Society & Other Lies We Tell Our Kids

Why can’t we all just get along? It was a notion that he’d never understood fully. Why would we even want to get along with everybody? He could count the people he got along with on one hand. The rest of them were just nameless faces, pushing paperwork and voicing the opinions of the other eighteen million people he wouldn’t let into the building. They had to keep up appearances after-all, he didn’t want his house of lies to burn in the light of day just yet. David scoffed from behind his desk as the meeting carried on. Humanitarianism. Fucking pussies defending other pussies that are too pussy to ask for help to begin with. Paradox personified. This meeting seemed to be dragging on, and it was only his first of the day.

“So, as I was saying Mr. Sanchez… If you would push the bill to restore Humboldt Park to it’s former glory. We could potentially be looking to restore some of the damage that your various construction projects around the city are doing to the environment.”

It was strange to be worrying about the long-term plans for Chicago when the place still vaguely represented Hiroshima in the wake of ‘1he wav3.’ He didn’t quite understand how these hippies could justify their proposals to ‘make mother-earth a cleaner place for our children’ when you couldn’t get through an entire day without being bombarded with acid rain or a thick semi-toxic smog. There were three of these tree-huggers opposite the mayor. Two of them were male, and looked like anemic, white versions of Gandhi. In the middle of them sat a female of around twenty-five who whilst managing to look the healthiest of the three was still somewhere in-between malnourished and starving. Fucking vegans with agendas, these cunts were the worst! He began to question why he hadn’t outlawed vegetarianism in it’s many disturbing forms. Each time one of them spoke from across the mahogany table in conference room B, he found himself struggling to keep his eyelids apart. Had it not been for the lawyer flanking him on either side he would probably have drifted into a soft slumber by now.

“You sound just like them. Those fucking Guardians. ‘Help people who can’t help themselves, give a voice to the voiceless.’ That’s not how we do things in Chicago anymore. We don’t offer charity to those who are not willing to pay their own way in life. Besides, I already have plans for Humboldt Park, and I can assure you that they do not include planting three-thousand pine trees and converting the area into a nature reserve.”

They had been pitching environmentally friendly ways to make his city green for over forty minutes now and the mayor was becoming noticeably agitated. He had started the day with his customary charcoal suit, white shirt and purple tie, but had removed the tie and unbuttoned his collar the very moment that one of these frail, pasty do-gooders had mentioned the lack of fresh, organic kale available in the city’s stores. He understood that there was a certain responsibility upon his shoulders to lower the carbon emissions but it hardly seemed like something he should be wasting his precious time on when half of the city was still in ruins. I mean shit, he’d only managed to reopen the hospital last month and here was this collaboration of glorified art students expecting him to address the fact that they have no parks available to sit against trees and play depressing Beck songs on their fifth-hand guitars. Fuck them. Enough was enough. It was time to see how much they wanted a green Chicago.

“I’m just going to take a wild guess here. You are all vegetarians, yes?”

Their was a resentment in his voice as he uttered the word vegetarian as though he were cursing. It seemed as though he might well have been though as the two males looked offended to their very bones and the woman immediately corrected him with a ‘how very dare you.’ type of tone to her voice.

“Actually, all three of us are level six vegans. We don’t eat anything that even rhymes with an animal.”

“Fantastic.”

He lied. There was nothing fascinating to him at all about this revelation. It did however make getting them out of his presence a little bit easier. At once he raised his voice and shouted:

“Chef! Come in here a moment.”

Immediately the doors to the conference room burst open and Chef Atticus Rex was beaming at the mayor from the middle of the doorway, awaiting further instruction.

“What can I prepare for you, Mr. Mayor? The usual? We have some fresh Red Snapper, just caught this morning.”

Atticus was a new acquisition for the Syndicate. His chain of pop-up restaurants seemingly appearing wherever UCI was being broadcast from that week. An arrogant man, most famous for being pop-up powerbombed by Sanchez’ right-hand man; Taylor Wright whilst delivering a promo about the multitude of different ways one could cook an egg. This would explain the chef’s eagerness to please the mayor, and why he was perspiring in such a well ventilated room.

“No. It’s not even lunchtime yet, what do you take me for? My guests here however would like three orders of Impala filés preparados na Folha de bananeira preparados raras.

At once Chef Atticus Rex was a memory, having dashed back down the hall and into the kitchen, leaving the oak doors to the conference room to swing back and forth on their hinges for a few moments. The sprig of vegetarians across from David were licking their lips in anticipation of this delicious sounding vegan dish from South America, David’s place of birth.

“As delicious as that sounds David, you can’t simply wine and dine us like you do to the one-percenters. We’re not going to be swayed by fancy foods and expensive wine. We are here on behalf of mother nature, and her hunger for justice is not something you can satisfy."

God, this bitch had a stick so far up her ass he was beginning to have visions of Thomas Bates eating her like a lollipop. This thought made him chuckle a little before one of his lawyers nudged him back into reality. He was offending them at every juncture. This made him happy, fuck the lawyers, they didn’t need to see what was about to unfold.

“If you’ll grant me the room gentlemen, I don’t feel that your presence is required any longer. My new friends and I are going to eat and talk on a much more intimate level.”

The two corporate lawyers were now on their feet, each of them shaking David’s hand before walking around the table and scowling down their noses at the cluster of environmentalists. These herbivores had went through all of the proper channels in order to obtain this meeting, hence why Sanchez had his legal team present in the first place. If he had known their reason for meeting him was along the same lines as: ‘we need more hemp clothing stores dude.’ He would have saved four hundred dollars and had Taylor Wright simply throw buckets of raw meat at them from out of the window. It was a trivial sum of money to him, but time was precious and they had already overstayed their welcome. Now they were cutting into the time he had designated to cut a promo for this week’s Overload. Simpler were the times when he just wrestled and shot smack into his veins, oh how he longed to be comfortably numb at this very moment. In truth he hadn’t injected heroin in almost a year, this fact he thought made him holier than thou, and the ideal candidate to pull a city full of junkies and degenerates in this brave new world. His world. His society. His everything.

“While we appreciate you trying to talk to us on a personal level David…”

There it was again. ‘David.’ He had let the first one slide out of a fading sense of self-control but now she was talking to him like just another hippie at Woodstock. He had earned the right to be addressed formally in these situations. Not two fucks were given if she was anti-establishment

“Oh, I’m not talking to you on a personal level; nameless hippie number two. I simply did not feel the need to have my legal team stick around for the coming nausea. Personally I’m going to enjoy watching you squirm and turn even paler than you are now, but it’s not for everybody.”

This seemed like a veiled threat. Yet, they could not have anticipated the coming moments if they were granted psychic abilities from whatever Tree-God they worshiped. Chef Atticus Rex now re-appeared with a serving cart and proceeded to set a plate down in front of each of the guests. At once they began to look a little worse for wear as the bloody impala tenderloins on their plate secreted crimson liquid on the bed of salad leaves. The man on the left of the woman who had been speaking instantly left the table, rushing through the door with his hands covering his mouth. This was not the exotic foliage they had been expecting, instead it was a hearty slab of impala that leaked blood even as it lay static on the plate. Sanchez smiled as the other man shook his head at the elected spokeswoman for the group, almost as if to apologize before he left the room looking like the dish had actually hurt his feelings.

“Bon appetit, bitches.”

This was the French Connection and David Sanchez was Popeye Doyle waving goodbye to frog one with a sickeningly satisfied grin on his face as the leader of this vegan coalition sat across from him, staring down the mayor with rage burning through her veins like hot lead.

“What is the meaning of this, you sick bastard?”

He wasn’t expecting her to swear. This amused him even more. She didn’t look like she had cursed since her youth. David was proud of this fact and gave himself a metaphorical pat on the back.

“You want me to fund your little parks project, correct?”

The woman was beginning to connect the dots in her head as the food on her plate screamed bloody murder up at her. She was becoming nauseous before David had even got to his feet and accepted a set of sterling silver utensils from the bewildered chef who was trying very hard not to take the reaction his food had received personally.

“Yes, of course I do, but…”

He was behind her now, leaning over her shoulder as he cut into the rare meat, slicing it all slowly and into perfect strips as the blood and juices seeped onto her plate.

“... Well sometimes we have to do things we don’t necessarily enjoy in order to achieve what we want. This, my dear is one of those times. If you can finish this plate, I will give the green light on your little proposal.”

She was finished with this interaction even before David had stabbed a strip of impala with his fork, skewering the tender flesh before tearing it apart with his teeth, making sure to dribble a little of the secretion onto her shoulder. She departed the conference room in a blind fit of rage, slamming the door as she left. Chef Atticus Rex had clicked now, and became a little disheartened that he had wasted three portions of one of the hardest to obtain meats in the continental United States. At once he collected the other two plates, and gestured to David, wondering if he should gather the third, by this time though David was already perched in the woman’s seat, wolfing down the rest of the Impala roasted in banana leaves. It was so succulent he thought he may ejaculate. Even with his mouth full he tried to commend the cook on his skills but all that came out was a mumbled ‘thank you’ and the rest was incoherent. With the room now his and his alone he turned to face the camera. It was finally time to cut his promo, those humanitarians had cost him twenty minutes longer than he had scheduled and because of this, he wasted little time in making the change in directive dialogue known.

“There’s a lesson to be learned from what you just witnessed people. It’s one that transcends the mundane workings of politics and reaches as far as our little bubble of professional wrestling. The point I’m making is simple; if you want something in this business, or in any part of your life: You have to be prepared to do a lot of shit you might not agree with in order to achieve your goals. Take this week for example, look at my fucking match. They’ve got me teaming with a male model against a failed, jailbait pop sensation and a guy who travels through time. Do you think I want that match? Shit, I’d rather be wrestling Chris Cane in the fucking curtain jerker. Two weeks in a row, two pathetic excuses for partners. Only this time, I’m on the same side as a guy I’ve been arguing with on Twitter for the better part of a fortnight. Way to pay attention Price!”

“This is why I have given up on society as a whole. This is why I will rebuild Chicago without this warped idea that we are all one and the same. For we are all very, very different creatures. I am the upper one percent of the upper one percent, what part of you thinks that it is acceptable to have me teaming with the likes of Jayden Thunder and Shadowlove? I don’t understand what happened to you Jayson, you used to be cool man. Now it just looks like you’ve started pulling names out of a hat and booking the show to reflect the results. Fuck it though, this week I’ll bite. Anything’s better than Thunder, even if it is just a talentless John Gable groupie with an Asian sidekick to showcase his ethnic diversity. I’ve got that itch, you know? That need to show people exactly why I am the best professional wrestler on this roster. I don’t do it for some sense of validation from this society of clowns, I do it to remind those people at the top of the ladder that at any given moment, if the mood strikes me; I can take their spot and make them my bitch.”

“... Which brings me to this week, and also back to that word again - Society. Say it a thousand times and it still rolls off the tongue wrong, for we as people haven’t been a society since the world turned to shit. Maybe even before then. Society implies that we are all together in this world, but that is perhaps the biggest lie we tell ourselves on a daily basis as we surround ourselves with the anonymity of the general public, safe in the sense that the man next to you on the subway won’t be the same man to sexually assault your fourteen year old daughter. That the guy operating the toll booth wouldn’t send dickpics to your girl, or the valet outside your favorite restaurant isn’t going to steal your shitty hybrid car. Society is just another word for mis-directed trust, a way to ease social paranoia and make us all more susceptible to the threats of day-to-day life. Look around you, then look again. What do you see?”

“Murderers, rapists, thieves, sycophants, cynics, victims, cops, lovers, hipsters, blacks, whites and browns. Can you honestly say that these are your people? That this is your society?”

“Me neither.”

“I want no part of this fucking concept, it represents everything that is wrong with the world. People should be treated for what they are as individuals, not how they appear on the grander scale: Kill the killers, rape the rapists, steal from the thieves, shun the sycophants, be incredibly optimistic towards the cynics, empower the victims, arrest the cops, hate the lovers, make the hipsters listen to mainstream music and assemble the races. Deny the branding society has given you.”

“For you viewers, you are not any of these things, and nor am I. You are nothing but skin, bones and a particular structure of DNA that makes you an individual. I am David Sanchez, the fucking mayor of Chicago and yet so often I’m branded as being Mexican, or an addict or a crooked politician as Cameron Bankston put it last week. Well guess what? I am all of those things and more, and you could be to. Stop being the badge and start being the person behind it. Follow my lead Chicago. Free the people. Fuck society.”

“Fuck Dustin Beaver, fuck Jay Omega and while we’re at it, fuck you too Shadowlove. I hope your arm still hurts like a bitch, because here we are on Monday morning, your loss to Howard Black firmly imprinted in the record books and you are still frantically clogging his Twitter with your excuses, and your moaning, and your little jokes that nobody else in this industry finds remotely entertaining. I have some advice for you, call it words of wisdom from a reluctant veteran. Leave that fucking loss alone and start getting ready for this week before your wins and losses record becomes more embarrassing than your pathetic petitioning for a rematch under hardcore rules. What do you think is going to happen? You’re gonna bludgeon him with a lead pipe and he’s just going to stand there? Fucking think before you waste time asking for things you will live to regret, because if I was Howard Black right now all I’d be doing is licking my lips at the thought of all the different items I could twist your arm around in order to achieve that sweet, sweet snap we all want to hear so badly. One more thing kid, try to stay awake this week. I find sleeping on the job to be very improfessional. Seize the moment Shadowlove, this week is going to be a win for you. You’re welcome.”

“Dustin?.... Hello Dustin. It’s me David. You might know me, I’m the guy who didn’t lose his title to a fucking nobody last week. How are you doing? Hanging in there? I know it might seem like the world is ending right now but I’m sure with the right motivation you can earn yourself another crack at the belt in three to four years. It’s not going to be worth your effort though because my girl Jessica’s bringing that strap home to the Syndicate on Sunday. You really are a special kind of stupid kid. You just got groomed into a light-bondage match and made to look like a submissive on the interwebs. Congratulations, if this little adventure into professional wrestling doesn’t work out for you there’s a whole world of opportunities out there in the all-gay BDSM market. If you think… that your an actual threat… well baby you should go and love yourself.”

“Finally, we have James. The Omega Man, The Time Traveller’s Wife. Jay Omega version two point zero after the original blew his fucking face off in a menstrual breakdown after Ultimate Showdown last year. You are the only man in this match, and I use the term man very loosely here, to have a victory over me. A controversial count-out victory but I’m not going to get hung up on details. So for that, you have a measure of my respect. A small measure but a measure all the same. It’s strange to think you were in the finals of the World Title tournament just a few short weeks ago, and now here you are; living up to your full potential as the least consistent professional wrestler and least talented Guardian all at the same time. Shit though, I guess somebody’s gotta make Alex Richards look good. Way to take one for the team. I’m going to correct the balance this week Jay, make no mistake about it. I’m not going out there to pin Beaver or even let Shadowlove into the match. On Overload Jay, I’m going to show you how tiny and insignificant you truly are when I kick you in the face so hard you’ll need another clone just to carry the fucking corpse out.”

“Make no mistake, society… Like my match this week is unbearable. It only leaves the question: 'would you rather be the dog or the hydrant?'”





“Patient Seventeen is bound and sedated. Operation Antarctica is ready to commence final testing on your command David.”

Doctor Josef Danco’s voice was cold and robotic. The Polish accent only heightened this. As David looked on at the scene in front of him he was filled with a flurry of mixed emotion. Throughout his life he had considered himself a godlike being. Yet as the opportunity to truly earn that title lay motionless in front of him, he was finding it hard to pull the trigger. He didn’t know Patient Seven on a personal level; the only information he had was what the Sanctuary staff had noted down on his file. His Christian name was Jack, they hadn’t even managed to acquire his surname, but he was thirty-two, had no kids and no job. He was an ideal candidate to be the their human guinea-pig.

“Could you talk me through the procedure one more time Josef, I’m having a little bit of trouble understanding what it is we’re actually trying to do here.”

David was speaking to the doctor from behind the two-way glass of the operating theater, having chosen to exonerate himself from what he could only assume was going to be another of the doctor’s failed experiments. In the viewing area there was only Sanchez, but on the other side of the glass the scene was much busier. Three nameless surgeons in green scrubs were waiting patiently for instruction as the controversial doctor Danco checked the patient’s restraints. He was growing a little impatient with the mayor’s stalling. They had been ready to perform this operation for almost an hour now, yet David had found reason after reason to delay the procedure. This kind of thing had never happened back in Soviet Russia, by now they would have tried, failed and pronounced the man’s time of death. For an allegedly evil man he seemed to spend a lot of time bartering with his conscience. A sociopath by nature and reputation, Sanchez had never found much value in human life. Still, something about using these prisoners as test subjects seemed wrong. If you want to make an omelette though, you have to be willing to break some eggs. At least that was how Josef had explained it to him when he first began wrestling with this moral dilemma.

“I have managed to create a synthetic build of Cameron Bankston’s DNA from the sample you provided me with last week. The aim is to inject this compound into Patient Seven’s bloodstream in the hopes that he too will be able to manipulate ice and withstand sub zero temperatures with ease. In essence, we wish to replicate Polar Phantasm’s powers in a much easier to control host, one which will obey your commands without question.”

On paper it sounded fantastic, his very own Mr. Freeze. He had always wanted a pet, but dogs needed walking, cats flared up his allergies and fish were boring as fuck. I guess a domesticated superhuman would have to do.

“Okay, fuck it. Begin!”

The smile which spread on Danco’s face was that of a young boy who had just received exactly what he wanted for Christmas. Only this was not the twenty-fifth of December, and Patient Seven was perhaps the furthest thing from an Xbox One that Sanchez could imagine. In the operating room various monitors beeped and buzzed, their wires connected to assorted probes and tubes which joined Jack to the display. The room was spotless and pristine white, he couldn’t be sure from behind the glass but he could almost smell the disinfectant. Strapped to a steel table by leather buckles Patient Seven lay there in a vegetative state. David began to contemplate something: 'what if out-of-body experiences were real?' What if Jack’s spirit was floating above the room, watching the doctors poke and prod at his body. This thought would haunt him tonight. He made a mental note to top up his Diazepam on the way home. Thank the lord for Walgreens. The only thing keeping him from the needle was his dependency on Oxycontin, Diazepam and Morphine - not exactly the epitome of moderation for an elected figure, still, it was a damn sight less toxic than smack. At least his blood wasn’t itchy and he didn’t have to worry about hepatitis every time he needed a hit.

“I am now injecting fifty milligrams of Antarctica into Patient Seven.”

Great. A running commentary. Every single aspect of this moral injustice was going to be vocal as well as visual. An impending sense of doom swept over David as the syringe was inserted into Jack’s arm; the intravenous vein on the wrist. A small envious part of David wished it was him as the hypodermic slid into what was once his favorite vein and pumped it full of the synthetic substance Danco had created to mimic Polar Phantasm’s DNA. It was over in seconds, the needle was withdrawn, handed to a lesser doctor and discarded into a clinical waste bin. Now all that was left to do was wait.

“Operation complete, no visible signs of rejection, no collapsed veins, heart-rate and body temperature normal. We will now wake the patient.”

This was just another day at the office to the good doctor. In truth though it hadn’t been as bad as David had envisioned. All day he had been dreading this moment; the first attempt at recreating Guardian DNA in a third-party host. It was going to be groundbreaking if it worked, and he would finally have an army worthy of calling his own. Before Danco could even instruct his team to wake the patient though, panic had already ensued.

“Heart rate is dropping, body temperature at seventeen degrees and plummeting, six degrees…”

“Pulse is fading, blood pressure slowing.”

Danco was still. He didn’t even try to help Jack, who was now turning a shade of light blue. Frost was starting to form on his hair and beard, and his fingers were crooked, stiff as steel girders. David had known this was going to be the outcome from the very start, it wasn’t a simple matter of science like Josef had suggested, there was more to it than that. He had studied Cameron Bankston, and he knew that it would take a special host to be able to harness his powers without freezing to death in the process. Sanchez turned to leave the room, shaking his head at Danco who simply stood back and watched the man die as though he were watching an educational show about penguins on the Discovery Channel. He had failed, and had no further need to waste his time on Patient Seven.

“Body temperature minus six, minus fourteen, minus thirty-two.”

“Heart rate slowing, thirty BPM, twenty. Heart rate non-existent.”

It was over, Jack was dead. He was bright blue and visibly frozen solid. Whether pneumonia, hypothermia or the more likely outcome of his organs simply freezing solid was the actual cause of death would remain a mystery. One thing was for certain though; they had not created a man with powers, they had killed a prisoner with nothing, and done so under David’s command.

“Time of Death - Nine forty-two. Bag it, tag it and document the results”

David had already left the room and found himself back in the ominous hallway of the Sanctuary. The familiar concrete corridor with red, wrought iron doors stretching as far as the eye could see. This was his creation, his answer to the Garden of Eden, the place where the world would be reborn. Yet all it seemed to have done so far was act as a final resting place for the petty thieves and homeless nobodies of Chicago’s poorest districts. He began to question his methods as he made his way towards her door, she was essentially a zombie but still he found a slight comfort in being this close to her. Samantha had been reanimated three weeks ago, and since that day hadn’t spoken, eaten or even blinked. She just sat against the door and occasionally wept. The hall was empty but for David who now sat down, his back against Samantha’s door so that if it wasn’t for the four inches of congregated iron, they would be sitting back to back. He missed his wife more than he could ever show the world, she was everything to him in life and without her he was turning more and more into the monster he had been before they met that gloomy day in October, almost seven years ago.

“I know you can’t hear me Sam… but I could really use you right now. It’s all starting to weigh too heavily on me and I don’t think I can keep going. I started this whole thing to try and bring you back to me. Instead all I’ve managed to do is free your body, while your mind and soul still reside with the Reaper. I’m so sorry Samantha. I will never stop loving you but I think it’s time to….”

There was a knock from the other side of the door, and immediately David was on his feet. A groan shortly followed, then another knock and another groan. He couldn’t contain his excitement any longer, and instantaneously opened the service hatch to her glorified prison cell. The very second he did, he was greeted with those familiar emerald green eyes he had only encountered in his dreams as of late. She was alive, and she was looking straight into his eyes, peering through them like windows to his soul. The two of them were stationary and silent but for a few moments before she stuttered and stammered, finally managing to vocalize one solitary word; a name, his name.

“D...D.. David?”

It had worked. He was God and she was the Living Dead Girl. The death of Patient Seven was now a mere speed-bump on the road. This sanctuary was to be the birthplace of miracles.







“I don’t even know who that is old man. We like Black Veil Brides and shit, Dustin Beaver is gay as fuck.”

Goth kids, the ones that didn’t even have the enthusiasm to qualify as emo. David was surrounded by them, well them and the delectable Jessica Buck; the Syndicate’s newest recruit. He was wearing his casual clothes, more casual than usual anyway; it was still a suit of sorts but today it was a lighter shade of grey. Buck on the other hand was wearing a summer dress which crept so high up her thigh and exposed so much of her chest that it might as well have been re-purposed as a belt. They had gathered underneath the bleachers at the newly repaired and renovated running track in the backyard of Hope Valley High School. The kids in their presence could only be around fifteen years old, each of them paler than snow and caked in black make-up - and that was just the boys.

“I thought this was the fucking age range he appealed to? The kids are meant to cream up real nice for a bit of the Beavs.”

“I think you might have the wrong kind of kids David, these are goths. What we need are tweens and ugly girls with active imaginations.”

Jessica had a point, then again he didn’t really understand the youth of today, having lost his own son at the tender age of six. Teenagers were a labyrinth of confusing feelings and expressions to him, shit he had only recently got the jist of Twitter and still he found himself writing lengthy paragraphs in the Queen’s English.

“I appreciate the invite, but you didn’t tell me we’d be out creeping on kids man. There’s something a bit off about this whole thing.”

“It’s not fucking creeping Jess, it’s um… Research?... Yeah… Research. That’ll hold up in court, right?”

Jessica Buck proceeded to shake her head at David in a slow manner that seemed to lack the gesture of a facepalm.

“Well fuck it, these kids will have to do. I’ve already wasted half an ounce of Northern Lights luring them here.”

“Do you have to use the word ‘luring...’ That’s not exactly helping things.”

David was visibly repeating the previous statement in his head. She was right, it did sound wrong. Somewhere down the line Sanchez had destroyed the part of his brain that allowed him to speak with youths in a way that wasn’t entirely inappropriate. It was probably during a PCP binge, the same way he’d forgotten how to ride a bicycle. The gang of goth kids were staring at him now, and rightfully so. They had just accepted weed from the city’s mayor who was now failing miserably at not looking like a pedophile under the high school bleachers.

“Anyway… moving swiftly on. You kids accepted the green, so you’re gonna answer my questions anyway.”

The suspected leader of the palest kids on campus responded in an entirely apathetic manner.

“Whatever man, just hurry it up we’ve got drama next class.”

“Word to your mother.”

Fuck. Shit. Balls. What was he even saying right now? Why the fuck was he trying to be cool? He was a thirty-six year old politician and sports entertainer, yet here he was worrying about his street cred’ in front of the Children of the Corn.

“So… who do you guys follow in the UCI? That’s gotta be Beaver, right? I mean, you don’t dig his music but somebody’s gotta be cheering for the guy or he wouldn’t have a contract.”

“What the fuck is UCI? Is that like WCF? If it is we’re huge AoD fans. Oblivion, Night Rider, Denise D’evil. You know those guys? It’d be sweet if you could get us some autographs”

“You used to be cool too man, back when you were doing the whole Anti-Christ thing. Now you look like a guy that sells car insurance. That’s weak as fuck man.”

“I think my dad works for you... “

This was getting him nowhere and actually hurting his feelings a little in the process. The teenagers were all starting to make their opinions heard and David had visibly had enough.

“Okay… I can see this was a giant waste of time and marijuana. Fuck off children, and tell your parents to vote Sanchez.”

The sorrow of goths disbanded and walked slowly into the distance with their hands in pockets and faces pointing towards the ground to really give off that ‘I’m miserable about stuff and things’ vibe. Now it was just David Sanchez and Jessica Buck left lurking under the bleachers.

“Why didn’t you ask for the ganja back? Seems like a waste.”

“I’m strictly opiates sweetheart. Shit I stole that stuff from Jay Omega’s locker weeks ago, it’s just been sitting in a drawer at my desk. I think it’s safe to say this was a giant waste of time. Do me a favor and grab the camera from my car, I might as well shoot a bit of promotional hate while we’re here.”

Jessica was barely gone for long enough to light a cigarette before she returned with the camera, pointing it at David with a smile before addressing the mayor once more.

“You ready boss?”

“Watch and learn kid, you’ll probably end up having to knock this little fucker down a peg or two yourself in a couple of weeks.”

The condescending cunt was in top form today, at least Jessica’s inclusion in the Syndicate meant Taylor Wright wouldn’t be receiving the full brunt of his patronizing. She clicked the camera and focused on David, giving him a thumbs up to indicate that she had started recording.

“Dustin Beaver. The Beavs. The Supreme Beav… Okay I’ll just say it: What the fuck is wrong with you kid? Did you catch mommy and daddy doing the bad thing when you were eleven and decide to become such a tearaway little shit? Or were you simply just not hugged enough as a child? - You know.... Last week. Every single time I look at you swaggering through the arena or pry my eyelids apart so I can make it through one of your matches I see the same attention seeking bullshit, the same tired cliches and the same fucking suplex ending a match. This isn’t nineteen ninety-six and you are not Shane Douglas. Fuck, do you even know who Shane Douglas is? You need a new finisher son, shit even my girl here climbs the ropes before she hits her swinging neckbreaker.”

“You know, to begin with I was a little offended by how low I’m booked on the card this week, then I started thinking about it as a parent and it made sense. You’ve got to be home by ten o’clock or your parents will freak the fuck out and file a missing person's report. I wouldn’t worry about that one slugger, I’ve been watching you. Well, I say watching… I’ve been catching glimpses of your matches between naps and I’ve got to say - I’m not impressed brother Beaver. Maybe you can wrangle yourself an extended curfew at the weekend because I’m going to hit you with a Medusa’s Touch and end this match so quickly you’ll be home in time to catch The Amazing World of Gumball before Adult Swim kicks in, Cartoon Network goes PG-13 and the parental guidance settings on your television decide it’s bedtime for ickle Dusty.”

“How you ever won a championship is a fucking mystery to me. Like seriously, who did you have to suck off to get that decision to work in your favor? Was it Spencer Adams? He always struck me as being a bit rapey, then again he doesn’t look much older than you so it was probably consensual I guess. Where did all of you manchildren appear from? I swear to Cross-fit Jesus there’s either some serious Benjamin Button shit going on here or one of you fuckers located Aqua De Vida.”

“I’m sorry to have to bring it up again, I know losing anything at such a young age can seem like the world is over but I’ve got to go back to how you lost that worthless championship you held for what? Two weeks? That probably seems like a lifetime at your age, I mean it’s twice the length of your longest relationship and half the average amount of time you get grounded for. Sadly Dustin in the real world we have a term for people who simply keep a belt warm for a short period of time, and that term is ‘paper champion.’ To lose in a match involving leather straps too? That’s some kinky shit my child. I had you pegged as a thirty seconds of missionary lovin’ kinda guy but I guess that’s why they advise against judging a book by it’s cover. I say book, you’re more like a magazine with a nifty free toy... And if we are literature then I am fucking Tolstoy’s War and Peace.”

“Don’t mistake me for somebody that’s going to take it easy on you based on your dainty features and metro-sexual persona though, shit I fucking love my job. Where else on earth could I legally kick seven shades of shit out of a woman and a child in the same month?... And do I get punished for these actions? Fuck no son, I get a championship and a pay rise. They certainly don’t reward these actions in politics, and that is why I will be doing this shit until I’m old and grey, which is probably about the same time you’ll be going through puberty.”

“I know this has all been a bit of fun and games, and my references are probably too dated for you to even understand but know this: The fun stops here Dustin. On Sunday I am John Constantween; Exorcist, Filicist and Dabbler of the Yakuza Kick. Kiss your parents, finish your homework and don’t talk to strangers kid. On Sunday I send you and your generation of warped misfits straight back to the hell you came from.”






The day was beautiful. A fierce summer sun suspended in the sky like a great yellow chandelier, casting it’s warming light down onto the Park District. Summer was in full swing: families were picnicking, groups of males were engaged in friendly games of touch football and the birds were chirping away merrily. It was Lou Reed; A Perfect Day. Perfect for all but one little girl who was seen to be sobbing hysterically at the base of a towering Elm tree. Meanwhile some sixty feet above her was a pussy cat; clinging to a branch for dear life as the world unfolded below.

“Heroes... Where are they when you really need them? Can you answer me that James? I know there’s probably much more pressing matters to attend to. Whether it’s flying through space and time, battling off the evil inhabitants of another planet, or simply rescuing Alex Richards from accidentally looking into a mirror and becoming so depressed that he decides to hang up his cape. It’s something I’ve always wondered since we first met Omega. What use is being able to clone yourself, to be able to manipulate the space-time continuum if you only use these gifts to serve as the wisecracking, stoner accomplice to the people with actual powers?”

“It first bothered me last year, right about the time when our now resurrected world champion; Crow McMorris fell to his tragic and untimely death. The grief that Pantheon displayed after this tragic event was remarkable, but why was it ever so? Surely for somebody with access to a time machine, that whole event was entirely avoidable. For six months we watched as people wondered who killed Scarecrow, but I knew the answer all along. - You killed him Jay, you might as well have pushed him yourself. By doing nothing, you are the guilty one. You are the culprit and the blood is on your hands. You were too busy wining and dining with Jeff Purse and Nikola Tesla at the time to prevent the death of a friend, and for that Jim, for that you should be facing murder charges. For having the power to prevent a death and choosing not to, is the very same as Ted Bundy smashing a woman’s cranium open like a watermelon. You are a serial killer, and between yourself and that walking venereal disease; Bonnie Blue. Every death that happens on this planet should be weighted firmly on your collective conscience.”

“Heroes? Fucking heroes. Aren’t they supposed to be role models to the children? What kind of an example are you setting? Eighty percent of what I see from you and that marauding band of social outcasts you associate with is drug-use, foul language and worse behavior. Take note kids: Jay Omega takes drugs, you can try this at home, you can be just like him. Yet they still show up in swarms to cheer for the Guardians, the biggest liars this world will ever know. I’m not exactly the picture of clean living and community care but at least I own it James, at least when I sleep at night I do so comfortably in the knowledge that I’m a cunt. Meanwhile you sleep soundly on a spaceship somewhere, completely oblivious to the fact that you are in fact the very same, if not worse; Supercunt.”

“You know, it’s actually kind of intrinsic. When I first made my way through the doors of WCF, you were one of the first guys I liked. You had this aura of coolness around you that just made me want to be like Jay Omega. The funny ways you tore opponents apart, the in-ring ability, shit even the unhealthy obsession with beating Torture was alluring in a compulsive disorder kind of way. It wasn’t until I really started paying attention to what was going on that you started to sicken me to my very core.”

“Ultimate Showdown was when the penny finally dropped for me, that lackluster performance. Followed immediately the next night by abandoning your new partner and leaving Howard Black to have his arm broken at the hands of Joey Flash. Where were you Jim? Oh! That’s right, you were throwing your toys out of the pram by shooting yourself in the face on live television. So you didn’t get your hands on Torture that night, is that really the message you wanted to send out to the people? To imply end it all if things don’t go exactly how you want them? Heroic as fuck man.”

“Jay Omega was dead to me after that night, and whoever you are now is just a cheap imitation. I lost all respect for you the moment that you pulled the trigger and I began to resent you the instant I heard Howard’s arm snap like bamboo.”

“I will never understand how these people can cheer for you, or how you have the audacity to call yourself a ‘Guardian.’ What are you guarding us from Jay?... A drug-free childhood? A long and fulfilling life? You are not a hero Jimmy boy. Shit, you’re not even a good guy. You were just the closest thing to one we had at the time.”

“I’ll give credit where credit is due though, you are one of only two people on this roster who can claim to have a victory over David Sanchez; a controversial victory by count-out but I won’t split hairs on this one. You beat me, and you went on to win War; congratu-fucking-lations. You managed to float to the top of the shallowest talent pool in wrestling history like the proverbial floater you are. Maybe that’s your superpower! The ability to take advantage of situations when others are preoccupied or injured: Opportunitron!”

“So… you won the big-boys belt, on the same night Andre Aquarius took the belt you actually wanted away from the guy you had been frantically stroking it over for the better part of a year; ouch! That had to sting a little. Then what happened Jay?... Because that’s around the time I decided that with all the politics being pumped through that company that I’d be just as well running for political office. Oh, that’s right. You lost the belt fourteen days later. Oh shit! Maybe you and Dustin are kindred spirits.”

“I won’t lie and pretend that I followed anything that happened in wrestling after that until I signed with UCI. During that period of my life I was paying the right people, making the right investments and building my empire of dirt. That’s why I’m the mayor of the third largest city in this country and you’re the guy who carries the bags for the people with real powers. Fuck, even Alex Richards can apparently turn into an effeminate specter. If this was the Justice League Jay, you wouldn’t even be J’onn J’onnzz. You’d be Arthur Curry - stuck talking to the fishes while the rest of the team gets shit done.”

“So here we are… once more unto the breach. You - a polished twat with opportunity after opportunity gifted to him out of what I can only assume is a misplaced sense of pity. Me - The esteemed mayor of Chi-raq as your little friend Cameron put it and the hottest prospect on the roster. Do you even remember what it feels like to have people expecting great things from you? Or has that fallen by the wayside like your hopes of ever regaining the crown jewel of our industry?”

“You are not a hero Jay, and nor are you a Guardian. The only thing you could possibly guard us from is a more talented man taking your locker. As for heroics? Shit… You can’t even save this little girl’s kitten in a tree. You are the least useful of the least useful and the first of your team to taste defeat at the hands of the true savior - The King of Plagues, The Nightmayor of North Avenue; The Many-Faced God… David fucking Sanchez.