Bruno's Transfer to Jobber Roster Has Been Approved

[Stephen Singh]

An interview with WCF Television’s Hank Brown. Television. One of modern society’s greatest opiates of the masses. Television is the epitome of our collective delusion, disillusion and mental disease. It’s people on a tiny screen in front of the huddled masses projecting visions of “truth” that have no more reality to them than film or novels. It’s all a lie. Every single frame you see on television has been meticulously framed, lit, and planned. It’s fully fabricated and manufactured but everyone gobbles it up as gospel. The great capitalist machine would screech to a halt if the have-nots ever stopped aspiring to something fully unattainable so television keeps their appetites whet with the false idols and gods supplanting those previously shilled by Abrahamic religions. It’s all just another matter of control. It’s always a matter of control. To move upward, to move forward, to evolve you must step outside the machine. You must not look where you’re told to, you must not take the path you’re shown. Blaze your own. Clear it before you mercilessly and leave it asunder behind you. Then, if you’re truly smart, you’ll burn the bridge behind you and begin selling the newest snake oil to those without, to those still looking for the path. Because now...now the control is yours. 


*******************************

A room with plain, white walls, a dingy couch, scattered chairs and a wall-length mirror with counter attached. The Superstar sits in a chair, annoyed at the stylist currently fussing over his hair. His assistant has cozied herself on the drab couch. She’s clearly With Her, proud in her blue, Clinton-esque pants suit. Her crimson locks are pulled back into a tight ponytail and she’s sporting a pair of black, thick-framed glasses; looking conscientiously professional. Singh’s sporting a grey fitted vest over a muted blue button up, Valentino jeans and a pair of suede boots. His phone buzzes on the counter top in front of him. It’s a text from his faithful personal Twitterer, Jerry. It’s a response to an earlier, angry and scolding text sent from the Superstar. It simply reads:

“So…am I fired? ”

The Superstar lets out a sigh and frustratedly rubs his left eyebrow with his two forefingers. He shoos the stylist out and dials Jerry.

Singh: First of all, don't ever send me a smiley face again. You're a veteran, have some self respect. And no, you're not fired. I mean, I'm not even paying you so I'm not sure I can actually for you per se. Regardless, let's just call this a performance review.

Jerry: Great! And no more smileys, so long as I'm not fired. I'm selling A TON of Percocet.

Singh: Okay, that's the first thing. No more goddamned drug dealing via MY twitter. It's uncouth and I think half the roster assumes it’s actually me tweeting.

Jerry: You're telling a fish not to swim right now, Superstar.

Singh: No, no I'm not. I'm telling a one-legged, pill popping, Army reject to stop selling drugs on MY social media. If you really need to swim, Nemo, go check in with Misdeal O'Neal.

Jerry: Alright, I'm sorry. I don't want to be on his squad, he's got kids blasting people. I ain't trying to shoot nobody.

Singh: What are you talking about? Didn't you just get back from doing that professionally?

Jerry: That shit’s different, those are all sand n--

Already knowing exactly what the rest of that word is, Superstar interrupts.

Singh: That! That is the other thing. No racial or sexual orientation-based epithets on MY social media.

Jerry: I don't know what that means…

Singh: The ‘N' bomb, Jerry. Stop dropping it. And no dysphemisms for homosexuals either.

Jerry: What the fuck does that leave me?! This is the internet we're talking about, man!

Singh: Ugh. Precisely why I don't waste my precious hours on social media. It's a cesspool of lowest common denominator deviants. We live in a time when the aggregate of human knowledge is literally at our fingertips but you philistines squander it on kitten videos and intentional misspellings. Those are the rules, Jerry, you're not obliged to continue your stint as my Head of Social Media…

The assistant shoots daggers at Superstar over the screen of her laptop. She didn't want his accounts to go back to utter cobwebs again. Steven sees her distress and her holds up a finger, waiting for Jerry to respond.

Jerry: Fine man. But this sounds boring as fuck.

Singh: You'll find a way to entertain yourself. Use those jiffs. People love jiffs.

Jerry: Yeah they do! You see that one I hashtagged with ThievinSteven?!

The Superstar ends the call with a snarl.

Erica: Why'd you do that?

Singh: I hate it, Assistant.

Erica: What? That thief gif? I guess it’s kind of lame but that tweet probably got the most traction of anything he said all week…

Singh: No, that damn hashtag.

Erica: Thievin Steven? How can you hate it?! It was trending during War! YOU were trending!

Singh: What an accomplishment! The whole wrestling world pulled their thumbs out of their asses long enough to use them to call me a goddamn thief! Me! A thief!

Erica: I can't believe you're upset about this...

Singh: Oh really, Assistant? You can't believe it? What if people were chanting your name attached to a lie?! What if “Whoring Assistant” were suddenly trending?

Erica: Well that's not really applicable because…

Singh: Exactly my point! You don't do any whoring at all!

Her lip flirts with the idea of a smile, happily surprised he's not calling her a whore even if he refuses to use her actual name.

Singh: Everyone knows you're colder than a Siberian winter! I'm pretty sure you've had that thing welded shut!

Erica: That's not what I meant. I meant it's not applicable because Assistant is not my NAME.

Singh: Are you sure?

Erica: Yes, I’m sure.

Singh: Hmmm….Who's to say really though?

Erica: Me. I'm to say.

Singh: Agree to disagree, I guess. The point is, that chant and that hashtag are insults to what I accomplished at War.

Erica: Well that hashtag is probably one of the reasons we got asked to do this interview.

Singh: We? No, no, no. I got asked to do this. And hell, if you're going to say that Twitter had something to do with it then Jerry the cripple deserves more credit than you. A false sense of accomplishment is terribly gauche. And I'm sure the reason I got asked to do this interview is to comment on the dawning of the GOLDEN ERA of the WCF. Now Assistant, I need you to get ahold of Byron and bet enough to recoup our losses from--

There’s a knock at the door and a young, male production assistant cracks the door, pushing their face through.

PA: We’re ready for you whenever, Mr. Singh.

Singh: Why knock?

PA: Sorry?

Singh: Why did you knock on the door?

PA: To see if you were ready I guess?

Singh: Right but you did that thing where you just knock and then immediately push the door open. So what the hell is the point of knocking? If you’re a rude little shit with no sense of decorum, just swing open the door. That’s really what you were doing anyways.

PA: Oh. Umm...Sorry?

Singh: Yeah, sorry. Whatever. It’s not entirely your fault; I’m sure you were raised by a couple of no-class kooks. Alright, let’s do this.

The admonished production assistant begins leading The Superstar out of the room. Erica cheerfully wishes him luck.

Erica: Break a leg!

Singh: Suck a dick!

Don’t wish assholes luck.

To say the set is underwhelming is generous. The decor is just enough to let us know we’re not watching an episode of Between Two Ferns. Hank Brown stands up from one of the two chairs on the carpeted ‘stage’ area. Excitedly, he thrusts a hand towards The Superstar.

Brown: Steven Singh! It’s a pleasure to have you!

Reluctantly, The Superstar shakes Hank’s hand before wiping his own down the side of his jeans with a grimace.

Singh: Yes, it is. And Mr. Singh is exactly how to address me, thanks for asking.

Brown: Oh...Uhh...okay.

Singh: Can we get this show on the road?

Brown: Absolutely. I’ll count us in…

The two men are seated next to each other, The Superstar leaning back with casual indifference. Brown pulls at the sides of his poorly fitting shirt and shifts in his chair. As he clears his throat The Superstar whistles loudly and counts in camera one.

Singh: Alright jabrones, in five, four….

He silently signals three….two...and one. Hank Brown looks at him, cuckolded. The consummate professional, he returns to his air of journalistic integrity and opens the segment.

Brown: Hello WCF Galaxy! It is an absolute pleasure to sit down here today with The Superstar Steven Singh! I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Singh, so let’s get right into it. War!

Hank Brown pauses, waiting for a response.

Brown: Mr. Singh?

Singh: Yes?

Brown: Did you have thoughts on War?

Singh: Yes.

Another long pause. Hank looks uncomfortably towards his production assistant off-camera.

Brown: Umm….would you like to share them with us?

A loud, annoyed grunt from The Superstar.

Singh: Now, I could simply reply with another “Yes” and I would have once again fully answered your question. You realize that right, Browneye?

Brown: I guess I do now.

Singh: You guess so. Is that how you’re going to go about this whole thing? Guessing? Whatever. Why am I surprised? Why do I continue to expect even a modicum of competence out of people like you, Hank? Why would I think you could actually formulate a full question that would compel me to provide more than a one-word response. Damn my eternal optimism!

The Superstar shakes both his fists and yells his faux frustration to the heavens.

Brown: Do...do you consider yourself an optimist?

Singh: Of course! I’m optimistic that despite your godawful incompetence I’m going to weave the straw of this interview into gold, Rumpelstiltskin. I’m optimistic that the WCF will soon recognize the greatness before them. And I’m optimistic that you have a more thought-provoking, conversation-inducing question that you’re going to ask me next.

Brown: Umm...sure. What are your thoughts on the ending of War and the rebirth of Pantheon?

Singh: Jesus. Are you serious? First of all, “What are your thoughts on x?” is the epitome of hackneyed pseudo-journalistic slop. Second of all, I don’t care.

Brown: You don’t care? The WCF Champion, the winner of War, and multiple other former World Champions have banded together with a stated purpose of tearing this place down to rebuild it. And you don’t care?

Singh: Nope.

I.

Don’t.

Care.

Listen, I’m new here. This isn’t my longtime homestead or the place I won my first World Title or even the place that’s paying the majority of my bills right now. This place appeared to be the place with a talent level somewhat befitting of a Golden God. To be perfectly honest, most wrestling organizations today are embarrassingly bereft of talent entirely. The hordes have flocked away from our sweetest science and to mixed martial arts; the WCF simply appeared to be the best on a long list of bad options. So how do I feel about a bunch of ex champions kicking the door in and vowing to take this place down in order to take it back up?

The Superstar’s eyebrows are raised as he’s now leaned forward. Hank Brown actually looks for a moment as though he might answer but Singh begins before the interviewer can make that mistake.

Singh: I feel great. I know I’m supposed to feel put upon and “invaded” and whatever else Adam Young is embarrassingly projecting upon the rest of the roster but I don’t. I welcome an increase in competition so I welcome these brand new world beaters. I don’t want to walk around with a title from some place that’s a shadow and a shell of its former self. I want to stand at the top of a mountain that matters, not one where Thomas Urine Bates is getting by on his god-given girth and not a damn thing more. So yeah. Welcome back to those mooks, I guess.

Brown: Wow. So you don’t have any problem with them? In your past promos, it sounded like you took issue with their internet presence.

Singh: Wow-wee Brown! That’s an actual follow up question based on an actual bit of research you might’ve done for this interview. BRAVA. Anyways, let’s not say I “take issue” with it. Let’s just say I think they act like a bunch of tween shitheads waiting to push the next nerd into the locker room to prove that they’re not the losers their alcoholic stepfathers keep telling them they are. Which is fine for them and, in all honesty, amusing for most of the rest of us. But from what I’ve seen to this point, they can go when it matters, which is all that actually matters. So. As I already told you, I welcome them.

Brown: What about the continued growth of the other two factions already present in the WCF?

Singh: That’s just BARELY a question, Hankyboy.

Brown: Ugh...How do you think the addition of Adrian Archer to Zero Tolerance will affect the landscape of the WCF?

Singh: See? It’s not that hard, is it? It’s almost like a goddamn monkey could do it. Anyways, Adrian Archer: the pyrite version of yours truly. I mean, what can I really say about his joining of Zero Tolerance that hasn’t already been said by a million people before me?

Oh wait.

Anything. I could say literally anything because no one gave two squirts about that so-called “swerve.” I legitimately felt bad for them. I mean, even more than I usually do. Those midcard mulkies really thought their puny partnering would be the story of the day. Everything’s going to change! You’re never going to believe it! The WCF will never be the same! I mean, maybe they were just talking about Pantheon? Seriously, nobody is printing the headline, “Midcard Nobody Heel Joins Up With Midcard Nobody Stable of Heels!” It wasn’t a surprise, it wasn’t a story, it wasn’t a swerve. It was pathetic. Zero Tolerance is a perfect picture of what it looks like when your reach exceeds your grasp: failure. I’d advise them to get used to that putrid stench of failure because they’re not washing it off any time soon.

Brown: Alright. Well how do you think The Brotherhood will fare any better as a stable?

Singh: Are you kidding me right now, Brown?! Assistant!

A door is heard swinging open, presumably as his assistant Erica enters the room. The Superstar looks in the direction of the noise.

Singh: Is this fucking guy serious? Did he send you the questions beforehand? Is there a single query that even feints at being about me?! Or did he call me here to get my thoughts on every single shitbrick in the back that doesn’t currently have JACK to do with me?! You’re on thin ice, Assistant. And that’s the only thin thing about you!

He snorts out through his nose gruffly and returns his attention to Hank Brown.

Singh: In brief: this group has done what so many thought to be impossible: be even less relevant than Zero Tolerance. Aside from Kevin Bishop, there’s not a single guy in that crew who’s ever going to even SNIFF a title here. What’s next, Brown? You want to discuss my feelings on Seth’s management style? Because that’s an easy one: I think it sucks. No Television Title match this week? Is he even paying attention? Next question: what about the rookies that made somewhat impressive debuts at War? Don’t care! They can enjoy their little square dance at the bottom of the card this week before jobbing out to CJ Phoenix in a gauntlet match. Oh and speaking of CJ Phoenix…

The Superstar pauses, waiting for Hank Brown who unsurprisingly misses the segue.

Come on, man. I’m trying to help you here, I really am. CJ Phoenix.

The Superstar gestures wildly with his hands, pantomiming some spastic semblance of sign language. He stutters with a lisp and a mocking intonation.

Do..you...haf...thumthing...to...athk...me…

Brown: Mr. Singh, that’s not necessary…

Singh: He speaks! Well, you’re clearly not one for subtlety so I had to do something to get you to pipe up. But no worries, I’ll continue to do both our jobs. CJ Phoenix is a no-talent assclown who blindsided me at War after I’d single-handedly eliminated four...FOUR different fucklets.

Brown: Single-handedly is probably something of a stretch…

Singh: Oh now you’ve got follow ups, Walter Cronkite? And how wasn’t it single-handedly? Did I share those pins with somebody else? How about that submission? Did somebody else have a vicious hold locked in? Or was it just me?

Brown: Well, it was just you but…

Singh: But what, Brown?! You’re in the dragon’s den, don’t get shy now.

Brown: Well, you kind of stole half those eliminations.

Singh: I stole them?

Brown: Well...yeah. I mean, you’ve gotten yourself another new--
Singh: Don’t... 

Brown: Nick--
Singh: Say...

Brown: Name--
Singh: It…

A pause. The men stare into each other’s eyes. Superstar’s eyebrows are raised and he glares at Hank Brown through them, head tilted slightly down. Hank Brown starts to say it but decides not to and closes his mouth. You can almost see the gears grinding in his head. He opens his mouth again to speak but Superstar raises his head and tilts it back as if in warning and Hank shuts his mouth again. Flustered and faced with his own impotence, Hank Brown looks down at his feet. The Superstar smiles in victory. Hank Brown’s syllables come from under his breath, quick and all jammed together:

Brown: ThievinSteven.

Singh: GOLDEN GODDAMMIT BROWN! What did I say? I said don’t say it. Now what am I supposed to do? I said don’t say it and you said it and you’ve made me into a fool. I’m not one of those guys that’s going to throw you through the hood of a car or otherwise act uncouth and unprofessional. I am, however, going to tell you that the only reason you even have a job is Seth’s alcoholism and if not for that, you’d be panhandling on the corner; eventually willing to let your mouth become a repository for whoever-the-hell will have it in order to just make a few dollars. But congratulations on escaping what would otherwise be an inevitable, slow circling of the drain before you eventually and assuredly slip into nothingness--mourned by none, gone and fully forgotten.

Now in response to that two word, slanderous little moniker: I’d like slap the taste out of the mouth of whoever coined that little earworm. I’m a thief am I? How so? Who owns an elimination? The man who makes it. Not the man who does the work at any point prior to said elimination; the elimination is the sole possession of the wrestler who is there for the three count or submission. If what happened at any point PRIOR to that elimination mattered to the record books, then every single one would divvied up. Everybody’s total would be fractions of fractions, in accordance with however much damage somebody supposedly inflicted on the eliminated. But that’s not how it works. THE MAN WHO MAKES THE ELIMINATION IS ITS SOLE OWNER. I didn’t seal SHIT from anybody at War. And I don’t want to hear those two words in succession ever again from your mouth or anybody else’s.

I go into War with two matches under my belt here. TWO. And I eliminate FOUR people. Three pinfalls and one submission. I knocked out twice as many people as matches I’d had. But everyone wants to talk about me supposedly STEALING these things from the rest of the roster? Allow me to channel Jesse Eisenberg here: if you guys were the inventors of Facebook, you’d have invented Facebook. Follow me? If you guys HAD the eliminations in order for me to steal them, you’d HAVE the eliminations. You do-nothing dunces. Everybody's pissed because while you’re just working hard I’m working harder and smarter. It’s brains over brawn…..every…..damn….time.

Know what, Brown? I’m done with you. Camera one, reframe. Give me a one shot. Just me, this guy’s dead weight and he’s uglying up my frame anyways. Get in here.

The Superstar signals for the camera to close in tighter as he turns his chair to face flat to the camera. His eyes have grown intense in frustration over the course of the interview. His words are deliberate, delivered partially through clenched teeth.

Since he’s apparently not even going to ask me about it, I’ll take this opportunity to remind everyone that The Shakespeare of Shoot has a match this Sunday against one Bruno “Iron” Armstrong.

A match.

Ha.

HA!

This qualifies as such by only the loosest of definitions. I guess it’s technically a “match” but it absolutely will not be a “competition” or a “contest.” I’m not even going to call this a stepping stone for me, Armstrong. When we first mixed it up I was excited. I thought maybe this was a good place to start. You seemed to be the least offensive of the fuckchops they had the audacity to initially place in the ring with me. But oh what a difference a little time makes, Armstrong. I win the first week. I win the second week. My name is on the lips of half the locker room after War and you? Where the hell have you even been? You’re sullying my name, you’re tarnishing my shine by association, you’re dragging down my goddamn rocket to the moon by just your mere presence in my radius. A stepping stone? If only! You’re an all-but-forgotten pebble twenty feet back down the mountain that I have to go back and piss on one more time before I boot it out of our lives forever. And the only reason you’re not absolutely, completely forgotten and fully relegated to the official WCF gutter?

ME.

I am--as I have been from the moment we both stepped foot through those curtains--your saving grace here in the Dub. Without me, you’d already have drifted away into a sea of nothingness rivalled in its irrelevance only by the insipidity between your ears. The last thing we heard from you--and oh how I KNOW it will be the last--was a cute little tale about how you lost your virginity. You weaved a heart-warming tapestry of some self-hating woman whose father must have REALLY fucked her up who then inspired you into actually cutting the world’s dullest promo for like….thirty seconds. She must’ve had that bomb pussy to inspire such mundane inanity. You blew hot air full of threats and promises that you’d ONCE AGAIN fail to fulfill that week. Then at War I decided to really punish you. Again, to be clear, it’s not even your fault that you’re being punished. It’s nothing you said or did. Because nothing you’ve ever said or did has ever been interesting enough to merit annoyance much less punishment. No, you’re being punished because I find the mere fact that you exist in my goddamn ring, in my goddamn sphere of influence wildly insulting. Your proximity to my name is damaging to my stock. Once I realized I was sorely mistaken about you and you’re another hypocrite hack who can’t actually back up a tenth of what he spouts, you had to be disposed of.

And your disposal began at War. How’d it feel? How’s the knee, tough guy? It was just a taste you turdpole. I stretched those ligaments and started to manipulate that joint before Odin took you out without an ounce of effort. So the poopstain from Poon Guinea pinned you and then what happened? I didn’t stop. Because I don’t stop. It’s not in me. I don’t go away, I don’t go silent.

I

Don’t

Stop.

Get used to walking around with that limp because after I vanquish your virgin vapidity from MY ring this Sunday, you might have a permanent one. How do you want it, Armstrong? I want you to choose. 15 Minutes of Fame? You want me to sink that heel hook in so deep you’d gnaw your own leg off to get out? You want to see a Supernova? Maybe take a chance that I break your fucking neck so at least then you’ll have an excuse to tuck tail and never show back up in my ring again? You seem like you’d like to get a look at those Bright Lights again. Yeah, that’s probably it. When you come swinging those wild lariats I’m going to slap on that triangle choke in the blink of an eye and then you’re suddenly on your back staring up at those Bright Lights…Your eyelids getting heavier….Your blinks starting to slow...The oxygen to your brain being cut off. I know you’re too goddamn dumb to tap out so I’ll just smile and cinch it in tighter. You’re right, that’s the way to go because if you’re lucky I’ll cause enough brain damage to make you forget you’d ever heard of the WCF much less had the misfortune of standing across the ring from your GOLDEN FUCKING GOD.

Whew! You sure do bring it out of me, Armstrong. Not my best. No, certainly not that; that’s for fucksure. But that veritable vitriol and that fiery anger deep in my belly. The mere fact that I have to waste my time and breath explaining to you and the rest of the Galaxy how out of your league I am is what twists my tits. I’ve got places to be. Places up the card. Places where title shots and main events are the next step. You’ve got places to be too: the fucking retirement home. Call Dr. Greene back and tell him to clear his next week. He’s going to have his hands full teaching your how to chew solid foods again. You can also reassure him that he won’t have any problems getting you stay put this time because you’re not going to be able to walk two goddamn steps after Sunday.

Make sure you set your DVRs this Sunday, Stevenites. I write the end of the first chapter of The Trash Talk Tolystoy’s WCF novel in the blood of Brunoshow Armstrong. I’m going to reach down, back into the obscurity from which I’ve already pulled myself, and plop that mope into the ring with the spotlight of the Jack of All Trades, Master of One. You’ve got problems with how I rack up Ws? You’ve got a problem with all the panache of my pontification? You’ve got problems with a man intelligent enough to work smart instead of hard? Well now you’ve got a real problem: you’ve wasted enough of my time and attention that I’m actually pissed off. Sunday I don’t take the quickest, easiest win. Sunday I intend to properly relish in the ravaging of a rookie reprobate. Sunday I wrap your knee around a ringpost. Sunday I crank your neck like a back alley chiropractor. Sunday I drop you on your head like your mother would have if she knew you were going to grow into this kind of shameful, hypocritical, pathetic LOSER. So Sunday prepare all you want for your last 15 Minutes of Fame or getting a good look at the Bright Lights of my Supernova. But when the dust settles and I continue to piss down the throats of everybody else in this federation and you just piss away the rest of your life there are only two things you can do about it: like it….or love it.

The Superstar stands up, his upper body suddenly out of the camera’s view. Before the camera can reframe properly you can make out the sounds of the Superstar’s mic rustling.

Great interview, Hanky. Real top shelf journalism. Here’s hoping Seth never sobers up and fires your incompetent ass.

The Superstar moves out of view of the cameras and storms out of the interview room, followed by Erica. Back in the adjacent dressing room with the large mirror, The Superstar smiles and throws his arms out, pleased with himself.

Singh: Well, how great was THAT?!

Assistant: Umm...Fine I guess?

Singh: Fine you guess? I killed it. That’s the verbal violence they tune in for. That’s what they want when they invite The Picasso of Pontification for a sit down. So when is it airing? Is it going to be opening segment on Slam? Or do you think it’s more likely they’ll close with it?

Erica: On Slam? Oh...umm...This is an online exclusive.

Singh: An online exclusive?

Erica: Yeah, I thought it was a good idea to capitalize on your post-War buzz--

Singh: ONLINE?! Like some second-rate midcard mook?! Goddammit, Assistant. I can’t trust you to do anything right.

Erica: This is how it works! I did the research! You don’t get your name on the marquee right out of the gate! You have to do these types of things while you pay your dues.

Singh: This is bullshit. You’re bullshit. And why’re you wearing a pant suit?! You’re going to need all that fabric to cover up your body later in life when all your skin starts sagging and you lose the one apparent amenity you currently have. Now is not the time to be a pants suit princess! So I decree!

Erica: Well, you literally can’t tell me what to wear. Fire me if you want but I’m going to keep wearing whatever I want. You can’t find somebody else to do everything I do for as little as I’m doing it…

Singh: You’re right. Your absolute lack of self-worth has saved you again. Congrats. Well since you’ve given my career trajectory all the upward mobility of a snail, I’m going to talk directly to Seth. I’m the best goddamn wrestler in this popsicle stand and I demand to be treated accordingly. What the hell is a Golden God without any gold?! It’s a damned disgrace is what it is. Let’s go.

The Superstar turns and walks briskly out of the room. Erica grabs her laptop, throws it back into her oversized purse and shuffles quickly in attempts to keep up. Fade to black.