Cadavers (Slam U.S Contenders RP)

[David Sanchez]

“Every act of creation, is first an act of destruction.”
– Pablo Picasso
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Cadavers

“There are few things I love more in life than the smell of dead flesh and formaldehyde, but you my dear, are one of them.”

David Sanchez stands in the center of a circular, refrigerated room with Lady Knives at his side as has become the standard of late. No fancy suit is present upon his skin today, the trademark purple tie left at home in the dresser to be worn on a different occasion. Sammantha is cuter than usual, less threatening. Her jet black hair tied back and away from her face. Where there was once eyeshadow, mascara and various other beauty products to amplify her features, today there is nothing. No lipstick, not a lick of foundation, yet her emerald green eyes still radiate under the strip lighting which hangs down from the ceiling, saturating the whole room in a white light. Where there once would have been a black strapless top and a skirt or pants, today there is only light blue medical scrubs which cover her whole body, hiding the curves which she would usually have loved to show off. Her hands show-off only skin visible, the pale pigmentation of her flesh sparkling under the intense brightness being beamed down from above. This quickly changes though, as she removes her trifecta of rings, the first a platinum wedding band, the second an engagement ring, and finally the eternity ring she was presented with last week. All three of these sentimental pieces of jewellery are set with emeralds to match her eyes. They are carefully placed gently into a metal dish on top of a steel table that is strewn with various surgical tools, dishes of fluids and two clipboards. She pulls a vinyl glove first over her left hand, followed by her right and turns to smile at her husband.

She approaches her man with a softness, and places his hands into her own, removing the wedding band from his ring finger and setting it in the dish with her own treasures before turning back around to await instruction. David examines the tan line on his finger with a contemplative frown, this was the first time he had removed the ring since they day of their wedding, and it would be the last. He clenches his fist and loosens it before holding his hands in front of him and spreading his fingers out flat. Dressed in the same light blue medical scrubs as his soulmate all be it in a much larger size he looks somewhat like he could actually be a doctor. Atop the scrubs is a white doctor’s coat, with a stethoscope draped around his neck and a pair of thin-framed eyeglasses to create a further illusion of intelligence that one could be forgiven for mistaking as arrogance. His turquoise eyes focus in front of him, staring down at his hands as his wife approaches and begins to slip a similar pair of polyvinyl gloves over his hands to the ones she is already wearing.

“Is everything prepared nurse?”

“We’re ready to begin when you are... Doctor Sanchez”

The plague smiles at his wife, they were prone to a bit of role play in the bedroom but not like this, never while the cameras were present. They had built a reputation for being an honest reflection of themselves for better or worse, despite what the world may think as they peer behind the curtain and into their lives. Around the circular walls of the room, embedded into the architecture of the building itself are thirty or forty steel drawer-fronts; a morgue. They were standing in a morgue. The chill of the air, the surgical cleanliness of the place and the presence of these drawers was enough to give it away. David’s breath turns to water vapor as he exhales, his hands trembling a little from withdrawl as he walks forward between another two steel tables, these ones containing something else, a mass of mystery cloaked by two identical sheets, until he is in the dead center of the room. Sammantha remains still at the first table, looking down at all the shiny instruments which sparkle back at her as the light reflects off of them. Spotless, the room was immaculate, pristine even. Not a particle of dust dances through the air, not a smudge on the walls, not a scuff on the cold, tiled floor beneath them. He paces back and forwards for a moment, looking from left to right at each of the cloaked tables, as though he is trying to decide between them. At last he makes up his mind and chooses the one on the left, smiling a silent command at his life partner who passes him one of the clipboards at once and shuffles back to the table of infinite horrors, her eyes almost perverted as she studies the various knives and cutting implements. His eyes however narrow as they fixate on the literature in his hands and read the words aloud so that his wife can hear, in a methodical, emotionless voice.

“Subject three four one seven. Young, Adam. Male. Six feet, four inches. Two-hundred and thirty pounds. Caucasian American male. Last known to be residing in Abilene, Texas. Blood phenotype; A negative. Shaved head. Distinguishing tattoos on both arms, bearded complexion, brown eyes. Cause of death: multiple gunshot wounds to the lower abdomen caused by an unknown assailant of African American skin color in a retaliatory shooting.”

Sammantha nods her head as David finishes reading the clipboard to her, confirming that the information he has in front of him is relevant to the matter at hand. She approaches her husband again, removing the clipboard from his hands and setting it back down next to the other upon the stainless steel table she seems to be guarding. David tugs at the sheet, removing it from the table completely and revealing a cadaver, a dead body, a once thriving organism now condemned to be poked and prodded in the interest of furthering medical science. This is no Joe Everyman though, this is a lookalike for the real “Redneck” Adam Young, one of the men David will face on Sunday in a match to decide who will get the first crack at the newly crowned United States champion, Thomas Uriel Bates. The resemblance is remarkable, a sick and twisted work of art. Even in death he smelled of moonshine and farmyards. The body is rigid, flat and its skin has turned blueish grey, suggesting among other things that this man has been dead and kept in the cooler for quite some time. It must have taken David a long time to find a spitting image of his opponent but that was never important to him, the work he displayed in the squared circle was all he sought praise for, how he spent his spare time was nobody’s concern but his own.

“Nurse, could you hand me the bone saw please?”

“Certainly doctor.”

Sammantha turns to browse the table behind her, with the cool air brushing against her body and covering the skin on her hands with gooseflesh as she rests one palm on the table even through the thin vinyl glove. The other hand now clasping the cold metal handle of the aforementioned bone saw. She feels the weight of it in her hand and admires the twinkle of the metal as it is lifted into her grip, causing the light to reflect off of it as she walks across to her husband and passes the cutting utensil to him. Wasting no time, David takes it as his own and traces the serrated blade across the shaved forehead of his cadaver, not applying any real pressure yet but simply slicing hard enough to lacerate the flesh. No blood seeps from the cut, another indication that this poor corpse, posed to act as a message has been deceased and preserved for quite some time before Mr Sanchez, or Doctor Sanchez rather, has begun his sadistic postmortem mutilation. Knives smiles as David presses down harder now, sawing at the flesh of Adam Young’s brow until eventually the scraping of metal on bone begins to resonate around the room. The expression on his face is almost tantric as he feels the bone splinter and split under the weight of the pressure he applies. No finesse is present, this wasn’t exactly the professional field in which David found himself most experience. Instead of surgical precision, he is seen cutting with hacks and right-angled sawing motions, the way a carpenter would chop a section of timber in a construction project. Next comes the squelching, this is only temporary though as the sturdy blade glides through brain matter like a knife through warm butter before scraping again at the other side of his victim’s cranium. Finally after two solid minutes the cut is complete. David grabs a handful of our imposter Adam Young’s beard and twists at the top of his head the way one would expect to open a stubborn jar of preservatives and pulls the head apart, holding the uppermost portion of scalp up to study it for a few seconds, before dropping it onto the tiled floor with a splat.

“As you can see, the brain is critically undeveloped in the optical lobe, or cortex if you will. This would explain why he sees only what he wants to. Facts and statistics would have been irrelevant to this man. The world a mere fantasy created by his own thoughts, rendering him anti-social, ill-prepared and difficult to get along with. The same sort of defects you can find in the brain of somebody whose mind has been warped by excessive use of hallucinogenic drugs, or in that of an overly imaginative six year-old. Nurse, a scalpel and entero-tome if I may?”

“Coming right up, Doctor Sanchez.”

Lady Knives delves back into the table of knives, chuckling at the irony as she does so. Allowing her hand to float over the various tools her husband will use to poke, prod and defile this dead body. Finally she grasps delicately at the handle of the thin, yet razor-sharp scalpel and waves it to and forth a few times, slashing softly through the air as the blade makes a swishing noise. She continues to scan the table before picking up the entero-tome; a squared pair of scissors used in autopsies to cut through muscle and flesh alike. Sammantha walks back towards her husband, kicking the discarded portion of skull and scalp against the far wall of the room with a crack, a splat and then a smile. She places scalpel in her husband’s hand, who immediately slices into Adam Young’s optical lobe, found in the back of what remains of his skull, removing it in a few simple slices before squeezing it in his palm, allowing his fist to close around this defective part of his cadaver’s brain.

“This, right here, is a waste of a brain, it would have been better served as sweetbreads than put to use in its intended role, this man had no use for eyes, and therefor he had no need to see. There are blind people in the world who would gladly give their left leg to witness the beauty of a sunset, the cascading aqua of a waterfall or see the face of their children for just a solitary minute. Yet here we have a man with no obvious disability who squanders the gift of eyesight by seeing the world only as he wants to. It’s a shame really, and he should have stopped to look, to think, to appreciate the world as it is. It is dark, it is dirty and it is smothered in pain and suffering, in love and fear and sorrow. All of it, every inch of this planet is drenched in beauty, you just have to see the bigger picture, and that, that is something which dear old Adam Young could never do. Take the ultimate Showdown for example. He went into that match with Joey Flash thinking about gaining the winning pin fall, the joy he would feel when the referee lifted his hand after the final bell, which is a thought that came to fruition by way of some miracle. Yet, at the end of the night; what was everybody talking about? It certainly wasn’t Adam Young’s triumph, it was the fact that Joey had easily manipulated him, used him as a pawn to further the shock and awe of the evening’s conclusion. Simple, simple Adam. You completely delusional shell of a, shell of man-child. You will brag and you will flaunt this victory but deep down you know the truth, Flash and Seth played you like a fiddle. You just couldn’t see it. It was staring at you in the face the whole time, begging you to open your eyes, but you just didn’t, you couldn’t, the world is a dark room to you my fallen friend and therefore, you don’t deserve to see at all.”

David tosses the squishy mound of severed brain against the wall, causing Knives to smile at him graciously. He returns the smug grin and drives the scalpel into Young’s eye sockets, slicing off his eyelids one by one. First the left, then the right. He stares wide-eyed through vacant lifelessness at the strip light above which now buzzes as the electricity surges through it. Fluid drips from these most recent of wounds, not quite blood but something else entirely.

“If you would be so kind my dear.”

Sammantha can barely contain her excitement as she takes the extended scalpel from her husband as though it were a diamond ring. She climbs on the table and straddles this corpse with a knee at either side of his chest before turning the blade of the tiny knife to herself and jamming the handle into Adam’s eye socket and popping out the first eyeball with a pivoting motion, followed by the second, only to leave them hanging there, draped over his cheekbones by the ocular nerve. Like baubles on a Christmas tree they dangle for a few seconds before she set the scalpel down and yanks at the nerve, pulling it straight as David snips it with the entero-tome, severing it completely from his face and leaving the lonely eyeball, clasped in the hand of his wife. Repeating the process, they share a maniacal chuckle as the right eye joins the left in the hands of the Demoness.

“People who refuse to see the truth in front of them have no need for eyes Adam.”

David offers his shoulder to Sam who uses it to support her weight as she hops back down from the table, rolling the eyeballs over in her hand like a child playing with marbles. She shows them to her husband, as though offering him a shot of this most wonderful of toys but David simply smiles and looks back down at the mangled face of his cadaver, causing her to walk back over to the table and set the eyes down in a separate metal dish, similar to the one they had placed their wedding bands in earlier before standing at full attention as David begins to stalk around the table, poking and prodding at various parts of this doppelganger’s rigid, rigor-mortis plagued body.

“Epiglottis, the tongue. When used as it was intended the tongue can generate some of the most moving dialogue one could imagine. Some of history’s greatest speakers could attest to this. The likes of Martin Luther King and Che Guevarra inspired millions of men with words of action, words in the interest of change and revolution. The world would be a depressing, silent abyss without spoken word, without vocal harmony set to instruments, there would be no singing, no songs to be sung. Only the crash, clatter and twang of guitar and drum. No lyrics to relate to, no voice to connect the artist to the listener, to share a common bond. Yes the tongue is truly a beautiful gift when used correctly, but have you been doing that Adam? Have you been helping anybody with your words? Inspiring? Serenading? Has he my dear?

“No he has not, he’s a hatemonger. Spewing his particular brand of bullshit around like a fucking Aryan evangelist.”

“Precisely my dear, and we can’t have that now, can we? Could you pass me the mouth brace? Come to think of it we really should have brought an open mouth gag.”

David stops at Young’s head again, jamming the fingers of one hand into his nostrils whilst pulling down on his chin with the other, his thumb poking into the now secreting, empty chasm where his eye used to be. His gloved thumb is soon saturated in thick, arterial gravy that had been lying dormant, congealed in the body since its heart now ceased to beat, preserved like leftover lasagne in a sealed tub, in the fridge. A fitting analogy. Our cadaver’s mouth is pulled open to expose his teeth and tongue, the enamel rotted and ravaged by plaque, just like the person it is meant to personify. As he holds the mouth open, Knives emerges from over his shoulder, squeezing her body in-between her husband and his pet project to jam a metal brace into his mouth, allowing her husband to remove his hands whilst the mouth remains propped open by a curved, steel dam. They pause, frozen position for a second as Sammantha brushes into David inappropriately, a cheeky smile on her face as she does so, before returning to the table and the background. David this time follows her back and grabs himself a larger than average set of tweezers, which he keeps in his left hand as he scoops up the already bloodied scalpel with his right. Venturing into our Adam Young lookalike’s mouth with the tweezers at haste he wastes little time, and spares little concern in pinching the tip of his tongue between the metallic pincers and pulling it up with a yank so hard that it lefts his corpse’s head and neck off of the operating table. He begins to gently slice at the various nerves and veins on the tongue with his scalpel, delivering another sermon as he smiles crudely at his handiwork thus far.

“My deepest apologies Adam, now where was I? Ah yes the gift of speech, perhaps the ability you abuse more than any other. This is a power which stems from your frontal lobe, another corner of your deformed brain that you seem to abuse as you see fit, but the real important body part involved in speech is the tongue. You see, even without the frontal lobe the vocal chords will continue to vibrate so long as the brain stem remains attached to the rest of the body, random grunts and moans could still be heard, and frankly, I consider even the noises of Neanderthals to be too much of a blessing for you. The hate you preach will not go unpunished, the words of backwoods Luftwaffe loving yokels and ‘shiners, of racism, of homophobia and the rest. For every action, there are no equals and no opposites, we don’t play by your make-believe Christian God’s rules in my church. This is the house that Sanchez built and this is my gospel truth, my just punishment and my salvation all at once. Stepping into the ring with you, after the way you speak of your superiority, your connections to the boss, your bullshit belief system is going to be a blessing. I just wish this really was you on this table so I could sever your Vallecular and your Glottis glands, slice your vocal chords and rupture your Ventricles, like so.”

David takes a break from his tirade to finish the removal of his cadaver’s tongue which he holds up to the light as more he shoots another look at his wife who smiles back before walking across a and taking the dis-attached organ and tossing it into the dish next to his eyeballs. David wipes the tweezers and the scalpel on his white, doctor’s jacket, staining the fabric, with a dark, congealed fluid that would once have been flowing, crimson blood. Satisfied that his demonstration of how to silence a man who talks too much is complete, he begins to talk once more, staring down into Adam’s empty eye sockets as he does so, as though he were still making direct eye contact. He speaks with a directness and reminisces on some of Young’s rantings of recent weeks, his tone of voice criticizing every opinion and analyzing every syllable, judging them as wrong, as lies and slander as speaks.

“Within the last month alone you’ve abused the power of speech to the point of no return, you have committed verbal atrocities and generalized stereotypes to the point that on Sunday, you will receive a reckoning the likes of which will keep you mute for a millennia. You’ve slowly but surely assassinated the market, one segment at a time. Women don’t like you because you once said that a female participant in a battle royal would most likely be menstruating and therefore too distracted to compete, that pretty much cost you the support of any self-respecting woman on this planet, with the exception of course of that spooky, blonde bitch following you around that you’ve probably got hooked on meth so she stays close. You’ve used words like fucking ‘tard to describe that, completely misplaced and most likely purchased in some sort of slave-trade; Asian guy following you too. I’m not even going to touch that but yeah, bye-bye Asian market, see you later handicapped fans and sympathizers with such. You are a public relations nightmare with a microphone in your hand from a strictly business perspective, perhaps you should just stop speaking all together and start writing letters to your thirteen bald, swastika-loving cousins in Three Rivers Federal Correction Institute or wherever they’re serving their sentences after all those black people started going missing. Your words sicken me, and your whole fucking being offends me, even here gazing at this mutilated replica I want to chop into wafer thin, hillbilly rashers, fry you like bacon and feed you to third world. Another thing I don’t understand is how you can be so sure as to tell people of your friendship with the boss, that’s another misuse of a voice right there, but you know that right? You can’t honestly think the man who pays you, sees you as an asset given the fact that you couldn’t fill a backwoods barn, let alone an arena. Nobody pays to see Adam Young, and Seth is not your friend. You were used to serve a purpose and you barely managed that. Had it not been for Joey Flash being in the match, you wouldn’t have even been on the televised broadcast, you’d have been wrestling Bubba Jones on the pre-show, or more accurately; losing to Bubba Jones on the pre-show. You lie and you rant and you rave, but not anymore. You will be silenced with a single kick to the skull just like everybody else who’s got in my way so far. Sent back to the Cahulawassee River camp with your Deliverance starring in, incest-loving, brother-uncles. Where you can get back to spitting in a bucket and hunting homosexuals. You’re speaking your last words now Adam, choose them wisely because they will be the last words you ever expel from your colon.”

“It’s time we bring the point home my love, the other one is starting to thaw.”

“Of course, sweet heart, could you pass me the skull chisel and mallet my dear nurse, and assist me in positioning the apparatus?”

Smiling her delight at this Sammantha fetches the correct tools and scurries to her man’s side as he positions himself further down the table, positioned now in front of Adam’s legs. She hands the mallet to her husband and smiles at him, receiving the same gesture back as she places the sharp point of the spiked chisel into our imposter’s kneecap and holds it there as David draws back the weighted metal, flat-head hammer. With one smash, and a crack he slams the hammer down with force, completely shattering the patella and piercing through the muscle, penetrating inside the flesh like a dagger into dough. They share a look of satisfaction as she wiggles the chisel loose with a bit of a struggle and leaving, a gaping mess of broken bone, cartilage and torn flesh. Sammantha wipes the chisel on sleeping beauty’s beard and follows her husband around the table with a smile as wide as his own. She positions the makeshift spike in the same way once more, jabbing the knee with the very tip of the tool but this time David begins to speak before he drives the hammer down.

“Do you know why I picked the knees Adam? I picked the knees because you are a fucking idiot that’s why. You’ve been here on and off since two-thousand and nine and yet you still haven’t used your legs to do the only redeeming thing you can in your pathetic, miserable career; walk the fuck away. It would almost be enough to make you a comical footnote in the history books, but no you keep your knees together and you stand still. Perfectly fucking still. There’s still time though Young. You can still walk away. At this point nobody would blame you, it would be performing a service to the good citizens of earth. Walk away and die alone at the end of rope in your father’s tool-shed, do one decent thing before you die and free us from your hateful half-existence. I know, I know, short of a few shitty title-reigns back when the talent pool was as shallow as your gene-pool, this is pretty much the best run of your career, a reasonable showing in a Battle Royale full of nobodies and aging relics and a forgettable fight with a forgettable face in Joey Flash. Bravo! Why walk away now right? When everything’s going so well, right? Wrong. Bend your knees Adam, bend your knees and walk out the building on Sunday. Don’t even come down to the ring, it’s not a safe place for you. This little joke has gone on long enough, your little streak of good showings evaporates from the face of the earth faster than your credibility did when they gave you a microphone.”

David swings the hammer up and smashes it down the same as before, causing the chisel to shatter the kneecap again and lodge itself in the wound it has created. Knives begins to pull at the handle to retrieve the tool but this time David gently grabs her hand and urges her not to, before simply pushing the body off of the table and onto the tiled floor in the middle of the room beside the other identical, cloaked table to how this one had been arranged before the big reveal. Young’s duplicate hits the floor with a thud and flop his front, mangled face further distorting as it is smashed into the merciless surface of the floor. As he slides the wheeled, now weightless operating table out of the way and crashing into the far wall of the room next to all the parts of Adam’s anatomy that David deemed simply as useless he looks down at his masterpiece and mutters a phrase, mocking the fallen.

“Redneck… down.”

With the vision of Young’s motionless body sprawled across the floor like a bearskin rug the couple impersonating pathologists share a tender moment of silence, their trademark moment between moments. They meet at the eyes and smile at one another, Knives’ fangs showing slightly as she does so. Crossing the room towards the second table, David seems to regain his composure with every step, calming to the point of his usual sedated state which is complimented by the doctor’s apparel which adds a certain sophistication to his image, even amongst all the body parts, in a room of refrigerated corpses and under an industrial strength light fixture.

“Could you grab me the other chart please Nurse Knives?”

“I thought you’d never ask my sweet.”

She swoops back to the still stocked table of utensils and retrieves the second chart, pausing for a minute again to make sure it is the correct data. She browses it swiftly, confirms its relevance and rushes back to David who is now standing at the other side of this mysterious table, his hands tugging at the sheet already and slowly unveiling another equally horrific sight. There lies Spencer Adams, or the closest possible double of said specimen. His skin is pale, even more so than Sammantha’s. In this lifeless cadaver, it would certainly appear obvious that this particular corpse has been in the refrigerated drawer a little longer than the Adam Young doppelganger. David paces around the table once more, his eyes not straying away from his plaything. Sammantha raises the chart in her hands to get his attention but only then does he break his gaze. The cadaver was a perfect match again; barely breaking six feet tall, ten pounds short of the two-hundred mark. It had Spencer’s youthful good looks and even in death a kind of frozen in time smile, carved eternally onto his face like the scars of a burn victim. Knives passes him the chart, which he receives with a slight smile, a simple cherry on the top of his overall expression of excitement. He was more interested in this subject, which much is clear immediately as he is seen delving into the details on the chart, studying every letter, every diagram and every punctuation mark. He pauses for a second, cough and begins to speak again in monotonic doctor’s voice he had done the first time, robotic almost with his phrasing.

“Subject three four one eight. Adams, Spencer. Gender undisclosed. Six feet, one inch. One hundred and ninety pounds. Caucasian American male. Last known to be residing in Chicago, Illinois. Blood phenotype; A positive. Short brown hair. No visible distinguishing tattoos or scarring on body with the exception of a cattle brand upon the left posterior cheek reading 'T.U.B.' Clean-shaven complexion, brown eyes. Cause of death: excessive blood-loss from the anal cavity after being repeatedly torture raped by a motorcycle gang.”

David concludes his vocalization of the words on paper in front of him then proceeds to approach Knives at the table of horrors, setting the chart down atop the other and lying it flat. He surveys the various tools for cutting, snipping and otherwise cracking open the human body like a piñata before allowing his eyes to fall back onto a particular piece of equipment he has already made good use of today; the bone saw. He lifts the weight of this item into his hands once more and walks back over to Spencer’s motionless doppelganger, pressing down on his head in the same manner he had done with Adam Young. At first he simply traces a line on his head, indenting a line that will act as a guide into his cadaver’s brow with a series of slight slicing motions which cause the serrated teeth of the saw to split and lacerate the skin. Leaving a prominent line for him to make his cut. He smiles at his wife and motions for Sammantha to help him to hold this corpse steady whilst he makes the cut, an action which she wastes no time in performing. David lifts the saw again into the wood and angles his hands for some human carpentry, pushing down so hard on the bridge of Spencer’s nose as he saws into his skull that an audible crack of breaking cartilage is heard, and suddenly his nose is deflated, broken and smudged to one side. He continues to saw and rip through skin and muscle, through brain and bone with the various cracking and squelching noises we can now recognize from before. Not quite as thick-skulled as his counterpart it would seem though, David makes the cut around a minute faster than he had with the other cadaver, tossing our lookalike’s scalp and the lid of his skull into the pile of discarded body parts against the back wall of the morgue. Knives relinquishes her grip on the corpse, leaving hand-prints on the pale blue shoulders where she had been applying her body weight and walks around to the top of the table where her husband is already studying the inner-workings of his brain. He looks up at her through the eyeglasses and makes another reasonably simple, yet skin-crawling request.

“My love, could you hand me scalpel again please.”

“Certainly Doctor Sanchez, just a second.”

True to her word, Samm moves back to the vast inventory of blades and returns brandishing a clean scalpel in front of her husband, which he accepts, blowing her a slight kiss as he takes the slight, yet deadly blade into his hand by the handle and jabs it straight into the front of his opponent’s imitator. He pierces the brain matter, slicing a large portion of brain away from the front lobe and simply scooping it out with his hand this time, the way a child would grab a handful of confectionery from a bucket on Halloween. He holds the spoils of his prospecting up to the light and studies it over, shaking his head to indicate a fault, before showing the mass of light pink brain to Knives who makes various noises which merely appear to back-up David’s expert opinions on the subject of brain surgery.

“Unlike our friend Adam, Spencer; your problem does not lie in the Occipital lobe. There are no problems with your perception. Instead we find your faults in the Frontal Lobe. This area of the brain is the one which we harness in order to move, to solve problems, judge situations, to form opinions, to think and concentrate. It is also the particular part of the brain which gives us our behaviors, personality and dictates our mood. Although it is worth also noting the swelling in the Cerebellum, indicating high levels of fear and anxiety. We’ll let somebody else discuss that with you at length though, today I want to focus on the Frontal Lobe.”

Setting the mass of brain down on the table next to Spencer’s head he begins to slice the organ into thick sections, like he was carving a Christmas ham. Tossing each, individual section over his shoulder as he does so, indicating that this particular part of the dissection is not necessary but something he is doing simply to satisfy himself and Sammantha who looks on through lover’s eyes at the man she fell for all those years ago slashing and slicing at this cadaver, playing pathologist like it was a perfectly normal thing to be doing on a Thursday afternoon.

“As we can see, the Frontal Lobe is completely frazzled, suggesting that you might not have the best judgement, perhaps a few bad choices in your life have been made in your life that you simply don’t have the levels of concentration required to rectify? That could be it right? Wrong again children. You see Adams, I’ve been watching you since I got here, not out of choice but simply out of self-involvement. You and I seem to be compared to one another more often than not. Although we share literally no common ground except perhaps a similar path since joining this company. I refer you back to the brain though, where I’ve taken the direct route through people, you’ve side-stepped and spun around several times, showcased that bad judgement in the decisions you’ve made. Look at the Dark Riders Gang. What even is that? Daddy Bates posted me an invitation last week and I didn’t even deem it worthy of toilet paper. Yet you, with the faulty thought pattern just threw yourself under that bus and got dragged along, caught in the wheels for months. Excellent career move you made there, son. Way to shoot yourself in the foot. It doesn’t just hinder you here though, I’ve seen this poor judgement and lack of steady thought harm you week after week since I got here and made you step your game up if you wanted to stay in the spotlight. Kyle Kemp, what was that about? Two months wasted beating on a guy with the potential of a spade… Just to scrape by and be rewarded with what? This. This match with myself, and dear sweet Adam, whom if he could speak would testify to the fruitlessness of this endeavor. I won’t completely diminish your work though, I mean, the fans seem to have taken to you, as they tend to; like flies to shit. I’ve watched you fail spectacularly every single time you try to take that next step forward, it’s time that you accepted your fate and buy a permanent house in the middle of the show. One thing I will say though Spencer, is that if you have any common sense, even the slightest shimmer of a spark in that brain of yours, you won’t invest too much of your effort in our match on Sunday, but instead aim towards Wednesday and taking the poser’s championship from that sideshow attraction; Alex Richards. If you decide to come into Slam all guns blazing on Sunday, it’s just going to hurt your chances in the only field you have any hope of excelling in; getting sympathy support. Although, with that being said; a broken arm could buy you a few more fans. So, I guess you’ll just have to weigh up the positives and negatives for yourself, to the best of your ability with such deficiencies in your mind.”

Growing bored of playing with the Frontal Lobe, David simply stalks around the table and begins to survey the rest of the specimen in front of him, stepping over Adam Young’s body each time he circles the project in front of him. His eyes are full of contemplative wonder and he occasionally looks towards his wife, as though he is waiting for her to make some sort of suggestion.

“Doctor, why is his gender undisclosed?”

“Good question, my dear and one which I can thankfully answer with less extreme visual aids.”

Stopping halfway up the table, where the cover still hides the lookalike from the waist down David looks with a slight empathy towards the cadaver before motioning for his wife to join him at the table, but informing her, that for this particular assistance, she will require no tools, only herself. Smiling he whispers something further to her before lifting her up onto Spencer’s resting place so that she now towers above him. David nods his head, informing her that she can now begin as he starts to talk again. Using David’s hand for balance she shifts her weight onto her right foot and balances on the crotch of our unfortunate cadaver.

“What do you feel Nurse?”

“Nothing Doctor Sanchez, absolutely nothing.”

Knives tries to shift her weight a few times, stomping her foot down in several different spots where one would expect to find male reproductive organs. With no success though she gives up after a few minutes, punting the toe of her foot into the cadaver’s mid-section to deliver some final humility before she hops down from the table and into her husband’s arms. David immediately sets her down on the floor and ushers her back to the inventory table with a slight slap on her firm, yet somewhat under-exaggerated by scrubs posterior.

“Nothing! My theory exactly. No dick, no balls, not even a vagina. Simply a smooth patch of hairless, functionless flesh. Useful to neither man nor beast. What happened Spencer? Where are your balls? Is that part of the DRG initiation? Does Bates confiscate your manhood and hang it on the wall next to his Civil War memorabilia and fascist literary extracts? Or were you simply born as an asexual husk? Apotemnophilia is the psychological term used to describe somebody who willingly has their reproductive organs removed and I find myself wondering if this is the path down which you have chosen to travel. No testosterone flow, nor estrogen. Nothing, just empty, vacant skin. Your lack of testicles is evident in the way you conduct yourself, but in all honesty I was at least expecting to find a womb in their place. Not this, never this. It explains a lot though, it explains why the audience serve you with pity applause and appreciation for your bravery, the way one has a deep respect for the survivors of terminal illnesses. One only needs to look back a few months to find you being beaten down by Scarecrow for that People’s Championship you seem to find as such an attractive prospect, funny how a mere few weeks after that walking catastrophe drops the title you’re back in there, scheduled to take another shot at it. A coincidence? I think not. You waited and waited for him to lose that belt, then you pounced, like a vulture picking the bones of an already feasted upon buffalo. Congratulations Mr Adams, perhaps you are more intelligent than I give you credit for. Then again, it’s not exactly the kind of move that really gains you any respect now is it? Everybody knows that even Richards will likely leave you crying on the canvas; ball-less and beltless as you arrived. I’ll take you back to the twelfth day of July, another display of your absence of masculinity. You could have ended the whole Kemp thing that very night had you shown even the slightest modicum of manhood. Instead you covered Celeste, some useless slut that spends more time getting her shit pushed in under the Eiffel Tower that you do polishing pole in that little clubhouse of yours. Another sterling display of your capabilities, kid. Kudos. Balls Adams, it’s why I’m the one being predicted as the victor, I don’t shy away from the difficult challenges. I embrace them with open arms and choke them out; like any self-respecting man would do. I know it must be dis-heartening to call yourself the antidote when there is no cure for this condition young man, but just know that you have our deepest sympathies going into the match on Sunday and we support your courage to no end. Then again, disappointing the people who put their faith in you has become a bit of a trademark for you, so take that as you may, my dickless friend.”

Knives giggles manically like a schoolgirl who has just been outed for having a crush on a boy as David concludes this speech and begins to pace around the table again, this time stopping on the second circuit, fixated apparently on his cadaver’s hands. The smile on his face stretches from ear to ear and makes him look possessed under the buzzing strip lights.

“Fetch me the bone saw please my love, it’s time I put an end to this façade.”

Obediently, Sammantha grabs the saw and walks back over to her husband, a little flushed in the cheeks now as though the mutilation she was witnessing was actually providing her with some sort of slight sexual thrill. Noticing this, David lets his hand linger atop hers a moment longer than he had done previously, pretending to bite at the air next to her face in a playful manner, generating a further giggle from his spouse who almost skips back to her position. Tearing his eyes from her, and his thought from debauchery, David looks back down at this mangled cadaver and takes Spencer’s left hand into his own, examining it with disdain like an unwanted prize in a cereal box.

“My… my… what slight and feminine hands you have.”

He exclaims his point with a snort of superiority before pushing the wrist of the doppelganger down hard on the table and beginning to hack and saw at the join between hand and wrist. The sickening sound of bone splintering and flesh being ripped apart by metal occupies the room for a few seconds until he manages to remove it completely. David lifts the severed hand into the air and tosses it aside before beginning another speech as he walks to the other side of the table, clamps his pressure down on Spencer’s wrist and motions for Samm to re-join him. He hands the saw to her and applies pressure, holding the wrist in place as she begins to saw at the same joint as her husband had on the other side. David speaks louder at first, his deep voice booming over the grinding of the stainless steel bone saw making short work of bone and sinew alike.

“It’s time we got rid of these hands Adams, you’ve used them to pull at coat-tails and unsuccessfully grasp at the brass ring for far too long now. I’m sure Bates and Mikey will be disappointed that I’ve limited the ways in which you can grant them a sexual release but I’m they’ll find other ways of maintaining your status of the DRG’s pet gimp. I’ve been watching you Spencer I’ve said it before, I’ve seen these pathetic girl-hands reaching out in front of my own for the last month. Every time I try to reach for something, you’re right there with four dainty fingers and a thumb already grasping the thing that I desire. This ends on Sunday sunshine, and don’t worry I’ll make it quick. I have no desire to spend any longer in the ring with you than is necessary to stuff you and the hillbilly into respective body-bags. My tunnel vision barely acknowledges you, I’m looking right through you and into the eyes of that behemoth, Bates who’s kindly keeping the championship warm for me until I can get close enough to take it from him. Despite my reservations as to where his hands have most likely been. I’ve watched these hands though; your hands be raised in victory as many times as I’ve watched you cover your tears of defeat. How is that any kind of a statistic to be proud of? How are we even considered to be the same caliber of performer? I’ll never understand Seth Lerch. I haven’t been pinned here since the week of my debut, destroying everything in my path whilst you can boast as having lost as many matches as you have come out on top of. You don’t need to look any further than the raw facts to understand that this match is an injustice. The fact that I’m being forced to compete against a backwards-thinking hick and an apprentice fuck-puppet is quite frankly offensive. I’m sure you’ll bring these hands on Sunday though, I’m sure you’ll wave at fans and flail a few slaps in my general direction but that’s not all I’m sure of. I’m sure that when the bell rings at the end of the match when dust settle, it won’t be your hand the referee is raising in victory, and despite what your little internet-dwelling fan-base wants to see, it won’t be you who gets their hands on Thomas Uriel Bates for anything other than your daily dose of sodomy.”

Sammantha completes the amputation now and holds the hand up at her husband who once again looks at it like something he’s scraped from the bottom of his show. She tosses it down onto the floor in a comedic fashion so that it slaps against the back of the motionless, scalp-less head of our Adam Young endorsing cadaver. With one shove again now, David pushes Spencer’s body from the operating table so that it lands face-down with a crash on the floor next to its cohabitant of this masterpiece in the morgue. He joins his wife in the center of the room, sweeping the various medical tools off of the table with the same lack of concern he had done to the cadavers. They clash and clatter against the tiled floor as he lifts his wife by the small of her back. Sammantha’s legs grip around his waist as she is placed with force onto the now clear table and her face is ravaged by his own, their lips and tongues dancing a Tango del Muerte. Turning back to the camera, with Knives’ head on his shoulder, staring into focus in unison to his own, her legs still wrapped around his waist, waiting patiently for him to turn his attention back to her, he delivers his parting words in a tone not unlike the emotionless sermons he had given already.

“The moral of the story here children is that neither of these 'men' have what it takes to stop me. No Quarantine is going to contain this Plague and no Redneck Superkick will touch my jaw. I will not be stopped by either of these men. I’ve been nothing but clear since I arrived here that I did not step back into the ring in order to make friends or breed fond memories. I came back into wrestling to win belts, to hurt people and to cement my legacy as the wrecking ball that I truly am. I will tear through both of these men like the bubonic plague that I symbolize ravaged the population. On Sunday, the only thing that is certain in amongst these medical mysteries is this; the strong will survive, the weak will perish and as always; to the victor goes the spoils. Renew your life insurance policies gentlemen, on Monday morning you will be nothing more than two fresh cadavers in the morgue, and then, and then it’s onto you Thomas, you fucking half-breed.”

Concluding his words to the camera, David turns back to his wife and runs one hand up through her hair, pulling her head back slightly and kissing her with savage passion whilst the other begins to ease its way inside of her light blue medical scrubs. The camera pans down as the scene turns sexual, focusing on the mutilated corpses of the Adams and Young lookalikes who are left to stare on at the scene through, dead, lifeless eyes as the man who torments them further defiles the room. The camera fades to black as they both giggle playfully and the echo of Knives’ parting words rings out as the scene disappears.

“Pass me the mouth-gag, Doctor Sanchez.”