The Hunt for Blue Velvet (In the Court of the 6ix God)
Jan 23, 2016 14:52:19 GMT -5
Oblivion, Bonnie Blue, and 5 more like this
Post by Howard Black on Jan 23, 2016 14:52:19 GMT -5
The wind was cold in Raleigh as Howard stared perplexedly at the spindly suited man who stood before his car. The smell of cigar smoke wafted through the air as he leered at Howard, his eyes glittering like a spider. Howard blinked, his mind turning over the situation before him, not entirely sure of what to make of it. The man repeated what he’d said.
Jim Thuggin: I can help you and your tag partner Occulo defeat Dune.
This man’s identity was no secret to Howard Black – anyone paying attention in WCF would recognize the uncanny figure of Jim Thuggin instantly. The strange and enigmatic #BeachKrew manager had ambushed him – in a sense; as Howard was putting the key into the lock of his rental car, the odd man had simply been behind him. When it came to #BeachKrew, Howard knew little good could be involved, especially anything involving Jim Thuggin. But the offer was curious.
Howard Black: What do you mean?
Jim Thuggin smiled, revealing a row of discolored teeth.
Jim Thuggin: You seem confused, Earth Man. Are you or are you not engaged in a bitter physical confrontation alongside your tag team partner, Occulo, against your former stable partner, Dune, which shall result in a regulation wrestling match at WSeaF Pay-Per-View, Fifteen?
His voice was monotonous and mechanical; he spoke like someone attempting to parrot actual human speech. His eyes shined in the darkness, and it was hard for Howard to not shudder. Thuggin had all of the charm and presence of an overgrown praying mantis.
Howard Black: Yes?
Thuggin smiled even wider.
Jim Thuggin: Excellent. My observations have proven correct. Now, have you considered that despite this match being inherently uneven in terms of numerical man power, you may still be disadvantaged against a physical specimen such as Dune?
Howard frowned.
Howard Black: I don’t think that’s any of your goddamn business.
Jim Thuggin: You sound uncertain of your abilities. I come in peace. I bear good tidings and offerings.
Howard Black: Look, I’m not buying HGH off ya.
Jim Thuggin: Not performance enhancing drugs. Information.
Howard scoffed and turned, twisting the key to disengaged the lock before reaching down for the door handle.
Jim Thuggin: You still do not comprehend what drove Dune to take the life of young Christian Malignaggi … or what drives him to oppose you now.
Howard froze as his blood ran cold. The words of Thuggin gripped him by the chin and turned him around, his heart rate quickening ever so slightly. It was difficult to distinguish his emotion: anger, anxiousness, insult, intrigue?
Howard Black: And you think you do?
Jim Thuggin: Correct. My knowledge of the forces and motivations at work is intimate and thorough.
Howard frowned, his nerves finally boiling into frustration.
Howard Black: So tell me!
Thuggin’s grin held. It occurred to Howard he’d yet to see the man blink.
Jim Thuggin: Were I to explain, you would not listen. It is difficult for Earth men to grasp concepts which defy the general notions of their universe. But tell me, you know Earth Child Dune well, yes? Do you remember what he utilized to defeat Earth Man Alex?
Howard became quite. It struck him immediately, like a bolt of lightning to the brain. His voice was soft.
Howard Black: Blue Crystal Fire.
Thuggin leered.
Jim Thuggin: It goes by many names. Some call it Blue Crystal Fire. Others call it Blue Velvet. What matters is what it can show. What it can reveal. You will not believe my words, Earth Man Howard, but you will believe the visions of Blue Velvet.
Howard’s eyes went down, his gaze shifting back and forth along the street. His fingers trembled just slightly on the door knob.
Howard Black: Why are you telling me this?
Jim Thuggin: We have a vested interest in the Earth Child Dune. Consider it an investment in his well-being.
Howard Black: So… how do I get this stuff?
A single spindly hand reaching into his jacket pocket, withdrawing a single business card and offering it to Howard.
Jim Thuggin: Lift up the receiver. He’ll make you a believer.
Howard took the card from the figure; a black card with a golden Eye of Horus on one side and a phone number on the other.
Howard Black: Thanks.
But when he looked up, Jim Thuggin was gone.
Oh look, a Howard Black shoot written like a Jared Holmes shoot. The guy who writes these must be really nostalgic for writing #BeachKrew, eh Dustin? Not that I blame him; watching the sort of shit that’s been going on in the #BeachKrew since Jared Holmes went down has been a roller coaster. Don’t get me wrong, no one is going to sneeze at the sort of unprecedented domination #BeachKrew has seen (yes, the “B” and the “K” are capitalized), especially your Television Title reign. But at the same time? #BeachKrew has never been so laughably scatter-brained. So disorganized. There’s all this dominance but no one seems to feel the dominance. So in that sense, I’m sure Jared owes you an apology for bringing you in right at the tail end of the last time #BeachKrew felt like a dominant force. Not a series of jobber for Joey Flash.
Hey, there’s some real talent for you. Again, no one’s denying that. My partner is a man you’re familiar with – a man you’ve beaten clean on the biggest stage of all. And with all the hype around Occulo and Dune, I’m sure you’re wondering just who this Howard Black guy is. I’m the “third Ranger” of the Sentinels or something, right? Which would be a riot coming from the new kid on the #BeachKrew block, but you can never underestimate the arrogance of folks. So here, Dustin, let me introduce myself.
You know that belt you’re fighting to get back? Yeah, I held the Television Title, too. And I may not have held it long, but held that motherfucker into the Ultimate Showdown. You see, there are two kinds of defenses when you’re a champ: when it matters and when it doesn’t. You lose a belt at a pay-per-view? Surprisingly doesn’t matter. Happens all the time. You push yourself up, dust yourself off, and you climb the ranks. A champion loses no prestige dropped the belt at a big pay per view. But when you lose on a random Slam? Lose to someone who shouldn’t even be in the equation? C’mon, Dustin, what’s wrong with you? This is the exact sort of hubris and laziness everyone suspects of #BeachKrew: it’s a group that will sack up and win the big match but is content to shit away everything between them. Of course, you weren’t smart enough to realize that wasn’t in the cards with your Television Championship.
See, you can only hide behind tag matches to keep your belt for so long. Let’s look at Thomas Bates, the guy I beat to take the Television Title: held it for two months, one of which was entirely consumed by the Trios Tournament. Look, there’s no shitting on the DRG winning that – the Sentinels sure as shit did not. But you’ve been in a few tag matches that your team lost – you know how easy it was to survive your way through. You could save your breath for a big match, and #BeachKrew had your back throughout.
That was until you fucked up against Stuart Slane.
You had your eye on Andre Holmes, admit it. You thought this was another break week; some no-name who had one match and got a shot. You didn’t bother doing much research on who he is. You didn’t bother seeing what he’d won. I don’t even think you checked to see if he was above your league. Instead, you phoned it in. You paraded around spitting on Andre Holmes and someone else kicked your legs out under you. So now that you’re not even trying to duck a pin, why do I think you’ll do anything in this match?
I don’t. At all.
I don’t think you’ll perform. I don’t think you’ll bring it. I don’t think you like your partner, I don’t think you want to face Occulo again, and I don’t think you want to risk losing to me after Joey Flash has bent you over a table. That’s a nail in your coffin, Beaver – finding out that beating one Sentinel was a fluke. Keep it up, and we’ll make you the bigger loser in #BeachKrew this side of Oblivion.
Some advice for you Dustin: don’t bank on getting the belt back at Fifteen. You’ve been exposed, and we’ve all seen that you aren’t the fighting champion a TV Champ is supposed to be. It’s been a rough month for you, and when you can’t pull a win outside of Celeste, you should know something isn’t going well. But maybe that’s the most damning part, isn’t it? Maybe it’s that you lost matches but still clung to that belt. Maybe it was that in such matches we never saw you fight like that belt was on truly on the line. Maybe it’s the laughable effort you put up against Slane when he took all you had going for you. But I’m not letting you off the hook. You’re as good as done. It’s only a shame you’re fucking up your team mate’s chance of success.
Yeah, that’s right: your team mate isn’t winning the belt thanks to you. Good job, Dusty. See, he could’ve beaten you. He was ready for you. It was his story. His time. You had one job: hold that belt. And you shit the bed. You couldn’t even succeed for your own sake. Now if Andre Holmes walks out of Fifteen empty handed? Everyone’s just going to be talking about how much it sucks that he legitimately earned a shot at the title, only for the champion to fuck the whole thing up by blowing it against someone who was supposed to be a warm-up. And somehow, I doubt you’ll be doing much to help Andre out in this match – typical of you #BeachKrew losers.
Let me show you how a real former Television Champion looks in the ring. And after that? You can go love yourself.
Back in the comforts of his hotel room, Howard turned the business card over in his hand, contemplating the phone number on the back. He wasn’t stupid – he knew exactly who this belonged to and what sort of business he’d be involving himself with should he chose to follow through. An old saying went through his head: “He who fights monsters should see to it that he does not become a monster” (Nietzsche?). He could only laugh dryly at the irony of the situation – after committing his time to battling the injustice in the WCF, here he found himself on the crux of making a deal with the devil to clean up a mess he couldn’t deny a feeling of responsibility for.
It was ultimately this feeling of responsibility which drove him back – the sort of culpability he seemed to be perpetually reminded of. In the emotional turmoil of his return and the confrontations with Dune, Howard’s mind had finally accepted that there had to be something more he could do – somehow he could’ve intervened. He was late, and he knew this. Now, staring down the metaphorical barrel of a loaded gun, he worried he was ready to blink. Was this the Sentinels’ way? Was this what we’d do? Was it a refusal to make these moral compromises which defined the three of us, or was it our willingness to make these moral compromises to achieve our greater aims which defined us? Ultimately, the purpose of the Sentinels was unbiased equilibrium: a perfect balance between good and evil which maximized freedom and minimized exploitation. The beauty of the Sentinels was the hard line of their objectives and the law that governed them.
So where did this fall?
He pushed himself up from his sitting position on the bed and walked towards the window to look out over Raleigh. The room was dark and silent – David had already moved on to meet him in Richmond, but as he turned over his dilemma, Howard had given David the convenient excuse of souvenir shopping for Sarah and Joey. He sucked his lower lip under his teeth before glancing back at the hotel bed, gazing at the open laptop and screen glow which acted as the only light in the room. Expedia.com looked back at him, his cursor blinking over the “purchase” button for a flight to Los Angeles.
His eyes went back to the window as he looked up at the clear Southern sky, considering the offer of the enigmatic J. Thuggin and his talk of visions of Blue Velvet. His luck had been plentiful in WCF since his return: a championship belt, a win over a legend, and an undefeated streak. No matter how long had passed, he and Occulo were still the most fearsome tag team in the WCF at any given moment. His mind briefly lingered to the match this week, but he dismissed any doubts or hesitations almost immediately as they had come. No, it would be no distraction from his greater goals of defeating Dune at Fifteen: Beaver and Holmes were warm-ups, nothing more. Last week, Howard had found himself and Occulo paired against the two top competitors in the Final Destination match, and two B-team midcarders engaged in Sisyphean struggle for the TV Title simply could not register on his radar.
His hand went to the doorknob, and soon he was out on the hotel balcony, enjoying the cold night breezes rushing through his hair and across his skin. Staring up at the great black sky, Howard could only wonder if there was more to the puzzle than he knew. Maybe Thuggin truly did know more. Maybe he could help.
As his eyes fixed on the gentle red glow of Antares just above the horizon – the “Scorpion Heart” – a shudder went down his spine. The star suddenly felt like much more than any star; it felt sinister and malicious. He was unsure what brought about this sudden wave of anxiety, for the star had changed in no noticeable way (and of course such idea would be ridiculous), but as he kept his eye on the glow of Antares, new waves of fear began to spill through his nerves. His eyes fell from the star, now tracing the edges of the street just beyond his hotel, and standing under the glow of a street light was a familiar visage.
The Fox-Headed Man smiled, his head cocked curiously to the side as though expecting a gesture of acknowledgment… or perhaps an invitation inside. Howard turned quickly, his steps swift as he made his way for the hotel room door and pulled himself into the warmth of the room. The computer glowed happily back at him, yet to go into sleep mode; the card became heavy in his pocket.
Howard crossed the room to the bedside table, reaching down for his phone. The decision had come upon him swiftly, and any sense of apprehension had left his mind. Something sinister hung in the sky and out in the desert – something with the heart of a scorpion and the grin of a fox. If he were to stop Dune, he needed to know what it was. His finger slammed down on the keys, and he receiver came to his ear. It was time to set an appointment.
It’s going to be such a pleasure to step into the ring with you, Andre Holmes. Truth be told, you’re one of the most exciting new bucks in the WCF. I’ll even be a little more honest with you about something: I see a lot of me in you. Hell, all you need is some sort of cultural controversy, and we’d really be on the same page (don’t worry, Grayson can explain that one to you). But I empathize with a lot of the new guys here in WCF – I remember when I was like you, too.
So let me be the first to say “Congratulations” on earning a shot at the Television Title. That’s a hell of a belt, my man – the first belt I held and the only one that mattered. Some folks may argue that the United States Title is the next step up, but by the time I got my hands on the Television Title, it had gone through quite the pedigree of champions: Zombie McMorris, Joey Flash, Grime, Thomas Bates. I wish I could say that the belt could have a similar pedigree as of late – it’s really the greatest belt in the whole company when the truly next great wave are fighting for it. Andre Jenson, Dustin Beaver, Stuart Slane? I mean, sure, it’s got some success, but it doesn’t have that ring.
Slane? Another old guy Seth blew the dust off and had sneak into your spot. Trust me, I’m as pissed off as you are. That was your shot – you earned it. Funny, here we go back to comparisons of ourselves. See, when I earned by Television Title Contendership, I was forced to wait two months before cashing it in. Part of the reason? Trios Tournament. But when Bates had a week off and had to defend the belt? They grabbed someone else. Put someone else in my spot. Some guys will bend over and cry about it, like an Alex Richards. Me? I walked down to the ring, backed Bates into a corner, and demanded my shot. I then spent the next month dominating until I was practically thrown a tag title shot, too. That’s how you stand out in this fed.
It’s funny because before my title shot, Bobby Cairo told me that belt would make a man out of me. I now see that it wasn’t holding the belt which made me who I am – it was the pursuit of that belt. Bobby was right indeed – the Television Title belt will make a man out of you. But is it making a man out of you, Andre? Are you adjusting your sights? Sizing up the change of Slane and preparing to climb that mountain? Because trust me, this ain’t the same fight that you versus Beaver would’ve been – this is going to be a whole lot rougher. So I’m going to do you a favor, Andre: I’m going to put you to the test. As a former Television Champion to a hopeful, I’m going to see what you’ve got. Because if you can’t take me, you’re not taking Slane.
And buddy? You got a stacked deck this week. You’re working with a man you despise against an actual team. Is that bothering you at all, Andre? Maybe you’re cursing under your breath, wondering how this could be fair. Maybe you’ve stormed into Seth’s office and demanded a new partner or different match. All of these would be reasonable reactions. But for your sake? I hope you’re thinking about this and you’re preparing. Because this is just another challenge for you.
Another funny parallel here: the week before I squared off with Thomas Bates for that Television Title, I was tagged with Joey Flash against two members of the Dark Riders Gang. Sure, we have the Trios Titles now, but Joey and I don’t exactly have a sparkling history. You think you and Beaver hate each other? That’s nothing compared to how Joe and I felt about one another. But we sacked up and did our job. And we won that match. Cause, see, a champion isn’t going to make excuses. If you stack the deck against a real fighting champion, he’s going to figure out how to rise to the occasion. And I want to see you rise to that occasion.
I have nothing to prove to anyone in this company. I’ve risen to the occasion many times, and I’ve overcome a helluva lot of odds until they were too much to handle. I walked into a death sentence match that nearly cost me my career, and I’m about to possibly do it again at Fifteen. So what about you, Andre? I hear so many comparisons tossed around: odd bugger new guy who gets picked up by two accomplished wrestlers – one of whom is in the main title scene – as their third man in a group aimed at protecting others from the tyrannies of the big bad. Prove it to me, Andre. Show me that you’re the next Howard Black and that this isn’t just hearsay. In fact, do better: prove you’re more than the next Howard Black – you’re Andre motherfuckin’ Holmes. I’m looking forward to this.
But I’m not taking it easy on you.
As Howard walked through the dark hallways of the compound, he could hardly feel at ease. The marble busts and statues lining the wall leered down at him, and the combination of frozen figures and ghastly paintings of peculiar and eldritch subjects only heightened his discomfort. Still, his resolve held, and he continued to follow the waifish young woman who’d met him at the door. Her hips swayed hypnotically in a pair of black short shorts, and with each step the bracelets on her wrist jangled in cacophonic harmony. When they arrived at the door, she stopped and spun on the heel of her black leather stilettos, her eyes wide and wild as she faced Howard.
The thick black eyeliner made what would have been dull blue eyes pop like sapphires, and her brilliant blonde hair seemed to glow gold in the pale moonlight of the dark hallway, lit only by the twinkle of California stars. Her mouth twisted into a smile – ruby red lips revealing pearly white teeth which seemed to shine with hunger. Her hand came to the door handle, her voice soft and musical.
Thursday Kerrigan: The Six God will see you now.
With a pull on the brass handle, she moved the heaven oaken door aside to reveal what could be described as an office – or could be described as a throne room. Massive windows displayed a breath-taking view of the Pacific Coast, the sort of panoramic sight one could only find from the ideal location of the villa upon the top of the Malibu hills. The walls were lined with bookshelves bearing an odd assortment of new and old tomes (titles which caught his eye included Pnakotic Manuscripts, Chariots of the Gods?, How to Win Friends and Influence People, and Liber AL vel Legis) and various knick-knacks and statuettes of either beautiful or hideous figures, several painted portraits of his host ranging from the gentleman as a the Greek God Dionysus to an expressionist depiction of the man atop a pyramid cloaked in light, and a few curiously curtained sections. A large mahogany desk sat before the windows, two leather upholstered chairs before it and one behind it.
The room was as dark as the hallway, save a series of candles lit throughout, and his host stood at the window with his back to Howard. Flanking the enigmatic owner of the villa stood two men in masks, one an African American man with a metal mask in the style of a Spartan war helmet and the other a Caucasian man with a white drama mask, half smiling and half frowning. As Howard took a seat before the desk, the man turned and smiled at Howard through the darkness. With one hand, he brushed his long blonde bangs from his face, and with the other hand he pulled his chair out and sat down. He folded the two gloved hands together and rested them on the table before him, the look in his brilliant blue eyes like a hungry shark. His voice was soft and calm, though in it Howard could sense the faintest edge of predatory cunning.
Jared Holmes: Mister Howard Black. And to what do I owe this pleasure?
In an instant, Howard wondered if he’d made the right choice coming to the compound – he’d known since the moment he accepted Jim Thuggin’s offer that he’d be entering a lion’s den, but now deep in the belly of the beast, the feelings of revulsion and horror which creeped through his veins and up his nerves overwhelmed him. As a man of faith, it was rare for Howard to feel any inch of Earth could be so devoid of God, but as he stared at the man across the desk, Howard could only wonder in awe if he were conversing with the Devil himself. When he worked up the confidence to speak, Howard’s voice came low and firm.
Howard Black: Blue Velvet.
Jared’s eyes and grin widened simultaneously as he sharply sucked air in through his teeth. He turned in his chair, kicking his legs up onto one arm as he leaned back against the other, one hand raising and his fingers snapping.
Jared Holmes: Gimme a sec, bros.
The two men flanking Jared nodded and strode for the door, the African-American bodyguard pausing for a moment to stare at Howard before exiting the room and pulling the door closed behind him. As soon as they left, Jared pushed himself from the chair and wheeled to the window, his hands going to the pocket of his jeans. It was now, his eyes having adjusted to the dim lighting of the room, that Howard could finally pick out the oddity of Jared Holmes – the brazen casualness of his attire could hardly contrast more with the opulence of the room as he wore a plain black (but no doubt designer) t-shirt, a platinum necklace with a diamond encrusted Eye of Horus medallion, and a pair of white trousers (no doubt designer as well) with Red Octobers. He produced a pack of Djarum Blacks and placed one in his mouth, his other hand bringing a match to the tip of the clove cigarette.
Jared Holmes: Blue Velvet. Interesting. And why d’you wanna fuck around with Blue Velvet? Cigarette?
Howard’s eyes went down in thought as his host offered him the pack. He raised a hand.
Howard Black: No thanks.
Jared shrugged and returned them to his pants, the room filling with the perfumed smoke.
Howard Black: I was told this stuff had a different name: Blue Crystal Fire. A friend of mine once ingested it, and I-
Jared Holmes: Dune?
Howard paused, his brow furrowing in frustration of the interruption.
Howard Black: Yeah, Dune. I need to understand him. I’m hoping this will help.
Jared smiled, his grin like a hyena circling a wounded animal, concealed to Howard. Not that he’d have the slightest idea, but it had occurred to Jared just why Jim Thuggin may have arranged this meeting and transaction – the circling of a particular puppet master around a particular puppet had been quite the thorn in their side when both he and Thuggin had eyes on this puppet. The potential solution to the problem of the puppet master? Jared could only wonder excitedly if it lay across the desk from him in the form of one silly Nebraskan and his idiot buddy (whom they had eyes on as well). Concealing his excitement, Jared turned back to Howard and placed his hands on the desk, leaning forward.
Jared Holmes: Understand him? Homie, by the time you’re down from this shit, you’ll understand a lot more than Dune. A lot more.
He pushed off the desk, reaching down to open one of the desk drawers. Placing a hand inside, he removed a small plastic bag stamped with the pastel design of a shutter shade-wearing Sabbatic Goat. He placed the bag before him on the desk as he kicked his feet up next to it.
Jared Holmes: All yours. Call it a sample.
Howard stared at the young man before him, his eyes searching in vain for a crack in the carefully maintained façade. His hand extended cautiously, his fingers trembling with a mixture of nervous energy and fear as they wrapped around the small plastic bag containing the azure vegetation. Jared made no effort to prevent him, instead leaning back further in his chair and folding his hands.
Jared Holmes: Send Joey Flash my regards.
Howard stared for a moment before rising from the seat. He hated turning his back on his host – he could not help but imagine the young man turning into a serpent in the very instant and striking him down – but he quickly exited the room. Upon closing the great wooden oak door behind him, the young woman who’d escorted him through the villa greeted him with a smile.
Thursday Kerrigan: And did you get what you came for?
Howard Black: Y-yeah.
She smiled brightly.
Thursday Kerrigan: He can give you the world and the stars in a glass ball if you need. He’s here for your prayers whenever you want.
Howard’s eyes dropped down. He felt impure as he allowed the woman to escort him through the labyrinth of corridors to the front door – as though he’d betrayed his God, his family, and everything he stood for. When the front door of the villa closed behind him, he could not prevent himself from sprinting the rest of the way to his car.
Jim Thuggin: I can help you and your tag partner Occulo defeat Dune.
This man’s identity was no secret to Howard Black – anyone paying attention in WCF would recognize the uncanny figure of Jim Thuggin instantly. The strange and enigmatic #BeachKrew manager had ambushed him – in a sense; as Howard was putting the key into the lock of his rental car, the odd man had simply been behind him. When it came to #BeachKrew, Howard knew little good could be involved, especially anything involving Jim Thuggin. But the offer was curious.
Howard Black: What do you mean?
Jim Thuggin smiled, revealing a row of discolored teeth.
Jim Thuggin: You seem confused, Earth Man. Are you or are you not engaged in a bitter physical confrontation alongside your tag team partner, Occulo, against your former stable partner, Dune, which shall result in a regulation wrestling match at WSeaF Pay-Per-View, Fifteen?
His voice was monotonous and mechanical; he spoke like someone attempting to parrot actual human speech. His eyes shined in the darkness, and it was hard for Howard to not shudder. Thuggin had all of the charm and presence of an overgrown praying mantis.
Howard Black: Yes?
Thuggin smiled even wider.
Jim Thuggin: Excellent. My observations have proven correct. Now, have you considered that despite this match being inherently uneven in terms of numerical man power, you may still be disadvantaged against a physical specimen such as Dune?
Howard frowned.
Howard Black: I don’t think that’s any of your goddamn business.
Jim Thuggin: You sound uncertain of your abilities. I come in peace. I bear good tidings and offerings.
Howard Black: Look, I’m not buying HGH off ya.
Jim Thuggin: Not performance enhancing drugs. Information.
Howard scoffed and turned, twisting the key to disengaged the lock before reaching down for the door handle.
Jim Thuggin: You still do not comprehend what drove Dune to take the life of young Christian Malignaggi … or what drives him to oppose you now.
Howard froze as his blood ran cold. The words of Thuggin gripped him by the chin and turned him around, his heart rate quickening ever so slightly. It was difficult to distinguish his emotion: anger, anxiousness, insult, intrigue?
Howard Black: And you think you do?
Jim Thuggin: Correct. My knowledge of the forces and motivations at work is intimate and thorough.
Howard frowned, his nerves finally boiling into frustration.
Howard Black: So tell me!
Thuggin’s grin held. It occurred to Howard he’d yet to see the man blink.
Jim Thuggin: Were I to explain, you would not listen. It is difficult for Earth men to grasp concepts which defy the general notions of their universe. But tell me, you know Earth Child Dune well, yes? Do you remember what he utilized to defeat Earth Man Alex?
Howard became quite. It struck him immediately, like a bolt of lightning to the brain. His voice was soft.
Howard Black: Blue Crystal Fire.
Thuggin leered.
Jim Thuggin: It goes by many names. Some call it Blue Crystal Fire. Others call it Blue Velvet. What matters is what it can show. What it can reveal. You will not believe my words, Earth Man Howard, but you will believe the visions of Blue Velvet.
Howard’s eyes went down, his gaze shifting back and forth along the street. His fingers trembled just slightly on the door knob.
Howard Black: Why are you telling me this?
Jim Thuggin: We have a vested interest in the Earth Child Dune. Consider it an investment in his well-being.
Howard Black: So… how do I get this stuff?
A single spindly hand reaching into his jacket pocket, withdrawing a single business card and offering it to Howard.
Jim Thuggin: Lift up the receiver. He’ll make you a believer.
Howard took the card from the figure; a black card with a golden Eye of Horus on one side and a phone number on the other.
Howard Black: Thanks.
But when he looked up, Jim Thuggin was gone.
Oh look, a Howard Black shoot written like a Jared Holmes shoot. The guy who writes these must be really nostalgic for writing #BeachKrew, eh Dustin? Not that I blame him; watching the sort of shit that’s been going on in the #BeachKrew since Jared Holmes went down has been a roller coaster. Don’t get me wrong, no one is going to sneeze at the sort of unprecedented domination #BeachKrew has seen (yes, the “B” and the “K” are capitalized), especially your Television Title reign. But at the same time? #BeachKrew has never been so laughably scatter-brained. So disorganized. There’s all this dominance but no one seems to feel the dominance. So in that sense, I’m sure Jared owes you an apology for bringing you in right at the tail end of the last time #BeachKrew felt like a dominant force. Not a series of jobber for Joey Flash.
Hey, there’s some real talent for you. Again, no one’s denying that. My partner is a man you’re familiar with – a man you’ve beaten clean on the biggest stage of all. And with all the hype around Occulo and Dune, I’m sure you’re wondering just who this Howard Black guy is. I’m the “third Ranger” of the Sentinels or something, right? Which would be a riot coming from the new kid on the #BeachKrew block, but you can never underestimate the arrogance of folks. So here, Dustin, let me introduce myself.
You know that belt you’re fighting to get back? Yeah, I held the Television Title, too. And I may not have held it long, but held that motherfucker into the Ultimate Showdown. You see, there are two kinds of defenses when you’re a champ: when it matters and when it doesn’t. You lose a belt at a pay-per-view? Surprisingly doesn’t matter. Happens all the time. You push yourself up, dust yourself off, and you climb the ranks. A champion loses no prestige dropped the belt at a big pay per view. But when you lose on a random Slam? Lose to someone who shouldn’t even be in the equation? C’mon, Dustin, what’s wrong with you? This is the exact sort of hubris and laziness everyone suspects of #BeachKrew: it’s a group that will sack up and win the big match but is content to shit away everything between them. Of course, you weren’t smart enough to realize that wasn’t in the cards with your Television Championship.
See, you can only hide behind tag matches to keep your belt for so long. Let’s look at Thomas Bates, the guy I beat to take the Television Title: held it for two months, one of which was entirely consumed by the Trios Tournament. Look, there’s no shitting on the DRG winning that – the Sentinels sure as shit did not. But you’ve been in a few tag matches that your team lost – you know how easy it was to survive your way through. You could save your breath for a big match, and #BeachKrew had your back throughout.
That was until you fucked up against Stuart Slane.
You had your eye on Andre Holmes, admit it. You thought this was another break week; some no-name who had one match and got a shot. You didn’t bother doing much research on who he is. You didn’t bother seeing what he’d won. I don’t even think you checked to see if he was above your league. Instead, you phoned it in. You paraded around spitting on Andre Holmes and someone else kicked your legs out under you. So now that you’re not even trying to duck a pin, why do I think you’ll do anything in this match?
I don’t. At all.
I don’t think you’ll perform. I don’t think you’ll bring it. I don’t think you like your partner, I don’t think you want to face Occulo again, and I don’t think you want to risk losing to me after Joey Flash has bent you over a table. That’s a nail in your coffin, Beaver – finding out that beating one Sentinel was a fluke. Keep it up, and we’ll make you the bigger loser in #BeachKrew this side of Oblivion.
Some advice for you Dustin: don’t bank on getting the belt back at Fifteen. You’ve been exposed, and we’ve all seen that you aren’t the fighting champion a TV Champ is supposed to be. It’s been a rough month for you, and when you can’t pull a win outside of Celeste, you should know something isn’t going well. But maybe that’s the most damning part, isn’t it? Maybe it’s that you lost matches but still clung to that belt. Maybe it was that in such matches we never saw you fight like that belt was on truly on the line. Maybe it’s the laughable effort you put up against Slane when he took all you had going for you. But I’m not letting you off the hook. You’re as good as done. It’s only a shame you’re fucking up your team mate’s chance of success.
Yeah, that’s right: your team mate isn’t winning the belt thanks to you. Good job, Dusty. See, he could’ve beaten you. He was ready for you. It was his story. His time. You had one job: hold that belt. And you shit the bed. You couldn’t even succeed for your own sake. Now if Andre Holmes walks out of Fifteen empty handed? Everyone’s just going to be talking about how much it sucks that he legitimately earned a shot at the title, only for the champion to fuck the whole thing up by blowing it against someone who was supposed to be a warm-up. And somehow, I doubt you’ll be doing much to help Andre out in this match – typical of you #BeachKrew losers.
Let me show you how a real former Television Champion looks in the ring. And after that? You can go love yourself.
Back in the comforts of his hotel room, Howard turned the business card over in his hand, contemplating the phone number on the back. He wasn’t stupid – he knew exactly who this belonged to and what sort of business he’d be involving himself with should he chose to follow through. An old saying went through his head: “He who fights monsters should see to it that he does not become a monster” (Nietzsche?). He could only laugh dryly at the irony of the situation – after committing his time to battling the injustice in the WCF, here he found himself on the crux of making a deal with the devil to clean up a mess he couldn’t deny a feeling of responsibility for.
It was ultimately this feeling of responsibility which drove him back – the sort of culpability he seemed to be perpetually reminded of. In the emotional turmoil of his return and the confrontations with Dune, Howard’s mind had finally accepted that there had to be something more he could do – somehow he could’ve intervened. He was late, and he knew this. Now, staring down the metaphorical barrel of a loaded gun, he worried he was ready to blink. Was this the Sentinels’ way? Was this what we’d do? Was it a refusal to make these moral compromises which defined the three of us, or was it our willingness to make these moral compromises to achieve our greater aims which defined us? Ultimately, the purpose of the Sentinels was unbiased equilibrium: a perfect balance between good and evil which maximized freedom and minimized exploitation. The beauty of the Sentinels was the hard line of their objectives and the law that governed them.
So where did this fall?
He pushed himself up from his sitting position on the bed and walked towards the window to look out over Raleigh. The room was dark and silent – David had already moved on to meet him in Richmond, but as he turned over his dilemma, Howard had given David the convenient excuse of souvenir shopping for Sarah and Joey. He sucked his lower lip under his teeth before glancing back at the hotel bed, gazing at the open laptop and screen glow which acted as the only light in the room. Expedia.com looked back at him, his cursor blinking over the “purchase” button for a flight to Los Angeles.
His eyes went back to the window as he looked up at the clear Southern sky, considering the offer of the enigmatic J. Thuggin and his talk of visions of Blue Velvet. His luck had been plentiful in WCF since his return: a championship belt, a win over a legend, and an undefeated streak. No matter how long had passed, he and Occulo were still the most fearsome tag team in the WCF at any given moment. His mind briefly lingered to the match this week, but he dismissed any doubts or hesitations almost immediately as they had come. No, it would be no distraction from his greater goals of defeating Dune at Fifteen: Beaver and Holmes were warm-ups, nothing more. Last week, Howard had found himself and Occulo paired against the two top competitors in the Final Destination match, and two B-team midcarders engaged in Sisyphean struggle for the TV Title simply could not register on his radar.
His hand went to the doorknob, and soon he was out on the hotel balcony, enjoying the cold night breezes rushing through his hair and across his skin. Staring up at the great black sky, Howard could only wonder if there was more to the puzzle than he knew. Maybe Thuggin truly did know more. Maybe he could help.
As his eyes fixed on the gentle red glow of Antares just above the horizon – the “Scorpion Heart” – a shudder went down his spine. The star suddenly felt like much more than any star; it felt sinister and malicious. He was unsure what brought about this sudden wave of anxiety, for the star had changed in no noticeable way (and of course such idea would be ridiculous), but as he kept his eye on the glow of Antares, new waves of fear began to spill through his nerves. His eyes fell from the star, now tracing the edges of the street just beyond his hotel, and standing under the glow of a street light was a familiar visage.
The Fox-Headed Man smiled, his head cocked curiously to the side as though expecting a gesture of acknowledgment… or perhaps an invitation inside. Howard turned quickly, his steps swift as he made his way for the hotel room door and pulled himself into the warmth of the room. The computer glowed happily back at him, yet to go into sleep mode; the card became heavy in his pocket.
Howard crossed the room to the bedside table, reaching down for his phone. The decision had come upon him swiftly, and any sense of apprehension had left his mind. Something sinister hung in the sky and out in the desert – something with the heart of a scorpion and the grin of a fox. If he were to stop Dune, he needed to know what it was. His finger slammed down on the keys, and he receiver came to his ear. It was time to set an appointment.
It’s going to be such a pleasure to step into the ring with you, Andre Holmes. Truth be told, you’re one of the most exciting new bucks in the WCF. I’ll even be a little more honest with you about something: I see a lot of me in you. Hell, all you need is some sort of cultural controversy, and we’d really be on the same page (don’t worry, Grayson can explain that one to you). But I empathize with a lot of the new guys here in WCF – I remember when I was like you, too.
So let me be the first to say “Congratulations” on earning a shot at the Television Title. That’s a hell of a belt, my man – the first belt I held and the only one that mattered. Some folks may argue that the United States Title is the next step up, but by the time I got my hands on the Television Title, it had gone through quite the pedigree of champions: Zombie McMorris, Joey Flash, Grime, Thomas Bates. I wish I could say that the belt could have a similar pedigree as of late – it’s really the greatest belt in the whole company when the truly next great wave are fighting for it. Andre Jenson, Dustin Beaver, Stuart Slane? I mean, sure, it’s got some success, but it doesn’t have that ring.
Slane? Another old guy Seth blew the dust off and had sneak into your spot. Trust me, I’m as pissed off as you are. That was your shot – you earned it. Funny, here we go back to comparisons of ourselves. See, when I earned by Television Title Contendership, I was forced to wait two months before cashing it in. Part of the reason? Trios Tournament. But when Bates had a week off and had to defend the belt? They grabbed someone else. Put someone else in my spot. Some guys will bend over and cry about it, like an Alex Richards. Me? I walked down to the ring, backed Bates into a corner, and demanded my shot. I then spent the next month dominating until I was practically thrown a tag title shot, too. That’s how you stand out in this fed.
It’s funny because before my title shot, Bobby Cairo told me that belt would make a man out of me. I now see that it wasn’t holding the belt which made me who I am – it was the pursuit of that belt. Bobby was right indeed – the Television Title belt will make a man out of you. But is it making a man out of you, Andre? Are you adjusting your sights? Sizing up the change of Slane and preparing to climb that mountain? Because trust me, this ain’t the same fight that you versus Beaver would’ve been – this is going to be a whole lot rougher. So I’m going to do you a favor, Andre: I’m going to put you to the test. As a former Television Champion to a hopeful, I’m going to see what you’ve got. Because if you can’t take me, you’re not taking Slane.
And buddy? You got a stacked deck this week. You’re working with a man you despise against an actual team. Is that bothering you at all, Andre? Maybe you’re cursing under your breath, wondering how this could be fair. Maybe you’ve stormed into Seth’s office and demanded a new partner or different match. All of these would be reasonable reactions. But for your sake? I hope you’re thinking about this and you’re preparing. Because this is just another challenge for you.
Another funny parallel here: the week before I squared off with Thomas Bates for that Television Title, I was tagged with Joey Flash against two members of the Dark Riders Gang. Sure, we have the Trios Titles now, but Joey and I don’t exactly have a sparkling history. You think you and Beaver hate each other? That’s nothing compared to how Joe and I felt about one another. But we sacked up and did our job. And we won that match. Cause, see, a champion isn’t going to make excuses. If you stack the deck against a real fighting champion, he’s going to figure out how to rise to the occasion. And I want to see you rise to that occasion.
I have nothing to prove to anyone in this company. I’ve risen to the occasion many times, and I’ve overcome a helluva lot of odds until they were too much to handle. I walked into a death sentence match that nearly cost me my career, and I’m about to possibly do it again at Fifteen. So what about you, Andre? I hear so many comparisons tossed around: odd bugger new guy who gets picked up by two accomplished wrestlers – one of whom is in the main title scene – as their third man in a group aimed at protecting others from the tyrannies of the big bad. Prove it to me, Andre. Show me that you’re the next Howard Black and that this isn’t just hearsay. In fact, do better: prove you’re more than the next Howard Black – you’re Andre motherfuckin’ Holmes. I’m looking forward to this.
But I’m not taking it easy on you.
As Howard walked through the dark hallways of the compound, he could hardly feel at ease. The marble busts and statues lining the wall leered down at him, and the combination of frozen figures and ghastly paintings of peculiar and eldritch subjects only heightened his discomfort. Still, his resolve held, and he continued to follow the waifish young woman who’d met him at the door. Her hips swayed hypnotically in a pair of black short shorts, and with each step the bracelets on her wrist jangled in cacophonic harmony. When they arrived at the door, she stopped and spun on the heel of her black leather stilettos, her eyes wide and wild as she faced Howard.
The thick black eyeliner made what would have been dull blue eyes pop like sapphires, and her brilliant blonde hair seemed to glow gold in the pale moonlight of the dark hallway, lit only by the twinkle of California stars. Her mouth twisted into a smile – ruby red lips revealing pearly white teeth which seemed to shine with hunger. Her hand came to the door handle, her voice soft and musical.
Thursday Kerrigan: The Six God will see you now.
With a pull on the brass handle, she moved the heaven oaken door aside to reveal what could be described as an office – or could be described as a throne room. Massive windows displayed a breath-taking view of the Pacific Coast, the sort of panoramic sight one could only find from the ideal location of the villa upon the top of the Malibu hills. The walls were lined with bookshelves bearing an odd assortment of new and old tomes (titles which caught his eye included Pnakotic Manuscripts, Chariots of the Gods?, How to Win Friends and Influence People, and Liber AL vel Legis) and various knick-knacks and statuettes of either beautiful or hideous figures, several painted portraits of his host ranging from the gentleman as a the Greek God Dionysus to an expressionist depiction of the man atop a pyramid cloaked in light, and a few curiously curtained sections. A large mahogany desk sat before the windows, two leather upholstered chairs before it and one behind it.
The room was as dark as the hallway, save a series of candles lit throughout, and his host stood at the window with his back to Howard. Flanking the enigmatic owner of the villa stood two men in masks, one an African American man with a metal mask in the style of a Spartan war helmet and the other a Caucasian man with a white drama mask, half smiling and half frowning. As Howard took a seat before the desk, the man turned and smiled at Howard through the darkness. With one hand, he brushed his long blonde bangs from his face, and with the other hand he pulled his chair out and sat down. He folded the two gloved hands together and rested them on the table before him, the look in his brilliant blue eyes like a hungry shark. His voice was soft and calm, though in it Howard could sense the faintest edge of predatory cunning.
Jared Holmes: Mister Howard Black. And to what do I owe this pleasure?
In an instant, Howard wondered if he’d made the right choice coming to the compound – he’d known since the moment he accepted Jim Thuggin’s offer that he’d be entering a lion’s den, but now deep in the belly of the beast, the feelings of revulsion and horror which creeped through his veins and up his nerves overwhelmed him. As a man of faith, it was rare for Howard to feel any inch of Earth could be so devoid of God, but as he stared at the man across the desk, Howard could only wonder in awe if he were conversing with the Devil himself. When he worked up the confidence to speak, Howard’s voice came low and firm.
Howard Black: Blue Velvet.
Jared’s eyes and grin widened simultaneously as he sharply sucked air in through his teeth. He turned in his chair, kicking his legs up onto one arm as he leaned back against the other, one hand raising and his fingers snapping.
Jared Holmes: Gimme a sec, bros.
The two men flanking Jared nodded and strode for the door, the African-American bodyguard pausing for a moment to stare at Howard before exiting the room and pulling the door closed behind him. As soon as they left, Jared pushed himself from the chair and wheeled to the window, his hands going to the pocket of his jeans. It was now, his eyes having adjusted to the dim lighting of the room, that Howard could finally pick out the oddity of Jared Holmes – the brazen casualness of his attire could hardly contrast more with the opulence of the room as he wore a plain black (but no doubt designer) t-shirt, a platinum necklace with a diamond encrusted Eye of Horus medallion, and a pair of white trousers (no doubt designer as well) with Red Octobers. He produced a pack of Djarum Blacks and placed one in his mouth, his other hand bringing a match to the tip of the clove cigarette.
Jared Holmes: Blue Velvet. Interesting. And why d’you wanna fuck around with Blue Velvet? Cigarette?
Howard’s eyes went down in thought as his host offered him the pack. He raised a hand.
Howard Black: No thanks.
Jared shrugged and returned them to his pants, the room filling with the perfumed smoke.
Howard Black: I was told this stuff had a different name: Blue Crystal Fire. A friend of mine once ingested it, and I-
Jared Holmes: Dune?
Howard paused, his brow furrowing in frustration of the interruption.
Howard Black: Yeah, Dune. I need to understand him. I’m hoping this will help.
Jared smiled, his grin like a hyena circling a wounded animal, concealed to Howard. Not that he’d have the slightest idea, but it had occurred to Jared just why Jim Thuggin may have arranged this meeting and transaction – the circling of a particular puppet master around a particular puppet had been quite the thorn in their side when both he and Thuggin had eyes on this puppet. The potential solution to the problem of the puppet master? Jared could only wonder excitedly if it lay across the desk from him in the form of one silly Nebraskan and his idiot buddy (whom they had eyes on as well). Concealing his excitement, Jared turned back to Howard and placed his hands on the desk, leaning forward.
Jared Holmes: Understand him? Homie, by the time you’re down from this shit, you’ll understand a lot more than Dune. A lot more.
He pushed off the desk, reaching down to open one of the desk drawers. Placing a hand inside, he removed a small plastic bag stamped with the pastel design of a shutter shade-wearing Sabbatic Goat. He placed the bag before him on the desk as he kicked his feet up next to it.
Jared Holmes: All yours. Call it a sample.
Howard stared at the young man before him, his eyes searching in vain for a crack in the carefully maintained façade. His hand extended cautiously, his fingers trembling with a mixture of nervous energy and fear as they wrapped around the small plastic bag containing the azure vegetation. Jared made no effort to prevent him, instead leaning back further in his chair and folding his hands.
Jared Holmes: Send Joey Flash my regards.
Howard stared for a moment before rising from the seat. He hated turning his back on his host – he could not help but imagine the young man turning into a serpent in the very instant and striking him down – but he quickly exited the room. Upon closing the great wooden oak door behind him, the young woman who’d escorted him through the villa greeted him with a smile.
Thursday Kerrigan: And did you get what you came for?
Howard Black: Y-yeah.
She smiled brightly.
Thursday Kerrigan: He can give you the world and the stars in a glass ball if you need. He’s here for your prayers whenever you want.
Howard’s eyes dropped down. He felt impure as he allowed the woman to escort him through the labyrinth of corridors to the front door – as though he’d betrayed his God, his family, and everything he stood for. When the front door of the villa closed behind him, he could not prevent himself from sprinting the rest of the way to his car.
