Post by God King Dune on Jan 16, 2016 14:19:06 GMT -5
Spanish Pipedream
The cosmos fills the screen. We lie in the path of ancient light whose origins are far beyond the reach of man. Each brilliant point is distinct and unfettered by earth’s atmosphere. Out here in the void, nothing but time and distance stands between us and the seemingly infinite number of suns that gleam in the surrounding darkness.
We pan over, and as we do, the screen is nearly filled by the greatest star of all: our sun. The sower and reaper of life is not unbearable to behold, as it is when viewed by the naked eye from earth’s surface. Instead, the vast, glowing sphere appears to us as a roiling orange and red ball set against the pitch blackness of space, which lines the edges of the screen. Unfathomably massive plumes of solar fire shoot out from the surface, forming great arcs that end thousands of miles from where they began their tumultuous journey.
Suddenly though, the shape of the sun begins to change, flattening out into an oblong, asymmetrical mass and growing a strange, tube-like tail. The fiery reds and oranges cool in favor or a deep greenish hue. Gone are the flaming arcs, and in their stead, what look like many vast, branching river-systems line the surface of...whatever it is we’re looking at. The star-studded blackness, too, undergoes a metamorphosis, fading into a slick, brownish-pinkish substance.
After a few seconds, the changes are complete, and what was once a celestial body has been transformed into a small, forgettable organ within the human body - the gallbladder, to be precise. It seizes and hisses as if gasping for air, and small, globular protrusions grow and shrink at random all over the dying organ. It’s an alien sight to behold, and soon it begins to shrink as we zoom out.
Breaking through the muscles, ribs, and finally the skin that protects it, we’re met with a more familiar sight.
Dune furrows his brow as his hand clutches his sternum, grunting as a sharp, radiating pain makes itself known once more. He turns away as a voice rings out.
Freeman: You just going to let that fester?
Dune: It’s nothing...just a bit of indigestion.
Freeman: So you’ve said. But somehow I doubt that. You know, you’re not immortal, Dune. You’ve been putting your body through hell in the ring for over a year now, and that on top of the damage nearly 30 years in the desert without any sort of medical attention may have caused. You really ought to see a doctor. Mine’s not far from here, only a few -
Another surge of pain brings a menacing glare to Dune’s face as he spits back at Freeman.
Dune: I’m fine!
Dune’s massive rottweiler appears from beneath a table nearby, and he tucks his tail between his legs as he trots over to Freeman. The robed, bearded man shakes his head as he looks on with concern.
Freeman: Fine then. But when you turn up with some sort of terminal cancer and it’s far too late for treatment...don’t blame me.
Dune: I won’t.
Dune makes his way over to a nearby chair and sits down gingerly. He lets out a deep breath as Freeman continues.
Freeman: Well, something’s wrong. And whatever it may be...have you considered the possibility that the Jackal’s to blame?
Dune: ...I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. But he’s powerless; he’s trapped inside Pinky.
Freeman: For now.
The face of Dune’s one true love appears to him. Their shared memories flood his mind...until the sight of her comatose body suspended in the void of the anti-gravity chamber one floor beneath them takes over. And finally, the Jackal smiling vicariously through her blasts it all away.
Dune: Enough about him.
Freeman: He’s gaining control of her, Du-
Dune: I SAID ENOUGH!
He winces and grabs at the right-side of his rib cage. Freeman nods and reaches down to give Dune’s nervous rottweiler a pat on the side. With the wisdom to know it’s time to change the subject, he turns back to Dune.
Freeman: Sunday night...Slam...what the fuck was that?
Dune: I’m assuming you’re referring to me single-handedly taking out the faux Sentinels; the Sentinels who fled?
Freeman: Right...I mean, the fact that you’re at odds with Occulo and Howard Black, two of the finest men in the WCF -
Dune: Fine men don’t abandon their own, Freeman. Fine men don’t say one thing and do another.
Freeman: Fine men don’t attack from the blindside.
Dune: I’m not a fine man. I’ve never claimed to be. What I did to Occulo and Howard Black was wholly deserved. They’re lucky I didn’t end their short, pathetic WCF careers. They have no place in the ring with me, let alone the host of others who would tear them limb from limb before pinning their sorry asses for three.
Freeman: Others like K.L. Henson? Of all the people to work alongside - to scheme and plot with - you chose perhaps the most vile, cruel man of all.
Dune: Henson served his purpose Sunday. Had he stepped in the ring with Occulo and Howard, I have little doubt he would have bested them with ease. But though we had a mutual interest that night, it just so happened that my needs outweighed his.
Freeman: You dropped half a ton of sand on them, Dune! What the fuck? You blinded them with it, then buried them under it...and when they emerged, there you were to knock them around. You were right on cue.
Dune: It was a flawless plan.
Freeman: But you’re wrong. The plan was flawed from the start. Don’t you see? YOU’VE turned on Occulo; YOU’VE turned on Howard Black. YOU’VE changed, not them! Ever since WAR...ever since the Jackal revealed himself to you in the days leading up to your first battle with Joey Flash.
Once more Dune clutches his ribs as, unbeknownst to him, that forgettable little gallbladder seizes, hisses, and gurgles as it continues to fail beneath his muscle-packed abdomen. Through the enduring pain, his eyes shoot back to Freeman.
Dune: Do you fear the change in me, Freeman - do you fear it like all the rest?
The aging man stares back at Dune, remembering the innocent, infantile face he first laid eyes upon nearly 30 years before. He remembers the years he watched over him from afar; remembers the night they came face to face for the first time as men just before the first round of the 2015 Trilogy Cup. He finds his way back to the here and now before answering.
Freeman: Yes...yes, I fear it, Dune. It’s not you - YOU’RE not you.
Dune chuckles amidst the sharp pain that continues to linger beneath his ribs.
Dune: And who am I, Freeman? Who have I become that you fear so much?
Freeman: You want the truth?
Dune stares at him with cold, unblinking eyes.
Freeman: He’s done a number on you, Dune. He’s left traces of himself in your very soul. All this hate; all this wrath -
Dune: The wrath was always there, long before the Ja-
Freeman: The Jackal is the cause of it all! Since birth you’ve been his pawn! He’s the reason you have no blood relatives left. He’s the reason you have those scars on your face. He’s the reason Pinky’s down there in a goddamn coma; why you aren’t a few months out from being a father right now! He’s the reason young Christian Malignaggi doesn’t lie in his room beneath the watchful eye of his parents, but as a rotting corpse beneath the cold, hard ground! It’s the Jackal, Dune; it’s always been the Jackal...and now, even as he lies trapped inside Pinky for the time being, his influence over you is as strong as ever!
Dune rises and strides toward Freeman, who furrows his brow and braces for the worst. But Dune doesn’t attack him. Instead, he speaks in a deep, hushed tone.
Dune: I know...I know, Freeman. But until he’s gone...what am I to do? I thought I had him - I thought WE had him. But all I’ve done is infect the only woman who ever loved me with the worst sort of parasite. That’s what he is, you know - a parasite. And I don’t know how to kill him.
Just then, Dune’s rottweiler shoots up, more alert than ever. The hair on the back of his neck stands up as he begins to snarl and growl, and after a couple seconds he charges the closed door and begins scratching at it ferociously and baying at the top of his lungs. Freeman and Dune watch him, then turn back to one another.
Freeman: He’s awake - the Jackal. I’m going down to see her...to make sure he doesn’t...
Dune nods before Freeman continues.
Freeman: You coming?
Dune: No. You go.
He winces as the stabbing pain in his abdomen returns.
Dune: I’ve seen enough. I can hardly stand to look at Pinky when he’s in control of her...
Freeman nods in understanding before making his way to the door. He opens it, and the baying rottweiler scampers through, his savage bark fading as he sprints off down the hall. Freeman follows suit, shutting the door behind him.
Dune rises, and he paces about the room slowly while lost in thought. Suddenly, his icy blue eyes flick toward the screen, and his deep voice shatters the silence.
Dune: Over the past year, I’ve proven myself capable of defeating any man or woman whose ill-fortune it was to stand across from me in a WCF ring. Name one who’s slipped through my fingers and you’re sure to be telling an outright lie. The same could be said of all those who I’ve encountered outside the ring, on the sands or anywhere else on this forsaken planet. That is...except for the only one who matters: the Jackal.
But he’s no man...and that’s precisely why he continues to elude me. In truth, I’m powerless against him. Even now he’s one step ahead of me. He has a plan - I know it. He’s merely biding his time. And meanwhile, the hourglass works against me…
The camera cuts away as Dune spins around, and his eyes find it once more as he continues.
Dune: Sound familiar, Teo? It should, because like the rest here in the WCF, you’re powerless against me. Like the rest, I’ll always be one step ahead of you...no, far more than just a single step. I’m leaps and bounds above the challenge you present. And if you don’t think I have a unique and devastating plan of attack for each and every piece of shit on the roster, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.
You’re not up against a wet noodle who’s sure to be slurped up and gulped down by so-called “talent” who can only dream of wearing the World Title around their waist. This week, you’re taking on the workhorse of the WCF - the mainstay who each and every man on the roster fears above all else. If somehow you’re not convinced of my supremacy over you, I suggest you cling to that false hope for as long as possible. Because Sunday night is inevitable, as is the merciless throttling that awaits you before I put you down for three. And like the Jackal - like the demon trapped within the chamber beneath my feet - I’m merely biding my time until I can unleash on you in full.
Have you got a plan, Teo? Are you like me in knowing the ins and outs of every opponent you’re up against and how to exploit their weaknesses? Even if you claim to, no amount of planning will have prepared you for what you’re set to endure on Slam. You’ve been around a few months...long enough to know this Sunday’s going to be the fight of your life. And when that opening bell finally sounds and our bout gets underway, you’ll learn quickly that there’s no way to brace yourself for the coming storm. Many have tried, and I can count on one hand with half its fingers severed how many have succeeded in accomplishing the nearly impossible task of withstanding my assault. Many of the so-called greats have tried in vain...and all those beneath them have failed wholeheartedly. Believe me, Teo - it’s safe to count yourself amongst the underwhelming masses I’ve been slaying since day one.
Perhaps I should level the playing field. Perhaps I should divulge my plan of attack to you...but then again, even if you knew exactly how I was going to come at you - even if you knew each of my next moves beforehand - there’d still be no hope of you avoiding complete and total annihilation. That’s the mark of a champion - a truly dominant force in the industry. I’m running the ball up the gut every single time. No cute formation shifts; no fancy audibles to catch an unwitting motherfucker like yourself off guard. And still - even though you know what’s coming with 100% certainty - there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop me.
You can -
He cuts off, grimacing as another shot of pain radiates through his abdomen and around to his back. It lingers for a moment, and when it passes, he starts up again.
Dune: You can say whatever you want this week. You can posture and promote our match as if the people honestly don’t know what’s going to happen when we meet in the ring. But deep down - or perhaps on the surface for all to see - you know what you’re in for: another loss at the hands of a better wrestler.
Nothing and no one within the depressing confines of El Gimnasio Del Sol can prepare you for me. Neither your trainers nor the relative-children you have to spar against to give you a confidence boost will be working in your favor this week. They mean absolutely nothing. The same can be said of your partners - The People’s Choice. Goddamn...the people are fucked if they’re choosing the likes of you, Spencer Adams, and Vic Venable to rally behind. The three of you are a more pathetic bunch than the entirety of Beach Krew...and that’s saying something.
Surely you don’t think Spencer fucking Adams is going to be of any service to you this week. The two of you can share all the smiles, hugs, and laughs you want, but unfortunately for you, he too lacks the wisdom and innate skill-set it takes to hang with me in the ring. And don’t get me started on Vic Venable. His silence has been deafening for a while now. Honestly, the fact that he’s absent and unable to give you the shit advice Spencer Adams is no doubt laying on you only serves to bolster your chances against me...meager and insufficient as they may be. Your brothers in arms can’t save you, Teo - just like you can’t save yourself. The only thing that can save you now is me breaking your mind, body, and spirit before the ref puts an end to the devastation by counting out the 1-2-3.
So pray, Teo; pray I don’t leave you a mangled corpse in the center of the ring. Pray I don’t -
Once more, his voice cuts off as he clutches his abdomen. He exhales and makes his way over to a nearby chair. Finally, as the pain subsides, he continues.
Dune: Pray I don’t murder you like I have so many others in non-sanctioned battles. I’m not the happy go lucky hero you so laughably claim to be. I’m not the new guy in town with a big beaming smile and stars in his eyes who thinks he’s going to change the world and rid it of all its darkness and evil. In case you haven’t realized, the world you so love is absolutely fucked...and there’s nothing a man whose world is similarly fucked in being forced to stand across from me in the ring can do to save it. You can pray though...albeit a worthless endeavor. If anything, fooling yourself and pulling a sheet over your eyes will help ease the stress that’s eating you alive right now.
Shhh...don’t cry, Teo of the Sun - don’t shiver in its infinite warmth. From now until Sunday, imagine yourself in the protective womb you were so unfortunate as to be spewed from all those years ago. And after I’ve marked you as I have the rest - after I’ve crucified you for all to see and slammed your delicate vertebrae onto the mat with the help of the unforgiving force of gravity - you can crawl back inside your makeshift womb, tuck yourself in, and pull that sheet right back over your eyes. It’s the only thing that will allow you to continue in this industry.
The WCF is full of men and women alike who claim they’ll one day be the best while I’m still under its employ. How else aside from remaining consciously-oblivious to the truth would they be able to wake up each morning and maintain their ambition when they know full well that they’ll never be half of what I was when I first started out, let alone what I’ve become? The idea that you can withstand and outlast me in the ring is a spanish pipedream...and I’m going to bend it in half and seal it shut so no more light - no more lies - can seep through ever again.
He turns away as another shot of fiery, stabbing pain courses through his abdomen. After a moment, his icy blue eyes flick up at the screen once more.
Dune: I understand the precarious position you find yourself in this week.
I understand the hopelessness of your situation.
I understand who and what you’re up against.
Of course I do, Teo...but the question is: do you?
Dune rises from his seat, and the camera remains focused on the empty chair as the screen fades to black.
Game Over
Light fades in on a familiar room, one we were introduced to nearly seven months ago. Then, its purpose was the production of Dune replicants by a man with cruel intentions. Each was “born” within a petri dish and later transferred to a life-nurturing, cylindrical chamber that allowed them to grow into full-size, nearly 100% DNA-clones of the then-WCF World Champion.
Now though, within the metallic, rounded walls deep beneath the surface of the Mojave Desert, that same glass, cylindrical chamber has been modified to serve not to nurture life, but to preserve it…
In panning over, both the chamber and its occupant come into view.
Pinky floats within the anti-gravity chamber, motionless aside from her faint, rhythmic breathing. A small, translucent mask covers her face, and a tube leads out of it which provides her with the oxygen she requires. Thanks to the extra-dimensional being known as the Jackal, she’s been in a deeply comatose state since the end of September, though she’s only been in Dune’s care since the days leading up to One in late December.
In her dreamless sleep, she emits an aura of calm...though inside her mind, it’s anything but. A struggle ensues within - one that’s been nearly continuous since Dune brought her back to the desert. Deep in her subconscious, none other than the Jackal finds himself powerless to the mother’s-wrath she throws upon him.
The murderer of her unborn child and, by proxy, her father, she torments the demon whenever she can. At first, it was the vast majority of the time. But now, as the days and weeks have worn on, the Jackal has managed to reach the surface - to gain possession of her mind and body - more often than not…
Her eyes flick open, signaling the Jackal’s ascent to the surface once more, and the baying of Dune’s rottweiler greets our ears as the Jackal smiles at something off screen.
Jackal: Ah...to what do I owe the pleasure?
We cut away, revealing the half-masked Dune as he stares expressionless past the thick glass that encases his one true love and the parasite in control of her vessel. He snaps his fingers, and the rottweiler’s savage bark becomes a low snarl as the beast retreats to stand beside his master.
Dune: How is she?
The Jackal laughs vicariously through her.
Jackal: She’ll be dead soon if you don’t let me out.
Dune: If she dies, you die with her.
The Jackal’s sinister smile fades into an impatient glare as he hears the words.
Jackal: What do you know? You’re meddling in affairs that are far beyond your level of comprehension. You have no idea what’ll happen if she dies.
Dune: I know that you haven’t taken off her oxygen mask. Why is that?
The Jackal remains silent.
Dune: Just as I thought. If she dies...you die.
Jackal: It’s that simple, is it? Well then - what are you waiting for? Pull the plug, Dune. Let’s put your hypothesis to the test. If she dies, I die...so kill me already.
Dune: We’re not playing by your rules anymore.
The Jackal laughs through Pinky, and a chill runs down Dune’s spine to hear the all too familiar yet simultaneously alien sound.
Jackal: Oh, so this is a game then? And you think you’ve won…
Dune: No. You’ve seen to it that I can never win. So far as I know, the best I can do is keep it at a stalemate.
Jackal: A stalemate...well that’s no fun. Luckily, that’s not where we’re at. I’m in the lead, Dune. I’m miles ahead. I always win - don’t you know that by now? And when I finally break free, you’ll rue the day you tried to outsmart me.
Dune: You’ll never break free.
Jackal: You don’t sound too sure of that.
A wry grin touches the corner of his lips as he stares through Dune’s eyes.
Jackal: I will break free. But don’t worry. I won’t kill you when I do - not right away. I’ve allowed you to live nearly three decades...and it’s only fitting I should allow you to die for an equal amount of time. It’ll be slow and -
The Jackal cuts off as he watches Dune try to hold back a grimace brought on by a jolt of stabbing pain just beneath his sternum. He smiles to see it.
Jackal: Painful. What’s wrong, Dune - bit of indigestion?
The Jackal knows better, yet still he waits for a response that never comes. Instead, Dune turns away and makes for the exit. He pats his leg, and the massive rottweiler lets out a final snarl before catching up with his master. The Jackal glares at the back of Dune’s head before he continues.
Jackal: You can’t keep me in here forever, Dune. You know it. The sooner you let me out, the easier it will be for both of us. Instead of 30 years, I can make you suffer for eternity, if I so wish.
Dune’s back remains to the Jackal as he reaches the automatic steel-door.
Jackal: Last chance, Dune! If you don’t release me now, it’s -
Suddenly, Pink’s eyes snap shut and she goes limp once more. Dune turns around, and he gazes upon the love of his life as she remains suspended in the seemingly water-filled void of the anti-gravity chamber.
A strange calm comes over him in knowing the Jackal’s been pulled back into the chambers of torment that exist inside Pinky’s mind...or so he thinks.
He turns and exits the room, within which we remain. The automatic door seals shut behind him, and after a long moment, Pinky’s eyes snap open again.
Jackal: Game over.
The whole of her eyes turn black, and the Jackal shifts backward before slamming the undersides of Pinky’s feet against the thick glass with force he hasn’t known since being captured within. He’s elated to feel the power her mortal legs hold, and an excited, impatient expression comes over Pinky’s face as he continues to pound against the otherwise unbreakable glass.
Once more…
Twice more....
Three more times…
On the fourth, a long sliver appears and runs down the length of the chamber.
The Jackal smiles feverishly to see it, and just before he slams Pinky’s feet into it for a final time, the screen cuts to black.
The Strange Case of Dr. Jackal and Mr. Dune
The dying red sun blinds us temporarily as it comes to fill the screen once more. This time though, our vantage point is not from space but from the earth’s surface. The camera zooms out to reveal a desert skyline made jagged by distant peaks and valleys. We continue our backward-motion, and as our eyes adjust to the light, the posterior of a shade-covered bald head that rests atop a hulking human frame appears as if stepping out of the camera itself.
Dune continues to walk forward toward the setting sun as the camera comes to a slow halt. Soon, his massive rottweiler enters the frame, walking alongside his master while sniffing at the parched desert soil.
We cut away, and Dune’s half-masked face fills the screen. His icy blue eyes reflect the sun’s fiery glow as he flicks them toward the lens and begins to speak.
Dune: From enduring the Jackal for months on end, I’m now tasked with facing the lowly Teo Del Sol for a single night - mere minutes, truly...if not seconds. It doesn’t seem fair, does it? And I don’t mean for me…
The shift from dealing with an immortal beast to a mortal flounderer is akin to carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders for a lifetime, only to shed it in favor of a nearly weightless marble that fits in the palm of my hand with ample room to spare. It’s akin to staying afloat with a ten ton squid attempting to drag me down to unbearable depths as opposed to standing in a piss-filled kiddie pool that doesn’t even reach my knees. It’s -
He halts as his voice cuts off, grunting noisily as the pain in his gut reaches new heights. It’s slow to fade, but when it does, he continues.
Dune: It’s akin to you having to face me this Sunday on Slam, Teo, only to turn around and square off against some talentless hack seven days later. Take your pick of the numerous pieces of shit on the roster who fall under the shade of that vast umbrella.
No, your name being placed next to mine on the card isn’t fair in the slightest. But then again, who ever said anything in life was fair? You may drown yourself in optimism and allow yourself to believe fairness is the rule - that it’s one of the many laws of nature - but you’re sorely mistaken. I promise you, though, that I’ll treat you fairly in the ring. I don’t discriminate between foes; I bring my best to the ring each and every time I’m called upon. Your no legend, but I’m going to come at you like you’re the best goddamn fighter in the business - or, rather, like you’re me.
That’s not to say you haven’t done a thing or two in your time here
People’s Champion? Well, I wouldn’t count that as an honorable accolade. All the same, congratulations - you hold the most worthless Title in the company. And it doesn’t look like you have much competition for it...which isn’t surprising when you consider the fact that anyone in their right mind wouldn’t give a single fuck about wearing that worthless strap. All it does is add five pounds to your frame when you wear it down to the ring. Sure, the WCF Faithful cheer you for having earned it and applaud your desire to keep it...but take it from me, Teo: the people don’t care.
Don’t believe me? After I’ve decimated you on Sunday night, hop on the interweb - or have one of your People’s Choice pals do it for you, since you’ll almost certainly be incapacitated. And when you see that the clips of me performing said decimation have millions of views and thousands of “likes” or “upvotes”, or whatever the brainwashed masses call them, perhaps then you’ll see that putting your body on the line strictly for the people is a infiintely foolish endeavor. And when you’re down and out after I’ve shown them what kind of man you truly are, expect them to turn their backs on you en masse.
You fight for the wrong reasons, Teo. I was once like you - I fought, in part, for the people. I felt it was my duty; I felt it was my calling. But I soon realized after dropping the World Title - a belt that actually means something in this business - that I’d been blinded by their cheap charms and hollow rallying cries.
In short, fuck the people, and fuck anyone who fights for them. The people mean nothing - absolutely nothing - to any fighter with substantial talent. It wasn’t their roars of approval that helped me climb the ranks from the bottom rung; it was my own skill set - my own tenacity and desire to reach the summit of WCF Mountain. I’ll be the first to admit I was a fool to think of them as a significant source of motivation and power. But something tells me you’ll never admit to it...at least not as long as you wear that silly piece of scrap metal and faux leather around your waist or over your shoulder.
Dune winces as another shot of pain surges through him. This one’s quick to pass though, and he continues once it’s flushed from his system.
Dune: So enjoy your undercard Title reign, Teo. I’m certainly going to enjoy breaking the hearts of the people this Sunday as they watch their Champion fall harder and faster than ever before.
But that’s not all you’ve done. Up until two weeks ago, you and the pathetic partnership of Spencer Adams and Vic Venable were the Trios Champions. I’d congratulate you...but then again, you stole them off a worn down, lackluster Pantheon team, ⅔ of which aren’t even in the Federation anymore. And even then, in two months you only successfully defended them once - ONCE - and it was against motherfucking BioWalker and D’Angelo Hall. Jesus fucking Christ. And when the three of you were finally put to the test, you dropped the Titles to the likes of Occulo, Howard Black, and Joey fucking Flash. What a fucking -
He grunts again as the pain resurfaces, though he pushes it away and shoots a glare into the camera.
Dune: I take it as a personal insult that you allowed the three men I hate more than any others to capture any sort of WCF gold. The Trios Titles may be just a cunt hair above your People’s Title, but all the same, they make champions out of men who otherwise don’t deserve to be. I could have single-handedly warded off Joey, Howard, and Occulo, who’ve so foolishly been branded as the Sentinels - even though the only true one is the man you’re doomed to fall to in a few short days - and yet, when your ENTIRE team came together, the three of you proved that you had absolutely no business claiming to be a team of champions. You’re a lesser pairing than the Dark Riders, who actually had to accomplish something to both earn and retain the Trios gold. Had the three of you been around to fight in the crowning tournament -
FUCK!
Dune doubles over as another shot of indescribable pain cuts through his midsection, this time even worse than before. His rottweiler whimpers and licks at his master’s hand. Dune acknowledges the beast by caressing his massive skull, and in doing so the pain subsides enough to allow him to reclaim his vertical base. He exhales deeply before continuing.
Dune: Where was I? Ah, right...the Trios tournament. Had you and your weak crew been around to -
As Dune continues to spit at Teo, the camera lowers and begins to zoom in on the light-armor vest he wears. Soon it fills the frame, and even when there’s nothing left on screen but darkness, we continue to zoom.
Suddenly we find ourselves within the torso of the former WCF World Champion, following along the same route we backed out of at the start of this tale. We pass the ribs again, the muscles and protective tissue beneath them, until finally the camera comes to a halt on that green, ovular, asymmetrical organ known as the gallbladder.
The forgettable thing continues to seize, hiss, and gurgle as it did the first time we saw it immediately after undergoing a metamorphosis from the sun as viewed from space...though now it does so with a fervor we didn’t see before. And just as the incomprehensibly vast arcs of fire shot forth from our nearest star, now, tiny splatters of bile shoot forth from the dying organ...until finally, it’s torn asunder.
The revelation of the gallbladder’s bile-filled interior within the human body is nothing short of a life-threatening emergency, and as we zoom out of Dune’s abdomen with haste, we see him lying unconscious and face-down on the sands. His rottweiler sniffs at him frantically, whimpering and nudging his hands and face with his snout. When his master fails to respond, the dog takes off in a sprint toward the direction from which they’d come.
The camera remains focused on Dune as he lies motionless on the ground.
The dying sun continues its descent toward the horizon, and soon the camera begins a descent of its own. We close on the back of Dune’s head, until finally, when we can go no further without passing through it...we do just that.
Our view is of Dune’s perspective now, and his eyes flutter open as he regains consciousness. Sweat covers his body from head to toe as a waves of intense nausea and pain wash over him. He tries to push himself up, but it feels as though a million shards of glass are actively tearing at his insides. Somehow, he manages to unclasp his mask, the inside of which is covered in blood that spews forth from his mouth.
With every ounce of effort left in his mind and body, he manages to roll over...and amidst the pain, he furrows his brow and squints at what he thinks must surely be a mirage; a cruel fever-dream brought on by his death throes.
It’s a beautiful sight...the most beautiful he’s ever seen...
...until reality begins to trickle back into his dazed and confused mind. Then, a terrible realization befalls him.
There before him, walking upon bloodied, mangled feet, is Pinky - or rather, the Jackal, a trail of bloody footprints stretching out behind him.
Dune struggles to back away from the approaching veiled-monster, though the pain is too great, and he slams the back of his head against the ground in agony before letting out a deep wail.
The Jackal by way of Pinky’s body comes to cover the sun, casting a shadow over Dune’s eyes. He bends down at the knees and paints a smile on her smooth, delicate face.
Jackal: Indigestion again, huh?
Dune spits up more blood as a look of false concern comes over Pinky’s face.
Jackal: You’ll be dead soon. Tsk tsk tsk...I can’t have that.
He places one of Pinky’s small hands right atop the area above Dune’s gallbladder, and Dune screams in agony once more as the Jackal presses down.
Jackal: Ah, come now. Aren’t you glad to see me, Dune? I told you I’d break free.
Dune reaches weakly for Pinky’s throat, but he gives up as he nearly loses consciousness once more. The Jackal smiles through his host before revealing a gleaming silver blade, apparently from out of thin air. The sight of it brings Dune back, and more blood seeps out of his mouth as he tries to speak.
Jackal: Shh....quiet. There’s no time for you to test my bedside manner. You’ll be dead in a few minutes, and I’m not about to let you off so easily. 30 years is what I owe you - 30 years of death for the 30 years of life I've allowed.
He draws the blade down toward the bottom of Dune’s right-side ribcage while Dune watches on, helpless now to move his arms or legs as shock begins to set in.
Jackal: This won’t take long...but it might hurt a bit. Here we go - just a little….PINCH.
With the word, he jabs the blade into Dune’s gut, dragging it across his lowermost rib.
Dune: AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Blood spills from the wound as Dune’s eyes roll back in his head. The pain is indescribable, and it overwhelms his senses before the fading light of day cuts out entirely along with his consciousness.
We leave Dune’s body, slowly raising skyward to see Pinky rifling through the upper-right quadrant of his abdomen. Blood pools on the ground where he lays, and it covers much of Pinky’s arms, legs, and gown. It’s an unnerving, horrific sight to behold, and just as the distant barking of a dog and the sound of an approaching motor reaches our ears, the screen cuts to black.
Get Well Soon
In the darkness, the sound of something wet rubbing repeatedly against a dry surface greets our ears. After a few seconds, a fleeting bit of light appears...then again...and again…
We cut away from Dune’s perspective to see his eyes flutter open.The massive rottweiler who runs his warm tongue along the the deep, jagged crevasses leftover on Dune’s face from a night of terror nearly a decade and a half ago begins to shake his hindquarters with bursting excitement to see his master awake again...but it’s tempered by the painful groan Dune lets out as he tries to move.
A voice cuts through the relative silence.
Freeman: Whoa...whoa there. Don’t even think about trying to sit up.
We cut away once more to reveal the robed, aging man sitting beside his unmasked protege. A white, blood stained bandage is wrapped tightly around Dune’s rib cage and upper abdomen. Freeman stands and gently nudges the rottweiler aside. The beast obeys, moving down to Dune’s sheet-covered legs and resting his massive skull atop one of them. Dog and man lock eyes for a moment before Dune looks up at Freeman, confused and weak from loss of blood.
Dune: What hap-
But before he can finish, the memories flood back in: the pain; the blood; Pinky; the Jackal…
Dune: Where is she?! What’s he done with her?!?
Once more he tries to sit up, but the pain is too much to bear, and Freeman scowls and scolds him for it.
Freeman: Lie down, dammit - be still! You’re lucky to be alive, for fuck’s sake!
Dune: He’s back, Freeman! He’s free! Somehow, he’s -
Freeman: I know. I saw him...saw her.
Dune: Where?! When?!
Freeman: Standing over what I assumed to be your lifeless body near sunset yesterday in the middle of the fucking desert! That’s where; that’s when! She was covered in your blood, as were you and the ground you laid upon. God dammit, Dune - I thought you were dead! I thought he finally -
He cuts off, running his hand down his greying beard several times before continuing.
Freeman: I talked to him.
Dune: What did he say?
Freeman remains silent for a moment, as if contemplating whether or not to divulge the truth. Even in his weakened state, Dune picks up on it, and he asks again.
Dune: What did he say, Freeman?
Freeman: Nothing. He said he saved you. He said…
Dune: ...said what?
A scowl comes over Freeman’s face once more as he throws his arms up and turns away.
Freeman: The same shit he always says: that he’s coming; that he’ll be back for you when the time is right.
Dune glares straight ahead, and with every ounce of strength in his being, he finally manages to sit up. Freeman turns back to him, eyes wide.
Freeman: What are you doing?! I said be still! You’re not going after him, if that’s what you think. You’re not going anywhere!
Dune: I’ve got a match this Sunday.
Freeman: LIke fuck you do! I’ve already contacted the WCF head office, and they put me in touch with Seth Lerch himself. He knows you won’t be there for Slam this Sunday, and he told me he’ll make an announcement within the next day or so.
Dune: Give me the phone.
Freeman: Wha-
Dune: GIVE ME THE PHONE!
Reluctantly, Freeman hands him a cellular phone straight out of the 90’s. Dune winces with pain as he punches in the numbers, then holds it to his ear and stares up at Freeman. After a few muffled rings, someone answers.
Dune: Seth. It’s Dune.
Seth Lerch: Whaa wha wha-wha-wha?
Dune: Yeah, that’s right. But I’m fine now.
Seth Lerch: Wha-wha...wha wha whaaaa wha. Wha.
Dune: I understand. Either way, I’ll be there Sunday to fight Teo.
Seth Lerch: Wha-wha whaa?
Dune: Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll be there, Seth.
Seth Lerch: Whaaa wha -
Dune pulls the phone away from his ear and ends the call, never taking his cold eyes off Freeman, who shakes his head slowly in disapproval.
Freeman: You nearly died less than 24 hours ago...and even though I’ve got all the confidence in the world in a healthy Dune being able to pin Teo Del Sol, you may well be putting your life on the line by going in there before you wounds have healed.
Dune: I’m taking no more risk now than Teo would have been had this never happened. I’m not a coward, Freeman...and I’ve got a job to do. And that’s not fake-wrestle-speak like those New York motherfuckers are so fond of. I’m going to tear Teo apart, open wounds be damned.
Freeman: You’re a dumb fuck.
Dune: So be it.
Freeman turns away, shaking his head in disbelief before he looks back at Dune.
Freeman: If your stubborn ass dies out there -
Dune: Die? Give me a break.
Freeman: I hate to say I told you so, Dune...but had you listened to me and gone to a fucking doctor, none of this would have happened! And now you’re about to step in the ring with one of the most talented fighters in the world with a freshly opened abdomen and a blank space where your gallbladder used to be.
Dune: My gallbladder...that’s what it was, then?
Freeman: YES you fuck! The Jackal flung it at me just before he sauntered off into the desert!
Dune: Hmm….
Freeman: Just a bit of indigestion, huh?
Dune: You’re starting to sound like the Jackal.
Freeman: Bah...I can’t stand you right now. I’m going to fetch some water and prepare a light meal for you. STAY HERE! If I come back and there’s a trail of blood leading out of this room, so help me I’ll finish the job your ruptured gallbladder couldn’t.
Dune nods, and Freeman’s face turns from raging to caring in a split second. He puts his hand on Dune’s badly-scarred cheek and gives it a pat before turning and making his way out of the room. He calls for the rottweiler, who continues to stare at his downed-master until Dune commands him to follow Freeman. He does so reluctantly, and the two of them make their way out of the room before the automatic steel doors slide shut behind them.
The camera zooms in slowly on the butchered face Dune, and his bloodshot eyes flick toward screen as he speaks.
Dune: Yesterday I spoke of leveling the playing field for you, Teo - remember? Well, it seems nature sought to accomplish for a lesser foe what I’d never stoop so low in doing. It must be heartbreaking to know that even the undeniable supremacy of nature couldn’t hold me down for long. And with that knowledge...what can a mere man like you possibly hope to achieve against me in a WCF ring? Nothing - that is, aside from being the recipient of a more savage beating than you’ve ever been dealt before.
Did Seth notify you of what Freeman told him - that I was going to no-show Slam this Sunday? I hope so. I really do. I want you to let your guard down, Teo, even if it’s only for a few fleeting moments as you stand alone in the ring, just so I can see you shiver with shock and awe when you hear my music blast over the PA; when you see me step out from behind the curtain and make my way down the ramp. I can see it now: poor Teo of the Sun shivering so hard that the millions watching all over the world will think there are two of you. May your hopes remain in the clouds for an easy forfeit-victory over me, if only so I can bring them crashing down in much the same way your fragile body will shatter against the mat.
A jolt of pain spreads through his midsection as he adjusts in his seat, but even as it lingers, he continues.
Dune: I didn’t finish my train of thought yesterday. I’d just finished talking about your less-than-stellar achievements here in the WCF before darkness and an indescribable pain took me.
Teo, the People’s Champion; Teo, the former Trios Champion.
You may be proud of holding those two belts, but that’s because you’ve set the bar incredibly low for yourself in relation to how high I’ve set mine. But you did hold the Television Title, and not once but twice...albeit in the span of less than two months. In other words, you lost two Title matches in 49 days. That as opposed to the 133 days I spent as the WCF World Champion. How’s that for perspective?
“But...but...I pinned Jonny Fly to win the TV Title,” you’ll say. Or perhaps not...because you’ll know better than most that the effort he put forth in the ring that night was lackluster at best. It was a Caleb Collins effort; a Warpath effort. Who? Exactly. You didn’t pin the legend Jonny Fly, Teo - I did. The man you pinned was hardly even a shell of his former self. And besides, the only reason he held the TV Title in the first place was because neither he nor anyone else in the Ultimate Showdown match was able to knock off the reigning Champion coming in. I ate Fly alive that night...and you merely pinned the corpse I spat out.
“But...but...I pinned some guy called The Sharks to win the TV Title for a second time,” you’ll say. But this, of course, came after you allowed Jared Holmes to get the best of you inside a steel cage three weeks after you “won it” the first time. The Sharks - or Mr. Irrelevant, as I refer to him, seeing how he can’t decide on a moniker and runs through them like I run through opponents - has been exactly that since I first laid hands on him. In truth, I’d be surprised if anyone listening to this knew who the fuck I was talking about, because odds are the little shit’s never coming back. You may have pinned him, Teo, but once more I outdid you and sent him home to mommy and daddy with tears streaming down his maskless cheeks.
Perhaps I’ll do the WCF the same courtesy this Sunday on Slam. Perhaps I’ll tear your fucking mask off and expose your tear-stained face after I’ve pinned you with ease in front of all your adoring fans.
Just remember, Teo: smile, and the world smiles back...right?
Wrong. Dead wrong.
Sunday night won’t be a photo-op. It’s going to be the worst night of your life, even if I put you down in half a minute...or less, even. You won’t be doing any smiling for a long while after I’m through with you, and you’ll find that if and when you finally do muster up the inner-strength to smile once more, the world won’t be smiling back...because they’ll know all too well that beneath that false grin you’ll wear is fear - fear of your former pride; fear of the truth; fear of the greatest goddamn fighter to ever grace a WCF ring.
No, Teo, the world won’t smile with you after this Sunday...but I will. And when I smile - when I wear a sinister grin - everybody runs. Everybody. And soon, you will too.
He makes to stand up and winces with the intense pain that shoots through the entirety of his chest and abdomen. After a deep breath, he places his massive paw on the bloody tourniquet, and with a grunt of pain, he finds his feet. After a moment, his eyes shoot toward the camera again.
Dune: I’ve got fresh wounds both inside and outside of my body, Teo, and yet still you have no hope of outlasting me this Sunday. I’m without my gallbladder, and the more I think about it, the more I equate you with that small, forgettable organ...
It serves a purpose, albeit a non-essential one. I’ll be fine without it, just as the WCF will be fine without you.
It ruptured inside of me, just as your short-lived career will when we square off inside the ring this Sunday.
And finally, when I eviscerate you from the WCF as it was eviscerated from my abdomen by the Jackal, there won’t be any trace or remembrance of you aside from a blood-stained mat and a sore fan base that’ll recover in no time.
There’ll be no anaesthesia for you, Teo - just as there was none for me on the sands a few hours ago. There’ll be no hope; no surprises; no -
Dune cuts off as the automatic steel door slides open, revealing Freeman and the rottweiler. Dune furrows his brow to see Freeman’s concerned expression, and he casts his eyes downward to see a slip of paper in the old man’s hand. Freeman walks over slowly and hands it to Dune, who reads it aloud.
Dune: “Get well soon.”
And signed in dried blood that could only be that of its reader: “Jack.”
Dune looks up at Freeman, and as the two lock eyes, both considering the haunting proposition of what’s to come, the screen fades to black.
