odǝu ʎonɹ ǝʎǝs

A pair of double doors leading into a sterile white hallway burst open as a a group of medical personel cart a man in a stretcher through it. His face is unrecognizable through the matted mess of blood and hair. A doctor bends over and flashes a light in his eyes, but the robust man is unresponsive.

"What happened to him?" one of the surgeons asked, "Car accident?"

"This man was attacked", another quickly replied, "He has multiple wounds stemming from blunt force trauma, particularly to his head. We need to prep him for surgery ASAP!"

They perform a few more "on the fly" procedures before carting him down another hallway towards a prepped emergency surgery room. The doors close behind the crew and the scene fades out.


Wade awoke to the sound of a stoic beep, his mouth uncomfortably dry and his limbs aching from extreme underuse. He shuttered his eyes from the bright light in the room, trying his best to move from his prone position, but to no avail. His throat groaned as he tried to call for help, but no sound escaped. Helpless, he felt the walls of the room closing in around him as if a specter were wrapping him in it's malevolent embrace. He writhed and wriggled, but his efforts were fruitless.

He was trapped.

Frozen in time and place.

Wade felt his vision fading, the light became too much to handle. He clenched his teeth as a shape appeared before him, completely enveloped in the light. His chest thumped as his heart threatened to burst through his breast plate. The gruesome memories came flooding back into his mind's eye one by one, each one more mentally tasking than the last. His mouth opened in a silent scream before his head slumped back and he saw no more.




Wade's clasped eyelids burst open and that long awaited scream finally escaped from deep within his gut. He groaned as he sat up in his bed, his muscles now working of their own accord, ripping and pulling tubes from his hand and nose. He stood to his feet and felt the piercing cry of a siren overtake his ear drums. He held his hands to his head, trying desperately to drown out the noise. The bright of the lights threatened to take him once again, but an unknown voice delicately calmed him.


Wade's eyes darted across the room, searching every nook for the origin of the voice, but there was nobody in sight. He shrugged it off and moved about the room, looking desperately for anyone or anything that could help him...but what came wasn't what he was expecting. The TV hummed to life and the emergency broadcast system began to blare throughout the room.

///g - - - ngs ea - - - ldren\\\

The voice wavered in and out through the blaring broadcast siren. The bright lights in the room cut out and were instead replaced with the dull red of the backup floodlights. The TV started to flicker in and out as the reserves started drained.

/// - - - The Wave com - - - \\\

The TV went completely dead and the room was wholly devoid of noise. Rushing footsteps in the hallway echoed through the hollow chambers of the dim midnight silence. Wade rushed to his door and barely slid it open, peeking his head through the small crack and out into the hallway. A group of men in militant gear with scorched American flags wrapped around their heads charged towards the end of the hallway where a frightened nurse tried desperately to get through an electronically locked door.

“G3T H3R!”

The nurse screamed as one of the monotonous men pushed her head into the wall and she rebounded like a soccer ball. She fell to the floor and one of the other men grabbed her by the scruff of her scrubs, ripping the shirt completely from her body and exposing her undergarments beneath. Wade pushed through the door and started down the hallway.


Wade moved towards the men, watching them work on the women. One of them knocked over a surgical tray and pulled out a length of tubing, tossing it to one of the other men, who wrapped it firmly around her neck. Wade's head turned down an empty hallway, then back to the men. They tied the other end to a divider and then broke the window out with a chair, tossing the women out after. One last scream, the noose tightened, and then all noise ceased.


The men turned towards Wade, eyes glowing a bright hue of blue. The Leviathan stood still as a monolith as the men walked up to him, tipping their nose up at him as they sailed by, passed through and continued down the hallway. Wade watched them as they disappeared around the corner, jowls snarling and chops whetting in anticipation of their next victim.



Social media dubbed it “1he wav3”, but Wade knew it as the week the human race finally showed it's true colors. When the world at large finally threw out everything they believed to be true and replaced it with pure, primal instinct. It was the day everyone took off their painted on human faces and instead replaced it with their genuine reptilian skin underneath. Death and carnage ran rampant in the streets, making them unfit to be on.

Some hunkered down in their houses in an attempt to protect their families from the unyielding violence. Some people reveled in the event, shedding their woes, heartaches, anxieties, and depressions in one fell swoop. Some who survived refused to believe it ever happened and wiped the memory entirely from their slated minds.

Wade both smirked and sniffed as he recalled the day, the vivid violent images burned deep into his mind. He saw it as a black mark in history, but one that was entirely necessary. Nature was being prevented from doing it's job, so human nature finally took over and weeded itself out, herding the strong and killing the weak. Those who survived all became stronger from the disaster, entry level Darwinism. He shook his head as he tucked the memories of “1he wav3” away.

Wade looked around the room, a damp corner of the Warehouse where only a few dared to travel. He looked at it as his own private corner of the world, his new home away from home tucked deep in the UCI stomping grounds. He had spent countless hours in this room, staring at the dark walls, contemplating the beginning of the end of the beginning and so on. His next soiree into the world of sanctioned combat and unmitigated violence. The thought caused Wade to smile again, the edge of his mouth curving up over his cheek.

His contract signing with Spencer Adams went about as smoothly as one would expect a meeting between the two men would go. Spencer Adams was barely recovering from his near career ending injury. Wade showed up in the man's office when he was out to lunch, two hours before their scheduled meeting. Spencer admired Wade's promptness, Wade wanted to smash Spencer Adam's face into the wall. Instead he wet the dotted line on a contract, guaranteeing UCI would make plentiful boon and the world's blood thirst would be quenched.

“There's one other thing I need to tell you”, Spencer quipped as Wade moved to exit the office.

Wade stopped in his track, facing back towards Spencer.

“Jim Thuggin has a foothold in the UCI as well”, Adams notified Wade, “This is as much his company as it is mine. I'm not sure why he didn't contact you personally.”

Wade chuckled.

“Of course he does”, Wade replied, “Next time you see him sitting at that round table, tell him I said hi.”

Wade sat staring at these black walls, trying to remember life before “1he wav3”, but most of it was an unreal blur. He couldn't remember a lot before She came into his life. He hazily remembered golden trinkets gone in a Flash. He recalled War and Hell going hand in hand into the night. A rush, a memory popped into his mind of a shark baring it's razor sharp teeth before everything was shrouded in a haze of blood and smoke.

He recalled endless pain before She woke him up in that hospital bed and guided him into the future, his new life. Through Her, Wade was reborn. Even though She controlled near every facet of his physical being, he still didn't have a name for Her. She felt close though, he knew. She felt like family. He had just taken to calling Her Sister and she seemed none opposed to it. In fact, Sister squealed in childish delight when Wade called Her that.

Sister made staring at the dark walls not so gloomy. She aided Wade in seeing the light, coached him in accepting who he was in this miserable world, helped him sea beauty where none was prevalent, She made the headaches go away. Every night, She wrapped him in Her warm embrace and Wade had never felt something so pure, so loving, so unbridled as he felt with his true family. She always knew what was best for Wade, and a prophecy whispered in low moonlight lead him to Chicago, to the UCI.


And to this musty room in the corner of the WAREHOUSE is where Wade planned that War. When, he was not certain, but he sat with Her in the warmth of silence waiting for the day that prophecy was to be fulfilled. Meanwhile, Wade waited for a camera crew to come and set up their equipment to film his first promo for the opening episode of Overload. To satiate the lecherous masses in an attempt to stave off a second coming of “1he wav3”. As if on cue, there was a knock at the open door, which Wade acknowledged with a wave of his hand and a clearing of his throat.

The crew crept into the room on pointed toes, dragging in their cameras, lights, and sound equipment. They started getting to work setting up while the interviewer approached Wade, an aura of caution surrounding him. The man shifted in his expensive, pressed suit, twisting his notebook in his hands as he neared The Leviathan. Wade looked into the man's eyes – that smile still etched across Wade's cold face - as he came closer and stopped about ten feet away, out of fear for his own safety.

“Do you mind if we turn some lights on Wade?” the man asked, “It's a little dark in here.”

Wade stared down the man in the suit, who started to become even more visibly uncomfortable. He started to pull on the sleeve of his white collar shirt underneath his coat. Wade held his hand up, indicating for the man to stop his actions. The interviewer stopped suddenly as if something had washed over his body. Wade leaned back in his wooden chair, his hand still expressed outward.

“Why do you fret, child?” Wade asked.

The interviewer stammered, losing his ground a little bit.

“Turn the cameras on, would you?” Wade asked while rolling his hand in a 'lights, camera, action' type gesture.

“G-g-get those cameras r-r-rolling, please?” the man asked.

The crew started frantically piecing together the equipment and getting into position. They held up a thumbs up to indicate they were ready to roll.

“Pull up a seat”, Wade commanded, “Get comfortable, child.”

The interviewer pulled one of the wooden chairs toward Wade and sat in it, nervously shuffling in his seat.

“I asked you, why do you fret?” Wade repeated.

“The plain and simple truth of the matter?” the man asked, starting to gain a little confidence in view of the cameras, “You frighten me, Wade. I've never felt a presence like yours before...and I've interviewed a lot of men and women in my time.”

Wade laughed in response. “What is your name, son?” he asked in a gentle, fatherly voice.

“M-Miles, sir”, he responded, “Miles Poteete.”

“I like that name, Miles”, Wade responded, “Why, I like that name a lot. It's a good name. A caring name. The way you said your last name, I can tell you're proud of that name. Your parents obviously loved you, provided for you, your brothers and sisters if you have any. You probably had a small armies worth of grandparents who doted upon you, would care for you as if you were their very own child if need be?”

Miles simply nodded his head.

“That's good, Miles...because you see, some men can wear their name as a Coat of Arms, something they feel safe wearing upon their sleeve, something they can be proud of. And other men? They wear it as a Badge of Shame, a weight and burden they will carry around for the rest of their lives. But it's their burden to bare, their Badge to wear upon their chest. They hope and pray that eventually, that weight will bore down just a little less, the pain of that shame will decrease even marginally.”

Miles stammered, thinking very hard about the next words that would come out of his mouth.

“And what about you, Wade?” Miles asked, “What's your story?”

Wade smiled as Her gentle hand rested upon his broad, masculine shoulder, curling those soft fingers over the soft of his chest. He turned his head and rested his hand upon Her's before turning back to Miles with a delighted twinkle in his eye.

“You want to hear a story, Miles?” Wade asked, his voice as smooth as velvet, “I got one for you.”

Wade shifted in his seat, rubbing the palms of his hands together before tipping his cap back on his head.

“Once upon a time, there was a King named Midas...and he was a cruel, greedy, depraved man who beat his wife, lusted after his daughter, and ruled his wicked kingdom with a fist of golden fear. You see, King Midas sat naked upon heaps of gold – like firebreathing dragons of yore – that were never meant to be spent...but that wasn't enough for old King Midas, no.” Wade strokes his beard before continuing in a controlled shout “KING MIDAS WANTED MORE, MORE, MORE, MORE!

“Midas could see that he had more than enough for everyone in his kingdom to live comfortably, but he didn't care. This man picked food from his teeth with golden coins, but he had no interest in sharing with the lowly peasants. They meant nothing, they WERE NOTHING to old King Midas!”

Wade laughed before rolling his fingers in the air.

“But then, the winds of change blew through and the magic man came knocking at Midas' door. He asked for a place to stay for the night, one night in the King's castle and in return he would grant the King one wish. Midas, the greedy sack of shit he was, couldn't refuse the old man's offer. The magic man ate his fill, washed it down with the finest wines, smoked the most potent tobacco leaves, and slept in one of the most beautiful chambers he had ever laid eyes on.

“The magic man had never hadn't a night so well in a long time, and in the morning he kept his promise of one wish. Midas' fancied a little magic of his own. You see, he wanted everything he touched to turned to solid gold. The old man granted his wish and was promptly thrown on his ass out the door. The King was so high above the commoners as he felt golden bricks appear under his feet as he walked upon them. Midas' ego was so inflated by his lust that he couldn't see the forest for the trees.

“Soon, old King Midas' learned the hard way that his gift was in fact a curse, when he nearly choked to death upon a golden grape. He began to feel the pang of hunger hammer away at his stomach, the unquenchable thirst as water turned to solid gold upon touching his face, melting his lips together. He struggled to speak, struggled to breath, and finally a bright light in all the glimmering despair of his gold and greed.

“His daughter. His true love. Nobody would have him but her. He rushed to his daughter, throwing his arms around her in a state of fright. He struggled to scream as his daughter turned to a golden statue in his arms, taking her very last breath as she became a hunk of solid, priceless stone. King Midas fell to the floor and cried, the tears turning to gold and moulding over his eyes.

“King Midas lamented his despair, and it was at this very moment that the peasants rushed his castle for the provincial's decided they had enough. They had teeth and they were much sharper than the King's personal army. They dragged King Midas out by the scruff of his softest bear skin coat, stabbed him ten times, and then drowned him in the lake.”

Miles eyes narrowed as Wade seemingly came to the conclusion.

“I don't think that's how the story goes”, Miles replied.

Wade laughed again before holding his pointer finger to Miles' lips.

“That's because I'm not done, my child”, Wade responded, “You see, their was ONE...just ONE peasant who did not mind the King. In fact, I would go as far to say he envied the King, personally. He tried to emulate his lifestyle, but on a smaller scale. He beat on his wife and he smothered his children in unhealthy affection. He was the Vagabond King, the working man's King.

“So when it came time to decide a new King, the Vagabond decided he wanted that roll, and he did everything he had to to ensure he sat upon that throne, slitting throats of his fellow man in the night, entrapping others in crimes to guarantee the crown would be his. One day, he got what he wanted, and the Vagabond became King. He sat upon his throne, he ate his fill, drank his wines, fucked everything that walked including his own flesh and blood. Then that magic man came a knocking on his door offering the same deal, and greed begets greed begets greed. This time, they ripped the King from his castle and nailed him to a tree.”

Miles eyes widened as Wade finished. Wade pulled his hair behind his head, flipping his hat in between the thick of his fingers before rolling it back up and over the top of his cranium. He smiled and twirled his mustache as Miles cleared his throat to speak.

“What does this all mean, Wade?” Miles asked.

Wade chuckled under his breath.

“It all relates, Miles. It all fits in to my perfect little puzzle. Every piece has it's place and I'm going to line them up, one by one. My opponents at the VERY FIRST UCI Overload this week? How would this story pertain to them? Why would I shoot myself in the foot and tell such a long winded tale...unless I had reason to do so?”

Miles shifted a little.

“Something like that”, Miles responded.

“Did King Midas not sound familiar to someone in our midst? I think greet begets greet in the form of a Lyndon Diehl, a man who's ego is obviously much bigger than his, ahh...I think you get where I'm going with this Miles.”

Miles nods his head quickly in affirmation.

“We've all heard the way Lyndon talks, the way he acts like the cock of the walk, the over sized rooster strutting his stuff. How he's going to be UCI's shining star, the prime example and cornerstone of all there is to achieve in this business. Greed won't get you anywhere Lyndon, except the absolute worst day of your pathetic life. If you want the crown so badly, you needs to be prepared to pay the consequences. Paupers dragging you out into the street and stringing you up from the nearest tree. Your legacy burned to the ground with the stroke of a match.

“You think you have the advantage heading into this match, Lyndon? I'm sure you do. I'm sure one of your advisers you pay those big Arkansas bucks for has told you the very same thing. He doesn't know who you are, Lyndon. This will be easy pickin's, Lyndon. The problem with that logic? I know exactly who you are before I even look you in the eye or step foot into the ring with you.

“The consensus on your fat jokes came back; critically panned. Better men than you have tried and failed. Your projection on to me was farcical at best, completely impotent at worst. How many pills does it take to get you up in the morning, Diehl? Well, you're about to swallow the toughest one of all...defeat. This 'fat boy' is about to make a violent sandwich out of you, and I'm so hungry. Hungry to taste sweet victory again.

“I've known men who have inspired fear, Lyndon...and you aren't one of them. You would have to had done something for me to be frightened of, and swinging your dick around on the internet isn't one of them. Your oath? Bullshit. A flaccid effort to get the brass behind you, see that you're the most 'appropriate' candidate to be the face of this battle plan, leading the charge into new territories...”

Another soft chuckle from Wade as he brushes the knees of his pants.

“But true soldiers?! They just go out and do Lyndon! They're able to do what's necessary for the task at hand, and you look like you're up to do much of anything besides cast the most lax shade towards me I've ever seen in my day. You make a lilac flower seem dangerous. And for somebody who likes to make fat jokes, your midsection is built like a flat tire. Not even a pair of lustrous hips for child baring under that dump truck you call a abdomen. I know six fat guys and you're three of them.

“That's how you make a joke, Lyndon. That's...how you take the world by storm. I don't have to shout to the world - notice me! Notice me! - that I'm fiercely loyal, charismatic, and an unbounded force of nature! They just...know. You spend enough time picking people apart piece by and piece, you can tell who has 'it' and who doesn't, and you doesn't. You're a sniveling coward, a lecherous jackal waiting for his piece of flesh to tear off, waiting for the lion to have his share.

“Well, I'm not going to let you have any. I'm 'fat' and 'selfish', remember? This World Championship tournament will be mine to reap and you'll be left in the dust with the rest of the weeping plebeians...men die as Kings, Lyndon, but only Godnilla's live forever.”

Miles cleared his throat as the camera crew started getting antsy, unhinged in the presence of Wade Moor.

“And what about your other opponent, Wade? Chance Von Crank?” Miles asked.

Wade took a hammy fistful of his beard and pulled downward, extending his mouth in a macabre smile.

“Chance Von Crank? The working man's Lyndon Diehl? I know he came from WCF, and he barely managed a splash in the wide ocean of talent I cast on display. His biggest accomplishment was...I don't remember? Being bounced off the mat a hundred times by Tiffany White? A women, mortals he deems lesser than he, barely sufficient to share the same ground he walks on?

“Men like Chance Von Crank? Those who pick on the helpless and the weak like his 'beloved' Pixie? I have no love for these men. These are the men I would spend my life trying to bury underneath the dirt because they deserve nothing more than that. Chance Von Crank is the epitome of weakness and impotence. He wish he could be like Lyndon, but his social standing and low IQ drags him down to the murk and mire. King Trailer Park, that unwashed Vagabond begging for his chance.

“It won't come at my expense, Chance! You worthless, bumbling, incompetent fool! You want to burn my world down...but that would require you step into it, but I don't think you would last the night. You come from a world where you pick on the weak, the powerless, those who you can get the physical upper hand on because you lack the mentality to manipulate without threats of violence.”

Wade tap-a-tap-taps on the crux of his cranium.

“While you're desperately try to catch up, I'm already four steps ahead of you, and that will translate to the ring come Sunday night at Overload. You just aren't on my level, Chance. You're the beast of the plains, I'm Nostradamus. I'm so high above you that I barely acknowledge your existance. You're an ant, a bug to squash underneath my boots...and there will be plenty of squashing happening in that ring.

“So tell me how you think this match ends and I'll tell you what I know, how absolutely wrong you are! This World Championship tournament? This is my bread and butter. These are my stomping grounds. UCI will become my temple, and I'm God, the magic man! The one who will drag and nail you to the center of that ring in my own name! This interview is over, just like your chances at the UCI World Heavyweight Championship!”

Miles swallows the lump in his throat and signals for his crew to wrap it up.

“Some strong words from Wade Moor, The Leviathan, a force to be reckoned with in the UCI, poss - - -”

Wade holds his finger as he turns his head over his shoulder.

“What's that Sister?” he asked.

Wade chuckles as Miles falls backwards in his chair, his face as pale as the moon, as if he had just seen a ghost. He scrambles away from Wade quickly and bolts top speed out of the room. The camera crew quickly gather up their equipment and follows Miles, their proverbial tails between their own legs.

“That's one of my favorite stories, too”, Wade says with a horrific look plastered on his face.