re still leaning on the concept like a crutch, apparently. Let me kick that crutch out from underneath you and bash you over the fucking head with it.”
“A lesbian and a black man inside of a wrestling ring? Someone get ‘Brazzers’ on the phone. So, the ex-Roderick-X has come back for more, eh? Jocelyn Camden… well, she always comes back for more. I can only assume that the two of you were under the same impression as the rest of us, Chris Page aside (as it was his fucking idea) that your participation would be an one-and-done affair. The War Games does add an extra element of intrigue, but it simply seals the fates of each of the victors in their respective matches. The War Games is a Lion’s Den… and I am the lion that has been starved for far too long. As much as I crave the taste of fresh meat, neither of you fit that bill. I guess I will have to do to you what the WGWF machine has already done to you; chew you up and spit you back out.”
“The Glorious New Breed sounds like a fucking conservation programme for a rare species of Bitch. That pretty much sums up the two of you. How fitting it is then that you’re facing The Ryan Brothers. Hunter, perhaps the only important person in this whole match, and the butt of every joke, Nick. Now, I know a few things about a good joke, but you four idiots are as basic as a joke that starts with the words ‘Knock, Knock.’ Here’s one for you…”
“Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there.”
“The Sick, Sick Bastard”
“The Sick, Sick Bastard who?”
“The Sick, Sick Bastard who is going to rectally punch you so fucking hard that people are going think Jeff Dunham has found a new protégé.”
“And then… there’s you.”
“The man who is truly the one behind the madness.”
“Chris Page.”
“You know what’s funny? Maybe it was my own ego talking earlier. Maybe I shouldn’t take the credit for making the WGWF fall into the state of disrepair that it had been prior to this event. No. It should be of little surprise that, after years upon years of abusing your position of power, that which you had created had crumbled apart around you.”
“It was your fault, Chris.”
“And there is not a single person on this roster that should forgive you for that. Especially me…”
“Because it was supposed to be MY fucking job!”
“So why? Why would you pull the plug at the time that you did? Was it because you knew that I was going to make your life a perpetual hell? By cutting ties with the WGWF, and by extension me, you could go back to rolling up fat ones and blazing it up as often and as regularly as you liked without fear of getting your teeth being knocked out to use as a grinder. There is a whole conspiracy here that can be read from this.”
“You had Lunacy screw me out of the West Coast Rumble last year. And even though I assaulted Adam Barker and made it look like suicide, you still had to try and put a stop to my malice. The key word here is ‘try.’ We have unfinished business, Chris. This is our last chance.”
“I will make good on my promise once and for all. I shall emerge from the War Games as the only survivor, leaving the WGWF in a fiery blaze from which no phoenix will ever be able to rise from.”
“This is the end.”
“And I will be the one who has the last laugh!”[/i]