When The Sky Fell (Part One: Let Me In)

TIBET, THIRTY YEARS AGO.

Jonathan Rabid watched with abject fascination as the Sherpa climbing team before him navigated the inhospitable cliff-face with an industrious, casual flare. Their small, buzzing precision over the last twelve hours was the only mild form of entertainment on offer, as the task at hand required little in the way of joviality, just a hammer, nerve, and a distinct lack of vertigo.

This was an assent towards an execution. Rabid's climbing team were approaching a hidden plateau of Mount Kailash; a jagged, inhospitable region of black rock that carves an ominous silhouette against a brooding, early morning sky. This course was plotted months previous, with Rabid cutting a bloody, untouchable sway over Asia; the man in the cream colored suit and neat black tie and left a trail of dead informants in fly riddled hotel rooms for incompetent police officers to muddle over, whilst they counted their bribes and concocted thin excuses. Their reports were the stuff of legends; while Rabid simply tipped the brim of his panama hat and strolled towards a new hot spot of infamy. Never too far from the shade. Always a grin in the shadows, the hum from ancient overhead fans, the clear white smoke rising from a sea of Baksheesh pipes in opium dens. One bogeyman searching for another through Continent after Continent; the rubble of an air strike ruined Beirut and Ayatollahs year zero Iran. Or at least, that was the rumor.

However the task was accomplished, Rabid eventually found the Jackal. In seclusion it would seem; gathering his forces, for a purpose the Ripper did not know nor cared to. This journey was about power. The base of which was under threat from rogue elements such as the Jackal. Rabid wanted order, structure with Thuggin' and himself at the helm of the future; shaping history as they saw fit. The future. Destiny. Power. The Jackal wants none of these things; he feasts on misery alone and disposes the rest as casually as he would a host. And that leaves both sides at something of an impasse. The Jackal may not have realised it at the time, but he had opened a Pandora's box though his own unique strain of success.

The sharks had begun to circle.

Speed was of the essence. This was a no frills journey, the customary Nepalese sense of good spirits was replaced today with a grim stillness as efficiency was channeled into every slender choice and call; back at base camp the village felt a stiffening sense of unease; afraid to lose their men, but also at fear of what they might bring back. Rabid wasn't sure what to make about being himself a distant third in such stakes. Thankfully, the effect upon the western contingent of the team appeared slender, too hardened, Rabid assumed, to such superstition to ever heed it's knowledgeable call, as they simply checked their chambers and loaded up clips. Knives. Guns. The tropes of humanity to fight against humanity. But this? This was true darkness. And it never played by the rules.

Accents among the twelve man team circumnavigated the globe, mercenaries from across the planet who had answered Thuggin's whispers and took up the challenge. Their faces carried scares from conflicts past, warzones drenched in blood and death. Army haircuts and military hand gestures surrounded Rabid, a man who at this juncture in time and space wore his hair neat and pompadoured; embracing a new romantic sheen that garnered sneers and sniggers from his employees when they thought he was out of earshot. An event that never, ever took place.

The general consensus among them was that flamethrowers would finally eradicate the target before a body jump could take place. The jackal had been known to make multiple deals at once, so as to give himself options during times of war. An arch of flame then would prove useful under such challenging conditions. The soldiers seemed confident in their assumption that the plan would work, some because they didn't believe in this nonsense in the first place, others more cautious, but the money on offer was such that it blinded them to the faint possibility of a real foe. On the outside there was professionalism, as you would expect from the best trained killers alive, but also arrogance, because this was at it's heart the folly of a strange Slovakian man who spoke with an odd, broken cadence. Nothing would actually happen once they reached their target, except some mildly interesting photo opportunities and a strange tale to tell to the boys still serving back in their minimum wage regiments.

Rabid himself however did not need to be convinced of course. He alone seemed to know the full extent of the danger that awaited them as the air thinned out around him, ten thousand feet plus above sea level and rising as a mocking, cantankerous moan of wind howled around the climb. Unimpressed by another western expedition into divine territory. It was as if the landscape itself decided to share an inside joke with the ripper. Just to mock the man that had felt genuine apprehension now for the very first time. He wondered if he had time to stop and press play on his Sony Walkman; some Bowie would calm the mood. Thin white duke era of course. Berlin held all the answers. Serious Moonlight was an abomination.

Rabid had never met his match before; their spheres of influence overlapped of course, each aware of the handy work of the other, but an actual face to face meeting was unheard of. They came close in Budapest, a chance missed in Hanoi as the papers where shredded and the Choppers buzzed. But never a full on confrontation. Rabid rarely considered the possibility of this moment, to confront such a monster that could dwarf him with it's sense of theatrical brutality. The ice that had often filled Rabid's veins felt an ironic sense of warmth today as the air froze around him. Rabid wondered if this was what fear actually felt like, but sadly had no recent comparison to judge. So instead, Rabid just dug in, hung on, and climbed.

A canopy of clouds reached out to a distant, unsure horizon as the team chose their route with care, the gas tanks designed for the flamethrowers did not clatter at the mercy of the elements, instead the thin layer of ice forming around them had been countered by a heating system, Rabid hoped the special insulating jackets of fire retardant cloth invented for the task would be sufficient enough to ensure their success. Even if the rest of the team didn't seem particularly concerned, Rabid was. Everything had to be fastidious in it's execution. Narrow margins is where they existed now. If only more of them realized this.

“Yes”, nodded Rabid to himself. “This probably is fear”. Golden Years finished up it's last cords as just up ahead appeared the opening; eons of tectonic shifts and climate change had created a minor miracle in Orological study; a slender path that would lead into a grotto of sorts; a rest bite from the elements, a chance to prepare for the task ahead as the climbers and Sherpa's alike squeezed and edged their way through; taking extra care not to damage the gas tanks along the way as the sky grew dark under the stalactites that hung like a thousand, tiny swords of Damocles melting tears of ice above their wet, frost bitten heads.

Rabid observed a collective sense of relief to be out of the wind chill he hadn't noticed. He joined in with the communal rubbing of the hands in search of circulation and the sharp intake of breath. Up ahead a slender shaft of light indicated their final destination. There, just then...he felt it, more apprehension. A tiny spark of it inside the gut of the ripper. Yes, everything had to be perfect now.

Johnny Rabid: Gentlemen. Now would be a prudent time to ready your weapons. We have reached the zenith of our ascent. From here on out is a weaving pathway of stone steps up towards the monastery. He'll know we are approaching. There is no alternative to this. I will go ahead and monitor the situation as it unfolds. When the time is right I will signal for you. I humbly request however that you don't fucking featherbed your arrival. When I need you to be there, be there. Quickly.

“Please?” pipped up a mercenary, the long scar that ran down his blustered red cheek indicated a sense of knowing. Perhaps a souvenir from the Brighton bombing. This large, six foot plus man had that miners strike sense of insolence in his voice. The accent carried a Yorkshire twang, ex SAS surmised Rabid. A northerner. Probably not very reliable. Obviously Thuggin's choice. Just to twist the knife a little.

“Please, with a steak and kidney pie on top.” Sneered Rabid. The ripper didn't wait for the obligatory plucky reply as he exhaled and marched towards the light. Gun loaded, knife sharpened. He didn't know if he was ready. That was another first today. He hoped it would be the last.

Blistering white light.

Shapes.

Dimensions.

Horror.

The steps that lead up to the Shiva Monastery had been carpeted by the dead. Monks, in various degrees of decay. lied face down now upon the icy masonry. Their orange robes decomposing under the glare of the hot sun as vultures pecked at sacred flesh. A stray mastiff licking a puddle of frozen blood for sustenance upon the arid plateau. Rabid stepped over the art installation and felt a sense of marvel at the display. Was this a offering, a tip of the hat to another? Rabid's eyes adjusted to the light as the crumbling citadel of worship loomed; the temple was once a beacon of humanity, now desecrated and driven into the past, first by wave after wave of incursions from red Chinese butchers, on the march in the name of religious cleansing; the walls scared with the echoes of their “victories”; the building having been previously reduced into nothing more than a mausoleum for a full compliment of executed monks, their final moments casting long shadows of cremation upon the cracked and crumbling walls where their execution took place. A horrific zoetropic shadow play; immortalized by the searing heat from a soldier's merciless flamethrower.

The irony was not lost on Rabid as he considered the fate of this latest massacre. These Monks seemed murdered yesterday, day before perhaps? Where did they come from? Why where they here?

The door to the temple began to creek. Rabid froze, he was sixty steps into his ascent, another hundred to go. About sixty feet lay between him and the shape that was emerging from behind a large set of heavy wooden double doors; each carved with a lion at war with it's twin.

Jackal: What can I say? I got bored waiting. Sorry about the mess.

Rabid slowly raised his hand; the signal was met with prudence; a small echo of fear driving the men forward as they poured like ants from the crevice. Flamethrowers at the ready. Primed and ready to begin another cleansing procedure.

The Jackal smiled. It's face once belonged to a monk once; mid thirties, head no longer shaved. Long black strands of hair falling into it's sullen face like a cascade of black; it's clothing is simple deep back and grey rags. Standing at five eight, it's emasculated form seems immune to the emaciation the body as seemingly endured. It's eyes are two dark circles of peering red hate. That smile, it echoes into the hearts of the men. They do not falter though. Awaiting their order as they reach striking distance.

The mastiff yelps, it's pain strikes out of nowhere as Rabid's head turns to see the Yorkshire man snapping the dogs neck. No second guessing. Rabid is repulsed, but nods. It's a prudent move; if a sickening one.

Jackal: Hmmm, dog. Now why didn't I think of that? Always hungry. And you must be...

Johnny Rabid: Rabid, Jonathan Rabid. I have other names if this one is unfamiliar to you.

Jackal: Other names? Don't we all. So, I take it this is an ultimatum of sorts?

Rabid didn't make direct eye contact as he adjusted his leather gloves, a casual air of malevolence that briefly managed to irate the beast. The game had begun.

Johnny Rabid: 'Fraid not, this isn't any ultimatum, it's an execution.

Jackal: Oh..how interesting. I'm good at those.

Johnny Rabid: It's important that you pay attention rather than stall; there is no escape for you now. No solace that you can find, no rock for you to crawl under. This monastery hasn't seen a white man since the invention of flight; yet here I am. Ready to click my fingers and watch you burn to ash. And that grim milestone is possible because I am very persistent in my cause. You can run, but there is no hide. Time to stand your ground and face the wheel of progress.

Jackal: Pardon me for interrupting, but I suggest you find another banner to wave. Brave knights with noble causes like yours gather dust beneath my feet all the time. They're the stuff of fairy tales. I recycle those into nightmares. It's my thing. I care about the environment.

Johnny Rabid: Threats until the end? Those are expected. Your charred flesh, is also expected. Escape? Escape for you isn't expected....Gentlemen, Ready.

Jackal: Wait! Don't I know you? Yes...Yes, you're the husband who I made watch his family hang themselves in your study; when was what? Seventy nine? Eighty? Your hair was different back then, it was big, feathered; like Farrah Fawcett. You where all Studio 54 from your head to your toes, strange you don't seem to ag--

Johnny Rabid: Sorry. Wrong Englishman, but I'll make sure to send my regards the next time a British Liberace walks through my Mansion door.

Jackal: Well, you do all sound the same. The English. Pompous to the last, each and every one of you sour mouthed cunts. Shame you're not him, I very much love it when a broken soul arrives at my door, desperately searching for vengeance. They're always full of rage, with hurt dripping from their eyes, so certain that this is their moment. Their time to shine. And then, with a cheeky wink, just to let them know, I cut their thin thread of hope and watch the useless marionettes fall to the earth before me. As I shall now demonstrate.

Johnny Rabid: Please do. Aim...

Jackal: I can see us playing a very interesting game in the future I think, you and I. I think I'll stick around a little longer than usual today, allow the flames to lick at my metaphysical veins and warm my memory. It's so fucking cold all the time up here anyway.

Johnny Rabid: Fire!

Three streams of flame enveloped the Jackal as his body stumbled backwards against the door. Plumes of orange fire raging as flesh becomes a distant memory. A beat, before it's right arm raises, pointing towards the corpse of a fallen monk as it's ashen silhouette is singed into the wood; the arm refuses to relent now as it's pose is flame charged into a state of fused rigor mortis. Rabid tilts his head to one side for a moment. Scowling. The ripper's eyes slowly follow the arm's direction as he turns to see--

THE MONKS

Stirring. Their apparent torn flesh merely the appliance of long dead, putrid carrion; a disguise that has fooled the mercenaries that stand perilously close over them, their proximity now within striking distance. The Jackal has constructed the perfect killing floor, a ploy perfected over millennia. Before Rabid can utter a single warning; the Monks are upon them. Rabid has just the slender of moments to dive for cover as the first of the gas tanks EXPLODES. A shower of flame ignites three of the mercenaries as gunfire rains down in all directions; confusion and panic set in quickly as khukuri blades (traditional, long curved hunting knives) are brandished from beneath the Monk's rancid clothing--

Throats are slit, screams, gunfire...it all to soon relents.

A single Monk has eyes of fire. He removes a slither of dead flesh from his blood soaked eyes as he finishes off his prey. The Yorkshire man feels the cold snap of steel enter his gut, traversing all the way up to his shredded sternum from the pit of his punctured groin, slowly, ever so slowly, his intestines are vivisected. The Jackal takes some time out to enjoy the journey. That grin returns as if it never went away. While the body of the mercenary drops down now to the steps, rolling away as it tumbles, barrel rolling until it reaches the snapped bones of the dead mastiff.

Jackal: Demonstration, complete.

The Jackal wipes the blood away from the khukuri on the sleeve of a dead Sherpa as his eyes freeze, Rabid is nowhere to be seen. But something else is wrong; something very wrong. Something...impossible.

Jackal: Well, look what we have here. Now, we have a game.

One of the vultures perched on the temple walls has frozen in mid take off; wings caught between wing beats as it's body forever lurches forward; just on the cusp of escape. Let never discovering flight. The sky above, darkening as a familiar mist, descends.

A sharp, machine gun patter is uttered in Nepalese. Urgency hanging from every word.

Jackal: Form a circle around me! Now!

The words are met with confusion as the monks search listlessly for their leader; eyes blinded by the mist as they refuse to make contact with their God. The Jackal can do nothing but watch as a procession of THUMPS cannon through the air. Red dots exploding as silenced gunfire from a pistol lobotomizes it's targets with merciless efficiency.

Jackal: RABID!

No answer to anchor the few who remain back into continuity. The herd continue to thin until only the Jackal and Rabid remain.

Silence now, except for wind chimes that play percussion with the morning air. Time and space has seemingly returned; the Jackal red flaming eyes willing themselves to see past the illusion. But in the end, no matter what body he inhabits, it is still...only human.

“Jimophy Thuggin sends his regards.”

The final khukuri clangs as it drops from The Jackal's grasp. A suspicions look as blood drips down the possessed man's arm; his throat slowly slit from ear to ear by a especially sharpened Gurkha knife. An old air-loom of Rabid's as the Jackal falls to his knees. Eyes dimming as the cold grasp of death embraces him; just as his eye sight diminishes, he sees Rabid standing over him. An illustration of Shiva looming over his still form like a blessed halo. Pure. A final smile now from the dying husk.

“...And the truth shall set you free”

Rabid grimaces as the light dies; pupils turning from Red to white. While above, the vulture flies once more. Course plotted and held as a set of old, ancient eyes makes himself at home among the clouds. Searching for new blood. Stronger blood. The kind that can match a world of stranger, tougher challenges.


Laurel Canyon, Los Angeles: 2006

A single Christmas star shone above the Santa Monica hills; it's gaze unhindered by cloud cover as the night was a fabric of electric blue and deep black. A brilliant shimmering maze of golden light shone upward from the streets below. While high, among the hills; a sense of perspective was lost in a mire of drink and drugs. Another Hollywood party was winding down, the poison of choice upgraded from casual to lifestyle. Heroin now invaded veins as inside a large glass and steel edifice to Silicon Valley money, while trying to disappear in a corner of an open plan living room that Paul Simon once owned, sat Corey McCready at a grand piano. He's in his early teens now; about to understand his purpose in life as a drugged up Fuck girl in a pair of gold hot pants and a Stars and Strips bikini leans against his already large shoulder, her thin stray arm messing with his shock of shoulder length blonde hair as she waxes lyrical with a limited set of memorized bullet points.

Fuck Girl: Play something, little man.

Corey McCready: Like what?

Fuck Girl: You know any Muse? How about Evanescence?

Corey McCready: Call me when you're sober?

Fuck Girl: What?

Corey McCready: Nothing. You like Zappa? I'm learning some of his stuff right now.

Fuck Girl: Zappa? Fuck no! No, you don't understand! Zappa was a fucking sell out! His whole family was a cabal of right wing arms dealers working with MK Ultra! He was this war monger prick that pretended to be this fucking hippie icon. It's all part of the edgewood conspiracy. You gotta read the internet, man. Like...all of the internet! You gotta--

The Fuck Girl stands up, woozy, her body dripping buckets of sweat as she staggers. She spots a random rubber plant in the corner of the room and throws up a cocktail of half digested horderves and MDMA's into the undergrowth. A moment later she sits back down next to Corey at the piano as he causally motions away, the sting of her breath hits his nostrils, she smells like trouble.

Corey McCready: You, you okay?

Fuck Girl: Play something, please?

Corey's gaze fell upon the swimming pool outside, a small gathering of record producers and minor celebrities watching with detached, abject interest as a drunk and stoned Sarah McCready staggers by the pools edge; her long black dress and running massacre underlines her already Amy Lee light appearance. Tears swell in her distant blue eyes, inflating them into large red rings as her recollections fuse a dose of animal nitrate and amphetamines with a shot of blurred, confused emotion. Wild hand gestures signal the beginning of her tragic tale; slurred moments revive Corey's difficult birth on a south seas beach. How her son appeared blue, half dead. There was a father. But she never spoke his name. Not ever. Sarah feels the need to scream this to the heavens as her wild hand movements dislodges a plate of Roasted Beet Hummus from it's waiter. Apologies are made as Corey sighs, he begins to play.

Corey McCready: When I find myself in times of trouble...Mother Mary comes to me. Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Sarah is lead away by a six foot three security guard; tall, imposing. Ponytail tied back. She calls out for her son as Corey's heart sinks, another night cleaning up her mess. Another night, only this night was Christmas eve. Her addiction was getting worse. And Corey just wanted to run.

Corey McCready: And in my hour of darkness, She is standing right in front of me. Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Corey's mother is disappearing from view. Heads turn away now and forget. It would be so easy for Corey to do the same. But that isn't possible. No matter what. He stays the course. Corey stood and allowed the Fuck Girl to slump aimlessly to the floor as he departed for the parking lot out back, wiping a slither of putrid sick from his leather jacket as he did so.

Corey McCready: Fuck it.

The parking lot was a maze of cars with price tags in the upper half a million range, except of course, for Sarah's; whose station-wagon occupied a special corner eclipsed permanently in deep shadow as to hide it's rusting charm and lower income styling.

But as Corey approached the security guard a sense of unease enveloped him; an malaise he hadn't felt since the days of Wade Moor and the bayou. Charged electricity danced across the back of Corey's neck as he reached out for the guard who was carrying his mother at a brisk pace now. Corey's hand reaching out for him to stop.

Corey McCready: Hey! Wait! That's my--

The guard turned, face shaven but unmistakably Johnny Rabid. The man hadn't aged a day since Tibet.

Johnny Rabid: Good, you're here. Try to keep up will you?

Corey McCready: Wait, who are you?

Johnny Rabid: Security. Behind me.

Corey McCready: What?

Johnny Rabid: Now.

Peering out of the darkness was the Fuck Girl; eyes red like fire. She raised her hand to her throat and made a slow cut gesture. It sliced through time and space and savaged all hope of a happy ending. It collapsed peace and safety in upon itself with a giggle and a wave. Rabid said nothing, except:

Johnny Rabid: Your name is Crow, correct?

Corey Scowled.

Corey McCready: No one calls me that. Not unless...how do you?

Johnny Rabid: I'm trusted. You understand?

Corey sensed trouble; but there was something worse about the Fuck Girl; hooks in the pit of his stomach told him to leave – now.

A Jaguar XJ-6 gunned from the hilltop down into the valley as the Fuck Girl observed the headlights twist and turn from an elevated balcony back at the house. He raised a glass of Bollinger and smiled. All in good time.


“I'm afraid”, whispered Sarah MaCready, her New Yawk accent and resolute tongue cracked under the weight of the day. Jonathan Rabid shuffled in his stiffening driver's seat; the serpent was dressed in his usual attire, that charcoal suit undaunted by new dawns and distant revelations. Still, the man inside, he felt the weight of the moment upon those large angular shoulders of his, he felt it, and revived it, though eyes that had seen the tide of history swallow whole the plans of kings. There was a good reason to be afraid today as the Jaguar pulled into the east shore resort; an odd slice of British engineering juxtaposed against a Florida sky. Today was the night after the return of the Jackal. A strange new twist of the knife, but one that Rabid had expected and prepared for.

Still, preparation is not a impenetrable shield. Not even for Johnny Rabid. Or a Crow McCready.

Sarah: Will he be safe?

Johnny Rabid: He's good at taking care of himself, my dear. He has me, he has Buddy. He has Kaz and half the roster on his side. He has their good will and graces. He has McMorris genetics, and a heart that needs to never beat again. We have the numbers. We have a chance. It's a good start. The rest...we'll see.

Sarah had been clean now for over a decade; Rabid had stood resolutely by her side. And while Crow had grown over the years to be wary of this strange benefactor; he also grew accustomed to the benefits of such an association. Crow was destined for this, to face off against the Jackal; to fight him one on one and see if the training Rabid had provided him over the years held any water. Of course such a war is done though pawns. Always the one closest it would seem. Howard slept with the devil; the beast inside knew the warmth of love as he poisoned it and soured the moment into hate and that hate germinated now, growing a cancer in Howard. Johnny Rabid was a piece of the puzzle to halt the tide, but only that. For the net to tighten to truly strangle the life from the monster, it would take Crow. It would take the intervention of a man who could not die. To step forth and silence the the Jackal with a heart that did not fear. That had nothing of want to be gained from the beast.

Nothing, except it's true death.

Johnny Rabid kissed Sarah upon the cheek as they checked in. He nodded as Kaz Mazy greeted him in the reception, ordering an iced IPA at the bar and keeping things formal. Rabid and Kaz exchanged small talk, simply waiting for the others to arrive. The epitome of strange bedfellows under the glare of a merciless sun as the tension seemed almost palatable compared to the challenge that awaited them.

Kaz Mazy: Crow's a good friend. You know?

Johnny Rabid: I know. You've sacrificed much for him.

Kaz lowered his head, stirring his drink casually. A wave of apprehension cast down heavy now over his usually more optimistic features, carving apprehension into his youthful looks, ageing him. It was the weight of impending dread like a thousand ton block of knowledge that burned away at the stump that once welded an arm.

Kaz Mazy: Crowman would do the same for me, J. In a heartbeat. I know that for a fact my man. Dis be' his plan, dis' Jackal. To use dat. I know monstah's like him. That taunt and tease. That fracture lives. Mine was dah Baron. Nearly broke me. Crow's been through a lot, you know? But I wonder...

Kaz looked up; a question burning in his heart.

Kaz Mazy: Did the Jackal turn Bobby Cairo? Is that possible?

Johnny Rabid: I—I'm not--

Crow arrived. Washed. Clean. The old scarecrow had returned. Not without good reason. It was of course a psychological card that needed to be played; a rush of memory to snap his friend out of the abyss he had fallen head first into. Flanked on either side was Buddy Roman and Jayson Price. Johnny notice that Taylor Lorde had her hand wrapped around Crow's; his scrub up and clean had snagged him an announcer it would seem. Trouble, but containable, remarked the ripper to himself.

Jayson Price. The room is set, we need to discuss business. Now.

THE BUDDY SYSTEM
Fremeny: Mine.

As a Proud Father, it has always been my primary concern to look after my children from exterior threats, to protect them from social terrorists and skullduggerous miscreants that might encroach upon my fastidious family planning. Some threats however are more insidious than others, they wear the face of friend, they wipe their shoes upon my mat and smile as they sharpen the knife while we invite them inside. The surface is smiles and small talk, but beneath the mirage exists the actions of an enemy. I have always considered duplicity to be a poison that runs through this business like a snake in the long grass, it is the bitter after taste that bites at the bottom of a Bollinger 78'. The stale crust that hangs off an otherwise perfectly reasonable tune on rye. Duplicity is a cancer of the bowel and throat, it screams from the rear whilst under suspicion, and shits from the mouth upon discovery. It cannot be cured, for it is a state of mind, a disease hard wired into a man's personality, not through circumstance, but rather by choice.

Howard Black has made this choice, he has chosen a path of deceit and misdirection. He has done so because he is weak and feeble. Because his heart is soft and without steel. He is a shallow, lifeless shell; whose endeavours are propped up by sycophants; a gaggle of insipid lifeless fools all desperate to receive a quick reach around and a reassuring pat on the ass. Yet if your eyes are your own, then you can clearly see that Howard Black is a fake, he is a cheap plastic doll with a poisonous gold veneer. His swagger is solid, but his farm-boy Midwestern cadence sounds like a floundering, drowning man, sucked under the waves by his own unachievable expectations because in his heart he knows the truth; the undeniable truth, that he is a man who is a composite of others; a patchwork of greatest hits originally produced by betters for stakes he has no business being involved with.

Answer me this world of UCI, what kind of champion do you envision if Howard Black wins at #Beachmania? A champion that can inspire? A champion that can unite? This isn't a world of complacency, the war for the hearts and minds of this nation has not yet been won. Can Howard Black honestly say he is that figurehead, the battle standard that can lead us back from the shadows into the light? Can you see this malcontent, sulking farm boy leading the line? Imagine the moment; the wolves are at the door, the sky is falling. We're surrounded by cartels as the wagons are penned in, we turn to our figurehead, our savor. And what rousing speech would he greet us with? What line in the sand would he draw?

“Fuck this federation, cartel, whatever the fuck it is. I've beaten everyone here. Not one of you fucks can hold a candle to me. I am so far above you worthless pricks I hope you all drown in your own blood so that some real competition can arrive, you know; all those old stars from four years ago. The true royalty of this business. The Dune's and the Occulo's and the Flash's. So that we can stall and stagnate and never move forward because it's so much better for me to bury all the ghosts from my past than support and respect the future names of this business. After all, I am a selfish asshole whose ego has no room for the future, only setting right the wrongs of my past now I don't have to live under the yoke of poor booking and an anorexic lack of adulation from inferior management. Truth: I should have won at Ultimate Showdown, I should have won the WCF world title. My dog faced man told me to and that's all that fucking matters! Why didn't anyone listen to the dog faced man? Don't you idiots understand symbolism? I'm better than you because my sycophantic friends tell me so. Why should an Erin Fausse or a Chase Jackson get a shot before me? Who gives a fuck about tournaments? I deserve it more. I was held back, I was ignored and under-appreciated because I was knowing and schooled and that sense of self importance and snobbery that I consciously carry with me is why you hate me. I know that, but you should still fucking respect it. The chip on my shoulder was earned through one of the most underwhelming Television title runs in recent memory and none of it was my fault because my name is Howard Black and I should win, like, all the fucking time. It's a disgrace how I was treated. I was given a nothing title to work with (even though it was the same title that made both ICE Beckman and Jonny Fly before me) A nothing title that I'm supposed to elevate to show my worth. Why? The dog faced man never taught me about elevation so fuck you. Still, the whole episode was an absolute disgrace, to actually expect me to put in a shift week after week like a common worker and not cry and scream for a world title shot? The fuck is that shit? That's why I formed the Sentinels, for the little guy. Only that fucking prick, Dune had to stop being unappreciated and become a star. The dog faced man never told me that would happen, why? Fuck you, Dog faced man! Somebody break my arm so I can leave this shit in a huff and blame Thomas Urial Bates and all the fucking feminists that want to wrestle.

I'm gonna go hide in a hey bail until the shit blows over; then I'll be back, rocking it like a bad ass. By the way, I can't stand any of you. No more Mister Nice Prick. The dog faced man says so.

P.S. You can't see him because you're not intelligent. Not my fault.

Our company stands at the foot of the gallows. If Crow McMorris does not dismember Howard Black at #beachmania then the green mile awaits. Howard Black is a bottomless hole of misery; a bell jar state of mind that will sink us six fathoms down if we let him. He is a self loathing misogynistic malcontent that plays the blame game as readily as breathing, he is not the strong foundation a company at war needs. And make no mistake, we are indeed at war. We are war against a nation that hates and fears us because for the first time in it's existence, it needs us. We provide salvation. Howard Black is beneath such responsibilities; he's never known how to rise above his own insecurities; hence his stubbornness to go after his friend now. To punish Crow for having the audacity to battle his own father and win. To go through the roster in a fare and honest competition and emerge victorious. This is your Howard Black, your lost boy “CROWing” to be heard. Praise him, for he is the future if we let him.

Yes, Howard. We get the literally connection by the way. J.M Barrie would be so fucking proud of you I'm sure. And how so very Howard Black of you to think that no one would get it. That insipid, self serving ego of yours has never allowed others to match your apparent learned disposition, has it? You mild mannered, self congratulatory fuck. It's always baffled me how someone raised in a pig barn can develop such a state of terminal delusion about their meager life. It must be a twenty four seven party inside that idiotic head of yours to carry such a swagger about a five foot nothing man with five foot nothing dreams that have no place being considered anything other than bang average. Dull. Small.

Good luck on Monday putting the pieces of our life back together. The others care about you. Me? Not so much. In fact, let's call it zero. Crow is different now, he is a good grandson to a doting grandfather. When push comes to shove? He'll do the right thing. It's won't be a man racked with guilt; just a machine: doing what he does best.

Embarrassing you. Exposing you. Humiliating you. Then saving your wife and son and setting them free. I know, there are other...circumstances to consider in this match. But think about this. Who called Dune to be the special guest ref? Do you think it was Howard, do you think this was some kind of Sentinel reunion planned to ambush Crow? No, it was Crow himself that made the call for reasons that should be plainly obvious. That is the kind of man that you face this week. A man that wants to fight you on a level playing field. Because when he beats you. When your murdered and broken. He can put the pieces together again. His only flaw.

He wants to fix you. Salvation is coming. Get ready.

#hewillbesaved.