Post by God King Dune on Mar 5, 2016 16:16:42 GMT -5
We open on a wide-shot of a city near the foot of a sprawling mountain range. The sun is setting, and its dying light bathes the snow-capped peaks in a deep orange hue, as if they, too, were on fire. The city lights glimmer below, and we begin to drop down and zoom in on a road that spans toward them. Headlights on the left trickle down and out of the frame, and taillights on the right enter it from the bottom en route to the mountain-town. All seems normal, traffic-wise...that is, until a set of taillights shoots into the frame, swerving in and out of the light traffic that heads toward the city.
We cut to a shot of a road sign that reads: Welcome to Colorado Springs, CO - pop. 439, 886. Suddenly, the doppler shift of cars driving past the sign at 55 mph is overtaken by that of one doing 90. We see it’s taillights fly past us, and after a moment, we cut to within the car.
Dune: Slow the fuck down, Freeman!
Freeman: Bah...what are they gonna do, pull me over?
Dune: If you get me killed before I can get my hands on Beach Crew this week...
Freeman: You’re safe with me, kid. I know what I’m doing. It’s almost seven, and if those doors lock for the night -
Dune: You’ll have to wait ‘til morning?
Freeman: Fuck that. I didn’t drive all the way out here to get boozed up tonight. And besides...my arthritis is starting to get to me.
Dune: Want me to take over?
Freeman: What, and pull over? No, no...we’re making good time, Dune, and right now, time is of the essence. I need my medicine, and I need it tonight.
Dune: Your medicine...fucking Christ.
Dune shakes his head and chuckles, turning to look out the window at the distant mountains. The sun is nearly set by now, and the illusion of fire on the peaks fades with its light.
Freeman: The medicinal properties of the ganja are well-documented. In fact, the indigenous peoples of this area -
Dune: Spare me the lecture, Freeman.
Freeman: You ought to try some. Maybe a few puffs would take your mind off losing to Kyle Kemp in the opening round of the Trilogy Cup last week.
Dune shoots him a glare, and Freeman belly-laughs to see it.
Freeman: RABID and Kemp, I should say. Still, that makes you 0-2 in handicap matches this year...even if Timebomb was supposed to be a one-on-one.
Dune looks forward, though his glare only hardens as he stares through the glass.
Dune: Fucking Johnny Rabid…
As he utters the name of his newest and most bitter rival, the screen fades out and segues into another.
The words “Dream in Green” fill the screen, and we zoom out from the small building they mark. The street comes into view, and as it does, a black pickup enters the frame and comes to a stop in front of the building. Freeman hops out of the driver’s seat and sprints for the front door of the marijuana dispensary while Dune slides over and takes a seat at the wheel. He hollers at the old, bearded man through his mask.
Dune: You remember where the hotel is, right?
Freeman: You’re not waiting?
Dune: No...I’m going out that way.
He nods toward the distant mountains, their dark forms visible against the star-lit night sky.
Freeman: What, you’re going for a night hike?
Dune: Sure. I need to clear my head.
Freeman: Ah...likewise.
Freeman flashes Dune a grin before nodding and disappearing into the dispensary. Dune shakes his head before stepping on the gas, and as the pickup exits the frame, the shot fades and segues into yet another.
A quiet symphony greets our ears, one comprised of insects calling out in the night. The crescent moon’s reflected light illuminates the forest around us, and we pan over as the sound of heavy footsteps approaches. Finally, Dune’s hulking figure comes into view, and the camera follows him as he makes his way up the forested mountainside. His icy blue eyes are clearly visible, and he stares straight ahead at the camera as he speaks.
Dune: Beach Crew…
Three weeks; three sets of Beach Crew opponents. Seth really hates you fucks, doesn’t he? My fellow Trios Champions and I ran through Holmes, Aquarius, and Gable two weeks ago, and last week I was seconds away from pinning Kyle Kemp before that piece of shit Johnny Rabid decided to make his presence felt. Seth must have taken notice, because this week he’s seen fit to pit the lowly Rabid alongside Wade Moor and Dustin Beaver against perhaps the greatest trio in the history of this company. And what kind of chance does Beach Crew stand against us on Sunday? Absolutely fucking none.
They say a team is only as strong as it’s weakest link. Dustin Beaver - you are the weakest link. But this isn’t goodbye. No...consider this my welcome. After all, this is my first acknowledgement that you even exist here in the WCF. Don’t get me wrong - I’ve been keeping an eye on you. I watched you win the TV Title from Andre Jenson; I watched you defend it against my partner, Occulo, whose supreme vengeance you’ll know come Sunday night; and I watched you fall to Stuart Slane as you should have at One when you bested the better man. Yes, I’ve been watching you, Dustin...and what I’ve seen hasn’t given me a single reason to perceive you as a credible threat.
You can beat up on lower tier wrestlers all you like, but in case you haven’t noticed, you’re in the main event at Slam this Sunday. This won’t be the sort of child’s play you’re used to. You’re up against Joey motherfucking Flash, the two-time WCF World Champion; you’re up against Occulo, the man who’s been seething since One, just waiting for his next opportunity to beat the living fuck out of you, as he would 99 times out of 100; and you’re up against me...and do I really need to emphasize how fucked that makes you? Ask the rest of the roster and they’ll tell you straight away. But we both know it’s not something that needs to be explained to you. You’ve seen me just like I’ve seen you, and there’s nothing in my game that should allow you any hope of coming away with the victory Sunday night.
You’re pathetic, Dustin, and you’ll forever remain in the shadow I cast. That being the case, I’ve been troubled by one question since I saw your name across from mine on the card: how in the fuck do I hype up a match against Dustin Beaver? You might as well be replaced by Tyler Walker or Biohazard. At least they’ve got a bit of comedic value to them. And I know you’re supposed to be the funny one or some shit, but seeing you perform in the ring is only comedic if you’re into watching someone humiliate themselves time and again.
But the question of how to get the WCF Faithful to stick around for the mauling you and your partners are set to receive this Sunday night didn’t linger long. It’s not as if the people need healthy competition to keep them engaged. When the Coliseum was thriving, they used to feed clowns like you to lions and tigers and bears, and the people ate that shit up. Why? One word, Dustin: bloodlust. And though centuries have passed - though the Coliseum walls have long since begun to crumble and deteriorate - man’s innate bloodlust never will. Come Sunday night, it’ll be perfectly intact...and I’m going to provide them with precisely what it is they lust for:
Beaver blood.
Beach Crew blood.
And if I’m being honest...I lust to see it spill more than anyone else.
By Beaver blood I’m not talking about pussy blood, Dustin, despite your surname being the oft-used nickname of that slick, tender slit between a woman’s legs. In truth, Dustin Pussy would be a more fitting nickname for a boy like you. And this Sunday I’m going to do more than munch on you. I’m going to feast on that pussy; I’m going to go to town on the trembling little Beaver you’re sure to be when we stand opposite each other in the ring. I’m going to tear you the fuck up, Dustin, and -
Just then, a strange cry cuts him off. He stops and turns his ear toward the sound as it continues. When he’s pinpointed it, he makes off in its direction. The desperate screams grow louder...louder...until Dune finally stumbles upon the source.
At his feet, a beaver thrashes about in a vain attempt to free himself of the barbed wire that’s ensnared it. Blood reflects in the moonlight, and Dune reaches down and assists the bucktoothed mammal. Soon the beaver is free...but it’s mortally wounded, and it doesn’t even bother scurrying off in the presence of Dune. Instead, it lies there dying, staring up at the giant, half-masked creature before it with eyes that plead for mercy.
Dune sees this. It’s clear as day in the moonlit night...and there’s only thing left to do. He nods in understanding, raises his boot, and stomps with all his might. The crunch echoes through the trees, but the beaver’s death is quick and painless, and Dune’s eyes flick up at the camera as he continues up the mountain.
Dune: It was the humane thing to do. Why let a dying animal suffer, be it beaver or man? But there won’t be anything humane about the way I treat you this Sunday, Dustin. I’m not going to kill you, but for the days, weeks, and perhaps even years that follow, you’ll wish you were dead. I’ll bring you to within a breath of the Reaper’s black gate before I finally allow the ref to slide down and count to three. Because make no mistake - you’re eating the pin this week. It’s like I said: you’re the weakest link, and you’ll be the first to break.
You should’ve stayed in the entertainment business, Dustin. You should’ve kept your gig as a one-man cover band that your likeness to a certain celebrity provided you. You may think you’ve made a lateral move in signing on with the WCF, but this the fighting business - one where men and women alike put on displays of brutality driven by our most primal instincts. Entertainment is secondary, though it’s sure to follow - especially this Sunday night. And if the beating me and mine lay on you isn’t enough to convince you to try and get your old gig back, you might as well lie there broken on the mat and pretend the cheers are those of thousands of gleeful teenage girls as opposed to those of the WCF Faithful who’ve longed to see you put in your place by men like me, Occulo, and Joey Flash.
“Bravo,” you’ll whisper in a delusional daze...
“Bravo.”
Silence follows, save Dune’s heavy footsteps as he strides through the mountain forest. After a few seconds, the trees give way, and he finds himself beneath a canopy of stars. Their brilliance blankets the night sky, and he stops for a moment to take in the sight before something from above catches his eye.
Dune: What the…
A bright set of lights moves amidst the starry backdrop of space. Dune watches as they spin slowly and scoot past him overhead. They begin to descend, and for a fleeting moment he can make out the profile of the vessel their attached to. Realizing this is no plane or helicopter, he remains intently focused on it until it finally comes to a stop on the outskirts of downtown Colorado Springs. The unidentifiable craft hovers there for a long moment before a bright beam of light shoots down. Dune ducks low, instinctively wary of the sight.
It isn’t the first time he’s seen strange objects in the night sky - the desert is teeming with similar curiosities. Still, it doesn’t make him feel any better. Nor does the small black object whose flailing is visible from afar as it rises up through the beam. He watches in hushed anticipation as the UFO’s most recent capture disappears into the craft. The beam of light disappears with it, and the vessel’s superior propulsion allows it to shoot out of sight a second later.
Comforted by its departure, Dune rises and sets off toward the mountain’s peak once more. His eyes find the screen as he continues.
Dune: Is that you, Jimophy? Or how about you, Johnny Rabid - are you up there manning the controls? I doubt it. Your interests and affairs lie down here on the surface. In fact, the only thing you should be concerning yourself with right now is the man you see before you. You fucked up, Johnny. You barked up the wrong tree, and now I’m set to avenge all the wrongs you’ve committed against me.
Are you proud of yourself, Rabid? Are you proud of your Beach Crew boys - the ones you claimed to be the leader of for so long. Whoops...talk about a plan backfiring. You couldn’t lead a class of kindergartners to recess, let alone Beach Crew to glory. What makes you think you’re a capable ring marshall, Johnny - your wrestling background? Your “family” - the one down here on earth, not up in the sky - who bred you to be a better fighter than you’ve become. You’ve disgraced them alongside yourself, and the cheap bullshit you’ve pulled against me twice now in the ring only lends more disgrace to your name.
It was one thing to attack me after I dismantled your “leader” Jared Holmes and his newly masked cockboys, Aquarius and Gable. After all, I had already proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was more deserving of victory than they were that night on Slam. Joey Flash, Occulo, and I retained our Trios Titles with relative ease...and then there you were to make your presence felt. And I felt it, Johnny. Granted it was after the bell that sounded the in-ring death of your fellow Beach Crew boys...but I felt it all the same. If you were a thinking man - a team player - you’d have shown up prior to the bell, because God knows that pathetic trio needed a fourth man to even stand a chance against The Sentinels +1. In fact, it would have taken more than four to put us down. The entirety of Beach Crew couldn’t stand against me, Flash, and Occulo. And what are there, a dozen or more of you now? I lost track long ago...though I, like the rest of the WCF Faithful, couldn’t care less about the happenings of your clansmen. I don’t pay attention to that shit.
That is, so long as those happenings don’t pertain to me.
In your case though, Johnny, they do..and as such, you’ve got my full attention.
That is what you wanted, I assume. Attacking me after me and mine severed the head of Beach Crew a few weeks back didn’t quite do the trick...and so, with Timebomb on the horizon, you set out to ensure you piqued my wrath.
Well great job, Johnny. You’ve done just that.
My partner, Joey Flash, is perhaps the most deserving World Champion in the history of this company. Yet before he won the Title at Timebomb, I was set to take one step closer to my first shot at the belt since Flash bested me for it at WAR XIV. It was going to be a relatively easy outing. Kyle Kemp didn’t stand a chance against me...and you knew it. Of course you did. That’s why you felt the need to interfere - because had I decimated Kemp and gone on to Explosion, then Aftermath, and ultimately Asesinato de Mayo to take back the World Title once more, there would have been no room for you in my plans until the summer. Your patience wore thin, and when you saw the ref go down at Timebomb, you struck.
Because of you, Kyle Kemp was allowed the upper hand...though when he pinned me for three, it wasn’t Kemp’s face I saw wreathed in flames in my mind’s eye. No, Johnny...it was yours. And soon enough, I’m going to transform that vision into reality.
It all starts this week when my crew bests yours between the ropes, and it all ends when I blow your shit sky high at Explosion.
You’ve committed an unforgivable offense, Johnny.
You cost me the World Title.
You cost me a warm seat on the throne that sits atop WCF Mountain - a place you’ll never know; a place I’ve known all too well.
Had you waited, as I advised on WCF Wednesday Night - had you been blessed with any semblance of patience - you could have had a Title shot at Blast in June. But you fucking blew it - just as you’ve blown your WCF career thus far - and you’ll pay in blood and shattered dreams.
They’ve gone black, Jonny - your dreams, I mean. Blacker than midnight on a moonless night. That’s pretty fucking black. Think it through over a damn fine cup of coffee...if you catch my meaning.
You’ve set fire to my village. You’ve burned my people - the WCF Faithful who so longed to see me at the summit again. It’s where I belong, Johnny. And this Sunday on Slam, I’m going to beat you the fuck down - down into the cellars of this company where a man like you belongs. You and yours aren’t fit to lead this company, as you so often claim to do. Your place isn’t on a beach under the sun. Your place isn’t on fantasy island where paradise lay. No...your place is in the gutters - in the sewers, dark and damp - where rat fucks like you grow and thrive, only to be stomped on when you emerge on the surface. And this Sunday, when you, Dustin Beaver, and Wade Moor surface to find yourselves in the ring against the doomsday trio, expect nothing less than the swiftest and most decisive loss of your career.
I’m not Andre Holmes, Johnny. I’m not Grayson Pierce. They’re noble fighters, and their skills obviously outshine yours and Kyle Kemp’s collectively. They pummeled you and revealed to the world just how unworthy you are of wearing championship gold of any form here in the WCF. And if two of Rebellution can so thoroughly pick apart two of Beach Crew, just imagine the sort of damage the Sentinels and the WCF World Champion will inflict this Sunday.
Dustin Beaver - the most replaceable member of Beach Crew - can’t save you.
Wade Moor - the forever-fallen WCF World Champion - can’t save you.
And least of all, you can’t save yourself - not from me.
Yours is a dire situation, Johnny - one beyond hope. The flames have been ignited, and you backpedal away from them with gasoline can in hand. You’ve an infinite supply of the flammable fuel, and it spills out before you to mark your trail... a trail the fires follow. They rush toward you now with unbridled fury. There’s no stopping them, because I AM the fire...and I won’t cease until I’ve consumed you and left nothing more than ash in my wake.
Incineration, Johnny. Feel the fucking heat.
Know it.
Sweat it.
Embrace it.
It’s all that’s left for you in this world.
By now, Dune nears the mountain’s summit. His breathing is hardly labored, being in peak physical condition, and with only about fifty yards to go, he takes off in a sprint.
We cut to the summit, and his heavy footsteps become audible as the moon and stars illuminate his hulking frame. Within seconds he’s reached the apex, and he stands with his arms on his hips as he does a 360 degree rotation, taking in the far-off city of Colorado Springs and the surrounding wilderness. He stops to face the the dark mountains that stretch out before him, and with the gleaming lights of the city behind him, his eyes find the screen once more.
Dune: Here we are, Wade...here we are last.
I’ve been waiting a long time for this - too long - and I’m going to savor every moment.
Wade Moor, the man who ruled the world - or so you’d have them think. Sure, you ruled, but only over a select few. You won the belt from a laughable champion who failed to deliver on any and all of the promises he made before he won the Title. Omega hasn’t been seen in the ring since, and not because of the beating you laid on him. He may have pinned you at WAR XIV - which is telling in it’s own right - but he was broken long before the two of you even stepped foot in the ring for the lumberjack match that would decide your fate.
And what’d you do after pinning the weakest World Champion in recent memory? At Hellimination, you allowed your rat-brother and apparent leader - again, telling in it’s own right - Jared Holmes to get the pin that won you “control of the WCF” until One. Outshone as World Champion in your first match with the Title...and thus the precedent was set. You went on to get bitched around by me for a few weeks before defending the Title against Preecha Kamon, who’s now dead or some shit. Congratulations on a shit World Title defense. I had a few of those myself. But I also beat worthy competitors - the most worthy this company’s ever seen - and I was able to do so for one simple reason: because you and I aren’t playing in the same league.
You may have been World Champion, Wade, but you never reigned over me, as I did you for the first two months of your career. I watched you come up in the WCF; watched you bloom into a freshly steaming pile of shit on some desolate, rocky beach. You feign as if your’e the very seed of the sabbatic goat himself, Baphomet, placed here on earth to display his supreme power over man. But thus far you’ve done nothing of the sort.
You play at demonology as if it’s a hobby; as if it’s something to help pass the time. In doing so, your unsurpassed naivety and foolishness is put on display for all to see. You’re not special, Wade. You’re no Leviathon of the deep, as you so often claim to be. Such a beast wouldn’t be so frail and powerless - two words that perfectly describe you when compared to me. Don’t let it get you down. The same could be said of nearly every man or woman on the roster. That’s just the reality of the WCF in 2016. My partner, Joey Flash, may be World Champion now, but I’m next in line on men to beat. Just ask Johnny Rabid. The little shit aims to make a name for himself in this company after months of failing to do so, and he’s looking no further than me to do so. Like you, Rabid may be doomed to fail, but at least he’s got a bit of awareness to him. Granted, he can’t foresee his certain demise this Sunday or at Explosion, but that’s where the “bit” comes in. You haven’t even that, and that’s why you’ll forever be a fallen World Champion.
I hope you enjoyed your World Title reign, Wade, because you’ll never have another. I’ll be Champion again someday, though I can still relate. I once had a brother, but he was butched in front of my eyes as my blood pooled on the sands. It was my fault he died, and I took vengeance against those who committed the deed. But you won’t do that, will you, Wade? Of course not - how could you? Jayson Price is gone now, and you’ll never be able to seek out and obtain retribution against him for besting you that night at Fifteen. Sure, you could wait until he falls into another coma and piss in his I.V., but that’s not proper retribution for what he did to you and you know it.
And so now you’ve set your sights on Joey Flash - the man who eviscerated the man who tore you apart in the ring. A bit of simple logic, then, would tell you that you have absolutely no shot at recapturing the Title from perhaps the fiercest competitor in WCF history. Anyone with eyes to see, though, would tell you the same. The difference between you is obvious. And I don’t mean your styles, because let’s be honest, you’re a poor man’s Joey Flash - just like the rest of your Beach Crew boys. You’ve all seen his flawless formula for success and have tried to imitate it like the leeches you are. It’s cringeworthy and really quite humorous...though not in the way you intend. But no...I’m talking about the disparity in your ability level.
You can’t hang with Flash, Wade - not this week or any other. Nor can you hang with me...but that goes without saying. And while you talk shit on the tronz and try to label Occulo as somehow being a far lesser talent than me and Flash, it’s painfully obvious that he has more innate skill than almost anyone on the roster and every single member of Beach Crew to a man.
It’s no secret that we’re the most stacked team of Trios Champions in WCF history. You can play it off and put up a false exterior of confidence and swagger, but behind that frayed curtain is a mind full of unease and doubt.
Don’t deny it, Wade. Better to accept it; to let it fuel you in your quest for greatness in this company. You’re still yet to achieve it. Greatness comes from toppling the greats who’ve laid the foundation before you. But then again, I hold both my opponents and teammates alike to a higher standard than most; to the standard I’ve set. Flash and Occulo sit on an even keel with myself. But you and yours, Wade...you’re somewhere further down the mountainside. And after this Sunday, when you square off against the three men who stand as one at the summit, there won’t be any question as to who the kings of the mountain are…
As if there ever was.
Without warning, Dune is lit up in white light. He shields his eyes and shoots his head skyward, gazing through a gap in his fingers at whatever the source might be. As we cut away, it’s revealed.
A black craft blots out a patch of stars as it hovers over Dune, its spotlight bathing him in its glow. It’s the same craft as before, and after a moment, we see Dune’s dark silhouette rising up through the beam of white light. He rises and rises, until finally he disappears into the underside of the unidentified craft.
We cut to within the ship, where Dune stands at the ready inside a small antechamber. There’s a doorway before him, small and circular, and after a moment’s hesitation, he slams his boot into the yellow button on the wall next to it. The door retracts into the wall, and Dune charges into the room, taking out the first creature he sees.
Freeman: Du -
In an instant, Dune takes Freeman down, pinning the old man’s arms with his knees before reaching back with a knotted fist. Just before he slams it down, his eyes go soft, and he shoots to his feet as Freeman rolls away.
Freeman: You horse’s ass!
Dune: What the fuck, Freeman - what are you...how’d you -
Freeman: The little fuckers nabbed me, sucked me right off the ground not more than half an hour ago...or so I hope.
Dune: Wait...that was you? I watched it happen from the mountain.
Freeman: Yup. Hell, I thought it was the bud at first. You really oughta give this shit a try.
Dune shakes his head before looking around.
Dune: Where are they?
Freeman: Who?
Dune: The fucking aliens.
Freeman: Ah, right. There were only two, so far as I know. Little grey bastards. They went down quick enough - one punch each.
Dune: And you just sort of taught yourself to fly this thing?
Freeman: Don’t sound so surprised. They’ve got it simplified. It’s literally just a toggle and a few buttons with symbols on them. Wanna go for a ride?
Dune considers the proposition before shaking his head.
Dune: No...set me down at the hotel. I’ve got to get some rest before the match tomorrow.
Freeman: Always putting the WCF first.
Dune: It’s all I’ve got, Freeman.
Freeman: Fair enough. I’ll take you back...and if you don’t see me later tonight or in the morning, you can make damn well sure I’ll be at Slam tomorrow to see you, Flash, and Occulo mop the floor with Beach Crew.
Dune glares at the words.
Dune: Fuck Beach Crew.
Freeman: Amen.
With that, Dune follows Freeman through another circular doorway at the far side of the room. As it closes behind them, we fade to black.
We cut to a shot of a road sign that reads: Welcome to Colorado Springs, CO - pop. 439, 886. Suddenly, the doppler shift of cars driving past the sign at 55 mph is overtaken by that of one doing 90. We see it’s taillights fly past us, and after a moment, we cut to within the car.
Dune: Slow the fuck down, Freeman!
Freeman: Bah...what are they gonna do, pull me over?
Dune: If you get me killed before I can get my hands on Beach Crew this week...
Freeman: You’re safe with me, kid. I know what I’m doing. It’s almost seven, and if those doors lock for the night -
Dune: You’ll have to wait ‘til morning?
Freeman: Fuck that. I didn’t drive all the way out here to get boozed up tonight. And besides...my arthritis is starting to get to me.
Dune: Want me to take over?
Freeman: What, and pull over? No, no...we’re making good time, Dune, and right now, time is of the essence. I need my medicine, and I need it tonight.
Dune: Your medicine...fucking Christ.
Dune shakes his head and chuckles, turning to look out the window at the distant mountains. The sun is nearly set by now, and the illusion of fire on the peaks fades with its light.
Freeman: The medicinal properties of the ganja are well-documented. In fact, the indigenous peoples of this area -
Dune: Spare me the lecture, Freeman.
Freeman: You ought to try some. Maybe a few puffs would take your mind off losing to Kyle Kemp in the opening round of the Trilogy Cup last week.
Dune shoots him a glare, and Freeman belly-laughs to see it.
Freeman: RABID and Kemp, I should say. Still, that makes you 0-2 in handicap matches this year...even if Timebomb was supposed to be a one-on-one.
Dune looks forward, though his glare only hardens as he stares through the glass.
Dune: Fucking Johnny Rabid…
As he utters the name of his newest and most bitter rival, the screen fades out and segues into another.
The words “Dream in Green” fill the screen, and we zoom out from the small building they mark. The street comes into view, and as it does, a black pickup enters the frame and comes to a stop in front of the building. Freeman hops out of the driver’s seat and sprints for the front door of the marijuana dispensary while Dune slides over and takes a seat at the wheel. He hollers at the old, bearded man through his mask.
Dune: You remember where the hotel is, right?
Freeman: You’re not waiting?
Dune: No...I’m going out that way.
He nods toward the distant mountains, their dark forms visible against the star-lit night sky.
Freeman: What, you’re going for a night hike?
Dune: Sure. I need to clear my head.
Freeman: Ah...likewise.
Freeman flashes Dune a grin before nodding and disappearing into the dispensary. Dune shakes his head before stepping on the gas, and as the pickup exits the frame, the shot fades and segues into yet another.
A quiet symphony greets our ears, one comprised of insects calling out in the night. The crescent moon’s reflected light illuminates the forest around us, and we pan over as the sound of heavy footsteps approaches. Finally, Dune’s hulking figure comes into view, and the camera follows him as he makes his way up the forested mountainside. His icy blue eyes are clearly visible, and he stares straight ahead at the camera as he speaks.
Dune: Beach Crew…
Three weeks; three sets of Beach Crew opponents. Seth really hates you fucks, doesn’t he? My fellow Trios Champions and I ran through Holmes, Aquarius, and Gable two weeks ago, and last week I was seconds away from pinning Kyle Kemp before that piece of shit Johnny Rabid decided to make his presence felt. Seth must have taken notice, because this week he’s seen fit to pit the lowly Rabid alongside Wade Moor and Dustin Beaver against perhaps the greatest trio in the history of this company. And what kind of chance does Beach Crew stand against us on Sunday? Absolutely fucking none.
They say a team is only as strong as it’s weakest link. Dustin Beaver - you are the weakest link. But this isn’t goodbye. No...consider this my welcome. After all, this is my first acknowledgement that you even exist here in the WCF. Don’t get me wrong - I’ve been keeping an eye on you. I watched you win the TV Title from Andre Jenson; I watched you defend it against my partner, Occulo, whose supreme vengeance you’ll know come Sunday night; and I watched you fall to Stuart Slane as you should have at One when you bested the better man. Yes, I’ve been watching you, Dustin...and what I’ve seen hasn’t given me a single reason to perceive you as a credible threat.
You can beat up on lower tier wrestlers all you like, but in case you haven’t noticed, you’re in the main event at Slam this Sunday. This won’t be the sort of child’s play you’re used to. You’re up against Joey motherfucking Flash, the two-time WCF World Champion; you’re up against Occulo, the man who’s been seething since One, just waiting for his next opportunity to beat the living fuck out of you, as he would 99 times out of 100; and you’re up against me...and do I really need to emphasize how fucked that makes you? Ask the rest of the roster and they’ll tell you straight away. But we both know it’s not something that needs to be explained to you. You’ve seen me just like I’ve seen you, and there’s nothing in my game that should allow you any hope of coming away with the victory Sunday night.
You’re pathetic, Dustin, and you’ll forever remain in the shadow I cast. That being the case, I’ve been troubled by one question since I saw your name across from mine on the card: how in the fuck do I hype up a match against Dustin Beaver? You might as well be replaced by Tyler Walker or Biohazard. At least they’ve got a bit of comedic value to them. And I know you’re supposed to be the funny one or some shit, but seeing you perform in the ring is only comedic if you’re into watching someone humiliate themselves time and again.
But the question of how to get the WCF Faithful to stick around for the mauling you and your partners are set to receive this Sunday night didn’t linger long. It’s not as if the people need healthy competition to keep them engaged. When the Coliseum was thriving, they used to feed clowns like you to lions and tigers and bears, and the people ate that shit up. Why? One word, Dustin: bloodlust. And though centuries have passed - though the Coliseum walls have long since begun to crumble and deteriorate - man’s innate bloodlust never will. Come Sunday night, it’ll be perfectly intact...and I’m going to provide them with precisely what it is they lust for:
Beaver blood.
Beach Crew blood.
And if I’m being honest...I lust to see it spill more than anyone else.
By Beaver blood I’m not talking about pussy blood, Dustin, despite your surname being the oft-used nickname of that slick, tender slit between a woman’s legs. In truth, Dustin Pussy would be a more fitting nickname for a boy like you. And this Sunday I’m going to do more than munch on you. I’m going to feast on that pussy; I’m going to go to town on the trembling little Beaver you’re sure to be when we stand opposite each other in the ring. I’m going to tear you the fuck up, Dustin, and -
Just then, a strange cry cuts him off. He stops and turns his ear toward the sound as it continues. When he’s pinpointed it, he makes off in its direction. The desperate screams grow louder...louder...until Dune finally stumbles upon the source.
At his feet, a beaver thrashes about in a vain attempt to free himself of the barbed wire that’s ensnared it. Blood reflects in the moonlight, and Dune reaches down and assists the bucktoothed mammal. Soon the beaver is free...but it’s mortally wounded, and it doesn’t even bother scurrying off in the presence of Dune. Instead, it lies there dying, staring up at the giant, half-masked creature before it with eyes that plead for mercy.
Dune sees this. It’s clear as day in the moonlit night...and there’s only thing left to do. He nods in understanding, raises his boot, and stomps with all his might. The crunch echoes through the trees, but the beaver’s death is quick and painless, and Dune’s eyes flick up at the camera as he continues up the mountain.
Dune: It was the humane thing to do. Why let a dying animal suffer, be it beaver or man? But there won’t be anything humane about the way I treat you this Sunday, Dustin. I’m not going to kill you, but for the days, weeks, and perhaps even years that follow, you’ll wish you were dead. I’ll bring you to within a breath of the Reaper’s black gate before I finally allow the ref to slide down and count to three. Because make no mistake - you’re eating the pin this week. It’s like I said: you’re the weakest link, and you’ll be the first to break.
You should’ve stayed in the entertainment business, Dustin. You should’ve kept your gig as a one-man cover band that your likeness to a certain celebrity provided you. You may think you’ve made a lateral move in signing on with the WCF, but this the fighting business - one where men and women alike put on displays of brutality driven by our most primal instincts. Entertainment is secondary, though it’s sure to follow - especially this Sunday night. And if the beating me and mine lay on you isn’t enough to convince you to try and get your old gig back, you might as well lie there broken on the mat and pretend the cheers are those of thousands of gleeful teenage girls as opposed to those of the WCF Faithful who’ve longed to see you put in your place by men like me, Occulo, and Joey Flash.
“Bravo,” you’ll whisper in a delusional daze...
“Bravo.”
Silence follows, save Dune’s heavy footsteps as he strides through the mountain forest. After a few seconds, the trees give way, and he finds himself beneath a canopy of stars. Their brilliance blankets the night sky, and he stops for a moment to take in the sight before something from above catches his eye.
Dune: What the…
A bright set of lights moves amidst the starry backdrop of space. Dune watches as they spin slowly and scoot past him overhead. They begin to descend, and for a fleeting moment he can make out the profile of the vessel their attached to. Realizing this is no plane or helicopter, he remains intently focused on it until it finally comes to a stop on the outskirts of downtown Colorado Springs. The unidentifiable craft hovers there for a long moment before a bright beam of light shoots down. Dune ducks low, instinctively wary of the sight.
It isn’t the first time he’s seen strange objects in the night sky - the desert is teeming with similar curiosities. Still, it doesn’t make him feel any better. Nor does the small black object whose flailing is visible from afar as it rises up through the beam. He watches in hushed anticipation as the UFO’s most recent capture disappears into the craft. The beam of light disappears with it, and the vessel’s superior propulsion allows it to shoot out of sight a second later.
Comforted by its departure, Dune rises and sets off toward the mountain’s peak once more. His eyes find the screen as he continues.
Dune: Is that you, Jimophy? Or how about you, Johnny Rabid - are you up there manning the controls? I doubt it. Your interests and affairs lie down here on the surface. In fact, the only thing you should be concerning yourself with right now is the man you see before you. You fucked up, Johnny. You barked up the wrong tree, and now I’m set to avenge all the wrongs you’ve committed against me.
Are you proud of yourself, Rabid? Are you proud of your Beach Crew boys - the ones you claimed to be the leader of for so long. Whoops...talk about a plan backfiring. You couldn’t lead a class of kindergartners to recess, let alone Beach Crew to glory. What makes you think you’re a capable ring marshall, Johnny - your wrestling background? Your “family” - the one down here on earth, not up in the sky - who bred you to be a better fighter than you’ve become. You’ve disgraced them alongside yourself, and the cheap bullshit you’ve pulled against me twice now in the ring only lends more disgrace to your name.
It was one thing to attack me after I dismantled your “leader” Jared Holmes and his newly masked cockboys, Aquarius and Gable. After all, I had already proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was more deserving of victory than they were that night on Slam. Joey Flash, Occulo, and I retained our Trios Titles with relative ease...and then there you were to make your presence felt. And I felt it, Johnny. Granted it was after the bell that sounded the in-ring death of your fellow Beach Crew boys...but I felt it all the same. If you were a thinking man - a team player - you’d have shown up prior to the bell, because God knows that pathetic trio needed a fourth man to even stand a chance against The Sentinels +1. In fact, it would have taken more than four to put us down. The entirety of Beach Crew couldn’t stand against me, Flash, and Occulo. And what are there, a dozen or more of you now? I lost track long ago...though I, like the rest of the WCF Faithful, couldn’t care less about the happenings of your clansmen. I don’t pay attention to that shit.
That is, so long as those happenings don’t pertain to me.
In your case though, Johnny, they do..and as such, you’ve got my full attention.
That is what you wanted, I assume. Attacking me after me and mine severed the head of Beach Crew a few weeks back didn’t quite do the trick...and so, with Timebomb on the horizon, you set out to ensure you piqued my wrath.
Well great job, Johnny. You’ve done just that.
My partner, Joey Flash, is perhaps the most deserving World Champion in the history of this company. Yet before he won the Title at Timebomb, I was set to take one step closer to my first shot at the belt since Flash bested me for it at WAR XIV. It was going to be a relatively easy outing. Kyle Kemp didn’t stand a chance against me...and you knew it. Of course you did. That’s why you felt the need to interfere - because had I decimated Kemp and gone on to Explosion, then Aftermath, and ultimately Asesinato de Mayo to take back the World Title once more, there would have been no room for you in my plans until the summer. Your patience wore thin, and when you saw the ref go down at Timebomb, you struck.
Because of you, Kyle Kemp was allowed the upper hand...though when he pinned me for three, it wasn’t Kemp’s face I saw wreathed in flames in my mind’s eye. No, Johnny...it was yours. And soon enough, I’m going to transform that vision into reality.
It all starts this week when my crew bests yours between the ropes, and it all ends when I blow your shit sky high at Explosion.
You’ve committed an unforgivable offense, Johnny.
You cost me the World Title.
You cost me a warm seat on the throne that sits atop WCF Mountain - a place you’ll never know; a place I’ve known all too well.
Had you waited, as I advised on WCF Wednesday Night - had you been blessed with any semblance of patience - you could have had a Title shot at Blast in June. But you fucking blew it - just as you’ve blown your WCF career thus far - and you’ll pay in blood and shattered dreams.
They’ve gone black, Jonny - your dreams, I mean. Blacker than midnight on a moonless night. That’s pretty fucking black. Think it through over a damn fine cup of coffee...if you catch my meaning.
You’ve set fire to my village. You’ve burned my people - the WCF Faithful who so longed to see me at the summit again. It’s where I belong, Johnny. And this Sunday on Slam, I’m going to beat you the fuck down - down into the cellars of this company where a man like you belongs. You and yours aren’t fit to lead this company, as you so often claim to do. Your place isn’t on a beach under the sun. Your place isn’t on fantasy island where paradise lay. No...your place is in the gutters - in the sewers, dark and damp - where rat fucks like you grow and thrive, only to be stomped on when you emerge on the surface. And this Sunday, when you, Dustin Beaver, and Wade Moor surface to find yourselves in the ring against the doomsday trio, expect nothing less than the swiftest and most decisive loss of your career.
I’m not Andre Holmes, Johnny. I’m not Grayson Pierce. They’re noble fighters, and their skills obviously outshine yours and Kyle Kemp’s collectively. They pummeled you and revealed to the world just how unworthy you are of wearing championship gold of any form here in the WCF. And if two of Rebellution can so thoroughly pick apart two of Beach Crew, just imagine the sort of damage the Sentinels and the WCF World Champion will inflict this Sunday.
Dustin Beaver - the most replaceable member of Beach Crew - can’t save you.
Wade Moor - the forever-fallen WCF World Champion - can’t save you.
And least of all, you can’t save yourself - not from me.
Yours is a dire situation, Johnny - one beyond hope. The flames have been ignited, and you backpedal away from them with gasoline can in hand. You’ve an infinite supply of the flammable fuel, and it spills out before you to mark your trail... a trail the fires follow. They rush toward you now with unbridled fury. There’s no stopping them, because I AM the fire...and I won’t cease until I’ve consumed you and left nothing more than ash in my wake.
Incineration, Johnny. Feel the fucking heat.
Know it.
Sweat it.
Embrace it.
It’s all that’s left for you in this world.
By now, Dune nears the mountain’s summit. His breathing is hardly labored, being in peak physical condition, and with only about fifty yards to go, he takes off in a sprint.
We cut to the summit, and his heavy footsteps become audible as the moon and stars illuminate his hulking frame. Within seconds he’s reached the apex, and he stands with his arms on his hips as he does a 360 degree rotation, taking in the far-off city of Colorado Springs and the surrounding wilderness. He stops to face the the dark mountains that stretch out before him, and with the gleaming lights of the city behind him, his eyes find the screen once more.
Dune: Here we are, Wade...here we are last.
I’ve been waiting a long time for this - too long - and I’m going to savor every moment.
Wade Moor, the man who ruled the world - or so you’d have them think. Sure, you ruled, but only over a select few. You won the belt from a laughable champion who failed to deliver on any and all of the promises he made before he won the Title. Omega hasn’t been seen in the ring since, and not because of the beating you laid on him. He may have pinned you at WAR XIV - which is telling in it’s own right - but he was broken long before the two of you even stepped foot in the ring for the lumberjack match that would decide your fate.
And what’d you do after pinning the weakest World Champion in recent memory? At Hellimination, you allowed your rat-brother and apparent leader - again, telling in it’s own right - Jared Holmes to get the pin that won you “control of the WCF” until One. Outshone as World Champion in your first match with the Title...and thus the precedent was set. You went on to get bitched around by me for a few weeks before defending the Title against Preecha Kamon, who’s now dead or some shit. Congratulations on a shit World Title defense. I had a few of those myself. But I also beat worthy competitors - the most worthy this company’s ever seen - and I was able to do so for one simple reason: because you and I aren’t playing in the same league.
You may have been World Champion, Wade, but you never reigned over me, as I did you for the first two months of your career. I watched you come up in the WCF; watched you bloom into a freshly steaming pile of shit on some desolate, rocky beach. You feign as if your’e the very seed of the sabbatic goat himself, Baphomet, placed here on earth to display his supreme power over man. But thus far you’ve done nothing of the sort.
You play at demonology as if it’s a hobby; as if it’s something to help pass the time. In doing so, your unsurpassed naivety and foolishness is put on display for all to see. You’re not special, Wade. You’re no Leviathon of the deep, as you so often claim to be. Such a beast wouldn’t be so frail and powerless - two words that perfectly describe you when compared to me. Don’t let it get you down. The same could be said of nearly every man or woman on the roster. That’s just the reality of the WCF in 2016. My partner, Joey Flash, may be World Champion now, but I’m next in line on men to beat. Just ask Johnny Rabid. The little shit aims to make a name for himself in this company after months of failing to do so, and he’s looking no further than me to do so. Like you, Rabid may be doomed to fail, but at least he’s got a bit of awareness to him. Granted, he can’t foresee his certain demise this Sunday or at Explosion, but that’s where the “bit” comes in. You haven’t even that, and that’s why you’ll forever be a fallen World Champion.
I hope you enjoyed your World Title reign, Wade, because you’ll never have another. I’ll be Champion again someday, though I can still relate. I once had a brother, but he was butched in front of my eyes as my blood pooled on the sands. It was my fault he died, and I took vengeance against those who committed the deed. But you won’t do that, will you, Wade? Of course not - how could you? Jayson Price is gone now, and you’ll never be able to seek out and obtain retribution against him for besting you that night at Fifteen. Sure, you could wait until he falls into another coma and piss in his I.V., but that’s not proper retribution for what he did to you and you know it.
And so now you’ve set your sights on Joey Flash - the man who eviscerated the man who tore you apart in the ring. A bit of simple logic, then, would tell you that you have absolutely no shot at recapturing the Title from perhaps the fiercest competitor in WCF history. Anyone with eyes to see, though, would tell you the same. The difference between you is obvious. And I don’t mean your styles, because let’s be honest, you’re a poor man’s Joey Flash - just like the rest of your Beach Crew boys. You’ve all seen his flawless formula for success and have tried to imitate it like the leeches you are. It’s cringeworthy and really quite humorous...though not in the way you intend. But no...I’m talking about the disparity in your ability level.
You can’t hang with Flash, Wade - not this week or any other. Nor can you hang with me...but that goes without saying. And while you talk shit on the tronz and try to label Occulo as somehow being a far lesser talent than me and Flash, it’s painfully obvious that he has more innate skill than almost anyone on the roster and every single member of Beach Crew to a man.
It’s no secret that we’re the most stacked team of Trios Champions in WCF history. You can play it off and put up a false exterior of confidence and swagger, but behind that frayed curtain is a mind full of unease and doubt.
Don’t deny it, Wade. Better to accept it; to let it fuel you in your quest for greatness in this company. You’re still yet to achieve it. Greatness comes from toppling the greats who’ve laid the foundation before you. But then again, I hold both my opponents and teammates alike to a higher standard than most; to the standard I’ve set. Flash and Occulo sit on an even keel with myself. But you and yours, Wade...you’re somewhere further down the mountainside. And after this Sunday, when you square off against the three men who stand as one at the summit, there won’t be any question as to who the kings of the mountain are…
As if there ever was.
Without warning, Dune is lit up in white light. He shields his eyes and shoots his head skyward, gazing through a gap in his fingers at whatever the source might be. As we cut away, it’s revealed.
A black craft blots out a patch of stars as it hovers over Dune, its spotlight bathing him in its glow. It’s the same craft as before, and after a moment, we see Dune’s dark silhouette rising up through the beam of white light. He rises and rises, until finally he disappears into the underside of the unidentified craft.
We cut to within the ship, where Dune stands at the ready inside a small antechamber. There’s a doorway before him, small and circular, and after a moment’s hesitation, he slams his boot into the yellow button on the wall next to it. The door retracts into the wall, and Dune charges into the room, taking out the first creature he sees.
Freeman: Du -
In an instant, Dune takes Freeman down, pinning the old man’s arms with his knees before reaching back with a knotted fist. Just before he slams it down, his eyes go soft, and he shoots to his feet as Freeman rolls away.
Freeman: You horse’s ass!
Dune: What the fuck, Freeman - what are you...how’d you -
Freeman: The little fuckers nabbed me, sucked me right off the ground not more than half an hour ago...or so I hope.
Dune: Wait...that was you? I watched it happen from the mountain.
Freeman: Yup. Hell, I thought it was the bud at first. You really oughta give this shit a try.
Dune shakes his head before looking around.
Dune: Where are they?
Freeman: Who?
Dune: The fucking aliens.
Freeman: Ah, right. There were only two, so far as I know. Little grey bastards. They went down quick enough - one punch each.
Dune: And you just sort of taught yourself to fly this thing?
Freeman: Don’t sound so surprised. They’ve got it simplified. It’s literally just a toggle and a few buttons with symbols on them. Wanna go for a ride?
Dune considers the proposition before shaking his head.
Dune: No...set me down at the hotel. I’ve got to get some rest before the match tomorrow.
Freeman: Always putting the WCF first.
Dune: It’s all I’ve got, Freeman.
Freeman: Fair enough. I’ll take you back...and if you don’t see me later tonight or in the morning, you can make damn well sure I’ll be at Slam tomorrow to see you, Flash, and Occulo mop the floor with Beach Crew.
Dune glares at the words.
Dune: Fuck Beach Crew.
Freeman: Amen.
With that, Dune follows Freeman through another circular doorway at the far side of the room. As it closes behind them, we fade to black.
