Post by God King Dune on Mar 22, 2015 11:42:10 GMT -5
Part I: A New Age
The sun beats down on a flat desert landscape. A tall cliff-face looms in the distance, but in between there’s nothing but a sea of golden sand. The air above it ripples in the sweltering heat, which is so intense as to almost be audible. Instead, only intermittent grunts are heard. The camera turns slowly to the right, where it’s met by a growing sand dune that comes to fill the screen. It stops and zooms in when it catches sight of a man about ¾ of the way up the dune. He’s decked out in black, and a dark band runs down the middle of the back of his head. It looks like a mohawk from a distance, but as the camera gets closer it become apparent that it’s a mask.
The camera catches up to Dune and shoots him from the side. He bends down, grabs hold of a huge, irregularly shaped boulder and lifts it end over end, flipping it on its other side further up the hill. He breathes deep and repeats the action again and again. Each time the boulder lands, the soft sands send it sliding back down, negating about half the distance gained with each flip. Dune doesn’t let it deter him – in fact, the overly strenuous nature of the exercise is the whole point of performing it.
Dune flips the boulder onto the crest of the hill. Before it can slide back down, he bends and flips it over again, sending it over to the other side. He rests his hand on top of his head and breathes deeply. Sweat beads from his bald forehead and onto the black mask that hides half of his face. He bends over, wipes the sweat from his eyes, and looks down toward the shade of the valley below. He glances at the camera and nods in that direction before setting off for cooler depths.
Once at the bottom, Dune flops onto the soft sand that lies at the base of the mound. His muscles bulge and his chest moves up and down with the filling and emptying of his lungs. He sits up, draping his large, calloused hands across his knees, and looks into the camera.
Dune: In the shadows of the valley, and even here we can’t escape the sun’s cruel touch. And to think it’s not even summer…
You should’ve come at night. It’s colder then. But alas, each morning dawns and the icy cold is banished by the fires of the desert sun until it slips below the horizon again. This time of year, that’s not only true of the desert, but damn near everywhere in the country. The wrath of winter in all its glory was surely felt by most – even the small corner of hell I live in saw the ice and snow accumulate – but that’s all over now.
Coincidentally, winter has ended for the WCF as well. Because, as we all know, the reign of the winter champion is through. WCF has a new King, and his name isn’t Natural ICE Beckman.
But while everyone’s talking about the new champ, here I am stuck in the past thinking about the old one.
Since first hearing about the WCF it’s been a dream of mine to compete at its highest level. It’s a dream that’s finally come to fruition, because I’m set to square off with one of the best fighters this company has to offer. That’s not to say I haven’t fought great fighters and champions before, but there’s something about taking on the freshly dethroned ex-WCF World Champion that really tickles my fancy and sends shivers running down my spine…the good kind, like the one’s people talk about getting on Christmas morning waking up to a roomful of presents – or in my case, when I snap a man’s neck clean in half and fling him off a cliff.
The common man would be struck down with fear when faced with the reality of having to fight Ice Beckman. There are even those in the WCF who would rather cower and hide in a dark corner than stand toe-to-toe with the Natural one. Me? I revel in the opportunity. I didn’t come here to face jobber nobodies so I can pad my stats and stake my claim to meaningless winning streaks. I’m here to be the best, and to become that I’ve got to knock off the top guys. Ice was the best for a while, and even though he stumbles about without a crown these days, that doesn’t detract from the amount of in-ring ability the man possesses. To pin him for the 1-2-3 or make him tap out will take everything I’ve got, and that’s exactly what I intend to provide him with. I’m going to leave it all in the ring...including Ice’s broken body.
From bell to bell I won’t relent, but I’ll be at ease beforehand and afterward. You see, you don’t scare me, Ice. I’m cool as a fan, despite this heat. You won’t see me tremble at the mere mention of your name, nor when you’re charging me in the ring. I don’t scare you either – you don’t have to say it, I already know it’s true. That’s fine. I don’t scare a lot of people…but that’s because a lot of people have their head up their ass and don’t know true wrestling talent when they see it. I imagine I was only a blip on your radar screen when you were flying high as World Champion. Even now that you’re back on scrapper’s row I’m assuming you know next to nothing about me and the damage I’m capable of inflicting. That’s fine too. I prefer to remain hidden from view anyway. Like the rattlesnake coiled in shadow, I too find it easier to strike at and subdue unwary prey when it wanders too near.
And make no mistake, Beckman – prey is what you’ll become when you step into the ring with me at Slam. You may not choose to acknowledge it, but that won’t change the fact that I’m gonna hunt you down with every weapon in my arsenal. You’ll be like a young deer calf that has never seen a man before and is innocent to his cruel nature. And just as the deer that doesn’t flee from the hunter, you’ll be put down before it’s all said and done – though I’d be a fool to think it will be an easy kill. I know a pistol shot won’t do the trick. It’s a good thing, then, that I don’t pack a pistol. Its military-grade weaponry I’m dealing with – high impact, next generation firepower. Beneath my skin is a doomsday device – all I’ve gotta do to set it off is press a little red button. And when I unleash the harnessed power of the sun upon you, the retreating glaciers that surround your cold heart will melt away and the ICE age will enter into a full recession.
But your post-World Title reign struggles won’t be looked on in scorn when this chapter in the WCF Saga is revisited. On the contrary – in time, most will come to view it as simply an unlucky break for the ex-champion. Losing to Jay Omega and Bobby Cairo in the wake of your unsuccessful title defense was unexpected, as will be the loss you rack up this week. But as the expectations of the people begin to change in the coming weeks and months, no one will look back on your loss to me at Slam and think, “How the fuck could ICE have lost that match?” Instead they’ll think, “That’s the moment Dune set off down his path of glory – when he beat ICE Beckman.”
This isn’t a jobber match to help the struggling ex-champ get his bearings back. This isn’t fucking David vs. Goliath. This is a man-monster vs. a beer-swilling, Bill Watterson wannabe. It’s a man with everything to prove vs. a man who’s proved everything – the man who’s never seen the mountain’s summit vs. the man who’s lived atop it. I’ll do anything to scale the ultimate peak, the one you conquered and defended for so long. Laying you to waste is the first notch in the metaphorical mountain’s base, and I couldn’t ask for a better starting point. And when I reach that peak, whether weeks, months, or years from now, I’ll look back down the mountainside and remember that first notch I dug my foot into – the one that started it all – and I’ll think of your name…your legacy.
And what a legacy it will be. I mean, goddamn – you’re already a legend in my book. Sure, I wasn’t around for much of your title reign, but even out here in the wasteland Ice Beckman is a household name. You’re one of active-greats on the current WCF roster, and if you truly are one of the greats of all-time, you’ll bounce back from your loss to me this Sunday and find your way again. Losing to a lesser man is one thing, but losing to a man who earned the victory in every sense of the word is another thing entirely. There’s no shame in it. If I was nothing but a dumpling who lacked any trace of skill or heart, dropping a match to me would be unthinkable. As it stands, I’m a physical freak of nature who knows all too well about this game we play, and there’s one thing on my mind: winning.
So don’t be humiliated when you see my hand raised after the final bell at Slam. If anything, let your clean defeat by my hand provide you with some humility. I can only imagine how the air must be up there at the top…but I’d venture a guess and say it might be so thin as to play tricks on the mind. A champion’s confidence often leads to over-confidence and cockiness – the belief that everyone on the roster is beneath them and unworthy of squaring off against them in the ring. I’m not sure if your rapid descent has allowed you to regain a foothold in reality, so let me set you straight: if you think you’re going to walk all over me at Slam, you’re dead fucking wrong. I’m not an ex-World Champ but I’ve fought men harder than you in fights that weren’t officiated and didn’t end when someone’s shoulders were pinned for three seconds, but rather when their heart stopped beating for the rest of eternity.
I’m no stranger to winning battles. We’re similar in that regard. So when the final bell sounds, and I’m walking back up that ramp victorious, keep in mind that you lost to a winner. It might help to ease the pain – your mental anguish, rather…not your physical suffering. I’m afraid only time and a series of long ICE baths will help to mend your badly beaten body.
There’s something else I’d like to –
Dune’s voice trails off as another sound comes into earshot…that of a distant engine. Dune raises an eyebrow as he listens to the engine growing closer. He turns and scrambles swiftly up the slope. When he reaches the top, he slowly peaks his head over. Upon the flat sands about a half-mile away he sees a dune buggy racing around, though it stops as soon as he sees it. It’s still for a moment, then the driver steps on the accelerator and spins the wheel, sending it on a direct path toward Dune. The buggy grows closer, closer…it starts up the opposite slope of the sand dune. He ducks beneath the crest on his side. “It’s either Freeman or a tribesman,” he thinks to himself…a win-win situation.
The dune buggy continues to speed up the other side of the slope. Dune lines himself up with the noise, presses his back to the sand, and waits. Just then the engine roars and the dune buggy hits the lip of the hill, sending it flying over the top of Dune as he waits on the other side. As it passes over him he rises and begins running after it. The dune buggy lands right in front of him and he dives for it, grabbing on to one of the black metal bars that make up its frame. The metal is hot, and he quickly grabs for another one closer to the driver, who remains unaware of the big man’s presence thanks to the rough landing. He wears a dark, hooded robe – Dune recognizes it instantly.
He inches forward, careful not to enter the man’s peripheral vision. When he’s close enough, Dune taps him on the shoulder.
Freeman spins his head around, but not before his forefinger connects with Dune’s eye. Tears well up in it and he is half-blinded temporarily as the dune buggy slides to a halt in the sand at the bottom of the dune. Freeman jumps out.
Freeman: What the – goddamnit, Dune! You know as well as I do how real the danger is out here! You could’ve gotten yourself killed pulling some shit like that!
Dune: Yeah? How else am I supposed to entertain myself on a hot day like this? I don’t have a dune buggy to fuck around in when I run out of snakes to skin or boulders to push around. What are you doing out here anyway, joy riding? What about all that “real danger” lurking about?
Freeman: Don’t get smart, kid. Just because the tribes don’t fuck with us like they fuck with everyone else doesn’t mean they wouldn’t love to catch us unawares. I’m serious, you’re lucky to be alive – a second later and I might have mistakenly put an end to you.
Dune: M-hmm…so the next move after poking my eye was to rip my heart through my chest? You might kill malnourished outlaws with that kind of ease but it’d take a more concerted effort to snuff me out. And about the eye…was that intentional?
Freeman: Sure it was. Problem? Someone taps me on the shoulder while I’m under the impression that I’m alone in my dune buggy so I go for his eye – sounds about right to me. The eyes are one of the most vulnerable features of the human anatomy. Why not attack ‘em? Hmm? What good is a fighter who can’t see?
Dune: Fair point, assuming you’re willing to play dirty.
Freeman: We’re not in a wrestling ring, Dune. Out here, if you don’t play dirty you don’t play at all.
Dune: Ah cut the shit. Every man within a hundred mile radius knows my name is synonymous with fear. I don’t need lessons on how to deal with outlaws who play at Mad Max.
Freeman: Perhaps not, but you could certainly use some for your in-ring performance. You’ve struggled of late.
Dune: I have…
Freeman: That Alex Richards really has your number, Dune. Three times he’s been opposite you and three times he’s walked out of there victorious. I’ve got to say, he –
Dune: If you say one more word about Alex Richards I’m going to beat you to a fucking pulp. You think I don’t know I’m yet to beat him? You think him getting the best of me three times doesn’t piss me right the fuck off? Well it does, but Alex fucking Richards can wait. We’ve got a date at Explosion, and it’s there I’ll make up for lost ground when I eliminate him from the Trilogy Cup. But this week isn’t about Alex Richards….oh no. This week’s about ICE fucking Beckman – former WCF World Champion.
Freeman: Former’s the key word there. He hasn’t recovered since losing his title, and I honestly think you’ll be able to keep him off balance and pin him this week – if you want it bad enough.
Dune: If I want it bad enough – don’t fuck with me Freeman. You know I –
Freeman: Yeah, yeah – I know. Goddamn, it’s too hot out here to chit-chat. Let’s go to the Double X and get a drink…err…can you drink with that mask on?
Dune: It’s got a straw attachment.
Freeman: Oh…well, that’s…convenient…
Dune: It is.
Freeman: Now that we’re on the topic, mind if I ask you something?
Dune: Shoot.
Freeman: Why do you still wear it? Surely any scars you have aren’t so hideous as to keep them hidden at all times.
Dune: They are hideous, but that isn’t why I hide them. My scars mark the end of an era in my life. My face was butchered by those who killed my brother, and I would have died with him were it not for our faithful Rottweilers. When the sun set that night we were five – me, my brother, and our three dogs – but when it rose the next morning, we were only two.
I promised myself I would never forget that feeling – the terrible fusion of the most intense physical pain I’d ever experienced and the seething, black, desolate rage that engulfed every cell in my body. It was this wrathful concoction that fueled me…its essence that came to define me. I wear this mask as a constant reminder of the man I’ve become, the one born anew of vengeance and untempered fury…though the scars that lie beneath are ever present.
Freeman remains silent as he stares into Dune’s eyes.
Freeman: I understand.
He says it very deliberately, nods, then gestures toward the dune buggy.
Freeman: Come on, let’s get a drink. I’m sure they have straws.
He winks and smiles at Dune and hops in the driver seat. Dune wraps around the other side and sits down in the passenger seat. Freeman looks over at him.
Freeman: Doesn’t it get hot? Wearing the mask, I mean.
Dune: Actually, no - it’s got a solar-powered cooling and ventilation system that keeps the outside of my head and face about 40% cooler than the rest of my body.
Freeman: 40% huh?
Dune: Well, that’s what it says on inside-tag.
Freeman: So I take it you didn’t make it.
Dune: I didn’t, no.
Freeman: Well who did? Where’d you get it from?
Dune: I’m not sure…I just found it.
Freeman: You just found it…a mask made out of high tech-material that has a solar powered cooling system…and you just found it in the middle of nowhere.
Dune: Yeah, that’s right. All I know is this: on the night after my brother was killed, I heard a commotion outside our front door – a fight. I was still badly wounded and I was in no shape to take part, so needless to say I was glad when the scuffle ended and the silence of the night reigned once more. Well, the next morning when I went outside to have a look around, there were footprints everywhere and blood was on the sand…and sitting right next to the door was the mask. No note, no trace of the original owner…just the mask.
Freeman: Hmm…well, whoever designed it must have been on another level entirely. Look at the craftsmanship, the attention to detail…and the cooling system still works after all these years. Wow. I’d say whoever set out to make that mask was more than satisfied with the end result.
Freeman continues to look the mask over with a subtle smile of what some might construe as satisfaction. Dune eyes him questioningly.
Dune: Yeah…enough about the mask. And quit staring at me like that.
Freeman: Right then. All that talk about it being too hot for chit-chat and here we are doing just that. Let’s go.
.............................................................................
Part II: Social Niceties
Freeman pulls up in front of a big, square box of wood at the end of a dirt road in the desert. The years have transformed its once-white paint job into a dirty, brownish hue. Above its shaded porch the words “Double X” are painted in bold black letters.
Dune: I fucking hate this place. Remind me why I agreed to come here with you.
Freeman: Ah come on, Dune. Barstools are built for dreamers – are you telling me you don’t dream? Besides, it’s not so bad. Aside from the occasional stabbing it’s really a fine establishment.
Dune: Spare me with the fine establishment bullshit. It’s not stabbings that keep me from coming here…I love a good knife fight. Gets the blood flowing. I don’t come here for two reasons: the people…and the stupid shit people talk about.
Freeman: Not all people are shitheads, Dune. If you want to make it in this business you’ll have to learn to get along with them.
Dune: Is that a joke? If I want to defeat everyone I step in the ring with, I need people skills. Fuck that. There’s absolutely no correlation between having people skills and being the best fighter in the WCF.
Freeman: Of course you don’t need to get along with your opponents when you’re fighting them…but how about those who you’re not fighting? There’s nothing wrong with making friends, Dune, and the WCF has some of the best friends a man can have – the kind that look out for him and can back him up if need be. Strong ties, strong alliances…gotta have ‘em.
Dune: I’m one step ahead of you. I don’t pretend I’m invincible…hell, the faction formerly known as The Pack proved that a few weeks ago. It may surprise you but I’ve scanned the roster before in search of the kind of friend you’re talking about.
Freeman: And?
Dune: I landed on –
A group of bikers stumble out of the Double X and start up their hogs. Nothing can be heard over the revving of their engines and their obnoxious yelling. Dune eyes them impatiently as they linger in the small parking lot. Freeman snaps his fingers in front of his face to take his attention away from the bikers. As much as the old man loves a fight, he likes to choose them carefully – and this isn’t the time.
Freeman: We’ll talk inside.
Dune taps the side of his mask where his ear would be, unable to hear him over the engines. Freeman repeats himself, motioning toward the Double X. Dune nods in agreement and the two make their way toward the front door. Next to it is a metal sign that reads, “Double X – Anything goes.” Dune sees it and looks at Freeman, who puts on a “let’s try to avoid fighting anyone” face.
Once inside they take a seat at the far corner of the bar. The place is dark, dusty, and old – one of those places that’s a few decades behind the world outside. Neon signs light up the bar where a surprisingly attractive woman tends to the two men at the other end. The four of them are the only patrons in the place, and from the looks of it the attractive bartender is the only employee there. She sees Dune and Freeman and makes her way toward them.
Dune: Place is dead.
Freeman: What’d you expect? It’s noon on a Wednesday.
Dune: Hey, I’m not complaining. Looks like we showed up at the right time – I’m not sure I could have kept my cool with a bunch of loudmouth bikers shouting in my ear.
Freeman: I was thinking the same thing.
The bartender comes to a stop in front of Freeman. She’s in great shape and looks to be in her mid-20s, with big green eyes, perfectly arched eyebrows, and pink hair that’s pulled back into a ponytail. She wears black yoga pants that accentuate the muscular curvature of her legs and ass, and a tight, white “Double X” shirt with no sleeves. She eyes Dune incredulously.
Freeman: My friend, you’re looking at the finest bartender this side of the Mississippi. Meet Pinky. Pinky, this is –
Pinky: Dune. I know who you are. We may live be in the middle of Bumfuck County, New Mexico, but I don’t live under a rock. I watch the WCF just like everybody else. It’s nice to see a new face around here…I get a little tired of serving Pat and Craig every goddamn day.
Pinky motions toward the two men opposite them at the bar, then she puts out her hand for Dune to shake. He takes hold of it. He could crush it in an instant if he wished, but instead he shakes it with just a touch of firmness and nods his head.
Dune: The pleasure is mine.
Pinky stares at Dune, fascinated by the former Internet Champion. A second or two passes before she snaps out of it.
Pinky: Right…right…well, what can I get you boys to drink?
Freeman: I’ll have the usual, and for my friend here, well…
Dune: I’m fine, thanks.
Pinky: Whiskey and an I’m Fine – coming right up.
Pinky walks away and pours Freeman’s drink. The two men opposite them at the bar, Pat and Craig, suddenly burst into a fit of laughter and begin hollering at the TV screen angled toward them. Craig is clean shaven and incredibly skinny while Pat wears an unkempt beard and is morbidly obese.
Pat: Yes! Holy shit, yes!
Craig: Aaahaha fuckin’ a man, ICE does it again! That might be his best comic yet! What do you think, Pat?
Pat: I can’t believe how fucking amazing ICE Beckman is. If he wasn’t wrestling in the WCF he’d be just as famous for his comics, his beer drinking skills…it doesn’t fucking matter. Everything he touches turns to gold!
Craig: Gold, Jerry – gold!
Pat: Cut the jew shit, Craig…you know I hate jews.
Craig: Haha oh yeah…what for though, Pat?
Pat: Damnit, Craig! I’ve explained this shit to you a million times – because I’m a proud fucking American! Two words…can you hear me, Craig? Nine - eleven. Got me? The jews and Israel are part of a global conspiracy to conquer the West and every -
The two men continue to discuss Pat’s worldview and Dune tries to ignore them. Meanwhile Pinky comes back with Freeman’s drink and nods toward the two obnoxious men.
Pinky: Don’t mind them – couple of the biggest dumbasses you’ll meet in these parts – and trust me, that’s saying something.
She looks at Dune and begins to ask a question before realizing he and Freeman have matters of their own to discuss.
Pinky: You boys let me know if you need anything.
Freeman: Will do, Pinky. Thank you much.
Pinky turns and makes her way toward Pat and Craig. Freeman takes a sip of his whiskey, sets the glass down, and looks at Dune.
Freeman: So…about this partner talk.
Dune: M-hmm. Well, like I said, I was going through the roster, and one name stood out to me…
Freeman sips his whiskey while he and Dune discuss the pros and cons of certain WCF alliances. Their conversation is broken up periodically by disturbances from Pat and Craig, who become noisier by the minute. The two Double X regulars embark on a particular line of conversation that leads them to the upcoming Dune vs. Natural ICE Beckman match. By now, both Dune and Freeman are turned in their direction, more or less waiting for them to notice the very man they speak of.
Craig: If I’m sure about one thing, it’s that the ICE Age will begin again this Sunday when ICE kicks Dune’s ass. Right, Pat?
Pat: How can you even say that, man? The ICEman beating Dune is like him beating Adam Young – the ICE Age won’t officially begin until he beats someone who’s actually legit. They’re feeding Dune to ICE so he can start to get his confidence back. It’s a squash match all the way.
Craig: Hahaha yeah…but Dune’s actually, you know, pretty okay though. Have you seen any of his matches?
Pat: Fuck no I haven’t seen any of his matches. I’ve seen his picture and that’s about it. He’s a goddamn jabroni who won’t be on the roster in six months. I’ve been watching WCF for long enough to know not to give a fuck about anyone on the roster who hasn’t been around that long because 99.9% of the time they’re absolute shit. Why waste my time watching some retard in a mask who doesn’t know the first thing about wrestling?
Craig: Hahaha….no but really, Pat – Dune’s pretty g –
Pat: FUCK Dune! You hear me, Craig? Fuck. Dune. I wish that piece of shit was here so I could kick his ass myself! And if I could kick his ass, imagine what ICE Beckman’s going to do to him Sunday!
Pinky: Ahem…
Pinky clears her throat and gets the attention of Pat and Craig. She nods toward the other end of the bar, where they see a robed man with a long, greying beard, and behind him…
…they gasp when they realize the large, masked man sitting a mere ten yards from them is Dune. Craig leaps from his seat and runs toward the wall, pressing his back against it with the expectation of an impending ass-kicking. Pat remains seated –less because he’s not as fearful and more because it takes him a while to get out of a seated position. His greasy forehead reflects the green and red neon signs that help to light the bar. His lip quivers and he wipes the back of his sweaty neck.
Dune: What was that you were saying? Go on. Something about you kicking my ass – Ice Beckman kicking my ass – care to share who else is going to be kicking my ass?
Freeman: Dune, leave it –
Dune: No, I’m serious. Let’s hear it, son - who else is gonna squash me beneath their boot-heel like Ice Beckman? Damn near every fighter in the WCF from the way you’re talking.
Pat: I...I…I was just kidding about kicking you’re ass, man. It’s just that…y-you know…it’s ICE fucking Beckman. Right, Craig?
Craig: Y-y-y-y-yeah, m-m-m-m-m-m-
Pat: Damnit, Craig!
Freeman: Alright, alright – that’s enough. At ease, boys. No one’s going to harm you today. But consider yourself lucky that I’m here; otherwise god only knows what might have become of you.
Freeman turns away from the two men and urges Dune to do the same with a stern look. Dune relents rather easily and faces his front again.
Dune: Don’t start, Freeman. What am I supposed to do, just let some fat slob say whatever he damn well pleases about me?
Freeman: Sure, if it means not putting him in the hospital. You gonna attack all the fans who are heckling you and booing you just because you’re up against Ice Beckman? He may be their ex-World Champion, Dune, but you better believe he’s still their beer-swilling hero. My point is, you gotta cool your jets in public…work with a little less hostility. I know you’re not used to it, but being friendly has its perks.
Dune: Just because I don’t roll around with a posse doesn’t mean I can’t handle myself in public. How about Pinky? Have I been anything but cordial to her?
Freeman: No, but she’s also a beautiful woman. Had you been anything but cordial, and I would’ve been the hostile one. I tell you what – buy ‘em a drink. Make amends.
Dune: Amends for what - scaring a dribble of shit out of their gaping assholes?
Freeman: Buy ‘em a drink.
Dune looks over at Pat and Craig, who have grown almost completely silent since becoming aware of Dune’s presence. He watches as the skinny one, Craig, turns his head slowly toward him, then shoots it back to the TV screen after he makes eye contact with Dune. Dune turns to Freeman and glares at him before he leans over the bar and calls for Pinky.
Dune: What are they drinking?
Pinky: Pat and Craig? Dr. Pepper.
Dune: Are you fucking with me?
Pinky: No, sir. That’s all they drink – each of them puts back about a case a day.
Dune: Jesus. Get ‘em a couple Dr. Peppers on me then.
Pinky smiles and nods as she takes Dune’s money, then walks over to the two men. On the way, she reaches into a cooler of ice and grabs two cans of Dr. Pepper. She sets them down in front of them and points toward Dune. They look over at him, to each other, then back to Dune before Pat waves and says thank you. Craig follows suit. Dune watches as the two eagerly pop open their cans and slam their fresh Dr. Peppers.
Dune: Let’s get out of here man. I’ve had just about enough of the social niceties.
Freeman: I’m ready when you are.
Dune gets up from the bar. Freeman follows, but not before leaving a fat wad of ones next to his empty glass. They say their goodbyes to Pinky, receive an awkward half-goodbye from Pat and Craig, then exit the Double X.
When the sound of Freeman’s dune buggy has faded in the distance, Pat looks at Craig.
Pat: Okay…maybe Dune’s not such a pussy after all.
Craig gulps in remembrance.
…………………………………………………………………….
Part III: Reign of Fire
Freeman: Where’s that dog of yours? You don’t bring him along when you’re pushing boulders up sand dunes and intimidating wrestling nerds in dive bars?
Dune: He’s inside where it’s nice and cool…helps if you’re looking to avoid that whole heat exhaustion thing. Come in and see him if you’d like. Usually he hates strangers, but for whatever reason the bastard’s taking quite a liking to you.
Freeman: What’s not to like? But no, I’ll pass. I’ve got a lot of work to do and very little time to do it in.
Dune: What kind of work?
Freeman: Ah, it’s nothing…well, a local tribe’s been giving me problems. Hunt starts in the morning – take no prisoners style, real hardcore shit. I’d invite you along but you’ve got a hunt of your own to worry about.
Best of luck in it, Dune – not that you’ll need it. Ice Beckman’s a powerhouse brawler, and he became World Champion by proving he was the best at what he does. Was, Dune…Ice was the best brawler. But you’re better. I don’t say it to provide you with false hope – hell no. I say it because I’ve witnessed your fighting style first hand. You do Ice Beckman better than Ice Beckman. You’re bigger, more powerful, and you’ve got more to prove. Now go do it.
Dune looks Freeman in the eye and shakes his hand, then turns and begins walking toward the door in the sand. Just as he turns the knob to enter inside, Freeman speaks up again.
Freeman: I believe in you, Dune. You’re not the only one in the world who does. Remember that.
Dune turns and looks at Freeman, but not for long. After the slightest of nods, he opens his front door and closes it behind him.
His Rottweiler is waiting inside the front door to greet him as soon as he walks in. He gives in to the dog’s playful nature and within seconds he is wrestling around on the ground with his closest and oldest companion. When the dog begins to growl, Dune asserts his dominance by pinning him until he calms down. A, “Want some food?” gets the dog’s attention away from the tussle, and Dune gets up and walks down the ramp toward the kitchen.
Soon the dog is happily devouring his meal, and Dune walks out of the kitchen and enters his training room. He makes his way over to the heavy bag and glares at the picture of Natural ICE Beckman’s face taped to it.
Dune: “The ICE age cometh…” – no, Ice, that’s not how it works. You see, when an ice age ends, it doesn’t “cometh” back in the blink of an eye. It takes a while for the necessary conditions to develop. And in the meantime, what’s left of the ice can’t regain its hold on the world it once enveloped. Take this desert for example. Over the eons, it’s been covered in ice more times than you can count. And look at it now – even water burns up out here, let alone ice. It’s the heat that keeps the ice at bay in between ice ages, Beckman – the fire. Heat and fire have molded me into the man I am today. I withstood their wrath, yet Sunday you will not withstand mine.
Don’t let what Pat, Craig, and the rest of ICEnation is saying go to your head though. Don’t think for one second that I’m not capable of hanging with the best the WCF has to offer – yourself included. I'm not here to boost you up. I’m not here to drop this match and allow you to finally get a victory after losing the World Title. I’m not here to fill your head with notions of soon-to-be reclaimed grandeur. This won’t be a one-sided squash match, whether you consider it one or not. Victory won’t come easy. It’s going to be an all-out war, and the better man’s going to come out on top.
You might whip my ass a little bit, but I’ve claimed victory after being beaten up before. I can take a beating, Ice. The question is…can you? Sure you can – you’re the former WCF Champion. How else do you scale that peak without taking more than your fair share of bumps and bruises? I guess a better question would be…can you take a beating when I’m dishing it out? You’ve had some tough matches in your time in the WCF, no doubt about it, but if I have my say, ours may prove your toughest yet. No titles are on the line; no mystique of a PPV Main Event surrounds our match this week. We’re not fighting for any other reason than to determine who the better man is on a given night, that night being this Sunday. I’m showing up with one thing on my mind: whipping your ass and walking out with the win. And when I set my mind on something, you can bet the house that shit’s getting done.
Freeman said it best: I do what you do better than you. I’m better at being ICE than ICE himself. I’m not talking about chugging beer and playing at comics. I’m talking in the ring. I’m talking about standing toe-to-toe with you and brawling until you’re unconscious and bleeding all over the mat. I’m talking about being capable of straight-up overpowering you and introducing you to a bleak new world of broken bones and shattered dreams. I’m talking about slamming you over and over again until you’re begging me to cover you, begging me to take the day. And I will – but only when I’m ready.
The hourglass is set, Beckman. Our paths draw closer and closer with each grain of sand that falls. And when they intersect...god help you.
Some say it would take hell freezing over for me to beat you. The idea shouldn’t be so farfetched to them, seeing how that’s where you’ve been since Bobby Cairo won the title. Not only did you lose your belt, but a big chunk of that pride you built up in yourself was torn off, tossed out, and left to rot on the side of a dirt road. I know you didn’t let Cairo pin you…but you certainly let Jay Omega put you down for the 1-2-3 at XIII. You’re not unbeatable, Iceman. If Omega didn’t do a good enough job of proving that at XIII, I’ll make damn well sure it’s conclusive when I’m through with you.
This Sunday at Slam, it’s a springtime snowflake against unharnessed hellfire ; it’s Charles M. Schulz Jr. against fifty megatons of TNT; it’s a sing-along Snowmiser against a Solar-Powered Powerhouse….
…put simply, it’s Ice vs. Fire.
You’ll come to know the true power of fire in those sacred moments in the ring between bells. The wrath that fills the void inside me will serve as fuel, and there will be plenty of that – the reservoir is stocked full. It’s going to be hot in that ring, and you know what they say about not being able to stand the heat. You couldn’t bear it at Timebomb, and there’s no way you’re going to be able to hang with me after I shroud you in an infernal sea of woe.
Now the fires of the sun rise menacingly on the horizon, melting all that defined the preceding age.
The reign of ICE has ended; the reign of Fire is set to begin.
Dune sets up and unleashes on the heavy bag bearing the picture of Natural ICE Beckman’s face before the screen fades to black.
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The following is brought to you by “Poets for the Expression of Shitty Things That Happened to Natural ICE Beckman Fans Since the ICE Age Ended” and is not endorsed by Dune.
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The driver of an El Camino beats his wife for fun
And dons a dated Beckman shirt that reads “World Champion”
He swerves to miss a youthful mother carrying her son
Then flips her off and eyes her ass before he pays-to-pump
A stream of ICEmelt rushes from the rooftop overhead
And soaks his sweat-stained t-shirt when beneath the stream he treads
Inside he buys a cup of coffee, gas - a pack of reds
He stumbles back toward the pump half-drunk and all but dead
He needs to light a cig – he sets his coffee near his shoe
Directly underneath the stream of ICEmelt from the roof
And up there in the headwaters, a squirrel that winter slew
Its decomposing corpse and ICEmelt liven up his brew
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A group of teenagers looks down a steep hill’s muddy slope
Where once there was a sheet of ice that melted weeks ago
Yet each one holds a sled in hand – perhaps they’re rather slow
For all wear “ICE-man Beckman” shirts that soon will be outgrown
In unison they dash ahead and at the lip they leap
And landing on their sleds thy slide no more than several feet
Before the greening grass ejects the children from their seats
And sends them sprawling through the air into a tangled heap
A passerby looks down and aims his sleek mobile device
Then posts the photo to the web after some sage advice
Of all the comments, most agree that one is quite precise
The saying we’ve all come to know – the three words: “Down goes ICE.”
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A little boy looks out his window on a starless night
And there he sees the snowman that he’s nicknamed “Natural ICE”
The only remnant of the winter anywhere in sight
He dreams naively it will last the whole of summer’s blight
Its frame is less like Beckman’s, for its warped and shrunken down
Resembling Mr. Peanut, sans two legs to strut around
And smiling at its sickly shape, his ears detect a sound
A pickup truck whose driver’s known to terrorize the town
The truck veers off the road into his next door neighbor’s grass
And panic strikes the little boy who screams to see it pass
The pickup blows the ICE-man up because it’s hauling ass
And sprays its icy flesh across the window’s tempered glass