One might think that a member of the Dead Man’s Hand would not be the sort of talent that would be sought after for an autograph session.

Generally, one would be correct. Experience, however, told owners of comic shops and other such establishments that the bad guys drew crowds. Sure, the Lance Marshalls and the Jonathan Rhines of the world would bring in the biggest bucks, but when you couldn’t draw in the mainstream fan, drawing in the counter-culture fan was a viable backup option.

That, then, was why Phillip Kennedy was holding court before an admittedly impressive line of Sinners at Off the Page, a Boston-area comic shop. Clad in a pair of jeans and a Dead Man’s Hand t-shirt, and wielding a black Sharpie, the Big Stack was signing everything from action figures to programs, and dispensing wisdom and one-liners in his own, unique way.

“You’re the fuckin’ man!” one exuberant fan yelled, throwing an arm around the Big Stack’s shoulder as his girlfriend snapped a shot of them on her digital camera. “Damn straight,” was Kennedy’s reply, shaking hands with the man who soon after retreated to give the next fan in line his turn.

On one level, it amused Phillip greatly that the Dead Man’s Hand had fans. Groupies, even, if he so chose…but with Kathryn Shaw around, the need for groupies was somewhere between zero and negative three. Still, their presence was a sort of reminder that he’d made it in Sin City.

By no means were the Hand backers a majority of the crowd. They weren’t even a sizeable minority, probably only about five percent whose screams and exhortations would be drowned out by a fanbase horrified that anyone could cheer people as purely reprehensible as Desade’s army.

Still, that five percent was good for a hundred or so fans over the course of two hours. Kennedy could see his agent, David Walter Smith, waiting patiently outside the door for the signing to be over, but Phillip couldn’t bring himself to hurry himself through the last few fans. He wanted to soak it up, every last drop. Remind himself that he’s a big shot. Remind himself that never again will he be some no-named kid trying to make a living in poker or wrestling with no hope of success.

Another couple of pictures and signatures later, and Phillip shook hands with the shop owner. The money had already changed hands, given to Mr. Smith to hold onto and deposit on Kennedy’s behalf at a later time. With business taken care of, he exited the comic shop, closing the door behind him as he fell into lockstep with the suit clad David Smith.

“It never ceases to amaze me that people show up to meet you,” the agent stated, leading Phillip over to a limousine waiting to whisk Kennedy off to his next appointment.

“Why’s that, big man,” the still exultant Kennedy asked, sauntering to the vehicle. “Can’t accept that people with black hats have fans too?”

“You guys aren’t just some schmucks with black hats,” David groused, opening the door to the passenger’s seat of the limo. Kennedy slid inside, followed by the agent. “You’re the Taliban of the wrestling world.”

“Hey now,” Phillip retorted, opening the fridge of the limo and coming out with a can of Coke, “I prefer to think of us as the KGB of professional wrestling. We don’t have crazy religious beliefs.”

“Point still stands even WITH that analogy,” Smith insists, as the limo takes off down the street. “You persecute people for no good reason and send them to the gulag when they stand against you.”

“I don’t quite think Ms. Pierce is Stalin,” Kennedy replied, leaning back in the limo with a contented smile on his face.

“That’s because you work for her,” the former Logic explained, “and you’ve gained more than anyone else in this company because of your decision to do so.”

The look of “how do you figure” on Kennedy’s face was only there for scant seconds before the ever-intellectual David Walter Smith launched into his continued explanation.

“You’re a rookie. Been in the sport less than a few months. Lost your first match, and then at SIN on SPIKE, Katsidy gets her hooks into you. Few weeks later, and you’re a full-fledged member of the Dead Man’s Hand, with all the privileges of membership. You’re one half of the Strength in Numbers Champions, representing the Hand and company on a giant interfed PPV against two ten year plus veterans in this sport, and almost no one thinks you’re a total underdog. I think that’s pretty damned good, myself.”

“Yeah, it is pretty damned good. But give me SOME credit. Geez. I beat the freakin’ BloodAngel.”

His new catchphrase, that.

“You did, with some cheating from Lovecraft and Katsidy.”

“They got sent to the back before the match was over, David,” Phillip grinned. “And I still won.”

“Because you’ve got about ten chains in your pants.”

“So?”

David shrugged, shaking his head. “Am I the only person on Earth who is concerned about the possibility that these outlaws might either turn on you or get you in serious trouble?”

Phillip Kennedy took a swig of his soda, and nodded.“Yup. Sure seems that way to me.”

“These people are dangerous, Phillip,” David said, voice as severe as he could make it. “I do not mean simply in professional wrestling. Desade has interests all over the world. If you want an indication of that, look at your partner.”

“What about Mr. Lovecraft,” Kennedy asked, with a shrug of his own.

“Mr. Lovecraft is not here simply because he was a world tag team champion in several organizations years ago,” David offered, as if the fact was totally obvious and Kennedy was sort of a moron for not realizing it. “He has connections in the political world. He is beholden to Ms. Pierce. That is why he is here. If she wanted simply a partner for you, there are far more capable athletes in the world that could be brought in.”

Phillip sighed, crushing the empty soda can in his fist. “I appreciate the concern, David, but I’ll be fine. I’ve thought of all of this stuff. I don’t lose any sleep at night. Besides which, weren’t you a bit of a dick for a while in your career? You turned out alright.”

The once-Logic frowned for a moment. “No, Phillip. I did not turn out alright. In no way did I turn out alright.” The super-size crutches in the limousine’s trunk made that point to David quite clearly. “I have two torn ligaments in my knee to remind me of that fact.”

Seemingly, the statement triggers something in Phillip Kennedy’s admittedly fuzzy memory. “You never did tell me what the Hell happened in any kind of detail, Mr. Smith,”

“Long story short…I was tired of being taken advantage of,” David began, with a heavy heart. “I tried to be a decent man early on, and was taken advantage of by Lindsay Troy, several years ago.”

“Same one that the Hand’s going to battle against this week?”

“The same. It destroyed my career, to be honest. And then I showed up in PRIME, years later, vowing not to be taken advantage of. And I used that to perpetuate atrocities. I wrongly accused Killean Sirrajn of abusing illegal substances, though I didn’t know it was wrongly at the time. And I maimed Crucifix’s face because I believed him not fit for society. He took his revenge on me, a revenge that has put me in these crutches or in my wheelchair for at least another six months before I may begin rehabilitation. A year of pain for me versus a lifetime of anguish for him. I’d say that it worked out well for me in the end…”

Kennedy looked at his agent, more serious than Phillip had ever seen the other man. “You will get hurt, Phil,” David continued. “Maybe by Sean Sterling. Maybe by Edward Lambert. Maybe by Lance Marshall. Someone along the line will come for you, even if the Hand itself does not.”

“I’m well aware that someone’ll come for me,” Kennedy retorted. “I’ve picked a fight with Sean Sterling. I know what I’ve gotten myself into. But unlike you, I’ve got a Dead Man’s Hand at my back. I’m part of an army that doesn’t know retreat or surrender. And I’m part of an army that is going to march into your old home promotion and wipe the floor with it.”

The remainder of the limousine ride was silent, with Kennedy considering his agent to be overworried, and Smith considering his client to be both arrogant and naïve.

The only sound in the limo could not be heard by either passenger, for it occurred up front as the limousine driver made a quick right turn into the parking lot of a Marriott hotel.

“Mr. Lovecraft,” the limo driver spoke, into his cellular telephone. “We have arrived. Mr. Smith is proving…difficult once again. I would advise that you speak with your partner. He does not seem to be corrupted, though.”

At his brunch table at Allie’s American Grill inside the hotel, Reginald V. Lovecraft hung up his phone, tucking it into the breast pocket of his red suit. If nothing else, it seemed, the Big Stack was becoming more and more indoctrinated. The agent Smith was an annoyance, as he always had been.

Desade would likely be pleased to hear, though, that his influence over Kennedy seemed to be shrinking by the moment.

~~~~ II ~~~~

Even at a table of two, the impeccably dressed Reginald V. Lovecraft still held court.

Across from the Elder Statesman sat the far less well-dressed Phillip Kennedy. Each man had a glass of orange juice in front of them, along with a mug of coffee. In front of Lovecraft sat a double-stack of pancakes, covered with blueberry syrup. In front of Kennedy sat a mushroom, bacon, and cheddar cheese omelette. Both men were enjoying their meals, though with Lovecraft around, pleasure and business were never too far divorced.

“How was the autograph session,” Lovecraft began, innocently enough. Small talk was a damnable necessity of his line of work, and over twenty-five plus years in the political arena, he had refined it to a form of performance art.

“Went well,” Kennedy began, reaching for the carafe of orange juice between them and topping off his glass. “Lots of Dead Man’s Hand fans showed up.”

“Good,” the elder man said, a thin smile on his face. “You appear to be one of our more marketable members. This must also be pleasing Mr. Smith…”

It was what a lawyer would call a leading question. And like a witness without proper advisement, Kennedy blundered onwards.

“Mr. Smith and I aren’t on the best of terms right now, to be quite honest,” Phillip replied, as Reginald hid his smile. “He’s always so worried about me.”

“As well he should be,” Lovecraft replied. “You are his meal ticket, and rather inexperienced in this line of work.”

“Ugh,” Kennedy retorted, taking a forkful of omelette. “Will ANYONE treat me like an adult today?”

“Probably not,” Lovecraft chuckled. “It is a big week for the Dead Man’s Hand, with Cataclysm on the horizon. And I, as per usual, am here to make sure that you do not screw up.”

“When have I *ever* screwed up,” Kennedy demanded, as Lovecraft sipped his coffee. “I’d say I’ve done a pretty damned good job so far as a member.”

“You absolutely have,” Reginald stated, picking his words carefully before moving on. “Though even I must admit that there is some question among us as to whether or not it is luck-based.”

The angry look on his partner’s face prompted a quick amending. “That is nothing against you, Mr. Kennedy, I assure you.” Lovecraft nodded, before continuing on with the ever important task of massaging Phil’s ego. “You have risen..rather quickly through the ranks, both of SCCW and the Hand itself. You are a wunderkind. You are battling Jay Draven and Sean Sterling in SCCW, and Team VIAGRA in PRIME. These are not responsibilities that we entrust to just anyone.”

Kennedy sighed, audibly. “I know, I know. Just wish I was taking on Lindsay Troy and her squad of baboons instead of two guys who sell snow and hair removal cream. Bridden’s in that match, and I *beat* him.”

Lovecraft looked at the Big Stack, flashbacks of his old partner coming to his mind. He’s even more ambitious than Powell was, Lovecraft observed. Ambition was good, but it also had to be checked. Kennedy, so far, had been a team player, and it was that team to which Lovecraft appealed.

“You and I are the Strength in Numbers Champions, Phillip,” Reginald lectured. “It is only natural that we be put against PRIME’s best tag team from the standpoint of management. As for Mr. Bridden, I will not make any statements about him versus you, except to state that his placement in that match is not in any way an indication that we think more highly of him than of you. It is a matter of numbers. We have Desade, Mayhem, and Xavier Kannon. If we placed you on the team, Bridden and myself would not have a contest on the event. This way allows us to maximize Hand exposure.”

Slowly, Phillip nodded. “I guess I can understand that.”

“Please do not take it as a slight, Phillip. We are all quite impressed with you, from myself, to Ms. Fox and Ms. Shaw, all the way to the top.”

“I appreciate that,” Kennedy responded. “Just wish I didn’t feel like my comrades in arms didn’t like me much.”

Lovecraft paused for a moment. “What makes you believe that?”

“Well, Bridden tried to screw me over in the Heaven & Hell qualify—“

“Bridden was not aware of the unique situation at hand,” Lovecraft replied. “Remember, you were not yet officially a member, though you may have been one de facto. Also remember that Jadian is young and ambitious, much like yourself. And before you even say it, Mayhem does not especially like ANYONE much.”

“You know, that does seem more or less true,” Kennedy had to admit. “He’s an angry bastard.”

“And that’s why he’s employed,” Lovecraft offered, with a smirk. “You need soldiers sometimes who can not only do things that others don’t want to, but *enjoy* doing them. It’s the difference between you hitting Mary-Lynn with the Nuts and Mayhem powerbombing Angelica Brooks on the hood of a car.”

“Hrmm,” Kennedy pondered, “because Mary-Lynn is a combatant, and Brooks isn’t?”

“Exactly,” the Elder Statesman replied, “while Desade prefers subterfuge and tactics, there are times when brute force is necessary. Times when statements must be made. And there are few, if any, better at making such statements than Mayhem is.”

“That’s true. Still though…” There was something distasteful about it that he couldn’t deny. He was by no means a goody-goody. Not like his agent, always worrying about receipts and if he was doing something wrong.

Lovecraft prided himself on reading people. While Kennedy wasn’t in any danger of actually listening to the concerns of his agent, the fact remained that the Hand was rather prone to committing atrocity. The issue would likely come up again.

“We’re almost there, Phil,” Lovecraft said, looking his partner dead in the eyes, “We beat PRIME, we show the world what we can do in the ring. And then, we go back to SCCW and what’s left in our path? Sean Sterling, who you’re going to take care of. And a masked blueberry that’s overripe and bound to be burst. We take care of the little left in our path, and it will not be the Kent Fusiliers who run SCCW. It will be us.”

The thought was a nice one. No Smitty T. Duluth, who had been run off earlier. No Fusiliers. No annoying Sean Sterling or King Blueberry. Just the Dead Man’s Hand. Just time to enjoy the fruits of his labor, and get laid even more than he already was.

“But it starts here. We’ve got to be at the top of our game for Cataclysm. I’m working us up a game plan, and I have associates analyzing Flyer and Davis’ tendencies as we speak. We will be victorious, and all those who have the temerity to question the Dead Man’s Hand will be in for quite the surprise.”

The Big Stack nodded. “Anything you need me to do?”

Lovecraft favored his partner with a quick smile. “Simply stay out of trouble. Relax for the remainder of the day if you like. The city of Boston has a rich history. Sightsee if you wish. Get a good night’s sleep. And wake up tomorrow morning ready for battle.”

Kennedy took another forkful of omelette. This, he could do.

~~~~ III ~~~~

“Kat, I’m back!”

A small smile crossed Phillip Kennedy’s face as he stepped into the two-room suite he currently shared with one Kathryn Shaw after a day of touring the city of Boston. The scent of her perfume wafted to his nostrils, but he frowned nonetheless upon entering the suite and finding no Katsidy there.

“Odd,” he mused, sighing softly. “She must be working again. Ms. Pierce has been running her ragged lately.”

Indeed, there had been, comparatively, fewer nights spent in bed with his paramour over the past week than he was used to. Of course, considering the pair’s rabbit-like propensity, “fewer nights” still probably resulted in more activity than most were used to.

The Big Stack pondered bringing in room service, but decided against it. Still, he was alone for what would probably be the rest of the night. Being alone was a bad thing for Phillip Kennedy.

It was, in reality, also probably a bad thing for Alex Pierce and David Walter Smith.

Flopping down across the room’s king-size bed, Kennedy looked up at the ceiling. It seemed that everyone was worried about him, in one way or another.

“Jesus Christ,” he complained, to no one in particular. “David and Reggie think I’m a kid.”

That was his biggest complaint about the Hand as a whole. Lovecraft treated him like a child who needed guidance. Savant and Katsidy, probably the two members he was closest with, treated him similarly at times, but they were at least good natured about it. Bridden had tried to screw him over during qualifying for the Heaven & Hell Match. Mayhem had all but lectured him in the middle of that match. Desade…didn’t talk to him that much, but he presumed she had more important things to do.

“Yeah, like being Charlotte Ramone. That woman is…impressive.”

Impressive was one word. Scary was another, more accurate word. The puppetmaster of the Dead Man’s Hand was capable in the squared circle, certainly..but even more disturbingly capable outside of it. The Dead Man’s Hand was a wrestling stable, yes…but there was another element to their work. An element, he suspected, that his lover was quite involved in, being so close to the Director.

That, of course, led him to wonder: was Kat a criminal? For that matter, weren’t they ALL criminals? Wrestling seemed to have very lax regulations, but the Hand was constantly running around, beating down people, attacking interviewers in parking lots, and executing all sorts of other atrocities such as retiring Jonathan Rhine after completely ruining his life by assaulting him outside the ring as well as inside it.

“It’s like a goddamned movie, what she did to him. Absolutely unbelievable.” Jonathan Rhine, in the prime of his career, was now retired and ruined by a vengeful, embittered bitch of a woman that Phillip called a leader, for no reason seemingly other than the fact that he had possessed the temerity to cross her in a WRESTLING RING. There was, of course, likely a reason. Katsidy had told him numerous times that Desade and her associates never did anything without a reason.

It was, he knew, also a reason that he would likely never find out.

Which, to be blunt, bothered the shit out of him. He was Phillip Fucking Kennedy, the guy who beat the BloodAngel. One-half of the Strength in Numbers Champions. A man who was simultaneously picking fights with Team VIAGRA, Sean Sterling, and Jay Draven and Draven’s intrepid fan partner. A man fighting a war on three fronts, and doing a damn good job of it.

A man who was the FUTURE of the Dead Man’s Hand, as far as he saw it. The heir to Hunter Sabuani, who seemed far more intent on running around being undecided and hosting an interview show than picking up his sword and fighting the good fight.

“Craft and I are the only champions we’ve got left, unless you count the redhead, and as far as I’m concerned, her days are numbered…”

Call it a delusion of grandeur, but he was already imagining being victorious over Sean Sterling and capturing the Highwayman’s Gateway title. From there, five defenses would make him the number one contender, and give him the chance at the glory he so richly craved.

“Maybe if I’ve got a Universal Championship over my shoulder they’ll stop treating me like I’m five.”

If he closed his eyes, he could see the image quite clearly; Katsidy would be wrapped around him as he raised the Universal Championship high overhead in front of a jeering crowd that would be launching empty or half-full soda bottles and cups at him. And then would come the best part; the part when he walked to the back and met with his stablemates, all of whom would have to acknowledge his achievement.

All of whom would have to admit that he was indeed the man.

It was a nice fantasy. Not his favorite, of course, but with no Sex Kitten around this evening, it would have to do.

It was at about that point that he noticed the note that had been left on the nightstand.

Phil - Hate writing letters like this, but when 'Lexi calls, you listen. Can I get a rain check for tonight? I'll be back tomorrow (hopefully) and I'll make it up to you in ways that are illegal in several states. ;-) I'll let you pick how, and I may have a special guest star if you're interested. Looking forward to it.

XOXO - Kathryn

The smile on his face now was far more Big Stack than Phillip Kennedy, even as he marveled at the fact that she had actually taken the time to write out the emoticon.

“How sweet of her,” he murmured, crossing the room to reach for his luggage. Unzipping one bag, Kennedy unearthed his laptop computer and a DVD case. Returning to his bed with his prizes, Kennedy plugged the laptop in, and began the quick process of booting it up.

Opening the DVD case, he chuckled as he read the description of the contents, scrawled there by Lauren Fox in a post-climactic haze.

“PRIME,” the Big Stack read, with a wicked grin on his face, “Triple X By Definition.”

A few moments later, Kennedy’s pants were on the ground, and the light had been reduced to something properly dim for the mood. It wouldn’t be much longer before the laptop was ready, the DVD was placed in the DVD slot, and our intrepid gambler would be reliving what had to be the best night of his life, recorded for posterity by a stationary video camera.

Soon enough, the world, the Dead Man’s Hand, and any and all of his personal failings were all forgotten in the glorious memories of “Tyler Rayne”s dalliance with “Angelica Brooks” and “Lindsay Troy.”

Left in the pocket of his discarded pants, though, was a small jewelry box, the contents of which would remain ungifted for the third evening in a row.