Post by God King Dune on Sept 22, 2015 19:16:44 GMT -5
Koyaanisqatsi (ko-yaa-nis-katsi): Life out of balance
“If we dig precious things from the land, we will invite disaster.” - Hopi Prophecy
“It’s no coincidence that man’s greatest achievement is also his greatest folly.” - The Jackal
We fade to a shot of a blue 1954 Cadillac Eldorado convertible cruising down a lone stretch of highway that slices through the American Southwest. Two young lovers ride within, and the winds of a half-decade of nuclear fallout blow through their hair as the radio plays one of the latest tunes.
“Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream...”
The letters on a sign up ahead finally come into view, and the young woman reads them aloud.
Woman: “Welcome to El Mago, where the mushroom clouds grow.”
She smiles giddily at the thought of seeing one of the legendary clouds.
“Sandman, I’m so alone. Don’t have nobody to call my own…”
A flash of light fills the sky, and they screech to a halt. After a few seconds the blinding light begins to fade in favor of a strange, glowing darkness that reveals a tower of smoke and fire rising up to the heavens. It’s over a hundred miles away, though its sheer size gives it the illusion of being far closer. From here the couple is safe from the fires, but a bath of radiation will doom them to an early grave.
We leave the car and begin to zoom in on the aftermath of the blast. Half a dozen white streaks drift next to the megacloud that continues to rise and curl in at the top. Huge plumes of dirt and ash fall as the smoke at the bottom rushes forth like some hellish tsunami. After about ten seconds a massive explosion strikes as we meet the soundwave, and an unending, ungodly roar replaces the eery silence of before.
Finally, when no more detail can be revealed without breaching the cloud, the rising column begins to suck everything around it back in...
The smoke withdraws, and in its wake there stands a man in an unblemished grey suit.
He’s familiar to us: Jack, he would introduce himself to Pinky as in the present some 61 years later. And yet, in his younger form, he hasn’t changed a bit. He’s the same man whose mere presence conjured up nightmarish visions in Dune’s mind when they bumped into each other at the Double X; the same man who intercepted Joey Flash in the desert in the days leading up to WAR; the same man who took over the mind and body of Dune’s rottweiler before attacking Dune and fleeing for the desert and Joey Flash once more.
But this, of course, is no man. This is something else entirely: a Jackal, born of man’s greatest folly and his destructive nature. From chaos he rises, and through chaos he survives.
The mushroom cloud grows behind him as walks toward the screen, risen from the depths to a world begging for bad tidings. He smiles cruelly, his mind filled with a darkness sure to spread, and it seeps in slowly from the edges of the screen before overcoming it entirely.
Dune is entrenched in a darkness similar to the one we just left. He sits on board WCF One in a state of deep meditation. The low hum of the engines, the sound of thin air being parted by force, and the trespasses of Joey Flash are all that exist inside his mind.
A crackle through the speakers precedes the Captain’s voice, and Dune’s eyelids raise slowly at the sound.
Captain: How about that view, Champ? Nothing like it. Just a few more minutes, then I’ll set her down nice and easy for you. Hang tight.
Dune peers out at New York City below. The concrete jungles of the world hadn’t appealed to him prior to signing with WCF, and they’d proven similarly displeasing to visit in his travels since. Now he flies into this alien world - the world of Joey Flash - not for pleasure but purely for personal pursuits. He shuts the shade, and his icy blue eyes shoot toward the screen as he speaks.
Dune: It’s about goddamn time.
Here I come, Joey.
I don’t mean this little trip I’m on now. I know you’re down there in that big glass city somewhere, but I’m not here for you. Your billionaire buddy Seth Lerch may have contractually banned me from laying a hand on you til the match proper, but all the same you’ve done more than enough to warrant a thorough out-of-ring beatdown from the best fighter in the business, so long as no witnesses are present to disqualify me from our bout at WAR. You know what you’ve done, and you’ve been lucky enough to avoid your fate this long. You’ve been running since April, but now your back’s against the wall and there’s nowhere left to hide.
Here I come, Joey.
Mere days separate us from what’s been brewing for five months, and I can hardly wait to give you a big fucking taste of what you’ve been craving all this time. You’ve only had a sampling thus far, back in Trios when you were still Ice Beckman’s bitch-underling. We shared a moment that night, didn’t we, Joey? Before it had only been the suspicion of greatness that made our polar opposite natures attract one another. But that night a fiery breath blew life into what’s become the most heated rivalry of our careers. Who knows how it appears to those on the outside looking in, but in here - where the fires are white hot and ever-burning - we both know it to be true…don’t we, Joey?
Remember when that white hot fire was just a candle flame dancing with the wind?
Remember when it wasn’t there at all?
I remember how it began - where it began - and if I have my say it’s going to end in the same place: between the ropes. Ever since I came to Occulo’s aid while you and the former Vapor Kings laid into him in the ring, you’ve been provoking me with the hope I’d follow your lead and assist you in taking this beef of ours outside the ring. But this isn’t the fucking mafia; this is a goddamn wrestling business, one where beefs are meant to arise so as to be squashed IN the ring, not outside of it...and ours ends in the ring next Sunday at WAR.
Here I come, Joey.
When I took Occulo on as my ally, it only made sense to take you on as my foe. He was one of the most talented and honorable men in this company, and though back then your wrestling prowess wasn’t in question, you were still the same conscienceless, morally corrupt piece of shit you are today. I may have been on your radar before then, but it wasn’t until I joined forces with your then-arch nemesis that you began to realize the threat I posed. By then I was tearing through the ranks of the WCF, scaling the mountain faster and higher than all the rest. By the time the Trilogy Cup finals rolled around, there was hardly any question who the next King of WCF Mountain was going to be.
And you just couldn’t accept that.
They teach young American kids like you the stages of grief in public school. At opposite ends are denial and acceptance, but it’s in between where the true struggle lies. Yet as I neared the summit, it was in the black pit of denial where you willingly remained, refusing to allow the newer, more skillful fighter his rightful place on the throne. And so you did the only thing a coward could do in that situation: you made it easy for me - or tried to, anyway. Smacking Jay Omega with a steel chair may have quickened the inevitable, but all it really did was set fire to the long fuse...and it’s been burning ever since. You’ve been toeing the line, wary to wade through the healing waters of grief en route to accepting that I’m the man in this company like all the rest have, but at WAR you’re getting tossed right the fuck in. And when you emerge on the other side, you’ll have no choice but to accept your fate.
Here I come, Joey.
You’ve got my full attention. You’ve had it since trying to take a shit on what I’d worked so hard to achieve since arriving with the new year. Your many in-ring trespasses don’t take away from what I’ve built though. They only serve to chip away at the already faulty foundation you’ve built not only your WCF career on but your life on as a whole. I know far more about you than I’d like to, and in truth the more I learn, the more my absolute lack respect for you somehow waxes even further. Never before have I wanted to lay waste to a man inside the ring so badly as I do you, and thank fucking god my chance is right around the corner.
You want the best, Joey? Here I am. You could’ve had me at Revenge but you turned tail and fled when Thomas Bates was thrown into the fold. Well now it’s just me and you. There’s no one left to stand between us on the battleground. No one left to keep us apart.
Men have died for less than the shit you’ve pulled - stacks of them. But death doesn’t play into the war we’re in the midst of, only utter defeat at the hands of the better man. Your win/loss ratio doesn’t impress me, Joey. I’ve decimated far better fighters and come away as the victor, and none had incurred my wrath so much as you. And now the only thing that can quench it is the motherfucking World Champion pinning your scrawny little shoulders for three.
You fucked up, Joey. You picked a fight with the wrong man.
My fortress lies deep within an impenetrable inland empire, the heart of which you’ll never reach. But yours is comprised of castles made of sand, built upon the open shore without thought or care of the incoming tide. It’s been creeping closer and closer since April, and at WAR, when the waves finally come crashing down on your fragile kingdom, the entire world will bear witness to the unfolding of its ruin.
Here come the waves, Joey.
Here I come.
Dune cuts off as the plane comes to a halt on the runway. He rises from his seat and makes his way toward the exit. A black car awaits him outside, and he descends the ramp just as the car door opens to reveal the man he’s come to see: John Mullins.
“He’s there,” Mullins had said. “The Jackal.”
Dune glares at the sight of the man who dealt the original blow to the Sentinels when he attacked his own son, Occulo.
“Come to New York or they die,” he had said on the phone.
“...or they die,” Dune had dreamt him saying the night before.
He comes face to face with Mullins, who sticks out his hand and stares up at the Champion.
Mullins: Good to see you, Dune. How was your flight?
Dune: Cut the bullshit. You know why I’m here.
Mullins nods.
Mullins: The Jackal.
Dune: Right. Who is he?
Mullins: How should I know?
Dune’s eyes take on a menacing, wide-eyed stare as one might give a dog who misbehaves, and Mullins continues as to avoid what’s likely to follow.
Mullins: I wasn’t kidding you on the phone - I’ve dealt with him before, but I only know so much. As to who he is...or rather, WHAT he is...I can’t say. A demon, perhaps. Maybe even the devil himself. All I know is he thrives on the creation of chaos and the subsequent destruction of men. He penetrates the mind, Dune. Then he takes the body. Once he hones in on a target, he doesn’t cease until it’s utterly broken...and he’s been targeting you for a long time.
Dune chuckles incredulously, regretting his decision to come to the city.
Dune: M-hmm. And how could you know all this?
Mullins: Because I’ve been inside HIS mind. The only way to beat him is at his own game.
Dune: Which you play?
Mullins: To great success. Wanna learn? You’ll have to if you don’t want to lose everything. It’s not me who’ll take it from you. I’m no threat to you. Just remember why you’re here.
“...or they die.”
Dune looks down at his hand, still healing from his rottweiler’s bite the day before. He remembers the odd behavior that preceded his oldest and most loyal friend attacking him...thinks of Mullins’ words just now: “He penetrates the mind, Dune. Then he takes the body.”
“...or they die.”
He nods toward the car, and Mullins gets in before Dune follows suit. As the door shuts, the screen cuts to black.
Craters large and small mark the ground as viewed from above. We may as well be on the moon, but as the camera zooms in and rotates toward the horizon, the glowing desert sun tells us otherwise. More craters come into view. They cover the surface like a deadly pox atop an already stricken land. They’re the remains of nuclear explosions wrought up by man’s innate desire for dominance, however artificial its form may be.
A figure walks amongst the death below - a figure who was, in fact, awoken by the same power that bore the craters in the earth; that spread it’s toxic radiation.
The shot fades to one of the Jackal, who creeps slowly toward the edge of a deep, shadow-filled crater. He reaches the lip and pauses, looking down into the seeming abyss below. In the infinite silence, he speaks.
Jackal: Where are they?
He turns, scowling as he scans the horizon.
Jackal: Where are the bombs? Where are the men exposed to the invisible death they spread? They may have been blind to it, but there’s nothing like watching a horde of men enveloped in fresh nuclear emissions from a high seat on a canyon somewhere...or better yet, up close and in person...to FEEL the death seep in and take hold at a molecular level…
He shivers with the joy of the memory, and a thought comes to him.
Jackal: This place has gone quiet. It was man who made the bomb, and the bomb which brought me here. All that noise; all that racket - I just couldn’t ignore it any longer...
But now, in the absence of his atomic mayhem, may man himself come to fill the void. After all, his bombs are merely the controlled killing devices of an otherwise uncontrollable killer. Man is a monster - he’s always been a monster - and he’ll come to the desert to escape the laws that would bind him for acting upon his natural instincts. Out here, his bedlam will know no bounds. Here, he’ll gather en masse, drawn by the seductive allure of a new life amongst those of his own ilk.
He turns toward the camera, his eyes alight and impassioned as he speaks.
Jackal: I’m what you might call a firestarter, and what better way to get a good one burning than by allowing man the proper setting to reconnect with his primal rage?
He smiles and closes his eyes…
The nuclear fallout of the bomb tests spread throughout the vast majority of the U.S. Now, as the Jackal focuses his unearthly power and energy, a similar phenomena occurs. All across the nation, the desperate and loathsome are met with a fallback plan that’s never occurred to them before, and nothing has ever sounded so appealing. It’s the desert, an unlikely ally that offers a chance to build anew beyond the laws of the society they’ve come to know.
Within weeks the first outlaw tribes came to be.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
People...people everywhere.
The city is alive with them. They pack the sidewalks like a single organism in constant flux, and the streets are lined with their vessels from end to end. The surrounding buildings are jammed full of them too. For most here it’s business as usual. But from an outsider’s perspective, like that of Dune, the chaotic activity is bothersome, mind-numbing...troubling, even.
We cut to the inside of a car, where both Dune and Mullins stare out at the traffic ahead in silence. “Bugged,” Mullins had mouthed back at the airfield, and Dune had no desire to engage in small talk with the man who took Occulo out of action for months
But though his lips don’t move, his mind is full of activity like the city around him, and we latch onto a stream of consciousness that begins to resonate and become audible.
Dune: I don’t hate most men, but Joey Flash isn’t most men.
He’d take that as a compliment. He’d take that to mean he’s won the World Title already. And in his mind, he has. But the very real hate I have for Flash isn’t so much due to his unrivaled brashness and abrasiveness as it is his downright lack of humanity and inability to stay out of my personal affairs. Others would agree...my fellow Sentinels, Howard Black and Occulo, most of all.
What you did to them is unforgivable, Joey. Sure, Occulo’s healed and back in time for one of the most prestigious events in this industry, but that doesn’t excuse you from all the time you caused him to miss. I’m not a fool; I understand full well it was Mullins who took Occulo out of commission, but it was because of you, Flash. You were the puppet master pulling the strings, as you so love to be. You like to consider yourself in the same position when it comes to me and mine, but you’re far from it, Joey. You have no control over me, especially inside a wrestling ring beneath the lights of home. That’s where I thrive. That’s where I get shit done. And what the fuck have you done in the ring lately - won a string of matches against midcard talent? It’ll take more than the mediocre standard you’ve set for yourself since losing the TV Title to get over on me you holier than thou son of a bitch.
Weeks ago in the desert you asked me how this would end - if it even COULD end. Well it can, Joey; it will. But this doesn’t end in the dark, fucked-up-fairytale manner you seem to imagine it will. This isn’t your time. Do I even need to bring up the fact that you snapped the exalted losing streak of Adam Young not long ago? I don’t have to spice that shit up to make it burn, but to be honest even mentioning it is like beating a dead horse. And don’t even get me started on Grime. Since dropping the TV Title to that talentless void of humanity, you’ve devolved from a potentially great wrestler to a goddamn laughing stock.
And now you’re facing the World Champion - the very best of the best.
What the fuck?
That’s what I’d be asking had I not been privy to all your bullshit shenanigans that wound up reaching far too close to home for me to ignore. I guess underachieving, overrated motherfuckers around the Federation should take note: if you want to get a World Title shot down the line, it doesn’t matter what you do in the ring on Sundays. Just fuck with the most talented in-ring performer on the roster without shame or remorse for a while and you’re sure to get a shot. That’s all Joey’s done to get his. But sneaking around and fucking with me outside the ring is an entirely different game than trying to best me between the ropes. And when the end of each month rolls around, you can bet your ass I’m in prime form.
I’ve never lost in a PPV match, Joey. I don’t buckle when the pressure’s on; I don’t succumb to the heat when the fires are closing in. And they are for you, Joey. You’re surrounded by a sea of them, and with each passing second they inch closer to their next meal. You’ve come a long way from where you started in the WCF, but the back road you’ve chosen to take to the summit of my mountain hasn’t gone unwatched; your fumbling ascent hasn’t gone unnoticed. I’m ready for you, Joey - as ready as I’ve been for all the others I’ve flung from the mountaintop.
What the fuck makes you think you’re better than them? You’re not, for what it’s worth - not by a long shot. But you don’t listen. You don’t pay attention. If you did, you’d never question my place at the top of the WCF hierarchy. You’d stand humbled by what I’ve done as opposed to desecrating it, if only inside your mind...but you’ve taken it far beyond the confines of your skull, and for that I’d love nothing more than to see it crushed before I pin you and retain.
Fuck you, Joey Flash.
This doesn’t end well for you. You’re not coming out on top. You’ve wronged me far too greatly and far too many times to be let off so easy as to not spend a few weeks in a hospital bed after our inevitably-epic showdown. Cheap shotting me is one thing, but in setting your hands on Freeman last week...in setting your sights on the love of my life, Pinky, before that...you’ve earned yourself the fiercest, most dominant beatdown you’ll ever receive in what’s becoming a disappointing and lackluster career. It mirrors your private life, I suppose, which hasn’t turned out the way you’d planned it either. Perhaps that’s why you’re so eager to blend the two: your failures in each have made them wholly indistinguishable.
Would that you could hear my thoughts, you piece of shit. I’d give you one final warning: leave them alone. Pinky, Freeman, Chief, my dog...and my unborn child, most of all. But I needn’t remind you of that. You’re not so desperate as to harm them…
Or are you?
You’re unpredictable, Joey, and while I know exactly what to expect this Sunday at WAR when we settle this once and for all, I don’t know what you’ll do before or after your devastating loss. Take one look at all those I’ve defended my World Title against and you’ll get an idea of just how devastating defeat by my hand and the long fall from the top can be. Look to your former Vapor King partner, Ice Beckman, or those DRG boys, Deuce Murdock and Thomas Bates. Look to the Ultimate Showdown participants, most of whom are no longer on the roster. That’s the kind of power this Title holds, Joey. There’s no feeling in the world like ripping the Title from a lesser competitor and raising it high above his head. That’s a feeling you’ll never know as long as I wear the strap. And in the absence of such a monumental experience, don’t you dare go and pull a Columbine in the locker room…
Or worse yet, find your way to the desert.
Never - EVER - do I want to see you out there again. If I so much as get wind that you’ve come back to my corner of the earth...so fucking help you, Joey. Because I know you won’t have come to drop in and say, “Hello.” Tragedy is what you’ll look to achieve...but I won’t let you do it. I’d rather die than let you come between the ones I love.
But you know better. Surely you know better.
Either way, take my advice and prepare early for the crippling defeat that’s to come. Don’t get your hopes up like all the rest so laughably do. It’ll only make your fall that much more devastating. Unlike some may tell you, there’s life after death by Sandstorm in the ring. And while that particular afterlife isn’t the paradise as told of in scripture, it certainly isn’t the hell you’re making it out to be. After all, the only change will be the fact that I thrashed you, pinned you, and retained my World Title; that I proved my in-ring supremacy over you beyond a shadow of a doubt...as if there ever was one to begin with.
His stream of consciousness fades out, and a few seconds later the screen cuts to black.
The sunlight of early afternoon hits a quaint, relatively secluded NYC park. Shades of autumn paint the trees, and as we zoom out slowly a dying leaf comes into view. It falls, and we follow it’s chaotic descent until it crosses the plane of Dune’s half-masked face. The shot zooms out and pans over to show the WCF World Champion sitting beside John Mullins at a bench, though he doesn’t look his way as he speaks.
Dune: Why here?
Mullins: My car’s bugged. The CIA keeps watch on the world, and that includes their own...disgraced as they may be.
Dune: That’s not what I’m asking. Why HERE? What kind of significance does this place hold for you?
Mullins: None.
Dune shakes his head disbelievingly before he continues.
Dune: Your phone’s bugged. Your car’s bugged. Well now we’re bug free, so speak your peace.
Mullins: Joey Flash slipped through my fingers and ruined my -
Dune snatches Mullins by the collar and pulls him in close.
Dune: I don’t want to hear another word about Flash. He’s mine, Mullins, and mine alone. Our war ends in the ring. It doesn’t expand beyond. I won’t let it. I’m not here because of him; I’m here because of this Jackal - now tell me everything you know about him.
Dune releases him, and Mullins catches his breath and swallows hard before he responds.
Mullins: I’ve spent time in your neck of the woods. CIA, Dune - we have no bounds. And as you know, the Mojave is scene to some bizarre shit. It’s been a haven for madness and chaos since the 60’s...and to this day the outside public is none the wiser.
Dune: The desert is hell on earth. You don’t have to remind me.
Mullins: And yet, against all odds, you survived there. Your parents, murdered when you were a child. Your older brother, slaughtered right in front of you. So much death, and yet you survived...all because he wanted you to.
Dune: He, being the Jackal, I presume.
Mullins: You're his pet, Dune. Your his toy; his latest fancy, and he set to work on you from day one - before that, even. He’s the maestro conducting the tragic orchestra that is your life thus far. All your hate - all the loss it springs from - it’s by design. The ebb and flow of your life is predictable, and each incoming tide hits harder than the last. First it was your parents. Next it was your brother. And now, Dune...now it’s you.
Dune sighs impatiently.
Dune: A demon’s been manipulating my life...is that what you’re saying?
Mullins: Yes - a demon or something like it. He’s the one who’s responsible for bringing the tribes to desert in the first place. I first met him when I was investigating the disappearance of two young girls around the time Occulo was born. That was when…
Mullins continues to talk, but Dune isn’t listening. He seethes and stares straight ahead, contemplating his next move as a sort of primal anger boils up from within. His questioning of his dog’s strange behavior seems supremely foolish now, and for the first time in a few hours he thinks of home. He wonders if Freeman’s found his runaway best friend; if Pinky and the baby are alright.
He turns to Mullins and cuts him off mid-sentence.
Dune: Take me back to the plane.
Mullins: But we’ve only scratched the -
Dune: We’re done here. Let’s go.
He gets up, lifting Mullins by his collar. He pushes him toward the car when Mullins’ eyes light up at the sight of something at Dune’s back. The Champ turns to see a beautiful woman and her young child exit the far treeline and enter into the bright, sunlit field before him.
Mullins: There she is. She likes to bring him here in the afternoons.
Dune: Who is it?
Though he realizes as he asks.
Alessandre Allegri, the soon to be wife of Joey Flash, plays and laughs with four-year-old Christian Flash as Dune stares on in momentary horror. Something trapped inside him begs to be let free as he watches the mother and son from an unsafe distance. Silent rage spills over as he turns on Mullins.
Dune: You piece of shit. I knew you chose this place for a reason.
Mullins: They’re a part of this, Dune. The Jackal knows how to -
Dune shoots forward, manhandling Mullins into the driver’s seat of his car before shutting the door on him. He gets in the back right away, narrowly avoiding Alessandre’s gaze as she turns to see what the commotion is from afar.
Dune: Drive.
...but the brief physical confrontation can’t help but remind him of what’s to come at WAR with Joey Flash, and he leans in as Mullins starts the car.
Dune: Where’s Joey?
Mullins: He’s in the desert.
Dune: No...no, that was weeks ago. I was with him then.
Mullins: He’s gone back.
He turns toward Dune.
Mullins: You didn’t know?
Dune: But why would he -
We cut from the car to a shot of Dune’s rottweiler hundreds of miles away. The black dog sprints toward a column of rising smoke in the desert. It’s the Double X - what’s left of it, anyway, and scattered around it are several dead bodies. Nothing lives here, as the dog finds out upon rummaging around the place.
The scent of the uninvited Joey Flash stings his nostrils before the familiar smell of Pinky washes it away. He wags his tail amidst the smoke and burning rubble, though his excitement ceases as a man steps out from a dark corridor left standing.
The rottweiler bays at the Jackal, who laughs as he slowly approaches the beast.
Jackal: What’s that, boy - fire on the old hill? Or is it another turn with me behind the wheel that you’re wanting?
The dog’s barking ceases at his voice, and he whines as he backpedals in the path of the Jackal. He false-charges, and the dog turns tail and flees for home.
Jackal: That’s right, boy - that’s the way he went with her broken body!
He chuckles, infinitely amused at himself as he adds under his breath.
Jackal: And tell your master I’ll be seeing him soon.
And the screen cuts to black.
High in the air, WCF One speeds at upwards of 500 mph...but it’s not fast enough.
“He’s in the desert.”
The sinister grin of Joey Flash is imprinted on Dune’s mind as he considers the whereabouts and reasonings of his arch nemesis. He grits his teeth, fuming at allowing himself to be caught off guard. He’d called each in his small circle of companions from Mullins’ phone in the city, though neither Pinky, nor Chief, nor Freeman had answered.
He thinks of Pinky; of the growing baby in her belly. A rage comes over him, and he nearly wrecks the cabin before he manages to smother the flames.
Hundreds of miles and more than a few hours separate him from home. Powerless to provide his loved ones protection from the presumed-cruelties of Joey Flash, he flicks his eyes toward the lense and begins to speak.
Dune: Goddamn you, Flash - what the FUCK are you doing in the desert?! I’ve told you time and again to leave the ones I love out of this. They have absolutely nothing to do with the war we’ve been waging since spring. But you refuse, and in so doing you’ve incurred the full might of my infernal wrath. You would have been wiser to make a deal with the devil himself; now you won’t get off so easy.
You know the things I’ve seen, Joey.
You know the evil misdeeds I’ve avenged during my time here under the sun.
And yet you continue to dip your feet in the fire.
You ignore the warnings; you ignore my strength. I’m not talking about the ability to toss you around and snap your fucking vertebrae at will. I’m talking about the mental fortitude I possess. I’m talking about my inability to let anyone who’s wronged me off the hook so long as we’re both alive and breathing. And if I find you’re guilty of some unforgivable atrocity out here on the plains of the desert...you’ll never go free again.
This CAN end, Joey. It will, and hopefully at WAR…
But that all depends on what awaits me back home.
Dune doesn’t stop there, though a high pitch ringing rises from nothing to overcome his voice as we begin to zoom in on his face. Soon his voice is drowned out completely, and his mask fills the screen.
A tiny, circular piece of tape comes into view. It’s a microphone, transparent and almost invisible to the naked eye. Mullins planted it there as Dune was busy manhandling him back into the driver’s seat upon catching sight of Joey Flash’s fiance. But Dune is none the wiser. He continues letting loose on Flash in the only way a man can from 40,000 feet up.
The ringing persists as the shot fades slowly onto another.
The hot pink hair that is Pinky’s namesake makes her distinguishable even from afar. From the edge of the horseshoe canyon that conceals Dune’s home, we can see her lying on the ground just outside the front door. A black mass lays beside her, and it isn’t until it’s head pops up at the sound of an approaching motor that we realize it’s Dune’s rottweiler. He stands up slowly, though beside him Pinky doesn’t move an inch.
A buggy shoots by the screen, and we catch up to Dune as he nears his canyonside abode. He sees Pinky right off, and his heart sinks as she fails to move with his closing. He pulls up beside his rottweiler, glad, of course, to see his oldest and most loyal companion returned and apparently back to its old self...but it’s Pinky he remains focused on, and he brushes the dog away as he races toward her.
Kneeling down, he assesses the damage...and his head nearly explodes with rage.
Her face is bloodstained and badly beaten, but upon closer inspection he realizes that’s not the only part of her that’s been bloodied. His gaze moves down her petite frame in horror to see dried blood covering her clothes from the waist down. Tears of rage fill his eyes, and he gently sets his hand upon her navel. As he does, a pang unlike he’s ever felt strikes him, and he knows the worst has happened.
He curses Joey Flash in a fit of unfathomable rage, convinced that he’s the man responsible for this unforgivable act.
He applies pressure to Pinky’s palm and gently rubs at her temple, careful not to shake her awake in case of neck or spinal damage, when suddenly her eyes flutter open. The two lovers lock eyes, and Pinky smiles before wincing in pain. Her eyes begin to roll back in her head as she manages to mutter something too quiet for Dune to hear. He grips her hand and leans in.
Dune: What’s that, my love?
Pinky: Joey…Joey, he…
“...saved me.”
Which he did, though not before the Jackal churned her womb to a pulp. But her voice fades before she can utter those two most crucial words.
Dune grits his teeth, and they nearly shatter as he’s given what he assumes to be the confirmation he’s after.
Dune: It’s okay - Joey’s gone. I’m here now.
But she doesn’t hear him. Her eyes roll back in her head before they close, and she goes limp.
Tears well up in his icy blue eyes, and they fall to mix with the dried blood and dirt that’s smeared all about his only true love’s broken face. He begins to sob uncontrollably, as he did on the night his brother was taken from him and never since.
And as the tears blind him, he finds himself falling into darkness…
Falling…
Falling…
When the fires rise to catch him.
He shoots his head to the sky, and just as the first few notes of a wrathful scream escape his lungs, the screen cuts to black.
Sharp grains of sand shoot into Dune’s eyes as he squints at the rising emergency helicopter and its precious cargo. It took over an hour for the paramedics to reach his coordinates, and in that time Pinky hadn’t spoken another word.
“Joey...Joey, he…”
And those that went unspoken: “..saved me.”
His rottweiler licks at his healing-hand once more, though Dune ignores it. His mind is elsewhere, and he’s blind and numb to the world around him. For a brief moment he snaps out of it, and he slowly walks over to let the hound inside before punching in the code to close the steel door behind him.
He looks out at the distant horizon as the sound of a buggy comes to within earshot. A few seconds later Freeman pulls up beside him, tears in his eyes as he gets out.
Freeman: My god, Dune - it’s Chief! He’s dead! Someone blew the Double X to hell and put a bullet in Chief’s skull! Have you seen Pinky?!
Dune: He got to her while I was gone.
Freeman: He what?! Who did?!
Dune lunges forward, grabbing Freeman by the collar and screaming in his face.
Dune: JOEY FLASH DID! HE KILLED MY UNBORN CHILD!
He throws Freeman to the ground without thought or remorse, and the old man’s skull collides with a rock that knocks him out cold. A trickle of blood seeps out from the wound, but Dune pays it no mind as he makes for his buggy and speeds off toward the setting sun.
Back to the airfield; back to The Bronx to find and kill Joey Flash.
As he speeds across the sands, his fury can be contained no longer, and he screams with a rage he’s never felt before.
Dune: JOEY! GODDAMN YOU, JOEY! YOU’LL PAY FOR THIS IN BLOOD!
The dry desert wind carries his words to a man standing up ahead, though Dune is yet to see him.
Dune: I WARNED YOU! YOU WANTED THIS TO END, BUT NOW IT NEVER CAN - NOT INSIDE THE RING AS IT WAS SUPPOSED TO!
He catches sight of the man, but he doesn’t cease, nor does he slow down.
Dune: IT’S ALL GONE, JOEY! ALL HOPE; ALL LIGHT! GONE!
A crossroads approaches, and finally Dune begins to slow as the familiar face of the man comes into view.
Dune: Gone, Joey. And in the darkness, I finally see.
Despite his haste, he slows to a stop at the center of the crossroads.
There stands the Jackal, his grey suit clean as ever. He smiles to see Dune get out and approach. Just before he speaks, the Jackal puts a finger to his mouth. He reaches out and snags the tiny translucent microphone off the bottom of Dune’s mask, revealing it to him before burying it in the sand.
Jackal: A microphone...talk to any CIA agents of late - perhaps one by the name of John Mullins?
Dune: Who are you?
Jackal: Didn’t he tell you? My name’s Jack. But you don’t believe in that nonsense he was trying to feed you - I can tell. That’s good. If only you hadn’t fell into his trap. He drew you out of the desert so the one you’re shouting about could fight his battle unopposed. And he did just that.
Dune’s head is flooded with questions, though the Jackal continues before he can spit one out.
Jackal: What is it you want, Dune?
Dune: Blood; vengeance; death.
Jackal: From?
Dune: Joey Flash.
Jackal: And what would you give to reap it?
Dune: Anything.
He says it in full knowledge of the strange nature of the present-encounter. He doesn’t shy away from the darkness that radiates from the Jackal. Rather, he’s drawn toward the abyss, even though deep down he knows to fight it’s pull. But in the end, he can’t help but give in.
The Jackal puts out his hand and smiles.
Jackal: It’s a deal...
Dune reaches out, but just as he makes contact, the Jackal speaks up with a single request.
Jackal: ...so long as you let me in.
And both men vanish from sight.
We zoom out from the crossroads, and after a few seconds of silence, the screen fades to black.
“If we dig precious things from the land, we will invite disaster.” - Hopi Prophecy
“It’s no coincidence that man’s greatest achievement is also his greatest folly.” - The Jackal
After harnessing the power of the sun and using it to demolish two Japanese cities, the United States stood as the lone participating-nation made immensely stronger by World War II. The Soviets though - somehow standing tall despite unfathomable casualties throughout the war - had no intention of allowing for American-influence to overtake the globe. They too perfected the bomb, and henceforth the two nations began blasting away at their own respective soil.
The Soviets chose the barren lands of their vast empire.
The Americans chose the Mojave Desert.
Nuclear Afterbirth
We fade to a shot of a blue 1954 Cadillac Eldorado convertible cruising down a lone stretch of highway that slices through the American Southwest. Two young lovers ride within, and the winds of a half-decade of nuclear fallout blow through their hair as the radio plays one of the latest tunes.
“Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream...”
The letters on a sign up ahead finally come into view, and the young woman reads them aloud.
Woman: “Welcome to El Mago, where the mushroom clouds grow.”
She smiles giddily at the thought of seeing one of the legendary clouds.
“Sandman, I’m so alone. Don’t have nobody to call my own…”
A flash of light fills the sky, and they screech to a halt. After a few seconds the blinding light begins to fade in favor of a strange, glowing darkness that reveals a tower of smoke and fire rising up to the heavens. It’s over a hundred miles away, though its sheer size gives it the illusion of being far closer. From here the couple is safe from the fires, but a bath of radiation will doom them to an early grave.
We leave the car and begin to zoom in on the aftermath of the blast. Half a dozen white streaks drift next to the megacloud that continues to rise and curl in at the top. Huge plumes of dirt and ash fall as the smoke at the bottom rushes forth like some hellish tsunami. After about ten seconds a massive explosion strikes as we meet the soundwave, and an unending, ungodly roar replaces the eery silence of before.
Finally, when no more detail can be revealed without breaching the cloud, the rising column begins to suck everything around it back in...
The smoke withdraws, and in its wake there stands a man in an unblemished grey suit.
He’s familiar to us: Jack, he would introduce himself to Pinky as in the present some 61 years later. And yet, in his younger form, he hasn’t changed a bit. He’s the same man whose mere presence conjured up nightmarish visions in Dune’s mind when they bumped into each other at the Double X; the same man who intercepted Joey Flash in the desert in the days leading up to WAR; the same man who took over the mind and body of Dune’s rottweiler before attacking Dune and fleeing for the desert and Joey Flash once more.
But this, of course, is no man. This is something else entirely: a Jackal, born of man’s greatest folly and his destructive nature. From chaos he rises, and through chaos he survives.
The mushroom cloud grows behind him as walks toward the screen, risen from the depths to a world begging for bad tidings. He smiles cruelly, his mind filled with a darkness sure to spread, and it seeps in slowly from the edges of the screen before overcoming it entirely.
Castles Made of Sand
Dune is entrenched in a darkness similar to the one we just left. He sits on board WCF One in a state of deep meditation. The low hum of the engines, the sound of thin air being parted by force, and the trespasses of Joey Flash are all that exist inside his mind.
A crackle through the speakers precedes the Captain’s voice, and Dune’s eyelids raise slowly at the sound.
Captain: How about that view, Champ? Nothing like it. Just a few more minutes, then I’ll set her down nice and easy for you. Hang tight.
Dune peers out at New York City below. The concrete jungles of the world hadn’t appealed to him prior to signing with WCF, and they’d proven similarly displeasing to visit in his travels since. Now he flies into this alien world - the world of Joey Flash - not for pleasure but purely for personal pursuits. He shuts the shade, and his icy blue eyes shoot toward the screen as he speaks.
Dune: It’s about goddamn time.
Here I come, Joey.
I don’t mean this little trip I’m on now. I know you’re down there in that big glass city somewhere, but I’m not here for you. Your billionaire buddy Seth Lerch may have contractually banned me from laying a hand on you til the match proper, but all the same you’ve done more than enough to warrant a thorough out-of-ring beatdown from the best fighter in the business, so long as no witnesses are present to disqualify me from our bout at WAR. You know what you’ve done, and you’ve been lucky enough to avoid your fate this long. You’ve been running since April, but now your back’s against the wall and there’s nowhere left to hide.
Here I come, Joey.
Mere days separate us from what’s been brewing for five months, and I can hardly wait to give you a big fucking taste of what you’ve been craving all this time. You’ve only had a sampling thus far, back in Trios when you were still Ice Beckman’s bitch-underling. We shared a moment that night, didn’t we, Joey? Before it had only been the suspicion of greatness that made our polar opposite natures attract one another. But that night a fiery breath blew life into what’s become the most heated rivalry of our careers. Who knows how it appears to those on the outside looking in, but in here - where the fires are white hot and ever-burning - we both know it to be true…don’t we, Joey?
Remember when that white hot fire was just a candle flame dancing with the wind?
Remember when it wasn’t there at all?
I remember how it began - where it began - and if I have my say it’s going to end in the same place: between the ropes. Ever since I came to Occulo’s aid while you and the former Vapor Kings laid into him in the ring, you’ve been provoking me with the hope I’d follow your lead and assist you in taking this beef of ours outside the ring. But this isn’t the fucking mafia; this is a goddamn wrestling business, one where beefs are meant to arise so as to be squashed IN the ring, not outside of it...and ours ends in the ring next Sunday at WAR.
Here I come, Joey.
When I took Occulo on as my ally, it only made sense to take you on as my foe. He was one of the most talented and honorable men in this company, and though back then your wrestling prowess wasn’t in question, you were still the same conscienceless, morally corrupt piece of shit you are today. I may have been on your radar before then, but it wasn’t until I joined forces with your then-arch nemesis that you began to realize the threat I posed. By then I was tearing through the ranks of the WCF, scaling the mountain faster and higher than all the rest. By the time the Trilogy Cup finals rolled around, there was hardly any question who the next King of WCF Mountain was going to be.
And you just couldn’t accept that.
They teach young American kids like you the stages of grief in public school. At opposite ends are denial and acceptance, but it’s in between where the true struggle lies. Yet as I neared the summit, it was in the black pit of denial where you willingly remained, refusing to allow the newer, more skillful fighter his rightful place on the throne. And so you did the only thing a coward could do in that situation: you made it easy for me - or tried to, anyway. Smacking Jay Omega with a steel chair may have quickened the inevitable, but all it really did was set fire to the long fuse...and it’s been burning ever since. You’ve been toeing the line, wary to wade through the healing waters of grief en route to accepting that I’m the man in this company like all the rest have, but at WAR you’re getting tossed right the fuck in. And when you emerge on the other side, you’ll have no choice but to accept your fate.
Here I come, Joey.
You’ve got my full attention. You’ve had it since trying to take a shit on what I’d worked so hard to achieve since arriving with the new year. Your many in-ring trespasses don’t take away from what I’ve built though. They only serve to chip away at the already faulty foundation you’ve built not only your WCF career on but your life on as a whole. I know far more about you than I’d like to, and in truth the more I learn, the more my absolute lack respect for you somehow waxes even further. Never before have I wanted to lay waste to a man inside the ring so badly as I do you, and thank fucking god my chance is right around the corner.
You want the best, Joey? Here I am. You could’ve had me at Revenge but you turned tail and fled when Thomas Bates was thrown into the fold. Well now it’s just me and you. There’s no one left to stand between us on the battleground. No one left to keep us apart.
Men have died for less than the shit you’ve pulled - stacks of them. But death doesn’t play into the war we’re in the midst of, only utter defeat at the hands of the better man. Your win/loss ratio doesn’t impress me, Joey. I’ve decimated far better fighters and come away as the victor, and none had incurred my wrath so much as you. And now the only thing that can quench it is the motherfucking World Champion pinning your scrawny little shoulders for three.
You fucked up, Joey. You picked a fight with the wrong man.
My fortress lies deep within an impenetrable inland empire, the heart of which you’ll never reach. But yours is comprised of castles made of sand, built upon the open shore without thought or care of the incoming tide. It’s been creeping closer and closer since April, and at WAR, when the waves finally come crashing down on your fragile kingdom, the entire world will bear witness to the unfolding of its ruin.
Here come the waves, Joey.
Here I come.
Dune cuts off as the plane comes to a halt on the runway. He rises from his seat and makes his way toward the exit. A black car awaits him outside, and he descends the ramp just as the car door opens to reveal the man he’s come to see: John Mullins.
“He’s there,” Mullins had said. “The Jackal.”
Dune glares at the sight of the man who dealt the original blow to the Sentinels when he attacked his own son, Occulo.
“Come to New York or they die,” he had said on the phone.
“...or they die,” Dune had dreamt him saying the night before.
He comes face to face with Mullins, who sticks out his hand and stares up at the Champion.
Mullins: Good to see you, Dune. How was your flight?
Dune: Cut the bullshit. You know why I’m here.
Mullins nods.
Mullins: The Jackal.
Dune: Right. Who is he?
Mullins: How should I know?
Dune’s eyes take on a menacing, wide-eyed stare as one might give a dog who misbehaves, and Mullins continues as to avoid what’s likely to follow.
Mullins: I wasn’t kidding you on the phone - I’ve dealt with him before, but I only know so much. As to who he is...or rather, WHAT he is...I can’t say. A demon, perhaps. Maybe even the devil himself. All I know is he thrives on the creation of chaos and the subsequent destruction of men. He penetrates the mind, Dune. Then he takes the body. Once he hones in on a target, he doesn’t cease until it’s utterly broken...and he’s been targeting you for a long time.
Dune chuckles incredulously, regretting his decision to come to the city.
Dune: M-hmm. And how could you know all this?
Mullins: Because I’ve been inside HIS mind. The only way to beat him is at his own game.
Dune: Which you play?
Mullins: To great success. Wanna learn? You’ll have to if you don’t want to lose everything. It’s not me who’ll take it from you. I’m no threat to you. Just remember why you’re here.
“...or they die.”
Dune looks down at his hand, still healing from his rottweiler’s bite the day before. He remembers the odd behavior that preceded his oldest and most loyal friend attacking him...thinks of Mullins’ words just now: “He penetrates the mind, Dune. Then he takes the body.”
“...or they die.”
He nods toward the car, and Mullins gets in before Dune follows suit. As the door shuts, the screen cuts to black.
If You Build It…
Craters large and small mark the ground as viewed from above. We may as well be on the moon, but as the camera zooms in and rotates toward the horizon, the glowing desert sun tells us otherwise. More craters come into view. They cover the surface like a deadly pox atop an already stricken land. They’re the remains of nuclear explosions wrought up by man’s innate desire for dominance, however artificial its form may be.
A figure walks amongst the death below - a figure who was, in fact, awoken by the same power that bore the craters in the earth; that spread it’s toxic radiation.
The shot fades to one of the Jackal, who creeps slowly toward the edge of a deep, shadow-filled crater. He reaches the lip and pauses, looking down into the seeming abyss below. In the infinite silence, he speaks.
Jackal: Where are they?
He turns, scowling as he scans the horizon.
Jackal: Where are the bombs? Where are the men exposed to the invisible death they spread? They may have been blind to it, but there’s nothing like watching a horde of men enveloped in fresh nuclear emissions from a high seat on a canyon somewhere...or better yet, up close and in person...to FEEL the death seep in and take hold at a molecular level…
He shivers with the joy of the memory, and a thought comes to him.
Jackal: This place has gone quiet. It was man who made the bomb, and the bomb which brought me here. All that noise; all that racket - I just couldn’t ignore it any longer...
But now, in the absence of his atomic mayhem, may man himself come to fill the void. After all, his bombs are merely the controlled killing devices of an otherwise uncontrollable killer. Man is a monster - he’s always been a monster - and he’ll come to the desert to escape the laws that would bind him for acting upon his natural instincts. Out here, his bedlam will know no bounds. Here, he’ll gather en masse, drawn by the seductive allure of a new life amongst those of his own ilk.
He turns toward the camera, his eyes alight and impassioned as he speaks.
Jackal: I’m what you might call a firestarter, and what better way to get a good one burning than by allowing man the proper setting to reconnect with his primal rage?
He smiles and closes his eyes…
The nuclear fallout of the bomb tests spread throughout the vast majority of the U.S. Now, as the Jackal focuses his unearthly power and energy, a similar phenomena occurs. All across the nation, the desperate and loathsome are met with a fallback plan that’s never occurred to them before, and nothing has ever sounded so appealing. It’s the desert, an unlikely ally that offers a chance to build anew beyond the laws of the society they’ve come to know.
Within weeks the first outlaw tribes came to be.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
Resonating Consciousness
People...people everywhere.
The city is alive with them. They pack the sidewalks like a single organism in constant flux, and the streets are lined with their vessels from end to end. The surrounding buildings are jammed full of them too. For most here it’s business as usual. But from an outsider’s perspective, like that of Dune, the chaotic activity is bothersome, mind-numbing...troubling, even.
We cut to the inside of a car, where both Dune and Mullins stare out at the traffic ahead in silence. “Bugged,” Mullins had mouthed back at the airfield, and Dune had no desire to engage in small talk with the man who took Occulo out of action for months
But though his lips don’t move, his mind is full of activity like the city around him, and we latch onto a stream of consciousness that begins to resonate and become audible.
Dune: I don’t hate most men, but Joey Flash isn’t most men.
He’d take that as a compliment. He’d take that to mean he’s won the World Title already. And in his mind, he has. But the very real hate I have for Flash isn’t so much due to his unrivaled brashness and abrasiveness as it is his downright lack of humanity and inability to stay out of my personal affairs. Others would agree...my fellow Sentinels, Howard Black and Occulo, most of all.
What you did to them is unforgivable, Joey. Sure, Occulo’s healed and back in time for one of the most prestigious events in this industry, but that doesn’t excuse you from all the time you caused him to miss. I’m not a fool; I understand full well it was Mullins who took Occulo out of commission, but it was because of you, Flash. You were the puppet master pulling the strings, as you so love to be. You like to consider yourself in the same position when it comes to me and mine, but you’re far from it, Joey. You have no control over me, especially inside a wrestling ring beneath the lights of home. That’s where I thrive. That’s where I get shit done. And what the fuck have you done in the ring lately - won a string of matches against midcard talent? It’ll take more than the mediocre standard you’ve set for yourself since losing the TV Title to get over on me you holier than thou son of a bitch.
Weeks ago in the desert you asked me how this would end - if it even COULD end. Well it can, Joey; it will. But this doesn’t end in the dark, fucked-up-fairytale manner you seem to imagine it will. This isn’t your time. Do I even need to bring up the fact that you snapped the exalted losing streak of Adam Young not long ago? I don’t have to spice that shit up to make it burn, but to be honest even mentioning it is like beating a dead horse. And don’t even get me started on Grime. Since dropping the TV Title to that talentless void of humanity, you’ve devolved from a potentially great wrestler to a goddamn laughing stock.
And now you’re facing the World Champion - the very best of the best.
What the fuck?
That’s what I’d be asking had I not been privy to all your bullshit shenanigans that wound up reaching far too close to home for me to ignore. I guess underachieving, overrated motherfuckers around the Federation should take note: if you want to get a World Title shot down the line, it doesn’t matter what you do in the ring on Sundays. Just fuck with the most talented in-ring performer on the roster without shame or remorse for a while and you’re sure to get a shot. That’s all Joey’s done to get his. But sneaking around and fucking with me outside the ring is an entirely different game than trying to best me between the ropes. And when the end of each month rolls around, you can bet your ass I’m in prime form.
I’ve never lost in a PPV match, Joey. I don’t buckle when the pressure’s on; I don’t succumb to the heat when the fires are closing in. And they are for you, Joey. You’re surrounded by a sea of them, and with each passing second they inch closer to their next meal. You’ve come a long way from where you started in the WCF, but the back road you’ve chosen to take to the summit of my mountain hasn’t gone unwatched; your fumbling ascent hasn’t gone unnoticed. I’m ready for you, Joey - as ready as I’ve been for all the others I’ve flung from the mountaintop.
What the fuck makes you think you’re better than them? You’re not, for what it’s worth - not by a long shot. But you don’t listen. You don’t pay attention. If you did, you’d never question my place at the top of the WCF hierarchy. You’d stand humbled by what I’ve done as opposed to desecrating it, if only inside your mind...but you’ve taken it far beyond the confines of your skull, and for that I’d love nothing more than to see it crushed before I pin you and retain.
Fuck you, Joey Flash.
This doesn’t end well for you. You’re not coming out on top. You’ve wronged me far too greatly and far too many times to be let off so easy as to not spend a few weeks in a hospital bed after our inevitably-epic showdown. Cheap shotting me is one thing, but in setting your hands on Freeman last week...in setting your sights on the love of my life, Pinky, before that...you’ve earned yourself the fiercest, most dominant beatdown you’ll ever receive in what’s becoming a disappointing and lackluster career. It mirrors your private life, I suppose, which hasn’t turned out the way you’d planned it either. Perhaps that’s why you’re so eager to blend the two: your failures in each have made them wholly indistinguishable.
Would that you could hear my thoughts, you piece of shit. I’d give you one final warning: leave them alone. Pinky, Freeman, Chief, my dog...and my unborn child, most of all. But I needn’t remind you of that. You’re not so desperate as to harm them…
Or are you?
You’re unpredictable, Joey, and while I know exactly what to expect this Sunday at WAR when we settle this once and for all, I don’t know what you’ll do before or after your devastating loss. Take one look at all those I’ve defended my World Title against and you’ll get an idea of just how devastating defeat by my hand and the long fall from the top can be. Look to your former Vapor King partner, Ice Beckman, or those DRG boys, Deuce Murdock and Thomas Bates. Look to the Ultimate Showdown participants, most of whom are no longer on the roster. That’s the kind of power this Title holds, Joey. There’s no feeling in the world like ripping the Title from a lesser competitor and raising it high above his head. That’s a feeling you’ll never know as long as I wear the strap. And in the absence of such a monumental experience, don’t you dare go and pull a Columbine in the locker room…
Or worse yet, find your way to the desert.
Never - EVER - do I want to see you out there again. If I so much as get wind that you’ve come back to my corner of the earth...so fucking help you, Joey. Because I know you won’t have come to drop in and say, “Hello.” Tragedy is what you’ll look to achieve...but I won’t let you do it. I’d rather die than let you come between the ones I love.
But you know better. Surely you know better.
Either way, take my advice and prepare early for the crippling defeat that’s to come. Don’t get your hopes up like all the rest so laughably do. It’ll only make your fall that much more devastating. Unlike some may tell you, there’s life after death by Sandstorm in the ring. And while that particular afterlife isn’t the paradise as told of in scripture, it certainly isn’t the hell you’re making it out to be. After all, the only change will be the fact that I thrashed you, pinned you, and retained my World Title; that I proved my in-ring supremacy over you beyond a shadow of a doubt...as if there ever was one to begin with.
His stream of consciousness fades out, and a few seconds later the screen cuts to black.
Pieces of the Puzzle
The sunlight of early afternoon hits a quaint, relatively secluded NYC park. Shades of autumn paint the trees, and as we zoom out slowly a dying leaf comes into view. It falls, and we follow it’s chaotic descent until it crosses the plane of Dune’s half-masked face. The shot zooms out and pans over to show the WCF World Champion sitting beside John Mullins at a bench, though he doesn’t look his way as he speaks.
Dune: Why here?
Mullins: My car’s bugged. The CIA keeps watch on the world, and that includes their own...disgraced as they may be.
Dune: That’s not what I’m asking. Why HERE? What kind of significance does this place hold for you?
Mullins: None.
Dune shakes his head disbelievingly before he continues.
Dune: Your phone’s bugged. Your car’s bugged. Well now we’re bug free, so speak your peace.
Mullins: Joey Flash slipped through my fingers and ruined my -
Dune snatches Mullins by the collar and pulls him in close.
Dune: I don’t want to hear another word about Flash. He’s mine, Mullins, and mine alone. Our war ends in the ring. It doesn’t expand beyond. I won’t let it. I’m not here because of him; I’m here because of this Jackal - now tell me everything you know about him.
Dune releases him, and Mullins catches his breath and swallows hard before he responds.
Mullins: I’ve spent time in your neck of the woods. CIA, Dune - we have no bounds. And as you know, the Mojave is scene to some bizarre shit. It’s been a haven for madness and chaos since the 60’s...and to this day the outside public is none the wiser.
Dune: The desert is hell on earth. You don’t have to remind me.
Mullins: And yet, against all odds, you survived there. Your parents, murdered when you were a child. Your older brother, slaughtered right in front of you. So much death, and yet you survived...all because he wanted you to.
Dune: He, being the Jackal, I presume.
Mullins: You're his pet, Dune. Your his toy; his latest fancy, and he set to work on you from day one - before that, even. He’s the maestro conducting the tragic orchestra that is your life thus far. All your hate - all the loss it springs from - it’s by design. The ebb and flow of your life is predictable, and each incoming tide hits harder than the last. First it was your parents. Next it was your brother. And now, Dune...now it’s you.
Dune sighs impatiently.
Dune: A demon’s been manipulating my life...is that what you’re saying?
Mullins: Yes - a demon or something like it. He’s the one who’s responsible for bringing the tribes to desert in the first place. I first met him when I was investigating the disappearance of two young girls around the time Occulo was born. That was when…
Mullins continues to talk, but Dune isn’t listening. He seethes and stares straight ahead, contemplating his next move as a sort of primal anger boils up from within. His questioning of his dog’s strange behavior seems supremely foolish now, and for the first time in a few hours he thinks of home. He wonders if Freeman’s found his runaway best friend; if Pinky and the baby are alright.
He turns to Mullins and cuts him off mid-sentence.
Dune: Take me back to the plane.
Mullins: But we’ve only scratched the -
Dune: We’re done here. Let’s go.
He gets up, lifting Mullins by his collar. He pushes him toward the car when Mullins’ eyes light up at the sight of something at Dune’s back. The Champ turns to see a beautiful woman and her young child exit the far treeline and enter into the bright, sunlit field before him.
Mullins: There she is. She likes to bring him here in the afternoons.
Dune: Who is it?
Though he realizes as he asks.
Alessandre Allegri, the soon to be wife of Joey Flash, plays and laughs with four-year-old Christian Flash as Dune stares on in momentary horror. Something trapped inside him begs to be let free as he watches the mother and son from an unsafe distance. Silent rage spills over as he turns on Mullins.
Dune: You piece of shit. I knew you chose this place for a reason.
Mullins: They’re a part of this, Dune. The Jackal knows how to -
Dune shoots forward, manhandling Mullins into the driver’s seat of his car before shutting the door on him. He gets in the back right away, narrowly avoiding Alessandre’s gaze as she turns to see what the commotion is from afar.
Dune: Drive.
...but the brief physical confrontation can’t help but remind him of what’s to come at WAR with Joey Flash, and he leans in as Mullins starts the car.
Dune: Where’s Joey?
Mullins: He’s in the desert.
Dune: No...no, that was weeks ago. I was with him then.
Mullins: He’s gone back.
He turns toward Dune.
Mullins: You didn’t know?
Dune: But why would he -
We cut from the car to a shot of Dune’s rottweiler hundreds of miles away. The black dog sprints toward a column of rising smoke in the desert. It’s the Double X - what’s left of it, anyway, and scattered around it are several dead bodies. Nothing lives here, as the dog finds out upon rummaging around the place.
The scent of the uninvited Joey Flash stings his nostrils before the familiar smell of Pinky washes it away. He wags his tail amidst the smoke and burning rubble, though his excitement ceases as a man steps out from a dark corridor left standing.
The rottweiler bays at the Jackal, who laughs as he slowly approaches the beast.
Jackal: What’s that, boy - fire on the old hill? Or is it another turn with me behind the wheel that you’re wanting?
The dog’s barking ceases at his voice, and he whines as he backpedals in the path of the Jackal. He false-charges, and the dog turns tail and flees for home.
Jackal: That’s right, boy - that’s the way he went with her broken body!
He chuckles, infinitely amused at himself as he adds under his breath.
Jackal: And tell your master I’ll be seeing him soon.
And the screen cuts to black.
Wired for Sound
High in the air, WCF One speeds at upwards of 500 mph...but it’s not fast enough.
“He’s in the desert.”
The sinister grin of Joey Flash is imprinted on Dune’s mind as he considers the whereabouts and reasonings of his arch nemesis. He grits his teeth, fuming at allowing himself to be caught off guard. He’d called each in his small circle of companions from Mullins’ phone in the city, though neither Pinky, nor Chief, nor Freeman had answered.
He thinks of Pinky; of the growing baby in her belly. A rage comes over him, and he nearly wrecks the cabin before he manages to smother the flames.
Hundreds of miles and more than a few hours separate him from home. Powerless to provide his loved ones protection from the presumed-cruelties of Joey Flash, he flicks his eyes toward the lense and begins to speak.
Dune: Goddamn you, Flash - what the FUCK are you doing in the desert?! I’ve told you time and again to leave the ones I love out of this. They have absolutely nothing to do with the war we’ve been waging since spring. But you refuse, and in so doing you’ve incurred the full might of my infernal wrath. You would have been wiser to make a deal with the devil himself; now you won’t get off so easy.
You know the things I’ve seen, Joey.
You know the evil misdeeds I’ve avenged during my time here under the sun.
And yet you continue to dip your feet in the fire.
You ignore the warnings; you ignore my strength. I’m not talking about the ability to toss you around and snap your fucking vertebrae at will. I’m talking about the mental fortitude I possess. I’m talking about my inability to let anyone who’s wronged me off the hook so long as we’re both alive and breathing. And if I find you’re guilty of some unforgivable atrocity out here on the plains of the desert...you’ll never go free again.
This CAN end, Joey. It will, and hopefully at WAR…
But that all depends on what awaits me back home.
Dune doesn’t stop there, though a high pitch ringing rises from nothing to overcome his voice as we begin to zoom in on his face. Soon his voice is drowned out completely, and his mask fills the screen.
A tiny, circular piece of tape comes into view. It’s a microphone, transparent and almost invisible to the naked eye. Mullins planted it there as Dune was busy manhandling him back into the driver’s seat upon catching sight of Joey Flash’s fiance. But Dune is none the wiser. He continues letting loose on Flash in the only way a man can from 40,000 feet up.
The ringing persists as the shot fades slowly onto another.
Falling
The hot pink hair that is Pinky’s namesake makes her distinguishable even from afar. From the edge of the horseshoe canyon that conceals Dune’s home, we can see her lying on the ground just outside the front door. A black mass lays beside her, and it isn’t until it’s head pops up at the sound of an approaching motor that we realize it’s Dune’s rottweiler. He stands up slowly, though beside him Pinky doesn’t move an inch.
A buggy shoots by the screen, and we catch up to Dune as he nears his canyonside abode. He sees Pinky right off, and his heart sinks as she fails to move with his closing. He pulls up beside his rottweiler, glad, of course, to see his oldest and most loyal companion returned and apparently back to its old self...but it’s Pinky he remains focused on, and he brushes the dog away as he races toward her.
Kneeling down, he assesses the damage...and his head nearly explodes with rage.
Her face is bloodstained and badly beaten, but upon closer inspection he realizes that’s not the only part of her that’s been bloodied. His gaze moves down her petite frame in horror to see dried blood covering her clothes from the waist down. Tears of rage fill his eyes, and he gently sets his hand upon her navel. As he does, a pang unlike he’s ever felt strikes him, and he knows the worst has happened.
He curses Joey Flash in a fit of unfathomable rage, convinced that he’s the man responsible for this unforgivable act.
He applies pressure to Pinky’s palm and gently rubs at her temple, careful not to shake her awake in case of neck or spinal damage, when suddenly her eyes flutter open. The two lovers lock eyes, and Pinky smiles before wincing in pain. Her eyes begin to roll back in her head as she manages to mutter something too quiet for Dune to hear. He grips her hand and leans in.
Dune: What’s that, my love?
Pinky: Joey…Joey, he…
“...saved me.”
Which he did, though not before the Jackal churned her womb to a pulp. But her voice fades before she can utter those two most crucial words.
Dune grits his teeth, and they nearly shatter as he’s given what he assumes to be the confirmation he’s after.
Dune: It’s okay - Joey’s gone. I’m here now.
But she doesn’t hear him. Her eyes roll back in her head before they close, and she goes limp.
Tears well up in his icy blue eyes, and they fall to mix with the dried blood and dirt that’s smeared all about his only true love’s broken face. He begins to sob uncontrollably, as he did on the night his brother was taken from him and never since.
And as the tears blind him, he finds himself falling into darkness…
Falling…
Falling…
When the fires rise to catch him.
He shoots his head to the sky, and just as the first few notes of a wrathful scream escape his lungs, the screen cuts to black.
Gone
Sharp grains of sand shoot into Dune’s eyes as he squints at the rising emergency helicopter and its precious cargo. It took over an hour for the paramedics to reach his coordinates, and in that time Pinky hadn’t spoken another word.
“Joey...Joey, he…”
And those that went unspoken: “..saved me.”
His rottweiler licks at his healing-hand once more, though Dune ignores it. His mind is elsewhere, and he’s blind and numb to the world around him. For a brief moment he snaps out of it, and he slowly walks over to let the hound inside before punching in the code to close the steel door behind him.
He looks out at the distant horizon as the sound of a buggy comes to within earshot. A few seconds later Freeman pulls up beside him, tears in his eyes as he gets out.
Freeman: My god, Dune - it’s Chief! He’s dead! Someone blew the Double X to hell and put a bullet in Chief’s skull! Have you seen Pinky?!
Dune: He got to her while I was gone.
Freeman: He what?! Who did?!
Dune lunges forward, grabbing Freeman by the collar and screaming in his face.
Dune: JOEY FLASH DID! HE KILLED MY UNBORN CHILD!
He throws Freeman to the ground without thought or remorse, and the old man’s skull collides with a rock that knocks him out cold. A trickle of blood seeps out from the wound, but Dune pays it no mind as he makes for his buggy and speeds off toward the setting sun.
Back to the airfield; back to The Bronx to find and kill Joey Flash.
As he speeds across the sands, his fury can be contained no longer, and he screams with a rage he’s never felt before.
Dune: JOEY! GODDAMN YOU, JOEY! YOU’LL PAY FOR THIS IN BLOOD!
The dry desert wind carries his words to a man standing up ahead, though Dune is yet to see him.
Dune: I WARNED YOU! YOU WANTED THIS TO END, BUT NOW IT NEVER CAN - NOT INSIDE THE RING AS IT WAS SUPPOSED TO!
He catches sight of the man, but he doesn’t cease, nor does he slow down.
Dune: IT’S ALL GONE, JOEY! ALL HOPE; ALL LIGHT! GONE!
A crossroads approaches, and finally Dune begins to slow as the familiar face of the man comes into view.
Dune: Gone, Joey. And in the darkness, I finally see.
Despite his haste, he slows to a stop at the center of the crossroads.
There stands the Jackal, his grey suit clean as ever. He smiles to see Dune get out and approach. Just before he speaks, the Jackal puts a finger to his mouth. He reaches out and snags the tiny translucent microphone off the bottom of Dune’s mask, revealing it to him before burying it in the sand.
Jackal: A microphone...talk to any CIA agents of late - perhaps one by the name of John Mullins?
Dune: Who are you?
Jackal: Didn’t he tell you? My name’s Jack. But you don’t believe in that nonsense he was trying to feed you - I can tell. That’s good. If only you hadn’t fell into his trap. He drew you out of the desert so the one you’re shouting about could fight his battle unopposed. And he did just that.
Dune’s head is flooded with questions, though the Jackal continues before he can spit one out.
Jackal: What is it you want, Dune?
Dune: Blood; vengeance; death.
Jackal: From?
Dune: Joey Flash.
Jackal: And what would you give to reap it?
Dune: Anything.
He says it in full knowledge of the strange nature of the present-encounter. He doesn’t shy away from the darkness that radiates from the Jackal. Rather, he’s drawn toward the abyss, even though deep down he knows to fight it’s pull. But in the end, he can’t help but give in.
The Jackal puts out his hand and smiles.
Jackal: It’s a deal...
Dune reaches out, but just as he makes contact, the Jackal speaks up with a single request.
Jackal: ...so long as you let me in.
And both men vanish from sight.
We zoom out from the crossroads, and after a few seconds of silence, the screen fades to black.
