Post by Phate on Jun 9, 2008 1:23:53 GMT -4
Step one was done.
Step one was fun.
Step one is through.
On to step two!
He was a firm believer in steps. He always felt that no matter how daunting the task it could be effectively broken down into steps and accomplished at a moderate pace. They both agreed that possession of the Action Packed Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship was the task, the only task worth accomplishing, a task most daunting.....and a task most appealing. And so they sat down, HE carefully conjured up an infallible method of victory, and they worked in tandem to create the necessary steps to achieve their goal….and a few contingency plans in preparation for the slimmest of chances that things went south.
Step one was easy enough – figure out a way to advance to the Test for the Best Tournament semifinals. The opponent? Katrina Olivetti, affectionately known as Arcadia. She was one of the top practitioners of the extravagant art of Mexican Lucha Libre in North America, a style that HE suggested they study visually to figure out any telltale signs or subtle nuances that would aide them in achieving victory over the crafty luchadora. And study they did, breaking Olivetti’s unique arsenal of strikes and aerial maneuvers down to an easy-to-memorize science. By the time they finally finished the eight-hour extended play videocassette of Arcadia match footage they were both feeling good about their chances to counter any attack thrown their way by the deadly and versatile femme fatale.
And none of it worked.
Good thing HE came up with a Plan B.
It took a metal groin cup and a whole lot of tomfoolery and hi-jinks to truly throw her off her game but the woman called Arcadia had been beaten and their spot in the semifinals was secure. He allowed HIM to take over, allowed HIM to formulate the perfect back-up plan, allowed HIM to take control of the ship and it all paid off in the end. HE was officially a part of his life again and, while if it was the best thing to let happen was a question still unanswered, they were working well together as one and they both couldn’t have been more ecstatic. Step two was just as simple as step one in their eyes – maintain an undefeated record going into the Test for the Best pay-per-view. HE felt there was nothing strong enough or challenging enough to stand in the way of accomplishing step two.
At least until they found out who was standing in the way of step two.
Tara Jacobs. Known by the APW faithful as “Spirit” and considered a modern-day paladin under the leadership of APW World Heavyweight Champion Sergeant Kenneth Lambardo as part of his cultish Church of Kaos, Jacobs was quite the formidable adversary. They both acknowledged that Jacobs was considered Kenneth Lambardo’s right-hand woman for a reason: she was deadly in the squared circle and undefeated in singles competition since arriving in Action Packed Wrestling months earlier. Her ability to adapt to whatever wrestling style comes her way had earned her a superb record and a reputation for doing whatever it took to win, even if it meant placing her feet on the ropes for leverage during a pin attempt, as her June 2nd Overdrive match against Sabur demonstrated. Her style was highly unorthodox, prompting him to think that maybe they would need more than one strategy to successfully garner a win over the femme fatale.
HE, of course, begged to differ.
HE had been watching her for a few months now from afar and HE had recognized that her adaptability consisted of a severe lack of original technique. HE recognized that she utilized leg and head attacks against much larger foes….something that larger wrestlers have been scouting and training against for countless decades. HE recognized her counterattacks against technically sound competitors consisted of reckless aerial attacks that could be easily countered once you learned the signs and body language to look for. HE knew that, if angered, she would become even more reckless and place her physical well-being on the line in the name of vengeance. That kind of foolishness led to mistakes – mistakes that could be used against her with no retaliation.
In other words, HE was kind enough to get his hands on another eight-hour extended play videocassette.
And watch it all the way through.
And take detailed notes.
Where the hell he was while all of this tape watchin’ and note takin’ was going on was anybody’s guess but, once again, HE had a very descriptive and intelligent game plan that practically screamed “winner”.
So, with their plans set and the beginning stages of step two mere days away, HE decided they had to do one more thing to be fully prepared for Action Packed Wrestling’s Overdrive event on June 9th. HE told him what it was….
….And he knew right then and there that he picked the wrong week to stop drinking.
It was risky…
It was crazy…
It was….
Going to be a long night. And an even longer wait until Monday night’s episode of Overdrive.
But he trusted HIM and HE did know what was best for the both of them.
Didn’t he?
He pushed the hesitation all the way to the back of his cerebellum, getting the camera ready and adjusting his cranberry-hued necktie before taking a seat…and handing HIM the reins.
It was Showtime, folks.
Our scene slowly fades into view, the darkness of the adjusting lens making way to the ebon void of a heavily darkened room. One’s eyes are basically forced to become malleable, and once we squint we are able to regulate our vision enough to focus on the items in the room and feel the chill creep along our spinal column as the eerie abode becomes a true visual medium. A large granite dining table juts from the layers of shadow and swiftly approaches the foreground, its craggy surface cracked and crumbly as a single solitary ceiling lamp shines dimly across its cracks. The legs and supports of the massive table show signs of erosion yet still boast impressive gargoyle carvings etched by chisel and mallet, said gargoyles designed with their palms skyward to appear as if they are supporting the rocky slab of a table surface. A quartet of hand-crafted slate dining chairs sit ominously on either side of the rather gothic table, the limited ambient lighting forcing the chairs to cast cackling shadows that mingle within the folds of the cell’s umbrage. A positively gargantuan throne whittled from what was probably a heaving mass of granite or similar earth stone sits at the farthest end of the table, a pair of winged monstrosities carved atop slender pillars protruding from the ends of the chair’s headrest. Five sets of earthenware sit directly in front of each chair, each plate, spoon, and knife sitting filthily in a heap. Soiled cotton napkins sit balled up and partially folded into undecipherable origami creatures in the center of each stained plate. A quintet of goblets sit awkwardly adjacent to each poorly-done plating arrangement, glass stoneware engulfed with granite and slate carvings around their rims. The room itself is small in nature, its square structure confining enough to elicit feelings of claustrophobia as the stony walls and ceiling seem to be slowly creeping closer to one another. Soot and cobwebs engulf the nooks and crannies of the dungeon-like walls and ceilings, select slices of webbing dangling downward from said ceiling like weathered dollies stapled down with a shaky hand and coming mere inches from caressing the table and chairs with a disgusting amount of closeness. Our battered lamp flickers slightly, the room plunging itself into momentary darkness. When the lighting comes back to full strength we see that our once-empty room is now inhabited by a single solitary figure, his broad-shouldered physique slumped into the ebon void and his visage hidden from view as he sits majestically in the cold throne positioned at the head of our Victorian nightmare of a table. Our figure leans forward, his pearly white teeth shimmering naughtily in the darkness as his white dress shirt brightly comes into view. A crimson-colored silk necktie splits the darkness as well, its slender curves directing our gaze upward to the now-visible caramel skin and face of our de facto host – “none other than “The Icon” Doctor Phate. His shapely jaw line stands defiantly outward as the edges of his black horn-rimmed eyeglasses catch the light and twinkle in an unsettling manner and his Cheshire Cat-like grin seemingly widens even more. His whole body lurches forward, repositioning itself in the rather uncomfortable-looking chair, and we are able to see that our host/hostess is decked out in his signature Catholic school girl attire with one notable difference – a black memorial armband wrapped tightly around his thick right bicep, the initials “CoK” in white Arial text stitched into it with black poly cotton threading. Our host makes eye contact with us, gesturing with his demeanor that he is preparing to talk with us…..
Phate (smiling; addressing the viewer; relaxed tone): Merriam-Webster’s English Dictionary defines a family simply as “a group of individuals living under one roof and usually under one head.” Merriam-Webster’s English Dictionary also defines a family as “a group of people united by certain convictions or a common affiliation”. Th’ first feels…warm, inviting, evokes visions of warm apple pies an’ runnin’ around under th’ sprinklers in th’ front yard in the summer. The second? Not so warm. Why? Well, Merriam-Webster’s English Dictionary defines a cult as pretty much th’ same damn thing.
Rising from his Transylvanian seat, Doctor Phate walks to his right, strafing slightly before stopping at nearest stone-carved seat. Resting his forearms across the top of the head rest in an aloof manner and making sure that the memorial band on his right bicep is accessible to our wandering eye, Phate engages our eye once again before continuing onward with our rather one-sided conversation.
Phate (smiling; addressing the viewer; relaxed tone): Why are th’ definitions so close together? Well, th’ head of a family is supposed t’make the members of a family feel loved, warm, wanted. And when that doesn’t happen? People wind up empty an' without a place in th' world. In the end they turn to other families - - cults - - t’fill that void. Oh, and society ends up wit’ folks like me….and, more appropriately, folks like Tara Jacobs.
Phate begins strafing to the right once more, his eyes never losing their captivating allure, until he reaches the next massive chair. He lays his arms across the highest portion of the head rest once more, his memorial band highly visible, and continues his tale.
Phate (smiling; addressing the viewer; relaxed tone): Y’see, Miss Jacobs is th’ product of an oppressive childhood…an’ a home where th’ head of her family wasn’t exactly what you would call adept at makin’ his children and wife feel loved, warm, an’ wanted. Now, if his wife and kids were, say, Bourbon, Gin, or whatever th’ English gentlemen in Manchester, England like drinkin’ at th’ pub then believe me when I say that he woulda been at ev’ry recital, every football game, and every Parent-Teacher conference wit’ bells on! (Shrugging his shoulders; relaxed tone; addressing the viewers) But, alas, they were not. So, instead of doling out alla the love and support and happiness th’ head of a family is s’posed to dole out, all her father doled out were sexual advances and drunken beatings.
Phate strafes onward, disappearing into the room’s eternal midnight before resurfacing on the left side of the table (from our visual perspective). “The Icon” takes his spot behind the chair across from his previous perch, resting his elbows and forearms across the head rest in the same manner as the previous chairs. Smiling seductively, Phate grabs our visual contact once again before his story continues.
Phate (smiling; addressing the viewer; relaxed tone): Miss Jacobs ran away from home durin’ the “Christmas rush” of th’ year 2000. Seems that her lovely father was kind enough to…help her mama down th’ stairs th’ hard way after a coupla pints o’ Guinness at th’ pub. So she ran…she ran so far away….she just ran…she ran all night and day…and, without th’ aid of a Flock of Seagulls haircut – her hair is bad enuff – Tara Jacobs found herself releasing alla her pain an’ anger from her fractured nurturing in th’ wrestling business and, later, as a member of a new family - - (tapping the memorial band on his right bicep with his left pointer finger; smiling; relaxed tone) - - a family known as th’ Church of Kaos.
Phate strafes into the cloak of shadows cast by the room once more, suddenly popping up behind the second craggy chair on the left side of the dining table. Resting his right elbow atop the head rest, Doctor Phate uses his left arm to steady his right as he coyly holds his head up and locks eyes with the viewer once again.
Phate (smiling; casual gaze; addressing the viewer; relaxed tone): The Church of Kaos gave Miss Tara Jacobs somethin’ she had never had – a fully functioning family unit. She decided t’devote her life to th’ cause of the Church’s patriarch and matriarch, becomin’ a walkin’ D & D figurine and callin’ herself a paladin of th’ highest rank. (Standing upright; hands on either end of the head rest; smiling) And that’s exactly what a cult wants you to do. They WANT you to think yer in a family, that th’ family can fix alla your problems – as long as you comply. Portrait of Tara Jacobs’ “true family”….
Our solitary light suddenly blinks out, bathing us in ethereal darkness for a brief moment before popping back on – and making us all feel a tad bit queasy as we make out what appears to be four lifeless carcasses seated slumped down in each of the stone chairs! The bodies seem to be completely intact, no limbs broken or missing, yet completely devoid of the luster and aura only life can bring. The lighting itself swiftly grows dim, casting a nasty shade over our proceedings….until a faint click can be heard, followed by the piercing beam of an aluminum flashlight. The beam jets skyward, its beam unhindered…at least by anything other than the uncomfortable visage of one Doctor Phate, his face shimmering maniacally in the ambience as his grin extends from ear to ear. Phate is no longer at the head of the table; our eyes lock onto his face hovering behind the upper-right stone chair, standing over the slumped figure in its clutches. Phate points the flashlight slightly downward, bathing the carcass in man-made UV - - and showing us that it is nothing but a scarecrow, straw spiking out from its collar and joints in random directions. All is normal about this particular scarecrow…except for the picture of Action Packed Wrestling World Heavyweight Champion Sergeant Kenneth Lambardo’s face stapled eagerly to its head!
Phate (barely visible; amused tone; addressing the viewer): Kenneth Lambardo – the father she’s never had. He had her undyin’ support as soon as he figured out how much she cared for….
The beam of our flashlight suddenly shoots across the table, shining its light upon the chair across from Phate’s current post and showing us a scarecrow of equal construction and appearance as the previous…except for the fact that this one has an 8 x 10 glossy print of “That Girl” Diana Steel hammered into its head courtesy of a rusty nail!
Phate (amused tone; addressing the viewer; not visible): …Diana Steel. Matriarch of th’ Church of Kaos, fiancée of the matriarch, and th’ woman she loves prob’ly more than her mother AND sister combined. Steel had th’ ability to bring in th’ uncle of her young daughter….
Flashlight beam flickers before swiftly careening to the left, enveloping a third scarecrow construct with brilliant white light. This scarecrow is no different than the others in appearance, strands of poorly-cut straw shooting out of its wrists and neck, but the picture is definitely different – because it’s a matte print of Tony Blackwell’s angry visage that is been affixed to the scarecrow’s face with a switchblade knife!
Phate (amused tone; addressing the viewer; not visible): …..Tony Blackwell. The Action Packed Wrestling Xtreme Champion, a man who seemingly wanted t’put the screws to his own brother because, quite frankly, he wanted out of his brother’s shadow and to truly become his own man. Lambardo and Steel prob’ly promised him jus’ that….and he dutifully stepped into his spot as th’ War Priest of Kaos. THIS is what Tara Jacobs considers a family. Question, of course, is where does Miss Jacobs fit in?
Our flashlight beam cuts out, popping back on with a start above the chair across for the previously lit seat. This seat also houses a ratty scarecrow, its body seemingly shoved into the chair in a very uncomfortable manner. This scarecrow is just like the others – except for the lack of a picture of any kind placed on its head and face! Phate is standing behind the chair, his appearance barely visible to our eye, his grin piercing the obscuring darkness and instantly striking the viewer with a sense of uneasiness.
Phate (amused tone; addressing the viewer; eerie demeanor): She doesn’t. Th’ matriarch doesn’t REALLY care about her. The patriarch only needs her t’watch his back and guard th’ investment he places around his waist each week…and now that he has a new War Priest, hell, he doesn’t even need her t’do that. So what is a girl t’do when both families she’s ever known, the biological one and th’ not-so-stable controlling one, have no need for her? Simple.
Phate turns the flashlight upward, his face no longer radiating the sadistic smile it had been. Said smile was now replaced with an evil glare, his naturally pointed eyebrows arched angrily as his lip quivers in a battle to control his escalating emotions!
Phate (low, angry tone; addressing the viewer; uncomfortable gaze): She unwittingly commits suicide. In this case, CAREER suicide.
Our lights, both overhead and flashlight, flicker out, the shroud of midnight engulfing us all for a few scant seconds before the overhead lamp pops back into action at full power, bathing the dungeon of dining in radiance. Our host is now seated Indian-style in the center of the table, his glasses perched precariously on the edge of his nose as he looks over their edges and right through us, the viewer. His body language screams violence as his taut muscles tighten under his oversized dress shirt.
Phate (addressing Tara; angry tone; extremely physical demeanor): Miss Jacobs, I understand you were lookin’ for a family because y’never really had one. I understand th’ Church of Kaos gave you that. But what you need t’understand is that th’ Church of Kaos has moved on without you. Think about it – ev’rybody in th’ “family” is connected in some way…ev’rybody except you. Blackwell is th’ uncle of Steel’s child and Steel is the soon-to-be wife of one Sergeant Kenneth Lambardo. You no longer mean ANYTHING to th’ Church of Kaos, sister, and the sooner you realize that the sooner you can move on wit’ your life. You jus’ ain’t moving on with it this week.
Phate grabs the goblet to his absolute right and lifts it upward, its viscous fluid swirling around in a makeshift whirlpool as his right hand and wrist move in small circles. Winking seductively at the camera, Phate’s demeanor relaxes as he begins addressing us, the viewer, and Tara Jacobs once again.
Phate (addressing Tara; amused tone): Y’see, I’m a member of a family, too - - th’ family of those with undefeated singles records in Action Packed Wrestling. And, jus’ like your previous two families, we don’t want you no more! This week on Overdrive, Miss Jacobs, you go up fer adoption! I don’t care how many wars you’ve been in, how much blood has poured outta yer head, or how hardcore you claim t’be because at th’ end of the day you will NEVER be good enough to outwrestle me. At Overdrive I will be yer new daddy and I will personally put you outta the house – but only because I love you and it’s time for baby birds to fly! (Winking at the viewer and Tara; amused tone) Prepare to get Little Orphan Annie’d! Prepare to lose yer spot in two families in one night! Prepare to count th’ lights! And prepare to show th’ fans just how weak you truly are because, no matter what class you write on your D & D character sheet, you will STILL be just another wrestler! And while Legends die and Wrestlers come and go ICONS LIVE FOREVER! (Blowing a kiss at the viewer and Tara; amused tone) Toodles!
Our scene ends as abrupt as it began, the main light sparking out and plunging the viewer into darkness as the maniacal cackle of “The Icon” Doctor Phate reverberates off the cold stone walls and pierces our very souls.
Step one was fun.
Step one is through.
On to step two!
He was a firm believer in steps. He always felt that no matter how daunting the task it could be effectively broken down into steps and accomplished at a moderate pace. They both agreed that possession of the Action Packed Wrestling World Heavyweight Championship was the task, the only task worth accomplishing, a task most daunting.....and a task most appealing. And so they sat down, HE carefully conjured up an infallible method of victory, and they worked in tandem to create the necessary steps to achieve their goal….and a few contingency plans in preparation for the slimmest of chances that things went south.
Step one was easy enough – figure out a way to advance to the Test for the Best Tournament semifinals. The opponent? Katrina Olivetti, affectionately known as Arcadia. She was one of the top practitioners of the extravagant art of Mexican Lucha Libre in North America, a style that HE suggested they study visually to figure out any telltale signs or subtle nuances that would aide them in achieving victory over the crafty luchadora. And study they did, breaking Olivetti’s unique arsenal of strikes and aerial maneuvers down to an easy-to-memorize science. By the time they finally finished the eight-hour extended play videocassette of Arcadia match footage they were both feeling good about their chances to counter any attack thrown their way by the deadly and versatile femme fatale.
And none of it worked.
Good thing HE came up with a Plan B.
It took a metal groin cup and a whole lot of tomfoolery and hi-jinks to truly throw her off her game but the woman called Arcadia had been beaten and their spot in the semifinals was secure. He allowed HIM to take over, allowed HIM to formulate the perfect back-up plan, allowed HIM to take control of the ship and it all paid off in the end. HE was officially a part of his life again and, while if it was the best thing to let happen was a question still unanswered, they were working well together as one and they both couldn’t have been more ecstatic. Step two was just as simple as step one in their eyes – maintain an undefeated record going into the Test for the Best pay-per-view. HE felt there was nothing strong enough or challenging enough to stand in the way of accomplishing step two.
At least until they found out who was standing in the way of step two.
Tara Jacobs. Known by the APW faithful as “Spirit” and considered a modern-day paladin under the leadership of APW World Heavyweight Champion Sergeant Kenneth Lambardo as part of his cultish Church of Kaos, Jacobs was quite the formidable adversary. They both acknowledged that Jacobs was considered Kenneth Lambardo’s right-hand woman for a reason: she was deadly in the squared circle and undefeated in singles competition since arriving in Action Packed Wrestling months earlier. Her ability to adapt to whatever wrestling style comes her way had earned her a superb record and a reputation for doing whatever it took to win, even if it meant placing her feet on the ropes for leverage during a pin attempt, as her June 2nd Overdrive match against Sabur demonstrated. Her style was highly unorthodox, prompting him to think that maybe they would need more than one strategy to successfully garner a win over the femme fatale.
HE, of course, begged to differ.
HE had been watching her for a few months now from afar and HE had recognized that her adaptability consisted of a severe lack of original technique. HE recognized that she utilized leg and head attacks against much larger foes….something that larger wrestlers have been scouting and training against for countless decades. HE recognized her counterattacks against technically sound competitors consisted of reckless aerial attacks that could be easily countered once you learned the signs and body language to look for. HE knew that, if angered, she would become even more reckless and place her physical well-being on the line in the name of vengeance. That kind of foolishness led to mistakes – mistakes that could be used against her with no retaliation.
In other words, HE was kind enough to get his hands on another eight-hour extended play videocassette.
And watch it all the way through.
And take detailed notes.
Where the hell he was while all of this tape watchin’ and note takin’ was going on was anybody’s guess but, once again, HE had a very descriptive and intelligent game plan that practically screamed “winner”.
So, with their plans set and the beginning stages of step two mere days away, HE decided they had to do one more thing to be fully prepared for Action Packed Wrestling’s Overdrive event on June 9th. HE told him what it was….
….And he knew right then and there that he picked the wrong week to stop drinking.
It was risky…
It was crazy…
It was….
Going to be a long night. And an even longer wait until Monday night’s episode of Overdrive.
But he trusted HIM and HE did know what was best for the both of them.
Didn’t he?
He pushed the hesitation all the way to the back of his cerebellum, getting the camera ready and adjusting his cranberry-hued necktie before taking a seat…and handing HIM the reins.
It was Showtime, folks.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Our scene slowly fades into view, the darkness of the adjusting lens making way to the ebon void of a heavily darkened room. One’s eyes are basically forced to become malleable, and once we squint we are able to regulate our vision enough to focus on the items in the room and feel the chill creep along our spinal column as the eerie abode becomes a true visual medium. A large granite dining table juts from the layers of shadow and swiftly approaches the foreground, its craggy surface cracked and crumbly as a single solitary ceiling lamp shines dimly across its cracks. The legs and supports of the massive table show signs of erosion yet still boast impressive gargoyle carvings etched by chisel and mallet, said gargoyles designed with their palms skyward to appear as if they are supporting the rocky slab of a table surface. A quartet of hand-crafted slate dining chairs sit ominously on either side of the rather gothic table, the limited ambient lighting forcing the chairs to cast cackling shadows that mingle within the folds of the cell’s umbrage. A positively gargantuan throne whittled from what was probably a heaving mass of granite or similar earth stone sits at the farthest end of the table, a pair of winged monstrosities carved atop slender pillars protruding from the ends of the chair’s headrest. Five sets of earthenware sit directly in front of each chair, each plate, spoon, and knife sitting filthily in a heap. Soiled cotton napkins sit balled up and partially folded into undecipherable origami creatures in the center of each stained plate. A quintet of goblets sit awkwardly adjacent to each poorly-done plating arrangement, glass stoneware engulfed with granite and slate carvings around their rims. The room itself is small in nature, its square structure confining enough to elicit feelings of claustrophobia as the stony walls and ceiling seem to be slowly creeping closer to one another. Soot and cobwebs engulf the nooks and crannies of the dungeon-like walls and ceilings, select slices of webbing dangling downward from said ceiling like weathered dollies stapled down with a shaky hand and coming mere inches from caressing the table and chairs with a disgusting amount of closeness. Our battered lamp flickers slightly, the room plunging itself into momentary darkness. When the lighting comes back to full strength we see that our once-empty room is now inhabited by a single solitary figure, his broad-shouldered physique slumped into the ebon void and his visage hidden from view as he sits majestically in the cold throne positioned at the head of our Victorian nightmare of a table. Our figure leans forward, his pearly white teeth shimmering naughtily in the darkness as his white dress shirt brightly comes into view. A crimson-colored silk necktie splits the darkness as well, its slender curves directing our gaze upward to the now-visible caramel skin and face of our de facto host – “none other than “The Icon” Doctor Phate. His shapely jaw line stands defiantly outward as the edges of his black horn-rimmed eyeglasses catch the light and twinkle in an unsettling manner and his Cheshire Cat-like grin seemingly widens even more. His whole body lurches forward, repositioning itself in the rather uncomfortable-looking chair, and we are able to see that our host/hostess is decked out in his signature Catholic school girl attire with one notable difference – a black memorial armband wrapped tightly around his thick right bicep, the initials “CoK” in white Arial text stitched into it with black poly cotton threading. Our host makes eye contact with us, gesturing with his demeanor that he is preparing to talk with us…..
Phate (smiling; addressing the viewer; relaxed tone): Merriam-Webster’s English Dictionary defines a family simply as “a group of individuals living under one roof and usually under one head.” Merriam-Webster’s English Dictionary also defines a family as “a group of people united by certain convictions or a common affiliation”. Th’ first feels…warm, inviting, evokes visions of warm apple pies an’ runnin’ around under th’ sprinklers in th’ front yard in the summer. The second? Not so warm. Why? Well, Merriam-Webster’s English Dictionary defines a cult as pretty much th’ same damn thing.
Rising from his Transylvanian seat, Doctor Phate walks to his right, strafing slightly before stopping at nearest stone-carved seat. Resting his forearms across the top of the head rest in an aloof manner and making sure that the memorial band on his right bicep is accessible to our wandering eye, Phate engages our eye once again before continuing onward with our rather one-sided conversation.
Phate (smiling; addressing the viewer; relaxed tone): Why are th’ definitions so close together? Well, th’ head of a family is supposed t’make the members of a family feel loved, warm, wanted. And when that doesn’t happen? People wind up empty an' without a place in th' world. In the end they turn to other families - - cults - - t’fill that void. Oh, and society ends up wit’ folks like me….and, more appropriately, folks like Tara Jacobs.
Phate begins strafing to the right once more, his eyes never losing their captivating allure, until he reaches the next massive chair. He lays his arms across the highest portion of the head rest once more, his memorial band highly visible, and continues his tale.
Phate (smiling; addressing the viewer; relaxed tone): Y’see, Miss Jacobs is th’ product of an oppressive childhood…an’ a home where th’ head of her family wasn’t exactly what you would call adept at makin’ his children and wife feel loved, warm, an’ wanted. Now, if his wife and kids were, say, Bourbon, Gin, or whatever th’ English gentlemen in Manchester, England like drinkin’ at th’ pub then believe me when I say that he woulda been at ev’ry recital, every football game, and every Parent-Teacher conference wit’ bells on! (Shrugging his shoulders; relaxed tone; addressing the viewers) But, alas, they were not. So, instead of doling out alla the love and support and happiness th’ head of a family is s’posed to dole out, all her father doled out were sexual advances and drunken beatings.
Phate strafes onward, disappearing into the room’s eternal midnight before resurfacing on the left side of the table (from our visual perspective). “The Icon” takes his spot behind the chair across from his previous perch, resting his elbows and forearms across the head rest in the same manner as the previous chairs. Smiling seductively, Phate grabs our visual contact once again before his story continues.
Phate (smiling; addressing the viewer; relaxed tone): Miss Jacobs ran away from home durin’ the “Christmas rush” of th’ year 2000. Seems that her lovely father was kind enough to…help her mama down th’ stairs th’ hard way after a coupla pints o’ Guinness at th’ pub. So she ran…she ran so far away….she just ran…she ran all night and day…and, without th’ aid of a Flock of Seagulls haircut – her hair is bad enuff – Tara Jacobs found herself releasing alla her pain an’ anger from her fractured nurturing in th’ wrestling business and, later, as a member of a new family - - (tapping the memorial band on his right bicep with his left pointer finger; smiling; relaxed tone) - - a family known as th’ Church of Kaos.
Phate strafes into the cloak of shadows cast by the room once more, suddenly popping up behind the second craggy chair on the left side of the dining table. Resting his right elbow atop the head rest, Doctor Phate uses his left arm to steady his right as he coyly holds his head up and locks eyes with the viewer once again.
Phate (smiling; casual gaze; addressing the viewer; relaxed tone): The Church of Kaos gave Miss Tara Jacobs somethin’ she had never had – a fully functioning family unit. She decided t’devote her life to th’ cause of the Church’s patriarch and matriarch, becomin’ a walkin’ D & D figurine and callin’ herself a paladin of th’ highest rank. (Standing upright; hands on either end of the head rest; smiling) And that’s exactly what a cult wants you to do. They WANT you to think yer in a family, that th’ family can fix alla your problems – as long as you comply. Portrait of Tara Jacobs’ “true family”….
Our solitary light suddenly blinks out, bathing us in ethereal darkness for a brief moment before popping back on – and making us all feel a tad bit queasy as we make out what appears to be four lifeless carcasses seated slumped down in each of the stone chairs! The bodies seem to be completely intact, no limbs broken or missing, yet completely devoid of the luster and aura only life can bring. The lighting itself swiftly grows dim, casting a nasty shade over our proceedings….until a faint click can be heard, followed by the piercing beam of an aluminum flashlight. The beam jets skyward, its beam unhindered…at least by anything other than the uncomfortable visage of one Doctor Phate, his face shimmering maniacally in the ambience as his grin extends from ear to ear. Phate is no longer at the head of the table; our eyes lock onto his face hovering behind the upper-right stone chair, standing over the slumped figure in its clutches. Phate points the flashlight slightly downward, bathing the carcass in man-made UV - - and showing us that it is nothing but a scarecrow, straw spiking out from its collar and joints in random directions. All is normal about this particular scarecrow…except for the picture of Action Packed Wrestling World Heavyweight Champion Sergeant Kenneth Lambardo’s face stapled eagerly to its head!
Phate (barely visible; amused tone; addressing the viewer): Kenneth Lambardo – the father she’s never had. He had her undyin’ support as soon as he figured out how much she cared for….
The beam of our flashlight suddenly shoots across the table, shining its light upon the chair across from Phate’s current post and showing us a scarecrow of equal construction and appearance as the previous…except for the fact that this one has an 8 x 10 glossy print of “That Girl” Diana Steel hammered into its head courtesy of a rusty nail!
Phate (amused tone; addressing the viewer; not visible): …Diana Steel. Matriarch of th’ Church of Kaos, fiancée of the matriarch, and th’ woman she loves prob’ly more than her mother AND sister combined. Steel had th’ ability to bring in th’ uncle of her young daughter….
Flashlight beam flickers before swiftly careening to the left, enveloping a third scarecrow construct with brilliant white light. This scarecrow is no different than the others in appearance, strands of poorly-cut straw shooting out of its wrists and neck, but the picture is definitely different – because it’s a matte print of Tony Blackwell’s angry visage that is been affixed to the scarecrow’s face with a switchblade knife!
Phate (amused tone; addressing the viewer; not visible): …..Tony Blackwell. The Action Packed Wrestling Xtreme Champion, a man who seemingly wanted t’put the screws to his own brother because, quite frankly, he wanted out of his brother’s shadow and to truly become his own man. Lambardo and Steel prob’ly promised him jus’ that….and he dutifully stepped into his spot as th’ War Priest of Kaos. THIS is what Tara Jacobs considers a family. Question, of course, is where does Miss Jacobs fit in?
Our flashlight beam cuts out, popping back on with a start above the chair across for the previously lit seat. This seat also houses a ratty scarecrow, its body seemingly shoved into the chair in a very uncomfortable manner. This scarecrow is just like the others – except for the lack of a picture of any kind placed on its head and face! Phate is standing behind the chair, his appearance barely visible to our eye, his grin piercing the obscuring darkness and instantly striking the viewer with a sense of uneasiness.
Phate (amused tone; addressing the viewer; eerie demeanor): She doesn’t. Th’ matriarch doesn’t REALLY care about her. The patriarch only needs her t’watch his back and guard th’ investment he places around his waist each week…and now that he has a new War Priest, hell, he doesn’t even need her t’do that. So what is a girl t’do when both families she’s ever known, the biological one and th’ not-so-stable controlling one, have no need for her? Simple.
Phate turns the flashlight upward, his face no longer radiating the sadistic smile it had been. Said smile was now replaced with an evil glare, his naturally pointed eyebrows arched angrily as his lip quivers in a battle to control his escalating emotions!
Phate (low, angry tone; addressing the viewer; uncomfortable gaze): She unwittingly commits suicide. In this case, CAREER suicide.
Our lights, both overhead and flashlight, flicker out, the shroud of midnight engulfing us all for a few scant seconds before the overhead lamp pops back into action at full power, bathing the dungeon of dining in radiance. Our host is now seated Indian-style in the center of the table, his glasses perched precariously on the edge of his nose as he looks over their edges and right through us, the viewer. His body language screams violence as his taut muscles tighten under his oversized dress shirt.
Phate (addressing Tara; angry tone; extremely physical demeanor): Miss Jacobs, I understand you were lookin’ for a family because y’never really had one. I understand th’ Church of Kaos gave you that. But what you need t’understand is that th’ Church of Kaos has moved on without you. Think about it – ev’rybody in th’ “family” is connected in some way…ev’rybody except you. Blackwell is th’ uncle of Steel’s child and Steel is the soon-to-be wife of one Sergeant Kenneth Lambardo. You no longer mean ANYTHING to th’ Church of Kaos, sister, and the sooner you realize that the sooner you can move on wit’ your life. You jus’ ain’t moving on with it this week.
Phate grabs the goblet to his absolute right and lifts it upward, its viscous fluid swirling around in a makeshift whirlpool as his right hand and wrist move in small circles. Winking seductively at the camera, Phate’s demeanor relaxes as he begins addressing us, the viewer, and Tara Jacobs once again.
Phate (addressing Tara; amused tone): Y’see, I’m a member of a family, too - - th’ family of those with undefeated singles records in Action Packed Wrestling. And, jus’ like your previous two families, we don’t want you no more! This week on Overdrive, Miss Jacobs, you go up fer adoption! I don’t care how many wars you’ve been in, how much blood has poured outta yer head, or how hardcore you claim t’be because at th’ end of the day you will NEVER be good enough to outwrestle me. At Overdrive I will be yer new daddy and I will personally put you outta the house – but only because I love you and it’s time for baby birds to fly! (Winking at the viewer and Tara; amused tone) Prepare to get Little Orphan Annie’d! Prepare to lose yer spot in two families in one night! Prepare to count th’ lights! And prepare to show th’ fans just how weak you truly are because, no matter what class you write on your D & D character sheet, you will STILL be just another wrestler! And while Legends die and Wrestlers come and go ICONS LIVE FOREVER! (Blowing a kiss at the viewer and Tara; amused tone) Toodles!
Our scene ends as abrupt as it began, the main light sparking out and plunging the viewer into darkness as the maniacal cackle of “The Icon” Doctor Phate reverberates off the cold stone walls and pierces our very souls.
----fin.----
