Along a dark and deserted highway, nary a streetlight seen for miles, sits an old Victorian style mansion.
Resting atop a hill, it hung over the surrounding town like an unrelenting shadow, darkening even the town’s brightest days.
A wrought iron and stonework fence surrounds a snow covered lawn that stretched on for what must seem an eternity for any soul unfortunate enough to walk the shovelled cobblestone servant’s path.
Dating back to the early days of the eighteenth century, this had been the ancestral home of Wendi’s family for generations.
Cold and imposing, it is hard to imagine much joy or mirth coming from inside of the ivory, trimmed in black, monolith.
A tribute to the architecture of its day, four spire-like peaks bring the roof up to meet at odd and precarious angles, each trimmed with a decorative spiralling molding and creating the appearance of a miniature castle.
A fifth and central spire climbed higher than the rest, a menacing stone gargoyle stood guard atop a grand glassed sitting room from which one could look out across the sprawling countryside. Yet every window had its curtains drawn tightly shut.
Transitioning inside, it was a vastly different story. The smell of old leather bound books assaulted the nostrils. The scarce lighting reveals an entrance that leads to a grand foyer.
Cathedral ceilings made way for a chandelier that would have been exquisite in it’s time, but now housed a collection of cobwebs thick enough to stop a bullet.
“Good evening…” The voice of a young girl echoes through the musty air. “…on behalf of
it and Conquest Wrestling Federation, I’d like to start by saying how sorry we are for what is about to transpire.”
Starting at the fourth floor, the lavishly decorated staircase split outward before us, doubling back upon itself to meet at the bottom.
The drab black and white of a monochrome schoolgirl uniform serves to only drain more colour from the pale girl wearing it.
The dark braids that framed each side of her face hung to her chest. It was Wendi, holder of the leash that controlled Legendary Wrestling Alliance’s first ever Legendary Champion, DemoniK.
It, as always, was a ghastly sight.
It’s shredded black clothing, blackened eyes and wild, matted hair.
And, of course, the mask. The stuff of nightmares, hanging flesh and open wounds. Some argued the girl simply beat and cut DemoniK before each match. So grotesque in it’s construction, it was practically a piece of art.
Wendi takes the left path, her pet and protector…the right.
“It really is such an unpleasant way to introduce ourselves to a new audience.” The condescension positively drips from her words as she simply seems to materialize before the staircase. “Here we come, like the monsters we are. Walking in your front door waving our invitation in your collective faces.”
Taking her time, the ever-proper young lady uses the handrail, her hand leaving streaks in the dust. Step by step, she’s measured, even. It was unnerving to see such age and poise in one so young.
“If you’re going to be the villain, you may as well revel in it don’t you think? Even though this isn’t the main event, all of Intense International Wrestling will be watching as my creature DemoniK enters your world. And who did they send? Was it their precious Champion, John Cavanagh? The man who narrowly escaped
it at Festival of Fights? Was it him?” Continuing to slowly descend the stairs, floor boards creek and groan, but she doesn’t give even a wayward glance to DemoniK. So supremely confident is she that her pet will follow her instructions.
“No.” Her answer echoes. Hollow and mocking, it is the answer of someone who knows something you do not. “No it was not. And that, should be telling. The so-called best among you crossed paths with
it, but didn’t take this match. That should tell you all something.”
IIW World. Champion, John Cavanagh did indeed cross paths with DemoniK in the finals of the Festival of Fights, the outcome of which was obvious by this contest. Still, it was not Cavanagh the creature defeated. Why then did Cavanagh not volunteer? Why then would he not attempt to avenge, if not his direct loss, then his defeat in the Legendary Championship Tournament?
Leaving just a moment for contemplation, the diminutive handler of the monster of Conquest Wrestling Federation exhales in frustration. “But no, instead we have you Mr. Debonair.” Her pause is laced with disappointment. “Still, I expected more from the IIW professed Champion of all of the United Kingdom.”
Stair after stair, she continues. Her creature matching her cadence. “I bet you couldn’t name five cities in the UK if your life depended on it. That’s right. We’ve looked at you.” Reaching the bottom, she’s joined in short order by her protector.
“You’re noise, Mr. Debonair. That’s all as best I can tell.” Pausing, Wendi paces a few steps to her left, then to her right before adding. “You probably expect me to say I’ll have
it silence you and end the world’s collective misery in having to listen to your benign babbling and boasting, but oh the contrary. I actually plan to amplify your noise. I plan to make it as loud as humanly possible.
It shall make your screams ring from Dublin all the way to the cliffs of Moher.”
Stood before her pet, she muses raising an eyebrow. “In a way, I envy you. You are about to learn something you only get to learn once in your lifetime. You’re about to find out exactly where you break. You’re going to know the exact moment you failed to defeat
it. And you get to do so in front of all your peers! Isn’t that delightful?”
For a an instant the chalky skinned girl seems to smile at the thought of what her pet will do to Fred Debonair on IIW’s flagship show. “Yes, delight will be taken in your misery, your anguish…and ultimately, your failure. Because make no mistake Mr. Debonair, you…like those who have come before you, will fail.
It doesn’t belong to IIW,
it doesn’t care that you carry a ‘I can’t defeat John Cavanagh’ consolation prize in the IIW United Kingdom Championship.
It. Your status as the third favourite son of IIW can’t save you now.”
Clearly mocking Debonair’s status as UK Champion, Wendi has only just begun. “No, when IIW signed you up to face
it, they gave you an opportunity to carry their banner and be the one to bring the fledgling flame that is the LWA Legendary Championship back to their fold. But that’s not why you’re here, is it Mr. Debonair?”
Rolling her ‘r’, the proprietor of the mansion from hell sucks her teeth. “No, you’re no Prometheus. You’re no bringer of fire. You’re not one to sacrifice of yourself to better your fellow man. No, you’re here for yourself. No one else. Just you. You only care about this championship because it adds to your fame and your self perceived glory. That, and it might make you relevant to John Cavanagh once more.”
Referring to Debonair’s failure to capture the IIW World Championship from Incumbent Cavanagh, Wendi finds herself thinking aloud. “You’re incredibly transparent for a supposed veteran.”
Clearly unimpressed as
it looks over her shoulder, her voice is as steady as a metronome. “And this is why you’ll fail to defeat
it. You simply do not have the heart it requires Mr. Debonair.”
Stated as though it were fact, as though she’d said the sky was blue or that grass was green, she simply moves on as though she wasn’t insulting a highly decorated champion. “You won’t be able to dig deep enough to outlast it, it will be all you can do to survive. You don’t have the selflessness required to make the sacrifices necessary to defeat
it. Too vain, too arrogant, too cocky. That’s why you fail, you believe your own hype. You really do believe you’re the best. Look at DemoniK, look at
it. Really take a moment to take in your opponent.”
Cocking her head slightly to the side, the movement is sudden and wooden as she ponders. “Think about it Mr. Debonair. Do you really think
it cares how
it looks? Do you think
it cares what you or the other supposed stars of IIW think? Or, for that matter, do you think
it cares how
it wins?”
Removing uncertainty from the equation, her answer to her own question is a flat, dry…final. “Of course not.”
No DemoniK wouldn’t care how
it won, or what
it did to poor Fred Debonair in the process. The very thing most picked at, was actually
it’s greatest strength. Wendi.
Having Wendi serve as controller and the beast’s conscience, on the surface seemed a fool’s decision. Until closely examined.
Wendi was no ordinary eight year old girl, she was highly intelligent and thanks to a life lived in seclusion, her mind had developed its animalistic functions first. Survival was held above all else. Meaning her charge,
it, was little more than an animal.
Starved and beaten, then unleashed to feed upon whatever unfortunate soul stood across from
it. DemoniK lived a strange life, one of a pit bull bred only to fight. A life of seemingly penanced servitude, constantly at the beck and call of
it’s small master.
“
It cares about what I tell
it to care about.” Confirming our suspicions, Wendi continues. “Pain, suffering, misery. These aren’t buzz words or threats to
it, they are instructions. Lessons to be taught to you Mr. Debonair. Lessons to be taught to all of IIW and any who would dare challenge my pet. Yes, Mayhem will be appropriately named for once as my pet single handedly lays siege to an entire promotion. Because what is mere Mayhem when you come from a War-Zone? So send Fred Debonair, send John Cavanagh, Caleb Scott, Joe Montuori, send any of your darlings and watch in horror as
it cleaves through them…one by one.”
Leaving the area before her savage, inching towards the door, our time together was drawing to a close it seemed. Ushering us out, we pass an old photograph hanging in a dusty frame amid ancient floral wallpaper that had seen its best days eons before Wendi’s tender years.
There would be nothing spectacular about the photo of it weren’t for its subjects. Plain as daylight, Wendi and her protector are stood before the very same staircase prior to what was obviously a significant remodel.
“Fred Debonair, you’re not special. You’re not first, and you’re certainly not last. You’re simply, next. You will serve as the collective moment they realize that Festival of Fights was no fluke. The moment they all curse under their breath over when my creature undeniably and soundly defeats you, because the truth is, the pressure is on you Mr. Debonair. This is your home court and here we come about to destroy all you should hold dear.
it may be champion, but you stand to lose something far more valuable. The respect of your peers when you fail and they all whisper behind your back ‘I bet I would have beat
it’. Yes they’ll all talk about how you let some Halloween gag led by an eight year old wipe the mat with you, how when you had the chance to show the world what you and IIW were made of…you failed.”
The word ‘failed’ seems to hang upon the dust filled air until the true demon of this pair finished her words.
“You’re noise Fred, colour and sound and nothing more.”