Legion goes on a Sarfari

[Kyle]

0015 Hours / September 21, 2015
Garret Coliseum / Montgomery, Alabama

Slam had gone off the air over an hour ago, yet Patrick Ignatius Gardner still felt the pull to stay here in the backstage locker room of the Garret Coliseum, even as the WCF staff were already putting the finishing touches on the company's equipment; a few hours from now, a caravan of transfer trucks would pull out of Montgomery, Alabama to begin the long haul to Sooner Country. Patrick had been to Oklahoma once, went and watched them hold Texas to a single touchdown on that grid-iron. That was seven years ago, yet the memory was clear as day to Patrick. Yet this very night was a blur. Patrick had been on that fifty-yard line, but it was Legion who had been in the WCF ring tonight.

It had been Legion who had broken Circe Cicero's neck.

She had been medevaced to a hospital in Louisville that specialized in spinal injuries, so she found herself under the best care with an hour of her injury. She had been so light in his arms, like . . . well, like a small pig he had carried out, sick and hurting in his arms, and broke in his arms. But had Miss Cicero been hurting, had she been sick? Sick of his actions, maybe, hurt by what he had been doing to her beloved creatures. But she wasn't dying, she didn't need to be hurt that way. Why would Patrick do something like that to a person? Why was he who he was?

"We are the Ode to Greatness."

The voices spoke in his head, a cacophony of noise and a screeching of thought and reason. They hadn't always been there; no, for so long Patrick had been free of their torments. Then, suddenly, He appeared and, with him, came his captives. He had been overcome, warped, poisoned by this man, this God. Everything was a blur after the day this man came into his life three years ago.

"We are the fire who burns away the underbrush, making clear passage for those who follow."

Three years ago he had found himself in Hell and Paradise in the same instance. He had been whisked away from his old life, forced off the cliff by a divine being who knew who I was, knew what I was capable of. I was stowed away and then left alone until the time came that my aid, my strength, my presence was needed. I became not a man, but a weapon to be used when the need arose. He was kept hidden until War had come because he . . . he was the man to overcome it.

"We are Legion!"

Patrick Ignatius Gardner rises to his feet so quickly that he flips the bench he had been sitting on clean over, the sound of it's fall rattling against the bare walls of the locker room. Footsteps that had been moving around outside the closed door halted, until a single pair of them came towards the entrance, bearing Jason Underwood into Patrick's irate presence. Jason approaches slowly, knowing exactly what Patrick was capable of. "Everything ok, Mister Gardner?"

Patrick looked at Underwood with a wild gleam in his eye, forcing the attorney into a back peddle, but made no move towards him. "What's next for me?"

Jason Underwood, assuming that the question was in regard to the lawsuit Circe Cicero, from the confines of her hospital bed, was still pressing against him, he replied with that in mind. "Well, your . . . contest with Miss Cicero did not have a clause where if you won, the lawsuits against you personally and against this company as a whole would be retracted. Thus, you still face criminal charges and the WCF may face additional civil action in regards to our apparent hazardous workplace. Your own criminal suit is especially difficult, given the fact that you didn't even bother to attend your hearing this past week . . ." Underwood was being bold in his accusations, suggesting that Patrick had intentionally injured Circe Cicero. But Patrick only shakes his head, seemingly oblivious to what Jason had just said.

"Those are mere breathes. What does the future hold, though, for me?" Patrick's hands drift to his face, palms rubbing at his face. The same hands who had slaughtered beast and broken man.

"Well, War, I suppose," Mister Underwood replied, still unsure of the whole conversation.

"War . . ." Patrick spoke the word, rolled it around his tongue like a foreign object. "Not War, not yet." Patrick reaches into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt, retrieving a flip phone and throwing it open.

Jason Underwood looked at Patrick curiously, "What first, then?"

"A hunt." Patrick replied curtly, dialing a number. He holds the phone to his ear as he rushes past Underwood, the call finally connecting. "Westley, is the invitation still open, my friend?"

Even as Patrick exited the room, the reply on the other end was audible for all to hear, "Fucking yes it is."

The door swings shut, leaving Jason Underwood alone in the room. Patrick Ignatius Gardner had bigger plans now, in preparation for War, in a quest to discover himself: He was going on a Safari.

---

I enjoy the hunt much more than the 'good life' after the victory.
~Carl Icahn

---

1600 Hours / September 22, 2015
A Gentleman's Safari / Paradise, Mississippi

Patrick Ignatius Gardner found himself trudging along a worn path with a heavy wooden canopy overhead, the 12 Gauge Mossberg 500 slung across his shoulder as he followed behind a certain tattooed tracking pig known as Scooby, who moved ahead of the man, nose to the ground, tracking their quarry for the evening. Patrick wore his usual attire, with a few extra accessories to aid him in this safari he found himself on. A tactical vest, loaded down with extra rounds and a bowie knife, was worn over his flannel. A second knife was strapped to his belt, bouncing against his jeans as he took purposeful steps forward, his worn boots crushing the fallen leaves underneath, as he followed Scooby as best he could. In his right ear was a comm-device, connecting him back to Sir Westley Shelton who acted as his guide from the safety of his plantation house miles away. Sir Westley was currently briefing Patrick before he found himself in the thick of things.

"Did you listen to the debriefing one of my hired hands gave you about the current situation in the safari?"

"He only spoke Spanish, Westley, so its not like it was much of a help."

Curses to vulgar to be written down were spoken on the other end of the mic, along with the mentioning about "building a wall" to keep out such useful workers. "Very well, the things you need to know are as follows: Many of the pigs in the safari are harmless, the domestic breeds that I buy in surplus. They tend to wander on their own, though you may find a herd or two of them while you're out. They're practically harmless, don't have the instincts to hold up a fight."

"Why do you stock your safari with them, then?"

"Blood lust. Sometimes I like an easy kill. And besides, the packs like to feed on them. Easy pickings these pigs are, makes the packs stronger and more confident in themselves." There is a pause on the other end. "My sources tell me there are about four packs active in your area. Tread carefully with these hogs, Paddy; They're not higher on the food chain for nothing."

"Food chain? Your hogs are cannibals."

"Of course they are!" Sir Westley's shock is evident in his tone. "Man aren't the only people who kill each other to move forward, or upward in this case, in life. These pack have learned to fight together, adapted from whatever life they had lived before. I repeat, watch yourself."

A twig snaps underneath Patrick's foot as he continues to follow Scooby down the worn path. "And what about the monster, the genetic freak?"

A long pause on the other end. "I honestly don't know, Paddy. He slipped his tracker on the second day and hasn't been seen since. We still find bodies, though, so he's still out there. My advice is just pray you don't know come across him."

Patrick only shook his head. "You know I'm not the praying type, Wes."

Ahead of them, a clearing appeared. Scooby picked up his pace in the direction of it. "Paddy?"

"Yes, Wes?"

"Do you think the woman will find out about this?"

"She has a broken neck, so I think we're good here."

A pause.

"Then go fucking crazy, my friend."

Legion grinned and burst through the clearing.

Patrick found himself in a Mississippian Valley, thinly wooded with lush green grass still damp from the autumn shower. Dotting the flat landscape were hundreds of pigs, resting and wallowing under the afternoon sun, completely oblivious to the shotgun-toting human on the edge of their existence. Oh, the pigs on the outskirt of the herd lifted their heads and stared at the strange, boding Patrick, but made no move to escape him. They were obviously domestically bred, the surplus population from farms across the country, bought up by the swine-tycoon Shelton and slaughtered to sate his bloodlust. They were easy pickings, ones who had no defense against the likes of him.

They were a waste of his time.

Patrick began to walk amongst the herd, stepping past the pigs who barely made a move to evade his heavy boots, scanning the crowd as he moved along.

"It is hard being a competitor in the WCF, especially in a match like War. The magnitude of it, where forty men and women who make up the company's past, present, and future all clash in a toted 'battle of the ages' that just so happens to occur every. single. year. And I cannot discount the aura that radiates off the men who talk about this; War . . . War is the match to win in this company, the match everyone is tuning into. An Internet Title match that has led to an increase in the popularity of Shia Labeouf and trombones? The fourth and final clash between the White Luchadors? A World Title match between two men who hate one another more any opponents in all of history? They all pale to War. Because the man who wins this wins the center piece of the company, they win the grandest stage of them all. They become One."

Patrick side steps a pig who rolled onto his back directly in front of his path, shaking his head.

"This is all the belief of the people, of the men and women who watch from behind the wall, behind the barrier that differs them from us. They see War only as a spectacle, a display of the ability of the greatest fighters this company has to offer. They fail to realize, or at least they never seem to care, is greatness is a caste with limited spots available. Of the forty men and women in this match, there are few who are allowed to call themself great. Oh, many will do so anyway, but it only discredits them. Greatness . . . greatness is achieved through action, not word. And more often than not, greatness is not achieved against greatness."

Patrick gestures, arms wide to the herd of pigs around him.

"In a match like this, greatness is achieved by wading through the filth and decrepitude of the WCF locker room, amongst the babes who haven't a single chance to survive, yet still think it wise to join the hunt."

Patrick uses the shotgun as the extension of his pointing finger, drawing a bead on an overly obese pig who had rolled onto its back and, like a beetle, was kicking its legs trying to get back over.

"Billy doesn't have a chance in this match, yet still thinks it wise. This isn't the Taco Bowl, boy, and this match won't be a cake walk. There can only be one winner, Billy; you won't walk away with a piece of the pie. Too many cooks spoil the broth, and Billy . . . you are too much. The jokes about food and gluttony are too much. The hype, the snowball effect that you have become is just, well, I think you get the picture. If not, have John Barber explain it to you after you run--well walk out, because fat fucks just don't run--out to that ring and find yourself steamrolled over by real competitors. When your backstage, crying over your Micky Ds and and dreaming about Micky's D, have him finally explain to you just how much, physically and otherwise, of a waste of space you are. So, Billy, you might as well fly into Oklahoma no and roll onto your back in anticipation for the inevitable because, otherwise, it's going to be a rough night for you."

The shotgun moves on, pinpointing two pigs cuddling up to one another despite the fact that it was a toasty seventy-five degrees outside. The big spoon smiles as he nestles his snout into the little's spoon neck fat.

"Cormack and Conall Macneill do not have a chance in this match. These Scottish immigrants came into a world far unlike their own and far larger than their expectations. And the successes they've tasted thus far, their stellar wins over the likes of The Topgunners and the Big Time Jerks, do no corrolate to a lasting performance in War. Oh, Cormack had been here once before, alone and afraid, and he tasted a spotlight for the briefest of moments. He tasted it and realized he wasn't cut out for it, so he returned home to find someone to hold him, to nurse in injuries and his broken pride; he needed the welcoming arms of his brother. One can say its one of the hardest bonds to break, that of brothers, and we see that in action as you both debut, hand in hand, thinking that your kinship will take you to the top. But in reality, you just look like a pair of fag-- no, let's say a bundle of sticks. Sticks that will be tossed into that ring and stomped to oblivion because they just aren't fit for the WCF. You will both enter War, more than likely separated and afraid, and you will be eliminated with ease. But look on the bright side: you can hold each other backstage for as long as you want, afterwards."

From cuddling pigs to deformed ones, a whole horde of them crowding around the ugliest of them all. There was obvious inbreeding going on with this particular clan of swine, suggesting that they had been in the Safari far longer than many of the other pigs around them.

"Adam Young . . . Adam Young doesn't have a fucking chance to win War. Just as much a chance, in fact, of fucking that ex-wife of his."

Rapid successions of the shotgun now. We see a pig throwing up and another pig eating it almost before it hits the ground. A pig who is constantly laying down and then standing back up, as if he doesn't remember which one he wants to do. Several pigs with mud covering their faces in what some would call "demonic." Two pigs who were basically twins, save for the notches in their ear denoting which farm they had come from before being sold to the slaughter houses.

"I am surrounded by men who just don't have a chance in this match. Biohazard, Tyler Walker, Patrilli, Jeff Danger, Hunter Thompson, The Ultimate Destroyer, The Other Ultimate Destroyer . . . men who are way, way over their heads this week. There are even men I didn't name because they're too fucking worthless to even acknowledge their presence in this match. These men, named or unnamed, are the weak and silent types in this company, the ones who think their actions alone will define their stay in this company. For two weeks, they will leave us hanging, thinking they're building suspense with their stoic silence--really they're just sparing us a wasted two minutes of our existence because we don't care. At all--until final the big day comes. And then the final judgement comes, War is here and we are given a chance to observe how these men will behave, will they be predators or prey, competitors or fodder for the real fighters. And Spoiler Alert: We're looking at a bunch of fucking sheep. Come October 4, these men will enter War on the heels of the men, the shepherds, who they think can win it all, mimicking his moves, hoping they would in turn will bring him success. But then this man, this champion, will turn around and see that this sheep, this lamb for the slaughter, is not his own. So he will fill no remorse when he sacrifices them, bloody and broken, for the betterment of himself. You men are but mere sheep waiting to be sheared, and what you will fail to realize in your two weeks of silent brooding, is there is nothing you can do about it."

Suddenly, out of the crowd, a pig charges Patrick, hoping to take him out at the knee. Legion levels the shotgun at the incoming hog.

"For every herd of sheep though, there is a Wolf wearing their clothing."

One blast from the shotgun stops the rushing pig in its tracks as its head explodes.

"Does this paint an honest picture, Wolf, about my feelings towards you? Oh, I could stand out here, give my best impression of your howl, and move on, but that's not giving you the respect you deserve. You came in amongst the hordes of nobodies and make a stand, telling the world that you're not like the others. You've stuck around where others haven't, fought harder where others thought getting by would be enough. You've made a statement, Wolf, there's no denying that. But I want to you listen closely when I tell you this: you're not going to win War.

Cletus Clyde? Nothing more than a stereotypical caricature that wasn't even funny, yet you still lost to him. Twice. It took Oblivion of all people to rid us of that waste of space because you couldn't, Wolf. You huffed and you puffed, but you couldn't knock down the brick house that was Cletus Clyde. No, the only competitor, and I use that word loosely here, that you've dominated was Red Trunks. Praise God that you saved us from that catastrophe; feminists would be up in arms that such a competitor would be displaying their periodical struggle so carelessly on his trunks every night, but Wolf wasn't going to allow it. No, consider the blood-stained pants to be the full moon to this man. He saw blood and he pounced, securing his only solid performance in this company. Up until then, he was losing to Caliban and letting Ace fucking Maverick carry his team to victory at Revenge . . . wait, why do I consider you a threat again?

Because you're hungry, Wolf, hungry for more than a middle-age man's period stained trunks. War is the first opportunity you have had to prove yourself. You won't win, I'm sure you know that deep in your hairy heart, but you know you can take a man or two down with you. War is chaotic and it isn't unheard of for a lone wolf to take down a former World Champion. And I cannot have that threat looming, Wolf, not if I want to win this all. I cannot be fighting real competitors come October 4, only to have the likes of you swoop in from behind and ruin my night. So be warned; if I see you coming anywhere close, I'm going to blast your head off. Stay out of my way, lose when you're suppose to lose, and I think you'll become a household name in this company. Try to ruin my night and you won't have a working jaw to even howl in pain. And how are you going to be able to suck Red Trunk's bloody cock, then, Wolf? Ask yourself while you still can."

There is a delayed effect in the herd, but the smell of pig's blood send the other pigs into a frightening frenzied. They began to scatter around Patrick, but one rather feminine pig comes too close to the big man, earning it a heavy boot onto its thin back. The pig squeals, bringing a smile to Patrick's face.

"Sing, Dustin Beaver, sing. Sing like your life depended on it. Because, in a way, it does.

You are the mar, the blemish, in my career here in the WCF, Dustin. I hold a victory over a former War Winner and World Champion, I have pinned a member of Pantheon, I have conquered every challenge set before me. I am undefeated, Dustin, save for that first match with you, when you clung on for dear life and turned my world upside down. Jackson White, Alex Richards, Jeff Purse . . . they know they beat me, but they also know they could definitely beat you. And two weeks in a row, you robbed me of that opportunity. First you pull me over that top rope, leading to the draw that has haunted me since. And then, at Revenge, when I'm seeking just that, you don't fucking show up. I should be satisfied with that, I really should. The great Dustin Beaver, the man whose greatest accomplishment in this company was that draw, followed closely behind by making Bad News Benson tap out--think about the vast differences there--is afraid of me. Dustin Beaver was afraid to even show up that night at Revenge, giving me the victory I needed, but not the one I wanted. Thing is, Dustin, I'm not satisfied and I need satisfaction.

I need to feel your broken body under my boot.

And October Fourth, I have that opportunity to finally prove to the naysayers that I am the dominant force. Oh, don't misinterpret my words, Dustin; you're not a respectable competitor in this company, by any means. But you dangle that draw over my head, like a carrot, every time I see you enter that ring and lose. So I come into War with a personal vendetta, a selfish one, a dangerous one. I have to be careful to not get over my head, else someone without remorse will kick it off. But if you cross my path, Dustin, I hope you cling to me like you did over a month ago. Bring it in, buddy, give me that hug of a lifetime, before I end you."

Legion stomps once; the pig stops squealing.

By now, most of the herd had scattered, though Patrick did glimpse a particular pig nearby with, of all things, a wizard's hat atop its head. Patrick presses his fingers against the mic taped to his neck.

"Care to explain the magic pig, Wes?"

"Fucking David Copperfield. He insisted on wearing that blasted hat when he and I hunted a few months back and then dropped it. Could you be a dear, Paddy, and get it back so he'd get off my back?"

With a shrug (as if Westley could hear that through the mic), Patrick broke into a jog in the direction of the fleeing pig. It was a leisurely pace, yet gaining ground on the stubby legged creature. Before too long, Patrick caught up to the poor pig, punting it across the open expanse. The hat flew off the head, landing before Legion, while the pig landed in thick bushes a little further away. Patrick bends down, putting the wizard's cap atop his head, looking utterly ridiculous with it on.

"Call me the fucking Dungeon Master now, bitches. Because in the eyes of Andre Jenson, a hat is the only thing he thinks he needs to make him magical, make him a winner. Up shot billionaire with the wrong sort of fantasies thinks he can take a step away from his fictional world and compete with reality. I scoff at the notion, yet here he stands regardless, hoping to prove himself. And you know, that doesn't sit right with me. How could a man just up and walk away from something like LARPing and think he can make a difference.

It would be like a pig farmer trying to win War.

Except with that latter example, its at least feasible; you, Andre, leaving a lasting impression in the WCF ring is not. Unless, of course, its a physical imprint of your historically-accurate armor physically left in the canvas after some real wrestler takes offense at the mockery you're making of the sport. Other than that, Andre Jenson is nothing except another name someone adds to their GG list. Good game, thanks for coming, now get the fuck out of my domain."

Patrick lets the wizard hat fall to the ground before stepping on it. Again he goes to the mic.

"Tell David he doesn't want this hat back."

An audible sigh is heard on the other end of the transmission.

"Bastard is probably going to make my house disappear because of you." A pause. "The trackers tell me, Paddy, that the packs are due north of you. There are stray hogs between you and them, but none of which should be too difficult for you. Be forewarned though, there's a storm brewing."

With a direction in mind, Patrick sets off again, the ever-loyal Scooby on his heels once more. The odd pair pass through a thin wall of trees, planted pines in orderly rows, tracks of pigs dotting the empty space between. Above his head, the clouds begin to thicken and turn a deadly shade of gray. But still Patrick pushes forward, to fulfillment, to glory. Before too long, Patrick comes across a break in the pines, where a crazed pig is writhing on the ground, coca plants half-eaten dotting the clearing. Patrick only shakes his head.

"Cocaine, Wes?"

"The missus has expensive tastes, Paddy."

At the sound of Patrick's voice, the pig rolls onto its stomach, pushing himself to his feet with blinding speed. Legion puts a slug between his eyes, sending him back onto his haunches. Patrick steps closer, thinking the coke crazed beast to be dead, only for it to come alive as he drew up beside it. Flailing wildly, the beast catches Patrick with a glancing blow in the ribs, ripping through the flannel and vest, drawing blood. Pulling the knife free from his hip holster, he drove the knife deep into the beasts neck, hitting the artery. Blood flowed heavy then, which Patrick stepped far wide of. He pressed his hand against his wounded side, drawing back with his own life essence on it.

A red hand.

Patrick shook his head, wiping his hand across the remains of his shirt. Then, ripping the flannel off of him, he bandaged the wound while the pig beside him breathed its final, bloody breath.

"I have moved past the mindless herd into the real threats that call War their home. And despite all of the jokes you, Zombie McMorris, are a threat. Like a literal roller-coaster on crack, you ride high and you dive low, all depending on how much of a shit--or is it how little of a shit you give--at any given point. That's why you can push Dune to his limits, more than men who challenged for his World Title ever could, and then pick fights with the likes of Caliban and Jackson White a few weeks later. Your are fluidity in solid flesh, a conundrum within a riddle, an undefinable human being who, at any given moment, could up and win War.

But you won't.

You are absolutely going to kill it at War, but it will not be in the War match. To trumpets and booty claps you will roll into Oklahoma, where you will claim your fourth title reign as Internet Champion. And then, fueled by success and desire for more, you will, by the same asses and brasses, will enter War thinking this was the night of WZF. Only, you will find a ring united against you, more than any company has ever been united against a single man in all of history. Because you see, Zombie, you are a disgrace to this company because you always come so close and then fall through. There was a time where the WCF universe would've welcome Zombie McMorris as World Champion. Now, a close loss to Dune scares them, because they know if somehow, some fucking way you up and won, they'd know that's the highest you would have ever reached in this company.

Which only means you would come crashing harder soon thereafter.

And the WCF Universe doesn't need that, doesn't want that. A War winner needs to be a man who can say, three months later when One rolls around, that they are the same person. And you, Zombie, won't even know on October 5 if you're champion or not. And then you'll feel the brutal pain in your head, right there between your eyes, where someone stomped the fuck out of you. You'll feel it in your throat where someone ripped it out, hoping to silence your flailing and writhing that is your verbatim. And you'll feel it in your heart because you will know who you are, Zombie McMorris: The man who has even had the opportunity to become a four-time Internet Champion because he wasn't good enough to do any more with his fucking existence."

Legion kicks the zombie corpse for good measure before pushing further into the woods, shirtless, Rambo style. Thankfully, he doesn't come across a wild Stallone; instead, after a few hundred yards, Patrick finds himself in another clearing, where an oak tree resides, its low hanging limbs mere feet off the ground. Two pigs can be seen, the first sitting smugly in one such limb while the second tries so desperately to scramble up the trunk to sit beside him. Legion caps--or one could say, cappos--the second pig first, splattering his brains against the wood. The first pig only stares in surprise from his perch before he too is shot for good measure, his body falling to the ground with a thud. Legion lets the shells fall to the ground, inhaling the gun smoke as it drifts close to his face. A smile creeps onto his face.

"Boom, headshot."

Patrick begins to reload the gun, continuing to talk while he goes about it.

"Is that a reference to Vic Venable or his brother Franky, one might ask. And I retort: who the fuck cares? Because at the end of the day, they are the same person, through and through.

Despite everything Vic says against it, his entire career has thus far been defined by his attempt to climb to the heights, the low heights his brother has achieved, and utterly failing at it. From his name to his catchphrases, Vic is but an homage to another man who just wasn't that good. Yet still he comes on, thinking he has a chance in this match, thinking he'll be the man to break the record and re-cord six eliminations. Have you even wrestled in six matches, Vic, since you returned? I don't even have to ask the follow-up question, because we both know you haven't won that many. In all honestly, I'm surprised you can count to six. But I guess Frankie can and you wouldn't want to be outdone, now would you.

You tired of the generic bullshit, Vic, tired of being compared to your brother by every. single. person who steps up against you? Then stop fucking acting like him. That begins with stop losing, because that's something your brother did oh-so well. Stop saying you're going to be the best, that you're going to win War, eliminate six people, and then lose to Waylon Cash because, even then, Fucking Pathetic Venable beat you to that as well. There isn't a single thing that you have done, good or bad, that a certain someone hasn't already done before. Save for one: getting pinned by me.

And come October 4, you are given that chance to make history, Vic, not just repeat it. Come at me, you clone you, and get broken in half. Try to climb this tree, Vic, I dare you; I'll help you climb into these tree limbs. I'll even let you sit there for a moment, to bask in your glory, but you come crashing down. Then, after that, you have my permission to go and be the shadow to a worthless name."

Pumping the shotgun, Legion continues forward, on a roll now. He barely sees the black snake underneath his feet until he steps on its head, crushing it. An audible crunch is heard, drawing Patrick's attention as he steps off of it, allowing the snake to begin its death writhing.

"Almost didn't see you there, Occulo, trying to slither back into a world far unlike the one you left months ago. But you seem to be aware of that, right? You show up on the last Slam before War, saying exactly that, that WCF is not the same and neither are you. The only thing that hasn't changed is your desire to entertain the crowds, have them chant your name for more than just your presence. Except we don't, the WCF universe do not feel Occulo the wrestler or Occulo the man here anymore, and its only been a few days. The only difference you've made by your sudden appearance and War is the fans won't be surprised when you come in and lose handily.

Because Occulo, your name is not at the peaks of any WCF mountains any longer. Howard Black is gone, Dune is a changed man, and yet you return as if nothing is amiss. Oh, the landscape has changed, but you're still the same creature, sliding along the underbrush and looking for the light. This snake was no different, climbing over new land like he had done countless times before. I'm sure he didn't expect my boot to come crashing down, Occulo, and I doubt if he could, he'd blame it on the fucking landscape.

Occulo, you're about as old news as daddy issues, and that won't change come War. Men have left and they have been replaced by greater men, men who see you and aren't in awe. They see you as a stepping stone, larger than the sheep in this match. Pin LA Kush, go suck a dick; pin Occulo, and maybe you're worth something. And that's not because you've gotten any better, Occulo, because I don't think you have. No, your name holds weight, as names tend to do far longer than the body ever can. You couldn't have been satisfied with the name, you just couldn't. The WCF would taken you in with open arms if you had said you wanted to return to anything but the ring. Gravedigger said he wanted to be here, so they put him on the commentators's table. Occulo, that could've been you. You should've said 'I want Kyle Steel's job' and before you know it, you'd have mic in hand a shiny dress on and you'd announced the shit out of the War match. But instead, you wanted to feel the pain one more time, so the WCF didn't hug you like a lost brother, no, an absent father. No, they patted you on the back and let you walk your own path, a path that only leads to brokenness and obscurity. You cannot win War, Occulo, and I wish someone would've told you that.

Maybe you'll realize it October Fourth when the fans are chanting again for you."

Legions begins to chant in a voice barely higher than a whisper.

"You fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up . . ."

Ahead of Patrick, a trio of pigs enter the clearing, looking lost and naive. They spot Patrick, covered in his blood and the blood of their fellow species. They stare at him, making no move to flee or to charge. Patrick stares at them for a moment before stepping back, into the edge of the clearing. The three pigs, thinking themselves safe, rush forward to feed on the dead creatures left by the hunter. The smallest of them snatch up the snake and disappear into the pines while the other two just start gorging on their fellow pigs by the oak tree. Patrick squats and observes the sickening display of cannibalism, a thoughtful look on his visage.

"Because there are men in this match looking only to feed on the leftovers of the strongest competitors, looking for the Occulos and the Corey Blacks and whatever old name thinks it wise to return for the night. These men already know, deep down, that they cannot win War, so their best bet it to look strong. Eliminate a few big names and then hit the showers, hoping that Seth takes note of their abilities. Jackson White, Spencer Adams, Teo del Sol . . . there nothing but scavengers looking for the easy pickings, even if they are former champions."

Patrick gestures to the pine trees he stood on the edge of, where the Occulo-bearing pig had disappeared off to.

"Jackson White is one such upstart thirsty for the blood of those more successful than he. The WCF universe got a preview for that at Revenge, when White's eagerness to fight the best brought Logan himself out of his hibernation, if but a short time. Riding this emotional high, looking to overcome the Hotdog King, Jackson White came hot into his match with me. And I, being who I am, snuffed him out. The Phoenix was burning bright until the pig squatted on him before walking away with nary a burn on his skin.

And what, then, has Jackson White done. An Internet Title match that yielded no champion, another notch in the loss column on the final Slam before War. Yet you still find yourself challenging for that title we all know you cannot win and competing in a match for beyond your capabilities. Like Wolf, you couldn't even finish off the man who brought the fight out of you; no Seth Lerch himself had to come out, with Joey Flash by his side, and destroy the man because you couldn't. And I speak not in the past tense alone, but in the present and future as well: you're a worthless competitor, Jackson.

And the only reason I think you can walk away from War without your name being dragged through the mud is because there are men like myself who are going to break bodies and then leave them for the scavengers, for men like you to swoop in and make something of your night. We don't fear you, I don't fear you, because you already know your role in this match. Empty the clearing of corpses, Jackson, carry them off to where ever Phoenixes nest in Portugal, and relish in the fact that you were given even that."

Patrick pauses, turning his attention back to the two cannibals in the clearing.

"But do us all a favor and leave Occulo for Spencer Adams so they can both try and settle their daddy issues without involving anyone else. I joked Cletus earlier for being a walking stereotype, but Spencer Adams takes the cake. I'm aggressive because my Daddy abused me. My mother cries herself to sleep because my Daddy beat her. Help, I've fallen and I can't get up because my Daddy pushed me down. You embody these notions, Spencer, of a broken child, and the fans actually supported it. They made you their champion, because they could relate with your story. That was, until the story got old and Kyle Kemp came along. That guy, he was a dick.

A bigger dick than your father, that's for fucking sure.

Yet the fans still made him their champion because at least he was entertaining. Meanwhile Spencer Adams doesn't even show up this match on the Slam before War because he knows, in his fatherly-scarred heart, that the fans didn't even want them there. Kyle Kemp and John Gable didn't compete, yes, but they took air time anyway because, like them or hate them, the fans would enjoy them. But you Spencer, are not fun to watch, and the WCF universe just doesn't want to watch you win, they don't even want to think about it.

The good news is they don't have to give it too much thought, because its not going to happen. Spencer Adams is going to put up a solid performance, like he tends to do when he bothers to show up. But Spencer Adams does not translate to winner, no where close. So I give you the same opportunity that Jackson White has been given. War leaves bodies just lying around, waiting to be feasted upon. So do just that, and leave men like myself who will remain standing to the end, out of your agenda. Because you know who else still stands strong, Spencer: your father. You cannot even close that chapter in your life, so what makes you think you can begin a new one at War?"

Patrick leaves Spencer with those final thoughts as he collects himself. One of the pigs pulls his head away from the corpse, his face a mask of red gore.

"Teo, if you're even alive after your match with Los Tibournes, you have this same opportunity. And unlike your counterparts, people want to see you succeed. People want to see Teo's name in gold, his masked visage in the spotlight. That's why, even after you wrestle to two no contests and a loss to Tibs, you're still competing against him come War. Four times now you have fought, all in the hopes of the WCF Universe and Seth Lerch himself, that you walk away as champ. People want Teovision because they know, as do you, that they will never have Teo, the man who conquered War.

You have a rough night ahead of you come October 4, and one can wonder if you're cut out for it. I for one, don't think you are. Oh, I could care less about the outcome of your bout with Tibournes. But War, the effect that you will have on that match, intrigues me. If you have the strength to even compete, you can make an impact on it. Not nature-defying, no, but Teo del Sol could ruin the nights of a few individuals. And I implore you to do just that. Quitting flying around for one night, trying to take someone down with you, and just conquer the men already down. Otherwise, someone is just going to catch you and bring you down to size. The people want an unbroken Teo, one who can wear gold again.

Mess around with me, Teo, and instead you'll be wearing white while your family wears black. And I won't need four fucking opportunities to do it, either."

Patrick rises to his feet and pushes past the pigs, in search for more satisfying prey. The pines thin out as the valley stretched on, storm clouds accumulating overhead. Before too long, he comes along a pair of pigs mirroring one another, shiny apples protruding from their mouths. They're like mirrors of one another, neither moving closer to the other. They they both spot Patrick, reacting in two vastly different ways. The farthest away from him turns tail and runs into the bushes, disappearing from view; the closer turns to face Patrick, at least willing to defend his prized apple. To little avail as Legion blasts the top of his head off. The apple drops out of the dead pig's mouth, rolling close enough to Patrick for him to bend down and snatch it away from the growing pool of blood. Taking a bite of it, he spits out the chunk of apple immediately.

"That was torturous--"

Patrick tosses the apple into the bushes.

"I had my first fight in grade school in third grade against Anthony Snotsworth. Total bully, that kid was, but I totally kicked his ass. His friend, Caleb Williams never forget that, and in seventh grade, he tried to avenge his bestie. So I knocked his front two teeth down his throat. Then there were the three Mexicans in High School who tried to gang up on me. Yeah, Jesus, Jose, and Juwhotheshitfuckingcares?

If its not obvious, I am just one of many who have grown tired of the Torture experience we've been forced to endure for week after week. Torture comes in, beats up on some name from the WCF past that no one seems to remember or even care about, and then inflicts on us his spew of how he's the greatest. One thinks, 'oh he has got to be done after this week'--and do mind me, they were saying this after your first 'title' defense--but no, Torture don't know how to take a hint. He's like 'what skeleton and/or fuckbuddy can I take out of closet next to force down the throats of the WCF universe. Torture hasn't been Torture since Torture ran this place, because it was only then that he could make himself look good with booking like this. Now, though? Its just ironic because your very name describes the very thing you've put us all through for the last two months.

And thankfully, oh so thankfully, it comes to an end at War when somebody bites the bullet and takes the Hardcore Title off of you. And I do mean that, because after the shit you've dragged that title through since you've held it, its about as respected as you are these days. A year ago, the idea that someone could pin Torture was big. Now, its avoided like the plague. I want you out, Torture, but I don't want to be the one to take you out.

Because if I do, who am I but you yourself, utterly dominating a no-name on live televsion?"

Patrick points to the bushes.

"But I will say this: at least you're willing to defend that title. Its crazy to think that I could find a person on the roster more deplorable than you, but David Sanchez took the cake for me, after he hit me upside the head with his belt just because I looked at it wrong. So now I've got a sore head, no cake, an itch to scratch in regards to our 'I'll defend against all United States champions' David Sanchez. Logan . . . Logan was a gimme, that guy didn't even know his Hot Dog costume had been stolen. No, I think Jackson White could've even gotten the win that week over Logan, and White fucking sucks. No, you picked up an easy win and thought 'damn I good. Let's challenge Jay Omega next.'

And when he challenged you back, you tucked tail and ran.

Our fighting champion proved to only want the fights he could win. Jay Omega was going to prove him in the second week on his reign that he wasn't up to par to stand behind his boasts. So he pulls out the only way he knew how to retain that belt. And then, fucking then, he's got himself an injury so Alex Richards doesn't follow up the next week and show why you don't cheat Pantheon out of what they think were there's. 'Oh, my ego, my claims, are aching. Pull my finger . . . No, wait! No, I pulled my finger, don't pull it. Because I'm hurt.' But a week later, when your United States title wasn't on the table to be lost, suddenly everything is okay in the life of David Sanchez.

So come War, I will pull your finger and show just how full of shit you are.

If anyone's championship should be on the line this week, it should be yours, David. Not because I want it anymore than Torture's, but because someone needs to take if off of you because you make it worse than Torture. Because at least he pretended to be dominant on no name chumps, so at least we could ignore. What we cannot ignore, though, is you said you were the best, that you would beat the former best, and then you couldn't. So you cling onto your title, telling yourself that you won't defend at War. Because you know, in your heart, you won't win on October 4, and you sure as hell cannot hit fifty people over the head before someone comes along and take you out.

Guess who the next War winner is, David.

Not fucking you."

Suddenly, Sir Westley speaks through the mic.

"Paddy, something big is coming straight for you. Something bigger than what you've faced before."

And then, radio silence, as the thunderstorm strikes, a torrential downpour with lightning flashing in the sky. The bushes ahead of him explode, as the largest boar Patrick Ignatius Gardner had ever laid eyes on pushed through them. It was a gray beast, its flesh tainted by genetic testing, and a mask of fur hugged its snout and tickled its three foot long tusks. It pawed the ground, eyeing this new foe. Patrick stared back, long and hard.

Then, Legion dropped the gun and drew the knife strapped to his chest, a nasty, curved blade.

"I had so much more to say, to many more to slay. But when the best presents himself, you take your chance. This . . . this is only the beginning, a taste if you please, of just who I fucking am."

And then the pair charging, tusk and blade gleaming despite the night. A lightning flash pierces the screen, turning the entire scene white . . .

BOOM!

The light escapes, and suddenly, viewers find themselves in a study room lit by a roaring fire.

The storm is raging outside the window of this unknown location, though the inhabitants of the room seemed unfazed by it. The first, the mysterious-robed figure who had pestered Patrick for weeks on end, stood near the edge of the room, hands held before him in homage; the second, unseen, was seated in a tall-backed, black chair.

"--He's been resistant, for the most part, to embrace the gift you had bestowed upon him, save for the week he had had with Jeff Purse two weeks ago; it seems the touch you had placed on him swayed him against that particular foe. I think given time, he can become exactly who you want him to be."

A long, heavy silence. And then the chilling, familiar voice spoke. "Is he out there, Atticus?"

"In the storm?" Atticus, the bald man, replied. "Yes, my lord. He had a break down following his hard fought victory over Miss Cicero. Hunting was a way to calm him, I believe."

The figure's right arm extends out into view, a firm appendage ending with a stump, where a hand had used to be. "Go, Atticus, and bring him to me."

Atticus took a step forward. "Is it time, sir? He's still resistant to your calls."

"I will speak to him personally. Because if I don't, he has no hope to win."

"Then it will be done." Atticus intoned, before disappearing from the room, in hot search of the man we know as Patrick Ignatius Gardner, while another waits by the fire, who knows him as something out.

Another flash of lightning, and the scene closes out.