Live Together, Die Alone
Mar 1, 2015 16:50:19 GMT -5
Crow McMorris, Joey Flash, and 1 more like this
Post by occulo on Mar 1, 2015 16:50:19 GMT -5
We open up in the car in which Occulo and Charlotte are in. They have driven a considerable distance from where they started, and Occulo is looking apprehensive as to where the hell they are.
Charlotte: We’re nearly there Occulo
Occulo: Where? Where are we going?
Charlotte: My place.
Occulo: Yours? What if they are waiting for you there?
Charlotte: They won’t be. They are in Washington at the moment. I spoke to them outside the café. You see…they sent me to get you.
Occulo: What?! You work for them?
Charlotte: Yes. I couldn’t give you up though. I didn’t even choose to work for them.
Occulo: How did you come to work for them? You worked for my dad right?
Charlotte: Correct. But they knew I had spoken with you in the past. They know I worked closely with John and so I’d know where
you were most of the time. I had a lot of sympathy for you and when your Dad left I wanted you to be looked after. I agreed to work for them so I could get to you before they could.
Occulo: You’re a double agent then…
Charlotte: You could say that. I-
Mullins: Ladies and Gentlemen, the WCF United States AND World Heavyweight Champion…Occulo!!!!
He rapturously applauses and cheers
Occulo: Sit the FUCK down.
Mullins hops down and puts his arm around him, holding him tight and ruffling his hair
Mullins: What do you want? My treat
Occulo: It’s all free Dad.
Mullins walks over to the counter, where an extremely pissed off and red faced catering woman is stood.
Mullins: Bitch! We are looking at the next holder of two championship belts! I demand the finest breakfast. Anything sub-par will
result in it improving that sour, scrotum like face of yours!
She tuts, shakes her head and heads into the kitchen. Mullins claps his hands together and rubs them. He sits back down opposite Occulo who is trying his best to wake up. Mullins reaches into his pocket and takes out a folded up piece of A4 paper. He unfolds it and hands it to his Son.
Occulo: What’s this?
Mullins: Sunday’s card!
Occulo scans it and finds his match
Occulo: United States Title Battle Royal…Marc Mayhem vs Chelsea Armstrong vs Oblivion vs Jackson White…how the fuck did he get a shot at-
Mullins: Keep going!
Occulo: vs Occulo vs Steeltoe Joe vs Marco Valintine vs Logan. Wow.
He breaks a smile and lightly tosses the paper on the table
Mullins: Son you’re fucking flying here. Shots at two different titles one after the other. Listen, we-
The catering lady brings over a plate of scrambled eggs and sausages and places it on the table.
What the fuck is this shit? Ketchup, you bloated, half-decomposed whale
Occulo looks down in embarrassment and shakes his head. She grabs a bottle of ketchup and slams it on to the table
Coffee? You spherical mess?
She sighs and disappears again
Where was I? Oh yeah. We gotta prepare for this harder than ever. You’re taking on seven at the same time here, and they are all extremely diverse in fighting styles and personality. You’re even fighting a Woman for the first time, and she’s good. Really good. Let’s not worry about this now, after we’ve done here I’ll go away and get a full plan done. This week’s gonna be fucking tough.
Occulo smiles
Occulo: Thanks Dad. I really do appreciate this. You’ve been like a fucking rock to me this past few weeks. We’re a good team.
Mullins: We’re the best fucking team. You-
The woman puts the mug down and slides it across the table towards Mullins. However the two adjoining tables and put together right and the mug falls over, spilling the coffee all over him. Mullins gets up and the woman’s eyes widen. She runs towards the kitchen followed by Mullins, and Occulo dines to the classic soundtrack of a kitchen being demolished as we…
CUT
Things were moving fast. Occulo is in the semi-final a no.1 contender tournament for the WCF World Heavyweight Championship and now he had been thrust into a battle royal for the United States Championship. He felt extremely proud of himself, and he felt he absolutely deserved it. He hadn’t lost a match since the 28th December at One and has been on a roll ever since. No more fucking around though. This was the start of a great ascent and one he would take one step at a time. Absolutely no room for complacency and carelessness. He had already fought Marc Mayhem once, Oblivion twice, Jackson White three times, and Marco Valintine once…and won every match. Occulo wasn’t naïve though. He knew his record against them had to be torn up and looked at with a fresh perspective. He had acquired experience and knowledge of how they fought yes, but no match is EVER the same. Chelsea Armstrong, Steeltoe Joe and Logan were all new opponents for him, and he relished the chance to delve into this unchartered territory.
Jackson White was AGAIN next to Occulo’s name on the card, and Occulo just saw it as a chance to claim the hat-trick over him. Fenix still hadn’t got the picture after two defeats that he was clearly, obviously and evidently inferior to him and if it takes three beat-downs to get it into his thick skull then so be it. It’s just what Occulo does. Proves people wrong. He was happy being the dark horse and he felt certain he was more than good enough to wear some gold.
Things were shifting in the company. ICE Beckman finally lost his World Title to Bobby Cairo and that sends shockwaves of change throughout. If the guy who has been proving himself as the best in the business week in, week out for as long as Occulo can remember can let his title slip away, then anyone can beat anyone. Nothing was certain and nothing was set in stone. It is time to ride the wave and embrace the shift.
For now though, Occulo was about to take flight. Literally, to Colorado. Mullins had sent him to the host city of the next Slam early in order to dispel any chance of him being tired from travelling on Sunday. He stepped through the door of the plane and was welcomed by a stewardess that Occulo was sure was a man in drag. The way he looked at him had essence of lust attached to it and Occulo didn’t quite know how to react. He took his seat as quickly as possible and stared out the window. He reached into his bag and took out the book he was delving in to. “Paradise Lost” by John Milton. Occulo wasn’t one for the classic novels of Dickens and the Bronte’s. Give him a symbolism rich long fucking poem and he was more than happy. By the time he had read four or five pages, the plane was hurtling down the runway and began its ascent into the sky. Sat next to him was a guy with a sketchpad who started working on what looked like a half finished panel for a graphic novel. It looked amazing, and Occulo knew this guy had some serious creative talent. He closed his book slightly and tried to make sense of his work. The artist stopped sketching and turned his head in Occulo’s direction
Occulo: Sorry, just admiring your work.
Artist: Oh, thank you. Yeah it’s a comic book I’m working on.
Occulo: Nice. Does it have a name?
Artist: Not yet. It’s about a bunch of students who have to live on an island for a few months, but nearly everything on the island is
like a hallucinogenic drug and shit gets weird.
Occulo: Interesting.
Well that was ironic. Occulo stared out the window and felt a sudden rush of cold emanate around him. Here? Seriously? Around about three hundred other people? Occulo then wondered if he was actually awake. He waited until the artist was distracted and stole one of his pencils, before jamming it into his leg. Fucking OUCH. Yeah this was real. He tried to hold back a yell and a tear appeared in his eye. He put the pencil back and just rode out the pain. Staring out the window as the clouds below began to blur slightly. The Cold had found him 30,000 feet in the air and Occulo, for the first real time doing this felt extremely apprehensive.
The Cold: What are you so afraid of?
Occulo couldn’t respond. The guy next to him would think he was fucking crazy. The answer was right in front of him though. He glanced at the artist and smiled slightly
Occulo: Do you mind if I borrow a sheet of paper from you and a pen? I was going to write a letter but I left my damn stationery behind.
The artist ripped a piece out of a thick pad and handed it to him with a pen. He was starting to get a little frustrated with Occulo’s distractions, but was clearly too polite to say so.
Thank you very much
Occulo clicked the top of the pen and started to write on the page. “Why here?”
The Cold: Not here.
Occulo looked around him and wrote “Right, I’m not jumping out of plane if that’s what you have in mind”
The Cold: Idiot. Just get comfortable and close your eyes. Everything will become clear.
Occulo put the pen down and sat back in his seat, closing his eyes. The artist glanced over at his “letter” and read it.
Artist: Speaking of hallucinogenics…
Rockstar, Hotdog King, Hotdog King, Feminine leader, Man of Faith, Monster and…Jackson White. Be the last man standing out of that lot and you’ve won your first belt Occulo. He stood halfway across the Royal Gorge Bridge staring down into the rocky abyss below. It was fairly warm, but pretty breezy. Enough to keep a feint hearted soul away from the bridge in fear of being blown clear off it. There were a few tourists here and there all doing their own thing and photographing rocks and shit. To the gasps of a few wary folk, Occulo climbed up on to the railing and sat with his legs dangling over edge. A couple of wanna be heroes approached him and motioned for him to get down, fearing some kind of suicide attempt. Occulo laughed it off and they left him to it, with some rather…derogatory terms thrown in his direction.
Occulo: It’s a fragile thing isn’t it? Not only life which I am leaving hanging on the balance here, but also trust. I am surrounded at both sides by complete strangers. Statistically 1% of people are psychopaths. What if one were to stroll across this bridge, see me sat here and jump at the chance to just shove me over the edge. They would laugh as my skull hit that rock down there spraying my brains all over the place. Yeah, I’m taking a big risk. I’m terrified of heights yet here I am perched nearly a thousand feet above certain death. I’m not an adrenaline junkie or one of those parkour guys. Nah, I’m just after something I haven’t felt in months. After something so many of you have tried to inject in to me but seen the needle snap at every occasion. I’m after some fear. I haven’t felt anything close to it because I knew that every single one I have faced so far are completely incapable and would be easily dispatched.
When I saw who I was facing in the battle royal it was the same old story again. A group of people so unbelievably self-involved and lacking any creative edge to make me feel any emotion but mental comfort. I mean I’ve already beaten half of you already. The other half don’t stand out, they just blur into the same grey smear I imagine when I think about the others. I’m curious yes, of course I am. I’m curious if you can prove me wrong and break the mould of mediocrity. I’ve been called paranoid as if that is breaking news to me. Yeah, I was paranoid before I came here. I was terrified. I was constantly looking over my shoulder as I should be now, but I didn’t even know what I was looking for…and you know what? I fucking miss it a bit. Every Sunday night I know exactly what is coming and through the week I get the same old tape played and hear the same old rubbish. I’ll let you into a secret. You know that Hadrian Salazar fella? He looked like he was going to bring something exciting to the table. Something that would let my brain think of something creative I could throw in his direction whilst he did the same. He looked like a guy that could disturb me and fuel nightmares. He looked original. But no, the guy didn’t even do anything. Fucking let down.
So I’m done to be honest. It’s time for me to win that US title belt and offer the very rare breed of wrestler here incentive for them to flourish as well as they can. It is an accolade I more than deserve. I’ve beaten some big names here. Big names I was told I was going to comfortably lose to. I’ve kept my head down and battled week after week. There is a phantom belt around my waist that on Sunday will be exorcised and replaced with something of this Earth. There are seven others in my way though. Seven people with hopes and dreams, with different histories and stories yet to be written. All have walked down different roads, and like all roads lead to Rome, when they step into the Coliseum with me, all roads will have led…to failure. You know what I could do? I could go down the seven deadly sins route, but none of you are interesting enough for that. That’s a sin you all share, and one I will gladly and rightly see to your penance of.
He reaches in to his back pack and takes out a small packet of red, white and yellow feathers. He empties them into his hands and cups them, sheltering them from the wind. He then blows them and they flutter away, slowly cascading down in to the gorge.
Jackson when is this so called “Phoenix” that you claim to be going to actually show its colours here? Right now you’re not so much a Phoenix, but more of an old pigeon with a bad leg and broken wing desperately trying to compete for food and some sort of survival. How the hell you are even in this battle royal is a complete mystery to me. It must be purely out of sympathy. There’s no way in hell it is through talent and hard work. I’m getting sick of the sight of you. What is your aim here? Have you still got that bee in your bonnet thinking you are going to one day be the best in the company? How is that ever going to happen? You’re a bottom carder. A beginner. A newbie who is yet to even wrestle a decent match. What was it you said after I beat you one on one? You still beat my ass. You’re a fucking idiot. A stupid, deluded stubborn little asshole who is absolutely terrified of experiencing even the slightest bit of self-doubt because it will result in you sitting where I am now and shouting aggressively at passers-by and then finally doing us all, and most of all me, a favour by throwing yourself into that gorge down there. Knowing your irritating stubbornness you’ll probably survive. Hey Jackson, maybe your Dad ASKED to be shot dead because he couldn’t put up with your whiny, cry baby little face anymore. Have you considered that possibility? Even then it would probably be my fault. Look Jackson, I have offered to help you but you have proven to be beyond it. So fuck you. If you were to slip into an extremely deep, crippling depression I wouldn’t even give you a kind word. Come at me again this Sunday Jackson and I’ll show you yet again just how vastly better I am than you.
Chelsea, hey I hear a few people think you’re going to be the one to take the gold on Sunday. Good for them, and good for you. Do you share the same confidence? I gather your Pack are fully behind you and backing you whether honestly or otherwise. That’s what a leader must do right? Create a mutual consciousness and idealism that you all gel and adhere to. But forget that for now. I’m facing Chelsea Armstrong and Chelsea Armstrong alone. I’ll start by getting the bullshit out of the way. Yes you are a Woman. Okay? Cool. I don’t see you as the less-intelligent do. To me you are just something of which gender is irrelevant; an obstacle that must be knocked down with the best of my ability. I’ll admit you are my biggest challenge in this match Chelsea. You seem to the most intelligent and insightful; the best of a bad bunch if you will. Your little waxwork demonstration in your promo against Dune was interesting for a while. Yeah, I just called you interesting. Damn perhaps you are starting to charm me.
He chuckles to himself and shakes his head. He reaches into his bag and takes out a Queen chess piece.
Don’t sue me Chelsea. On Sunday you are a Queen amongst Pawns, able to move in any direction and take out anyone you see fit to because let’s agree, you are a lot better than everyone else. A Queen is only powerful on the chess board though. It’s artistic and symbolic. An absolute pillar of strength and a versatile device of destruction. The Queen and her two pawns alone together in a Pack on the board with a cowering King in the corner escaping one move at a time. All the other pieces have been eliminated and this is all there is left. Am I the King in this little climactic scenario Chelsea?
You wish
He checks (no pun intended) his watch and throws the chess piece down the gorge.
Nah. I’m the timekeeper, the crafter of the pieces and owner of the set. Overseeing the action and having the power to end it whenever I like to. I’m not restricted to black and white and the eternal prison of the board. I exist outside it, much like I do here. Existing outside the box and watching as everyone destroys each other, waiting for that one person to come along to start a new game with. You have a great potential Chelsea, and it saddens me to watch you waste your time with those two utter delinquents. I’m not asking, or telling you to break free from them. You have obviously decided that it was a good idea at some point. But I cannot help but see a rare flower struggling to break through the crack in a sidewalk when I look at you. You claimed yourself as the monster of darkest nightmares and speak with majestic and thought pounding majesty, but I see this all go to waste.
Perhaps you need to be shown this, and unfortunately it’s going to be via the medium of a physical incapacitation. You see I can hurt you and break you to the point where Chelsea Armstrong bursts through that crack in the pavement and wakes up with dominion over the Garden of Eden. I am looking forward to battling you Chelsea, and I pray that we are the final two left standing. You’ll then see manifest in front of you the metaphor you claim to be, the monster in your darkest nightmare. The dragon spreading a dark cloud over the sun drenched kingdom your Princess rules over. I enjoyed your story Chelsea. Your method of almost turning a fairytale in to an educational fable was something I could only have dreamed of with my Mother. Have you heard this one though? Have you heard the one about the Prince that spent the rest of his life as a beaten, whipped device under the deviant control of the Ugly Sister that won his heart because Cinderella was held back by her own self-doubt and fear of being herself to attend the ball? No of course you haven’t because that story already has a happy ending. Children and closed minds grow up not on how things realistically turn out, but how they should turn out. The easiest option. If the battle royale on Sunday was a fairytale what would happen? The Hotdog Kings would band together and be swiftly demolished by the monster Oblivion, leading Princess Chelsea Armstrong to send knight after knight to vanquish him only for each one to fall. But she failed to see beyond the obvious. She had sent the biggest and most muscular men who want only to impress the Princess and not the one who had any intelligence and actual fighting ability. So what happens Chelsea? She sends him in and the monster is quickly dispatched? Nah, he goes straight after her and drives his sword through her chest. Simply put, an incompetent and flawed leader is a bigger threat than the monster itself. Your Pack doesn’t consist of the best, it just consists of two tanks of testosterone who have never looked above your chest.
So on Sunday I’m going to outclass you. I’m going to lock in the Epitome and make you scream so loud the crowd around us hold their hands over their ears. I’m going to slip you into an ear and soul splitting agony so excruciating you will feel alive and you’ll hear the Mistress telling you to scratch my eyes out. It’ll be too late then. You’ll have let yourself down and everyone you care about. The Cruiserweight Champion will remain just as that and your greed for gold will be punished. Chelsea Armstrong, the femme fatale, the beautiful white dove on an ashen terrain contorting and broken by a man she longs to share the same freedom as.
He takes a deep breath and watches a large bird fly over the gorge, turning with the wind and changing direction.
Steeltoe. Mr Very very cutting edge. The preacher who exists under the sole cloud of judgment by God. What’s the deal? Your ill actions are God’s will? Is that your excuse? Is this what makes you this cutting edge force to be reckoned with?
Do you ever stop and think about this? About how a little bit of a retard you sound? You call it cutting edge, I call it mental disability. I call it juvenile. I call it deluded. Refusing to take any responsibility for your actions and not even evaluating them as negative. Now I’m not one of those guys who openly makes fun of people who believe in God. That’s not fair. Simply because they do not mock my atheism. Two way street. But a guy who uses his belief as an excuse. Now, that is pretty rife for condemnation. Even by fellow believers. Say God IS the only guy that can judge you. What is he saying Joe? What’s his analysis on you? How is he interpreting your actions? All with a positive glow? All with spiritual acceptance and approval? I guess we’ll never know. But as long as in your little head you think you are doing the right thing then you carry on.
You know you are a standard, typical piece of the same mould of these rebel types. You exist to rebel against the machine but you are that attached to this mission and purpose that you are just another puppet that the machine controls. You know what happens to this thing you are fighting against? It doesn’t get weaker Joe, it gets stronger and stronger sending you more and more over the edge. You even looked to God because you are not strong or confident enough in your own ability. Preaching to others to join your cause, perhaps to shirk blame of your absolute failure. It’s alright though, because you are lucky in that after your elimination on Sunday you’ll have someone to look up to and tell you everything is alright and that it wasn’t your fault. Fuck though, how do you ever get stronger just hearing every night what you want to hear? When do you ever receive a stern, character building savaging of your in-ring performances that you use to learn from and do better next time? How does Steeltoe Joe, the professional wrestler and athlete reflect upon himself? I get this every single week from my Father; a real trilogy of mind, body and soul who unlike your God doesn’t shower me with false hope and cotton wool pats on the back. If I fuck up in the ring and put the result in jeopardy, he lets me know. He shoves it down my throat and I become better as a result. Do you even care? Are you really that bothered about your ability as a wrestler? Yeah, you’ve been around the block a few times and as you say you know your stuff, but why this bizarre…self-entitlement as a rebelling legion of God? What happened down the line to send you into this well of faith?
Well none of this utter fucking bullshit cuts it with me Joe. Fuck sake, grow up, get real and realise you are exactly the same as everybody else and you have to pay for your actions. I don’t care if everything you do is perhaps for the greater good. You’re wrong in saying that only God can judge you, cos I’m judging you and don’t need two testaments to tell you that you are a selfish, sight righteous little cunt who has less edges than the fucking halo that shines above that absolute holy grail of shit head of yours.
Let me speak in a language you might understand Joe.
He takes out a piece of paper from his backpack and reads it aloud
He takes out a lighter and holds the page whilst it burns. Charred pieces flutter down in to the gorge.
Go on, go ahead, flame me for being blasphemous. I don’t fucking care. You’re an absolute disgrace to your faith and if a train should hit you tomorrow nobody would miss you. I bet the reason you’ve stayed alive this long is because God keeps saving you because he knows he’d have to spend the rest of fucking eternity with you because he played paper when Satan played scissors. You’re amongst the most dislikeable people in the company Joe. Fuck off. Grow a pair of balls and be a man. I’ve seen more backbone on a fucking jellyfish. Actually continuing to talk about the pussy that is Steeltoe Joe is making me angry, and you’ll get that all in your face on Sunday. If God hasn’t got sick of you by then and smited you with a bolt of lightning or something. Faggot.
Occulo takes a bottle of water out of his backpack and opens the top. He pours the entire contents into the gorge, dispersing as it does.
Oblivion? Can you hear me? You must be near because I can smell burning. How embarrassing a loss for you in that inferno ladder match. You have rattled on, and on, and on, and on, and on, about how you are this big fucking fiery ass monster…then you lose in a match that’s almost designed for you. I wasn’t too surprised though. You are proving me right. I said the monster is fading and that you’re not scaring anyone anymore and look what happened. A real beast would be sat in its lair drooling on how it’s going to rip Bobby Cairo apart. But no, that didn’t happen did it? As much as the stuff you did in that match was brutal, I’m sorry to say you’re going soft big guy. Scarecrow should be in intensive care right now fighting for his life with every inch of his body still smouldering. Again, that didn’t happen did it? Poor bastard got burned but hell, he’s up and smiling and well training his ass off ready for his match with Odin.
So what went wrong? You have absolutely fuck all excuse. None. You have let yourself down. I could tell you weren’t the force you reckon to be when I beat you in our match. You know what you’re like Oblivion? You’re like one of those rollercoasters that shit you up with their scary name and scenery, using little tired gimmicks and pantomime acting in order to make it as thrilling and terrifying as possible…then after you’ve experienced this monster you just feel exhilarated that you’ve conquered it, or in my case, disappointed that it just wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. All bark. All smoke and mirrors. Again, I fucking told you so Oblivion.
So what now? You know I can almost hear you say “I am Oblivion!! I am back stronger than ever before and Occulo I am going to rip you to shreds, you will know the absolute horror of the rejuvenated Oblivion!” And all that noise. Blah blah blah. Sorry Oblivion, I struggle to come up with a way you are going to bounce back from this. You’re a 60’s horror movie that was terrifying in its prime but is now just a dusty videotape students watch in onesies and blankets in a “shit film hangover day”. You’re as transparent and as obvious to see how you work as Regan’s head turning puppet, and as laughable these days. You expect to appear on that stage on Sunday like Cell did when he regenerated. With us all like the Z fighters thinking “Oh shit! The monster is back! He’s back! Fuck!” but it will be more like Madonna last night when fell on her ass. Everyone just looking and laughing at this tired old mess wishing it would finally retire.
So it all boils down to this Oblivion. The monster is a weakened, maimed injured creature whose fall from grace is sending sharp jolts of pain through its body every time it thinks about it. It needs someone to put it out of its misery. A light you never thought you’d see is shining in your eyes and is beckoning you in. You reach out your hand and you feel the cold metal of the guillotine with the executioner stood beside it with an axe. I pull my hood back and look down on you. I warned you this would happen Oblivion. I warned you what would happen if you carried on like this. And now you’re absolutely terrified. So how does it feel? How does it feel to be the helpless one about to be on the receiving end of absolute misery? You’ve put so many weak, helpless people on your devices and used their bodies as points to make. They wondered what had they ever done wrong to deserve this? Nothing. Nothing at all. And oh how the bells of irony chime, that Oblivion himself has become exactly that. Nothing. You are now living up to your namesake as if it was going to be the last word in the story of your life. Oblivion, the monster who was destroyed in his own game. I clamp your head down in the guillotine and strap you in. I then make you an offer. Yeah free will, do you know what is? I offer it to you then take it away. For once in your life you experienced hope and felt the agony of having it taken away. I was going to make the offer of your soul instead of your life. But no, I’ll take both. You heard me Oblivion, your soul belongs to me now. Weeks ago I cracked away at your shell and made it clear for all to see. Then Scarecrow finished you off and now it’s mine to take. I’m going to finish you. Once and for all, and it will be done with absolutely no fear at all, no remorse at all, no sorrow or sympathy at all…but joy? Oh there’ll be plenty of that.
He again reaches in to his backpack and this time takes out a small packet of pink, paper hearts. He empties them into his hand, and then blows them forward. They flutter down into the gorge.
Marco, hey you know I saw your promo against me saying how much I apparently messed up when talking about you. You went on saying that you are missing a belt, well, half the people in the company are so that was a very poor start. You then told me to stop hating you and start being inspired by you. Are you out of your fucking mind? What exactly is there about you that could possible inspire me? We are two incredibly different, almost polar opposites of each other. If you had any brain power whatsoever you would realise this, and that you…inspiring me is just never going to happen. No, I will never be as “great” as you because I think greatness has two very different contexts for us both. What I define as greatness is very different to yours, thank goodness. Okay you can only play a few “basic riffs”, so just like your wrestling ability you get to know the basics and then just stop? You sound lazy Marco. You do JUST enough that can get you laid and then you feel no need to improve or try any harder. I must say you are absolutely taking the biscuit here. You’re a very close second to Jackson White in the “least deserving to be in the title match” rankings. I thoroughly enjoyed outwrestling you, and I don’t recall you excelling in anything useful in that match. You were pathetic. You have as much improving as Jackson needs before you will ever be a favourite for a belt.
It’s not your fault though. You’ve been thrust in to a match without asking against a bunch of wrestlers who are much better than you. You’ll probably climb the turnbuckle and think you’re on stage, falling back expecting them to catch you when all you’ll do is fall straight down Oblivion’s throat or something. How embarrassing. How embarrassing you are in general, how much are you paying Michelle? The poor girl deserves a lot more. When you were reading the card and saw my name alongside yours what was your reaction Marco? Was it anger? A sigh of inconvenience that again you were going to be absolutely humbled and thrashed in front of your adoring fans? Was it a quick reach for the sketchpad and pen, writing down a Blues hit about how all your troubles have come back to you in the shape of Occulo? Or was it a rush of exhilaration as your search for revenge against me would be kickstarted? However well you did against me last time, you’re going to have to do a hundred times better. Even then you won’t have a chance.
You’re no wrestler Marco. You lack the grit, fire and determination to win against the best this company has. The fans might like you but they like you in the same way circus goers like the clown. They like me in the same way…well, you know, wrestling fans like great wrestlers. You’re just the hole in the market in the WCF where “Rockstar 01” was unfilled. You don’t offer anything deeper than that, and that is where you stop. A dead end wrestler with thankfully something to fall back on. Yet you have the gall to call me a marvel comic book wannabe. Ah shit, imagine that? I’d be an absolutely terrible comic book character. I don’t have any superhuman abilities. I can’t fly or have a utility belt and a black car with a million and one gadgets. Nor do I particularly want to be. But hell even if I was a comic book character, I’d still have the one more dimension than you wouldn’t I? Cos that’s what you are Marco, a boring, tired level 1 rocker clutching on to fame with absolutely basic wrestling skills that you still struggle with. Everything Marco Valintine stands for is weighed down by underachievement that as I said is due to your own laziness. Just like you promised me that you would beat me, you’ll promise me again and all your fans and followers and again they will be let down…but that doesn’t matter does it? Because Marco will still get the money in and still get laid and you won’t give a fuck. If you did you wouldn’t make ridiculous promises you know deep down you can’t keep. It takes backbone to do that Marco and unlike yours which is on a mattress the majority of the time, mine is in constant training and preparation making sure I let NOBODY down. I wonder if you’ll even have the balls to apologise to those you disappointed? Nah, because that just ain’t Rock ’n’ Roll is it? It’s not Marco rolls.
I predict that you’ll be swiftly eliminated on Sunday Marco. It won’t take long. You’re not a threat, no, more of an annoying little pest that shouldn’t be there. You’re just something to trip over that needs shifting. A pile of dust that needs sweeping. A minor inconvenience. Prepare yourself Marco fans; a dreary, whiny album is coming out entitled “Battle Royal Blues. A Tragic Tale”. Pirate Bay it, your money is better spent on plastic vomit. See you Sunday.
Occulo reaches in to his backpack and for the final time takes out a tin of hotdogs.
Marc, you whimsical creator of misadventure. Speaking derogatively of you isn’t easy as unlike some of the idiots in this match you don’t seem to know what you are doing but live in such happiness. But this doesn’t matter for now. You are a just one more component of the machine I need to dismantle. It seems like so long ago now that we fought, and since then I have improved dramatically. Have you Marc? Have you improved at all? Have I got any reason at all to be wary of you? You have since found solace in Logan and formed the team we have all grown to love ‘The Hotdog Kings’ and since then you have been more of a court jester in your own little world than a wrestler at all to be honest. I however have climbed my way up the ladder to this great opportunity through victory and unerring effort. Why are you in this match? Especially since your partner in crime is also involved, who knows? I have no problem with it, as I’m sure you two will provide some great entertainment before you are eliminated by yours truly. I could actually hire you as two apprentices of the Occulo Extermination Squad. I could task you with destroying the vermin, waste of time competitors like Jackson White and Marco Valintine so the real competitors such as myself can concentrate on each other and afterwards receive a pat on the back...well, an elbow to the throat and knee to the skull each and off you go on your next epic adventure. That’ll do for me. Unfortunately, and rightly so you’ll be fighting with discipline to become the next Champion so unfortunately for me it means I have to kick the shit out of two guys I have a lot of respect for. But you’ll understand. I’ll get you two out of that ring and up the ramp before Oblivion gets his little paws on you so your elimination is painless. Maybe in a few years’ time when you have blossomed in to a guy that can hold his own in the ring without an accomplice and actually notch up a win or two we shall meet and I’ll consider you an actual challenge. Until then though, I have no reason to fear you, and no reason why you will be nothing more than a quick elimination on Sunday. Sorry Marc, but I’m going to beat you easily.
Logan, I hope for your sake that being pitted against your partner Marc doesn’t result in a rift between you. That would be very upsetting, but it would help me. My bet is that you will be extremely distracted by each other and this will cost you. You’re a five time US Champion and so obviously I have considerable respect for you. But I’m afraid 6 is a step too far my friend. This isn’t a milestone you’re going to reach. You see I have to look after number 1. My first title here and the most important thing in my life right now. You, like Chelsea are an entirely new realm for me. You’re a new opponent and I’m therefore very wary of you. Your title history is amazing, and I can’t underestimate you. But like every great thing in history, something comes along and cements it as just history forever. Something comes along and stops the train dead on the tracks. You might have the experience that gives you an advantage in this match but you’ve never fought anything like me before. You have no idea what is coming and you have no idea how to handle me. Yeah you’ve heard it all before in your long history but take me for granted at your peril. Whilst I respect you in the here and now, that will all go straight out of the window in the ring. I’ll look at you as I’d look at anyone, with the sound knowledge that I can and will beat you.
Your individual nature though is something I have a problem with. Your utilisation of people as your own platform for masochism is something I have been on the receiving end of when Joey Flash and I were trading blows. Like so, so many here you have a superiority complex that needs addressing. Since words have little penetration into your mind its obvious that what you need is an utterly thorough physical experience. Don’t get excited, I don’t mean that sexually. What I mean is you need to be lifted out of this world in which you have fabricated yourself as King, you need to feel what it is like to feel your life being stripped away from you at the hands of another. You need to feel like one of the people you have manipulated and tortured for your own pleasure. Oblivion thought he could carry on doing this and got away with it for a long time. His own world got stronger and began to become more concrete around him, until the fought in the inferno ladder match which many thought would be like the back of his hand to him. What happened? He ended up burning alive in the hell he created himself. He self-destructed. He was shown the fear and pain he had inflicted on others by a man who like me, had had enough of it. Logan, I’m going to bring you down. You prey on the weak minded and enjoy the pain they inflict. Like Steeltoe Joe, you have a delusion where the heinous acts you commit are not your fault. You always have someone to blame and insist you are doing the right thing. Absolutely pathetic. It astounds me how you can think you come across as a tough pillar of strength of a man when this is how you conduct yourself. Like Oblivion you are terrified of the world seeing you as you really are so you front yourself as this stupid move villain persona. You want to use people as instruments Logan? Well let’s see how good a tune you can play when the very lungs you breathe into are being crushed, when your fingers are being broken and the games in your mind are being burned in the fires of pain. I feel considerable anger and unbelievable resentment for people like you and I almost hate myself for the person I have to become when I face you in the ring. You’re going to be the broken, whimpering, lost little puppy that exists deep in your core underneath everything you claim to be and are obsessed with being. That’s what I’m going to reduce you to Logan. No US Title for you this time you cunt. This time the only metal you’ll be holding on to after this match is of a wheelchair…if you’re lucky.
He drops the tin down the gorge and it shatters open on a rock sending the contents everywhere
Hotdog Kings, you’re going to be shattered. If not by each other, then by myself.
He picks the bag up and secures it on his bag
When all is said and done, I am the most deserving of this title. I’m absolutely not going to let any of you take this opportunity away from me. No way. You’re all going to see me fight better than I’ve ever fought before and sadly for you that means you’re going to fall at this final hurdle. I don’t care for my personal opinions of you, I don’t care about your past histories and successes and I don’t care what you are going through behind the ropes. All I give a flying fuck about is outclassing you all and finishing the match as the United States Champion. It is the only thing I am living and breathing for and my commitment towards it is something you lack. If losing this match puts irreversible dents in your careers then I won’t feel remorse, I’ll be proud to be the man to have done it. Everything I’ve been through and done since my debut here has led to this match, and I’d sooner drop myself off this bridge than go into this match with absolutely any inkling of doubt at all that I AM going to be the new United States Champion. Lights out fuckers.
He swings his legs around and steps on to the bridge as we
CUT
John Mullins is hard at work writing furiously in his notebook. On the screen behind him we see a WCF match paused. He puts his pen down, takes a mouthful of coffee and sits back in his chair.
Mullins: We’re ready you cunts. We’re ready to grab that US title belt and claim it as our own like the fucking thing is supposed to be. What a shame though that he has to win it in such a dishonourable match. Instead of squaring up one vs one against an all-time great in an absolute titanic clash that could go either way, he’s plonked in the ring with a load of random miscreants who have absolutely no idea whatsoever what they’ve done to deserve it. Neither do I to be honest. But you know what? It doesn’t fucking matter. Whether it is one vs one against the greatest or against the minibus of lost comic con nerds that you lot are, the result is the same. I don’t often give credit but my Son is miles above you all. He doesn’t excel in one particular area, he is an all-round extremely proficient and effective combatant that is going to show you all exactly where your weaknesses lie. He’s already soundly beaten a few of you and none have improved since. Happy with how they did in that match and happy with mediocrity. So unambitious and so lacking in personal development.
Jackson White, why the fuck are you here? I don’t even mean in the match. You’re not a wrestler. Fuck off. You’re lost man, go outside for once, buy a map and try to find where you are supposed to be. I’ll give you a hint, it’s either hanging a few feet off the ground next to a fallen chair or at the bottom of a cliff being shagged by a confused seal. Stop wasting your time, and more importantly my Son’s time with your pathetic little pipe dreams that you are a human being that can fight. You’ve as much chance of winning this title as your Daddy slamming your door down and asking you to get him a beer.
Chelsea, you are probably expecting me to spout out a load of sexist slander. Based on what a total cunt I am yeah you’re probably right in doing so. I won’t though because I don’t want to give you the pleasure of telling me off for it. I’ll just go ahead and say that whilst you’re my boy’s biggest threat in this match, you’re still going to lose and that’s something you’re going to have to just accept. That stupid little pack you have are holding you back sweetcheeks but if you’re not seeing that then fuck you. You deserve what you get, which is a black eye and a stoved in set of ovaries. Ouch.
Steeltoe Joe you absolutely fucking ridiculous pile of green exorcist vomit. The fuck you doing in the ring? Go back to fiddling little boys like the rest of your evil, brainwashing religious cultists. What kind of man does all this shit and then go “I know you are cos you said you are but what am I? I don’t care cos God loves me so pffftttt”. You fucking nut. Let me let you in on something, there isn’t a God up there. It’s just what the ancients fabricated and believed cos they had no science to tell them otherwise and somehow it’s carried on to today by a load of people too weak to be able to change things. You’re a weak, disgraceful piece of filth Joe. At least when I do things I’m not proud of I hold my hands up and take responsibility. You’re the absolute worst of humanity and if I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail I’d stab you in the chest tonight. Go fuck yourself. Cunt.
Mr Toasty. Oblivion. Oh buddy how I laughed when you fell of that ladder in to that burning asshole in your little inferno match. I applauded Scarecrow so much. What a joy to behold. So what now you fat tub of shit freak? Haven’t even heard from you since. Are you even alive? Have they even bothered to get you out of that smoking crater? Is there even a crane strong enough to lift that smouldering, steaming turd that you are up? You lost in a match you should have excelled in. Fucking embarrassment. You’re done now. That’s it. Game over. You’re finally that whimpering little pussy pulling the strings in that large piece of blubber for all to see. No US Title for you, you utter disappointment. You’re a sheep in wolf’s clothing. Roast lamb. Pass the fucking apple sauce.
Marco, another sack of flesh and bones my Son utterly decimated. You’re still here eh? Still trying to make a name for yourself? Well you won’t do it on your own. You’re a terrible musician and an even worse wrestler. If you want to be remembered then do it by turning up to the match dressed as the exact thing you are; a big fucking dildo. Because that’s all you’re good at apparently. Pleasuring women. Fair enough. Good on you. But don’t try and sell yourself as anything else when you’re obviously no good. It’s just plain old embarrassing.
Marc Mayhem you fucking clown. What even are you? Were you kicked out of the asylum and placed on the WCF doorstep in a basket? Every day is like a child’s game for you isn’t it? Constantly just running around playing pretend with anything you can find. I’ll tell you what you are, you are an absolute insult to my Son’s career in that he is having to beat you to win the United States title. I hope he breaks so many bones in your ridiculous, useless little body you are unable to irritate anyone in this federation which seems to be the only thing you are good at. You like hotdogs, try stuffing a few down yours and your friends windpipes so you asphyxiate on them and die. Try it. Please.
Logan, as above. Mostly. Except you have something quite impressive which is your title history. Ah but so fucking what? Doesn’t mean for a second you’re more likely to win it than anyone else in this match. In fact you’re immediately under a lot of pressure. What happens to something under significant pressure that can’t take it? Crack. The boot of Occulo straight on your jaw and his knee straight in your skull. Crack. You like inflicting pain on others then you’ll enjoy the headache the medical staff get when you wake up in hospital and they have to put up with your annoying, incessant personality. That’s all the pain you’re going to inflict, and it’s the most you’ll get into heads also.
Occulo walks in with his backpack on and sits down next to him
Occulo: Nice place Colorado
Mullins: How you feeling for the match?
Occulo: Confident. Excited, you know, the usual.
Mullins: That US title is yours. You have to make this happen. Nobody in that ring deserves it more than you and nobody has the right to stop you from taking it. How much do you want this Son?
Occulo: How much? If I could even begin to form a few words together that could measure up to my desire to become champion then I would. But words can only do so much, and if used right can paint a picture in your mind. But on this occasion I will just have to give you a glimpse and show how you much I want it in the ring. You know when you are lying awake in bed at night and your head is rushing through all your thoughts? You analyse everything and everything analyses you. You worry, you hope, you try to figure out something that provoked thought earlier in the day, and ultimately you think about what you have and what you don’t have. Well this title is that thing that has prevented me from sleeping in the comfort that at the moment I have everything I want. The title is that extra hour or so it takes me to sleep…but it’s also that extra few hours in the gym. That extra few pounds that I lift. The extra droplets of blood I am willing to shed just to be able to the best. The extra tears I am willing to cry just to endure the pain that will stop me from tapping. The extra few miles that I run and that extra spirit that keeps me going in everything I do. The title already exists in how hard I have worked and how much harder I’m going to work in the match. You know when you feel something that you are sure is there but isn’t, like amputees feel a phantom limb, well I feel that this title is around my waist. It’s going to be mine, I swear everything on it. Occulo, the new United States Champion. Get that printed. It’s happening.
Mullins smiles and ruffles his hair, pulling him close as we
CUT
Charlotte: We’re nearly there Occulo
Occulo: Where? Where are we going?
Charlotte: My place.
Occulo: Yours? What if they are waiting for you there?
Charlotte: They won’t be. They are in Washington at the moment. I spoke to them outside the café. You see…they sent me to get you.
Occulo: What?! You work for them?
Charlotte: Yes. I couldn’t give you up though. I didn’t even choose to work for them.
Occulo: How did you come to work for them? You worked for my dad right?
Charlotte: Correct. But they knew I had spoken with you in the past. They know I worked closely with John and so I’d know where
you were most of the time. I had a lot of sympathy for you and when your Dad left I wanted you to be looked after. I agreed to work for them so I could get to you before they could.
Occulo: You’re a double agent then…
Charlotte: You could say that. I-
A man steps out in to the road and the Charlotte swerves to avoid him. The car flips over and crashes through the barricade on a bridge over a river. Occulo closes his eyes tightly and suddenly feels extremely cold. He thought this was it. This is what death feels like. A life without the warmth of a loved one meant a cold death. Suddenly the feeling of cold became a feeling of emptiness. He opens his eyes and realises he is floating in what seems to be a white void outside the car which is also floating.
Occulo: What…what the fuck?
Charlotte: Occ…Occulo??
Occulo turns around and Charlotte is with him. She looks as terrified as he does.
No…no you can’t be here. They’ll find you.
Occulo: What are you talking about?
Charlotte: This…this is The Cold Occulo…we’ve been trapped in their vision. You have to get out.
Occulo: How? How do I get out of here?
Charlotte did not understand how someone so young could be injected into a vision like this. He was in extreme danger. Occulo could be murdered here and everyone will believe it was a car crash. Occulo’s face turned pale as the man Charlotte swerved to avoid appeared behind her out of nowhere.
Occulo: Charlotte!
He grabs Charlotte and swings her around. He punches her in the face and kicks her in the stomach. She screams pathetically in pain as the wind leaves her.
Shit…
The Cold: If you want her to live, come with us.
Charlotte faces Occulo
Charlotte: Occulo…close your eyes and think about the love Frank showed you. Think about the friendship he showed you and how happy me made you feel.
Occulo: What? But…that was years ago…
Charlotte: The Cold target those who have never felt the warmth of companionship and love.
Occulo: But what about you…
Charlotte: I…I have been targeted before…and wanted to find you…because I knew you were just as desperate for someone as I was…it’s too late for me now…but you…you’ve felt it…you can escape…
Occulo: No! Charlotte you can’t…
Charlotte: Go!
He slowly closes his eyes, the last thing he sees is The Cold lift a hand and Charlotte becoming an explosion of blood. He is sat in his Dad’s office. Occulo is five years old and he is playing with an Action Man whilst Frank walks in with a mug of cocoa and a blanket.
He sets the mug down and drapes the blanket over Occulo, pulling him close.
Frank: No matter whoever abandons you in your life Occulo, I’ll always be your friend, and I will always be there for you. I love you
John.
Frank kisses Occulo’s head as soon as he wakes up in the car again.
Occulo staggered in to the canteen after a pretty late night celebrating his tournament win with his Dad. The canteen itself was empty, as Mullins had demanded the place stay open for breakfast and was sat on his own. Occulo approached him and stopped suddenly. Mullins stood up, and then climbed on to the table. He raised his arms.Occulo: What…what the fuck?
Charlotte: Occ…Occulo??
Occulo turns around and Charlotte is with him. She looks as terrified as he does.
No…no you can’t be here. They’ll find you.
Occulo: What are you talking about?
Charlotte: This…this is The Cold Occulo…we’ve been trapped in their vision. You have to get out.
Occulo: How? How do I get out of here?
Charlotte did not understand how someone so young could be injected into a vision like this. He was in extreme danger. Occulo could be murdered here and everyone will believe it was a car crash. Occulo’s face turned pale as the man Charlotte swerved to avoid appeared behind her out of nowhere.
Occulo: Charlotte!
He grabs Charlotte and swings her around. He punches her in the face and kicks her in the stomach. She screams pathetically in pain as the wind leaves her.
Shit…
The Cold: If you want her to live, come with us.
Charlotte faces Occulo
Charlotte: Occulo…close your eyes and think about the love Frank showed you. Think about the friendship he showed you and how happy me made you feel.
Occulo: What? But…that was years ago…
Charlotte: The Cold target those who have never felt the warmth of companionship and love.
Occulo: But what about you…
Charlotte: I…I have been targeted before…and wanted to find you…because I knew you were just as desperate for someone as I was…it’s too late for me now…but you…you’ve felt it…you can escape…
Occulo: No! Charlotte you can’t…
Charlotte: Go!
He slowly closes his eyes, the last thing he sees is The Cold lift a hand and Charlotte becoming an explosion of blood. He is sat in his Dad’s office. Occulo is five years old and he is playing with an Action Man whilst Frank walks in with a mug of cocoa and a blanket.
He sets the mug down and drapes the blanket over Occulo, pulling him close.
Frank: No matter whoever abandons you in your life Occulo, I’ll always be your friend, and I will always be there for you. I love you
John.
Frank kisses Occulo’s head as soon as he wakes up in the car again.
It crashes into the middle support beam of the bridge and Charlotte flies out of her seat, straight into the pillar, crushing her skull into mush. The car slams down into small island the pillar is attached to and Occulo gets out the car. He looks at Charlotte’s body and vomits into the river. The explosion of blood is all over the pillar. He hears sirens and cries hysterically as they approach. He had no real idea what happened here, and he wondered when his pain would finally stop.
CUT
CUT
Mullins: Ladies and Gentlemen, the WCF United States AND World Heavyweight Champion…Occulo!!!!
He rapturously applauses and cheers
Occulo: Sit the FUCK down.
Mullins hops down and puts his arm around him, holding him tight and ruffling his hair
Mullins: What do you want? My treat
Occulo: It’s all free Dad.
Mullins walks over to the counter, where an extremely pissed off and red faced catering woman is stood.
Mullins: Bitch! We are looking at the next holder of two championship belts! I demand the finest breakfast. Anything sub-par will
result in it improving that sour, scrotum like face of yours!
She tuts, shakes her head and heads into the kitchen. Mullins claps his hands together and rubs them. He sits back down opposite Occulo who is trying his best to wake up. Mullins reaches into his pocket and takes out a folded up piece of A4 paper. He unfolds it and hands it to his Son.
Occulo: What’s this?
Mullins: Sunday’s card!
Occulo scans it and finds his match
Occulo: United States Title Battle Royal…Marc Mayhem vs Chelsea Armstrong vs Oblivion vs Jackson White…how the fuck did he get a shot at-
Mullins: Keep going!
Occulo: vs Occulo vs Steeltoe Joe vs Marco Valintine vs Logan. Wow.
He breaks a smile and lightly tosses the paper on the table
Mullins: Son you’re fucking flying here. Shots at two different titles one after the other. Listen, we-
The catering lady brings over a plate of scrambled eggs and sausages and places it on the table.
What the fuck is this shit? Ketchup, you bloated, half-decomposed whale
Occulo looks down in embarrassment and shakes his head. She grabs a bottle of ketchup and slams it on to the table
Coffee? You spherical mess?
She sighs and disappears again
Where was I? Oh yeah. We gotta prepare for this harder than ever. You’re taking on seven at the same time here, and they are all extremely diverse in fighting styles and personality. You’re even fighting a Woman for the first time, and she’s good. Really good. Let’s not worry about this now, after we’ve done here I’ll go away and get a full plan done. This week’s gonna be fucking tough.
Occulo smiles
Occulo: Thanks Dad. I really do appreciate this. You’ve been like a fucking rock to me this past few weeks. We’re a good team.
Mullins: We’re the best fucking team. You-
The woman puts the mug down and slides it across the table towards Mullins. However the two adjoining tables and put together right and the mug falls over, spilling the coffee all over him. Mullins gets up and the woman’s eyes widen. She runs towards the kitchen followed by Mullins, and Occulo dines to the classic soundtrack of a kitchen being demolished as we…
CUT
Things were moving fast. Occulo is in the semi-final a no.1 contender tournament for the WCF World Heavyweight Championship and now he had been thrust into a battle royal for the United States Championship. He felt extremely proud of himself, and he felt he absolutely deserved it. He hadn’t lost a match since the 28th December at One and has been on a roll ever since. No more fucking around though. This was the start of a great ascent and one he would take one step at a time. Absolutely no room for complacency and carelessness. He had already fought Marc Mayhem once, Oblivion twice, Jackson White three times, and Marco Valintine once…and won every match. Occulo wasn’t naïve though. He knew his record against them had to be torn up and looked at with a fresh perspective. He had acquired experience and knowledge of how they fought yes, but no match is EVER the same. Chelsea Armstrong, Steeltoe Joe and Logan were all new opponents for him, and he relished the chance to delve into this unchartered territory.
Jackson White was AGAIN next to Occulo’s name on the card, and Occulo just saw it as a chance to claim the hat-trick over him. Fenix still hadn’t got the picture after two defeats that he was clearly, obviously and evidently inferior to him and if it takes three beat-downs to get it into his thick skull then so be it. It’s just what Occulo does. Proves people wrong. He was happy being the dark horse and he felt certain he was more than good enough to wear some gold.
Things were shifting in the company. ICE Beckman finally lost his World Title to Bobby Cairo and that sends shockwaves of change throughout. If the guy who has been proving himself as the best in the business week in, week out for as long as Occulo can remember can let his title slip away, then anyone can beat anyone. Nothing was certain and nothing was set in stone. It is time to ride the wave and embrace the shift.
For now though, Occulo was about to take flight. Literally, to Colorado. Mullins had sent him to the host city of the next Slam early in order to dispel any chance of him being tired from travelling on Sunday. He stepped through the door of the plane and was welcomed by a stewardess that Occulo was sure was a man in drag. The way he looked at him had essence of lust attached to it and Occulo didn’t quite know how to react. He took his seat as quickly as possible and stared out the window. He reached into his bag and took out the book he was delving in to. “Paradise Lost” by John Milton. Occulo wasn’t one for the classic novels of Dickens and the Bronte’s. Give him a symbolism rich long fucking poem and he was more than happy. By the time he had read four or five pages, the plane was hurtling down the runway and began its ascent into the sky. Sat next to him was a guy with a sketchpad who started working on what looked like a half finished panel for a graphic novel. It looked amazing, and Occulo knew this guy had some serious creative talent. He closed his book slightly and tried to make sense of his work. The artist stopped sketching and turned his head in Occulo’s direction
Occulo: Sorry, just admiring your work.
Artist: Oh, thank you. Yeah it’s a comic book I’m working on.
Occulo: Nice. Does it have a name?
Artist: Not yet. It’s about a bunch of students who have to live on an island for a few months, but nearly everything on the island is
like a hallucinogenic drug and shit gets weird.
Occulo: Interesting.
Well that was ironic. Occulo stared out the window and felt a sudden rush of cold emanate around him. Here? Seriously? Around about three hundred other people? Occulo then wondered if he was actually awake. He waited until the artist was distracted and stole one of his pencils, before jamming it into his leg. Fucking OUCH. Yeah this was real. He tried to hold back a yell and a tear appeared in his eye. He put the pencil back and just rode out the pain. Staring out the window as the clouds below began to blur slightly. The Cold had found him 30,000 feet in the air and Occulo, for the first real time doing this felt extremely apprehensive.
The Cold: What are you so afraid of?
Occulo couldn’t respond. The guy next to him would think he was fucking crazy. The answer was right in front of him though. He glanced at the artist and smiled slightly
Occulo: Do you mind if I borrow a sheet of paper from you and a pen? I was going to write a letter but I left my damn stationery behind.
The artist ripped a piece out of a thick pad and handed it to him with a pen. He was starting to get a little frustrated with Occulo’s distractions, but was clearly too polite to say so.
Thank you very much
Occulo clicked the top of the pen and started to write on the page. “Why here?”
The Cold: Not here.
Occulo looked around him and wrote “Right, I’m not jumping out of plane if that’s what you have in mind”
The Cold: Idiot. Just get comfortable and close your eyes. Everything will become clear.
Occulo put the pen down and sat back in his seat, closing his eyes. The artist glanced over at his “letter” and read it.
Artist: Speaking of hallucinogenics…
Occulo’s heart was racing as the dull roar of the plane suddenly became an extremely loud mechanical cacophony. He heard screams and a loud alarm and then for some reason felt like he had been thrown into a body of very cold water. Ah shit, wake up Occulo.
He woke up and was staring down into a deep blue abyss. He panicked and lifted his head up, breaking the surface of the ocean…which was all he could see. He turned around and saw an island, the beach was strewn with wreckage and there were fires dotted about.
Occulo: You could have dropped me on the fucking beach
The Cold: Stop whining. Get to the island and get comfortable. This is going to be a long one Occulo.
Occulo looked up at the sky and then began swimming to the beach. Sometimes Occulo wondered if he was absolutely fucking crazy, but this was anaesthetized by him knowing he always had something to show for it. He reached the beach and got to his feet. He walked down towards the wreckage and saw five people huddled together consoling each other.
There was a woman in her mid-20’s emptying long black boots of sand and water trying to take off what looked like a corset. Her long dark hair was wet and her makeup was messily smeared all over her face. She splutters and finally takes a huge sigh of relief as she throws it to the ground.
Occulo recognised one of the guys…it was Sul-Tan. The glam rockstar who had his soul ripped into in the interview. He was wearing a leather jacket which he took off and wrapped around the woman to keep her warm.
Stood on a suitcase was a guy wearing a white shirt and beige pants. He is holding up a cross, and seems to be reciting a prayer with his eyes closed.
He looked around and saw a guy sat on his own staring out to sea. Occulo approached him and he had a can of sausages about a yard in front of him, buried in the sand. He was staring at it with considerable thought. Occulo shook his head and walked back towards the group, who were now all sat down in a circle.
Sul-Tan: Everybody alright? Fuck sake.
The group nodded and the Woman shivered in the cold. The man with the cross twiddled it in his fingers and looked up
I think we should introduce ourselves. We can’t be strangers here. Not in this unchartered, ungodly land. My name is Joseph. John Myrrh.
Sul-Tan rolled his eyes
Sul: You can call me Sul
Woman: Caprice. Caprice Aldrin.
John: It is a sorry state of affairs that we must meet like this. But God had seen it fit to bring us all together.
Sul: Of course he has.
Caprice: Sul. Have some respect. Look, does anyone know where we are?
Sul: Erm…
He takes out a drumstick from his pocket and starts drawing in the sand what looks like a map I think we are halfway between lost and extremely fucked
He throws the drumstick down and sighs
Caprice: Well excuse me for asking. I think we should take a look around for some kind of communication device. See if we can contact some kind of rescue party.
John looks up at the sky and raises both hands with his eyes closed
Sul: What…what are you doing?
John: Asking God to send us salvation
Sul buried his head in his hands.
They sit in silence until very faintly they hear a scream. This gradually gets louder and louder until a man, kicking sand all over the place, screaming at the top of his lungs reaches the group and trips over a piece of debris, sending him flat on his face.
Sul: If this is what God sent then we’re all fucked
John wags a finger at him and looks at the buried man. The man rolls over and gets up. Looking around him with great panic.
Sul: And you are?
Malcom: Mars. Malcolm. Malcom…Mars.
The man was wearing a black t-shirt with the words “I <3 Fast Food” on it. He was also wearing beige shorts and had no shoes or socks on.
Caprice: What were you running from? Were you on the plane?
Mars: Of course. I ended up over there. In the jungle. Something followed me. Something big. Nobody is safe! How we gonna eat?
What we gonna eat?!?
He then ran in circles around them screaming again, kicking sand all over them until out of nowhere, a flying can hurtles across the beach and hits him in the head knocking him out instantly. The can opens spraying hot dogs everywhere. The group turn around and the man staring at the can earlier is dramatically frozen in a throwing position.
Man: …hot dogs…
Sul: Who the fuck…
Caprice: Where the hell did he get a can of hot dogs from?
John: No doubt God sent down a can from the heavens
The man is still frozen in position until Sul approaches him
Sul: Right, who are you motherfucker?
Man: My name is Roscoe Goodth
He sets about picking up the hotdogs and blowing the sand off them
Sul: Goodth? What kind of name is that? It a fuckin anagram or some shit? And where did you get the hotdogs from?
Roscoe lifts an index finger in the air, and slowly lowers it to his lips.
Roscoe: Sshhh
He turns around and blows a jet of sand at Sul
Roscoe: Why…from…HIM of course…
Sul splutters and wipes the sand off his face
Sul: Him? Who the hell is him?
Roscoe takes a hotdog and puts it on his mouth so it looks like a smile. There is an awkward few seconds of silence
What the fuck is going on here??!
There is then a loud crash from the jungle and the group jump and turn to the trees.
Caprice: What the hell is that??
John: God is sending his judgment upon us…
Sul: Aww fuck.
A number of hotdogs then pathetically thud into the sand in front of them as Roscoe throws them towards the jungle with excessive force and an extremely violent expression on his face
Do you wanna just pipe down for one minute?
Roscoe: Damn! Out of hotdogs…I shall return.
Mars gets up as the roar from the jungle is heard again
Mars: It’s back!!! The beast!!
Roscoe: Come with me child, I shall show you the ways of the hotdog and uncover the mystery of this island…
They nod at each other and dart down the beach under a cloud of sand
Caprice: We need a plan here
Sul: Yes…we do. Stay away from the fucking jungle.
A man steps out from the jungle in what looks like tribal outfit, around his neck is a large necklace with an Egyptian symbol that
looks like a circle with a cross underneath it. He raises his arms.
Man: I am Adam You-
He is then crushed to death by a falling tree causing the group to grimace and look away. The roaring and crashing stops
Sul: Fan fucking tastic.
Occulo: Well this is eventful. But I get what you’re doing.
The Cold: We’re nowhere near done yet
The action stops and the whole area fades to black and opens up again the next day in the middle of the jungle. We see a close up of an eye which opens and reflects the ceiling of the jungle. He squints and sits upright, before lifting his shirt up revealing a bloody wound next to a tattoo of what looks like a large bird with burning feathers.
Man: Ouch. Damn it.
He looks around and sees a man in a suit staring at him, and then walking away through the trees.
Man: D..Dad??
He gets up and follows him through the trees, but he is nowhere to be seen. The Cold fades the scene out and returns them to the beach.
Occulo: Nice transition
The Cold: …
Sul and Caprice exit a makeshift tent and look towards the jungle. John is sat reading a bible.
Sul: You really don’t help the religious guy stereotype do you John?
John: Sshhh…listen. For the voice of God is in the wind and in the rain.
Sul: Is it? Is it telling you to get off your ass and go build a fucking raft or something else productive? You know, show some responsibility for yourself instead of just looking to fuckin God to save us.
Caprice pulls him away
Caprice: Listen. Mars said he woke up in the jungle and I’m pretty sure I saw him sat near the front of the plane when I boarded. So
maybe that’s where the cockpit is.
Sul: Possibly. Worth taking a look I guess.
Caprice: What about him?
They look at John who is still reading the bible
Sul: Salvation lies within I guess.
Caprice: Indeed. Within the jungle. Come on.
Sul and Caprice head towards the jungle and breach the tree line.
Sul: Do you think there are others on this island?
Caprice: Probably. Hopefully we won’t run into them. That’s the last thing we need.
Caprice has a suspicious look on her face as they trudge through the vast undergrowth. They eventually reach the cockpit of the
plane which is hanging, suspended in a mass of branches.
Sul: Well that’s helpful.
Caprice: Yeah…very…
Sul: Well, let it never be known that a rockstar didn’t show great bravery and balls in front of a beautiful woman. I’ll climb up.
Caprice: You’re a rockstar?
Sul: Oh yes. An incredible one. “Cupid’s Sorrow” we are called. Remind me to play you one of our songs when we get back home.
Caprice: Can’t wait…
Sul climbs one of the trees towards the cockpit he reaches it and climbs up the outside. The windows are smashed, conveniently,
and he climbs inside.
Sul: Erm…Caprice?
Caprice: Yeah?
Sul: What exactly am I looking for?
Caprice: How the fuck do I know?
Sul: I thought you knew!!
Caprice: I’m not a rocket scientist!
Sul is just stood in the cockpit looking at all the equipment with a blank expression on his face.
Sul: Fucking Caprice. If she wasn’t hot…
Caprice looks up at the cockpit and we start to hear whispering through the trees.
Whispers: Caprice…
She looks around and adopts an angry expression, whispering back
Caprice: Not yet…go!
The whispering stops and she looks back towards the cockpit. Sul grabs what looks like a walkie talkie
Sul: That’ll fucking do. Now, I wonder if there’s any food he-
The cockpit shakes violently and drops a few feet. We then hear the roaring we heard earlier, and the crashing of trees.
Caprice: Sul!! You alright?? We need to leave now!!
Sul: Ah shit. Time to get the fuck out of here
He approaches the windows but before he can the cockpit crashes to the ground
Caprice: Sul!!
She runs to the cockpit and Sul is holding on tightly to the Pilot’s chair
You alright?
Sul: Oh yeah. Second plane crash in as many days. Fucking dandy. Here.
He throws the walkie talkie to her and she catches it. He escapes the cockpit and walks over to her.
Well?
She turns it on and hears interference, and then a voice at the other end
Caprice: Hello?
Voice: Hello…who is this?
Caprice: We…our plane crashed on an island…
Sul raises his arms in celebration and starts to play air guitar
Voice: Okay okay where’s the island?
Caprice: About a hundred and fifty miles east of Australia
Voice: We know exactly where you are and we’re coming for you. Sit tight.
Caprice: Oh thank God. Sul, we’re saved!
He fist pumps the air and they embrace, and within seconds are tearing clothes off each other and fornicating right there next to the
cockpit. Their moans and groans are loud and extremely passionate.
Caprice: OH MY GOD!!
With one last thrust Sul finishes her off. He rolls off her and lies on the ground
Oh shit…
Sul: Don’t worry, a lot of STD’s are treatable
Caprice lifts the walkie talkie up to her ear and listens
Voice: Did you hear that? Yeah…I think they’re dead. Sounds like they got attacked. Fuck. Ah well never mind. Bodies? Nah, we’ll just
pretend we never heard this. Hot Dogs? They didn’t mention any. Never mind. Come on Mars, our quest must continue!!
Caprice’s face drops as Sul mounts her again. She throws the walkie talkie down and flips Sul off her.
Sul: The fuck baby?
Caprice: DO YOU KNOW WHO THAT WAS ON THE OTHER END?
Sul: Erm..rescue?
Caprice: NO…IT WASN’T RESCUE…IT WAS FUCKING ROSCOE.
Sul doesn’t even look disappointed. He just rests his head on his hands
Sul: Ah fuck. Ah well, probably for the best. That herpes you have now won’t look good back home.
Caprice scowls at him and buries her face in her hands.
Caprice: Fuck sake.
Sul sits upright and starts to get dressed.
Sul: You might wanna get dressed. You know, mosquitoes. Malaria and shit.
Caprice tilts her head and shrugs her shoulders.
Caprice: Well we’re here to fucking stay so we might as well live like island dwellers.
Sul wraps his jacket around her again and walks back towards the beach. She looks at the walkie talkie longingly. The whispers pipe
up again.
Whispers: Caprice…
Caprice: Yes. I’m here. Come out.
Two men walk out from the trees. They are in dirty, ragged clothing and have a charcoal “P” on their tops.
Caprice: How have you been?
They continue to whisper even though she is sat right infront of them
You don’t need to whisper, there’s no one else around. Listen, my Pack, you must go and make sure Roscoe and Mars don’t find our
home. Track them Pack. Track them back, Pack.
Pack: Back the Pack?
Caprice: What?
Pack: Track, Pack, back?
Caprice: No. Pack, Track them back.
Pack: Back Pack?
Caprice: No! Pack, track Roscoe and Mars, back, to the beach. Don’t attack them.
Pack: Pack, Track, Back, no Attack
Caprice thinks about this for a second…
Caprice: Yes. I think. Go.
They walk off chanting
Pack: Pack! Track! Back! No Attack!
Caprice: Quietly for fuck sake!! Why are the Pack such a bunch of fucking spastics. Probably my fault. I never was a good leader.
Occulo: Ha, you’ve nailed them on the head.
The Cold: Indeed.
The Cold fades the scene away and we open up to another part of the jungle where Roscoe and Mars are busy on their quest
Roscoe: What do you do on the mainland Mars?
Mars: Oh…oh me? I’m...a waiter
Roscoe: Oh. Where? Oh, by the way, it’s going to start raining in 12 seconds
Mars: What’s that go to do with anything?
Roscoe: Well, you know, just saying
Mars: Would have helped to have known that earlier, so you know, we could find shelter earlier. What good is knowing 12 seconds
before?
Roscoe: Silence apprentice!!
Mars: If you say so
He lifts the back of shirt over his head and holds his hands out. It does indeed start to rain.
Roscoe: Aaah…
Mars: What do you do in the real world?
Roscoe turns around and stares at Mars
Roscoe: What IS the real world Mars…
Mars: Erm…you know…off the island
Roscoe: Is that more real than this world?
Mars: I’m pretty sure it’s the same world
Roscoe: That world doesn’t matter anymore. Listen…
He rests his hand on Mars’s shoulder
Do you ever think…that we were brought here for a reason?
Mars: Not until now.
Roscoe: Well we were Mars…and soon we’ll find out…
He walks off leaving Mars in a state of confusion, who follows him
Mars: You seem quite well acclimatised here Roscoe. Are you like a survival expert or something?
Roscoe: No. I just have no sense of direction and I daydream a lot, I’m actually blind in one eye. For all I know we could have been walking in circles.
Mars stops and stares daggers into him
Mars: Well what…fuck!
Roscoe: Fear not apprentice!
Mars: What?
Roscoe stops and holds his hands out. He looks left, then right. Mars stands alongside him.
Mars: What?
He looks down and takes a tin of hotdogs from his bag. He drops it and it makes a metallic clink as it hits the ground
Roscoe: Bingo
Mars: What is that?
Roscoe: This is all that matters now. Nothing else.
Mars: You’re basing that a clink of metal? You don’t even know-
Roscoe starts aggressively digging like an excited dog, bent over and furiously moving the earth with his hands sending heaps of
grass and mud in Mars’s direction. In just ten seconds he has moved about a tonne of Earth, revealing a giant tin of hotdogs.
Mars: What…the fuck? Is that? Oh...my...its wonderful...so many hotdogs...
Roscoe: Help me up apprentice!
Mars enthusiastically helps Roscoe to the top of the tin and he looks down at the top of it. There is a giant ring pull.
Roscoe: We need to find a way to open this. A rope or something.
They hear a roar and what sounds like a large animal approaching them
Mars: Shit! What is that?? It’s…IT’S THE MONSTER!!!
Roscoe: Don’t panic. He won't let the creature attack you...we are special. We must learn to live together, or we're gonna die alone. Here.
He takes off his backpack and takes out a gun, a large knife, a tazer, a hammer, a fully charged mobile phone, an inflatable raft and finally a tin of
hotdogs. He opens it and gives Mars a hotdog
Mars: The Hotdog...the vanquisher of all foes...
From behind a tree leaps out a massive polar bear, it is snarling and looks extremely dangerous
Roscoe: Live together...
Mars:...die alone
Roscoe: Use the hotdog…
Mars gulps and offers the hotdog to the polar bear. It takes a massive bite…out of Mars, his entire top half in fact, and then
gulps down his legs. Roscoe slips off the top of the tin and stares into the eyes of the polar bear for a few seconds, and it then slinks off into the jungle.
I guess he wasn’t…special.
Occulo: Jesus. These guys are clueless.
Roscoe looks up at the top of the tin and scratches his head.
Roscoe: I'm gonna need some kind of device.
He hears another rustling and grabs a hotdog, brandishing it like a weapon. The man looking for his Father appears and is startled to
see Roscoe.
Who…who are you?
Man: Harry…Harry Black. Were…were you on the plane?
Roscoe: Yes. I’m guessing you were too.
Harry: Yeah. I…woke up in the jungle.
Roscoe: Were you looking for someone?
Harry: Yeah…I saw…I saw my- why is there a giant tin of hotdogs in the middle of the jungle?
Roscoe: I don’t know. But we’re going to open it, and find out. Now, who were you looking for?
Harry: My Father. He was shot years ago…and he just appeared…
Roscoe’s eyes widen
Roscoe: What did he do?
Harry: Well thanks for the sympathy. He worked in a…tin opener factory…
Roscoe smiles widely
Harry: Well…what a coincidence
Roscoe: Don’t mistake coincidence for fate.
Harry looks beyond Roscoe and sees his Father in the distance. He rushes towards him, and Roscoe follows enthusiastically. The scene fades out again to the beach where John is still sat in the same position, almost scarlet from the sunburn. Sul returns and looks at the burnt preacher
Sul: Erm…you alright John?
John: Of course. God is watching down on us.
Sul: You are...dude you are absolutely cremated. I'm goin have to start calling you the Holy flame soon
John: It is God’s burning desire to bring us all to safety
Sul looks at the sky and shakes his head.
John: Did you find anything?
Sul: Yeah. A walkie talkie.
John: Any luck?
Sul: Well...I got very lucky.
John smiles and kisses his cross. Caprice returns to the beach and her eyes widen at John’s ever reddening skin
Caprice: Well at least we have something to fry some food on
Sul laughs and then his face turns to an alert fear. He stands up and pulls Caprice back. He stands in front of her as if he is guarding
her. The two men Caprice was talking to earlier approach them, still chanting.
Sul: Who are you? What do you want?
Pack: Pack, Back, Track, no Attack
Sul: What?
Pack: Caprice…
Sul: Capri- what?
He turns around and Caprice is glaring at them
Caprice who are these guys?
Caprice: They…I don’t know…
She floors Sul and pins him down.
Why the hell are you here without the people I told you to tra- oh fuck it...Pack! Attack!
Pack: Pack, no attack!
Caprice: No! Yes attack!
Pack: Track?
Caprice: No track! Yes attack!
They nod and try to attack John, but their hands touch his burning skin and they recoil in pain.
Pack: No attack! Man God!
John: I am not God, I am only in his image.
Sul: By the way, I can easily get out of this. I just like having a woman on top of me. Just saying.
Caprice: Pack! Tie up!
They go to tie John up but he swings his cross around knocking them both out instantly. Sul releases a loud, orgasmic sigh and then
rolls Caprice off him.
Sul: Thanks Caprice. Twice in an hour. I could get used to this.
Caprice scowls and looks at her floored companions
Sul: Right, who are they, and who are you?
Caprice: They…they are my pack…and I am their leader.
Sul: So…you live on the island?
Caprice: That is correct.
Sul: Wow, I fucked an islander…wait…why did you even do that?
She smiles and adopts a cool, confident swagger
Caprice: You can now never leave the island. The one who fucks the pack leader must remain and father the child. You belong to the
island now Sul.
Sul: Aw no. I’m a fucking rockstar. I’m not committing to one woman and some stupid baby for the rest of my life on some stupid
island. There’s a whole world of pussy out there and I’ve only conquered about 70% of it!
Caprice: Well rockstar, that life is over.
The scene fades away and we rejoin Roscoe and Harry in the jungle. They are still following Harry’s Father
Roscoe: I’m fuck…I’m fucking exhausted…
Harry: Yeah…I forgot…to mention…he was also…a champion…marathon runner…
Roscoe: Nothing…to do with the fact…he’s a…ghost then
Harry: No….good…runner…
His Father finally stops in front of a cave
Harry: D…Dad…
He points to the entrance of the cave
Dad I’m sorry. Why are you here? I thought you were dead? This makes no sense. Listen, when I return to the mainland I am going
to find the man who did this to you know matter what. I swear Dad! I’ll avenge your death if it’s the last thing I-
Roscoe strolls out of the cave with a tin opener
Roscoe: Got it, let’s go!
Harry turns and watches him walk away and then looks back, his Dad is nowhere to be seen.
Harry: NOOOO!!!!!!
Roscoe: Stop shouting and come help me!
Harry looks at him despondently
Harry: No. Without my Father here I am nothing and have no purpose in life. This is all I am. Just a guy wanting to kill the guy who
killed my Dad.
Roscoe: Well that’s not going to happen…let it go Harry. Let it go and come achieve something truly great.
Harry: But my Dad…you don’t get it! Fuck you!
Roscoe: But-
Harry: No!
Roscoe: Hey don’t get angry with me new apprentice!
Harry: I’m angry at the whole world over something they had nothing to do with and because it’s the only interesting thing that’s
ever happened in my life.
The polar bear peers out from inside the cave
Roscoe: Harry, please. Just step away from the cave.
Harry: No! You are going to stand there and be bombarded with abuse from me even though you’ve done nothing wrong!
Roscoe: No you don’t understa- oh
The polar bear rips Harry apart leaving just a bloody smear on the cave
Roscoe: Shit. Guess he just couldn’t let it go. Oh well!
He merrily skips back to the tin. He uses a branch to get to the top and pierces the tin with the tiny can opener. He turns the
handle…
…seven hours later he finally gets all the way around.
Finally! Now…let’s see what’s under here.
He grabs the ring pull and pulls, he slips off the top and lands on his feet. He throws the lid away and climbs back up. He peers down
into the tin….
The Cold takes us back to the beach where John has died of heat exhaustion. Sul and Caprice are frying some fish on his skin.
Sul: Is this distasteful?
Caprice: Nah, sunfish is quite nice actually.
Sul: So…what are we going to call the baby?
Caprice: I dunno, how about Joey?
Sul: Nah, that’s too flash-
From the jungle they hear the monster roar and a few more trees fall down.
Sul: Fuck it. I wanna know what this is. Stay here, future mother of my child.
Caprice stays put whilst Sul heads towards the jungle towards the roar. He clambers through and he stops, staggering in horror. He
slowly looks up, and up, and up.
Sul: Oh my God…
We see a man dressed in red hi-vis gear and a mask attached to a tree. His gear has fallen down and he is stuck. Nearby is a chainsaw and a hi-fi sound system attached to an ipod. On the screen it reads "Cupid's Sorrow - Shit Happens"
What the fuck?
Man: Go away! Erm…rarr!!
Sul: What are you doing? Who are you?
Man: I live on the island. I was trying to scare you away but I got stuck.
Sul: So…the monster is actually just a pathetic little man trying to make everyone think he’s a monster…
Man: Yes. Except for the pathetic part. Help me down!
Sul: Fuck off. We’ve been scared shitless.
Man: I’m sorry
The man slips and he falls to the ground, luckily he hits a soft branch and bounces off it, breaking his fall.
Sul: What’s your name?
Man: Oliver. Oliver Barry Livion.
Sul: Well, Oliver, your little charade is over. Why were you trying to scare us away, and take that stupid mask off
He takes his mask off, revealing a face covered in third degree burns. Sul grimaces at the sight.
Oliver: Cos this is my home. Don’t want you guys ruining this place. Plus, I had a child with Caprice and I can’t leave.
Sul: Wait. You too? She said the same thing to me.
Oliver: That…whore!!
Sul: Have you even tried to leave?
Oliver: No. Caprice is a bit of a...mistress. The island is teeming with men that have had babies with her. She call’s them her “Pack”.
Sul: Well I’m not planning on joining her little pack any time soon. Come on, let’s kill that bitch
Oliver: Oh shit…
Caprice drives a massive piece of airplane debris straight through Sul’s chest and he falls down dead.
Oliver: Caprice…my dear…
Caprice: You idiot. He found out about the monster. I quite liked him as well. Never mind.
Oliver: I’m sorry.
Caprice: You’re a pathetic monster. It looks like I’ll have to find someone else for the role.
Oliver: No! I can do better I promise Caprice!
The polar bear suddenly appears and smashes over the hi-fi system sinking its teeth around Caprice’s neck. With a massive crunch it bites down,
decapitating her. It then turns its attention to Oliver who is running away as fast as it can.
Oliver: Monster!! Help!! Help!!! It’s a fucking real monster!!!
The bear easily catches up and knocks him to the ground, before taking a bite out of his torso, ripping every single internal organ from his body and swallowing them. The scene fades and we rejoin the last survivor Roscoe who is climbing out of the tin which falls over as he escapes. He zips up his bag and heads through the jungle.
Roscoe: It’s mine…it’s all mine…the great hotdog tin was here all along…and who knew that inside it was-
The polar bear in one swipe rips Roscoe’s head off and consumes the rest of his body. The pack on his bag falls to the ground.
The bear rips it open and in the bag is a hessian sack which seems to have something long inside it that Roscoe acquired from the giant tin. It snaps this up also and slinks away.
Occulo: What was in the tin?
The Cold: It doesn't matter what it was. It was how it got it. Rip those people to shreds. You’re the only one who truly wants this Occulo
and you’re the only one powerful enough to win it. Take no prisoners and let the heads roll.
Occulo: You got it.
He woke up and was staring down into a deep blue abyss. He panicked and lifted his head up, breaking the surface of the ocean…which was all he could see. He turned around and saw an island, the beach was strewn with wreckage and there were fires dotted about.
Occulo: You could have dropped me on the fucking beach
The Cold: Stop whining. Get to the island and get comfortable. This is going to be a long one Occulo.
Occulo looked up at the sky and then began swimming to the beach. Sometimes Occulo wondered if he was absolutely fucking crazy, but this was anaesthetized by him knowing he always had something to show for it. He reached the beach and got to his feet. He walked down towards the wreckage and saw five people huddled together consoling each other.
There was a woman in her mid-20’s emptying long black boots of sand and water trying to take off what looked like a corset. Her long dark hair was wet and her makeup was messily smeared all over her face. She splutters and finally takes a huge sigh of relief as she throws it to the ground.
Occulo recognised one of the guys…it was Sul-Tan. The glam rockstar who had his soul ripped into in the interview. He was wearing a leather jacket which he took off and wrapped around the woman to keep her warm.
Stood on a suitcase was a guy wearing a white shirt and beige pants. He is holding up a cross, and seems to be reciting a prayer with his eyes closed.
He looked around and saw a guy sat on his own staring out to sea. Occulo approached him and he had a can of sausages about a yard in front of him, buried in the sand. He was staring at it with considerable thought. Occulo shook his head and walked back towards the group, who were now all sat down in a circle.
Sul-Tan: Everybody alright? Fuck sake.
The group nodded and the Woman shivered in the cold. The man with the cross twiddled it in his fingers and looked up
I think we should introduce ourselves. We can’t be strangers here. Not in this unchartered, ungodly land. My name is Joseph. John Myrrh.
Sul-Tan rolled his eyes
Sul: You can call me Sul
Woman: Caprice. Caprice Aldrin.
John: It is a sorry state of affairs that we must meet like this. But God had seen it fit to bring us all together.
Sul: Of course he has.
Caprice: Sul. Have some respect. Look, does anyone know where we are?
Sul: Erm…
He takes out a drumstick from his pocket and starts drawing in the sand what looks like a map I think we are halfway between lost and extremely fucked
He throws the drumstick down and sighs
Caprice: Well excuse me for asking. I think we should take a look around for some kind of communication device. See if we can contact some kind of rescue party.
John looks up at the sky and raises both hands with his eyes closed
Sul: What…what are you doing?
John: Asking God to send us salvation
Sul buried his head in his hands.
They sit in silence until very faintly they hear a scream. This gradually gets louder and louder until a man, kicking sand all over the place, screaming at the top of his lungs reaches the group and trips over a piece of debris, sending him flat on his face.
Sul: If this is what God sent then we’re all fucked
John wags a finger at him and looks at the buried man. The man rolls over and gets up. Looking around him with great panic.
Sul: And you are?
Malcom: Mars. Malcolm. Malcom…Mars.
The man was wearing a black t-shirt with the words “I <3 Fast Food” on it. He was also wearing beige shorts and had no shoes or socks on.
Caprice: What were you running from? Were you on the plane?
Mars: Of course. I ended up over there. In the jungle. Something followed me. Something big. Nobody is safe! How we gonna eat?
What we gonna eat?!?
He then ran in circles around them screaming again, kicking sand all over them until out of nowhere, a flying can hurtles across the beach and hits him in the head knocking him out instantly. The can opens spraying hot dogs everywhere. The group turn around and the man staring at the can earlier is dramatically frozen in a throwing position.
Man: …hot dogs…
Sul: Who the fuck…
Caprice: Where the hell did he get a can of hot dogs from?
John: No doubt God sent down a can from the heavens
The man is still frozen in position until Sul approaches him
Sul: Right, who are you motherfucker?
Man: My name is Roscoe Goodth
He sets about picking up the hotdogs and blowing the sand off them
Sul: Goodth? What kind of name is that? It a fuckin anagram or some shit? And where did you get the hotdogs from?
Roscoe lifts an index finger in the air, and slowly lowers it to his lips.
Roscoe: Sshhh
He turns around and blows a jet of sand at Sul
Roscoe: Why…from…HIM of course…
Sul splutters and wipes the sand off his face
Sul: Him? Who the hell is him?
Roscoe takes a hotdog and puts it on his mouth so it looks like a smile. There is an awkward few seconds of silence
What the fuck is going on here??!
There is then a loud crash from the jungle and the group jump and turn to the trees.
Caprice: What the hell is that??
John: God is sending his judgment upon us…
Sul: Aww fuck.
A number of hotdogs then pathetically thud into the sand in front of them as Roscoe throws them towards the jungle with excessive force and an extremely violent expression on his face
Do you wanna just pipe down for one minute?
Roscoe: Damn! Out of hotdogs…I shall return.
Mars gets up as the roar from the jungle is heard again
Mars: It’s back!!! The beast!!
Roscoe: Come with me child, I shall show you the ways of the hotdog and uncover the mystery of this island…
They nod at each other and dart down the beach under a cloud of sand
Caprice: We need a plan here
Sul: Yes…we do. Stay away from the fucking jungle.
A man steps out from the jungle in what looks like tribal outfit, around his neck is a large necklace with an Egyptian symbol that
looks like a circle with a cross underneath it. He raises his arms.
Man: I am Adam You-
He is then crushed to death by a falling tree causing the group to grimace and look away. The roaring and crashing stops
Sul: Fan fucking tastic.
Occulo: Well this is eventful. But I get what you’re doing.
The Cold: We’re nowhere near done yet
The action stops and the whole area fades to black and opens up again the next day in the middle of the jungle. We see a close up of an eye which opens and reflects the ceiling of the jungle. He squints and sits upright, before lifting his shirt up revealing a bloody wound next to a tattoo of what looks like a large bird with burning feathers.
Man: Ouch. Damn it.
He looks around and sees a man in a suit staring at him, and then walking away through the trees.
Man: D..Dad??
He gets up and follows him through the trees, but he is nowhere to be seen. The Cold fades the scene out and returns them to the beach.
Occulo: Nice transition
The Cold: …
Sul and Caprice exit a makeshift tent and look towards the jungle. John is sat reading a bible.
Sul: You really don’t help the religious guy stereotype do you John?
John: Sshhh…listen. For the voice of God is in the wind and in the rain.
Sul: Is it? Is it telling you to get off your ass and go build a fucking raft or something else productive? You know, show some responsibility for yourself instead of just looking to fuckin God to save us.
Caprice pulls him away
Caprice: Listen. Mars said he woke up in the jungle and I’m pretty sure I saw him sat near the front of the plane when I boarded. So
maybe that’s where the cockpit is.
Sul: Possibly. Worth taking a look I guess.
Caprice: What about him?
They look at John who is still reading the bible
Sul: Salvation lies within I guess.
Caprice: Indeed. Within the jungle. Come on.
Sul and Caprice head towards the jungle and breach the tree line.
Sul: Do you think there are others on this island?
Caprice: Probably. Hopefully we won’t run into them. That’s the last thing we need.
Caprice has a suspicious look on her face as they trudge through the vast undergrowth. They eventually reach the cockpit of the
plane which is hanging, suspended in a mass of branches.
Sul: Well that’s helpful.
Caprice: Yeah…very…
Sul: Well, let it never be known that a rockstar didn’t show great bravery and balls in front of a beautiful woman. I’ll climb up.
Caprice: You’re a rockstar?
Sul: Oh yes. An incredible one. “Cupid’s Sorrow” we are called. Remind me to play you one of our songs when we get back home.
Caprice: Can’t wait…
Sul climbs one of the trees towards the cockpit he reaches it and climbs up the outside. The windows are smashed, conveniently,
and he climbs inside.
Sul: Erm…Caprice?
Caprice: Yeah?
Sul: What exactly am I looking for?
Caprice: How the fuck do I know?
Sul: I thought you knew!!
Caprice: I’m not a rocket scientist!
Sul is just stood in the cockpit looking at all the equipment with a blank expression on his face.
Sul: Fucking Caprice. If she wasn’t hot…
Caprice looks up at the cockpit and we start to hear whispering through the trees.
Whispers: Caprice…
She looks around and adopts an angry expression, whispering back
Caprice: Not yet…go!
The whispering stops and she looks back towards the cockpit. Sul grabs what looks like a walkie talkie
Sul: That’ll fucking do. Now, I wonder if there’s any food he-
The cockpit shakes violently and drops a few feet. We then hear the roaring we heard earlier, and the crashing of trees.
Caprice: Sul!! You alright?? We need to leave now!!
Sul: Ah shit. Time to get the fuck out of here
He approaches the windows but before he can the cockpit crashes to the ground
Caprice: Sul!!
She runs to the cockpit and Sul is holding on tightly to the Pilot’s chair
You alright?
Sul: Oh yeah. Second plane crash in as many days. Fucking dandy. Here.
He throws the walkie talkie to her and she catches it. He escapes the cockpit and walks over to her.
Well?
She turns it on and hears interference, and then a voice at the other end
Caprice: Hello?
Voice: Hello…who is this?
Caprice: We…our plane crashed on an island…
Sul raises his arms in celebration and starts to play air guitar
Voice: Okay okay where’s the island?
Caprice: About a hundred and fifty miles east of Australia
Voice: We know exactly where you are and we’re coming for you. Sit tight.
Caprice: Oh thank God. Sul, we’re saved!
He fist pumps the air and they embrace, and within seconds are tearing clothes off each other and fornicating right there next to the
cockpit. Their moans and groans are loud and extremely passionate.
Caprice: OH MY GOD!!
With one last thrust Sul finishes her off. He rolls off her and lies on the ground
Oh shit…
Sul: Don’t worry, a lot of STD’s are treatable
Caprice lifts the walkie talkie up to her ear and listens
Voice: Did you hear that? Yeah…I think they’re dead. Sounds like they got attacked. Fuck. Ah well never mind. Bodies? Nah, we’ll just
pretend we never heard this. Hot Dogs? They didn’t mention any. Never mind. Come on Mars, our quest must continue!!
Caprice’s face drops as Sul mounts her again. She throws the walkie talkie down and flips Sul off her.
Sul: The fuck baby?
Caprice: DO YOU KNOW WHO THAT WAS ON THE OTHER END?
Sul: Erm..rescue?
Caprice: NO…IT WASN’T RESCUE…IT WAS FUCKING ROSCOE.
Sul doesn’t even look disappointed. He just rests his head on his hands
Sul: Ah fuck. Ah well, probably for the best. That herpes you have now won’t look good back home.
Caprice scowls at him and buries her face in her hands.
Caprice: Fuck sake.
Sul sits upright and starts to get dressed.
Sul: You might wanna get dressed. You know, mosquitoes. Malaria and shit.
Caprice tilts her head and shrugs her shoulders.
Caprice: Well we’re here to fucking stay so we might as well live like island dwellers.
Sul wraps his jacket around her again and walks back towards the beach. She looks at the walkie talkie longingly. The whispers pipe
up again.
Whispers: Caprice…
Caprice: Yes. I’m here. Come out.
Two men walk out from the trees. They are in dirty, ragged clothing and have a charcoal “P” on their tops.
Caprice: How have you been?
They continue to whisper even though she is sat right infront of them
You don’t need to whisper, there’s no one else around. Listen, my Pack, you must go and make sure Roscoe and Mars don’t find our
home. Track them Pack. Track them back, Pack.
Pack: Back the Pack?
Caprice: What?
Pack: Track, Pack, back?
Caprice: No. Pack, Track them back.
Pack: Back Pack?
Caprice: No! Pack, track Roscoe and Mars, back, to the beach. Don’t attack them.
Pack: Pack, Track, Back, no Attack
Caprice thinks about this for a second…
Caprice: Yes. I think. Go.
They walk off chanting
Pack: Pack! Track! Back! No Attack!
Caprice: Quietly for fuck sake!! Why are the Pack such a bunch of fucking spastics. Probably my fault. I never was a good leader.
Occulo: Ha, you’ve nailed them on the head.
The Cold: Indeed.
The Cold fades the scene away and we open up to another part of the jungle where Roscoe and Mars are busy on their quest
Roscoe: What do you do on the mainland Mars?
Mars: Oh…oh me? I’m...a waiter
Roscoe: Oh. Where? Oh, by the way, it’s going to start raining in 12 seconds
Mars: What’s that go to do with anything?
Roscoe: Well, you know, just saying
Mars: Would have helped to have known that earlier, so you know, we could find shelter earlier. What good is knowing 12 seconds
before?
Roscoe: Silence apprentice!!
Mars: If you say so
He lifts the back of shirt over his head and holds his hands out. It does indeed start to rain.
Roscoe: Aaah…
Mars: What do you do in the real world?
Roscoe turns around and stares at Mars
Roscoe: What IS the real world Mars…
Mars: Erm…you know…off the island
Roscoe: Is that more real than this world?
Mars: I’m pretty sure it’s the same world
Roscoe: That world doesn’t matter anymore. Listen…
He rests his hand on Mars’s shoulder
Do you ever think…that we were brought here for a reason?
Mars: Not until now.
Roscoe: Well we were Mars…and soon we’ll find out…
He walks off leaving Mars in a state of confusion, who follows him
Mars: You seem quite well acclimatised here Roscoe. Are you like a survival expert or something?
Roscoe: No. I just have no sense of direction and I daydream a lot, I’m actually blind in one eye. For all I know we could have been walking in circles.
Mars stops and stares daggers into him
Mars: Well what…fuck!
Roscoe: Fear not apprentice!
Mars: What?
Roscoe stops and holds his hands out. He looks left, then right. Mars stands alongside him.
Mars: What?
He looks down and takes a tin of hotdogs from his bag. He drops it and it makes a metallic clink as it hits the ground
Roscoe: Bingo
Mars: What is that?
Roscoe: This is all that matters now. Nothing else.
Mars: You’re basing that a clink of metal? You don’t even know-
Roscoe starts aggressively digging like an excited dog, bent over and furiously moving the earth with his hands sending heaps of
grass and mud in Mars’s direction. In just ten seconds he has moved about a tonne of Earth, revealing a giant tin of hotdogs.
Mars: What…the fuck? Is that? Oh...my...its wonderful...so many hotdogs...
Roscoe: Help me up apprentice!
Mars enthusiastically helps Roscoe to the top of the tin and he looks down at the top of it. There is a giant ring pull.
Roscoe: We need to find a way to open this. A rope or something.
They hear a roar and what sounds like a large animal approaching them
Mars: Shit! What is that?? It’s…IT’S THE MONSTER!!!
Roscoe: Don’t panic. He won't let the creature attack you...we are special. We must learn to live together, or we're gonna die alone. Here.
He takes off his backpack and takes out a gun, a large knife, a tazer, a hammer, a fully charged mobile phone, an inflatable raft and finally a tin of
hotdogs. He opens it and gives Mars a hotdog
Mars: The Hotdog...the vanquisher of all foes...
From behind a tree leaps out a massive polar bear, it is snarling and looks extremely dangerous
Roscoe: Live together...
Mars:...die alone
Roscoe: Use the hotdog…
Mars gulps and offers the hotdog to the polar bear. It takes a massive bite…out of Mars, his entire top half in fact, and then
gulps down his legs. Roscoe slips off the top of the tin and stares into the eyes of the polar bear for a few seconds, and it then slinks off into the jungle.
I guess he wasn’t…special.
Occulo: Jesus. These guys are clueless.
Roscoe looks up at the top of the tin and scratches his head.
Roscoe: I'm gonna need some kind of device.
He hears another rustling and grabs a hotdog, brandishing it like a weapon. The man looking for his Father appears and is startled to
see Roscoe.
Who…who are you?
Man: Harry…Harry Black. Were…were you on the plane?
Roscoe: Yes. I’m guessing you were too.
Harry: Yeah. I…woke up in the jungle.
Roscoe: Were you looking for someone?
Harry: Yeah…I saw…I saw my- why is there a giant tin of hotdogs in the middle of the jungle?
Roscoe: I don’t know. But we’re going to open it, and find out. Now, who were you looking for?
Harry: My Father. He was shot years ago…and he just appeared…
Roscoe’s eyes widen
Roscoe: What did he do?
Harry: Well thanks for the sympathy. He worked in a…tin opener factory…
Roscoe smiles widely
Harry: Well…what a coincidence
Roscoe: Don’t mistake coincidence for fate.
Harry looks beyond Roscoe and sees his Father in the distance. He rushes towards him, and Roscoe follows enthusiastically. The scene fades out again to the beach where John is still sat in the same position, almost scarlet from the sunburn. Sul returns and looks at the burnt preacher
Sul: Erm…you alright John?
John: Of course. God is watching down on us.
Sul: You are...dude you are absolutely cremated. I'm goin have to start calling you the Holy flame soon
John: It is God’s burning desire to bring us all to safety
Sul looks at the sky and shakes his head.
John: Did you find anything?
Sul: Yeah. A walkie talkie.
John: Any luck?
Sul: Well...I got very lucky.
John smiles and kisses his cross. Caprice returns to the beach and her eyes widen at John’s ever reddening skin
Caprice: Well at least we have something to fry some food on
Sul laughs and then his face turns to an alert fear. He stands up and pulls Caprice back. He stands in front of her as if he is guarding
her. The two men Caprice was talking to earlier approach them, still chanting.
Sul: Who are you? What do you want?
Pack: Pack, Back, Track, no Attack
Sul: What?
Pack: Caprice…
Sul: Capri- what?
He turns around and Caprice is glaring at them
Caprice who are these guys?
Caprice: They…I don’t know…
She floors Sul and pins him down.
Why the hell are you here without the people I told you to tra- oh fuck it...Pack! Attack!
Pack: Pack, no attack!
Caprice: No! Yes attack!
Pack: Track?
Caprice: No track! Yes attack!
They nod and try to attack John, but their hands touch his burning skin and they recoil in pain.
Pack: No attack! Man God!
John: I am not God, I am only in his image.
Sul: By the way, I can easily get out of this. I just like having a woman on top of me. Just saying.
Caprice: Pack! Tie up!
They go to tie John up but he swings his cross around knocking them both out instantly. Sul releases a loud, orgasmic sigh and then
rolls Caprice off him.
Sul: Thanks Caprice. Twice in an hour. I could get used to this.
Caprice scowls and looks at her floored companions
Sul: Right, who are they, and who are you?
Caprice: They…they are my pack…and I am their leader.
Sul: So…you live on the island?
Caprice: That is correct.
Sul: Wow, I fucked an islander…wait…why did you even do that?
She smiles and adopts a cool, confident swagger
Caprice: You can now never leave the island. The one who fucks the pack leader must remain and father the child. You belong to the
island now Sul.
Sul: Aw no. I’m a fucking rockstar. I’m not committing to one woman and some stupid baby for the rest of my life on some stupid
island. There’s a whole world of pussy out there and I’ve only conquered about 70% of it!
Caprice: Well rockstar, that life is over.
The scene fades away and we rejoin Roscoe and Harry in the jungle. They are still following Harry’s Father
Roscoe: I’m fuck…I’m fucking exhausted…
Harry: Yeah…I forgot…to mention…he was also…a champion…marathon runner…
Roscoe: Nothing…to do with the fact…he’s a…ghost then
Harry: No….good…runner…
His Father finally stops in front of a cave
Harry: D…Dad…
He points to the entrance of the cave
Dad I’m sorry. Why are you here? I thought you were dead? This makes no sense. Listen, when I return to the mainland I am going
to find the man who did this to you know matter what. I swear Dad! I’ll avenge your death if it’s the last thing I-
Roscoe strolls out of the cave with a tin opener
Roscoe: Got it, let’s go!
Harry turns and watches him walk away and then looks back, his Dad is nowhere to be seen.
Harry: NOOOO!!!!!!
Roscoe: Stop shouting and come help me!
Harry looks at him despondently
Harry: No. Without my Father here I am nothing and have no purpose in life. This is all I am. Just a guy wanting to kill the guy who
killed my Dad.
Roscoe: Well that’s not going to happen…let it go Harry. Let it go and come achieve something truly great.
Harry: But my Dad…you don’t get it! Fuck you!
Roscoe: But-
Harry: No!
Roscoe: Hey don’t get angry with me new apprentice!
Harry: I’m angry at the whole world over something they had nothing to do with and because it’s the only interesting thing that’s
ever happened in my life.
The polar bear peers out from inside the cave
Roscoe: Harry, please. Just step away from the cave.
Harry: No! You are going to stand there and be bombarded with abuse from me even though you’ve done nothing wrong!
Roscoe: No you don’t understa- oh
The polar bear rips Harry apart leaving just a bloody smear on the cave
Roscoe: Shit. Guess he just couldn’t let it go. Oh well!
He merrily skips back to the tin. He uses a branch to get to the top and pierces the tin with the tiny can opener. He turns the
handle…
…seven hours later he finally gets all the way around.
Finally! Now…let’s see what’s under here.
He grabs the ring pull and pulls, he slips off the top and lands on his feet. He throws the lid away and climbs back up. He peers down
into the tin….
The Cold takes us back to the beach where John has died of heat exhaustion. Sul and Caprice are frying some fish on his skin.
Sul: Is this distasteful?
Caprice: Nah, sunfish is quite nice actually.
Sul: So…what are we going to call the baby?
Caprice: I dunno, how about Joey?
Sul: Nah, that’s too flash-
From the jungle they hear the monster roar and a few more trees fall down.
Sul: Fuck it. I wanna know what this is. Stay here, future mother of my child.
Caprice stays put whilst Sul heads towards the jungle towards the roar. He clambers through and he stops, staggering in horror. He
slowly looks up, and up, and up.
Sul: Oh my God…
We see a man dressed in red hi-vis gear and a mask attached to a tree. His gear has fallen down and he is stuck. Nearby is a chainsaw and a hi-fi sound system attached to an ipod. On the screen it reads "Cupid's Sorrow - Shit Happens"
What the fuck?
Man: Go away! Erm…rarr!!
Sul: What are you doing? Who are you?
Man: I live on the island. I was trying to scare you away but I got stuck.
Sul: So…the monster is actually just a pathetic little man trying to make everyone think he’s a monster…
Man: Yes. Except for the pathetic part. Help me down!
Sul: Fuck off. We’ve been scared shitless.
Man: I’m sorry
The man slips and he falls to the ground, luckily he hits a soft branch and bounces off it, breaking his fall.
Sul: What’s your name?
Man: Oliver. Oliver Barry Livion.
Sul: Well, Oliver, your little charade is over. Why were you trying to scare us away, and take that stupid mask off
He takes his mask off, revealing a face covered in third degree burns. Sul grimaces at the sight.
Oliver: Cos this is my home. Don’t want you guys ruining this place. Plus, I had a child with Caprice and I can’t leave.
Sul: Wait. You too? She said the same thing to me.
Oliver: That…whore!!
Sul: Have you even tried to leave?
Oliver: No. Caprice is a bit of a...mistress. The island is teeming with men that have had babies with her. She call’s them her “Pack”.
Sul: Well I’m not planning on joining her little pack any time soon. Come on, let’s kill that bitch
Oliver: Oh shit…
Caprice drives a massive piece of airplane debris straight through Sul’s chest and he falls down dead.
Oliver: Caprice…my dear…
Caprice: You idiot. He found out about the monster. I quite liked him as well. Never mind.
Oliver: I’m sorry.
Caprice: You’re a pathetic monster. It looks like I’ll have to find someone else for the role.
Oliver: No! I can do better I promise Caprice!
The polar bear suddenly appears and smashes over the hi-fi system sinking its teeth around Caprice’s neck. With a massive crunch it bites down,
decapitating her. It then turns its attention to Oliver who is running away as fast as it can.
Oliver: Monster!! Help!! Help!!! It’s a fucking real monster!!!
The bear easily catches up and knocks him to the ground, before taking a bite out of his torso, ripping every single internal organ from his body and swallowing them. The scene fades and we rejoin the last survivor Roscoe who is climbing out of the tin which falls over as he escapes. He zips up his bag and heads through the jungle.
Roscoe: It’s mine…it’s all mine…the great hotdog tin was here all along…and who knew that inside it was-
The polar bear in one swipe rips Roscoe’s head off and consumes the rest of his body. The pack on his bag falls to the ground.
The bear rips it open and in the bag is a hessian sack which seems to have something long inside it that Roscoe acquired from the giant tin. It snaps this up also and slinks away.
Occulo: What was in the tin?
The Cold: It doesn't matter what it was. It was how it got it. Rip those people to shreds. You’re the only one who truly wants this Occulo
and you’re the only one powerful enough to win it. Take no prisoners and let the heads roll.
Occulo: You got it.
He awoke and squinted his eyes as the sunlight blasted through the window next to him. The artist had progressed considerably with his work, but this was no barometer of time.
Ladies and Gentlemen we are about to begin our descent into Colorado and soon the fasten seatbelt sign will be switched on. If you are roaming about the cabin please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts. We are about to being our descent into Colorado.
Thank you.
Occulo felt a sense of achievement in that he had managed to…sleep throughout an entire flight. What The Cold had shown him was bizarre to say the least, but it made sense. He was going to be in the ring with some colourful characters, but all he wanted to do was destroy. Destroy the intruders to what is rightfully yours and claim the prize. It was a clear mission statement and was a mission
Occulo chose to accept. Not only accept, but complete with flying colours.
CUT
Ladies and Gentlemen we are about to begin our descent into Colorado and soon the fasten seatbelt sign will be switched on. If you are roaming about the cabin please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts. We are about to being our descent into Colorado.
Thank you.
Occulo felt a sense of achievement in that he had managed to…sleep throughout an entire flight. What The Cold had shown him was bizarre to say the least, but it made sense. He was going to be in the ring with some colourful characters, but all he wanted to do was destroy. Destroy the intruders to what is rightfully yours and claim the prize. It was a clear mission statement and was a mission
Occulo chose to accept. Not only accept, but complete with flying colours.
CUT
Rockstar, Hotdog King, Hotdog King, Feminine leader, Man of Faith, Monster and…Jackson White. Be the last man standing out of that lot and you’ve won your first belt Occulo. He stood halfway across the Royal Gorge Bridge staring down into the rocky abyss below. It was fairly warm, but pretty breezy. Enough to keep a feint hearted soul away from the bridge in fear of being blown clear off it. There were a few tourists here and there all doing their own thing and photographing rocks and shit. To the gasps of a few wary folk, Occulo climbed up on to the railing and sat with his legs dangling over edge. A couple of wanna be heroes approached him and motioned for him to get down, fearing some kind of suicide attempt. Occulo laughed it off and they left him to it, with some rather…derogatory terms thrown in his direction.
Occulo: It’s a fragile thing isn’t it? Not only life which I am leaving hanging on the balance here, but also trust. I am surrounded at both sides by complete strangers. Statistically 1% of people are psychopaths. What if one were to stroll across this bridge, see me sat here and jump at the chance to just shove me over the edge. They would laugh as my skull hit that rock down there spraying my brains all over the place. Yeah, I’m taking a big risk. I’m terrified of heights yet here I am perched nearly a thousand feet above certain death. I’m not an adrenaline junkie or one of those parkour guys. Nah, I’m just after something I haven’t felt in months. After something so many of you have tried to inject in to me but seen the needle snap at every occasion. I’m after some fear. I haven’t felt anything close to it because I knew that every single one I have faced so far are completely incapable and would be easily dispatched.
When I saw who I was facing in the battle royal it was the same old story again. A group of people so unbelievably self-involved and lacking any creative edge to make me feel any emotion but mental comfort. I mean I’ve already beaten half of you already. The other half don’t stand out, they just blur into the same grey smear I imagine when I think about the others. I’m curious yes, of course I am. I’m curious if you can prove me wrong and break the mould of mediocrity. I’ve been called paranoid as if that is breaking news to me. Yeah, I was paranoid before I came here. I was terrified. I was constantly looking over my shoulder as I should be now, but I didn’t even know what I was looking for…and you know what? I fucking miss it a bit. Every Sunday night I know exactly what is coming and through the week I get the same old tape played and hear the same old rubbish. I’ll let you into a secret. You know that Hadrian Salazar fella? He looked like he was going to bring something exciting to the table. Something that would let my brain think of something creative I could throw in his direction whilst he did the same. He looked like a guy that could disturb me and fuel nightmares. He looked original. But no, the guy didn’t even do anything. Fucking let down.
So I’m done to be honest. It’s time for me to win that US title belt and offer the very rare breed of wrestler here incentive for them to flourish as well as they can. It is an accolade I more than deserve. I’ve beaten some big names here. Big names I was told I was going to comfortably lose to. I’ve kept my head down and battled week after week. There is a phantom belt around my waist that on Sunday will be exorcised and replaced with something of this Earth. There are seven others in my way though. Seven people with hopes and dreams, with different histories and stories yet to be written. All have walked down different roads, and like all roads lead to Rome, when they step into the Coliseum with me, all roads will have led…to failure. You know what I could do? I could go down the seven deadly sins route, but none of you are interesting enough for that. That’s a sin you all share, and one I will gladly and rightly see to your penance of.
He reaches in to his back pack and takes out a small packet of red, white and yellow feathers. He empties them into his hands and cups them, sheltering them from the wind. He then blows them and they flutter away, slowly cascading down in to the gorge.
Jackson when is this so called “Phoenix” that you claim to be going to actually show its colours here? Right now you’re not so much a Phoenix, but more of an old pigeon with a bad leg and broken wing desperately trying to compete for food and some sort of survival. How the hell you are even in this battle royal is a complete mystery to me. It must be purely out of sympathy. There’s no way in hell it is through talent and hard work. I’m getting sick of the sight of you. What is your aim here? Have you still got that bee in your bonnet thinking you are going to one day be the best in the company? How is that ever going to happen? You’re a bottom carder. A beginner. A newbie who is yet to even wrestle a decent match. What was it you said after I beat you one on one? You still beat my ass. You’re a fucking idiot. A stupid, deluded stubborn little asshole who is absolutely terrified of experiencing even the slightest bit of self-doubt because it will result in you sitting where I am now and shouting aggressively at passers-by and then finally doing us all, and most of all me, a favour by throwing yourself into that gorge down there. Knowing your irritating stubbornness you’ll probably survive. Hey Jackson, maybe your Dad ASKED to be shot dead because he couldn’t put up with your whiny, cry baby little face anymore. Have you considered that possibility? Even then it would probably be my fault. Look Jackson, I have offered to help you but you have proven to be beyond it. So fuck you. If you were to slip into an extremely deep, crippling depression I wouldn’t even give you a kind word. Come at me again this Sunday Jackson and I’ll show you yet again just how vastly better I am than you.
Chelsea, hey I hear a few people think you’re going to be the one to take the gold on Sunday. Good for them, and good for you. Do you share the same confidence? I gather your Pack are fully behind you and backing you whether honestly or otherwise. That’s what a leader must do right? Create a mutual consciousness and idealism that you all gel and adhere to. But forget that for now. I’m facing Chelsea Armstrong and Chelsea Armstrong alone. I’ll start by getting the bullshit out of the way. Yes you are a Woman. Okay? Cool. I don’t see you as the less-intelligent do. To me you are just something of which gender is irrelevant; an obstacle that must be knocked down with the best of my ability. I’ll admit you are my biggest challenge in this match Chelsea. You seem to the most intelligent and insightful; the best of a bad bunch if you will. Your little waxwork demonstration in your promo against Dune was interesting for a while. Yeah, I just called you interesting. Damn perhaps you are starting to charm me.
He chuckles to himself and shakes his head. He reaches into his bag and takes out a Queen chess piece.
Don’t sue me Chelsea. On Sunday you are a Queen amongst Pawns, able to move in any direction and take out anyone you see fit to because let’s agree, you are a lot better than everyone else. A Queen is only powerful on the chess board though. It’s artistic and symbolic. An absolute pillar of strength and a versatile device of destruction. The Queen and her two pawns alone together in a Pack on the board with a cowering King in the corner escaping one move at a time. All the other pieces have been eliminated and this is all there is left. Am I the King in this little climactic scenario Chelsea?
You wish
He checks (no pun intended) his watch and throws the chess piece down the gorge.
Nah. I’m the timekeeper, the crafter of the pieces and owner of the set. Overseeing the action and having the power to end it whenever I like to. I’m not restricted to black and white and the eternal prison of the board. I exist outside it, much like I do here. Existing outside the box and watching as everyone destroys each other, waiting for that one person to come along to start a new game with. You have a great potential Chelsea, and it saddens me to watch you waste your time with those two utter delinquents. I’m not asking, or telling you to break free from them. You have obviously decided that it was a good idea at some point. But I cannot help but see a rare flower struggling to break through the crack in a sidewalk when I look at you. You claimed yourself as the monster of darkest nightmares and speak with majestic and thought pounding majesty, but I see this all go to waste.
Perhaps you need to be shown this, and unfortunately it’s going to be via the medium of a physical incapacitation. You see I can hurt you and break you to the point where Chelsea Armstrong bursts through that crack in the pavement and wakes up with dominion over the Garden of Eden. I am looking forward to battling you Chelsea, and I pray that we are the final two left standing. You’ll then see manifest in front of you the metaphor you claim to be, the monster in your darkest nightmare. The dragon spreading a dark cloud over the sun drenched kingdom your Princess rules over. I enjoyed your story Chelsea. Your method of almost turning a fairytale in to an educational fable was something I could only have dreamed of with my Mother. Have you heard this one though? Have you heard the one about the Prince that spent the rest of his life as a beaten, whipped device under the deviant control of the Ugly Sister that won his heart because Cinderella was held back by her own self-doubt and fear of being herself to attend the ball? No of course you haven’t because that story already has a happy ending. Children and closed minds grow up not on how things realistically turn out, but how they should turn out. The easiest option. If the battle royale on Sunday was a fairytale what would happen? The Hotdog Kings would band together and be swiftly demolished by the monster Oblivion, leading Princess Chelsea Armstrong to send knight after knight to vanquish him only for each one to fall. But she failed to see beyond the obvious. She had sent the biggest and most muscular men who want only to impress the Princess and not the one who had any intelligence and actual fighting ability. So what happens Chelsea? She sends him in and the monster is quickly dispatched? Nah, he goes straight after her and drives his sword through her chest. Simply put, an incompetent and flawed leader is a bigger threat than the monster itself. Your Pack doesn’t consist of the best, it just consists of two tanks of testosterone who have never looked above your chest.
So on Sunday I’m going to outclass you. I’m going to lock in the Epitome and make you scream so loud the crowd around us hold their hands over their ears. I’m going to slip you into an ear and soul splitting agony so excruciating you will feel alive and you’ll hear the Mistress telling you to scratch my eyes out. It’ll be too late then. You’ll have let yourself down and everyone you care about. The Cruiserweight Champion will remain just as that and your greed for gold will be punished. Chelsea Armstrong, the femme fatale, the beautiful white dove on an ashen terrain contorting and broken by a man she longs to share the same freedom as.
He takes a deep breath and watches a large bird fly over the gorge, turning with the wind and changing direction.
Steeltoe. Mr Very very cutting edge. The preacher who exists under the sole cloud of judgment by God. What’s the deal? Your ill actions are God’s will? Is that your excuse? Is this what makes you this cutting edge force to be reckoned with?
Do you ever stop and think about this? About how a little bit of a retard you sound? You call it cutting edge, I call it mental disability. I call it juvenile. I call it deluded. Refusing to take any responsibility for your actions and not even evaluating them as negative. Now I’m not one of those guys who openly makes fun of people who believe in God. That’s not fair. Simply because they do not mock my atheism. Two way street. But a guy who uses his belief as an excuse. Now, that is pretty rife for condemnation. Even by fellow believers. Say God IS the only guy that can judge you. What is he saying Joe? What’s his analysis on you? How is he interpreting your actions? All with a positive glow? All with spiritual acceptance and approval? I guess we’ll never know. But as long as in your little head you think you are doing the right thing then you carry on.
You know you are a standard, typical piece of the same mould of these rebel types. You exist to rebel against the machine but you are that attached to this mission and purpose that you are just another puppet that the machine controls. You know what happens to this thing you are fighting against? It doesn’t get weaker Joe, it gets stronger and stronger sending you more and more over the edge. You even looked to God because you are not strong or confident enough in your own ability. Preaching to others to join your cause, perhaps to shirk blame of your absolute failure. It’s alright though, because you are lucky in that after your elimination on Sunday you’ll have someone to look up to and tell you everything is alright and that it wasn’t your fault. Fuck though, how do you ever get stronger just hearing every night what you want to hear? When do you ever receive a stern, character building savaging of your in-ring performances that you use to learn from and do better next time? How does Steeltoe Joe, the professional wrestler and athlete reflect upon himself? I get this every single week from my Father; a real trilogy of mind, body and soul who unlike your God doesn’t shower me with false hope and cotton wool pats on the back. If I fuck up in the ring and put the result in jeopardy, he lets me know. He shoves it down my throat and I become better as a result. Do you even care? Are you really that bothered about your ability as a wrestler? Yeah, you’ve been around the block a few times and as you say you know your stuff, but why this bizarre…self-entitlement as a rebelling legion of God? What happened down the line to send you into this well of faith?
Jeremiah 29:11 “For I know the plans I have for you”, declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future”
Psalm 34:8 “Taste and see the LORD is good; blessed is the man who takes refuge in him”
Is this what you are Steeltoe Joe? Just a confused man who long ago lost touch with his own life decisions and confidence and so took refuge in the arms of a higher power knowing that when it’s all over and all is said and done, he can nestle up to it and cry into its bosom. Fighting against a cause that doesn’t exist, forever and in absolute hanging-by-a-thread desperation to please God because nobody else gives a fuck. You’ve created this fictional identity to rebel against because the words of the bible which you often and arrogantly quote told you to do so and fills you with a Holy Flame that cannot be doused because you are in God’s image. Psalm 34:8 “Taste and see the LORD is good; blessed is the man who takes refuge in him”
Well none of this utter fucking bullshit cuts it with me Joe. Fuck sake, grow up, get real and realise you are exactly the same as everybody else and you have to pay for your actions. I don’t care if everything you do is perhaps for the greater good. You’re wrong in saying that only God can judge you, cos I’m judging you and don’t need two testaments to tell you that you are a selfish, sight righteous little cunt who has less edges than the fucking halo that shines above that absolute holy grail of shit head of yours.
Let me speak in a language you might understand Joe.
He takes out a piece of paper from his backpack and reads it aloud
Occulo 3:1
“And Joseph did stand in the arena amongst the warriors, with his nose up in the air and his ego inflated, and the LORD said “I am with you Joe. Always. For everything that fails lives in your image. My Son” And like all Sons of God, Joe is crucified with an elbow to the throat”
“And Joseph did stand in the arena amongst the warriors, with his nose up in the air and his ego inflated, and the LORD said “I am with you Joe. Always. For everything that fails lives in your image. My Son” And like all Sons of God, Joe is crucified with an elbow to the throat”
He takes out a lighter and holds the page whilst it burns. Charred pieces flutter down in to the gorge.
Go on, go ahead, flame me for being blasphemous. I don’t fucking care. You’re an absolute disgrace to your faith and if a train should hit you tomorrow nobody would miss you. I bet the reason you’ve stayed alive this long is because God keeps saving you because he knows he’d have to spend the rest of fucking eternity with you because he played paper when Satan played scissors. You’re amongst the most dislikeable people in the company Joe. Fuck off. Grow a pair of balls and be a man. I’ve seen more backbone on a fucking jellyfish. Actually continuing to talk about the pussy that is Steeltoe Joe is making me angry, and you’ll get that all in your face on Sunday. If God hasn’t got sick of you by then and smited you with a bolt of lightning or something. Faggot.
Occulo takes a bottle of water out of his backpack and opens the top. He pours the entire contents into the gorge, dispersing as it does.
Oblivion? Can you hear me? You must be near because I can smell burning. How embarrassing a loss for you in that inferno ladder match. You have rattled on, and on, and on, and on, and on, about how you are this big fucking fiery ass monster…then you lose in a match that’s almost designed for you. I wasn’t too surprised though. You are proving me right. I said the monster is fading and that you’re not scaring anyone anymore and look what happened. A real beast would be sat in its lair drooling on how it’s going to rip Bobby Cairo apart. But no, that didn’t happen did it? As much as the stuff you did in that match was brutal, I’m sorry to say you’re going soft big guy. Scarecrow should be in intensive care right now fighting for his life with every inch of his body still smouldering. Again, that didn’t happen did it? Poor bastard got burned but hell, he’s up and smiling and well training his ass off ready for his match with Odin.
So what went wrong? You have absolutely fuck all excuse. None. You have let yourself down. I could tell you weren’t the force you reckon to be when I beat you in our match. You know what you’re like Oblivion? You’re like one of those rollercoasters that shit you up with their scary name and scenery, using little tired gimmicks and pantomime acting in order to make it as thrilling and terrifying as possible…then after you’ve experienced this monster you just feel exhilarated that you’ve conquered it, or in my case, disappointed that it just wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. All bark. All smoke and mirrors. Again, I fucking told you so Oblivion.
So what now? You know I can almost hear you say “I am Oblivion!! I am back stronger than ever before and Occulo I am going to rip you to shreds, you will know the absolute horror of the rejuvenated Oblivion!” And all that noise. Blah blah blah. Sorry Oblivion, I struggle to come up with a way you are going to bounce back from this. You’re a 60’s horror movie that was terrifying in its prime but is now just a dusty videotape students watch in onesies and blankets in a “shit film hangover day”. You’re as transparent and as obvious to see how you work as Regan’s head turning puppet, and as laughable these days. You expect to appear on that stage on Sunday like Cell did when he regenerated. With us all like the Z fighters thinking “Oh shit! The monster is back! He’s back! Fuck!” but it will be more like Madonna last night when fell on her ass. Everyone just looking and laughing at this tired old mess wishing it would finally retire.
So it all boils down to this Oblivion. The monster is a weakened, maimed injured creature whose fall from grace is sending sharp jolts of pain through its body every time it thinks about it. It needs someone to put it out of its misery. A light you never thought you’d see is shining in your eyes and is beckoning you in. You reach out your hand and you feel the cold metal of the guillotine with the executioner stood beside it with an axe. I pull my hood back and look down on you. I warned you this would happen Oblivion. I warned you what would happen if you carried on like this. And now you’re absolutely terrified. So how does it feel? How does it feel to be the helpless one about to be on the receiving end of absolute misery? You’ve put so many weak, helpless people on your devices and used their bodies as points to make. They wondered what had they ever done wrong to deserve this? Nothing. Nothing at all. And oh how the bells of irony chime, that Oblivion himself has become exactly that. Nothing. You are now living up to your namesake as if it was going to be the last word in the story of your life. Oblivion, the monster who was destroyed in his own game. I clamp your head down in the guillotine and strap you in. I then make you an offer. Yeah free will, do you know what is? I offer it to you then take it away. For once in your life you experienced hope and felt the agony of having it taken away. I was going to make the offer of your soul instead of your life. But no, I’ll take both. You heard me Oblivion, your soul belongs to me now. Weeks ago I cracked away at your shell and made it clear for all to see. Then Scarecrow finished you off and now it’s mine to take. I’m going to finish you. Once and for all, and it will be done with absolutely no fear at all, no remorse at all, no sorrow or sympathy at all…but joy? Oh there’ll be plenty of that.
He again reaches in to his backpack and this time takes out a small packet of pink, paper hearts. He empties them into his hand, and then blows them forward. They flutter down into the gorge.
Marco, hey you know I saw your promo against me saying how much I apparently messed up when talking about you. You went on saying that you are missing a belt, well, half the people in the company are so that was a very poor start. You then told me to stop hating you and start being inspired by you. Are you out of your fucking mind? What exactly is there about you that could possible inspire me? We are two incredibly different, almost polar opposites of each other. If you had any brain power whatsoever you would realise this, and that you…inspiring me is just never going to happen. No, I will never be as “great” as you because I think greatness has two very different contexts for us both. What I define as greatness is very different to yours, thank goodness. Okay you can only play a few “basic riffs”, so just like your wrestling ability you get to know the basics and then just stop? You sound lazy Marco. You do JUST enough that can get you laid and then you feel no need to improve or try any harder. I must say you are absolutely taking the biscuit here. You’re a very close second to Jackson White in the “least deserving to be in the title match” rankings. I thoroughly enjoyed outwrestling you, and I don’t recall you excelling in anything useful in that match. You were pathetic. You have as much improving as Jackson needs before you will ever be a favourite for a belt.
It’s not your fault though. You’ve been thrust in to a match without asking against a bunch of wrestlers who are much better than you. You’ll probably climb the turnbuckle and think you’re on stage, falling back expecting them to catch you when all you’ll do is fall straight down Oblivion’s throat or something. How embarrassing. How embarrassing you are in general, how much are you paying Michelle? The poor girl deserves a lot more. When you were reading the card and saw my name alongside yours what was your reaction Marco? Was it anger? A sigh of inconvenience that again you were going to be absolutely humbled and thrashed in front of your adoring fans? Was it a quick reach for the sketchpad and pen, writing down a Blues hit about how all your troubles have come back to you in the shape of Occulo? Or was it a rush of exhilaration as your search for revenge against me would be kickstarted? However well you did against me last time, you’re going to have to do a hundred times better. Even then you won’t have a chance.
You’re no wrestler Marco. You lack the grit, fire and determination to win against the best this company has. The fans might like you but they like you in the same way circus goers like the clown. They like me in the same way…well, you know, wrestling fans like great wrestlers. You’re just the hole in the market in the WCF where “Rockstar 01” was unfilled. You don’t offer anything deeper than that, and that is where you stop. A dead end wrestler with thankfully something to fall back on. Yet you have the gall to call me a marvel comic book wannabe. Ah shit, imagine that? I’d be an absolutely terrible comic book character. I don’t have any superhuman abilities. I can’t fly or have a utility belt and a black car with a million and one gadgets. Nor do I particularly want to be. But hell even if I was a comic book character, I’d still have the one more dimension than you wouldn’t I? Cos that’s what you are Marco, a boring, tired level 1 rocker clutching on to fame with absolutely basic wrestling skills that you still struggle with. Everything Marco Valintine stands for is weighed down by underachievement that as I said is due to your own laziness. Just like you promised me that you would beat me, you’ll promise me again and all your fans and followers and again they will be let down…but that doesn’t matter does it? Because Marco will still get the money in and still get laid and you won’t give a fuck. If you did you wouldn’t make ridiculous promises you know deep down you can’t keep. It takes backbone to do that Marco and unlike yours which is on a mattress the majority of the time, mine is in constant training and preparation making sure I let NOBODY down. I wonder if you’ll even have the balls to apologise to those you disappointed? Nah, because that just ain’t Rock ’n’ Roll is it? It’s not Marco rolls.
I predict that you’ll be swiftly eliminated on Sunday Marco. It won’t take long. You’re not a threat, no, more of an annoying little pest that shouldn’t be there. You’re just something to trip over that needs shifting. A pile of dust that needs sweeping. A minor inconvenience. Prepare yourself Marco fans; a dreary, whiny album is coming out entitled “Battle Royal Blues. A Tragic Tale”. Pirate Bay it, your money is better spent on plastic vomit. See you Sunday.
Occulo reaches in to his backpack and for the final time takes out a tin of hotdogs.
Marc, you whimsical creator of misadventure. Speaking derogatively of you isn’t easy as unlike some of the idiots in this match you don’t seem to know what you are doing but live in such happiness. But this doesn’t matter for now. You are a just one more component of the machine I need to dismantle. It seems like so long ago now that we fought, and since then I have improved dramatically. Have you Marc? Have you improved at all? Have I got any reason at all to be wary of you? You have since found solace in Logan and formed the team we have all grown to love ‘The Hotdog Kings’ and since then you have been more of a court jester in your own little world than a wrestler at all to be honest. I however have climbed my way up the ladder to this great opportunity through victory and unerring effort. Why are you in this match? Especially since your partner in crime is also involved, who knows? I have no problem with it, as I’m sure you two will provide some great entertainment before you are eliminated by yours truly. I could actually hire you as two apprentices of the Occulo Extermination Squad. I could task you with destroying the vermin, waste of time competitors like Jackson White and Marco Valintine so the real competitors such as myself can concentrate on each other and afterwards receive a pat on the back...well, an elbow to the throat and knee to the skull each and off you go on your next epic adventure. That’ll do for me. Unfortunately, and rightly so you’ll be fighting with discipline to become the next Champion so unfortunately for me it means I have to kick the shit out of two guys I have a lot of respect for. But you’ll understand. I’ll get you two out of that ring and up the ramp before Oblivion gets his little paws on you so your elimination is painless. Maybe in a few years’ time when you have blossomed in to a guy that can hold his own in the ring without an accomplice and actually notch up a win or two we shall meet and I’ll consider you an actual challenge. Until then though, I have no reason to fear you, and no reason why you will be nothing more than a quick elimination on Sunday. Sorry Marc, but I’m going to beat you easily.
Logan, I hope for your sake that being pitted against your partner Marc doesn’t result in a rift between you. That would be very upsetting, but it would help me. My bet is that you will be extremely distracted by each other and this will cost you. You’re a five time US Champion and so obviously I have considerable respect for you. But I’m afraid 6 is a step too far my friend. This isn’t a milestone you’re going to reach. You see I have to look after number 1. My first title here and the most important thing in my life right now. You, like Chelsea are an entirely new realm for me. You’re a new opponent and I’m therefore very wary of you. Your title history is amazing, and I can’t underestimate you. But like every great thing in history, something comes along and cements it as just history forever. Something comes along and stops the train dead on the tracks. You might have the experience that gives you an advantage in this match but you’ve never fought anything like me before. You have no idea what is coming and you have no idea how to handle me. Yeah you’ve heard it all before in your long history but take me for granted at your peril. Whilst I respect you in the here and now, that will all go straight out of the window in the ring. I’ll look at you as I’d look at anyone, with the sound knowledge that I can and will beat you.
Your individual nature though is something I have a problem with. Your utilisation of people as your own platform for masochism is something I have been on the receiving end of when Joey Flash and I were trading blows. Like so, so many here you have a superiority complex that needs addressing. Since words have little penetration into your mind its obvious that what you need is an utterly thorough physical experience. Don’t get excited, I don’t mean that sexually. What I mean is you need to be lifted out of this world in which you have fabricated yourself as King, you need to feel what it is like to feel your life being stripped away from you at the hands of another. You need to feel like one of the people you have manipulated and tortured for your own pleasure. Oblivion thought he could carry on doing this and got away with it for a long time. His own world got stronger and began to become more concrete around him, until the fought in the inferno ladder match which many thought would be like the back of his hand to him. What happened? He ended up burning alive in the hell he created himself. He self-destructed. He was shown the fear and pain he had inflicted on others by a man who like me, had had enough of it. Logan, I’m going to bring you down. You prey on the weak minded and enjoy the pain they inflict. Like Steeltoe Joe, you have a delusion where the heinous acts you commit are not your fault. You always have someone to blame and insist you are doing the right thing. Absolutely pathetic. It astounds me how you can think you come across as a tough pillar of strength of a man when this is how you conduct yourself. Like Oblivion you are terrified of the world seeing you as you really are so you front yourself as this stupid move villain persona. You want to use people as instruments Logan? Well let’s see how good a tune you can play when the very lungs you breathe into are being crushed, when your fingers are being broken and the games in your mind are being burned in the fires of pain. I feel considerable anger and unbelievable resentment for people like you and I almost hate myself for the person I have to become when I face you in the ring. You’re going to be the broken, whimpering, lost little puppy that exists deep in your core underneath everything you claim to be and are obsessed with being. That’s what I’m going to reduce you to Logan. No US Title for you this time you cunt. This time the only metal you’ll be holding on to after this match is of a wheelchair…if you’re lucky.
He drops the tin down the gorge and it shatters open on a rock sending the contents everywhere
Hotdog Kings, you’re going to be shattered. If not by each other, then by myself.
He picks the bag up and secures it on his bag
When all is said and done, I am the most deserving of this title. I’m absolutely not going to let any of you take this opportunity away from me. No way. You’re all going to see me fight better than I’ve ever fought before and sadly for you that means you’re going to fall at this final hurdle. I don’t care for my personal opinions of you, I don’t care about your past histories and successes and I don’t care what you are going through behind the ropes. All I give a flying fuck about is outclassing you all and finishing the match as the United States Champion. It is the only thing I am living and breathing for and my commitment towards it is something you lack. If losing this match puts irreversible dents in your careers then I won’t feel remorse, I’ll be proud to be the man to have done it. Everything I’ve been through and done since my debut here has led to this match, and I’d sooner drop myself off this bridge than go into this match with absolutely any inkling of doubt at all that I AM going to be the new United States Champion. Lights out fuckers.
He swings his legs around and steps on to the bridge as we
CUT
John Mullins is hard at work writing furiously in his notebook. On the screen behind him we see a WCF match paused. He puts his pen down, takes a mouthful of coffee and sits back in his chair.
Mullins: We’re ready you cunts. We’re ready to grab that US title belt and claim it as our own like the fucking thing is supposed to be. What a shame though that he has to win it in such a dishonourable match. Instead of squaring up one vs one against an all-time great in an absolute titanic clash that could go either way, he’s plonked in the ring with a load of random miscreants who have absolutely no idea whatsoever what they’ve done to deserve it. Neither do I to be honest. But you know what? It doesn’t fucking matter. Whether it is one vs one against the greatest or against the minibus of lost comic con nerds that you lot are, the result is the same. I don’t often give credit but my Son is miles above you all. He doesn’t excel in one particular area, he is an all-round extremely proficient and effective combatant that is going to show you all exactly where your weaknesses lie. He’s already soundly beaten a few of you and none have improved since. Happy with how they did in that match and happy with mediocrity. So unambitious and so lacking in personal development.
Jackson White, why the fuck are you here? I don’t even mean in the match. You’re not a wrestler. Fuck off. You’re lost man, go outside for once, buy a map and try to find where you are supposed to be. I’ll give you a hint, it’s either hanging a few feet off the ground next to a fallen chair or at the bottom of a cliff being shagged by a confused seal. Stop wasting your time, and more importantly my Son’s time with your pathetic little pipe dreams that you are a human being that can fight. You’ve as much chance of winning this title as your Daddy slamming your door down and asking you to get him a beer.
Chelsea, you are probably expecting me to spout out a load of sexist slander. Based on what a total cunt I am yeah you’re probably right in doing so. I won’t though because I don’t want to give you the pleasure of telling me off for it. I’ll just go ahead and say that whilst you’re my boy’s biggest threat in this match, you’re still going to lose and that’s something you’re going to have to just accept. That stupid little pack you have are holding you back sweetcheeks but if you’re not seeing that then fuck you. You deserve what you get, which is a black eye and a stoved in set of ovaries. Ouch.
Steeltoe Joe you absolutely fucking ridiculous pile of green exorcist vomit. The fuck you doing in the ring? Go back to fiddling little boys like the rest of your evil, brainwashing religious cultists. What kind of man does all this shit and then go “I know you are cos you said you are but what am I? I don’t care cos God loves me so pffftttt”. You fucking nut. Let me let you in on something, there isn’t a God up there. It’s just what the ancients fabricated and believed cos they had no science to tell them otherwise and somehow it’s carried on to today by a load of people too weak to be able to change things. You’re a weak, disgraceful piece of filth Joe. At least when I do things I’m not proud of I hold my hands up and take responsibility. You’re the absolute worst of humanity and if I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail I’d stab you in the chest tonight. Go fuck yourself. Cunt.
Mr Toasty. Oblivion. Oh buddy how I laughed when you fell of that ladder in to that burning asshole in your little inferno match. I applauded Scarecrow so much. What a joy to behold. So what now you fat tub of shit freak? Haven’t even heard from you since. Are you even alive? Have they even bothered to get you out of that smoking crater? Is there even a crane strong enough to lift that smouldering, steaming turd that you are up? You lost in a match you should have excelled in. Fucking embarrassment. You’re done now. That’s it. Game over. You’re finally that whimpering little pussy pulling the strings in that large piece of blubber for all to see. No US Title for you, you utter disappointment. You’re a sheep in wolf’s clothing. Roast lamb. Pass the fucking apple sauce.
Marco, another sack of flesh and bones my Son utterly decimated. You’re still here eh? Still trying to make a name for yourself? Well you won’t do it on your own. You’re a terrible musician and an even worse wrestler. If you want to be remembered then do it by turning up to the match dressed as the exact thing you are; a big fucking dildo. Because that’s all you’re good at apparently. Pleasuring women. Fair enough. Good on you. But don’t try and sell yourself as anything else when you’re obviously no good. It’s just plain old embarrassing.
Marc Mayhem you fucking clown. What even are you? Were you kicked out of the asylum and placed on the WCF doorstep in a basket? Every day is like a child’s game for you isn’t it? Constantly just running around playing pretend with anything you can find. I’ll tell you what you are, you are an absolute insult to my Son’s career in that he is having to beat you to win the United States title. I hope he breaks so many bones in your ridiculous, useless little body you are unable to irritate anyone in this federation which seems to be the only thing you are good at. You like hotdogs, try stuffing a few down yours and your friends windpipes so you asphyxiate on them and die. Try it. Please.
Logan, as above. Mostly. Except you have something quite impressive which is your title history. Ah but so fucking what? Doesn’t mean for a second you’re more likely to win it than anyone else in this match. In fact you’re immediately under a lot of pressure. What happens to something under significant pressure that can’t take it? Crack. The boot of Occulo straight on your jaw and his knee straight in your skull. Crack. You like inflicting pain on others then you’ll enjoy the headache the medical staff get when you wake up in hospital and they have to put up with your annoying, incessant personality. That’s all the pain you’re going to inflict, and it’s the most you’ll get into heads also.
Occulo walks in with his backpack on and sits down next to him
Occulo: Nice place Colorado
Mullins: How you feeling for the match?
Occulo: Confident. Excited, you know, the usual.
Mullins: That US title is yours. You have to make this happen. Nobody in that ring deserves it more than you and nobody has the right to stop you from taking it. How much do you want this Son?
Occulo: How much? If I could even begin to form a few words together that could measure up to my desire to become champion then I would. But words can only do so much, and if used right can paint a picture in your mind. But on this occasion I will just have to give you a glimpse and show how you much I want it in the ring. You know when you are lying awake in bed at night and your head is rushing through all your thoughts? You analyse everything and everything analyses you. You worry, you hope, you try to figure out something that provoked thought earlier in the day, and ultimately you think about what you have and what you don’t have. Well this title is that thing that has prevented me from sleeping in the comfort that at the moment I have everything I want. The title is that extra hour or so it takes me to sleep…but it’s also that extra few hours in the gym. That extra few pounds that I lift. The extra droplets of blood I am willing to shed just to be able to the best. The extra tears I am willing to cry just to endure the pain that will stop me from tapping. The extra few miles that I run and that extra spirit that keeps me going in everything I do. The title already exists in how hard I have worked and how much harder I’m going to work in the match. You know when you feel something that you are sure is there but isn’t, like amputees feel a phantom limb, well I feel that this title is around my waist. It’s going to be mine, I swear everything on it. Occulo, the new United States Champion. Get that printed. It’s happening.
Mullins smiles and ruffles his hair, pulling him close as we
CUT
