The handcuffs were clamped tight, the cold steel digging into the skin of his wrists.

Sitting in the back of the unmarked police cruiser, being transferred from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh so he could be booked with assault, Clinton Sage sat contemplating the turn of events that put him in this predicament.

If you really want to call it a predicament, he thought. Fucking Jonathan Rhine and his branded cunt of a girlfriend. And Clinton’s own name flanking each side of that said cunt, her skin still undoubtedly sensitive to the touch and pink as if Clinton himself had ravaged her in the throes of passion. Katie Malick would never forget his name, even if she had the tattoo removed, and Clinton figured that was just about as good as any night of sex could have ever been. In her mind, his name is now immortal alongside that of her parents, probably her first pet, and undoubtedly her best friend. The names that stay with you throughout the years, as they’ve had some sort of emotional impact on your life.

Clinton smiled at the thought of his name entering that hallowed ground. The handcuffs dug into his wrists, which throbbed continually, as he shifted his position in the back seat. On the other side of the partition, a uniformed officer was silently navigating the cruiser through the darkened night. No moon hung in the sky, and a bitter chill had swept in from the north over the last day.

The world wasn’t silvered in moonlight, but instead, limitless with darkness. The highway vanished into a bleak realm past where the headlights sliced into it. The woods passing by on each side of the cruiser were miles upon thousands of miles deep during these lightless hours, yet during daylight they could probably only be separating the highway from a row of residential homes a mere 20 feet past.

He had been angry as it was happening, watching Rhine take pleasure in Clinton’s own embarrassment. The thought of being on national television and not being the one in control had thrown Clinton into a fit of rage. He felt stupid, but only for a few mere seconds, because frankly everyone has their moments when they slip up. Coincidentally, Rhine had his, he just didn’t know it yet. He wouldn’t know it, no, not yet.

Not yet.

Bound behind him in rings of steel, Clinton could feel small cuts and abrasions surrounding his wrists. Initially his anger had compelled him to attempt to snap out of them, as they appeared so small and easily escapable, but quickly the ripping of his skin and the searing pain that shot up his arms and soared throughout his body vanquished that thought.

Two little steel cuffs, so small and so silly, had slightly humbled Clinton Sage.

He wondered if Jonathan Rhine would ever enter that revered group of names in Katie Malick’s mind. Was he that boyfriend that every girl remembered? Was he the equivalent of Michele Thornton to Katie the way Michele was to Clinton? The prized possession. The soul in which you are going to spend your dwindling days.

The love of your life.

Clinton knew he’d be in Katie’s life forever, either tattooed between her whorish thighs or definitely the name that gave her chills every time a man went down on her, trying to send her into ecstasy but ultimately asking her where those two matching scars came from between her thighs.

“I had a tattoo removed” Clinton heard Katie say, in his mind.

And that would be the moment Clinton would win, and always win. Because there was always going to be a barrier between the closeness of two people in the throes of intimacy, and the pleasure she could gain from it. Always a barrier.

Clinton Sage. Scarring the flesh, scarring the soul.

Wind buffeted the police cruiser, shifting it slightly in the empty highway. Clinton figured it had to be past 3am, possibly closer to 4am. The drive from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh would take nearly 8 hours, give or take an hour depending on traffic. And the night was as restless as Clinton’s mind. Another gust shoved the car sideways a foot, before the officer corrected it.

The policeman in the driver’s seat cursed under his breath, barely audible above the wind beating against the car and the silence the partition between the front and back of the car would provide.

“How’d you get hooked into being my escort service for the evening?” Clinton snickered, watching the eyes of the policeman in the rear-view mirror. They were orange, reflecting the dashboard lights.

The cop took his gaze away from the road for a second, narrowed his eyes as he studied Clinton, and then returned them to the passing asphalt. He didn’t speak for a minute, unsure if he should even engage Clinton.

Clinton knew he would. Nobody ever could resist. It was a gift, much like his natural ability to demolish everyone inside the squared circle and make it look easy.

“It’s my first year on the job,” the cop finally replied, “I guess I do all the grunt work. And nobody wants to be that guy escorting a criminal from Philly to Pittsburgh.”

“Is that how you view me? A criminal?”

“You’re the one in cuffs, aren’t you?”

Clinton nodded his head, as he hadn’t thought of it like that. There were times where Clinton knew he was breaking the law, but in each and every one of those times he had gotten away with it. Hell, the last time he had been in the back of a police cruiser it was because Pennsylvania’s most notorious serial killer had requested his presence, not because he was being charged with a crime. But that was two years ago, and my oh my, how things change.

He was now immortal to Katie Malick, that bitch. Her stained flesh made Clinton smile once again, “I suppose so.”

“I’m surprised that more of you wrestler’s don’t press charges against your opponents. I mean, essentially you’re viciously attacking each other on live television each and every week.”

Clinton interrupted, chuckling at the rookie’s stupidity, “Might as well charge Evander Holyfield and Lennox Lewis then, or Chuck Liddell. We may be bashing each other over the head, but it’s all part of the job. Are you charged with murder when you shoot someone?”

The cop sat silent, his eyes never leaving the road. The cruiser sped down the highway, carving away the darkness.

“They never allow the sort of escalation that your sport does, though.”

“I suppose you have a point,” Clinton agreed. He stared out at the endless darkness. It reminded him of a Stephen King novel, darkness closing in all around him. A bleakness about the land.

He smiled.

“Did you always want to be a wrestler?” the cop asked, his eyes finally shooting up to the rear-view mirror for a split second as he awaited Clinton’s response.

“Actually, no I didn’t. I wanted to be a spy when I was a kid.”

Now it was the officer’s turn to laugh, and it wasn’t subtle. It was either his enjoyment of Clinton’s childhood dream or the wind, because the car was shoved sideways again on the road. Clinton’s muscles tensed and the cuffs once again dug into the skin of his wrists.

He was sure he felt blood trickling down to his fingertips. His jaw clenched in anger, and the image of choking the police officer to death with his own handcuffs flashed before his eyes for no more than a fraction of a second.

Shaking his head, he regained composure. The cop hadn’t seen his momentary rage.

“Laugh all you want, but it was something I had wanted to do.”

“So the mighty wrestler wanted to be James Bond, eh?”

“I suppose you’ve always wanted to be a police officer, then? Surely by your car control, you were destined to become a world champion race car driver…”

“Actually, it runs in the family. Third generation Philly PD, Officer Alexander Law. And yes, you’re free to cut one of your asshole promos on the fact that I’m an officer and have the last name of Law.”

Clinton sat silent for a moment, contemplating if it was wise to take such action.

“So why’d you want to be a spy?”

“I’ve always liked the idea of being the one in control of an uncontrollable situation. Pulling the wool over someone else’s eyes, and not having them realize it. Having there be a greater goal, a bigger mission, than what was right in front of you.”

The cop sat in silence.

Clinton continued, “I always had the fantasy of being the good guy playing the bad guy. Or the bad guy playing the good guy. Deception is one of the most underrated aspects of life, Officer Law.”

To Clinton’s surprise, he noticed the officer nodding his head along with Clinton’s thought.

Officer Law’s eyes darted back to the mirror, for a dangerously long amount of time, “So why didn’t you? You know, do the spy thing. Your whole dream of deception.”

Behind him, the night sky started to purple with the rising sun. Somewhere over the edge of the Atlantic, the day was arriving. It was much later in the night than Clinton had expected.

“Well?” the cop persisted, his detective skills obviously far greater than his driving.

“Someone else beat me to it.” Clinton said, smiling.

* * * * *

Clinton Sage decided to wait a few hours before making his one phone call, fearing that Michele would be asleep. She was probably the only person that would willingly drive out to Pittsburgh and bail him out.

Actually, slightly less than willingly. Clinton smiled at the thought as he dialed her number, with the time now easily past 9am.

The phone rang twice before she picked up, “Hello?”

”I am the author,” Clinton whispered, getting right into the mind-control program.

“And I am the book.” Michele replied, her voice lacking any emotion. It was flat and uninteresting, and Clinton could see in his own mind’s eye her blank stare as she held the phone.

“As you probably already know,” Clinton started, “I’ve been arrested and transferred to Pittsburgh. They are going to be charging me with assault, and undoubtedly setting my bail somewhere in the range of, well I don’t even fucking know. I need you to drive out here and bring money with you.”

Michele Thornton, his beautiful girlfriend with her brown hair undoubtedly tied back in a ponytail behind her head, stood in silence on the other end of the receiver.

“I have a safe in my bedroom. It’s underneath the bed, so you’ll have to slide that out of the way. Take out forty thousand, which should be plenty. Then drive my Corvette out to Pittsburgh, and get me out of this fucking hellhole. Do you understand what I’ve told you?”

”I understand.”

“It’ll take you about 6 hours to get here. Speed. If a cop pulls you over, bribe him. Just get me out of this fucking prison. And as you’re driving out here, I want you to build up a small hatred for your father, as this was his fault.” Clinton ordered into the phone, knowing the last part wasn’t true. But he didn’t care.

It was time to end the loving father/daughter relationship between FUSE CEO Smitty Duluth and his beloved Michele.

“It won’t be huge at first, but it’ll grow. Just be upset with him when you get here. I should be charged and booked by the time you arrive. And bring me a change of fucking clothes, too. Is that understood?”

“It is understood.” She replied, sounding lifeless.

“When you hang up the phone, you’ll stand there for five seconds before doing what I’ve told you to do. But right now, tell me you love me.”

”I love you.”

Clinton smiled, “Put a little desire in your voice. Tell me you love me with some conviction.”

The lifeless voice was gone, and there seemed to be lust buried within those three words, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Clinton replied, and hung up the phone. Michele would be in Pittsburgh no later than 4pm, and Clinton figured he might as well get the gang together once he was released. He started to think back to last night’s events, even the one that he wasn’t there for.

The revelation of Jacob McKail as The Scourge.

Indeed, tomorrow, the gang would be together. The whole gang.

* * * * *

Even though he had spent less than a day behind bars, freedom felt wonderful to Clinton Sage. Michele had arrived just as he had ordered her to, and posted bail for him to be released. Immediately, he had placed a phone call to Lane Stevens, who had then called Jacob and Raul and Jeb to meet him at Philadelphia International Airport immediately.

Their plane landed in Wisconsin 3 hours later, where they met up with Clinton in a small town that nobody would ever guessed housed one of the most hated men the world never knew. Saul drove the limo with the entire collection of The Affliction inside, sans Lane’s agent and Michele herself.

Clinton had ordered her to drive the Corvette back to Pennsylvania, and prepare for his return. He also had asked for her hatred against her father to be put into use by leaving him a curse-laden voicemail.

The limousine arrived at the hospital a little after dinner, where all six men stepped out and took in the brisk autumn air. Much cooler than Pennsylvania, but nothing too cold to shock the breath out of a person’s lungs.

Each man stood in silence, even Lane Stevens, as they ascended to the fourth floor of the hospital and made their way down the hallway. Jeb Stewart waved kindly at the nurses on duty, and Jacob McKail held the mask of The Scourge in his right fist. Clinton Sage, himself, followed as Lane and Saul opened the door to the hospital room and stepped in. El Diablo stepped in last, his hands clasped at the small of his back.

Lane was always lacking humor in these situations. There was always that one person who took a comedian and turned him to stone. The one person who took the gentle giant, and turned him into an uncontrollable weapon of destruction. The one person who was a master at deception.

The one person who had undoubtedly dreamt of it since his own childhood, and unlike Clinton, had actually turned his life into one big lie.

When the hospital door clicked shut, The Affliction looked down at their leader, who still had trouble breathing on his own.

His left eye was still swollen shut from the attack a few weeks prior, apparently the eye-socket had been fractured. His left arm hung off the bed slightly in a sling. There was no morphine drip, even though the extent of his injuries would suggest one be present.

Jacob McKail nodded his head, and held out the mask of The Scourge.

Artur Marx smiled back, unable to nod his head because of his injuries, but he smiled back. His voice was battered and broken, “Wonderful.”

If only they knew they had been betrayed on so many more levels.

If only they knew.

* * * * *