Warrior Of The Dead: Day One

[Crow McMorris]

I'm like my zombies. I won't stay dead! 

George A. Romero

Ḋ Ḁ Y ῼ N Ë

He looked like Stan Lee with a beard. Those over-sized glasses perched upon a small, inconspicuous frame. His stature physically was unremarkable but you could tell just by listening to him that his mind was a raging firestorm of ideas. Focused on reflecting the world back upon us though his long time shambling metaphors; each new and interesting chapter of his mythos unlocked another corner of his world of the dead. For a few short months I inhabited that world, and grew rich from it. It was the perfect fit.

The name’s Crow McMorris. I haven’t wrestled a competition like this in a long time. Lately I’ve been ploughing my trade as an actor. When the world knows you can’t be killed it makes you a celebrity in the weirdest ways. I died two years ago in front of 60 million viewers worldwide. When I returned half a year later to fight Odin Balfore and my murderer, Bobby Cairo over the erupting mouth of Mount Poonsuvius, there was no secrets left to hide. Just answers to deliver. So I did.

I imagine by now you’re busy recapping the news reports on you tube and the network specials at the WCF web site. How my resurrection had thrown out the physiological rule book. Destroyed countless religions, while simultaneously creating dangerous new ones. I wasn’t a wrestler anymore now. I was an epoch. So I did what any Zombie Messiah might do, I went Hollywood and got myself an agent.

Am I any good? Gabe seems to think so. And there’s no denying that my, “The Crow Reborn” reboot was better than it had any right to be. 87% on Rotten Tomatoes a year on from general release is a solid start to an acting career. Then of course, the floodgates opened. You can imagine the scripts. “Zombie Cop on the edge”, “Zombie Cowboy defends homestead”, “Zombie Pimp and his wheelchair bound dance troupe of troubled teens.” “Here’s the twist, Crow...you’re alive, but Dwayne, he’s dead!” Yeah, no thanks. As the percentage points from my New Line deal laced my wallet with greenbacks I took to hugging the curvatures of Laurel Canyon on the back of my purring Harley and waited for Sundance to roll on by, hoping for some decent auditions. That’s when the call came. From George.

By then he was too ill to direct, but he wanted me attached to his latest script. “Warrior of the Dead”. It was ludicrous and perfect in equal measure. I added my own input and was graciously offered a co-credit which I had no right to take, but did on Romero’s insistence.

Hours before George’s death the deal went through with Annapurna. We had ourselves a franchise. First option on Director. Creative control. It was the package a man like Romero had deserved for such a long time.

Twenty four hours later George is gone and I’m here in Panama City. My girlfriend, Taylor Lorde, is out shopping. She’s easy company. I enjoy her light moods. it’s a useful distraction from the hate I bury.

Oh, and George is here too in the hotel room with me, silently watching me set up a camera to record my promo for round one of King of the Deathmatch. They named it after him as a crass cash in I suspect. But now George is curious. The man is dead and still doing research.

Just your typical Monday for a bonafide Zombie.

I set up a chair and start. I can sense some shoot rust but I shake it off. This new generation needs a wake up call. And here I am to deliver.

“Sup, Udy? This is Crow. The King of the D.M. Tonight I’m your host on a warm Floridian evening as you’re ushered, kicking and screaming, into the second age of the Murder Machine. I promise you, you’re in for an interesting seven days opposite me. They’re going to be long and arduous encounters. Memorable in such interesting ways. While there’s time I want you to look around, “Demon Wolf”, look up at that burning West Coast sky as it bakes and sears your flesh. See that Sun? It’s mine. I own it. It rises over my ring. When it sets? It sets on the accelerated twilight of your useless fucking career. You see, the wheel turns, Udy, and tonight you’re about to be broken upon it’s spokes. I call that progress, the evolution of the ladder match by one of it’s true maestros. This is my specialty. I’m the man who faced Oblivion inside the heart of a raging inferno and prospered. I’m your six-eight, two sixty pound assassin. A human bulldozer who fought week in and out for six months straight to defend a WCF People’s Championship in a run without a loss. That run was supposed to be my first step on a peerless career. But it was cut short; the ending to my symphony was stolen from me, Udy. Now though? The conductor has returned, and I’m eager for you to know what that means.”

George gestures to raise my voice. It’s disconcerting to be honest.

“Let’s use a name as an example. Oblivion. Yes, the supposed God of insanity. His cheap shot is probably ringing like a fire truck through the back of your skull right now. Lister used to be the stuff of nightmares back in the day. Now though? IT conjures nothing but a lobotomized nostalgia act. Jakob Lister truly was once a force of nature, imperious and fearsome. That was until he was humbled and tore to shreds week in and out by yours truly. Oblivion dissected you last night in that Hardcore match on Slam as you pin-balled between Andre Holmes and Oath Breaker. But in my era? He was nothing but a grovelling worm at my feet, eating super-kicks for target practice. To you however? He’s your arch nemesis, your Moriarty at the Reichenbach falls. Broadway via a trip to hell. Yet when I see the Monster? He’s nothing but a “whatever happened to?” and a Murder of Crows while I yawn.”

No George, I don’t think actually yawning is necessary.

“Is the picture starting to take shape? Tonight as your apprehensive six-dead two hundred pound cruiser-weight waste of space shell marches to its pathetic conclusion I want you to take comfort in the fact that this match will be short. My sadistic tendencies are in reserve for one Wade Moor. That fat fuck is the target that I’m here to crush. A death-match is the perfect Carte Blanche for me to cave his fucking plebeian skull in as Bitter Blue cries herself a river. I’m not even going to play coy about that fact. I’m here to kill Wade Moor and skin that fucking Crow tattoo off his chest and hang it like an old glory over my Hollywood mansion. Yeah, that’s right. Crow’s gone West Coast. You’re on my turf, now. This is my crowd. Expect boos over the ambulance sirens as they approach your shattered corpse. I’m hoping they drown out your screams in truth, in case kids are watching.”

Thumbs up. He’s enjoying it.

“That picture, Udy. It must seem familiar. Every step you’ve taken in this business since day one has been a pointless stumble. A win-less blunder as the weak link of The Extreme Wolves. As the joke in Television title matches. As the clown in meaningless curtain jerks. While the Crow? He dances. Heavy boots curb stomping skin and bone. The Anvil and the Hammer has returned. Tonight, you’re going to struggle within my grip on top of that ladder. It will be a pointless display though. Eventually I’ll tire of your mid card bed-wetting and simply silence your tears with a Crow Breaker. That’s how I roll, pup. I bust beta bitches like you open with a smile. Don’t get me wrong though, I don’t harbor any hate for ya. You’re simply a victim stranded in my path. Just a statistic from those oh so scary lost woods notched upon a run off my ladder. You’re an obstacle set in my way to test my resolve and forge my purpose. Toe tagged and dumped as the old Gnome and Fenris shed a tear a thousand miles away, cowering from my towering shadow; searching desperately for your old Jey "The Wolf" Ryland passport and book you a red eye back to 2015 where you fucking belong.”

Romero’s not a fan of my swearing I think. Terrific, now I have a spectral censor on my case.

“You’re a millennial wrestler with a canine fetish so I don’t expect you to do any homework for this match. It’s a loss for you anyway so why bother? Here’s a quick recap though to make you feel better: I’m unkillable. They tried. They plotted and schemed and threw me to my death, but the ground couldn’t hold me. Death has no dominion over me now. I don’t stop. I heal faster than you. Your recovery process would be months, mine is minutes. It’s a family trait if you didn’t guess. Pops is all about Conquer the hate? Me? I conquer opponents. Consider yourself subjugated and dissected for a three points and a chuckle.”

“This tournament, Udy honors the memory of one George A. Romero; the father of the modern zombie genre. George once said: “I always thought of the zombies as being about revolution, one generation consuming the next.” Tonight, the class of 2015 consumes the dregs of 2017 and spits out their bones across Panama city like a fountain.”

“In seven days I’ll have become King. While you, Udy? You won’t even know which way is up. Doesn’t matter though, the choice is immaterial because I’ve already made the decision for you. You’re a loser, Udy. A lame pet crying for it’s kennel. Prepare to be muted and left in a dumpster to die, so you tube can offer you an outcry and take you in as a stray.”

“Caw. Caw”.

I stop the cam and upload it to Seth and his cohorts. This has been a very strange day.

Fade Out.