I: No Room at the Inn (Pt.1.)

[David Sanchez]

I: No Room at the Inn (Pt 1.) 

“I read a story when I was younger about how great power comes with great responsibility but another was dictated to me that told of absolute power corrupting absolutely. So here we are, in the big office at the top of the stairs with the panoramic views and that prudish assistant named Matilda who screens our collective calls whilst we play miniature golf on a roll-out mat and eat fresh shrimp cocktail instead of actually doing anything. Uncorrupted, irresponsible and absolutely world-endingly powerful. Nine of the best, none of the rest. United by a common denominator in Joey and Corey. We know all, we see all and between our ranks you better believe we’ve fucking done it all. Titles? Bitch please; we shit gold and piss gemstone. Influence? The fickle sheep of society would follow us across the falls if we wished to act as a shepherd to this diseased and malnourished flock. Money? I’m paying Morgan Freeman to read my fucking internal monologue; what the fuck do you think? Seth Lerch and Thomas Bates want the lambs to unite and fight the lions. They give them the chance to pick their best. The best of the rest. To that I say ha, and ha again. Then I repeat this until I’m blue in the face at the very idea. He offers us Carte Blanche or career-crushing obscurity. Hoping that his leftovers can topple the pyramid of Pantheon. Good luck kids; a lot of Jews died to build this structure and it’s going to take a lot more than seven random descendants of Daddy Bates to tear it down.” 

Prelude: Trapdoors and Tullibardine 1952 

www.youtube.com/watch?v=SkyqRP8S93Y 

Would you believe in a love at first sight? 

Yes I'm certain that it happens all the time. 

What do you see when you turn out the light. 

I can't tell you, but I know it's mine. 

Oh I get by with a little help from my friends. 

Mmm I get high with a little help from my friends. 

Oh I'm gonna try with a little help from my friends. 

The Office of Mayor D.Sanchez, City Hollow, Chicago 

13:45, Monday, October 10th, 2016 

“Your guests are here Mr. Mayor.”



David was red-eyed, his aquamarine eyes tainted bloodshot after another late night of feeding his varied impulse-powered addictions in the city’s dive-bars; as had become his go-to move. Too many people in wine bars had the kind of problems they liked to share with Chicago’s controversial mayor. Schools need funding, the jails are overflowing with petty criminals and since the abolishment of religion, the churches were being used as crackd-ens and hotspots for rape and murder. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Care? The one percent were happy; and that was his constituency. Speaking of which…



The large doors to his office swung open on their hinges and three bodies entered the large, circular office. Two of them familiar: Jared Holmes with a grin that told the kind of story where the main character dies at the end of some debilitating karma-related illness, Thursday Kerrigan who was already making herself comfortable in one of the grey velvet sofas which lined the curved walls of the room, and finally Johnny Rabid; a new face to the mayor but one he had been assured would be akin to his criteria when selecting who he spends his precious time with.



“David, it’s been too long...”



Jared spoke with what was somewhere between elation and venom before his partner bounced up from her position on the sofa, apparently remembering her manners; rushed to the mayor, wrapping her arms around him a quick and welcoming hug which he half returned, safe in the knowledge that she was probably trying her hardest in order not to mock him.



“No hard feelings Dave!”



He swallowed what was probably eighty percent bile and returned the greeting with a sarcastic and evasive slate on his former cabinet.



“None at all Thursday, I lay the blame for that evening solemnly at the feet of that Erin Fausse cunt and her inability to follow simple instructions.”



What was reflected on Thursday’s complexion was a shit-eating grin that Jared matched before directing his squeeze back to the couch and allowing Johnny Rabid to step forward, handing a particularly expensive looking package to Sanchez. Before the two exchange a firm, business-like handshake.



“David Sanchez, big fan of yours.”



The mayor cracked out his serpent’s grin when speaking to this perspective brother he never knew he had.



“Johnny Rabid. Ditto, and my compliments as to the architecture of the building. Is it new?”



It was a genuine question. Rabid had been admiring the unique stonemasonry since he had entered the building.



“Last year, the previous occupant of this building had to take a very sudden and permanent leave of absence so the place was pretty worn-in, but it’s getting there, thanks for noticing.”



“If you two are almost done stroking one another, I’m rather parched.”



Jared’s voice was a joking tone but as he walked around the mayor’s mahogany desk and sat down comfortably in David’s chair, it was obvious that an actual thirst was present.



“Which button summons the maid?”



Adjusting his tie and trying not to let the fact that his seat had been stolen bother him too much David responded.



“Pretty much all of them to be honest, but I tend to just press different ones until someone notices I’m in need. I’m not even sure what half of those buttons do.”



Jared gets more comfortable, his feet up on the mahogany surface as he studies the control panel in front of him. Half wondering how to summon some kind of room service and half considering the possibilities of what all the remaining buttons may do.



“Actually, if you’d care to open the gift I brought, I think it may contain the answer to this little problem of ours.”



Rabid’s accent was going to take some getting used to. David approaches the box he received earlier and removes a grey bow, allowing the card to fall apart and reveal a small wooden cabinet containing a bottle of particularly expensive looking scotch, four glasses and a beautifully presented mini-bar casing.



“Tullibardine, nineteen fifty-two if I’m not mistaken; you really shouldn’t have.”



David gazed in awe at the bottle which was constructed out of crystal to match the glasses, whilst the lid to the decanter was solid gold. He had seen this before, but only in pamphlets. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford the twenty thousand dollar price-tag. It was however that he didn’t see how having a bottle he’d never bring himself to drink would help him; then again it wasn’t like he often had company when he hit the drink and if there was a cause to celebrate, this was certainly one of those moments.



Good scotch, sixty-four years old scotch to be exact and good company to celebrate Pantheon’s clean sweep of victories on Slam. As if they really needed an excuse; fuck it. Like the saying goes: it’s five o’clock somewhere.



“OH BUTLER! … THERE’S THINGS TO BUTLE!!”



Almost immediately, the doors to the office swing open once more and a young man by the name of Atticus Rex enters the room. Atticus had once been the brains and culinary expertise behind a successful series of pop-up restaurants but was poached and hired by David as the official chef of a now defunct faction he had led in an another organization. Flustered, he quickly approached David, bowing hurriedly at each of the room’s occupants,except for Thursday who he leers at for a little longer than he should.



“Chef Atticus Rex, at your service. What can I do for you today David.”



The response came quickly and in a feminine voice.



“You can stop staring at my tits if you don’t mind. Creep.”



Both David and Jared share a look of pride and disgust as the chef now averts his eyes to the far corner of the room, avoiding Miss Kerrigan’s general direction at any cost.



“I need some ice, crushed for the lady, cubed for the men and fetch a bottle of Drambuie from the cellar… Wait, it’s still Drambuie right?”



He had forgotten to ask Thursday if her tipple had changed since they had last shared a drink.



“Of course David, a leopard never changes her spots.”



“Fantastic. While we’re all still young please.”



David’s order seems to trigger a twitch in the face of Atticus Rex, almost as though the once popular chef didn’t want to be there taking abuse from the likes of these socialites, but alas. It was steady work, even if it did mean taking everything with more than a generous pinch of salt. All things aside he had a job to do, and it wasn’t going to do itself. Nor would any of these men even consider making their own beverage, that was far beneath them. With that in mind he took his leave to search the kitchen and cellar of City Hollow for the requested items.



“Is there something wrong with that guy?”



Jared’s voice was ripe with concern as he began to feign an interest in this servant of sorts. He leaned forwards in the mayoral chair as David turned back around from the window which overlooked the courtyard and the water feature outside of David’s Chicago base of operations. There were still a lot of questions about his rise to to the position of the city’s mayor but they weren’t ones he seemed keen to answer. All that people did know was that he was not known to be a man of the people, rather a man for certain people; caucasian, religiously unaffiliated and wealthy people.



“I think he just has some issues, you’d think he’d be fucking grateful I didn’t toss his ass in a work camp with the rest of the middle class.”



The gentrification of Chicago had been a swift one and happened with little protest, such was always the way when one man controls the media, the politics, the police and the sleazy underground, and control it he did with an army not unlike Hitler’s brown-shirts who were quick to resolve any kind of uprising or ruckus caused by those against the Sanchez administration. Rabid showed great interest in this, and would have liked to pick the mayor’s brain but that was another topic for another day. For now, the matter at hand was the formation and dominance of Pantheon.



“So.. Damian Kane and Adrian Archer are being left to throw together a team for Hellimination, anybody got any thoughts on that?”



Jared was first to respond, laughing a little as he does so.



“I think we should probably get another bottle of Scotch ready for the night after Helloween.”



Rabid responds in turn by agreeing with a simple nod.



“I think it’s something of a contrast not unlike the paralympics versus the olympics, and furthermore I don’t really think it matters who they pick. The fastest one-legged man in the world wouldn’t win a race against an average two-legged specimen. That’s just a fact of life. I don’t see why we should even take these guys as a threat, that’s all we’re dealing with here. Seven cripples who’re worried about losing their parking spaces and welfare cheques.”



David’s response carried through with his trademark lack of empathy for the under-privileged among the human race. As he continued to stare out of the window however the doors opened again, marking the return of Chef Atticus Rex who sets two different containers of ice down on the table, along with a bottle of Drambuie, to absolutely zero thanks.



“Fair enough, it sucks about Bates though. I don’t think I was the only guy looking forward to taking him down a peg or two.”



Rabid’s face expressed his disappointment at Thomas Uriel Bates not being involved in the proposed match, but Jared was quick to assure him that his time would come.



“Corey’s got that shit, we just need to do our homework on which ever perpetual underachievers they decide to replace him with, I think Teddy Blaze is a safe bet but to be honest I think if that guy loses to me or Dave again he’s probably going to play in traffic or something. So y’know… That could be fun to watch.”



As Jared finishes speaking, Chef Atticus Rex reaches into the presentation cabinet containing the bottle of Tullibardine nineteen fifty-two and begin takes the crystal cork out of the Baccarat decanter in order to allow the liquid to breathe for a few seconds as he places three cubes of ice into three glasses and a small scoop of crushed ice into the fourth. He pours three fingers of the scotch into each crystal glass and hands one respectively to Jared, Johnny and David in that order; further drawing resentment from his employer who always liked to be served first, even in the presence of women. Speaking of women, Thursday is tended to last, Rex’s eyes once again making the fatal mistake of laser-focusing on her chest, this time though it is Jared who is hot on his proverbial heels. Addressing David about the situation.



“... You’re sure this guy’s not special needs?”



Knowing that he’s been caught again, the chef is quick to drop the crystal glass in front of Thursday with a small clink on an end table, spilling a little liquid onto the polished mahogany before turning around, making for the center of the room and standing up perfectly straight.



“Is there anything else I can do for you fine gentlemen today?”



David is quick to retaliate in a robotic and snappy tone.



“You can step about three paces to the left.”



“Not again sir, please.”



The chef’s eyes are getting watery as he obeys this instruction.



“Jared, be a dear and press the blue button on the desk console, would you?”



His curiosity peaked, Jared smashes his index finger into the button and immediately the floor snaps away from underneath the chef’s feet, revealing a hinged trapdoor that causes him to plunge through the now gaping hole in the solid oak flooring.



“NOOOOOOOOO-OOO-OOO!!!.



There is a dull thud and a squelch as he lands somewhere below out of camera-shot and the floor snaps back on it’s hinges, hiding that there was ever a trapdoor there to begin with.



“Ingenious!”



Rabid replies, sipping the Scotch and swirling it inside of his mouth to get the full characteristics of the expensive liquor.



“... But, where does it lead?”



Sniggering into his own glass, David offers an answer through pursed lips, Allowing his tastebuds to soak in the delicate notes of sherry casking.



“Why back to the kitchen of course, where the help belongs. Or to be more accurate, directly into the food waste recycling receptacles; so if he’s done his job correctly, a lot of excess cuts of beef and lamb should have broken his fall; and if not well then I guess I’ll be needing a new servant.”



The four share a dull laugh.



“I hear Mikey’s looking for work since you guys kinda pushed him out the front door, should give him a call.”



Thursday offers a solution to the potential vacancy, flicking her hair out in front of her as she sips her Drambuie.



“Would you let that guy touch your food though?”



Jared illustrates his point by showing a picture of Mikey, Thomas Bates, Gemini Battle and a young Spencer Adams hugged close together in a screen capture of the group once known as the Dark Riders Gang.



“Fair point.”



The dull laugh comes to a point as the four friends continue to drink their way into the afternoon, the camera fading as they begin to strategize for Hellimination to keep their tactics hidden from the competition, if they could even be known as such.

I: No Room at the Inn (Pt.1.) 

(A Fictitious Pantheon Parody of a Popular Poppycock Production) 

www.youtube.com/watch?v=cueB7j4ZGrM

She said to me, "Go steady on me. 

Won't you tell me what the Wise Men said? 

When they came down from Heaven, 

Smoked nine 'til seven, 

All the shit that they could find, 

But they couldn't escape from you, 

Couldn't be free of you, 

And now they know there's no way out, 

And they're really sorry now for what they've done, 

They were Three Wise Men just trying to have some fun." 

Cast & Crew

Starring (in order of appearance): 

David Sanchez as Narrator 

Jason Cashe as Mary 

Adrian Archer as Joseph 

Crazy J as the Son of Job. 

Oblivion as the Archangel Gabriel (Gablivion) 

Gemini Battle as Innkeeper #1 

Joey Flash as Wise-Man #1 

Jayson Price as Wise-Man #2 

David Sanchez as Wise-Man #3 

Corey Black as the Star of Bethlehem 

Jared Holmes as Innkeeper #2 

Thomas Bates as Innkeeper #3 

2 Miles outside of Bethlehem, Kentucky, United States. 

14 Hours B.P. (Before Pantheon)

 

The Southern sun beats down on the shoulders of our weary travellers as their legs continue to propel them across the state in search of a suitable place to give birth birth to bunk down for the night. It had been thirty nine weeks, and the baby could arrive at any minute but our makeshift Mary and Joseph had thus far found little joy in identifying a hospital which would allow such a strange occurrence to be associated with their maternity ward. Adrian Archer was wrapped in a fleece jacket, the same jacket his father had worn before him, and his grandfather before that (for all the talk of being from wealth his family were actually just a long-line of recycling plant workers who worked their hands bloody for minimum wage.) His shoes had given up a few miles back, his feet now wrapped in crimson patched socks where the blisters had been trampled raw and encased in tied polythene bags from the Seven Eleven. As he powered forwards, another man struggled to keep the pace, his stride more of a waddle than a walk.



Our Mary wasn't quite so willing to keep up the crusade, they had already been walking for seventeen hours and still had an hour to go. Nazareth, Kentucky was not willing to put up with their extraordinary predicament any longer, and so the manager of their fleabag, no-tell motel had tossed them out of their safe haven the previous morning. Jason's flowing locks draped over his shoulders and framed his puffed-out face, the perspiration trickling down his brow like condensation on the side of a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon that either one of them would suck some dick to have in their hand at this moment; their tongues drier than their gimmick. As he struggled to keep pace with his life partner the bump was drawn more into focus, after-all there really wasn't much adieu to keep anyone interested in him for longer than a few seconds.



"Are you managing alright, my squeeze?"



Archer's words were rusty, his throat struggling to even maintain a coating of saliva after walking the seventeen hour journey from Nazareth to the outskirts Bethlehem. Why didn't they just drive you say? Well to that end the answer was simple: neither one of them was talented enough to earn a triple figure salary and cars are expensive in this day and age, and so they were doomed to make the journey on foot, not even a donkey could be acquired for their combined earnings.



"I'm worried my love, I haven't felt the baby move in hours and the contractions have stopped."



A sense of panic accompanied Cash's concern, one which even Archer's delusional optimism couldn't ignore, and so he took to his hands and knees offering his life partner his back so that he may ride him like the proverbial horse for the remainder of their quest. Mulling the offer over in his head for a few seconds, he seen no other way and hopped aboard; his logic working at triple pace to work out that a pregnant man was probably already drawing enough attention, there was no harm in adding to the oddity. Archer's knees buckled a little under the weight of his pregnant manfriend and of course their expectant child, their little miracle: The son of Job.



Was it the immaculate conception? They couldn't be too sure, all those long-nights of huffing adhesives, sleeping underneath other people's stationary automobiles or in discount rate motel rooms after giving a receptionist some form of happy ending had turned their memories into scrambled egg. They certainly couldn't remember the consummation, but that didn't mean it didn't happen; vagina aside - who are we to judge what may or may not have happened during those dark times. As Jason rode Adrian like the jackass he is down the rural plain which led to Bethlehem, cars honking at them and throwing trash from their windows at the utterly bewildering scene they were witnessing, their thoughts drifted back to that fateful night nine months ago where they learned their whole earth-shatteringly boring world was about to change for good, and as they reminisced; we the viewers were treated to a flashback.

------------------------------------------------------------ 

No-Tell Motel, Nazareth, Kentucky, United States 

2'997 Hours B.P. (Before Pantheon) 

The smell of piss and loss was raw, so raw in fact that it was almost enough to make the eyes water as the camera rejoins our not-so-dynamic duo. This time though, there is no bump to speak of, no little miracle in the stomach of Damian Kaine but yet the mood is no less depressing. The inside of their motel room is slapdash, decorated in a variety of mismatched thrift-store furniture with various throws and shawls covering wear, tear and cumstain alike. The single fluorescent light bulb swings overhead, shadeless and left to hang in the breeze coming in from a crack in the window. A phantom whirring noise is soon identified as a busted ass air-conditioning unit humming for it’s buzz in the corner of the room despite the fact that the room temperature is enough so that as Adrian Archer desperately scrubs the shit and blood out of his wrestling trunks from last night’s slaughtering in the opening match of some bullshit independent promotion his breath turns to water vapor upon meeting the air.



“I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up Adrian. Every morning I’m a little more sick and every evening I’m a little more tired… Sometimes I wish I just kept that cherry gig as a bartender, man, Times are tough when you don’t actually have any talent.”



Fighting back his tears whilst kneeling in front of a miniscule, black and white television on the scorched, maroon carpet that had seen more boots than the average rodeo, and probably just as many chalk lines; Cash occupies himself with trying to slap the room’s dead technology into life, banging on the side of the VCR that has haunted this glorified shack since nineteen ninety-five with the palm of his hand. All of a sudden though, the floodgates can’t hold back the waterworks any longer and the tears begin to trickle down his feminine cheeks. Noticing his life-partner’s depression, Adrian rushes to his aid and holds Jason close, forcing his face into his unimpressive pectoral muscles and gripping the back of his head tightly as he weeps.



“Hey… No more tears precious. You think sometimes I don’t wish I was still at the recycling plant, separating shitty diapers from cardboard? Of course I do! I’m telling you though, I’ve got a really good feeling about this Wrestling Championship Federation. They just lost half of their roster and I think the boss is desperate. We could be looking at steady work, and not the kind that involves balls hitting against either of of our chins. No more tears, where’s that smile?”



Before Jason can even flash those crooked, pearly whites though the rickety door to their little slice of hell is sent ajar, seemingly by the wind at first until suddenly a blinding, heavenly light shines through. At first nobody appears, but after a few minutes that last a lifetime, eventually a towering figure stands before them but for a few seconds with one shabby black wing protruding slightly from his left-hand side whilst the other hangs limp at his right-hand side. The angelic behemoth is stationary but for a few moments until he falls forwards less than gracefully, and pulls himself across the tattered carpet whilst gasping for breath; those seven steps leading up to the motel-room door could be a bastard, especially for an ageing angelic being.



The duo of crouching would-be athletes remains kneeling, wrapped in each others warm embrace as their mouths hang open in amazement at what they were witnessing. Finally, whilst desperately trying to catch his breath, the black and red clad pathetic excuse for an angel manages to swing the door closed behind him before turning to Cash and Archer, specifically the former and speaking in a tone of pure evil that just kind of shits on his whole heavenly entrance,



“I am the Archangel Gablivion, and I have been sent to say that you, have been chosen!”



His tears now subsiding, and being replaced by an expression of joyous entitlement. Cash gets to his feet, leaving Archer distraught on the floor.



“Yes! I knew this day would come! I’m a wizard right?”



Gablivion laughs the haunting chuckle of a rapist who just evaded capture by ejaculating in the toilet.



“No! Not even close… You have been chosen to bring forth the Son of Job! You will carry this child in your man-womb and lead this world into an age of substandard entertainment the likes of which planet earth has never seen.”



Archer now gets to his feet, wiping his eyes in disbelief as an elated Jason Cash rubs his belly, half-expecting to feel the baby kick already.



“Wait, are you trying to tell me we’re pregnant?”



“No.. Not you and him. Him and… You know what it’s really not important. IT has sent me to inform you that you must do everything in your power to prepare this world for the coming of your son. The spawn will be named Crazy J, and he has been proclaimed by IT itself to usher in a new day, a day so dull and lackluster that even a couple of fuccbois like you two can get over. We’re talking triple figures for life boys…. Chicken AND Waffles.”



Ardian and Jason share another cuddle, this one a lot less Brokeback Mountain and a lot more An Officer and a Gentleman. Taking extra care not damage their little miracle.



“We’re having a baby!”



“I’ve been dreaming of this day since I was a little girl… I mean boy, whatever…”



Gablivion gives the happy couple a creepy smile before turning around and making for the exit. Muttering as he leaves.



“They will try to put an end to this. They will mock you and ridicule you. They will try everything to drag the world back into a time where success leaned on talent and ability; but you must not let them! Some of us have jobs depending on this shit, so get it done or I’ll… I dunno, kick a puppy or something.”



With that he vanishes, well not exactly vanishes but he takes some fragile half-steps towards the door and closes it behind him on the third or fourth attempt before collapsing on the landing outside as the two members of Zero Tolerance ironically Nay-Nay in the room before the flashback fades away and we are taken back to the current day.

----------------------------------------------------- 

Porch of “The Losing Battle Hotel,” Bethlehem, Kentucky, United States. 

11 Hours B.P. (Before Pantheon) 

When we catch back up with our star-crossed lovers they are gathering their breath on the porch of a seedy, looking, wood-panel house after having knocked the door some ten minutes ago, only to hear the sound of something being dragged from inside the house. Cash clutches a foundation pillar, desperately looking to keep himself supported as the baby; their one chance at relevance wriggles around inside his swollen belly. Archer is seen to grow more frustrated the longer the door remains unanswered; because let’s face it, he’s a bit of a dick.



After a what seems like a lifetime, but is really only five minutes (hey, mistakes can be made when you’re just a lovestruck fool on a porch in Kentucky) the door swings open and a man in clown-paint answers the door with a puzzled expression on his face, because what the fuck; it’s a pregnant man and his semi-sophisticated looking sidekick with carrier bags on his feet.



“Uhhh… can I help you?”



He asked the question, already knowing the answer. He couldn’t help anyone; shit, he couldn’t even help himself, he just kept jumping back under the metaphorical bus and allowing it to drag him back to obscurity.



“We seen the vacancy sign in your window, and we were just wondering if there was any chance we could rent a room? We have the money, we’ve been saving for weeks, sleeping rough and exclusively eating the praise of uneducated morons.”



The innkeeper looked at them both, scanning them up and down as though he were measuring them for a suit and tie without any actual physical contact. As he looked though, he too was drawn to the bump, or more specifically the child inside it.



“I had a kid once... I like kids.”



Both Adrian and Jason smiled thinking that this common ground may be enough to secure them a place to sleep for the night; perhaps even a meal that didn’t consist of apple cores and the applause of idiots. The more this strangely dressed innkeeper stared though, the weirder the vibe became, and soon it was evident that there was sinister happenings afoot; as if the audible screams from inside, the facepaint and the necklace constructed purely out of Corey Black action figures wasn’t enough.



“So, um… Is it okay if we stay?”



Still staring at the unborn savior of those doomed to spend eternity in mediocrity, the landlord spoke once more, this time in a tone that set Cash’s teeth on edge, to the point that his inflated hormones caused him to burst into tears.



“You can’t… the child however… The child can stay.”



“I...d-dont think s-so. We c-come as… a… f-family.”



Replied Cash between sobs, his soulmate comforting him with gentle pats on the back.



“Then I’m afraid we have no room here for the likes of you; I bid you… Adieu.”



The door was quickly slammed by this ridiculous looking specimen, and the vacancy sign immediately replaced by one which read ‘replacement children only.’ Such was becoming their luck. Who would ever have thought that a pregnant man and his life partner would have such difficult finding a place to hunker down for the night after an eighteen hour crusade from Nazareth where they were verbally abused by man and beast alike for the entire trip? Not this guy anyway, this guy believes in America.



Dis-heartened and shunned, the two members of Zero Tolerance, and potential parents of a new breed of absolutely abysmal professional wrestling let out a tandem sigh and began to walk back down the long and winding road, further into Bethlehem. As he walked and his partner shuffled like some kind of peckerwood penguin, Adrian tried his best to comfort Cash with what little enthusiasm he had left; after-all even he now could sense that the world was against them, berating them. Ultimately hoping that something better would come along.



“Don’t worry sweetheart, there’s plenty more places in this town and one of them’s gotta be desperate enough to let us in. Just keep your chin up babydoll. We’ll get there in the end; we have to for little J; he’s our only hope.”

------------------------------------------- 

Route 18 (Burlington Pike,) Lexington, Kentucky, United States 

11 Hours A.P.C.S. (After Pantheon Changed Shit) 

“Why in the fuck did we have to carpool?”



“It’s team-building, don’t you just feel the camaraderie?”



“I feel like I’m going to strike you if you play one more Taylor Swift song.”



“My iPhone, my music.”



“Sanchez, you fucking spic cunt, tell him to share...”



The scene opens to a traffic jam on Route Eighteen in the heart of Kentucky, or to be more accurate inside of a vehicle which holds three members of Pantheon. In the front and driving is Jayson Price, to the left in the passenger seat; Joey Flash - the two locked in a debate over music and why exactly they have opted to share a vehicle when they can all more than afford to drive separately or be driven. Finally behind them, lying across the two back seats with his eyes glazed and drool leaking from his mouth is David Sanchez, having won another game of ‘find the vein’ after the three stopped at a gas station twenty or so miles back.



“He’s dead to the world, fucking junkie.”



“I’m going to count that as vote for Tay-Tay.”



“Will you fuck.”



Flash pulls his seatbelt forward so that he can stretch around behind him and unscrews a bottle of spring water, pouring the contents over the head of his new ally. Shocked and soaked back into the land of the living, David blinks heavily and rolls his sleeves up as if it would somehow hide the fact that he was vegetating after having injected some kind of opiate half an hour ago. He rubs at his bloodshot eyes and wipes the water from his face but by the time he can make out what is happening. The world has drifted into a blur. Instead of Flash and Price, he sees only the clear night sky. It’s lone-occupant: one bright as fuck star with the face of Corey Black.



“Oh hey dude, what’s cracking?”



The star swoops closer to him, with long black hair somehow following it like a trail of stardust.



“David, you must lead them to Bethlehem. Something is happening, I can feel it in my star-bones. The invaders, they are growing ever so slightly stronger.”



Rubbing his eyes again, still unsure if he is tripping or dreaming, or if he has actually transcended into some dimension where the solar system is voiced by and resembles the World Champion, David responds in a sleepy manner.



“Isn’t that in like… Jerusalem or something? Seems an awfully long way to go, can’t we just like… I dunno, leave them to it? I’m high as shit and it’s not like they’re actually getting taken seriously anyway.”



The bedazzled, floating Corey Black glares at David before responding.



“Not that Bethlehem David, the Bethlehem right here Kentucky. A man-child is about to be born that will dress like one of those fucking juggalo things, having already dropped out of high-school and somehow manage to win a championship. You must take the other to him and shower this abomination with cheap fucking bullshit from the trunk of the car. They will take this as a kindness, and in winning their trust you will let them know that their age of awkwardness and mediocrity will never flourish whilst Pantheon is around.”



“So you want us to drive to some hillbilly town in buttfuck nowhere, to give some guys we hate random shit from the trunk of the car?”



“Pretty much.”



Satisfied he doesn’t actually have to venture to Jerusalem, David nods his acceptance just in time to feel a dull thud on the side of the face as Flash hits him with an open hand for muttering incomprehensible nonsense. Just like, that the night sky has vanished, and with it has Corey Black. Replaced instead by the face of Joseph Malignaggi and the sound of road-rage riddled car horns battling against Taylor Swift’s shrill voice.



“Are you with us yet, ya fuccin cunt? Tell this dickhead to change the album.”



Shaking his head in disbelief, David blinks heavily once more before speaking to his allies in what could only have come across as further nonsense.



“We must make tracks for Bethlehem, Corey has spoken to me in a dream.”



“... Uhhhhhh.”



Price doesn’t exactly immediately agree and stop the car because well, he’s a dick.



“I’m being serious, something is about to happen, and if we don’t get there soon… We’re just going to have to give some other cunt the undeserved rub on live television.”



It is Flash who responds this time.



“Over my dead body, I just had to wrestle Jay Omega for ten minutes. Step on it Coma Price!”



…”We’re in fucking traffic you dumbass.”



The three men sit up straight in the car, determined not to have to waste their talents on another pointless cause and patiently wait for the road to clear. Funnily enough, after a minute or so, all three men are tapping their foot to Taylor Swift.

------------------------------------------------------- 

“Holmes Away From Home Hotel,” Bethlehem, Kentucky, United States 

15 Hours A.P.C.S. (After Pantheon Changed Shit) 

“What… the fuck.”



The young innkeeper spoke to them after only looking around from his phone for a few seconds and immediately took a picture of the two weirdos in front of him without asking permission, because well… If you hadn’t guessed it, Jared’s a bit of a dick to. Are you starting to see a pattern here? Don’t worry if you’re not, we really don’t expect a lot from you guys.Just nod and agree, pretend you understand, we won’t judge you for it… We’ve got lots of other shit to mock you for without splitting hairs.



“Can we please trouble you for a room, or at least a glass of water for my partner. He’s nine months pregnant.”



Again the young innkeeper peers around from his phone for not but a few seconds before responding.



“No. Fuck off.”



With that he takes his leave but not before hanging a sign which reads ‘no jobbers allowed’ over the front door handle and stepping back inside the stately manor which erupts back into a party the moment the door is closed. Cash and archer wallow in their misery for a moment before heading back down the cobbled road which had taken them to the house. It had been another night of sleeping rough; spooning under the stars in a wooded park. It might have been romantic if the man-contractions hadn’t started just after midnight. Time was running out, they only had one more place to try and the owner wasn’t exactly known to be the most accepting of anything other than heterosexual, flag-waving, white males. Archer swallowed the lump in his throat and tried once more to console his beloved partner.



“We’re running out of time. This last place has to work or I’m just going to have to lay you down, spread your legs and get up in there. We can’t risk prolonging it any longer; our very livelihood depends on this child.”



Cash sniffs and groans his way through another contraction. Thankfully they had peered through the window of a community center where birthing classes were being taught so he knew the breathing exercises.



“I’m starting to have doubts Adrian, what if this baby is just another mouth to feed? Another useless waste of skin we have to carry? We can barely carry one another anymore. How do we know that guy was even an angel? He smelled like gasoline and orphan’s tears.”



“They don’t call me magnificent for nothing honey. I’ve got a gut-feeling on this one. I know he’s going to make a difference. We need this baby, he is going to change things. Just think if there’s three of us, they just have to give us a belt. The Trios division is weak as fuck.”



With a smile, Jason’s faith is restored. He takes his partner by the hand and the two walk down the street, their sights set on the last house on the left. A grey building with a Confederate flag waving in the breeze. This was it for them the final shot to make themselves something that mattered, and so they entered the gate and waded through the fields of mud and dead careers that could only be associated with one Thomas Uriel Bates, the daddy of all things meaningless and their one hope of being anything more than an afterthought.



Emotionally crippled from the shun of one Jared Holmes, they continued onward - knowing all-the-while that this last resort was just that. This was their destination, it had to be. Angels, after-all; no matter their wingspan were angels after-all.



“Can I help you?”



A deep voice came from behind the door before it opened, the Innkeeper had already expressed his judgement, but alas this was their only hope to make the baby a living, breathing entity like they themselves had failed to be for so long.



“My partner and I seek refuge, he is going to give birth at any minute and hospitals will not entertain our likeness.”



A pause, and a static noise.



“Why didn’t you say so. Usually I’m against same-sex relations but I can feel by the baby inside of you that this is the way it is meant to be. That being said, all of my rooms are currently occupied by hateful elderly gentlemen who may try and skin you alive.”



Cashe knew this had to be it, he had felt his waters break the moment they had heard his booming voice. A hulking arm however reached through a small gap in the door which now appeared before them, the third innkeeper handing them a rusty old key which Archer pockets before even enquiring what it opened.



“There’s a shack around the back that you can use for the night. Tommy Bates wouldn’t see a fine couple like the two of you just roaming the streets. A lot of people around here might not take too kindly to whatever’s going on here. There’s a few donkeys and a chicken in there too, A guy called Mikey used to do unspeakable things out there with those poor beasts but that aside he was a pretty neat guy. Anyway, y’all make yourselves at home out there y’hear.”

------------------------------------------
F a d e T o R e a l i t y

----------------------

City Library, Printer's Row, Chicago, United States

22:45, Saturday, October 15th

Reality slips back around the camera lens to show Sanchez relaxed in the warm embrace of a red velvet armchair. A fireplace roars in the background as he closes the book from which he had been reading loud, lights a cigarette and leans into focus.

"Will our crusaders manage to bring Crazy J into the world safely?

Will Bates really allow a same-sex partnership to represent his cause?

Will Oblivion get his groove back?

The answers to these questions and much more on the the next instalment of Zero Relevence TV."

David takes a deep draw from his cigarette and exhales the smoke before offering his final thoughts to the camera.

"Until then... Gentlemen I offer you these thoughts to consider as we await tomorrow evenings little encounter:

Why would you even agree to this match? A week after becoming the Trios champions, you decide it would be a wise move to go up against three of the best? It just doesn't make sense to me; why make yourselves look strong one week only to make yourselves look like kids with big dreams and low standards the very next week?


Just a little something-something to think about after you peel yourselves up from the floor and begin to ponder the same thing.


Sleep tight, kids".