...Baffle Them With Bullshit

[Jay Omega]

.::He stood in the center of the pentagon; the rough uusbu-wood planks beneath his feet creaked with each subtle shift of weight. The twin daggers in his hands deftly wove continuous circles in the air before him, keeping the other two combatants at bay, for now. The barest lapse in his concentration, and one of the reptilian constructs he faced would be upon him; likely leading with the blade coated in the anesthetic agent. The other blades were similarly coated, but with an irritant; even a scratch from one of those would burn like the Pit itself. It was also the antidote to the anesthesia, though, which generally made for some interesting rounds. One could stop the effects of the anesthesia by cutting one's own flesh with the opposing blade, and vice versa. Very rare was the combatant who could make it through even a single round of inwan jyar without being forced to draw his own blood in order to find some measure of relief.::.

.::A warning shot pelted down into the center of the combat zone; the referees had decided that the break in action had gone on long enough. His opponents showed no sign of moving in just yet, which meant the next volley of warning shots would be low-level noci-pulses fired at each of them. He had no desire to throw up, so he went on the attack; he lunged forward at the Reptoid to his left, daggers flashing, then pulled back and spun in the opposite direction as the second Reptoid closed in. He ducked low and swiped out with both daggers, scored a hit across a reptilian thigh. The scales were poor protection against the keen edge, poorer still against the anesthetic. The creature hobbled back, its leg already numbing, and hissed as it pulled its own blade perpendicular across his slice. The Reptoid flexed its leg, but his attention was already back on the first of the creatures; sending a flurry of slices and thrusts toward the lizard-man's chest. The Reptoid avoided contact as best it could as it backed up, when he changed tactics again.::.

.::He leapt into the air with a dropkick and hit his saurian adversary with enough force to send it flying out of the combat zone, and splashing into the corrosive moat. Reptilian shrieks filled the air, some coming from the dying creature, some from the imagined crowd. He landed hard but kipped straight back to his feet, then whirled and sent a dagger spinning through the air. The blade stuck fast in the back of the second creature's throat; it had opened its mouth to let out a victory cry, but the blade had taken its life before it could find its voice. A gong sounded in the blackness, and the fallen Reptoid faded into smoke. So far the training was going well, but he knew he'd have to expand to other methods of combat if he were to help the Core overcome the obstacles placed in front of him. Sadly, the Core didn't understand why this coming battle was so important. Couldn't understand, so long as he refused to accept the truth.::.

.::Irrelevant, at the moment. The Core didn't need to understand, the Core just needed to make sure that certain individuals didn't win. Victory in this battle would be an enormous accolade, as humans measured things, but it wasn't his purpose at this current juncture. His counterpart had let slip some truly troubling information, and if he was to prevent the consumption of the humans' pocket of reality, then he would have to make sure that the proper flow of Time was restored. There was only one person on that physical plane who could help him with that, and material matters kept them at odds for now. This War would have to be fought before anything more could be accomplished in the name of Preservation. Such was existence. He felt a pull in the back of his mind, and knew it was time for another conference. These were getting old.::.

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.::He walked calmly among the flames; they couldn't burn him, he was not of this place. It was a privilege given by his chosen masters that he be able to walk in this place, this private Hell. It was both a reward and an enticement; a reward for his continued service in a realm the Three could not re-enter for another century, and an enticement to complete the goals they had set for him. If he served well, they would allow him to enter this forest in truth; would give him providence over the soul of his host's lost love. And what delightful tortures he had in mind for her, made all the more pleasing by the thought that his host would also join them, and would be forced to watch as he toyed with his new plaything. The thought brought a grim smile to his lips; a smile that widened as his ears caught the high-pitched shriek of a woman off in the distance. It was beginning again.::.

.::He had no need to be there to see it; her ordeal was indelibly etched in his memory, and he could picture every thrilling moment of her unimaginable agony. Oh, how he longed for the day when he would no longer be beholden to the Three; when he would be his own master once again, as he had been before. Before he had been drawn in by an ancient incantation, and bound to an insignificant piece of leather in one of the realms of mortals. He often cursed his own nature and the inherent drawbacks; his susceptibility to to the power of mere words spoken in the proper order. The only upside to that particular problem was that very few people believed such power existed, and were ignorant of how to trap and control his kind.::.

.::It had been purest accident that he had been ensnared; he had been attracted to the rigidly controlled rage of a shadow wraith at first. His consciousness had been loose and abstract at the time, he could only recall vague impressions and emotional sensations, but he knew he had been intrigued enough to linger. Then had come the Purifier and his philosophy of drinking in the pain and suffering of his followers, then unleashing it wholesale on any who refused to bend knee to him. Memories of that time were slightly clearer, though still fragmented. He had lingered then as well, his interest piqued by such an unorthodox religious philosophy. And finally had been the Basilisk, who had inhabited the body of a man while it had walked the mortal realm. The Basilisk had been the final catalyst in the series of events leading up to his imprisonment; had been the one to push his host to the breaking point.::.

.::One arcane ritual later, hidden under the guise of auto-hypnotic suggestion, and he had been caught. But it had turned out more favourably than he could have known at the time; he was more cohesive now, and had access to a physical body. He knew he still wasn't whole, but given his current situation, and the promised pleasures laying in wait, he wasn't sure he wanted to be whole again. Not if it meant giving up what he had acquired, or failing the task assigned to him by the Three. The Basilisk had been there the night he came to be in this form, and it hadn't been long before he'd sought out the other two. That last part had been slightly more difficult, considering their avatars had perished in the meantime; their essence sent back to the smoky chasm of Jiihan. But he had known of the Basilisk's true nature, and it hadn't taken long to convince it that he could be a useful surrogate on this plane.::.

.::He felt a gentle pull in the back of his mind; it was apparently time for another meeting. How bothersome these were. While not as harsh in his calling, the host mortal was just as persistent as the Three, and would eventually send the Other to fetch him if he didn't arrive in a timely fashion. Very well then; he was free to return to his place any time he wished, and the torment found here was everlasting, so his entertainment would remain. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could be back to enjoy her screams.::.

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.::He watched as both the third and fourth walls rippled at the same time, and both his alter egos entered the chamber simultaneously. The Omega Man came forward to inspect the golden triangular symbol etched into the surface of the table and opened his mouth.::.

"Don't. I really don't want to go through this routine every time."

"What routine? I was going to ask which one of us was supposed to represent Wisdom."

"Right. Like you weren't about to ask if we were in Pantheon for the millionth time."

"Ha ha! We wouldn't be able to join Pantheon anyway; you can't grow a beard, and that's a requirement for membership."

"Jeff Purse doesn't have a beard."

"And he's no longer part of Pantheon. Coincidence? I think not."

.::It was impossible to argue against such twisted logic; The Omega Man had a habit of making stretches and leaps of logic, but all too often his explanations made some sort of sense. On top of that, The Omega Man was likely to ignore any counter he might come up with. But he had to nip this in the bud, and move on to matters of importance.::.

"I think the first promo went well. Could have been better, but it was sufficient. Now we've got some of the bigger names to contend with; more imposing figures."

"I think we need to have another talk with your bald buddy; he's got the wrong idea about you."

"Most people do. I don't really care; if they don't understand me, then they can't predict me. Or you. Works in our favour."

"Surprisingly, I agree."

"Either way, the rest of the list is gonna be rough; I suggest you both plot out in advance whatever you've got to say, maybe come up with a narrative premise, or some shit. Here are the names you two will be working with; learn everything you can about them, and go hard. Otherwise we might as well stay home."

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*Our scene fades in on United States Champion Jay Omega, dressed for competition sans facepaint, standing in the center of a wrestling ring in the middle of a brightly lit home gym. Not some lame weight room, I'm talking a full on gymnasium with a ridiculous assortment of fitness and exercise equipment. Most of it is covered in a thin layer of dust, because Jay doesn't use this room often; he prefers to get his training and exercise in real world situations.*

*Regardless, Omega isn't the only man in the ring; he's surrounded by several muscular men, all wearing dark fatigues and black T-shirts with blocky white lettering on them. Each shirt is similar yet different, in that they all bear a name; each one that of a WCF contracted wrestler. And clearly the short Latino man wearing a shirt that says "Corey Black" is not the real deal. And the wiry black man wearing the "Jayson Price" shirt would probably have been a better fit for the Steve Orbit stand in, considering this "Steve Orbit" is Asian. You may have guessed by now; this is one of those lame-ass "training" promos.*

Ajira(offscreen): Bobby Cairo!

*Okay, this stand in is actually pretty good; his skin colour is the same as the man he's meant to impersonate, and he even has a rather impressive beard. Such facial accessories would be discouraged in most militaries, but the Maritopian Imperial Armed Forces are pretty lax about such regulations. Not that you care. Just watch, all right? "Bobby Cairo" steps up into the middle of the ring, and locks up with Omega. Jay transitions into a side headlock into a judo takedown.*

Jay: Bobby Cairo; Hall of Famer. Former World, TV, and Tag Champion. Trained some champions himself. Calls himself the Godfather of Professional Wrestling. They say this cat Cairo is a bad mother--

Ajira(offscreen): Shut your mouth!

Jay: But I'm talkin' 'bout Cairo.

Ajira(offscreen): Then I can dig it.

Jay: He's a complicated man, and no one understands him but his woman.

Ajira(offscreen): Wait, does he even have a woman? I'm pretty sure the guy subscribes to the "fuck 'em and chuck 'em" mentality.

Jay: Whatever. I'm not here to talk about the guy's sex life.

*"Bobby Cairo" rolls to his feet, and charges at Omega with an attempted running enzuigiri. He's not an actual wrestler, though, so he kind of botches the move, and lands heavily on his side. Jay sighs in disgust, and throws a sharp soccer kick into the man's kidneys.*

Jay: Come on, guys, I told you to practice this shit! You think the real Bobby Cairo would have fucked up such a simple move? Dude's not in the Hall of Fame because of his epic beard; he's there because he's damn good at what he does! Let's try for a little more professionalism, shall we? Cairo is one of the top names in the company, a badass in his own right, and one of the biggest threats during this particular match! I can't afford to have a couple of schleps fuck this up for me, by giving such a piss poor rendition of the people I may find myself facing! Either study your fucking source material, or go back to the fucking barracks!

Ajira(offscreen): That's real funny, coming from you. Study the source material, ha! Have you ever watched a Bobby Cairo promo? Scouted any of his matches?

*Omega turns a glower at the camera. Or rather, the camera's operator.*

Jay: That's what these dipshits were supposed to do. If they could actually emulate the styles they were supposed to have been studying, then this little exercise would have been the next best thing to actually being in the ring with the likes of Orbit, or Fly, or Black.

Ajira(offscreen): No it wouldn't. Even if they could manage to copy the styles perfectly, they can't copy the way these guys think. You're fooling yourself if you think this is anything like being in the ring with those guys.

Jay: I said "next best thing", didn't I?

Ajira(offscreen): You should be focusing on being the next "best thing", if you ask me.

*Jay pauses for a moment to think this over, and begins to lean toward agreeing with the sentiment.*

Ajira(offscreen): John Gable!

*The Gable stand in reacts quickly, and locks Omega in a standing crossface chicken wing.*

Jay: Not cool!

*Jay flails about with his free arm to no effect for a bit, then manages to break free with a mule kick to the man's groin. Omega spins around with a knee lift to the bent over man's jaw, then hits him with a lariat to take him to the mat. Jay drops a quick elbow, then rolls out of the ring and leans against the apron.*

Jay: What the hell, dude? You knew I wasn't ready!

Ajira(offscreen): Well, that's your probem. You'd better be ready, come Sunday. You think these guys are gonna announce themselves before they attack? You're a wrestler, not an anime character. You've got to always be ready. For anything.

Jay: That's a good point. I don't know why I thought this idea would work.

Ajira(offscreen): Because we were high as fuck when you came up with it.

Jay: Touché. All right, I guess that's a wrap, guys. You can get the fuck out of here.

*The six other men standing in the ring all salute, then climb through the ropes, and leave the frame. Omega watches them go with a dissatisfied frown, then turns his attention back to Ajira.*

Jay: I think we can still use this; I liked the Shaft reference. Seemed appropriate. We'll just cut it, and clock wipe to the next scene. I don't know what, though. Should I just be boring? I don't have time to set up a Civil War re-enactment, now. Should have done that in the first place. Why are you still recording? Shut it down, and let's get some grub while I think of what to do about--

*Boom; clock wipe.*

Jay: Bobby Cairo.

*Thought I was making a metajoke, didn't ya? There will be plenty of that later, folks; we've still got The Omega Man to deal with. Stick around and enjoy the show, and be sure to tip your waitress. We're now standing with Jay in a small harbour. Omega stands at the end of the wharf, one foot resting on a spool of steel cable with a hand on his hip. The end of a gangplank sits at the right edge of the frame, and a steady stream of dark combat fatigues trudges up and down the ramp; nothing more than multiple pairs of legs visible as the men prepared the flagship of Jay's fleet to cast off.*

Jay: Y'know, Bob, you remind me of a more articulate Buddy Roman. No, that's a little unfair. I phrased it that way because I became familiar with Buddy first. I suppose I should say that Buddy Roman reminds me of a fat, less intelligent, less imposing version of you. But for all your physical differences, y'all sound a lot alike when you talk about me. You talk like I think I'm some dignified, worldly, refined gentleman just because I'm filthy rich. Fuck that! If my parents hadn't died, and had more to do with my upbringing, then yeah, maybe that'd fit. But I grew up in the ring, kicking ass and taking names across the globe. The only thing refined about me, is my fighting style. As for my purchasing this pot paradise? I won't explain all the details concerning my island nation, partly because I'm bound by a non-disclosure agreement, partly because it's none of your fucking business, but I will say that I had no need to conquer this place, and certainly not because someone owed me money. I'm a "payment first" kind of guy; people don't get the chance to owe me money.

*Omega shakes his head, then drops the Captain Morgan pose.*

Jay: Should I tell you just how little about me you understand, Bob? Nah, why spoil the fun? The less you truly know about me, the less likely you are to actually have a chance of understanding what the fuck happened when your geriatric ass gets put out of the match at War. So just keep running your mouth, Cairo, 'cause the only thing thick about you is your skull. For all your past accomplishments, you don't know half what you think you do. Head on back to Poon Guinea, and do us all a favour; drown yourself. And I mean literally. In water, or something. Not figuratively, like drowning yourself in a multitude of cheap, broken women whose lives have given them no better options but to service you for money, or worse, because you simply expect it of them. I prefer to spend time with real women, who deserve the dignity and respect I treat them with. Unlike you, and half the fuckin' locker room, who think women are just walking, talking Real Dolls whose sole purpose is to be a fuckin' cum dumpster. People like you disgust me, Cairo, and I will take great pleasure in personally eliminating you. If someone else beats me to it, oh well. But you're on the short list of people I actually want to knock the fuck out. I don't care if you don't like me; I didn't realize I'm supposed to give a fuck what you think.

*Jay sits down on the spool of cable, and pulls his black cigarette case from the pocket of his black cargo pants. He sparks up a doob, and smacks his lips as he exhales.*

Jay: Holy shit, this is tasty stuff. Ajira, remind me to get a hold of Reb after War; we need to go back and pick up some more of this bud; it's fuckin' awesome.

*Omega takes another hit, then goes off on a coughing fit. The image on screen freezes for a moment, then picks back up after Jay has composed himself.*

Jay: Sorry 'bout that. Now, let's move on, shall we? I really don't want to waste all day talkin' 'bout Cairo. We need a less serious subject, a bit of fluff to fill some space before we get back to the serious contenders. Let's talk about John Gable, shall we? Hi, John. How's that Hollywood thing working out for ya? Landed any big roles lately? No? How about bit parts? Not even some work as an extra? Tell ya what, I own an animation studio, how's about you come do some voice over work for me? Or would you rather continue sitting at the top of the undercard, wrestling nobodies for the lowest belt that's actually considered a title? That's cool with me; I don't want to crush anybody's dreams, unless you're dreaming about winning War, Gable. Then I'll be more than happy to wake you up.

*Omega fills his lungs again, and picks up a few pebbles from a loose pile sitting at his feet. One by one, he begins to pitch the pebbles out into the water as he speaks.*

Jay: Hmm, who's next; Price, or Orbit?

Ajira(offscreen): Uh, there were more people on your list, weren't there?

Jay: Not that I can recall.

Ajira(offscreen): What about the rest of Pantheon?

Jay: Right! Let's talk about Daniel Booker for a moment. I don't know who this guy is, or why Pantheon thought it would be a good idea to bring him into the fold. If memory serves, and by memory I mean Ajira keeping track of these things, Booker hasn't done a whole hell of a lot to earn his place in what was once the most prestigious collection of wrestlers in the WCF. At one point they were practically the Hall of Fame, but now Pantheon is more like a Hall of Mirrors, since all anyone in that group can talk about is themselves. I don't really want to feed into their egos, but I do have to say a few things to Price as well.

Ajira(offscreen): And what about the rest of Pantheon? Corey Black? Jonny Fly?

Jay: What about them? Some guys would make a gay joke about those two, but they've got their own heads so far up their asses there's no room for anything else to slip in. The greatest insult I could give either of them is to just completely ignore them until the bell rings.

Ajira(offscreen): That doesn't sound like a very good strategy. Or like you at all.

Jay: I don't really want to do the usual, dude. Biggest match of the career, remember? So, Jayson Price. I could bring up our first bout together, wherein I walked away with a victory. I could brag about how easy it was to overcome the great Jayson Fucking Price. But I won't. I'll give credit where credit is due, and actually admit that it was a good fight. It could have been better, but neither your head, nor your heart were in it the last time we tangled. I hope that's not the case this time, Price, but the feeling I'm getting is that you're going to phone in another sub-par performance, and the rest of us are going to keep on wondering why the hell you're still employed, let alone a member of Pantheon. Figured they would have dropped you by now.

*Jay realizes his joint has been burning away, then quickly fills his lungs again.*

Jay: I guess that leaves me with Steve Orbit. The Oakland Mack. The big pimpin' purveyor of prostitution. Steve, I'll admit; when I first stepped into a WCF ring, and you were the World Champion, I quickly became a fan of your charisma and in-ring ability. Then I started watching your promotional videos. Much like Cairo, the way you treat women disgusts me. I don't give a shit how you got into the human trafficking business, but there's a ninety-two percent chance it was gang-related. Is that a racial comment? No. It's an Oakland comment. I know you've got a background as a banger, Steve, 'cause I actually do pay attention. Sometimes. But your criminal tendencies ain't the issue here; your broken brain is. 'Cause a man would have to be all kinds of fucked up to think that what you do is anything less than despicable. A real man treats women with dignity and respect, Steve. You're just immature gutter trash in that regard. Sure, you can throw down in the ring, but that's the only good thing about you. Grow the fuck up, and learn how to be a man.

*Omega stands up, and takes another haul from what's left of his joint, then pulls his black leather face mask from his left cargo pocket.*

Jay: All right, I'm getting a little worked up. I think it's time to set sail, and let the Maniac say his piece.

*Jay flicks the roach at the camera and the burning ember hits the lens, sending out a shower of sparks. Digital flames fill the screen, spreading out from the point of impact, and burn for a few moments. When they clear, we find ourselves standing on the foredeck of the Marauder, the Zumwalt-class destroyer that serves as the flagship of Omega's naval fleet, cruising along at roughly 12 knots. Clad now in crimson with his back to us, the Hardcore Maniac Jay Omega faces a man standing on a thick wooden board jutting out from the side of the ship. The man's head is covered by a black bag, and his thickly muscled arms are pulled behind him, wrists bound together. Another length of rope runs from his bound wrists to the nearby gunwale, securely fastened with a series of complicated knots. One of Omega's soldiers stands behind the man, prodding him further out onto the plank with the barrel of his Chinese QBZ-95.*

Jay: Hold.

*The soldier stops prodding, and Omega steps out onto the plank, careful to keep his balance against the strong ocean breeze, and the rise and fall of his ship on the waves. The Hardcore Maniac pulls a mickey of Captain Morgan's spiced rum from his pocket, and tucks it into the crook of the bagged man's arm, then claps him on the shoulder.*

Jay: Give my regards to Davey Jones.

*Omega puts his boot against the man's backside, and gives a mighty heave, sending whoever that was spinning out into the air, then splashing down into the frigid waters below. Half a moment later the line goes taut, and Omega steps back onto the deck, and turns to one of his men.*

Jay: Relay the order: Full speed ahead.

*The Hardcore Maniac turns his masked visage toward the camera, and leans casually against the railing at his back.*

Jay: Zombie McMorris. Gravedigger. Torture. Such threatening names for such threatening people. McMorris speaks of the United States Championship match fought against me; speaks of how by match's end I was barely able to walk away. Yet he neglects to mention that I did indeed walk away, and with the title he held at the time. Yes, it was certainly a hard-fought battle, and McMorris is not merely a racially confused drug addict, as many seem to think. I expect him to dole out a gratuitous amount of pain and violence during this conflict, and will likely eliminate his share of lesser foes. But he has already fallen victim once, and shall doubtlessly do so again. Perhaps not at War, though I tell you this now, McMorris; you will not be the one standing tall once the final bell rings Sunday night. I'm not foolish enough to claim that my victory is assured; the possibility is there, but a match like this relies heavily on chance. I prefer to rely on skill. I don't need a crutch; you won't find me slipping out of the ring to fill my nostrils with stimulants. I recognize that I am not the most likely to prevail, but that is not my goal. My goal is to ensure that certain parties are eliminated, victory is merely an afterthought.

*Omega pushes away from the railing, then turns and walks toward the bow. We follow along a few paces behind, and come to a stop a few feet behind the Hardcore Maniac. Omega clasps his hands together behind his back, and looks out at the twin expanses of blue before him; the cloudless sky above, and the choppy ocean below. Rather than turn to address the camera, he raises his voice to be heard over the waves being dashed apart by the prow of the ship.*

Jay: Gravedigger. A man with everything to lose, it would seem. That's good. A man puts most of what has into a fight when he has nothing to lose, and everything to gain. But the man who has everything to lose fights the hardest, I find. You don't know just what a man is capable of, until you see him at his most desperate. That's what I see in you, Gravedigger; desperation. I see a man desperate to reclaim the glories of his past. Desperate to prove that he can still hang like he used to, to use your own words. Desperate for that one last taste of being called the best in the world. In your attempt to do so, you drone on and on about the past; what people were doing last year, or the year before, sounding like a bad promotion for the WCF Network, which I am contractually obligated to reference. Nine dollars and ninety-nine cents is a pittance; subscribe now.

*The Hardcore Maniac shakes his head.*

Jay: You dismiss people too easily, Gravedigger. Your motivation to win this match is a simple title. Some would say THE title, but such fools measure worth in a different way than I. As I've said, my goal is to ensure that certain individuals do not win, but fortunately for you, Gravedigger, your name is not among them. Of course, I don't intend to hand victory away; just because it isn't my goal, does not mean that I don't intend to win. I've been dismissed and ignored by many of the people appearing in this contest, but after Sunday night, that will no longer be an option. Gravedigger, you want to become World Champion again, but how long before you leave the business once more? You may have liquidated most of your assets and relinquished the funds they yielded, but you do have other responsibilities, do you not? Is your merry little band not currently engaged in twin wars with both Mara Eighteen, and La Sombra Negra? I would most certainly call that a distraction from your purported focus on this far less deadly War. Are you sure you'll be able to keep your mind on the happenings of the match, knowing that I just may send a few tickets and invitations down to Rampart?

*Omega turns around, but doesn't look at the camera. Instead, he rolls his neck which brings a pop from one of his vertebrae, then brushes past the camera heading aft. He continues speaking as we trail along behind.*

Jay: Torture. I must say, upon reviewing some of your past work in the ring, I am impressed with your physical prowess. Your mental acuity seems a little lacking, but intelligence is more of a hindrance in this sport anyway. Torture, you remind me of all the other insects buzzing around this midden heap. All anyone does anymore is suck their own dick, and talk about the past. Do you think I give a fuck what you were doing in Two Thousand Nine? Do you think anyone gives a frozen rat's backside about what you did? This current generation of self-serving imbeciles want instant gratification; no one cares what you've done, only what you're doing. And you, Torture, are doing nothing but harping about the way things used to be, just like Gravedigger. You make so many references to the history of the WCF, I almost thought I was time traveling with Johnny Reb again. Rest assured that I do take you seriously, though. Yours is a name that is not unknown to me, though I doubt you have any idea who or what I am.

*The Hardcore Maniac stops at the stern of the ship, his gaze fixed on the churning wake.*

Jay: Only an arrogant fool claims to be the absolute best, particularly when beset with a slew of opponents one has never faced before. I don't claim to be the best in this sport, merely that I am capable of defeating those who do. Bobby Cairo was too apathetic to bother looking into my history, and merely assumed my credentials are legitimate. Well, I will assure you all that they are. I don't win every match, but sooner or later, I do beat everyone. That doesn't necessarily make me the best competitor, merely a strong one. And not just a strong competitor, but a serious threat to your dream of winning this battle, and becoming World Champion, Torture. Unlike Gravedigger, your name is on my list; I will make it a personal point to ensure that you do not emerge victorious.

*Omega leans forward and takes hold of the railing in a tight, white-knuckled grip.*

Jay: I am also supposed to make mention of Jeffrey Purse, Isaac Salinger, and Oblivion. I don't wish to waste my breath on such unimportant matters, though. Jeffrey Purse; the religious puppet of a religious puppet. Another simpleton who too easily disregards me, and will receive similar treatment. I care nothing for your past accomplishments, Jeffrey, only the now. And right now, I don't consider you a threat. Nor do I consider Isaac Salinger a threat. Another name that is not unknown to me; Salinger is among the least likely to win. Even he recognizes this, based on his refusal to promote either himself or the event. And Oblivion? Not nearly as frightening as all the hype makes IT out to be. I have nothing to worry about from that quarter. I believe this means that I have fulfilled my end of the bargain; leave me.

*The Hardcore Maniac pushes away from the railing, and turns to another of the soldiers scurrying about performing their assigned tasks.*

Jay: It's been long enough; cut him loose.

*The soldier salutes, then jogs off toward the bow. Omega turns his attention back to the camera.*

Jay: I said I'm done. Be gone, lest you be the next to get keelhauled.

*We clock wipe once more, and now find ourselves on a moonlit beach, facing a small square fort made entirely of sandbags. A flashlight clicks on in the fort's interior, sending out a sliver of light through a small space set in the fort's front wall. The camera draws a little closer, then zooms in on the slit, just as a pair of eyes hiding behind a mask fill the space, underlit by the flashlight's beam.*

Jay: Who dares approach Fort Cutoff? That's right, We went there. You had fair warning.

Ajira(offscreen): Really? "Fort Cutoff"?

Jay: Aye, named such because We cut off our efforts to construct a castle. Do you have any idea how long it takes to fill even one bag of sand, let alone this many? It was exhausting! And nobody wanted to help us!

Ajira(offscreen): As I recall, no one knew you were doing this until you texted me "Fort's done, bring the baby."

Jay: Bollocks! We flat out said We were gonna do this!

Ajira(offscreen): And if you were going to build a fort out of sandbags, why did you feel the need to fill the bags yourself? Why didn't you just get a bunch from the guys down at the supply depot?

*The Omega Man pauses at this, and his eyes, the only part of him visible, turn on an angle as though he had tilted his head.*

Jay: We didn't think of that. Well, you know what they say about heiniesight; it's always greener on the other side. Which makes no sense, because what's on the other side of heinies is usually brown. And hey, speaking of brown things that make no sense, let's get this show on the road, and start talking about Jahani al-Reb!

*A click sounds from inside the fort, and "Gonna Fly Now" by Bill Conti begins to play its inspirational tune.*

Jay: We had some fun times, didn't we, Jahani? That awesome trip through time back to the Cretaceous period, when we--

Ajira(offscreen): Wrong Reb.

Jay: Fuckbunkies. Jahani's the Eastern dude, isn't he? All right then. Something something oil sheiks, something something bacon, something something desert. Good?

Ajira(offscreen): Not at all.

Jay: Fine then. As-salaam alaikum, Jahani. First allow us to disabuse you of your ridonculous idea that We take orders from anybody. We might be in league with Smurfette and the rest of the little crew, but We agree to participate, not bow our head and mumble "Yes ma'am". As evidenced last week, when the Core refused to take a swing at the Invertebrate One. We're all man, home slice, and you'd best not forget that. Otherwise, you're likely to find our foot massaging your jaw in a not so gentle manner. Actually, you're likely to experience that anyway, since this is a big ol' free for all, and We're gonna be puttin' boots to asses and faces left, right, and straight down the middle. You ain't gonna be no exception, and once We're done with this match, We're heading to the closest burger joint for a cheeseburger made entirely of bacon. In fact, We think We're going to go so far as adopt a little pot-bellied pig, and name him Jahani in your honour, doesn't that sound fun?

*A few sparks flare up in the darkness of the sandbag fort, followed by the short flicker of a flame. A thin cloud of bluish-gray smoke drifts out of the slit through which we view The Omega Man.*

Jay: From one Reb to the next. Johnny, you arrogant Muslim son of a bitch, what's your problem with bacon, dude?

Ajira(offscreen): Wrong Reb. Again.

Jay: Fuckbunkies. This one's the time traveler? Okay. Dude, first things first; we gotta hang out more. Those things we fought? I finally remembered them from Planar Paleontology; Klantorr species, highly advanced, intelligent, yet barbaric at the same time. They were one of many ancient races capable of not just cruising the stars, but also piercing the fabric of space-time, and visiting alternate realities. They just up and vanished without a trace some hundred and twelve thousand years ago, as your kind reckons thing, but the kicker is that they left prophetic clues that plot out a few important details that We think you should know.

*A short pause, then another cloud of smoke is exhaled into the night breeze.*

Jay: But before we can have a pow-wow, we're gonna hafta throw down. We like you, so We're gonna try reeeeeaaaaally hard to not lambaste you, or anything like that. But if it happens it happens, and We wouldn't hesitate to boot First Citizen Firebug in the junk under the right circumstances.

Ajira(offscreen): I asked you to close the fridge when you leave the kitchen, how does that warrant a kick to the nuts?

Jay: That's not why We did it. It was because you ruined our Karate Kid bit earlier.

Ajira(offscreen): Your fake accent was offensive. In case you've forgotten, again, I'm Japanese.

Jay: The Omega Man don't see skin colour; you's all hoomans. And if all o' y'all looked at each other the same way, there'd be a lot less global death. Why can't we all just get along? Oh right... because that's no fun. Okay, so, boots to asses, plenty of that, who's next? Is it? Can it be?!? Well slap me around and call me "Susan"; it looks like the Whickiff has signed the 'Hoff himself, David Hasselhoff! And in the role of Michael Knight, no less! We wonder if he's going to drive down to the ring in a talking car? Man, KITT was so badass. We always wanted a talking car, but so far they only make 'em with that weird Ghippis lady, and all she ever does is tell me where to go and how to get there. That's not cool, Ghippis. Not cool. Okay, so David Hasselhoff might be real popular in Germany, but he ain't done nothing 'round here as of late. And he's gotta be in his sixties by now, so, really, why is he here?

*Another cloud of smoke drifts out and dissipates.*

Jay: Maybe he's not really contracted, he just got confused in his old age, and thought he was buying a time-share? Hey, and speaking of confused, we've also got Pierce Brosnan to talk about. Dude, first thing We need to tell you; DO YOUR HOMEWORK!!! Eliminations in War can only, repeat only be achieved via pinfall or submission. Throwing somebody over the top rope only puts them out of the ring, not the match. And if you go around trying to chuck people out to the floor, you're only gonna succeed in makin' a bunch of dudes pissy with you, and wasting valuable time and energy. So don't be surprised when someone you "eliminated" hops back in the combat zone, and lays a beatdown on your screeching behind. Might even be us, since We're a little miffed at your lack of understanding on how We tick. You honestly think We'd try to bribe anyone to throw a fight? That goes completely contrary-wise to our stated philosophy of fighting peoples who is at their bestest. If anything, Mister Bond, We'll pay you fifty million czernits to bring everything you've got to this fight.

Ajira(offscreen): That might have more effect if you offered him something of real value. Like real money.

Jay: You don't honour czernits here? No wonder that guy at the taco dispensary threw us out! All right fine, what do you use? Dollars, right? How about ten of them, is that good?

Ajira(offscreen): Ten dollars? That's not a bribe, that's an insult.

Jay: Eleventy billion?

Ajira(offscreen): Not a real number.

Jay: To the Pit with it; Brosnan, fight with all your heart, and We're more likely to reward your effort. Try to fish for a bribe, and We're just gonna laugh at you. Now, who's left?

*One last cloud of smoke is blown out through the viewslit, followed by the cigarette butt itself.*

Ajira(offscreen): Pretty much just your group members. Unless you want to address people like Randall Kash, Greenfever, or Kevin.

Jay: Kevin who?

Ajira(offscreen): No last name listed.

Jay: Meh. Let's wrap this up by having a few words with our compatriots, our compadres, our fellow members of the newly formed group; The Cheese Monkeys!

Ajira(offscreen): I'm just going to assume that's not the real name.

Jay: That's probably a good call, since We just made it up now, and haven't discussed it with anyone. So, on to my fellow Cheese Monkeys, Smurfette, Shrek, and Uncle Fester. Let's take a twisty step back, and have a few words with Ricky Richard-o. But first, it's time for a DANCE BREAK!

*The Omega Man bursts up through the roof of his little fort, scattering loose sand into the wind. "Gonna Fly Now", which had been on a loop, suddenly switches to "TIK TOK" by Ke$ha. The Omega Man starts grooving like he's John Travolta with a bad case of Saturday Night Fever; shimmying his hips, pointing his fingers, the whole bit. He does a quick spin, then drops down trying to do the splits, but bags himself on a toppled support beam that became dislodged from the wall when he burst through the roof. Omega lets out a yelp, and falls backward into the fort, out of sight.*

Jay: We're okay!

*The music stops, thankfully, and The Omega Man stands back up, though his right hand is still clutching his groin.*

Jay: Totally meant to do that. As part of our... pain tolerance training. Yeah. So, where were We? Right! Uncle Fester! Now, you had some interesting things to say about the Core, and... well, honestly, We can't disagree with what you said. We're probably not going to win War, but We definitely could buy a rival company, give ourself the top tier title, and then bomb a small island. Actually, that last one sounds like a lot of fun. Come to think of it, win or lose, We think We're gonna bomb an island after War. Thanks for the idea, dude!

*The hand clutching his groin changes from just holding, to lightly massaging.*

Jay: There's also Shrek to deal with. Now, don't get offended at the reference, We don't think you're ugly. Well, We don't think you're attractive either, but We're not likening you to an ogre, is what We're saying. But you gotta admit, you're both big, brawny, bald, and Scottish, so it's fitting. Skin's not green though. Would you consider wearing bodypaint? It would make this reference waaaay more relevant retroactively if you could do that. Irregardless, the dilly-o with you, Mack mac, is the same as the one on offer to the rest of our crew; We ain't gonna come a-hunting you, if you don't come a-hunting us. Let's try and make sure that one of our team members is the one going to One. We can eliminate the crap out of everybody, then once it's down to just us in the ring, we can fight among ourselves to see who the next number one contender is gonna be.

*The massaging hand creeps up toward the waist of the Omega Man's camo cargo pants, and begins to slip inside.*

Ajira(offscreen): Whoa! Keep it PG-13, man! Hands where I can see them.

Jay: Dude, We hurt our nutty-buddies. Gotta check for lumps.

Ajira(offscreen): We both know that's not what you were doing.

Jay: We know nothing of the sort. We do know that the only person left on our list is Smurfette, though. And We also know that We've got sand between our butt cheeks. So let's make this last part quick, so We can get back to building a fort made out of... oh yeah, I already did that. Well, all righty then, what have We got to say to the Blue Lady?

*Omega's hand begins to drift toward the waist of his pants again while he thinks.*

Ajira(offscreen): Jay!

Jay: Sorry! We were thinking of what We'd like to do, not what We'd like to say. Uh, maybe you should edit that part out once We're done.

Ajira(offscreen): I'll think about it.

Jay: Don't think too hard, might blow a brain cell! Zing! Now, about the Strong Arm of the law, the Champion of the People, and currently the only person on the roster who not only has boobs, but the other appropriate parts as well. Yes, that's a jab at all the chubsters in the locker room who have man mammaries. Man-maries. Dude boobs. You know what We're saying. Point is, Smurfette's not some delicate little flower that's going to get trampled under the stumbling hooves of the ungainly beast known as Man. Nonononononono... See, just that fact that she's still around after all that's happened proves that she's one tough son of... nothing, because she's a she. But she's got the skills to pay the bills, else We wouldn't have decided to roll with her. Big plans this lady has, and We're more than happy to be a part of them, because most of 'em involve beating peoples, and that's always funderful. Okay then! So, Smurfette, same deal as the rest of the Scooby Gang; We don't expect you to help us, don't expect too much help from our direction, and let's make sure one of our number is the last one standing. That's it, that's all, We're outta here!

*The Omega Man ducks back down behind the wall of sandbags, and the scene fades to black.*