Post by The Polar Phantasm on Nov 8, 2014 7:28:08 GMT -5
From the files of Iceberg-Seven...
\\ ...Iceberg-Seven online; operating at optimal capacity.
GPS data indicates unit operational at coordinates codenamed 'Project: Antarctica', Colorado USA.
Welcome user 'Polar Phantasm'. GPS data indicates your login from coordinates codenamed 'WCF Arena', Pennsylvania USA.
Command?: review file 'Polar Phantasm'
Loading profile 'Polar Phantasm'... profile loaded. Displaying profile 'Polar Phantasm'.
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THE POLAR PHANTASM
Classification: Person/Individual
Real name: Cameron (Cam) James Bankston, Jr.
Profession: Pro wrestler
Title/Rank: none
Known associates: Wife - Crystal Laurendt Bankston/Nightmare. Son - Jeffrey James Bankston. Associates are numerous; former tag-team partners include Nightmare (as the Unstable Elements), Jeff Purse (as the Future Elements) and Jay Price (as Agents of the Impossible)
Faction: none; formerly Pantheon (founding member, 2012) and Cryogenix (founder/team leader, 2013)
Age: 24
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 249 lbs.
Known for: craftiness, heart, precision
Estimated statistics: (ratings in decimal)
* Strength: 6
* Perception: 7
* Endurance: 7
* Charisma: 8
* Intellect: 10
* Agility: 8
* Luck: 9
Notes (Iceberg-Seven): This unit feels a bias toward the Polar Phantasm, perhaps due to his involvement in its creation. As Kid Phantasm, he won WCF Wrestler of the Year 2012; it was his rookie year, and by far his best. As the Polar Phantasm, he met 2013 with a rocky thud. The Phantasm has recently returned to WCF after a long absence; will he affect change as drastically as he did in 2012, or as sheepishly as he did in 2013?
Notes (Phantasm): All I ever wanted was to be a pro wrestler. Once I got to the big dance, all those years I'd spent chasing that dream finally paid off... and once I started working with WCF's best and brightest, I knew I'd gotten in for more than I'd originally paid for. Prison breaks, crazy tournaments, stable wars, kidnapped girlfriends... good times.
Notes (Bonhagen): THIS dude... jesus. When I first wrote as the Polar Phantasm (way way back in the day, when I was a kid) he was never this fun. Finding WCF gave me the idea to reboot my ol' dusty Phantasm into the Kid, and... well, that happened. Now I get to try to write grown-up Polar... as a grown-up. Thanks, WCF! Also, thanks for being a bunch of kickass writers. Y'all make being Polar more fun than I could've thought possible.
...end of profile.
// Iceberg-Seven idle.
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[In 2012, a group was formed in the Wrestling Championship Federation... a group whose presence is still felt today. May 2012 ended with the formation of the Pantheon, Earth's Mightiest Wrestling Stable. A few weeks later, the group swelled to include WCF legends Corey Black and Johnny Reb. Pantheon began as an organization of like-minded individuals that did their best to preserve order in an ocean of chaos. Some of the group fell by the wayside, their lives becoming a burden on their careers. Some of the group splintered off to do their own thing. As is the case with large stables full of legendary heroes, the weight of their collective soul took on a fatal gravity... Pantheon fell in 2013, thanks largely to the influence of one of its founders. The Phantasm returned with a new direction (and a very different 'mission') and absorbed his former Pantheon comrades into an altogether different stable; his sudden disappearance a few short months later forecasted the downfall of his latter day project, Cryogenix. Some of his friends fell off... some of his friends splintered off... but some of them were always there. In days both bright and dark, days Pantheon or Cryogenix, there was always one grim face in the crowd... a rock-solid friend who neither discussed nor hid his feelings. One man whose belief in the Phantasm led him into numerous dangerous situations; one man whose belief in the Phantasm ensured he'd be along for the ridiculous ride. One brutal son-of-a-bitch was always there no matter how hairy it got.]
[The WCF Hall of Fame knows this man as Creeping Death. The WCF fans of today know him as consummate champion and jobber-killer extraordinaire Corey Black... once upon a time, the ASA knew him as Cryogenix-3. As a young wrestling fan, Cam Bankston knew him as a showstopping performer... as an adult, Cam Bankston knows him a fair bit better than that. Stables come and stables go, but some things are much harder to shake... after years of battles fought shoulder to shoulder, these very different athletes have become good friends.]
[Or... have they? As we check in on the Phantasm, we find him amidst the coming of a frigid Scandinavian winter... a winter suitable for few things, perhaps ice hockey or plundering villages. As he has done for much of his life, he finds himself looking up at Corey Black in confusion and wonder. Have the years finally jaded Corey Black to a point where he will no longer accept his old friend Polar?]
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POLAR PHANTASM (volume 3) #2: "Vikings"
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[Scene: DETHFORT, ancient Scandinavian castle and home of WCF's Corey Black; its location is an unmarked island off the coast of Denmark's central landmass, Jutland. Long ago, these waters were rife with recreational and commercial fishermen. A few years back, Corey had the cannons on the roof refurbished; shortly thereafter, DETHFORT became a permanent craft advisory warning. It is a place out of time, an oasis of solitude in a world that has moved on... a world that has forgotten about the simple joys in life (such as owning your own castle, perhaps). It is here that we find the Polar Phantasm, gazing hesitantly at the massive and imposing structure... its polished stone gleams a whitish gleam, much as his hair does if he uses spray in it. Phantasm looks up at the parapets, remembering fully the naked danger he is in being this close to a fully-armed and operational battle station.]
Phantasm: I never should've built him that 'death ray'. Stupid microwave technology... why are you so fun to play with, radiation?
[He stares at the DETHFORT's massive gate; he whistles, then notices with some relief a smaller (more realistic) door located a few feet away from the ancient drawbridge and gate that once functioned as the castle's 'front door'. He thought back to the days when the Pantheon entered and exited the DETHFORT via Fly's helicopter and Corey's roof. Suddenly he laughs as he remembers a bit of his Pantheon past.]
Phantasm: ...how the fuck did you lose keys THAT BIG*, man? That lock's the size of a man's fist, at least!
(* - Way back in Pantheon #6, "Bachelor Party"! -B.)
[He pauses, as if awaiting an answer... then he sighs. His phone rings, presumably in his pocket; as he looks at his left arm, we see that instead of a standard cellphone/smartphone the Phantasm now 'carries' a large wrist-mounted computer screen with a dozen different colored buttons on it. The display features a large color picture of Crystal and Jeffrey Bankston, he freshly born and she overjoyed (and riding a strong epidural). He touches the display; from his wrist we hear his wife's voice, softer than one might remember it.]
Nightmare: Hi, baby- hope you're not busy. Just miss you.
Phantasm: I miss you too, baby. How's the Kid? How's my mom and dad?
Nightmare: They're fine. Grandma and Grampa took Jeffy shopping; ugh, so cute. I took pictures before they left-
Phantasm: -send 'em to my inbox, Eye-Seven'll make sure I see 'em.
Nightmare: He's good like that.
Phantasm: How's New Orleans? I miss her, too...
Nightmare: Yeah, so did I. Never actually 'lived' here, you know, unless you count our old closet in the GEW Arena- it's nice in town. Really nice.
Phantasm: Yep- just wait 'til summer, though... you'll hate it. We all do; it's a rite-of-passage thing. People in Beirut and Belfast and Fallujah deal with shit constantly blowing up; in New Orleans, you deal with sweating through your clothes five or six months out of the year and hurricanes trying to flood you into a high school gymnasium.
Nightmare: Small price to pay for legit shrimp remoulade.
[He genuinely laughs, now forgetting completely where he is... and why.]
Nightmare: I kinda got a job, helping Lucien and his detective agency with some of their casework... part-time, nothing major.
Phantasm: Nice! I'm sure he could use the help... try to keep that fool alive, will ya?
Nightmare: I'm on it. Don't worry. Hey, did your readmission go smoothly? Lerch didn't give you any shit, did he?
[He suddenly remembers where he is and why.]
Phantasm: Not that I can tell- which is odd, but whatever. I usually come in with a whisper... it's a couple weeks from now, once I've started to get loud. That's when he usually hits me with the 'wait, wait, see... here's the thing' stuff.
[She laughs.]
Nightmare: Remember our wedding, when he crashed the ceremony drunk? On pay-per-view*?
(* - Revenge 2012. -B.)
Phantasm: Quite fondly, now. At the time, though...
Nightmare: Yeah, thanks for keeping me from killing anyone baby. The honeymoon would've sucked if we went to jail instead of Japan*. So when's your first show back? Mom and Dad and Jeffy and I'll be watching...
(* - Way back in Unstable Elements #10, "Postcards From the Pacific Rim"! -B.)
Phantasm: Interestingly enough-
Nightmare: Five-man clusterfuck match, right? That's always how it goes.
Phantasm: -I'm in a three-way tag match.
Nightmare: Yeah, or that- wait, tagging with who?
Phantasm: Corey.
Nightmare: COREY? Corey Black?! Creeps himself- man, I miss that guy... and hey, Lerch must not hate you that much if he's booked you tagging with Creeps! Guy's a legend for christ's sake. How is he, anyway? Tell him I said hi! Take pictures and send them to me! How's the DETHFORT? That place is awesome- he still got a taffy factory in there? Hey, bring him down here to see the Kid!
[He stifles his laughter; the woman he married has become very, very different compared to the woman he met one night in a wrestling ring in New Orleans.]
Phantasm: Baby... wait, back up a bit. I have no idea how he is... see, it's not that simple. I haven't even talked to Corey since Cryogenix. He's got a long memory, and you and I both know that he's practically powered by grudges.
[She gets mournfully quiet.]
Nightmare: You tried calling, I'm sure... right?
Phantasm: Once or twice, once we quit the service; then again two days ago, when I'm pretty sure he responded to 'Hey man, what's up?' by hanging up the phone. Or smashing it.
Nightmare: Oof.
Phantasm: He used to have this two-handed mace, heavy as a sack of flour... jesus. He turned a toaster into sheet aluminum with it one time while Purse and I were having cereal... woke us right the fuck up, for sure. When he put the hammer down, people started paying attention. The thing's almost as scary as he is; just sayin'. This could get rough on me, baby-
[Trying to save the conversation with his wife from depressing the both of them, he makes a snap judgement. He decides to show off the sights.]
Phantasm: It's alright, I'm working on it... you know, telephones are just too impersonal for guys like Corey and I. Here, check out where I am-
[He turns his wrist to show her the massive gates, then the gleaming white stone and finally a metallic dish pointing at his position.]
Nightmare: DETHFORT! Shit, I forgot how big the place is... fuck, you're in Denmark. I'm so jeal- wait! Baby, is that the ray-gun you made him? Jesus, Cam! And you KNOW it works- oh, shit. Was your big plan to put your life in his hands as a show of trust and good faith?
[He responds only with an uncomfortable stare and a slight wipe of his nose.]
Nightmare: ...it is, isn't it. That's your plan.
[He coughs slightly, mumbling a bit.]
Nightmare: 'Sometimes the best plan is faith'... I swear, you must've stolen that shit from Steeltoe Joe. The gods of wrestling aren't gonna save you from a microwave emitter, Cam! You better hope he's not pissed at you... you blew up half a fruit stand with that thing just to make a 'Gallagher' joke. Imagine what Corey could do with that thing when he's angry!
[Sticking with his plan, the Phantasm shrugs off any thought of impending danger. Something in his heart told him that Corey Black, mad as he may ever be, would not kill a man he knew to be a good person. Wound him playfully, definitely. Put him in the hospital? Unlikely, but possible. But kill him? Nah.]
Phantasm: Uh... blow up a whole fruit stand?
Nightmare: At LEAST a whole farmers' market. Take a wall out of a Whole Foods like THAT.
[She snaps loudly with her fingers for emphasis; the Phantasm does not notice. His attention is summoned elsewhere, suddenly... from above the Phantasm, a booming voice shouts to him.]
Black (shouted): What the fuck are you selling this time?
[He whispers to his wrist, though he probably doesn't have to... Corey Black looms high above him atop one of the parapets, a perch which once functioned as a guard's tower.]
Phantasm (whispered): Gotta go, honey... duty calls.
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[Scene: New Orleans, LA; more specifically, Mid-City. We find ourselves in the main office/living room of the Ouroboros Detective Agency (previously known as Lucien Hicks' house). Yellowed news clippings still decorate the walls; the smell of stale cigarette smoke seems imprinted upon the very DNA of this building (if buildings had such things, anyhow). The side windows of the house are covered in thick black curtains... the front windows, however, are covered only by venetian windowblinds (which have been left open, streaming in enough of the midday sun to illuminate the room as if it were located outdoors). At a desk toward the back of the room - a desk with a nameplate on it reading 'LUCIEN HICKS' - we see a short-haired, neckbearded and expressionless man seated and hard at work at a computer terminal. Old-school Lucien 'heads know this to be Lucien's friend Rob, who works at a software company developing (essentially) engines for next-generation computers; to those of you not in the know, well... now you know. Rob (Morrow, likely lending to his nickname of 'Tomorrow') sits before a years-old PC clone Lucien bought from a thrift store... behind him, staring awkwardly over each shoulder, we see the co-owners/founders/managers of the Ouroboros Detective Agency. Jackson Masters wears a white polo shirt and a pair of blue jeans; apparently, it's whatever passes for 'casual day' at the ODA. Lucien Hicks is wearing some fairly common Lucien attire, as a counterpoint- worn khaki pants, a t-shirt reading "New Orleans World's Fair and Exposition '84" and his ubiquitous black trenchcoat. Judging by the looks on their faces, our heroic detectives don't like what they're seeing.]
Rob: Well, it's filtering... but I'm not sure you're gonna get much better than this. We'll see. Shouldn't take more than a few minutes.
Jax: Well then.
[Jackson checks his phone; he looks up quickly, as if an emergency has arisen.]
Jax: Shit, it's already 11:30. I missed breakfast- what we doing for lunch today?
Lucien: I'm thinking pizza.
Jax: We had pizza yesterday, though..
Lucien: It was fuckin' good, though, right?
Jax: Yeah, it was pretty good.
Lucien: Place is right around the corner. They know me over there. I've been thinking about asking them for corporate sponsorship.
[If he wasn't positively sure Lucien was kidding, Jax would've sidetracked himself explaining all the different ways in which that would be infeasible, impossible or illegal... thankfully, he was indeed quite sure. He's known Lucien for much longer than most people would ever be able to tolerate him; there are (few, but some) perks, however insignificant they may be.]
Jax: I'm thinking the chinese store up Telemachus-
[Tomorrow snaps his chair around, suddenly quite interested.]
Rob: -they got Yaka Mein?
Jax: I think so.
Rob: Get me an order, will ya? And some egg rolls. Duck sauce.
Lucien: ...so wait, did we just vote? Did I lose?
[Without answering him, Rob continues.]
Rob: Few things in life are better than Yaka Mein from corner Chinese grocery stores. I can't explain it; I just eat it when I find it.
Jax: I'm gettin' a Kung Pao Chicken. What you want, man- beef fried rice?
[Lucien shrugs sheepishly.]
Lucien: ...sure. Wait, the chicken- you know what, fuck it. Gimme the combination, and just get a big ass go-plate of egg rolls and chicken drumsticks. Whole nine. Balls out.
[Jax puts on his jacket, a thin beige coat with a small tear at the collar.]
Lucien: ...unless they got beef and broccoli- in that case...
[Jax stops mid-stride on his way toward the door, looking back to his partner with visible impatience. Before the lunch order can be further discussed, however...]
Rob: Whoa, that actually worked.
[Jax dashes back toward the screen, standing astride the two men already captivated by the image reflected in its cathode-ray glory. Lucien slaps himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand.]
Lucien: She was right. What the fuck are we gonna do now?
Jax: Call the cops.
Lucien: Fuck those blue fascists; this guy's our problem.
Jax: We're not the law, Lucien... and we're not outside of it. You took this case knowing full well we might be looking into a psychopath, and there he is-
[Jax gestures to the surveillance-camera picture of a hispanic man, scar on his face and .45 pistol in his waistband. In his hand he carries a makeshift liquor-bottle firebomb; two nights ago, said man's ex-girlfriend's car was set on fire when a makeshift liquor-bottle firebomb did its thing to her fake leather upholstery.]
Jax: -even the NOPD might have trouble bringing him in, but at least it's their fucking job. We found the guy, right? Turn him over to the cops.
Lucien: We haven't 'found him' yet, man. If we go to the cops now we miss out on the rest of our pay...
[Jax buries his head in his hands, moaning in frustration.]
Jax: ...we already spent the advance money, too. Fuck.
Lucien: Exactly. This girl's paying us for expenses and everything- no way we skip out on that.
Jax: That money would keep the doors open for another two, three months easy.
[Lucien nods solemnly.]
Rob: If we're good with this-
[Rob gestures at the screen, turning to Jax and Lucien with an inquiring look]
Rob: ...I'm gonna do something about this piece of shit.
[Lucien appears shocked, suddenly.]
Lucien: That guy's way out of your league, man-
[Rob laughs one big wooping laugh.]
Rob: Nah, fuck that- I'm not fighting anybody unless I'm really, really drunk. And that's out 'cause I got work tomorrow, early.
Lucien: Yeah, I was gonna say-
[Rob interrupts, simply and elegantly, to finish getting his point across.]
Rob: Nah, I meant if y'all are done with this fool's picture I'm opening this computer and doing some brain surgery.
[He brandishes a Leatherman multi-tool menacingly. Jax and Lucien shrug.]
Lucien: You got a new brain for it, by any chance?
Rob: Eh, I probably got something in the trunk.
Lucien: Hey, thanks; we'll catch you back later, man.
Rob: Cover the lunch tab, it's cool. And get me a pack of smokes. And a Butterfinger. No- two Butterfingers. And we're even.
[Rob stands, stretching until his bones creak. Jax involuntarily winces at the sound. 'Tomorrow', as his friends call him, heads out the side door and toward a Cadillac parked at the curb. As he leaves, Lucien quietly continues his conversation with Jax.]
Lucien: Look, I already called in some backup a few days ago...
Jax: ...you tell 'em we can't pay 'em?
Lucien: She's not really looking for money so much as work-
Jax: -wait, you're sending a WOMAN after this guy?
[At that, Lucien's phone began loudly playing The Doors' "People Are Strange".]
Lucien: Trust me, she's qualified- and don't ever, ever let her hear you talk like that. Trust me.
[As Jax shakes his head in confusion, Lucien pulls out his phone. He smiles as he sees the number on the screen... he answers with the quickness of a pressed touchscreen.]
Lucien: We were just talking about you.
[Through the loudspeaker of Lucien's phone we hear the sounds of daytime traffic... half a moment later, we hear a woman's voice.]
Nightmare: Hey- I know I said I'd stop by yesterday but it didn't time out right... but I got Cam's parents to watch Jeff for the night, and OH GOD AM I GLAD TO BE OUT OF THE HOUSE. Who you talkin' to over there?
Lucien: Eh, Jax mostly. My friend Rob came by to work on the computer system- nothing major. When can you get here?
Nightmare: I'm already on Carrollton, wind at my back. ETA five minutes, maybe ten.
Lucien: Good deal. See ya.
[As he ends the call, Lucien looks around for something.]
Jax: She sounds pretty wound up.
Lucien: Motherhood- it's a bitch. Where's that shoebox lid I was-
Jax: -your roll tray? Check second drawer of your desk.
[Lucien digs into the drawer, chuckling happily as he pulls a shoebox lid covered with brownish crumbles of marijuana from its confines.]
Lucien: It's gonna be a weird night- might as well get in the right headspace for it.
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[Back at the DETHFORT, now... we pick up where we left Corey and Polar, separated by a short distance but a great height. Corey looks down on Polar from atop the castle, looking not too pleased to see his former stablemate.]
Black (shouted): When you came back you were talking all this good shit about saving professional wrestling and looking out for your brothers, never quitting on the team... Never. Quitting. On the team. You wrote a big-ass check and it fucking bounced! And we had to cover your ass!
[The Phantasm has no witty reply, no justifying explanation; instead, he can only shout apologies (that will never sound as sorrowful and heartfelt when shouted as they were intended to be).]
Phantasm (shouted): I'm sorry, man- I had a lot of shit on my plate, and no matter how much I ate they just shoveled more onto it, and-
Black (shouted): You let the team down; you let the whole damn company down!
[Now unable to keep from crying, the Phantasm instead buries his head in his hands... hands that he finds he cannot stop from shaking. The years of frustration finally begin to break free from Polar's cool composure and manifest themself with multiple exclamation points behind them.]
Phantasm (shouted): Alright, I get it! Corey- I'm fucking sorry I broke up the band, ok? I'm a pox on pro wrestling and the shame of my friends and neighbors. I fucking suck, alright? You fuckin' happy now?
[The tears dry themselves, boiled out of the Phantasm by his repressed anger.]
Phantasm (shouted): It has fucking killed me to be out of the 'fed this whole time, and it's fucked up that you had to clean up my shit for a month or two... but I did it to save you guys from having to clean up my shit for a year, and it wasn't a fucking picnic!
[He points up at Corey Black as if demanding answers.]
Phantasm (shouted): And who the fuck did you become, anyway? You're LITERALLY looking down on me from your ivory fucking tower, man! The Corey Black I knew hated cliches!
[Corey doesn't respond; if Polar could see him, he would notice that particular clenching of his friend's jaw (the one that's a dead giveaway that Corey either has a great poker hand or is about to punch someone). The silence alone worries Polar tremendously, but he continues (despite the fact that he is possibly digging his own grave).]
Phantasm (shouted): You put Purse and I through hell training us to be better than we thought we could be. You stood in my fucking wedding! When I was buried under ASA bullshit, you were one of the first ones to get my back... you saved my life more than a few times, man. You know me and I know you- for instance, you know that I know better than to come all the way to the DETHFORT if I'm not fucking serious. I'm not 'phoning it in' here; dude, I chartered a fucking seaplane to get here! I'm not sure if you can see me from here... but I'm fucking serious. This is my 'fucking serious' face.
[If Polar could see up there, he'd feel tremendously relieved... atop his tower, Corey Black can't help but give a (rare!) smile.]
Black (shouted): Fuckin' Phantasm... I hate to say it, but it's good to see you. Most of us thought you were gone for keeps.
Phantasm (shouted): Is it good enough to see me to maybe let a brother in that bitch? It's fuckin' cold out here, man!
[Corey's laugh booms, amplified by the acoustics of the tower and the silent sea around them.]
Black (shouted): What, the Polar Phantasm can't take a little chill?
[He stretches, pounding his chest proudly. With a puff, he exhales a thick cloud of condensation.]
Black (shouted): This is primal weather! This is Viking weather, right here!
[Phantasm shouts up once more.]
Phantasm (shouted): Give me some fuckin' pelts to wear or somethin', then! If I'm a Viking, at least let me get warm and mead drunk- then we get to the pillaging! Deal?
[There is no response; Polar realizes that Corey Black is no longer there. A few painfully awkward moments later, Phantasm is relieved as the door to the DETHFORT opens and allows him entry. Before entering, Polar mutters a bit to himself...]
Phantasm: Yeah. Yeah, I'm a Viking today- why the fuck not? We're preparing for battle in Scandinavia; nobody has a win-loss record on this turf like the Vikings.
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// Iceberg-Seven profile: Corey Black
COREY BLACK
Classification: Person/Individual
Real name: Corey Black
Profession: Pro wrestler
Title/Rank: WCF Hall of Famer (as Creeping Death), WCF Cruiserweight Champion
Known associates: Numerous
Faction: Pantheon (2012-2013, 2013-)
Age: 31
Height: 5'9"
Weight: 212 lbs.
Known for: no-nonsense personality, being impossibly tough, killing more jobbers than the Bubonic Plague
Estimated statistics: (ratings in decimal)
* Strength: 8
* Perception: 8
* Endurance: 9
* Charisma: 4
* Intellect: 8
* Agility: 7
* Luck: 5
Notes (Iceberg-Seven): Whether working as 'The Human Horror Show' Creeping Death, 'Ghost of Tokyo' Shinji Kiryu or 'The Avenger' Corey Black, he is one of the most dangerous and devastating competitors to ever lace wrestling boots. Conditioning and training have made Corey Black a legitimate powerhouse, despite his smaller stature- years of experience on nearly every continent on the globe have made him a near-encyclopedia of wrestling holds, throws and reversals. Corey Black is fiercely loyal, deceptively intelligent and resilient beyond normal human levels. He has no known weaknesses, other than perhaps his pride; this, of course, is a common ailment among living legends.
Notes (Phantasm): I'm not sure where I'd be today if it weren't for Corey; the guy saved my life, both metaphorically during our time together as Pantheon and literally once or twice during the Cryogenix days. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure he almost killed me a few times during the period when he trained Jeff Purse and I in his 'gymnasium' (read: midevil torture chamber). Careful with that mace, man- you could take someone's head off with that, and not in the fun on-purpose kinda way.
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[Scene: DETHFORT, interior. Phantasm is draped with a large woolen blanket that appears to be older than either of these two men... Corey Black is wearing a t-shirt proudly advertising Metallica's '...And Justice For All' tour; the shirt appears to have gone through as much in the last 20-something years as either of them (as it has more scars than the two of them combined). The shirt, much like the decor in Corey Black's house, reflects the man himself- strong, dangerous... classic. Six dusty suits of armor line a great hall which connects the massive 'foyer' to the inner sanctum... the entry chamber at DETHFORT is larger than the huge common-area room at Project: Antarctica, about half the size of New Antarctica - the Unstable Elements' former mansion in Nevada, burned in late 2012 by Nathan von Liebert - in square footage. Other than being massive, the foyer seems to serve little purpose but to feature tapestries and oil paintings... one particular oil painting draws Polar's attention immediately.]
Black: Yeah, I got that at a garage sale in Birmingham. England.
Phantasm: No way-
Black: -yep. You're looking at an honest-to-god painted portrait of Black Sabbath.
Phantasm: ....I... shit, man... it belongs in a museum!
Black: Eh, once I'm dead or something. I bought it for practically nothing from some old lady, couldn't even see to identify the thing...
Phantasm: You overpaid her, didn't you.
Black: ...alright, maybe I slipped a couple extra Benjamins in there to get the bitch some new glasses. The point is-
Phantasm: -you're still you, man. That's as good of news as I could hope for.
[Without any change in expression, Corey Black continues.]
Black: -point is I thought it'd be worth something someday, and I just liked it too much to get rid of it. It belongs to the DETHFORT now, man... I can't get rid of it.
[Polar smiles.]
Phantasm: DETHFORT... the house that metal built. You've even got a picture of 'Sabbath now- I'd rather that than a painting of the Last Supper any day of the week.
[They walk toward the inner sanctum, Corey bristling his beard a bit as he looks around his massive home. Polar points to a wall more sparsely decorated than the rest, taking their metal-religion-art conversation that much further.]
Phantasm: See, right here? That's where you put the stained-glass window of Deep Purple: Live At Tokyo. Maybe get a granite statue of Cliff Burton, put it over there in the corner-
Black: -write all this shit down for me before you leave, alright?
[Polar is momentarily stunned, then stops dead in his tracks and cackles madly as he suddenly embraces his old friend. The confused look on Corey Black's face would be downright hilarious if laughing at Corey Black wasn't a surefire way to get four teeth removed via blunt force trauma.]
Black: ...what?
Phantasm: Corey, you magnificent bastard. Yes. I will totally fucking do that.
[Ten minutes later, the Phantasm scrawls on an elegant white cloth napkin with an inch-thick permanent marker; our view expands to show that he is sitting on a torture rack as he does so. Our view expands to show that this torture rack's main function at the moment is quite different than one originally intended at its creation; we are in a sitting room at the DETHFORT, and Polar is perched atop Corey Black's coffee table. Standing before a roaring fire - built in a pit in the middle of the room, by the way - is the man himself, apparently drifting into thought as he watches the crackling flame.]
Black: Shit's a lot different now, you know.
[Polar looks up, noticing he's forced to stare at his friend's back. He answers quietly, not wanting to startle his friend out of his intent to share.]
Phantasm: I mean, I kinda figured things would be different- but like, how much different are we talking?
Black: Purse split on us, Fly's out for a while with an injury... Cairo and Orbit hang with the new World Champ, Beckman. 'Vapor Kings', they're called.
[Polar drifts into thought, letting this new information sink in.]
Phantasm: Shit, wow. I'm sure I'll eventually talk to Jeff and Steve and Uncle Bobby, find out what happened with them- oh, and I've been in touch with Frank! He's been dealing with some Frank-life stuff...
[Corey shakes his head, chuckling ever-so-quietly at the news that FPV is still very much FPV.]
Black: ...that fuckin' guy. So Frank's around- that's good, I guess.
Phantasm: Yeah, he said to say hi if I saw you- so, wait... I was out, Fly's down, Purse split, Cairo split, you're here... where's everybody else? What's left of the Pantheon?
[The grim expression on Corey's face seems to take on a new dimension of grimness.]
Black: We'll see.
Phantasm: I can see Reb's not with us anymore- what about Jay?
Black: Jay's still Jay. He hasn't gone anywhere. Reb, though...
[Corey Black turns to his old friend, a look of... concern? Is that concern we see?... in his eyes.]
Black: Yeah, we need to talk about Reb.
[Polar stands, dropping his idea-covered napkin onto the torture-table. He tries to match Corey's serious expression, but can't help but crack up a bit as he responds.]
Phantasm: Mission briefing, then. To the taffy room!
[Corey shrugs.]
Black: Whatever you gotta do, man- but serious, you need to know some shit before you get across the ring from Reb.
[Polar begins to look concerned now; as Corey escorts him down a spiraling staircase into the under-depths of the DETHFORT, Polar's brain derives an alternate plan they would both likely appreciate more than a belly full of taffy.]
Phantasm: You know what, man? If it's like that, we might as well tie one on. This shit sounds serious, right?
Black: It's pretty fucked up, yeah.
Phantasm: Where you keep your booze around here?
Black: Down the hall, couple archways down to the right.
[Polar looks to Corey with an insane gleam of hope in his eye.]
Phantasm: You got a mead hall in this bitch?
Black: Nah.
Phantasm: ...aww.
Black: Got an olympic-sized wet-bar, though.
Phantasm: Yeah? That'll work.
Black: Hadn't restocked it in a minute, but... Price couldn't've done that much damage...
[Polar shakes his head.]
Phantasm: Ah, shit, man- you're underestimating Jay Price. That's as dangerous a thing to do as letting him have free run of your wet-bar.
-------------------------------------
// Iceberg-Seven profile: Ouroboros Detective Agency
OUROBOROS DETECTIVE AGENCY (ODA)
Classification: Group/Stable/Business, subgroup 'Business'.
Founded: 2013
Base of Operation: New Orleans, Louisiana, USA
Members: Lucien Hicks, Jackson (Jax) Masters
Known Associates: Nikolette (Nike) Kensey, Rob (Tomorrow) Morrow, Jacob Stein, Mark Spellman, 'M', Cameron (Polar Phantasm) Bankston Jr.*, Crystal (Nightmare) Bankston*, Cornelius (Casanova) Charles*.
* separate profile available
Function: Detective's agency, for hire
Slogan: 'Finding the Truth, one client at a time.'
--------------------------------------
\\ Three attached profiles found. Displaying attached profiles.
LUCIEN HICKS
Classification: Person/Individual
Real name: Lucien Harold Hicks
Profession: private detective (formerly investigative journalist)
Title/Rank: half-owner, Ouroboros Detective Agency; former WCF staff (investigative reporter)
Age: 35
Height: 6'
Weight: 215 lbs.
Known For: drug use, trenchcoatiness, dedication to the truth
Notes (Iceberg-Seven): Lucien Hicks, Renegade Reporter was heavily involved in 2012's successful attempt to break Seth Lerch out of prison (Breakout Kings of the Ring #1-5). His former job as WCF's go-to interviewer has acquainted him with many of the company's brightest and craziest.
Notes (Phantasm): Met Lucien in Tokyo, way back when Nightmare and I first hooked up (Unstable Elements #2, 'Tokyo Drifters'). I thought he was a solid guy then, and now I wonder how we ever got along without him. He was one of the few 'civilians' I dropped hints to as per our whereabouts when Crystal and I were working spec ops for the ASA... he's one of the few people outside of Cryogenix who've seen the inside of Project: Antarctica. Plus, he's always a good person to check with if you're looking for mind-expanding substances... just sayin'.
Notes (Bonhagen): Behold- my spirit animal. Some of you may know that Lucien Hicks is my literary avatar; for the rest of you... well, now you know. Lucien Hicks is my literary avatar. That said, he has way better dealers than I do.
JACKSON (JAX) MASTERS
Classification: Person/Individual
Real name: Jackson Masters
Profession: Private detective (formerly assistant news desk editor)
Title/Rank: Half-owner, Ouroboros Detective Agency
Age: 34
Height: 6' 1"
Weight: 220 lbs.
Known for: attention to detail, almost superhuman public relations/damage control ability, 'lawyer hair'
Notes (Iceberg-Seven): It is fairly well-known that Jax Masters was behind Lucien for many years, checking facts and cleaning up messes. Relentlessly clever and a master of research.
Notes (Phantasm): Only met Jax Masters once, but I could tell quickly that he was the guy (or one of the guys) who keeps Lucien's head on straight. Guy's from a family full of New Orleans lawyers- no clue how he ended up 'a straight-up good guy' (direct quote from the Lucien himself).
Notes (Bonhagen): Lucien's partner in crime Jackson is the literary parallel of my own partner in comedic crime, Mike. He really is Jax-level sensible; to a fault, really. The guy stopped chasing girls like eight years ago because it wasn't cost-effective. "Porn is free. Boom." First appeared in the column I wrote as Lucien for blog.playpen.com... pretty sure it was the column on sex laws.
NIKOLETTE (NIKE) KENSEY
Classification: Person/Individual
Real name: Nikolette Kensey
Profession: Social worker (formerly head of New Orleans Fight Against AIDS)
Title/Rank: Unofficial 'third man', Ouroboros Detective Agency
Age: unknown, likely early 30s
Height: 5'6"
Weight: unknown, estimated at 120 lbs.
Known for: open-mindedness, understanding, not taking any shit
Notes (Iceberg-Seven): Nike Kensey is a known associate of Lucien Hicks; formerly a source of information during his reporter days, she now helps the Ouroboros Detective Agency in her capacity as a licensed social worker and state employee. Kensey met and fell in love with a New Orleans police officer sometime in the past two years; this unit assumes they met on one of her many trips to Orleans Parish Prison... to bail Hicks out.
Notes (Phantasm): Kensey I know- she's one of the few people who can talk sense into Lucien when he's off on one of his jags, and he's left me frighteningly detailed instructions on how to find her in case something happens to him.
Notes (Bonhagen): Dedicated to my old friend Ked. Keep fighting the good fight, girl. Save New Orleans, one client at a time. First appeared in a column written about contraceptives (for blog.playpen.com), then later co-starred with Lucien in Fight AIDS with Fire (should still be up at the old Notes From Underwater blog, lucienhicks.blogspot.com).
...end of profile. No further attachments.
...Profiles unavailable: Morrow, Rob; Stein, Jacob; Spellman, Mark; 'M'.
// Iceberg-Seven idle.
-------------------------------------------
[Scene: New Orleans, LA; more specifically, Faubourg Treme. Lucien Hicks and Nightmare are sitting in Nighty's parked car, watching a dark house. Two white people in a parked car after dusk tend to draw attention in this neighborhood... thankfully for them, the disheveled trenchcoated Lucien and the dark-haired facial-tattooed Nightmare look just odd and dangerous enough to repel unwanted attention from the 'boys in the hood'. Nightmare's car is a 2012 Pontiac Trans Am; it appears to be in pretty decent condition, if you ignore the multitude of crushed and stamped Cheerios littering the backseat. Lucien takes a long drag on a hand-rolled cigarette(?), holding the smoke in for a second. He passes what is now obviously a joint to Nightmare, who clutches it in her lips with the grace of a practiced stoner.]
Lucien: It's all still kinda surreal, you know? Me and Jax, detectives.
Nightmare: What's so surreal about that?
Lucien: We're newsmen. All I ever wanted to be since I was a kid was a newspaper reporter. Now the best I can do is shit like this- waiting around for some gun-thug to show up.
Nightmare: See, that's what's surreal to me- Phantasm and I spent the last two years doing shit like this when all we wanted to do was get back in the ring... now shit like this feels normal to me.
Lucien: Eh, I guess that's something.
Nightmare: Fuck the ASA. They did the best they could to turn us into shifty-ass spooks; soon as Jeff was born, Polar and I snapped out of it.
Lucien: How's that, by the way?
[She turns to him, eyebrowns wrinkled by the confused look on her face.]
Nightmare: How's what?
Lucien: Having a kid.
Nightmare: The most rewarding job on the planet... if you're ok with the reward being stains on your clothes and that baby poop smell getting in your hair.
[They both laugh; she finally hits the joint and passes it back.]
Lucien: -yeah, I figured you'd eventually remember.
[Blinded by comraderie, the two almost completely miss a shady-looking hispanic male approaching the house. Lucien notices out the corner of one eye, suddenly grabbing Nightmare and dragging her beneath the dashboard as he ducks. He puts a finger to his lips, recieving a nod in response; as he points toward the driveway, she peeks over the console to see their target entering a downstairs door.]
Nightmare: He's inside. Quick equipment check?
[Lucien pulls himself back up, checking his pockets.]
Lucien: Sure- got a Mag-Lite, my phone... little pocket notebook and a golf pencil I stole from English Turn...
[He pulls the coat back to reveal a shoulder-holster, battered .38 revolver poking out just so.]
Lucien: ...my dad's old Colt Detective Special. Ready as I'm gonna be.
Nightmare: Your dad a cop?
Lucien: Nah, not even close. Good ol' Reg Hicks is a newspaper man... somewhere in Oregon, now, I think. Katrina migration got him.
[She shrugs, making a compassionate face... briefly, though, as she remembers that she is about to play with her toys. She can't help but give an evil smile.]
Lucien: You're kinda scaring me, Crystal-
[Nightmare produces two metal rods; with a click, both rods extend until less than an inch from the roof of her car.]
Nightmare: Cam calls these my 'BBC' sticks.
[Lucien frowns, lost in the conversation suddenly. Crystal Bankston laughs and explains with a smile.]
Nightmare: 'Bitch, Be Cool'.
[Lucien shakes his head.]
Lucien: Your husband is a weird mother fucker.
Nightmare: He has his moments, though. Plus I got these-
[She quickly and sharply draws a dagger from her left boot.]
Nightmare: -girl's lost without a knife in this world, you know?
[She then opens and reaches into the glove compartment, pulling out an electronic device with a pistol grip.]
Nightmare: Unless she's got a stun gun...
[They both suddenly duck again, suddenly seeing the man come out of the house. He stuffs a .45 pistol into his low-riding jeans; comically, the gun tumbles out as he superstitiously steps over a crack in the sidewalk. It does not go off, though it strikes the ground hard enough... Lucien and Nightmare both notice the man's alarmed jump at the gun's impact.]
Nightmare: Yeah, it's loaded.
Lucien: Then why didn't it go off?
Nightmare: He probably bought it new and hasn't even used it yet.
Lucien: What makes you say that?
Nightmare: 'Cause shit like guns going off when you drop them is a Hollywood trope. If this guy was a hitter, he wouldn't have flexed a muscle.
[Lucien breathes a sigh of relief.]
Nightmare: He's not a gangster, dude. He's just playing one.
[She starts the engine, slowly following the man a few blocks down Dumaine Street.]
Lucien: Easy... you can give him a lead. Shit, I bet I even know where he's going.
[...some ten blocks later, we find the man knocking on the door of a shotgun house; Nightmare's car pulls up down the block, the two investigators quietly exiting the Pontiac and creeping toward the porch using parked cars as cover. The man shouts and pounds at the door, demanding a woman named Brenda respect him. Lucien points to his eyes with two fingers, signalling around to the left; Nightmare rolls her eyes, hand-signalling by mimicking masturbation.]
Lucien (whispered): Oh, real grown-up, Crystal.
[She winks at the frazzled reporter-turned-detective.]
Nightmare (whispered): You come in up front, I come in the back?
[He nods.]
Nightmare (whispered): Alright then. Let's make his day.
[This time, it's Lucien's turn to roll his eyes.]
[Meanwhile, on the porch...]
Gun Thug: Puta, open this door or I'll make you reeeal sorry!
Lucien (shouted): Hey, man- you know which way Esplanade is from here?
[The man stops in mid-pound, turning to Lucien with one eyebrow cocked up. His face twists to an evil smile as his pounding fist finally descends... it grasps the pistol at his waistband, carefully.]
Gun Thug: Yo, ese, I don't give directions. I give orders.
[Lucien gives an awkward smile to the man, raising his hands in submission. In one hand is a Pall Mall 100, thin trails of white smoke pouring forth from its blazing cherry. In the other hand is a forearm-sized flashlight.]
Lucien: Look, I'm not after any trouble... just trying to get to the store before it closes to try and get some batteries for this damn flashlight. You any good with these things?
[He first glances up at his Mag-Lite, then pulls his arms down and begins tinkering with the light as if unsure how one uses such a device.]
Lucien: I tried to turn it on, but nothing happened...
[With a click, Lucien turns on the flashlight... he aims its beam directly into the eyes of his client's psychotic stalker.]
Gun Thug: Yo, what the fuck, holmes?!
[He reflexively pulls his pistol; before he can aim in Lucien's direction (or get off a wild shot, even) he finds himself laid out on the cypress-plank porch. From behind, a tremendous chop was delivered to the back of his neck- it landed directly across his brain stem, where his brain connects to his spine. The training to perform with such precision came from two years of clandestine government work and three years' exposure to the meticulous mind of the Phantasm; the strike itself, of course, came from one seriously pent-up momma.]
Lucien: He almost got me!
[With a smirk, Nightmare kicks the .45 away from its previous owner.]
Nightmare: Eh, he would've missed anyway.
[She steps on the thug's hand, crushing it beneath her steel-toed boot... she kneels, forcing the issue with all 140 pounds of her gravitational influence.]
Nightmare: I saw you, drawing with your hand held sideways- this isn't L.A., you fool. This is LA. We don't put up with West Coast bullshit down here... take it from an L.A. girl; you're on a whole different fuckin' planet down here.
[Among his pained moaning, the thug spits back a torrent of curses; some Spanish, some English... all terrible.]
Nightmare: You suck your daddy's dick with that mouth, cabron?
[With practiced ease, she draws her dagger from its hiding place in her footwear.]
Nightmare: You stay the fuck away from this woman. You stay the fuck away from this house- better yet, you get the fuck out of this town and you never come back.
[She throws the dagger at the porch; it sticks into the old cypress plank about two inches above the crown of the man's head. He stops breathing momentarily; she takes that as a sign that she can release him. As she stands, stepping off of his hand, the man begins breathing again in thick gasps.]
Lucien: Hey, I got Jax on the way-
[Lucien steps over, finishing a phone call... he briefly glances up to see the man roll off the porch and crawl toward his discarded weapon.]
Lucien: Crystal!
[Nightmare sees the man reaching, but has a porch railing between her and he- Lucien drops his phone, using both hands to swing his flashlight. Thankfully, the sturdy metal body of the flashlight took no damage as it cracked open the man's forehead; even more thankfully, the man's brain took a serious enough concussion from the blow to cause him to fall unconscious.]
Lucien: Jesus, fuck! That felt good- shit, I just bashed a guy's head open...
Nightmare: I know, right?!
[She leaps off the porch, landing two feet from the dazed detective; he tosses the flashlight onto the lawn haphazardly and grabs his phone with an awkward swipe. He notices with some degree of surprise that the soft Sixth Ward grass saved his Samsung from sudden death.]
Lucien: -shit, I bet Jax called the cops already. He's on his way, too... look, can I ask you a favor?
[She nods, already knowing what Lucien's request will be.]
Nightmare: Stay here, deal with the cops, cover for Jax 'til he gets here? Yeah, I got that.
[She reaches into a hidden pocket inside of her combat attire, pulling out a thin black flip-out ID holder. She flips it open, brandishing it at Lucien briefly.]
Nightmare: Crystal Bankston, American Security Administration. Western US. Retired; full pension. Not that we need it, but... hey. Jeff'll have full government benefits for life. Not a bad gig. Still got our DoD clearance and everything.
Lucien: How did you-
Nightmare: -long story, most of it's classified. And I just don't feel like explaining it all to you.
Lucien: Can I get the Cliff's Notes version?
[She shrugs, stashing her credentials.]
Nightmare: He may be a 'weird mother fucker', but Cam's a hell of a negotiator.
--------------------------------------------
[Scene: DETHFORT, interior; specifically, a large den room in the 'upper basement' region of the sprawling castle. The family crests of every clan to ever inhabit this massive structure hang along one wall of the room; Corey Black's crest is hanging at the end, it obviously of his own design. Though styled somewhat like the others, it is quite distinct; for instance, none of the other family crests are shaped like a pro wrestling title belt, and none of the others have the Japanese symbols for 'power', 'glory' or 'battle' on them. The decorations in the DETHFORT are very much like the man that calls it home; that much is for sure. The two men down shots of a pale greenish liquor; at least one of them has no idea what they are drinking, quite possibly both of them. The bottle is a generic glass stopper-bottle, and any label it ever had has left nary a trace in its absence. If only they knew it was a 100-year-old bottle of French chartreuse they were choking down... ah, but I digress. Back to the story.]
Black: So what I'm trying to tell you is that's not Reb.
[Phantasm forces himself to stop coughing at that burning liquor flavor; he realizes what his friend just told him, and the bottom seems to fall out of his brain.]
Black: It's not a Reb you've ever known, anyway, except maybe on TV. It's... ok, so it looks like Reb, right? And it wrestles like Reb- well, like Reb used to anyway. But that's not Reb.
Phantasm: Does he have, like, horns or something? A tail?
Black: I'm being serious right now, asshole. Stow the fuckin' jokes for a minute-
Phantasm: -wait, man, I'm asking how you could've intued such a thing. People change, sure, but... what do you mean 'that's not Reb'?
Black: The Reb you knew, Pantheon's Reb... your super-science buddy Reb... isn't the Reb we're facing Sunday night. No idea what happened to that Reb, or when it happened- the new-old Reb just showed up a while back and we all took it at face value. Reb is Reb, right?
[Polar makes a 'meh' face, raising one hand and slowly tilting it back and forth.]
Phantasm: Time and space tend to get a bit wonky around the guy, you know? Maybe we're dealing with a parallel world's Reb come to take over professional wrestling and our old friend Johnny Reb- the real Johnny Reb- is trapped in some hellish prison in another dimension...or... something.
[Corey Black appears to get a headache at the mere thought of figuring out what the fuck his friend and tag partner just said.]
Black: What? No, just- fuck, you're probably right anyway. Our Reb is probably out there somewhere, but this Reb right here and right now? It's like someone cloned Reb circa 2008 and let him loose in the locker room. I tried to talk to him once, and it was like Pantheon never happened... or like he - this Reb, I mean - wasn't there.
[Polar raises his eyebrows, making a few mental leaps to follow Corey's logic.]
Black: Sounds like some X-Files shit, I know.
Phantasm: You know- that's really fuckin' solid thinking, man. Reb's not the type to forget things, or pretend to be something he's not...
[Relief shows on Corey Black's face as he figures out Polar 'smells' what he's 'cooking', to borrow a parlance of our modern times.]
Black: ...exactly. There ain't a whole lot of fake about Reb- except everything, in the case of this fuckin' guy. Propping up that jobber Doc Henry- does that sound like Reb to you?
Phantasm: Well, kinda- it did, I guess. Sounds like the Reb I saw on TV when I was in high school...
Black: See, NOW you're getting it. Shikara will wash out of WCF faster than you can get Amazon to send you a package, and Doc's the same talentless piece of shit he was when you left. Ain't much changed but everything else... especially Johnny Reb.
[Polar scratches his head, then rubs his chin. Corey takes a deep swig from the bottle, coughing a bit (and giving his beard a disinfecting soak in the process).]
Phantasm: I'll need to see tapes of the last few months' shows, specifically any New Confederacy matches...
Black: Yeah, I got that. I keep tapes of every show I've ever done.
Phantasm: Jesus- you've gotta have a huge closet, then.
[He watches Corey's deadpan expression for a smile; there is none. He also does not respond verbally, as if telepathically reminding the Phantasm that his house is a massive 14th century castle.]
Phantasm: ....oh, wait. You totally do. Like six of them, I'm guessing.
Black: At least. What else you need, Kid?
Phantasm: It'll take a couple hours for Eye-Seven and I to modify my old 'vs. Reb' and 'vs. Reb/Doc' strategies, based on the new data I'm getting from you and whatever we can mine from the tapes...
Black: Shit, man. Time, we got...
Phantasm: And I guess another shot-
[Corey is already pouring before Polar can finish the thought. As he puts the mystery liquor back down, Corey Black stands- he lifts the shotglass, motioning with a nod for the Phantasm to join him. As he does so, Polar asks...]
Phantasm: A toast?
Black: What the fuck, right? A toast- to the Pantheon.
Phantasm: To WCF.
Black: To honor and glory-
Phantasm: -and old friends.
Black: To the defeat of our enemies-
Phantasm: -to finishing the mission.
[They both fall silent for a moment.]
Black: To the future.
Phantasm: Fuck yeah, brah.
[They clink the shot glasses together, each haphazardly spilling a bit onto the antique bar. Corey finishes his with a gulp; he slams the glass onto the bar upside-down, swallowing the pale green fire with a pained shout. Polar carefully pours the liquid evil down his throat, involuntarily shuddering a bit as it winds its way into his stomach.]
Black: Let's get back to doing what we do best, Kid.
[Eyes watering from the sharp tasting antique liquor, Polar rubs at his face with both hands. He gasps a distracted response.]
Phantasm: Yeah? What's that, man?
Black: ...winning wrestling matches, man! Don't tell me you already forgot how we did things last time you were around...
[This snaps Polar to attention; he leaps into action, ready to defend himself against accusations of having lost his 'game'.]
Phantasm: -what? Of course not, dude-
Black: I'm sayin', the gym's right back there, down the hall.
[This time, Polar's shiver is one based entirely in memory. He smiles a crooked, pained smile at his old friend; Polar knows he's in for it. The only part he hasn't figured out yet is whether or not Corey had planned to hold him to the flames the whole time, or if the liquor had given him the idea.]
Black: We've had a few- let's get in a workout. I got some new records, some Norwegian shit you gotta hear-
[Polar laughs, shaking his head... he thinks perhaps maybe Corey Black just missed him. As he looks up to his tag partner, already up and heading toward the door, the Phantasm can only muster one reply.]
Phantasm: Oh boy... well, at least it's comforting to know that some things never change.
[Though it would be a difficult night, it would be a rewarding one- after all, they say 'no pain no gain', right? Two Viking warriors, two fighters by trade, getting back to what they do best... putting themselves through hell to get to what they might consider a 'heaven'. Two men getting back to what they, as individuals or as a unit, have always done best...]
[...winning wrestling matches.]
---------------------------------------------
[(c) Wrestling Championship Federation 2104. The views of the Polar Phantasm and Corey Black are not those of WCF or any of its allies or affiliates. All rights reserved.]
\\ ...Iceberg-Seven online; operating at optimal capacity.
GPS data indicates unit operational at coordinates codenamed 'Project: Antarctica', Colorado USA.
Welcome user 'Polar Phantasm'. GPS data indicates your login from coordinates codenamed 'WCF Arena', Pennsylvania USA.
Command?: review file 'Polar Phantasm'
Loading profile 'Polar Phantasm'... profile loaded. Displaying profile 'Polar Phantasm'.
---------------------------------------
THE POLAR PHANTASM
Classification: Person/Individual
Real name: Cameron (Cam) James Bankston, Jr.
Profession: Pro wrestler
Title/Rank: none
Known associates: Wife - Crystal Laurendt Bankston/Nightmare. Son - Jeffrey James Bankston. Associates are numerous; former tag-team partners include Nightmare (as the Unstable Elements), Jeff Purse (as the Future Elements) and Jay Price (as Agents of the Impossible)
Faction: none; formerly Pantheon (founding member, 2012) and Cryogenix (founder/team leader, 2013)
Age: 24
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 249 lbs.
Known for: craftiness, heart, precision
Estimated statistics: (ratings in decimal)
* Strength: 6
* Perception: 7
* Endurance: 7
* Charisma: 8
* Intellect: 10
* Agility: 8
* Luck: 9
Notes (Iceberg-Seven): This unit feels a bias toward the Polar Phantasm, perhaps due to his involvement in its creation. As Kid Phantasm, he won WCF Wrestler of the Year 2012; it was his rookie year, and by far his best. As the Polar Phantasm, he met 2013 with a rocky thud. The Phantasm has recently returned to WCF after a long absence; will he affect change as drastically as he did in 2012, or as sheepishly as he did in 2013?
Notes (Phantasm): All I ever wanted was to be a pro wrestler. Once I got to the big dance, all those years I'd spent chasing that dream finally paid off... and once I started working with WCF's best and brightest, I knew I'd gotten in for more than I'd originally paid for. Prison breaks, crazy tournaments, stable wars, kidnapped girlfriends... good times.
Notes (Bonhagen): THIS dude... jesus. When I first wrote as the Polar Phantasm (way way back in the day, when I was a kid) he was never this fun. Finding WCF gave me the idea to reboot my ol' dusty Phantasm into the Kid, and... well, that happened. Now I get to try to write grown-up Polar... as a grown-up. Thanks, WCF! Also, thanks for being a bunch of kickass writers. Y'all make being Polar more fun than I could've thought possible.
...end of profile.
// Iceberg-Seven idle.
------------------------------------
[In 2012, a group was formed in the Wrestling Championship Federation... a group whose presence is still felt today. May 2012 ended with the formation of the Pantheon, Earth's Mightiest Wrestling Stable. A few weeks later, the group swelled to include WCF legends Corey Black and Johnny Reb. Pantheon began as an organization of like-minded individuals that did their best to preserve order in an ocean of chaos. Some of the group fell by the wayside, their lives becoming a burden on their careers. Some of the group splintered off to do their own thing. As is the case with large stables full of legendary heroes, the weight of their collective soul took on a fatal gravity... Pantheon fell in 2013, thanks largely to the influence of one of its founders. The Phantasm returned with a new direction (and a very different 'mission') and absorbed his former Pantheon comrades into an altogether different stable; his sudden disappearance a few short months later forecasted the downfall of his latter day project, Cryogenix. Some of his friends fell off... some of his friends splintered off... but some of them were always there. In days both bright and dark, days Pantheon or Cryogenix, there was always one grim face in the crowd... a rock-solid friend who neither discussed nor hid his feelings. One man whose belief in the Phantasm led him into numerous dangerous situations; one man whose belief in the Phantasm ensured he'd be along for the ridiculous ride. One brutal son-of-a-bitch was always there no matter how hairy it got.]
[The WCF Hall of Fame knows this man as Creeping Death. The WCF fans of today know him as consummate champion and jobber-killer extraordinaire Corey Black... once upon a time, the ASA knew him as Cryogenix-3. As a young wrestling fan, Cam Bankston knew him as a showstopping performer... as an adult, Cam Bankston knows him a fair bit better than that. Stables come and stables go, but some things are much harder to shake... after years of battles fought shoulder to shoulder, these very different athletes have become good friends.]
[Or... have they? As we check in on the Phantasm, we find him amidst the coming of a frigid Scandinavian winter... a winter suitable for few things, perhaps ice hockey or plundering villages. As he has done for much of his life, he finds himself looking up at Corey Black in confusion and wonder. Have the years finally jaded Corey Black to a point where he will no longer accept his old friend Polar?]
------------------------------------------
POLAR PHANTASM (volume 3) #2: "Vikings"
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[Scene: DETHFORT, ancient Scandinavian castle and home of WCF's Corey Black; its location is an unmarked island off the coast of Denmark's central landmass, Jutland. Long ago, these waters were rife with recreational and commercial fishermen. A few years back, Corey had the cannons on the roof refurbished; shortly thereafter, DETHFORT became a permanent craft advisory warning. It is a place out of time, an oasis of solitude in a world that has moved on... a world that has forgotten about the simple joys in life (such as owning your own castle, perhaps). It is here that we find the Polar Phantasm, gazing hesitantly at the massive and imposing structure... its polished stone gleams a whitish gleam, much as his hair does if he uses spray in it. Phantasm looks up at the parapets, remembering fully the naked danger he is in being this close to a fully-armed and operational battle station.]
Phantasm: I never should've built him that 'death ray'. Stupid microwave technology... why are you so fun to play with, radiation?
[He stares at the DETHFORT's massive gate; he whistles, then notices with some relief a smaller (more realistic) door located a few feet away from the ancient drawbridge and gate that once functioned as the castle's 'front door'. He thought back to the days when the Pantheon entered and exited the DETHFORT via Fly's helicopter and Corey's roof. Suddenly he laughs as he remembers a bit of his Pantheon past.]
Phantasm: ...how the fuck did you lose keys THAT BIG*, man? That lock's the size of a man's fist, at least!
(* - Way back in Pantheon #6, "Bachelor Party"! -B.)
[He pauses, as if awaiting an answer... then he sighs. His phone rings, presumably in his pocket; as he looks at his left arm, we see that instead of a standard cellphone/smartphone the Phantasm now 'carries' a large wrist-mounted computer screen with a dozen different colored buttons on it. The display features a large color picture of Crystal and Jeffrey Bankston, he freshly born and she overjoyed (and riding a strong epidural). He touches the display; from his wrist we hear his wife's voice, softer than one might remember it.]
Nightmare: Hi, baby- hope you're not busy. Just miss you.
Phantasm: I miss you too, baby. How's the Kid? How's my mom and dad?
Nightmare: They're fine. Grandma and Grampa took Jeffy shopping; ugh, so cute. I took pictures before they left-
Phantasm: -send 'em to my inbox, Eye-Seven'll make sure I see 'em.
Nightmare: He's good like that.
Phantasm: How's New Orleans? I miss her, too...
Nightmare: Yeah, so did I. Never actually 'lived' here, you know, unless you count our old closet in the GEW Arena- it's nice in town. Really nice.
Phantasm: Yep- just wait 'til summer, though... you'll hate it. We all do; it's a rite-of-passage thing. People in Beirut and Belfast and Fallujah deal with shit constantly blowing up; in New Orleans, you deal with sweating through your clothes five or six months out of the year and hurricanes trying to flood you into a high school gymnasium.
Nightmare: Small price to pay for legit shrimp remoulade.
[He genuinely laughs, now forgetting completely where he is... and why.]
Nightmare: I kinda got a job, helping Lucien and his detective agency with some of their casework... part-time, nothing major.
Phantasm: Nice! I'm sure he could use the help... try to keep that fool alive, will ya?
Nightmare: I'm on it. Don't worry. Hey, did your readmission go smoothly? Lerch didn't give you any shit, did he?
[He suddenly remembers where he is and why.]
Phantasm: Not that I can tell- which is odd, but whatever. I usually come in with a whisper... it's a couple weeks from now, once I've started to get loud. That's when he usually hits me with the 'wait, wait, see... here's the thing' stuff.
[She laughs.]
Nightmare: Remember our wedding, when he crashed the ceremony drunk? On pay-per-view*?
(* - Revenge 2012. -B.)
Phantasm: Quite fondly, now. At the time, though...
Nightmare: Yeah, thanks for keeping me from killing anyone baby. The honeymoon would've sucked if we went to jail instead of Japan*. So when's your first show back? Mom and Dad and Jeffy and I'll be watching...
(* - Way back in Unstable Elements #10, "Postcards From the Pacific Rim"! -B.)
Phantasm: Interestingly enough-
Nightmare: Five-man clusterfuck match, right? That's always how it goes.
Phantasm: -I'm in a three-way tag match.
Nightmare: Yeah, or that- wait, tagging with who?
Phantasm: Corey.
Nightmare: COREY? Corey Black?! Creeps himself- man, I miss that guy... and hey, Lerch must not hate you that much if he's booked you tagging with Creeps! Guy's a legend for christ's sake. How is he, anyway? Tell him I said hi! Take pictures and send them to me! How's the DETHFORT? That place is awesome- he still got a taffy factory in there? Hey, bring him down here to see the Kid!
[He stifles his laughter; the woman he married has become very, very different compared to the woman he met one night in a wrestling ring in New Orleans.]
Phantasm: Baby... wait, back up a bit. I have no idea how he is... see, it's not that simple. I haven't even talked to Corey since Cryogenix. He's got a long memory, and you and I both know that he's practically powered by grudges.
[She gets mournfully quiet.]
Nightmare: You tried calling, I'm sure... right?
Phantasm: Once or twice, once we quit the service; then again two days ago, when I'm pretty sure he responded to 'Hey man, what's up?' by hanging up the phone. Or smashing it.
Nightmare: Oof.
Phantasm: He used to have this two-handed mace, heavy as a sack of flour... jesus. He turned a toaster into sheet aluminum with it one time while Purse and I were having cereal... woke us right the fuck up, for sure. When he put the hammer down, people started paying attention. The thing's almost as scary as he is; just sayin'. This could get rough on me, baby-
[Trying to save the conversation with his wife from depressing the both of them, he makes a snap judgement. He decides to show off the sights.]
Phantasm: It's alright, I'm working on it... you know, telephones are just too impersonal for guys like Corey and I. Here, check out where I am-
[He turns his wrist to show her the massive gates, then the gleaming white stone and finally a metallic dish pointing at his position.]
Nightmare: DETHFORT! Shit, I forgot how big the place is... fuck, you're in Denmark. I'm so jeal- wait! Baby, is that the ray-gun you made him? Jesus, Cam! And you KNOW it works- oh, shit. Was your big plan to put your life in his hands as a show of trust and good faith?
[He responds only with an uncomfortable stare and a slight wipe of his nose.]
Nightmare: ...it is, isn't it. That's your plan.
[He coughs slightly, mumbling a bit.]
Nightmare: 'Sometimes the best plan is faith'... I swear, you must've stolen that shit from Steeltoe Joe. The gods of wrestling aren't gonna save you from a microwave emitter, Cam! You better hope he's not pissed at you... you blew up half a fruit stand with that thing just to make a 'Gallagher' joke. Imagine what Corey could do with that thing when he's angry!
[Sticking with his plan, the Phantasm shrugs off any thought of impending danger. Something in his heart told him that Corey Black, mad as he may ever be, would not kill a man he knew to be a good person. Wound him playfully, definitely. Put him in the hospital? Unlikely, but possible. But kill him? Nah.]
Phantasm: Uh... blow up a whole fruit stand?
Nightmare: At LEAST a whole farmers' market. Take a wall out of a Whole Foods like THAT.
[She snaps loudly with her fingers for emphasis; the Phantasm does not notice. His attention is summoned elsewhere, suddenly... from above the Phantasm, a booming voice shouts to him.]
Black (shouted): What the fuck are you selling this time?
[He whispers to his wrist, though he probably doesn't have to... Corey Black looms high above him atop one of the parapets, a perch which once functioned as a guard's tower.]
Phantasm (whispered): Gotta go, honey... duty calls.
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[Scene: New Orleans, LA; more specifically, Mid-City. We find ourselves in the main office/living room of the Ouroboros Detective Agency (previously known as Lucien Hicks' house). Yellowed news clippings still decorate the walls; the smell of stale cigarette smoke seems imprinted upon the very DNA of this building (if buildings had such things, anyhow). The side windows of the house are covered in thick black curtains... the front windows, however, are covered only by venetian windowblinds (which have been left open, streaming in enough of the midday sun to illuminate the room as if it were located outdoors). At a desk toward the back of the room - a desk with a nameplate on it reading 'LUCIEN HICKS' - we see a short-haired, neckbearded and expressionless man seated and hard at work at a computer terminal. Old-school Lucien 'heads know this to be Lucien's friend Rob, who works at a software company developing (essentially) engines for next-generation computers; to those of you not in the know, well... now you know. Rob (Morrow, likely lending to his nickname of 'Tomorrow') sits before a years-old PC clone Lucien bought from a thrift store... behind him, staring awkwardly over each shoulder, we see the co-owners/founders/managers of the Ouroboros Detective Agency. Jackson Masters wears a white polo shirt and a pair of blue jeans; apparently, it's whatever passes for 'casual day' at the ODA. Lucien Hicks is wearing some fairly common Lucien attire, as a counterpoint- worn khaki pants, a t-shirt reading "New Orleans World's Fair and Exposition '84" and his ubiquitous black trenchcoat. Judging by the looks on their faces, our heroic detectives don't like what they're seeing.]
Rob: Well, it's filtering... but I'm not sure you're gonna get much better than this. We'll see. Shouldn't take more than a few minutes.
Jax: Well then.
[Jackson checks his phone; he looks up quickly, as if an emergency has arisen.]
Jax: Shit, it's already 11:30. I missed breakfast- what we doing for lunch today?
Lucien: I'm thinking pizza.
Jax: We had pizza yesterday, though..
Lucien: It was fuckin' good, though, right?
Jax: Yeah, it was pretty good.
Lucien: Place is right around the corner. They know me over there. I've been thinking about asking them for corporate sponsorship.
[If he wasn't positively sure Lucien was kidding, Jax would've sidetracked himself explaining all the different ways in which that would be infeasible, impossible or illegal... thankfully, he was indeed quite sure. He's known Lucien for much longer than most people would ever be able to tolerate him; there are (few, but some) perks, however insignificant they may be.]
Jax: I'm thinking the chinese store up Telemachus-
[Tomorrow snaps his chair around, suddenly quite interested.]
Rob: -they got Yaka Mein?
Jax: I think so.
Rob: Get me an order, will ya? And some egg rolls. Duck sauce.
Lucien: ...so wait, did we just vote? Did I lose?
[Without answering him, Rob continues.]
Rob: Few things in life are better than Yaka Mein from corner Chinese grocery stores. I can't explain it; I just eat it when I find it.
Jax: I'm gettin' a Kung Pao Chicken. What you want, man- beef fried rice?
[Lucien shrugs sheepishly.]
Lucien: ...sure. Wait, the chicken- you know what, fuck it. Gimme the combination, and just get a big ass go-plate of egg rolls and chicken drumsticks. Whole nine. Balls out.
[Jax puts on his jacket, a thin beige coat with a small tear at the collar.]
Lucien: ...unless they got beef and broccoli- in that case...
[Jax stops mid-stride on his way toward the door, looking back to his partner with visible impatience. Before the lunch order can be further discussed, however...]
Rob: Whoa, that actually worked.
[Jax dashes back toward the screen, standing astride the two men already captivated by the image reflected in its cathode-ray glory. Lucien slaps himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand.]
Lucien: She was right. What the fuck are we gonna do now?
Jax: Call the cops.
Lucien: Fuck those blue fascists; this guy's our problem.
Jax: We're not the law, Lucien... and we're not outside of it. You took this case knowing full well we might be looking into a psychopath, and there he is-
[Jax gestures to the surveillance-camera picture of a hispanic man, scar on his face and .45 pistol in his waistband. In his hand he carries a makeshift liquor-bottle firebomb; two nights ago, said man's ex-girlfriend's car was set on fire when a makeshift liquor-bottle firebomb did its thing to her fake leather upholstery.]
Jax: -even the NOPD might have trouble bringing him in, but at least it's their fucking job. We found the guy, right? Turn him over to the cops.
Lucien: We haven't 'found him' yet, man. If we go to the cops now we miss out on the rest of our pay...
[Jax buries his head in his hands, moaning in frustration.]
Jax: ...we already spent the advance money, too. Fuck.
Lucien: Exactly. This girl's paying us for expenses and everything- no way we skip out on that.
Jax: That money would keep the doors open for another two, three months easy.
[Lucien nods solemnly.]
Rob: If we're good with this-
[Rob gestures at the screen, turning to Jax and Lucien with an inquiring look]
Rob: ...I'm gonna do something about this piece of shit.
[Lucien appears shocked, suddenly.]
Lucien: That guy's way out of your league, man-
[Rob laughs one big wooping laugh.]
Rob: Nah, fuck that- I'm not fighting anybody unless I'm really, really drunk. And that's out 'cause I got work tomorrow, early.
Lucien: Yeah, I was gonna say-
[Rob interrupts, simply and elegantly, to finish getting his point across.]
Rob: Nah, I meant if y'all are done with this fool's picture I'm opening this computer and doing some brain surgery.
[He brandishes a Leatherman multi-tool menacingly. Jax and Lucien shrug.]
Lucien: You got a new brain for it, by any chance?
Rob: Eh, I probably got something in the trunk.
Lucien: Hey, thanks; we'll catch you back later, man.
Rob: Cover the lunch tab, it's cool. And get me a pack of smokes. And a Butterfinger. No- two Butterfingers. And we're even.
[Rob stands, stretching until his bones creak. Jax involuntarily winces at the sound. 'Tomorrow', as his friends call him, heads out the side door and toward a Cadillac parked at the curb. As he leaves, Lucien quietly continues his conversation with Jax.]
Lucien: Look, I already called in some backup a few days ago...
Jax: ...you tell 'em we can't pay 'em?
Lucien: She's not really looking for money so much as work-
Jax: -wait, you're sending a WOMAN after this guy?
[At that, Lucien's phone began loudly playing The Doors' "People Are Strange".]
Lucien: Trust me, she's qualified- and don't ever, ever let her hear you talk like that. Trust me.
[As Jax shakes his head in confusion, Lucien pulls out his phone. He smiles as he sees the number on the screen... he answers with the quickness of a pressed touchscreen.]
Lucien: We were just talking about you.
[Through the loudspeaker of Lucien's phone we hear the sounds of daytime traffic... half a moment later, we hear a woman's voice.]
Nightmare: Hey- I know I said I'd stop by yesterday but it didn't time out right... but I got Cam's parents to watch Jeff for the night, and OH GOD AM I GLAD TO BE OUT OF THE HOUSE. Who you talkin' to over there?
Lucien: Eh, Jax mostly. My friend Rob came by to work on the computer system- nothing major. When can you get here?
Nightmare: I'm already on Carrollton, wind at my back. ETA five minutes, maybe ten.
Lucien: Good deal. See ya.
[As he ends the call, Lucien looks around for something.]
Jax: She sounds pretty wound up.
Lucien: Motherhood- it's a bitch. Where's that shoebox lid I was-
Jax: -your roll tray? Check second drawer of your desk.
[Lucien digs into the drawer, chuckling happily as he pulls a shoebox lid covered with brownish crumbles of marijuana from its confines.]
Lucien: It's gonna be a weird night- might as well get in the right headspace for it.
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[Back at the DETHFORT, now... we pick up where we left Corey and Polar, separated by a short distance but a great height. Corey looks down on Polar from atop the castle, looking not too pleased to see his former stablemate.]
Black (shouted): When you came back you were talking all this good shit about saving professional wrestling and looking out for your brothers, never quitting on the team... Never. Quitting. On the team. You wrote a big-ass check and it fucking bounced! And we had to cover your ass!
[The Phantasm has no witty reply, no justifying explanation; instead, he can only shout apologies (that will never sound as sorrowful and heartfelt when shouted as they were intended to be).]
Phantasm (shouted): I'm sorry, man- I had a lot of shit on my plate, and no matter how much I ate they just shoveled more onto it, and-
Black (shouted): You let the team down; you let the whole damn company down!
[Now unable to keep from crying, the Phantasm instead buries his head in his hands... hands that he finds he cannot stop from shaking. The years of frustration finally begin to break free from Polar's cool composure and manifest themself with multiple exclamation points behind them.]
Phantasm (shouted): Alright, I get it! Corey- I'm fucking sorry I broke up the band, ok? I'm a pox on pro wrestling and the shame of my friends and neighbors. I fucking suck, alright? You fuckin' happy now?
[The tears dry themselves, boiled out of the Phantasm by his repressed anger.]
Phantasm (shouted): It has fucking killed me to be out of the 'fed this whole time, and it's fucked up that you had to clean up my shit for a month or two... but I did it to save you guys from having to clean up my shit for a year, and it wasn't a fucking picnic!
[He points up at Corey Black as if demanding answers.]
Phantasm (shouted): And who the fuck did you become, anyway? You're LITERALLY looking down on me from your ivory fucking tower, man! The Corey Black I knew hated cliches!
[Corey doesn't respond; if Polar could see him, he would notice that particular clenching of his friend's jaw (the one that's a dead giveaway that Corey either has a great poker hand or is about to punch someone). The silence alone worries Polar tremendously, but he continues (despite the fact that he is possibly digging his own grave).]
Phantasm (shouted): You put Purse and I through hell training us to be better than we thought we could be. You stood in my fucking wedding! When I was buried under ASA bullshit, you were one of the first ones to get my back... you saved my life more than a few times, man. You know me and I know you- for instance, you know that I know better than to come all the way to the DETHFORT if I'm not fucking serious. I'm not 'phoning it in' here; dude, I chartered a fucking seaplane to get here! I'm not sure if you can see me from here... but I'm fucking serious. This is my 'fucking serious' face.
[If Polar could see up there, he'd feel tremendously relieved... atop his tower, Corey Black can't help but give a (rare!) smile.]
Black (shouted): Fuckin' Phantasm... I hate to say it, but it's good to see you. Most of us thought you were gone for keeps.
Phantasm (shouted): Is it good enough to see me to maybe let a brother in that bitch? It's fuckin' cold out here, man!
[Corey's laugh booms, amplified by the acoustics of the tower and the silent sea around them.]
Black (shouted): What, the Polar Phantasm can't take a little chill?
[He stretches, pounding his chest proudly. With a puff, he exhales a thick cloud of condensation.]
Black (shouted): This is primal weather! This is Viking weather, right here!
[Phantasm shouts up once more.]
Phantasm (shouted): Give me some fuckin' pelts to wear or somethin', then! If I'm a Viking, at least let me get warm and mead drunk- then we get to the pillaging! Deal?
[There is no response; Polar realizes that Corey Black is no longer there. A few painfully awkward moments later, Phantasm is relieved as the door to the DETHFORT opens and allows him entry. Before entering, Polar mutters a bit to himself...]
Phantasm: Yeah. Yeah, I'm a Viking today- why the fuck not? We're preparing for battle in Scandinavia; nobody has a win-loss record on this turf like the Vikings.
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// Iceberg-Seven profile: Corey Black
COREY BLACK
Classification: Person/Individual
Real name: Corey Black
Profession: Pro wrestler
Title/Rank: WCF Hall of Famer (as Creeping Death), WCF Cruiserweight Champion
Known associates: Numerous
Faction: Pantheon (2012-2013, 2013-)
Age: 31
Height: 5'9"
Weight: 212 lbs.
Known for: no-nonsense personality, being impossibly tough, killing more jobbers than the Bubonic Plague
Estimated statistics: (ratings in decimal)
* Strength: 8
* Perception: 8
* Endurance: 9
* Charisma: 4
* Intellect: 8
* Agility: 7
* Luck: 5
Notes (Iceberg-Seven): Whether working as 'The Human Horror Show' Creeping Death, 'Ghost of Tokyo' Shinji Kiryu or 'The Avenger' Corey Black, he is one of the most dangerous and devastating competitors to ever lace wrestling boots. Conditioning and training have made Corey Black a legitimate powerhouse, despite his smaller stature- years of experience on nearly every continent on the globe have made him a near-encyclopedia of wrestling holds, throws and reversals. Corey Black is fiercely loyal, deceptively intelligent and resilient beyond normal human levels. He has no known weaknesses, other than perhaps his pride; this, of course, is a common ailment among living legends.
Notes (Phantasm): I'm not sure where I'd be today if it weren't for Corey; the guy saved my life, both metaphorically during our time together as Pantheon and literally once or twice during the Cryogenix days. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure he almost killed me a few times during the period when he trained Jeff Purse and I in his 'gymnasium' (read: midevil torture chamber). Careful with that mace, man- you could take someone's head off with that, and not in the fun on-purpose kinda way.
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[Scene: DETHFORT, interior. Phantasm is draped with a large woolen blanket that appears to be older than either of these two men... Corey Black is wearing a t-shirt proudly advertising Metallica's '...And Justice For All' tour; the shirt appears to have gone through as much in the last 20-something years as either of them (as it has more scars than the two of them combined). The shirt, much like the decor in Corey Black's house, reflects the man himself- strong, dangerous... classic. Six dusty suits of armor line a great hall which connects the massive 'foyer' to the inner sanctum... the entry chamber at DETHFORT is larger than the huge common-area room at Project: Antarctica, about half the size of New Antarctica - the Unstable Elements' former mansion in Nevada, burned in late 2012 by Nathan von Liebert - in square footage. Other than being massive, the foyer seems to serve little purpose but to feature tapestries and oil paintings... one particular oil painting draws Polar's attention immediately.]
Black: Yeah, I got that at a garage sale in Birmingham. England.
Phantasm: No way-
Black: -yep. You're looking at an honest-to-god painted portrait of Black Sabbath.
Phantasm: ....I... shit, man... it belongs in a museum!
Black: Eh, once I'm dead or something. I bought it for practically nothing from some old lady, couldn't even see to identify the thing...
Phantasm: You overpaid her, didn't you.
Black: ...alright, maybe I slipped a couple extra Benjamins in there to get the bitch some new glasses. The point is-
Phantasm: -you're still you, man. That's as good of news as I could hope for.
[Without any change in expression, Corey Black continues.]
Black: -point is I thought it'd be worth something someday, and I just liked it too much to get rid of it. It belongs to the DETHFORT now, man... I can't get rid of it.
[Polar smiles.]
Phantasm: DETHFORT... the house that metal built. You've even got a picture of 'Sabbath now- I'd rather that than a painting of the Last Supper any day of the week.
[They walk toward the inner sanctum, Corey bristling his beard a bit as he looks around his massive home. Polar points to a wall more sparsely decorated than the rest, taking their metal-religion-art conversation that much further.]
Phantasm: See, right here? That's where you put the stained-glass window of Deep Purple: Live At Tokyo. Maybe get a granite statue of Cliff Burton, put it over there in the corner-
Black: -write all this shit down for me before you leave, alright?
[Polar is momentarily stunned, then stops dead in his tracks and cackles madly as he suddenly embraces his old friend. The confused look on Corey Black's face would be downright hilarious if laughing at Corey Black wasn't a surefire way to get four teeth removed via blunt force trauma.]
Black: ...what?
Phantasm: Corey, you magnificent bastard. Yes. I will totally fucking do that.
[Ten minutes later, the Phantasm scrawls on an elegant white cloth napkin with an inch-thick permanent marker; our view expands to show that he is sitting on a torture rack as he does so. Our view expands to show that this torture rack's main function at the moment is quite different than one originally intended at its creation; we are in a sitting room at the DETHFORT, and Polar is perched atop Corey Black's coffee table. Standing before a roaring fire - built in a pit in the middle of the room, by the way - is the man himself, apparently drifting into thought as he watches the crackling flame.]
Black: Shit's a lot different now, you know.
[Polar looks up, noticing he's forced to stare at his friend's back. He answers quietly, not wanting to startle his friend out of his intent to share.]
Phantasm: I mean, I kinda figured things would be different- but like, how much different are we talking?
Black: Purse split on us, Fly's out for a while with an injury... Cairo and Orbit hang with the new World Champ, Beckman. 'Vapor Kings', they're called.
[Polar drifts into thought, letting this new information sink in.]
Phantasm: Shit, wow. I'm sure I'll eventually talk to Jeff and Steve and Uncle Bobby, find out what happened with them- oh, and I've been in touch with Frank! He's been dealing with some Frank-life stuff...
[Corey shakes his head, chuckling ever-so-quietly at the news that FPV is still very much FPV.]
Black: ...that fuckin' guy. So Frank's around- that's good, I guess.
Phantasm: Yeah, he said to say hi if I saw you- so, wait... I was out, Fly's down, Purse split, Cairo split, you're here... where's everybody else? What's left of the Pantheon?
[The grim expression on Corey's face seems to take on a new dimension of grimness.]
Black: We'll see.
Phantasm: I can see Reb's not with us anymore- what about Jay?
Black: Jay's still Jay. He hasn't gone anywhere. Reb, though...
[Corey Black turns to his old friend, a look of... concern? Is that concern we see?... in his eyes.]
Black: Yeah, we need to talk about Reb.
[Polar stands, dropping his idea-covered napkin onto the torture-table. He tries to match Corey's serious expression, but can't help but crack up a bit as he responds.]
Phantasm: Mission briefing, then. To the taffy room!
[Corey shrugs.]
Black: Whatever you gotta do, man- but serious, you need to know some shit before you get across the ring from Reb.
[Polar begins to look concerned now; as Corey escorts him down a spiraling staircase into the under-depths of the DETHFORT, Polar's brain derives an alternate plan they would both likely appreciate more than a belly full of taffy.]
Phantasm: You know what, man? If it's like that, we might as well tie one on. This shit sounds serious, right?
Black: It's pretty fucked up, yeah.
Phantasm: Where you keep your booze around here?
Black: Down the hall, couple archways down to the right.
[Polar looks to Corey with an insane gleam of hope in his eye.]
Phantasm: You got a mead hall in this bitch?
Black: Nah.
Phantasm: ...aww.
Black: Got an olympic-sized wet-bar, though.
Phantasm: Yeah? That'll work.
Black: Hadn't restocked it in a minute, but... Price couldn't've done that much damage...
[Polar shakes his head.]
Phantasm: Ah, shit, man- you're underestimating Jay Price. That's as dangerous a thing to do as letting him have free run of your wet-bar.
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// Iceberg-Seven profile: Ouroboros Detective Agency
OUROBOROS DETECTIVE AGENCY (ODA)
Classification: Group/Stable/Business, subgroup 'Business'.
Founded: 2013
Base of Operation: New Orleans, Louisiana, USA
Members: Lucien Hicks, Jackson (Jax) Masters
Known Associates: Nikolette (Nike) Kensey, Rob (Tomorrow) Morrow, Jacob Stein, Mark Spellman, 'M', Cameron (Polar Phantasm) Bankston Jr.*, Crystal (Nightmare) Bankston*, Cornelius (Casanova) Charles*.
* separate profile available
Function: Detective's agency, for hire
Slogan: 'Finding the Truth, one client at a time.'
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\\ Three attached profiles found. Displaying attached profiles.
LUCIEN HICKS
Classification: Person/Individual
Real name: Lucien Harold Hicks
Profession: private detective (formerly investigative journalist)
Title/Rank: half-owner, Ouroboros Detective Agency; former WCF staff (investigative reporter)
Age: 35
Height: 6'
Weight: 215 lbs.
Known For: drug use, trenchcoatiness, dedication to the truth
Notes (Iceberg-Seven): Lucien Hicks, Renegade Reporter was heavily involved in 2012's successful attempt to break Seth Lerch out of prison (Breakout Kings of the Ring #1-5). His former job as WCF's go-to interviewer has acquainted him with many of the company's brightest and craziest.
Notes (Phantasm): Met Lucien in Tokyo, way back when Nightmare and I first hooked up (Unstable Elements #2, 'Tokyo Drifters'). I thought he was a solid guy then, and now I wonder how we ever got along without him. He was one of the few 'civilians' I dropped hints to as per our whereabouts when Crystal and I were working spec ops for the ASA... he's one of the few people outside of Cryogenix who've seen the inside of Project: Antarctica. Plus, he's always a good person to check with if you're looking for mind-expanding substances... just sayin'.
Notes (Bonhagen): Behold- my spirit animal. Some of you may know that Lucien Hicks is my literary avatar; for the rest of you... well, now you know. Lucien Hicks is my literary avatar. That said, he has way better dealers than I do.
JACKSON (JAX) MASTERS
Classification: Person/Individual
Real name: Jackson Masters
Profession: Private detective (formerly assistant news desk editor)
Title/Rank: Half-owner, Ouroboros Detective Agency
Age: 34
Height: 6' 1"
Weight: 220 lbs.
Known for: attention to detail, almost superhuman public relations/damage control ability, 'lawyer hair'
Notes (Iceberg-Seven): It is fairly well-known that Jax Masters was behind Lucien for many years, checking facts and cleaning up messes. Relentlessly clever and a master of research.
Notes (Phantasm): Only met Jax Masters once, but I could tell quickly that he was the guy (or one of the guys) who keeps Lucien's head on straight. Guy's from a family full of New Orleans lawyers- no clue how he ended up 'a straight-up good guy' (direct quote from the Lucien himself).
Notes (Bonhagen): Lucien's partner in crime Jackson is the literary parallel of my own partner in comedic crime, Mike. He really is Jax-level sensible; to a fault, really. The guy stopped chasing girls like eight years ago because it wasn't cost-effective. "Porn is free. Boom." First appeared in the column I wrote as Lucien for blog.playpen.com... pretty sure it was the column on sex laws.
NIKOLETTE (NIKE) KENSEY
Classification: Person/Individual
Real name: Nikolette Kensey
Profession: Social worker (formerly head of New Orleans Fight Against AIDS)
Title/Rank: Unofficial 'third man', Ouroboros Detective Agency
Age: unknown, likely early 30s
Height: 5'6"
Weight: unknown, estimated at 120 lbs.
Known for: open-mindedness, understanding, not taking any shit
Notes (Iceberg-Seven): Nike Kensey is a known associate of Lucien Hicks; formerly a source of information during his reporter days, she now helps the Ouroboros Detective Agency in her capacity as a licensed social worker and state employee. Kensey met and fell in love with a New Orleans police officer sometime in the past two years; this unit assumes they met on one of her many trips to Orleans Parish Prison... to bail Hicks out.
Notes (Phantasm): Kensey I know- she's one of the few people who can talk sense into Lucien when he's off on one of his jags, and he's left me frighteningly detailed instructions on how to find her in case something happens to him.
Notes (Bonhagen): Dedicated to my old friend Ked. Keep fighting the good fight, girl. Save New Orleans, one client at a time. First appeared in a column written about contraceptives (for blog.playpen.com), then later co-starred with Lucien in Fight AIDS with Fire (should still be up at the old Notes From Underwater blog, lucienhicks.blogspot.com).
...end of profile. No further attachments.
...Profiles unavailable: Morrow, Rob; Stein, Jacob; Spellman, Mark; 'M'.
// Iceberg-Seven idle.
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[Scene: New Orleans, LA; more specifically, Faubourg Treme. Lucien Hicks and Nightmare are sitting in Nighty's parked car, watching a dark house. Two white people in a parked car after dusk tend to draw attention in this neighborhood... thankfully for them, the disheveled trenchcoated Lucien and the dark-haired facial-tattooed Nightmare look just odd and dangerous enough to repel unwanted attention from the 'boys in the hood'. Nightmare's car is a 2012 Pontiac Trans Am; it appears to be in pretty decent condition, if you ignore the multitude of crushed and stamped Cheerios littering the backseat. Lucien takes a long drag on a hand-rolled cigarette(?), holding the smoke in for a second. He passes what is now obviously a joint to Nightmare, who clutches it in her lips with the grace of a practiced stoner.]
Lucien: It's all still kinda surreal, you know? Me and Jax, detectives.
Nightmare: What's so surreal about that?
Lucien: We're newsmen. All I ever wanted to be since I was a kid was a newspaper reporter. Now the best I can do is shit like this- waiting around for some gun-thug to show up.
Nightmare: See, that's what's surreal to me- Phantasm and I spent the last two years doing shit like this when all we wanted to do was get back in the ring... now shit like this feels normal to me.
Lucien: Eh, I guess that's something.
Nightmare: Fuck the ASA. They did the best they could to turn us into shifty-ass spooks; soon as Jeff was born, Polar and I snapped out of it.
Lucien: How's that, by the way?
[She turns to him, eyebrowns wrinkled by the confused look on her face.]
Nightmare: How's what?
Lucien: Having a kid.
Nightmare: The most rewarding job on the planet... if you're ok with the reward being stains on your clothes and that baby poop smell getting in your hair.
[They both laugh; she finally hits the joint and passes it back.]
Lucien: -yeah, I figured you'd eventually remember.
[Blinded by comraderie, the two almost completely miss a shady-looking hispanic male approaching the house. Lucien notices out the corner of one eye, suddenly grabbing Nightmare and dragging her beneath the dashboard as he ducks. He puts a finger to his lips, recieving a nod in response; as he points toward the driveway, she peeks over the console to see their target entering a downstairs door.]
Nightmare: He's inside. Quick equipment check?
[Lucien pulls himself back up, checking his pockets.]
Lucien: Sure- got a Mag-Lite, my phone... little pocket notebook and a golf pencil I stole from English Turn...
[He pulls the coat back to reveal a shoulder-holster, battered .38 revolver poking out just so.]
Lucien: ...my dad's old Colt Detective Special. Ready as I'm gonna be.
Nightmare: Your dad a cop?
Lucien: Nah, not even close. Good ol' Reg Hicks is a newspaper man... somewhere in Oregon, now, I think. Katrina migration got him.
[She shrugs, making a compassionate face... briefly, though, as she remembers that she is about to play with her toys. She can't help but give an evil smile.]
Lucien: You're kinda scaring me, Crystal-
[Nightmare produces two metal rods; with a click, both rods extend until less than an inch from the roof of her car.]
Nightmare: Cam calls these my 'BBC' sticks.
[Lucien frowns, lost in the conversation suddenly. Crystal Bankston laughs and explains with a smile.]
Nightmare: 'Bitch, Be Cool'.
[Lucien shakes his head.]
Lucien: Your husband is a weird mother fucker.
Nightmare: He has his moments, though. Plus I got these-
[She quickly and sharply draws a dagger from her left boot.]
Nightmare: -girl's lost without a knife in this world, you know?
[She then opens and reaches into the glove compartment, pulling out an electronic device with a pistol grip.]
Nightmare: Unless she's got a stun gun...
[They both suddenly duck again, suddenly seeing the man come out of the house. He stuffs a .45 pistol into his low-riding jeans; comically, the gun tumbles out as he superstitiously steps over a crack in the sidewalk. It does not go off, though it strikes the ground hard enough... Lucien and Nightmare both notice the man's alarmed jump at the gun's impact.]
Nightmare: Yeah, it's loaded.
Lucien: Then why didn't it go off?
Nightmare: He probably bought it new and hasn't even used it yet.
Lucien: What makes you say that?
Nightmare: 'Cause shit like guns going off when you drop them is a Hollywood trope. If this guy was a hitter, he wouldn't have flexed a muscle.
[Lucien breathes a sigh of relief.]
Nightmare: He's not a gangster, dude. He's just playing one.
[She starts the engine, slowly following the man a few blocks down Dumaine Street.]
Lucien: Easy... you can give him a lead. Shit, I bet I even know where he's going.
[...some ten blocks later, we find the man knocking on the door of a shotgun house; Nightmare's car pulls up down the block, the two investigators quietly exiting the Pontiac and creeping toward the porch using parked cars as cover. The man shouts and pounds at the door, demanding a woman named Brenda respect him. Lucien points to his eyes with two fingers, signalling around to the left; Nightmare rolls her eyes, hand-signalling by mimicking masturbation.]
Lucien (whispered): Oh, real grown-up, Crystal.
[She winks at the frazzled reporter-turned-detective.]
Nightmare (whispered): You come in up front, I come in the back?
[He nods.]
Nightmare (whispered): Alright then. Let's make his day.
[This time, it's Lucien's turn to roll his eyes.]
[Meanwhile, on the porch...]
Gun Thug: Puta, open this door or I'll make you reeeal sorry!
Lucien (shouted): Hey, man- you know which way Esplanade is from here?
[The man stops in mid-pound, turning to Lucien with one eyebrow cocked up. His face twists to an evil smile as his pounding fist finally descends... it grasps the pistol at his waistband, carefully.]
Gun Thug: Yo, ese, I don't give directions. I give orders.
[Lucien gives an awkward smile to the man, raising his hands in submission. In one hand is a Pall Mall 100, thin trails of white smoke pouring forth from its blazing cherry. In the other hand is a forearm-sized flashlight.]
Lucien: Look, I'm not after any trouble... just trying to get to the store before it closes to try and get some batteries for this damn flashlight. You any good with these things?
[He first glances up at his Mag-Lite, then pulls his arms down and begins tinkering with the light as if unsure how one uses such a device.]
Lucien: I tried to turn it on, but nothing happened...
[With a click, Lucien turns on the flashlight... he aims its beam directly into the eyes of his client's psychotic stalker.]
Gun Thug: Yo, what the fuck, holmes?!
[He reflexively pulls his pistol; before he can aim in Lucien's direction (or get off a wild shot, even) he finds himself laid out on the cypress-plank porch. From behind, a tremendous chop was delivered to the back of his neck- it landed directly across his brain stem, where his brain connects to his spine. The training to perform with such precision came from two years of clandestine government work and three years' exposure to the meticulous mind of the Phantasm; the strike itself, of course, came from one seriously pent-up momma.]
Lucien: He almost got me!
[With a smirk, Nightmare kicks the .45 away from its previous owner.]
Nightmare: Eh, he would've missed anyway.
[She steps on the thug's hand, crushing it beneath her steel-toed boot... she kneels, forcing the issue with all 140 pounds of her gravitational influence.]
Nightmare: I saw you, drawing with your hand held sideways- this isn't L.A., you fool. This is LA. We don't put up with West Coast bullshit down here... take it from an L.A. girl; you're on a whole different fuckin' planet down here.
[Among his pained moaning, the thug spits back a torrent of curses; some Spanish, some English... all terrible.]
Nightmare: You suck your daddy's dick with that mouth, cabron?
[With practiced ease, she draws her dagger from its hiding place in her footwear.]
Nightmare: You stay the fuck away from this woman. You stay the fuck away from this house- better yet, you get the fuck out of this town and you never come back.
[She throws the dagger at the porch; it sticks into the old cypress plank about two inches above the crown of the man's head. He stops breathing momentarily; she takes that as a sign that she can release him. As she stands, stepping off of his hand, the man begins breathing again in thick gasps.]
Lucien: Hey, I got Jax on the way-
[Lucien steps over, finishing a phone call... he briefly glances up to see the man roll off the porch and crawl toward his discarded weapon.]
Lucien: Crystal!
[Nightmare sees the man reaching, but has a porch railing between her and he- Lucien drops his phone, using both hands to swing his flashlight. Thankfully, the sturdy metal body of the flashlight took no damage as it cracked open the man's forehead; even more thankfully, the man's brain took a serious enough concussion from the blow to cause him to fall unconscious.]
Lucien: Jesus, fuck! That felt good- shit, I just bashed a guy's head open...
Nightmare: I know, right?!
[She leaps off the porch, landing two feet from the dazed detective; he tosses the flashlight onto the lawn haphazardly and grabs his phone with an awkward swipe. He notices with some degree of surprise that the soft Sixth Ward grass saved his Samsung from sudden death.]
Lucien: -shit, I bet Jax called the cops already. He's on his way, too... look, can I ask you a favor?
[She nods, already knowing what Lucien's request will be.]
Nightmare: Stay here, deal with the cops, cover for Jax 'til he gets here? Yeah, I got that.
[She reaches into a hidden pocket inside of her combat attire, pulling out a thin black flip-out ID holder. She flips it open, brandishing it at Lucien briefly.]
Nightmare: Crystal Bankston, American Security Administration. Western US. Retired; full pension. Not that we need it, but... hey. Jeff'll have full government benefits for life. Not a bad gig. Still got our DoD clearance and everything.
Lucien: How did you-
Nightmare: -long story, most of it's classified. And I just don't feel like explaining it all to you.
Lucien: Can I get the Cliff's Notes version?
[She shrugs, stashing her credentials.]
Nightmare: He may be a 'weird mother fucker', but Cam's a hell of a negotiator.
--------------------------------------------
[Scene: DETHFORT, interior; specifically, a large den room in the 'upper basement' region of the sprawling castle. The family crests of every clan to ever inhabit this massive structure hang along one wall of the room; Corey Black's crest is hanging at the end, it obviously of his own design. Though styled somewhat like the others, it is quite distinct; for instance, none of the other family crests are shaped like a pro wrestling title belt, and none of the others have the Japanese symbols for 'power', 'glory' or 'battle' on them. The decorations in the DETHFORT are very much like the man that calls it home; that much is for sure. The two men down shots of a pale greenish liquor; at least one of them has no idea what they are drinking, quite possibly both of them. The bottle is a generic glass stopper-bottle, and any label it ever had has left nary a trace in its absence. If only they knew it was a 100-year-old bottle of French chartreuse they were choking down... ah, but I digress. Back to the story.]
Black: So what I'm trying to tell you is that's not Reb.
[Phantasm forces himself to stop coughing at that burning liquor flavor; he realizes what his friend just told him, and the bottom seems to fall out of his brain.]
Black: It's not a Reb you've ever known, anyway, except maybe on TV. It's... ok, so it looks like Reb, right? And it wrestles like Reb- well, like Reb used to anyway. But that's not Reb.
Phantasm: Does he have, like, horns or something? A tail?
Black: I'm being serious right now, asshole. Stow the fuckin' jokes for a minute-
Phantasm: -wait, man, I'm asking how you could've intued such a thing. People change, sure, but... what do you mean 'that's not Reb'?
Black: The Reb you knew, Pantheon's Reb... your super-science buddy Reb... isn't the Reb we're facing Sunday night. No idea what happened to that Reb, or when it happened- the new-old Reb just showed up a while back and we all took it at face value. Reb is Reb, right?
[Polar makes a 'meh' face, raising one hand and slowly tilting it back and forth.]
Phantasm: Time and space tend to get a bit wonky around the guy, you know? Maybe we're dealing with a parallel world's Reb come to take over professional wrestling and our old friend Johnny Reb- the real Johnny Reb- is trapped in some hellish prison in another dimension...or... something.
[Corey Black appears to get a headache at the mere thought of figuring out what the fuck his friend and tag partner just said.]
Black: What? No, just- fuck, you're probably right anyway. Our Reb is probably out there somewhere, but this Reb right here and right now? It's like someone cloned Reb circa 2008 and let him loose in the locker room. I tried to talk to him once, and it was like Pantheon never happened... or like he - this Reb, I mean - wasn't there.
[Polar raises his eyebrows, making a few mental leaps to follow Corey's logic.]
Black: Sounds like some X-Files shit, I know.
Phantasm: You know- that's really fuckin' solid thinking, man. Reb's not the type to forget things, or pretend to be something he's not...
[Relief shows on Corey Black's face as he figures out Polar 'smells' what he's 'cooking', to borrow a parlance of our modern times.]
Black: ...exactly. There ain't a whole lot of fake about Reb- except everything, in the case of this fuckin' guy. Propping up that jobber Doc Henry- does that sound like Reb to you?
Phantasm: Well, kinda- it did, I guess. Sounds like the Reb I saw on TV when I was in high school...
Black: See, NOW you're getting it. Shikara will wash out of WCF faster than you can get Amazon to send you a package, and Doc's the same talentless piece of shit he was when you left. Ain't much changed but everything else... especially Johnny Reb.
[Polar scratches his head, then rubs his chin. Corey takes a deep swig from the bottle, coughing a bit (and giving his beard a disinfecting soak in the process).]
Phantasm: I'll need to see tapes of the last few months' shows, specifically any New Confederacy matches...
Black: Yeah, I got that. I keep tapes of every show I've ever done.
Phantasm: Jesus- you've gotta have a huge closet, then.
[He watches Corey's deadpan expression for a smile; there is none. He also does not respond verbally, as if telepathically reminding the Phantasm that his house is a massive 14th century castle.]
Phantasm: ....oh, wait. You totally do. Like six of them, I'm guessing.
Black: At least. What else you need, Kid?
Phantasm: It'll take a couple hours for Eye-Seven and I to modify my old 'vs. Reb' and 'vs. Reb/Doc' strategies, based on the new data I'm getting from you and whatever we can mine from the tapes...
Black: Shit, man. Time, we got...
Phantasm: And I guess another shot-
[Corey is already pouring before Polar can finish the thought. As he puts the mystery liquor back down, Corey Black stands- he lifts the shotglass, motioning with a nod for the Phantasm to join him. As he does so, Polar asks...]
Phantasm: A toast?
Black: What the fuck, right? A toast- to the Pantheon.
Phantasm: To WCF.
Black: To honor and glory-
Phantasm: -and old friends.
Black: To the defeat of our enemies-
Phantasm: -to finishing the mission.
[They both fall silent for a moment.]
Black: To the future.
Phantasm: Fuck yeah, brah.
[They clink the shot glasses together, each haphazardly spilling a bit onto the antique bar. Corey finishes his with a gulp; he slams the glass onto the bar upside-down, swallowing the pale green fire with a pained shout. Polar carefully pours the liquid evil down his throat, involuntarily shuddering a bit as it winds its way into his stomach.]
Black: Let's get back to doing what we do best, Kid.
[Eyes watering from the sharp tasting antique liquor, Polar rubs at his face with both hands. He gasps a distracted response.]
Phantasm: Yeah? What's that, man?
Black: ...winning wrestling matches, man! Don't tell me you already forgot how we did things last time you were around...
[This snaps Polar to attention; he leaps into action, ready to defend himself against accusations of having lost his 'game'.]
Phantasm: -what? Of course not, dude-
Black: I'm sayin', the gym's right back there, down the hall.
[This time, Polar's shiver is one based entirely in memory. He smiles a crooked, pained smile at his old friend; Polar knows he's in for it. The only part he hasn't figured out yet is whether or not Corey had planned to hold him to the flames the whole time, or if the liquor had given him the idea.]
Black: We've had a few- let's get in a workout. I got some new records, some Norwegian shit you gotta hear-
[Polar laughs, shaking his head... he thinks perhaps maybe Corey Black just missed him. As he looks up to his tag partner, already up and heading toward the door, the Phantasm can only muster one reply.]
Phantasm: Oh boy... well, at least it's comforting to know that some things never change.
[Though it would be a difficult night, it would be a rewarding one- after all, they say 'no pain no gain', right? Two Viking warriors, two fighters by trade, getting back to what they do best... putting themselves through hell to get to what they might consider a 'heaven'. Two men getting back to what they, as individuals or as a unit, have always done best...]
[...winning wrestling matches.]
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[(c) Wrestling Championship Federation 2104. The views of the Polar Phantasm and Corey Black are not those of WCF or any of its allies or affiliates. All rights reserved.]