His partner is not so quiet -- a short, stocky man with a thick, bushy beard. The boiled leather of the second man's breastplate squeaks in protest as he lumbers forward, hands flexing around the handle of a wide-bladed axe. 'I canna unnerstan' why the boy willnae shut 'is mouth, Cal,' the bearded man says. ''Sfine ta do 'at inna town, but we're in the bloody country an' the boy's screamin' 'is fool head off? Gonna attract stuff with all'at -- '
From the distance, there is a thunderous cry. Well, as thunderous as a small voice can be.
'BRING ME EVIL TO FIGHT!' the shouter screams.
'Oi, hell, 'e's at it again. Can't we jus' stab 'im a li'l?'
The horse Calithiel is leading stops in place, picking up its front hooves and stepping backwards. It shakes its mane, and Cal steps forward, laying a gloved hand on the horse's neck. As he leans down to whisper softly to the equine, the thin man swipes off his dark brown hood, revealing deep green hair, purple eyes like glittering amethysts, and the tapered points of his elven ears
'What's wrong with yer damn -- '
'BRING ME EVIL TO FIIIIIIIGHT!' the lone voice in the woods nearby screams.
'Oi! Must 'e scream so bloody much?'
Suddenly, Calithiel stops in place, falling to a knee and squinting those gleaming eyes into the misty evening. 'Silence, Ezekiel!' he hisses. 'There are orcs about!'
A black-fletched arrow whizzes through the air, past the elf and the dwarf and into the forest -- towards the shouter.
As the elf reaches behind him for the quiver of arrows strapped to his back, his shoulders slump forward. 'Aw, man -- '
'Aw, man.' The man in the Duke University polo shirt tugged on his collar (the signal for speaking out of character), picking up a crystalline twenty-sided dice from the table. 'Will you just turn that damn phone of yours off?'
Cambrian Cambridge looked like nothing so much as the bastard lovechild of Beaker and Harry Potter, his pompadour curling in front of his horned rim eyeglasses. 'Shut up, Larry,' he said.
'I'm serious, Brian.' Across the table from Larry, a blond kid grabbed a trio of Cheetos, funneling them into his mouth. We'll call him Frank. 'Ever since you met that Nikki girl, you haven't spent nearly any time with us.'
'Nah, dude,' Larry corrected. 'It's this latest job. Since he started working for The Man, Bri-Bri has become sort of a dickface. Did you forget where you came from?'
'Someplace where a hundred and fifty grand a year means a goddamn lot,' Cambrian muttered as he hooked the Bluetooth over his left ear. 'Now shut up or I'm totally siccing the gargantuan green dragon on you.' The lanky man in the white t-shirt pressed a button on the side of the tiny headset. 'This is Cambrian.' He stood up, striding briskly across the room to his desktop.
The muttering continued in the background.
'Man, we're third level! Curtis's cleric hasn't even got -- '
The sound of a toilet flushing reached the table. 'Phew! Did he have Bigby shout the phrase?'
'BRING ME EVIL TO FIGHT!' the three of them shouted, more or less in unison.
Meanwhile, Cambrian nodded, speaking softly. 'I understand. I'm pulling it up now.' He reached out, pulling his mouse's cursor over to a small picture of a world with a fox at the bottom. The browser opened, and the man's long fingers flew across the keyboard. 'Yeah, I see it. I'll book a flight for her now. Give me just a second, though.'
Reaching up, he tugged the thing off his ear. 'Guys, I've got a work emergency. Gonna have to postpone the fight.'
'Aw, man,' Larry said.
Curtis frowned as he slumped back in the chair. 'Can't you tell them to wait a half-hour?'
'Yeah, man,' Frank said. 'Me and Larry are planning these awesome double-team moves! Who says dwarves and elves can't -- '
'No,' Cambrian said forcefully. 'Go home. I'll call you tomorrow.'
The thin man heard his friends packing (sullenly, he figured, considering how much they were slamming their books into their backpacks). He didn't turn back or apologize; for one, the guys would forgive him (they always did).
For another, Cambrian Cambridge was one of those guys that, when he hunkered down to do something, the rest of the world seemed to disappear. It happened when you loved your work, and it was easy to love your work when you got paid as much as Alexandra Pierce paid him.
Posted by Daniel Wilcox on 411mania.com on 05.17.2008
- Reports have surfaced out of San Francisco, California that Hunter Sabuani collapsed after his May 12th victory for the PTC Infinite Gauntlet over new GCW superstar Jacob McKail. Sabuani, reportedly still suffering the aftereffects of the Driver-DDT given to him by BloodAngel on the April 11th Temptation, was rushed to a local area hospital for evaluation, and will be seeing specialists in the near future for his post-concussion syndrome. It remains to be seen how this affects the new champion in his upcoming match against Chris Storm of Banned & Exiled~! and John Reed.
Kathryn Shaw had several talents that God gave her, and several more that thousands of dollars in plastic surgery enhanced. One of the former was an almost predatory sense of the male ego; one of the latter was arguably the most fantastic set of breasts in the entire sport of professional wrestling.
For years, Shaw had been billed as the 'Sex Kitten,' a nickname (originally insulting) born from her ring name of 'Katsidy,' but one that she'd found incredibly amusing. Her opponents (both in the ring and out) often overlooked the tawny-haired woman, in large part due to the single-minded focus of her skillset. In a group like the one Alexandra Pierce put together, being 'the slut' meant you should have been a second-class citizen.
People rarely made that mistake twice -- there was a reason Kathryn Shaw was Alex Pierce's right hand, and it didn't stem from her magnificent cleavage.
Well. It didn't stem solely from her magnificent cleavage.
On the nineteenth of May, Kathryn Shaw rented a 2005 Ford Taurus at Chicago O'Hare from Avis Car Rental (pearly blue), which was idling in the Mercy Hospital & Medical Center parking lot as she touched up her eye makeup. A hands-free headset hung from her left ear.
'Trust me, it's the perfect choice,' she said, leaning toward the mirror as she curled her wrist, applying mascara to long lashes. 'There won't be a dry eye in the house.' Sitting back in the seat, Kathryn screwed the brush back into the black bottle, tossing it into her carnation pink cosmetics bag. 'Mm. Madison still hasn't given him space for air but... I hope he's not still pissed.'
She flipped the mirror closed, nodding even though the person she was speaking with couldn't see it, as a sudden smile slipped across her lips. 'I'm telling you... you tell me where Storm and Windsor are staying and I'll take care of the rest. 'No, hon, I don't have a damn clue how those panties got in my breast pocket. Please, stop hitting me in the face.'' Shaw slid thin cat's-eye glasses over her nose and up to her eyes, smirking slightly. 'Oh, fine. It'd still be -- oh, good, here he is. Talk to you later, kid.'
The great thing about being a successful professional wrestler is... well, there are a lot of great things about being a successful professional wrestler, let's not kid ourselves. One of the best things about being, say, the PrimeTime Central Infinite Gauntlet Champion was one's ability call in doctors who did not practice in the vicinity of one's current location.
So, for a moment, say you're Hunter Sabuani.
Pretty cool feeling, huh, having won yourself the ridiculously badass-named Infinite Gauntlet against a guy like Jacob McKail, huh? Your first title since you won the NWC Tag Team Championships the day that Alexandra Pierce closed the Council. But that was a tagteam championship, and to be honest... you've never thought much of that stuff.
Now you're the champion, and being the champion is cool (because you get to say things like 'I'm the motherfucking champion, bitches!'), but it's also a pain in the dick because it turns out the Gauntlet that's in the title's name is not a snazzy knight's glove that you can punch loudmouth pricks in the face with, but, rather, a reference to you constantly having to defend it.
See, you get headaches now.
Not all the time, mind you, and not crippling ones. But they're there more often than they're not since Eddie Lambert spiked you on your head, and McKail's Intensity spinebuster? Yeah, it kind of sucked.
Mads (who is totally around all the time, which you pretend to hate, but, let's be honest some more, you guys totally still love each other, so why are you even playing around?) got in touch with the PTC people. She made it clear (and by 'clear,' we mean 'She yelled a lot') that she wanted a brain trauma specialist in Chicago before she would even think of signing off on his defense of the Gauntlet against someone who'd 'been a fucking champion for a year.' (You remember those words specifically.) The folk over at the PTC (once you figure their ears stopped ringing), in turn, got in touch with some hotshot hot shit in the southwestern United States, which suited you just fine, since you trusted that neck of the woods more than the East Coast.
Which was why they were wheeling you down the hallway at the Mercy Hospital and Medical Center to meet with this Dr. Reece Thomas and have done with it.
Because really? The best part about being a successful professional wrestler is the same thing as the best part about being a poor, nobody professional wrestler: listening to the crowd chant your name.
The doctor's office was well-appointed, with a soft palette picture of a sailboat hung from the wall behind the brown examining table that Hunter Sabuani lied upon, his fingers interlaced and covering his eyes. He hadn't slept much in the last few weeks -- the doctors would blame the post-concussion syndrome, but in truth, he never really slept a whole lot.
The blonde sitting next to him knew enough to know when her ex-husband was falling asleep, and she stayed silent, allowing him a few moments of peace. A small smile -- so small you'd have to be looking for it to notice it -- slid over Madison Sinclair's face as she watched him rest.
Sabuani's solace didn't last for very long, however, as a soft knock preceded the entrance of a slight-framed woman with dishwater blonde hair and not even the slightest bit of a smile on her face.
'Mr. Sabuani,' she said, and Madison breathed a quiet sigh of relief, as too many doctors had butchered Hunter's last name in the last few weeks. 'Mr. Sabuani? I'm Dr. Reece Thomas -- I've been asked to give you a checkup.'
'Can't he just sleep for a few minutes?' Madi asked hopefully.
'I'm afraid I'm due back on a plane to Salt Lake in, like, two and a half hours, ma'am,' Dr. Thomas said. 'I've got a patient there with a severe trauma.'
'Oh.' Madison nodded, gathering her pale pink lip into her teeth. 'Fine, you can wake him, but you've got to do something for his sleep problems.'
'We'll see what we can do.'
'Hunter?' Madi asked. 'Hunter, Dr. Thomas is here.'
'Nng.' Slowly, his hands separated, crystalline blue-green eyes blinking drowsily. 'Ah, goddammit.'
The doctor's smile was small and it was short-lived. 'Let's get you sat up here, sir. Why don't you tell me what the -- '
A low-pitched brrrrrrt sound came from Madi's hip as she watched Dr. Thomas pull out that light with rapt eyes. Brrrrt. Brrrrrt. The doctor gave her a sidelong glance as she flicked a penlight into the eyes of the man they called the Raja of Roguishness.
'Aren't you going to answer that, miss?' Dr. Thomas asked.
'It can go to voicemail.'
'Mads, answer the phone. It could be...' The doctor squeezed his temples; he objected with a soft-voiced 'Ah!' in the back of his throat. 'It could be, y'know, your boss.' His eyes squinched shut.
The doctor's ministrations paused slightly as Madison slipped the iPhone from its holster, her lips curling into a frown. 'I so blame you for cursing me. I haven't heard from her in a couple weeks, and she calls when you mention her? I'm telling you, she's got superpowers.' She tapped the 'Answer' button on the screen with one nail. 'One second,' she said into the mouthpiece as she shot Dr. Thomas a short, apologetic smile. 'I'm sorry about this.'
'It's not a problem,' the doctor said distractedly, seemingly not even paying attention. 'I hope to have a diagnosis when you return.'
Madison was already on her way to the door. 'Thanks. If you can convince him to stop taking wrestling matches until he's better, that'd be great, too.'
'Not fuckin' likely,' he said airily.
The woman they used to call 'The Babe We Wanna Bang' bumped her way out into the hallway with a sigh of mock disgust.
It has been said that Alexandra Pierce has an umbrella, and that umbrella reaches as far as the eye can see in all directions. That the woman who has, quite simply, terrorized Sin City Championship Wrestling for the last four months has people in places, triggers that can be pulled at the right time. Pierce herself famously once said that 'one out of five' of then-FUSE's employees would one day end up working for her.
As you might imagine, this can create quite a payroll headache -- how do you pay that many people under the table? How do you organize the blackmail material -- and the potential for blackmail material -- across countless fronts at the same time?
It's 2008; you let a computer program do this kind of thing for you, of course. It's a specially designed database that houses the majority of the Spider in the Web's plans, a database maintained by a gentleman by the name of Cambrian Cambridge.
One of the things in this database is a list of doctors who specialize in treating in various illnesses and injuries.
One of the names on this list was Reece Thomas.
Tires squealed against the pavement.
The car lurched forward, perfectly in control, but seemingly out of it as it plowed into the side of a 2006 Mercedes. The impact was jarring; the sedan's airbag deployed, and, even though the driver was expecting the impact, it still shook her up.
She'd T-boned the luxury vehicle, though not at a high enough rate of speed to seriously injure either parties. It did serve to stop the two cars, however, which was good, because the driver of the sedan was out of the car immediately, standing shakily as she leaned against the car. The driver of the Mercedes clambered out a moment later, in better shape physically, if not mentally.
'Are you insane?' he demanded. 'You plowed right into the side of my car!'
The man was African-American, perhaps in his early thirties. She looked over to him through the cracked lenses of her eyeglasses, a frown coming to her lips.
'I plowed into you?' She forced a laugh. 'That's rich. I had the right of way; you weren't even looking when you turned!'
'I was paying very close attent--'
'If you were playing very close attention, then how did you miss that I was running into you?' She pointed a burgundy-nailed finger in his direction. 'I could have been injured.'
'You can't always get out of the way of these things, lady.' He glanced at his wrist. 'Look, I really have to get inside.'
'No, we have to wait for the police and exchange insurance information. I'm very sorry that you not having any idea that a big goddamn car was coming is an imposition, and I'm honestly not interested in suing you or anything, but my insurance company is going to have a fit.'
'Look, lady.' The man flashed his best, brightest, most make-'em-weak-in-the-knees smile. 'Can't I just give you my card? I'm a doctor, and I'm not going to shirk whatever responsibility it's determined I have in here. But I'm being paid an obscene amount of money to be here today and I'd really like to not be late for my appointment.'
'Fine, you know... whatever.' She threw up her hands in surrender, walking towards the man, left hand extended. 'I just want you to remember how great I'm being.'
He frowned slightly at the sight of a wedding ring on the brunette's fourth finger. (Hey, a guy can dream and she was cute.) The man slid his hand into his breast pocket, leaning against his car.
This left him unprepared when the woman brushed her hand against his neck. It was gentle; her fingers were warm and --
'Ow,' the man said, putting his fingers to his throat as she retracted her hand. 'Did a bee just...'
The man stumbled forward, falling into the waiting arms of the woman, who cooed quietly into his ear, 'Shh, hon -- it's okay. Just take a short nap, hrm?'
Wait, let's edit that sentence for clarity.
Dr. Reece Thomas stumbled forward, falling into the waiting arms of Kathryn Shaw, who cooed quietly into his ear, 'Shh, hon -- it's okay. Just take a short nap, hrm?'
A blue van, paint flecking off the door, arrived onto the scene mere seconds later, and Katsidy foisted her burden into the back of the van.
Two tow trucks followed in a few minutes to clean up the mess.
His name was Curtis Hale and he was very close friend of Cambrian Cambridge -- had been since the two were students at MIT. They'd been through a lot, Curtis and Cambrian (yes, in the '90s, they called themselves the 'C&C Code Factory,' and, yes, this meant they were horrible, horrible geeks -- what of it?).
In their sophomore year of college, Cambrian started what had since become an epic Dungeons & Dragons campaign, and on a crazy lark, Curtis had created a character named Bigby. His name was Bigby Notthatbigby, gnomish priest of Garl Glittergold and the wielder of Splendiferous, the Mighty Mean Mace of Mount Doom. Bigby was a hit with his friends, from his propensity for renaming people into 'more interesting' names to his desire to shout 'BRING ME EVIL TO FIGHT!' whenever Curtis was bored of walking randomly through the wilderness.
Since his graduation from MIT, Curtis had stayed in touch with Cambrian and the gang, but it wasn't just their friendship that had brought them together for more beer-and-pretzels D&D.
When Curtis stopped his car at his apartment complex, he heard the rolling wheel of a stars-and-stripes lighter flick before the tiny little orange flame illuminated the bland face of the Thin Man -- Curtis didn't know his name, so he gave him that nickname. He'd also call him 'Duster,' from the long leather coat the Thin Man wore practically all the time.
'So,' the Thin Man said.
'So,' Curtis answered.
'How's your friend?'
'He's... he's good. I still don't see why -- '
'I didn't ask you to.' The Thin Man took a long drag from his cigarette. 'Anything about the girl he's dating?'
'It's none of the faces you've shown me.'
The thin man's face became a morass of lines as he frowned. 'She's expanded her operation since then. Don't worry about faces, just worry about people. I want everything you've got.'
'Yeah, I know you do.' Curtis was irritated -- they said no game is better than bad game, and tonight was definitely bad game. 'Why is Brian so damn important, anyway?'
The Thin Man's shoulders blurred in a shrug. 'I don't see how that concerns you. Have a good night, Curtis. Bring me evil to fight.'
Nearly three years ago, the Thin Man -- Jonas Stryker -- knocked on the door of Hunter Sabuani and Madison Justice's home and made them an offer they, quite frankly, should have refused.
Nearly three years ago, Jonas Stryker began the slow destruction of Alex Pierce.
Still didn't mean dealing with people like Curtis made him comfortable.
The woman whose name was not Reece Thomas flicked dark eyes up the moment the door was solidly closed. 'You were never going to call home again, were you?'
Sabuani's eyes widened. He slid off the examining table, stepping to his feet. His lips crooked ruefully. 'Lauren?'
''Hi, Lauren, great to see you, how's 'Lexi, how's Kat?'' the woman asked mockingly. ''Did you hear I won this title thing that Lexi set up for me? Super grateful for that.'
Lauren Fox was the star pupil of Alexandra Pierce and the stepsister of Kathryn Shaw, and, what's worse, she was a believer. Shaw might speak the words, Pierce might plot the plans, but Lauren believed that what they were doing was right.
'Look,' Hunter said. 'I've been kind of busy.'
'Busy,' Fox repeated. 'Don't you dare forget what we've done for you.'
'I remember it, Foxy. I remember it all. These fuckin' headaches, they started when Eddie dropped me on my head. On a given day, that fucker might be able to do it once. Helps a little bit when I'm already fuckin' out from Jay Bridden's flippy-do DDT. Except I watch the next show an' I see that Briddy works for... her. So I lay in the bed and I moan a lot and I wonder how much'a that was 'Lexi's idea.'
'Oh, because she wants to wrestle Lambert herself? Because she didn't want you to drop McKail with the Perfect Ending?'
Hunter snorted. 'Alex Pierce doesn't give a shit about Jakey McKail any more than she cares about Chris Storm. They're both annoying motherfuckers to her, but what matters is people what say no to her. She's a petulant goddamn child.'
'You realize the PTC sent Reece Thomas out here to make sure you were up to wrestling, and all I have to do is send a recommendation that you shouldn't, and that pretty little title of yours goes away, right? Goes to legitimize some annoying guy who's more interested in getting Football & Lesbians -- '
'Tilde Exclamation Point.'
'Than wrestling?'
'That's his partner,' Hunter said immediately. 'Storm's the talented one.'
'Whatev,' Lauren shook her head. 'You know I don't pay attention to that shit. I will ask that you kindly watch your tongue when it comes to Alexandra.'
'Do you guys ever get sick of being five steps ahead?'
Her smile was short. 'Not really.'
'Look,' Hunter said. 'We both know I'm comin' back to Sin City -- '
'Smitty's doctors aren't as sold on that as the PTC's -- '
Hunter repeated himself. 'We both know that I'm coming back to Sin City.'
'Most likely, yeah,' Lauren admitted.
'So long as I get to kick Briddy's teeth out once and drop Eddie on his head, like, a hundred and nineteen times, we'll be fine.'
'Alexandra is fond of Jadian, and Julissa has shown -- '
Sabuani held up a hand to stay Fox's continued argument. 'For now, let's pretend we're on the same side. Find me a way to beat Chrissy Storm without Mads bein' all, 'Hunnnnnnter!' and then we'll talk.'
Lauren Fox was a lot of things -- she was conniving, she was a fanatic, she was a little bit broken inside.
But she was not stupid, and she knew how valuable Hunter Sabuani could be.
'Done and done.'
It was the eighth time Hunter Sabuani had made a deal with wrestling's version of the devil. But he liked to consider himself the sport's version of a name collector; not only was he Adam Warlock (or Thanos!) with the Infinite Gauntlet in his possession, he was also Daniel Webster, because he'd gotten out of each and every one of them.
Several weeks ago, Jonathan Rhine had made a date to meet with Katie Malick at an Indianapolis coffee house, until Ms. Malick had a minor car accident that caused her to doubt the cause for the meeting.
Several weeks ago, Edward Lambert had an SCCW Universal Championship match denied him, as the Idaho State Athletic Commission heard an impassioned plea against letting the terminally ill BloodAngel wrestle in the state.
Several weeks ago, then-PRIME Universal Champion Lindsay Troy left SCCW Snake Eyes, only to be kidnapped by a madwoman and have her identity stolen -- an act that caused so many others, like dominos falling.
Several years ago, the National Wrestling Council as an entity ceased to be with the stroke of a pen clutched in a gloved hand.
Somewhere in a dark room, the mastermind of these acts and so many more sits on a plush leather computer chair before three separate desktops, even though sunlight was starting to leak into the sky.
Several years ago, a thin man in an old leather duster recruited a two-time world champion to a crazy, perhaps even risky, scheme to end the woman's tyranny over the lives of everyone who crosses her path.
The consequences of Jonas Stryker's plan succeeding would be noteworthy.
The consequences of it failing would be tragic.
Bring me evil to fight, indeed.