When The Sky Fell (Part Two: The Plan)

To: @sandman
From: @murdermachine

Hello Daniel. I hope you're well.

Thank you for replying so swiftly. I know you want to intervene immediately. We all do. But you, more than anyone, know the stakes if we do. If we listen to Howard's cries then we're drawn headlong into the Jackal's trap. Each of us has to play their part if this is going to work. Christ, Dan...I hope to God this works. If it doesn't I don't know how I will forgive myself. For now I have to play this like a McMorris; pretend to be the prick and stick to the story. I saw my father this week by the way, can you believe he's going to be a World Champion over at the bootleg Fed? Must be something in the water.

I miss him.

It's honestly kind of strange to be writing this to you now. I feel numb. Distant. As if hovering above a crime scene that's unfolding before my eyes. I'm right in the centre of it but unable to do anything about it. I'm locked out. And it burns, Daniel. It burns to think that Howard is out there now screaming my name and I have to turn away and say nothing. Sit on my hands and remain silent. It's like a slow betrayal, but that's the game, isn't it? The Jackal plays upon your emotions, drawing you in and twisting the knife.

If we move now, it's over.

Sarah; Christ, the choice isn't without planning, is it? It's my mother's name. And little, Joey. Jesus, for a monster like the Jackal it must have been every Christmas at once, to destroy another life named Joseph; to render it ash and murder the namesake of a man he had already taken to the brink and over. That's the stakes, a child's life. Not again, Dune. I won't allow that. The last time I was unable to help. Buried and rotting. Waiting for salvation as the worms danced and crawled beneath me. Gnawing at my soul as flowers marked my grave. Death, Dune. If there's one thing it taught me it's that stillness is enviable. There's no need to make bedfellows with it while alive. You have to keep moving forward. Shake off the dust from beneath your feet. Keep reinventing yourself. Find that missing percentage you never knew existed.

There's a secret that I keep to myself. I haven't really spoke about it. I don't know why I feel the need to now; but maybe it's because I think you might understand it.

No God came looking for me. No shining temple in the sky welcomed me home. No absolution. No forgiveness. I don't remember the shores of Valhalla nor the embrace of an angel. Just the dark. The cold. The earth around me. I don't think I was ever wired to know that kind of peace. A million years from now I'll still be walking this planet. Maybe I'll be mad by then. A man can know too many ghosts; too many dark days; they grow like angry clouds and bring a storm of confusion and regret. I think that's my fate, to live long enough that I'm mad. The last living soul on planet Earth. Lost and insane.

Maybe one day I'll meet the Jackal and lock him inside with me. Be his jailer and laugh every day forever more as he tries desperately to escape from a prison that cannot die. Maybe that's my true destiny. To jail a monster and keep a dead world safe. The irony feels almost poetic.

But today is not that day.

Today we wait and plan and allow the wheels to turn. To many variables now, I don't like it. Alessandra for one. She's a true wild card in all of this. Hurt. Seething with rage. She always was a damaged sociopath back in the day, Daniel; but now she has a million and one reasons to be so. And I fear each and every one of them. I fear them. And respect them. But that won't stop me from bulldozing them into dust if she gets in my way. This is between me and Howard; between us and Howard. That's the agony of the situation. If I tell Howard the truth, I tell the Jackal because there's no hiding what Howard knows from the beast. If I scream and rage and promise my friend salvation then it's over. The beast will spring a trap in a heartbeat and we'll be attending another funeral and bowing our heads to another Ten Bell salute and I can't have that.

That era is over.

I wish there was a shining knight strategy that can save the day, but it doesn't exist; not this time. Only patience. And deliberation. A chess game without blinking, with an opponent that has toppled Gods.

Rabid told me a story he head about the Jackal today. It's hard to say if it's truth or conjecture or a blatant lie he's concocted out of the either. Perhaps it's all three: it dates back to Sumerian times. There was once a Pantheon of Gods; omnipotent. Unstoppable. They had no need for food, or drink or the sins of the flesh. These Gods, they never knew sleep. And so, these Gods never knew dreams; year upon year they watched as men dreamt of wealth and happiness and in time the Gods grew jealous of the human ants that scurried beneath them; and so they abandoned their invincibility and slept, and in those dreams, nightmares where born; the anxieties of a race built upon the concept of infallibility subconsciously created a God to cherish and harbour their most precious dreams, they created this being to serve dominion over their new playground. And in their arrogance, felt secure as they closed their eyes and slumbered.

And they called him, the Jackal.

When the Gods awoke though, they found themselves tricked by their new creation: they were nothing more now than men, their power taken by a dream made flesh. Conned by their own hubris to forsake their immortality. And so, the Jackal escaped his masters as their bodies withered and turned to sand and off he walked; from dream to dream, from body to body, down through generations to deliver terror upon the world. Always a new deal, from the dream made real.

Personally; It's probably just Rabid being Rabid. That last part rhymed. I never trust rhymes. I don't trust Rabid either, you should see him swagger about town now, thinking he's conned the world into believing he's some kind of hero reborn. The worst part is I need him to protect my mother. Chess games, they never seem to end. Infuriating, but unavoidable. That was always my problem before I suppose; I used to think this game could be played out without them. But then you learn in time that what happens outside the ring, is just as important as what unfolds within it. Three sixty spacial awareness, that's what you need to survive this game. Eyes open. Feet planted upon the ground.

Odd, this belt feels less heavy now; strange isn't it? You'd think the opposite would be true, but over the last few weeks the weight has been like wings to me; it's simple. I am the Champion. When the sky falls and the world turns to shit it's me that has to provide the answers, me who has to deliver the solutions. And I do. Willingly. Ninety nine per cent of the roster would probably shun that reality, but it feels natural to me now. Almost serine. Maybe I get it in a way the others don't. You see, you don't have to scream your position with this title. You just have to be there when they call your name. Stand up and make the calls. That's the job; you strip away the bullshit and the backstabbing and the name calling that scurries beneath the floorboards and you stamp your feet and tell the world how it's going to be. Not because you're better than them, but because it's your job. My job. And I happen to be the best qualified to get that job done.

Howard's journey hasn't found that harbour yet. You know it and I know it. He needs time, to grow and learn where that missing ten percent he lacks resides. The air and quality of a Champion that's lost some place between his anxiety and his phobias. That quality of decision making that draws a line between what defines, and what forges a Champion.

A man can scream for mercy for a thousand years, and never be head. But a Champion can say nothing and own the world. That's because a Champion requires no clemency. No understanding from his peers. And a champion asks for none in return. That's a Champion. That's the genetic spark that defines us from the others; now don't get me wrong, this isn't elitism bleeding through, just the truth Daniel. Just the damn truth.

Maybe that's because there's a horrible reality to this title, a secret that once you know...you can never unlearn.

A long time ago, I remember a man named Howard Back walking up to me, he waved away my cigarette smoke and offered me his hand. I looked at it, decided to oblige. A moment later this Howard Black was unravelling his entire life before me, how he had been a Heavyweight champion in every other Federation he had wrestled in, that was feared by those rosters, and that their fear had made him something of a pariah. But here's the rub. I didn't believe him, not one word, because Champions don't need to speak to mid carders. They never have. I do, because it's called humanity; I'm not sure I have any measure of a soul left, but sometimes I like to test myself. The actuality though is that I don't consider myself as a champion during those quite moments backstage, because Champions don't do that. We're distant for a reason. We beat you, we humiliated you. And if we get the chance? We're going to do it again. Because being a champion once is fine, but prove it again? That's dynamite. That's ambrosia, gold lined and stamped with a mark of quality for all the world to see.

Now cut to today, and I see Howard come after me with every tick and infliction I created, a best of from the scrapbook of the Scarecrow. I know he thinks it's clever to be a mirror image of me; that he considers it a worthy homage that exposes all my flaws and imperfections; but there's a difference between a greatest hits tour and a clinical dissection of my past when his mind should be on other matters. I know why, you know why. But after all this is over. I need to face him again. On solid ground. And discuss why. Because being reminded about everything that I was; isn't going to endear me to his cause for long.

That sounds cold. It isn't meant to be. But what links then and now is that once again I hear Howard Black, and none of it rings true. You want to be a champion. Stand up. You want to hold the belt. Stop crying. Champions don't fire the flare into the sky every time it's about to fall, it's your job to fucking prop that sky up, not scurry around looking for a face to blame in your place.

None of this is Howard's fault; I know this, we know this. But if Howard is ever going to be a Champion, he needs to face difficult days like these with more dignity. Otherwise, it will always be me running around to save him. Me, babysitting him. Me, cannoning to his aid. Forever the last minute hero in another man's life. Saving a fragile and bitter Howard. The Howard who betrays his infinite potential now on a daily basis, a twisted construct formed under stress. Yet stress, stress is a Champion reality every day. Stress is our sweetener. It's all part of the prize. The burden that defines us. Separates us. Isolates and celebrates us. Those that carry the gold. Those that make the difference.

I want Howard to know that feeling again; I remember his face the night he defeated Corey Black for the television title. The night he won the tag straps and held them aloft so proud. His face was full of hope and joy. That is my friend. Right now he's out there. Quarantined. Alone with the devil. And the devil is winning. Listen to the bile that Howard spins, it's scattershot and lacks focus, it's supposed to, but there's real pain there. I can sense it.

Dune, it's time to save Howard Back; to drag him ashore. To teach him hope and ignite reason. That is my pledge, to reach down deep into his psyche and activate that spark of guts and fight that's been extinguished. Otherwise, no matter how things go down between us and the Jackal, the monster will have already won. Because a Howard black, adrift and alone without any these qualities, is no Howard Black at all. And that, I cannot have. Not for one more second. I cannot have a Howard back tagged to my knee, I cannot have a Howard Black searching for his carer. If we don't save him now, at #beachmania, then he will forever be my burden, my regret; and he'll forever be watching from the sidelines as I hold his hand and murmuring to himself “what if's” and “if only's” for forever and a day. I don't think I could stand that reality, and I know you couldn't either.

I'm going to stay Optimistic about our chances. Buddy has a saying about optimism: Optimism..take a man; wrap a blindfold around his eyes and shunt him off towards a cliff. That's optimism. I don't think he's always right. You have to have hope. Even this dead man has it.

There's a joke in there somewhere.

I'll see you at the arena.


A plate of lobster thermidor is waltzed from a hotplate in amongst the chaotic bowels of the hotel's kitchen, onto a heated trolley with a busted, flighty wheel for added danger; before being wheeled away eventually by a seemingly meek and small waiter. The procedure is orchestrated by the same dedicated members of staff that have worked these clean and well ordered halls for many years. Gathering stories and tales from half way across the globe; all manner of visitors have walked though those doors during that time; some stay awhile, others never leave. Becoming fixtures themselves in a manner of speaking.

Sarah McCready waited patiently in her room for her dish to arrive. The sky above was an endless blue as she looked out across Florida from her balcony; her deep cyan eyes could see no visible line between sea and sky; all merged into one as her heart remembered that day once more. Crow's birth. This time however with a sense of peace; her son was with her again. Alive. Ready. Crow had forgiven her; stood by her when she needed him to the most. If she had managed to inadvertently teach her son anything over time, it was you don't abandon your family, or your friends.

Still, she feared for the future nonetheless. This was the moment that had been prepared for. Rabid's gathering of occult forces to combat the growing darkness; Rabid was the king in yellow now for a reason, and while Crow didn't approve of standing ideally by and watching this ascension he knew there was very little choice now. The greater beast had to be slain. One way, or another.

The Jackal.

PING! The waiter exited an elevator on the eighth floor and turned right as he departed, pushing that trolley ever forward as it struggled to be free, that busted wheel never would be fixed it would seem; some problems remain no matter what.

A knock at the door greeted Sarah. She waited as per instructions before acknowledging any presence. Finally, after the third time of asking, she relented.

“Come on in; it's unlocked”

The waiter saw a stark silhouette greet him as he entered; a tall slender woman with an understated poise and elegance about her. A long flowing summer dress of fauna and meadows caught the edges of his vision; he didn't wait a second longer before drawing a gun that was strapped beneath the hotplate. Silenced bullets rang out with a aim that could not miss.

And yet...

They met no target, on impact. Just confusion as a set of huge hands reached around the back of the waiter's throat and snapped his neck clean. That elegant woman remained still, mannequins strapped with tape have a habit of following orders.

Where did the mannequin come from?

You'd have to ask ZMAC that. The one TRUE Honey badger crouched and searched the pockets of the dead waiter. The dumb waiter's phone had a list of contacts that Special Agent Donald Mosley required to begin his operation in earnest; a plot to round up the Jackal's latest network of associates with a coordinated lighting strike. The G Man needed times and locations for his plan to work; sparks of opportunity for an ambush. ZMAC grumbled, but obliged.

That Dank American darkness didn't owe his son a damn thing, but now his son owed him and that was sweeter as ZMAC sent the list to Donald Duck and pocketed thirty new Pokemon in various stages of development.

“Thank you” whispered Sarah as she leaned in and kissed ZMAC goodbye. The zombie shrugged at he departed. He didn't feel the need to say anything today. A moment later. He was gone.


Mosley smiled as he gave Crow and the team a thumbs up. Crow's father had come through, the blind spot no one saw coming. Misdirection; the mother of miracle saves. This was plan C. Take the fight to the Jackal; capture Sarah alive, hold her in custody. Get the Jackal out of her and keep the bastard secured in a bunker eight miles down. Lost and forgotten beneath site C of the Manhattan project, a location know only to a ageing battalion of retired Generals, half of which are lost in reruns of their better moments.

Nevada then, once more with feeling. With Dune leading the way.

But that was tomorrow's hand, today Crow had to keep the ruse going. He took a breath and said a silent prayer for Howard. He hoped that one day, he would forgive him for all the shit between them. But there was no other way. A breath before lighting a familiar cigarette and standing tall on the Hotel's roof as the sun slowly began to set. An inhale of hot ash to begin, and it was as if he had never been away.


Crow nodded to Kaz off camera to signal he was finished filming. They said nothing. Just watched the Florida sky drain itself of light as fate awaited them.

FIN.