The Man with the Beryllium Penis.

The building he had taken up residence within was perhaps the last little glimpse of old Chicago. It hadn’t always been used as City Hall though, and had served as a museum before the world was shaken to it’s very core. Sanchez had purchased the Victorian, listed building and historical grounds from the remnants of the old government for an unknown price almost immediately after moving from California all those months ago. There was something about these premises which spoke to him in leading tones. Before he spent dollar one on improving the city’s crumbling lower-class neighborhoods though he had caused a lot of disdain by erecting a beautiful water feature in front of the building; claiming that the townspeople would appreciate its architecture and find hope in the old world idea of simply throwing loose change in the water and making a wish. It seemed pretty selfish of a concept but he gave a touching speech about how the city needed a symbol of hope, and what better symbol than this?

“Animals.”

He snarled with sheer contempt as he looked out of the window at his wishing-well. There was a man trying to scoop whatever change he could from out of the water and shove it into his pockets without drawing too much attention to himself. In Hope Valley though, big brother was always watching like a hawk. He made a mental note to leave some exposed wiring on the water’s edge in future.

“Security. Apprehend the man out front and bring him to me.”

David spoke to nobody. An automated system perhaps? Either way, within minutes the man was seized into custody by his black-clad security detail with their visors and riot shields, and marched through the front entrance of City Hollow. He was on the top floor, in an office which overlooked his glorious water feature and out onto Main Street. Truth be told he probably spent more time gazing out of the window than he did actually partaking in politics. Another new suit donned his back, gunmetal grey Armani with a black shirt and purple tie to break the monochrome look. Again, it looked like it cost more money than he was currently spending on rebuilding the city’s public schools. The private institutions though, where the rich sent their spoiled children were reconstructed just a few short weeks after he was granted office. This was just the way he protected his interests; by keeping the rich in finery and the poor under strict instructions to stick to their tenement buildings and discount stores.

“Sir, we have the perpetrator in custody.”

A knock on his office door was followed by the rough voice of one of his hired riot squad. Mercenaries and prize-fighters he had pulled from underground fight clubs and ex-military prisons across the country, retrained, reprogrammed and rewarded for their support by granting them special privileges like diplomatic immunity and a desirable starting salary. Each of these men were chosen for their issues with violence as much as their loyalty. After all, the mayor himself could not be everywhere at once and rarely ventured into the more urban areas of town, instead having convoys of this makeshift police force patrol the city whilst he watched on at the giant collection of closed-circuit security screens that occupied an entire wall of his office.

“Send him inside, and make yourself scarce.”

Almost immediately the large mahogany doors swung open on their hinges and the man was dragged into the ovalesque office. His head was covered in a black, burlap sack to obscure his vision, although David would confess to himself that this was just as much to prevent him having to look into the eyes of every Tom, Dick and Harry that was apprehended as it was to keep his identity and location a secret. Although in this situation he hardly deemed it necessary due to the fact that the man had essentially been captured on his own doorstep. Two large men in the bog-standard attire of the private security force wasted little time in setting their captor down upon a chair in front of David’s large desk and removing the bag before disappearing back out into the lobby and leaving their unwilling cargo shaking and scared in front of the mayor.

“So, what in the name of Allah possessed you to think you could steal from me?”

The question sounded almost rhetorical with the inflections David had used. It was not rhetorical, not by any stretch of the imagination but in that moment, hampered by fear it might as well have been.

“I.. I only took thirty-six cents, I d-didn’t think you’d miss it.”

The value of this crime did not appease the mayor, instead it seemed to anger him more; as if this petty thief truly believed he was offering up a valid excuse for stealing. In David’s eyes there was no acceptable reason to perform such a crime. Right in front of his office window too? The nerve of this guy.

“... Perhaps you didn’t understand the question. I don’t want you to make excuses. I want to know why you thought it would be acceptable to steal from me.”

There was no correct answer. David knew this, the thief knew this. Shit, even the small formation of gulls that had gathered on the windowsill knew this. It was all but over for him now and fear was building up in his chest like a shaken soda bottle; ready to fizz over and explode out of his mouth.

“M-my family is starving. I only wanted a dollar to buy some bread.”

So what? it’s okay to steal if you’re doing it to save your fucking impoverished family? He made a mental note to ensure this modern day Robin Hood’s family were taken into custody as well. In his eyes they were just as guilty, just as weak-willed. The glare of resentment on David’s face was one that had eluded the public eye; being replaced instead with carefully selected smiles and footage of him kissing babies and aiding the downtrodden.

“So what you’re saying is that you think it’s my fault?”

This was becoming a conversational labyrinth, one which the thief was rapidly gaining the impression he would not escape with his limbs intact. Rumors were rife in Hope Valley of how the poor were being punished, detained and tortured for so much as a parking ticket. He could only imagine the horrors which awaited him. Meanwhile the rich were given the freedom to bend the law to their benefit. Chicago was reformed on the surface but every city had an underbelly and it just so happened that when Mayor Sanchez gained power, this city’s underbelly had become bloated and obese.

“I… No. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

“Get a job perhaps?”

David’s answer came almost before he had finished his sentence. It must be lovely to be so secluded from reality that the world was this simple. He wondered when Sanchez had last spent a day performing manual labor for minimum wage but eventually decided this had probably never even happened. There was no secret as to how the mayor had made his billions; investing, narcotics and by taking through force what he could not accomplish through guile. In the old world this might have made him an unfit candidate to hold office but in this world, the ‘how?’ and ‘why?’ were obsolete. All that mattered was that David had the money and resources that the city needed and was a dab-hand at speeches. The people didn’t care where the money for the new hospital had came from, so long as it was open.

“I had a job. You closed the mill three months ago.”

That dick. He was trying to blame him after-all. Sure Sanchez had shut down the woolen mill, but in this day and age cardigans and shawls were the last thing people needed. The site had been leveled to make way for a multistory parking structure for the staff and patients of Hope Valley Hospital. Why hadn’t he simply become a parking attendant? Or a builder? Or an orderly? Shit, even a cleaner?

“Excuses my child, the world is full of people who make them. Just because life hands you lemons doesn’t mean you spend eternity selling lemonade. I opened up industry the likes of which this city had never seen before. There has never been more jobs available to people of little or no talents.”

“I’ve been an auxiliary at the mill since the Cold War, like my father before me.”

He hated when people used that ‘sins of the father’ mantra. David’s father had been a non-entity in his childhood, having left before he was born. His mother had often told him of his father’s bravery though, how he had been a heroic man who enlisted to go fight our wars overseas. All David had known him as though was a coward who couldn’t accept his responsibilities as a father. He had no desire to take the oath and follow suit just to be blown apart by an improvised explosive device in some third world country. Yet here was this man who believed it was his birthright to turn sheep into jumpers because dear old daddy had done the same. It was pathetic. People following in the footsteps of their father was something that had always enraged him since Kayden’s birth. By that logic his son would have been a womanizing junkie with a flair for the violent and depraved by age ten.

“So, you’re trying to tell me that rather than simply change careers you’ve taken to stealing from people who actually earn their income? That’s all I managed to take from your sob story. Do you have a name?”

“Eddie West. It’s not like that sir. Nobody would hire me. Nowhere in this city has jobs for people like me. I didn’t think the coins belonged to anyone.”

Eddie was dirtier than your average waste of space thought David. The exact kind of man he had constructed his low and no income housing schemes for, and yet here he was. Stealing coins out of a fountain and looking like he had nowhere to call home. For a split second he had entertained the idea of letting this bum off with a slap on the wrist, but then he said that.

“... Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. Dear sweet, simple Eddie. You should know by now, that everything in this city belongs to me. From loose change to tight space. This world is mine and you are simply renting the air and space required to survive.”

The thief’s head falls into his hands and the sobbing becomes louder, amplified by the high ceilings and minimalistic furnishings of David’s office. A grown man crying, another thing he hated. This was the last straw for David who now turned back to the window in his chair and began speaking seemingly to the room itself.

“Security… Take Mr. West down to the basement and have Dr. Danco take a look at him.”

“No, please… I’ll go to jail. Anything but that!”

Eddie was almost howling now, and rightfully so. Dr Josef Danco was an urban legend of sorts since David’s rise to power. Nobody really knew whether or not the good doctor was real or if he was just another fictional horror story shared between the whispers of Chicago’s denizens. Whether fact or fiction, the doctor’s job was to determine whether those remanded into custody were fit to be sent away to slave encampments on the city’s outskirts, whether they would rot in prison, or whether they were so far beyond reform that they were better suited to becoming a cadaver on his table.

“I’m sorry Eddie but you leave me with no choice. You steal from my family to feed your own, and after everything I’ve done for you, there’s nothing else for it I’m afraid.”

His family? Eddie’s tearful expression was outlined with confusion as the security detail poured back into the room. Everybody had thought David to be a widower, why was he trying to say his family were the victims of this most petty of thefts? Soon though the bag was back over his head and he was dragged by the arms back into the lobby, his muffled sobs resonating throughout the halls as he kicked and struggled to no avail against the much larger officers.

“Mr. Mayor, Taylor Wright is here to see you.”

David waits a few moments until Eddie’s screams are not but a faint warble in the distance before responding the source-less voice that is presumed to be emanating from a speaker somewhere in the office. He straightens his tie, and steals a last glance at the fountain outside with all of its sculptures and water features glistening in the morning sun.

“Send him up now Miss Valentyne, please and thank you.”

His tone had shifted from the morbid aggression he had displayed moments ago and back into the calm and collected tones of an elected official. After-all, people would hardly be supporting him if they knew the truth, the true nature of his inner monster. He wasn’t ready to share the bigger picture with Taylor yet either. For all of Mr. Wright’s uses he was a fickle young man who wouldn’t understand what it was that David was creating here. He was from the streets himself, the concept of building a metropolitan garden of Eden was going to be foreign to his Ambassador of Urban Relations, and so it would be kept from the young man until such a time that he deemed him ready to serve the true purpose.

“Morning boss, I brought some coffee from that little Costa Rican place down on Englewood that you like. What’s on the agenda to…”

Wright came bursting through the door with youthful enthusiasm, a smile and two cups of black coffee. None of that freeze-dried instant shit either, he was moving up in the world. Before he could finish his sentence though he was cut off by David who seemed to be thinking out loud.

“Do you know the purpose of wishing-wells Taylor?”

He thought about the answer for a second. This was surely another trick question, he fucking hated trick questions and it wasn’t even nine o’clock. It was going to be one of those days.

“Somewhere to throw your loose change when the wallet’s getting a little bit coin-heavy?”

David’s sigh said more than words could have managed, and just like that began the patronizing and condescending tones.

“No. It’s about hope. As long as people can wish, they will have hope. Hope for the price of a few measly coins in a fountain. It’s a beautiful concept.”

Taylor nodded, hurrah for hope. He couldn’t really give a shit to be quite honest, he just wanted to sit down and drink his coffee but as David got to his feet and buttoned his jacket it became obvious that the mayor had other plans.

“... And why do people need hope Taylor?”

He neither knew nor cared. It was too early for his philosophical shit.

“I don’t know boss, why is that?”

With a sly smile David replied, trying his best not to let the forked, serpent's tongue protrude through his teeth.

“People without hope cannot be ruled, only contained. However, if you introduce a little optimism into their lives when they thought the world was a black hole of suffering and misery… they’re yours forever and they will love you unconditionally.”

He made a mental note; hope equals control. Nodding a feigned understanding as David stared out of the window once more and the camera again panned back out to the fountain, this time focusing on a previously unseen plaque underneath a statue in the center of the display which reads:





He hated the press. Every last one of them. They were parasites in his eyes, feeding off of the suffering of others in order to make a quick buck. That was a previous life though, he couldn’t afford such luxuries as personal opinion now, not in this profession. Now they were more like mushrooms; something to be fed shit and kept in the dark. David had lost count of how many reporters he’d had to bribe and endorse in order to keep much of his past discretion's out of the tabloids. They had a hard-on for him in a major way since he took office, and this was not something he had adjusted to very well. Today was no exception, the room was full to capacity with cameras, journalists, interns and other interested parties. Yet not one of them had thought to turn the air conditioning on. David was seated front and center, staring out at the beady-eyed masses as they prepared to bombard him with questions that probably held very little relevance to the matters at hand. He was expected to sit here for fifteen minutes and talk about his upcoming match with Erin Fausse and Teddy Sol at UCI’s Election Day event. That was a solid fourteen minutes longer than he would have cared to stay in this hotbox. Beads of perspiration were already beginning to form on his brow, there was too many people in this room, the air was thick and heavy as though they were all sitting patiently inside a bowl of soup. It was taking every ounce of his self-control not to jump up to a vertical base and scream ‘fuck this’ but he feared what such an outburst might do for his public image.

Taylor was already acting as a buffer to the sneaky reporters who were approaching the podium and attempting to gain an exclusive before the press conference started, throwing questions at the mayor left, right and center. Wright was on roll lately, he had been winning matches for a solid month not and was gaining a modicum of confidence to match. Now, rather than evade the cameras he was happy to cut a pose with his boss and see his face in the papers. Smile, taylor; the world is watching.

“We’re live in: five, four, three, two… Rolling!”

The general din of the room was calmed by the flickering red ‘on air’ button which buzzed a crimson glow from above the room’s only doorway. Frantic rushing and bartering for attention was now replaced by the organized chaos of pen scribbling against paper as the masses of reporters took to their seats and began to raise their hands one by one. Each hand representing a question which the mayor would have to answer in his best spoken word.

“Mister Mayor, how do you feel heading into Sunday’s triple threat match for the Rising Stars championship?”

If there was anything he hated more than a press conference, it was a press conference where the obvious questions floated to the top of the proverbial glass. Nobody ever wanted to know his favorite color, or how he liked his steak cooked. It was straight to the penetration, no foreplay as per usual. David sighs and smiles out at the room, his tone taking his best political kindness impression as he replies.

“Sunday marks my first championship match and main event in almost a year, but more than that it symbolizes an opportunity to once again cement my legacy as the most underrated professional wrestler of the twenty-first century. I don’t really do nerves or anxiety, that’s not really my thing but just know that I’m not going to be taking this match lightly, that title would make a fine addition to my endless portfolio of accolades, even if it is currently being held by some butterface with a ‘dog complex.’ I won’t touch too heavily on Teddy Sol, because well… If you’ve followed my career you already know how that one ends.”

His mind was drifting back to how good it had felt to kick Teddy, then Teo in the face last year and establish himself as the hottest new talent in a forgotten federation. He was almost nostalgic, had it really been a year already? His trip down memory lane however was short and sweet as another hand was elevated, offering another question.

“Last week we witnessed the return of one Howard Black to the squared circle, a man who many have compared you to in the past. With this new signing, are you worried that one’s standing in the company is at risk of being jeopardized?”

Howard Black, he had hated the comparison they had made last year. Referring to him as a carbon copy with less morals and more baggage. He didn’t see it himself, although he was probably standing too close to the mirror to gain an accurate reflection per say. What had he even done that David hadn’t? Sure there was a few more matches on the big stage to be accounted for but while Howard was getting his arm broken, David was carrying a new era of wrestlers to the promised land, that was what he told himself anyway. He was able to see the lines of symmetry on a personal level, but professionally speaking, or thinking rather; he didn't consider himself to have any competition. Not Black, least of all. He had exchanged letters with the man last Fall, and found nothing but a country bumpkin who refused to transcend the shackles of his own demons, at a time where Sanchez had succumbed to the cry of the beast. At least now he was acting on impulse, maybe he would have to watch a little more closely after all, but that was an egotistical thought for another day.

“Howard Black is a fantastic signing, and one which provides United Championship Infinite with an extra dimension of talent. If it’s good for the company, it’s good for the city, and if it’s good for Chicago then you know it’s good for me. I’m not afraid to fight for my spot in that ring any more than I’m afraid to fight for the rights of the people in this fine city. If Howard Black wants to be known the way men like us need to be - as the best at what he does. Then you better believe that he’ll have to go through me in order to earn that claim. I’ve wanted to work with this guy for over a year now and would welcome the challenge with open arms. So if any of the management are watching this, then David Sanchez is on board; anytime, any place.”

Lying through his teeth was becoming second nature. He wondered specifically how many lies one need to tell before earning the title of pathological liar. Either way, he guessed he must be fast approaching the benchmark.

“What do you say to those people who feel that you don’t really deserve to be challenging for a championship at Election Day in light of your defeat on last week’s Overload?”

Taylor Wright was already on his feet, drawing this reporter an evil look. Even he with his questionable brain function had thought better than to bring up this loss to David, and he was perhaps the master of verbal diarrhea. Before he could motion for the security detail to have this man removed from the building however, David was already responding through gritted teeth. His cold, blue eyes fixated on the man who dared to question him.

“Defeat? I have no idea what you are talking about. If you are referring to my match last Sunday then what you witnessed was simply an act of generosity, charity even.”

He was never going to live it down. Rolled up and pinned by a relative unknown, in truth he didn’t even feel he deserved the shot himself. It was all he could do to not force a gun into his mouth and blow his brains out after that shocking upset.

“You honestly expect the people to believe that you lost this match on purpose? Michael beat you dead to rights in the center of the ring and yet somehow you are the one receiving a title shot whilst he has to earn one in the opening match.”

The rage was building inside him now, and you could see the veins on his temples poking through the skin. Mount Sanchez was about to erupt and cover the congregation of reporters in molten hate.

“I don’t lose matches you fucking bum. Furthermore, anyone found to be discussing this result within the city limits is to be remanded into police custody. I refuse to be mocked by the common man. What you witnessed on Overload was an act of kindness and compassion, besides… The sun was in my eyes, I had a headache and the guy attacked me from behind. Make no mistake about it, the next time I meet this nameless wonder, the result will be very different.”

He was handling it quite well, cursing aside.

“Many people feel that if you are successful in winning the Rising Stars championship on Sunday then by all rights you should give Michael a title shot the following week. What do you have to say about this?”

That was it, the last fucking question. He was taking his ball and going home, the toys were being thrown from the pram and he was going to see to it that this type of question was never an issue again, he’d been mocked in the streets for four days now, and now they were trying to shame him on television. Fuck you very much Chicago, and goodnight.

“I am a man, nay… A God of many faces and on Overload I made the mistake of showing my caring side. Something which I have received nothing but grief for since. When, not if I win the belt on Sunday, my first order of business will be to offer it up to Michael like a carrot on a string. We will see the how he copes against my true form, and not someone trying to do him a favor. I was wrong to think I could help this city both inside and outside of the squared circle so from now on, when that bell rings… I’m no longer going to be your mayor. I’m going to be what I was born to be; the fucking Plague… The Many-Faced God of Professional Wrestling and the reason your kids can’t sleep at night. ”

As soon as he has concluded this sentence David gets to his feet and rushes towards the exit, cutting the press conference short by a solid ten minutes. He hadn’t even spoken about his opponents on Sunday, or anything else really for that matter. Taylor Wright was still soaking up some camera flashes when he noticed David’s departure, through that one door that was now swinging to and forth on it’s hinges as the flock of security personnel in their pitch black riot gear prevented the paparazzi from following. He gulped and knew that the upcoming limousine journey to wherever the rest of the day was going to take him was going to be one of awkward, hostile silence. For the second time in two weeks he got to his feet with the soul thought in his head ringing; ‘I really need to learn to fucking drive.’




“I still don’t understand why we couldn’t just go to a sporting-goods store? A blacksmith seems a bit like overkill. More to the point, why did you bring me, isn’t that a bit gay?”

Taylor and David were standing outside yet another building, the two men taking in the first signs of dusk as Sanchez races to try and finish a cigarette. Hammering and clinking can be heard in the background, creating the idea that they are somewhere that deals in manual labor. Wright scuffs his feet and kicks a discarded soda can across the ground and into the external wall of the premises. A sign overhead reads:’The Scorched Hammer’ and is illuminated by neon lighting which has already began to flicker, drawing moths and flies to its warm glow like fish to bait. It was a quiet night in Chicago, even here on the usually crowded and bustling corner of South Lawndale and Archer Heights. This was one of the residential areas that David had thus far managed to avoid venturing. Not for any reason in particular, but for the fact that the Northwest Side where he had leveled six city blocks for the express purpose of building low income housing, a hospital and of course City Hollow itself; his shining cherry atop what was turning out to be a rather exquisite cake.

“Nevermind! Ass like an onion, four o’clock.”

Wright had an eye for talent in the female form. This much David had noticed as soon as he had met the man. All you simply had to do was follow Taylor’s line of sight and nine times out of ten the prize would be a chick of smoking hot status. This particular find was no exception. She walked with real purpose, the kind of girl you would most likely wind up paying to go on eight or nine dates with before she even stroked your inner thigh. Blonde with blue eyes and flawless makeup she walked past the two men in absolute certainty that both sets of eyes were firmly fixated on first her legs, and then her ass. She was used to the attention and simply drew the two man fanclub a subtle smile as they watched her go past, all the while muttering the following pet-names:

“Baby.”

“Darling.”

“Dollface.”

“Honey.”

They had both been ignored, a stiff blow to the ego when all things were considered. David, a successful politician and professional wrestler of citywide infamy and Taylor, a renowned ladies man with a spotless track record and a body to die for. Here they were, striking out with a common street walker. Their comments soon changed from playful bantering into insults, giving voice to their inner-feelings of rejection.

“Slut.”

“Bitch.”

“Whore.”

“Lesbian.”

That was the only conclusion they could establish; the chick must be into chicks. How else could she walk on by these two men without dropping her panties and being double-teamed against the dumpster round back? It was the only possible explanation. As the ass and the woman it was attached to fade off into the distance, David takes a final draw from his cigarette before pinging the filter through the gap in a sewer grate a few feet away. The two men now entered through the front of The Scorched Hammer, letting the heavy wooden door slam closed behind them as they made it into the main forge. Before they could go any further though they were stopped by an employee who issued both the Mayor and the Ambassador of Urban Relations with some protective eyewear just to cover their own backs in a legal sense.In truth it was very unlikely that either of them were going to be unlucky eough to catch a rogue spark in the eye this had became known as best working practice to most blacksmiths in America. Gone were the days where men were men and didn’t even wear sleeves to work the forge, let alone plastic glasses.

“How can I help you gentlemen today?”

David looked at the young man up and down a few times before responding through the pursed lips of his best shit-eating grin.

“I was wondering if you could make a specialist item for me? It shouldn’t take you very long and I can pay you handsomely for the job.”

It was unusual for a specific request to come so late at night, and from the city’s mayor no less. The young man was almost starstruck in front of the two men. He had only been watching them on Youtube last Sunday and now here they were trying to purchase fabricated metal in his humble little workshop. What possible use could two city officials have for a lowly smithy though? His curiosities were peaking.

“Okay, I’m sure we can help you. What is it that you require?”

Looking around the workshop, the walls were decorated with various pieces of arms and armor from maces to long-swords. In that first moment of recognition David considered the effectiveness of simply having a scythe created, the best defense after-all is a good offense, and there wasn’t much in the way of more offensive than being slashed to pieces with a curved blade. He was sure that had to be against the rules though? Something he’d have to research for a later date.

“I’m looking to have a sports-cup for protecting my boys made out of lightweight metal. I was thinking either a magnesium or beryllium alloy. It needs to be comfortable enough to wear for the duration of a wrestling match and discreet enough that the other combatants don’t know I’m wearing it under my gear.”

“At the risk of talking myself out of a sale, you do know they sell ready-made, reinforced plastic ones at most sporting goods stores?”

If one more person mentioned that today David was going to start dishing out backhanded slaps.

“I’m perfectly aware of that fact. I don’t want to simply protect my balls though, I want the person trying to them to break a finger or two. Which brings us here, your website said you take special requests. What could be more special than securing the reproductive capabilities of your esteemed mayor?”

There was nothing too complicated about this job in all fairness, it simply struck the blacksmith as a troubling request, however it wasn’t his job to judge, simply to work the forge.

“You’d get on best with a beryllium alloy, it has the lowest density of lightweight metals, offers complete protection and amazing potential for heat resistance, just in case anyone wants to roast your chestnuts so to speak. It’s the same stuff they use to hold together airplanes, so any contact will be like kicking the nose of a seven-twenty-seven. I can get to work on this for you now if you like, it shouldn’t take me long but it’s an expensive resource to be using in the kind of concentration you require, the whole thing and labor should cost five grand, give or take.”

David carelessly dives into the pocket of his black suit pants and produces his platinum card, handing it to the blacksmith with a complete lack of concern for its safety. He fumbles around for a few more minutes before handing the blacksmith another item, a piece of scrap paper with some numbers scribbled down on it.

“What is this?”

“It’s my, ahem... Measurements. Although I could have Taylor give me a quick fitting just now if you want? To get a more accurate um, fighting weight?”

Mr. Wright looked enraged for a moment before his boss calmed him down with a cheeky smile. He was joking, thankfully. Sometimes with David it was particularly hard to tell when he was joking around and when he was being deadly serious. Taylor and David share a light laugh as the blacksmith disappears down the corridor and into his forge station with some departing words ensuring them he would not take very long to make this.

“The sizes on paper will be fine! If you’d like to take a seat I’ll be back in about an hour with your item and your receipt.”

“Excellent. Taylor, be a sweetheart and relieve the cameraman of his burden please, I’d like to address Miss Fausse directly for a minute and would rather not say it in front of this guy, he’s got a lazy eye and it’s freaking the fuck outta me.”

Dis-heartened, the cameraman relinquishes the video camera and hands it to Taylor before disappearing down the hall in the opposite direction from the blacksmith with a tear in his wandering eye.

“Rolling boss. Give her hell.”

David takes a deep breath to compose himself and begins talking into the camera lens as though it were only ever going to be he and Erin Fausse that witnessed the footage.

“Erin, baby. In another lifetime we could have been lovers. In another reality we might even have made for fitting, dare I say… soulmates? Samantha would be spinning in her grave if she could hear me admitting to such blasphemy but then again I never really cared too much for the opinions of your gender, whether they were those of my late wife or not. I’ve come to be quite a fan of you in the last few weeks, not of your wrestling ability though, and not of that ‘chipmunk chewing a wasp’ innocence thing you’ve got going on in the face department, but how you conduct yourself. This fanfare though is not respect for a fellow competitor because honestly, who has time for that shit?

No, the common ground we share is that we both live in the moment and act out of personal gain. We hide our darkness in plain sight for the world to see then blatantly deny its existence when questioned. That belt isn’t the only reason I was pushing for this match though, shit my star was on the rise over a decade ago, I’m fucking thirty-six. I just have a problem when I enter a locker room and people don’t even bat an eyelid because they’re distracted by something else, and at Lazarus Erin, you were that something else. You represent Pepsi to my Coca Cola, Gala melon to my Cantaloupe. We’re both whores for the limelight sweetheart, the only difference is that one of us stopped dressing like one in the late nineties. I’m not complaining, I mean shit… when this is all said and done I’d like to buy you a drink and slip you some GHB but that’s another story for another day.

You see, I’ve built my world around one central idea: ‘There is no choice, There is no other” and you represent a walking contradiction to that mantra of mine in a smaller, more user-friendly model. That quite simply is something that I cannot allow to continue. Even when you ignore the differences like your redneck upbringing in some twelve-thousand strong population town in the underarm of IOWA or the obvious matter of dick versus vagina it still remains the same. You are selling a different brand of the same product and that product… is mine. Trademark David Sanchez circa two-thousand and three. All rights reserved.

So I campaigned and campaigned to get into this match, passing off my chance to go and lock horns in a clusterfuck of a ladder match in the main event just so I could be one to knock you down a peg. Just so I can be the one holding you down with a fishhook while reality hatefucks you with your legs on its shoulders. Because in reality… In reality we’re nothing alike. I’ve earned my place over years of taking bumps, eating superkicks and taking out cheap imitations much more threatening than yourself. Men with heart, men with pride, big men, fast men, shit I’ve even dragged an endless list of women down to the bottom of the river, kicking and screaming for dear life.

You are nothing to me but an obstacle Erin, and not even a particularly hard to pass one at that. Your title, sorry; the title that you are keeping warm for me, isn’t usually something I’d have aimed for but here we are and the heart wants what the heart wants. This Sunday the heart wants you on your knees, not in the way you usually use those knee-pads though. I want to see you crying in the middle of the ring whilst my music plays and I hold up that championship like a symbol of your insignificance. Will you cry for me Fausse? I bet you will. They all cry for me in the end.

As you kneel there, sobbing and broken. Wondering where it all went wrong, I need you to know that it isn’t your fault. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s silly of you to walk into this match with a sense of optimism. I’m your worst nightmare honey, a walking, talking exigent circumstance. I’m not Andre Holmes, my heart belongs to the reaper now and with death it will stay so there goes your chances of corrupting my heart. Nor am I Chase Jackson, you try to pull any of that low blow shit, I guarantee you’ll come out of the match with a few broken fingers.

When you’re down there, clutching the hand you used to try and punch me in the dick having only found a metal-plated sports cup, I will take a few steps back then a running start before delivering a thirty-five yard cunt punt that will hit you so hard you’ll need a scoutmaster to untie the knot in your Fallopian tubes, and that’s a promise. I suggest you start taking the morning after pill now, because I will not be held responsible for the DIY abortion you will surely be given if you so much as look at my crotch for too long, save that shit for the night after. All that remains now is a few simple words and a match that will see you go down in history not as the first Rising Stars and female champion, but as that poor defenseless little girl David Sanchez sent to the gynecologist with no belt and no future. You’ll always be able to look back at this match though with fond memories as the day you… Almost… Beat David Sanchez.


“Kick me!”

Sanchez screamed at Wright in front of The Scorched Hammer once more, fondling with his midsection as he does so. Taylor should probably have debated kicking his boss in the balls but thought he’d better not pass up on this opportunity as he was working for a prized cunt and this type of reward for his tolerance was surely not going to be a regular occurrence. With a running start he charges at David and drives his foot upwards into the Mayor’s groin. What follows though is not what one would expect. David is pushed backwards a little by the force but Taylor himself falls to the ground, clutching at the toes of his left foot in agony.

“How was it?”

“I think I broke a fucking toe.”

“Good. That should suffice.”






The scene opens up to show a large canteen, adorned with three large tables that stretch almost the length of the room. In each seat is a unique homeless person, or at least the general untidiness and poor hygiene of the gathering would lead you to believe that anyway. Despite their differences in stature, ethnicity and clothing, each of these bums has one striking similarity. They all wear a Teo Del Sol mask. The white mask decorated with a sunshine is present on every single one of them, spare none. Despite the fact that Teddy himself has long forgotten the masked man that he once was. Volunteers serve the tables with bowls of soup, buttered toast and pieces of hand-fruit. All of them flowing out from behind a counter at the front of the room complete with serving urns, sneeze guards and a poorly maintained salad bar. At the very back of the room lurks the Mayor of Chicago, David Sanchez. Clearly soaking in some public praise by posing as someone who cares for the starving street-dwellers of his city, when in reality it was probably he who destroyed their homes in the first instance. It appears to be a mass production kitchen, as standing there in his hair-net and ‘kiss the cook’ apron, all he appears to be doing is feeding four slices of bread into a toaster, waiting for them, buttering them and then repeating. Over and over again like he was stuck in a loop.

“Toast…”

David talks to nobody, the camera perhaps? Either way the rest of the kitchen volunteers simply ignore their esteemed mayor and carry on serving breakfast to the downtrodden of this transitional section of Chicago. Hope Valley was coming along nicely, the streets were now clean and free from litter, the old, dilapidated buildings were demolished with new structures being erected in their place. The only problem is that where there was once an empty bag of Cheetos floating in the breeze, or a patch of chewing gum smudged into the sidewalk; there was now masses and masses of homeless people. In-fact since he took to office earlier in this year the statistics for people sleeping on the streets had tripled. A small short-time price to pay for a long-term gain in his mind, yet then again he slept like a rock at home in his sleigh bed. Maybe it was unfair of him to have evicted all these lower-class people before having their new homes ready but empathy was never his style.

“Toast… Can never be bread again. Once it’s toasted, it’s done. It’s bread no more. It’s evolved into something final, something absolute.”

David knew he was rambling a plethora of nonsensical bullshit at the moment but he was heading somewhere. Truth be told he was always heading somewhere and usually got there by taking the most long-winded and ridiculous route possible. He was a conversational anonymity, a unicorn of sorts. As he spoke he continued to operate the toaster, occasionally stopping to pop the freshly toasted bread out and onto the chopping board for buttering, then loading the new bread into its openings.

“I know… It’s a relatively cheery comparison for me to make, but Teo… Sorry, Teddy. In this analogy my long-lost rival, you sir are the toast. Still not making much sense? Allow uncle David to explain. You see last year when we met, you were nothing; a masked kid with a can-do attitude and nothing holding you down.When you lost that mask, you lost every bit of potential you had. It killed your mystery. You could have been anything under there, and that was probably the best thing about you, the unknown factor. Now we see you, clear as day; just another babyface with a cult following and too many commitments. Too many people to let down wherever you go.”

“You once were bread Teddy, but now you are just burnt toast being scraped into the bin, each crumb falling represents a part of you that is being lost to them, those screaming fans that still follow you, hanging on your every word like children listening to a nursery rhyme. It makes me fucking sick to my stomach. This isn’t our first date anymore Ted, there’s not going to be any feeling out process, no fans bringing the weapons to give you that little edge and no Lady Knives in my corner to hold you down whilst I seal your fate.”

“On Sunday we will see a man who has flourished in the last year set a new record time for beating your ass senseless. You’ve dwindled in mediocrity for too long, so long in fact that it’s become a part of you. It wasn’t there the last time I battled you, that look of complacent acceptance. Are you happy being where you are Teddy? Does it feel good to be a hero to the people, when you could have simply reached out, grabbed that brass ring and said fuck this.”

“I’m upset that you never found your potential Teddy. Life handed you every opportunity, shit even Johnny Fly practically lay down and let you take his title, that’s like receiving praise from Ceasar. Yet you just kind of merged into the midcard like it was where you belonged. Well it wasn’t Teo… You could have been special, you could have been different… Yet here you are. Still doing nothing and signing autographs for fucking parasites who stop you in the street like some kind of circus attraction.”

“You’ve been representing these people for too long Teddy, it’s time to let them down before they drag you down to the gutter with them. I can see it even if you can’t, you’ve spread yourself too thin, flew too close to the sun and grabbed the wrong bull by the horns. Now you’re doomed to spend another year in my shadow, tasting my boot. This time though, it’s not going to be a career making match, it’s going to be a statement: ‘Teddy Sol was never in the same league as David Sanchez’”

“For all your hard work, for all those autographs, those heartwarming speeches and those months spent carrying the hopes and dreams of fans on your shoulders, do you know what will be left? Nothing Teo… Just burnt fucking toast that can never be bread again.”

David presses down on the toaster one last time as the camera fades out onto the sixty-five homeless people in Teo Del Sol masks once more, all of whom are now face down in their food, the volunteers replaced by the Mayor’s personal security guards who have already began to drag the unconscious bodies out of the building and into the van. He was drugging the food, a new low even for David, but another step towards gentrifying this cesspool of a town.