Aint No Grave: Chapter I

December, 2014:
Anaheim, California

He turned on the faucet, waiting for the water to reach the perfect temperature before he extended his hands to cut through the cascading waterfall like a knife plunging into human flesh. Cupping his miracle workers, he slowly lifted his hands to wash his countenance.

“Sometimes I feel, displaced…”

He said, in a grave tone as he gingerly grabbed hold of his neck, his fingertips caressing the melancholic collar compressing his throat like an animal trying to break free from it’s chains.

“Even now, I feel dislodged from, well myself. Do you ever feel removed, Dr. Collins,” he inquired, as his hands dropped down to grasp the edge of the sink, whilst he stared forward into the mirror lying overtop the counter, staring into his reflection. His eyes narrowed with confusion, and angst, as if he couldn’t recognize the image reflected by the glass structure.

“Well Magnus…” she started, as she glanced at the figure from the confines of the living room. “Human beings often experience instances where we become disestablished and dislocated from our usual thought processes due to certain triggers. As a consequence, our perception of reality becomes blurred, and we cease to see what’s happening around us. Rather we only see what we want to see, and feel what we want to feel,” she continued to scrutinize him with her curiosity, as he finally peeled himself away from the sink. “However, there are certain things we hold onto that keep us tethered - certain feelings, emotions, or memories, sometimes even people that should these bonds remain intact, allow us to put the pieces back together even after we’ve been torn apart.”

“If you break a cup Dr. Collins, it doesn’t matter if you glue the pieces back together the cup is still broken,” he replied, as he turned and leaned up against the counter. “You can still see the cracks. They serve to remind us that the cup isn’t the same as when you first bought it. You can still drink from it, but you know it’s been damaged. It will always stand out from the rest of the glasses in the cupboard. You can dress it up, change it’s color… in spite of it’s physical appearance you’ll know what lies beneath the surface. You’ll always know.”

“And do you feel like damaged goods, Magnus?”

He stared down at his hands, looking closely as a crimson shadow slowly began to encompass them. He wore the blood on his hands like gloves as he began to form fists. “Damaged,” he scoffed with a slight grimace, sneering down at miracle workers with certain level of comfortability he didn’t possess before. His thoughts reached out like pseudopods, caressing, and exploring the inner crevices of his mind as he unclenched his hands. He looked closely with captivation, as the blood vanished. “For me to be damaged would suggest I was ever whole to begin with, Dr. Collins,” he smiled, as he gripped the counter again, his vision now ascending to the ceiling. “I don’t know if you could make such a distinction, considering how little you know about me. What’s even funnier, is that I don’t know if I could make it either to be brutally honest.”

“You’re right,” she retorted, keeping her eyes trained on him as he began to walk around the room aimlessly like an adolescent child. “I don’t know you well enough to come to such a conclusion, but surely you know yourself. Don’t you?”

He laughed as he stopped in front of a bookcase, looking at the graphic novels she had accumulated, along with various personal and professional certificates she was awarded that were mixed in. “But that’s the point, Dr, Collins. The problem is I know myself too well - too well to lump all of my feelings and emotions into a generic psychological category created by people of your ilk. That would be too simple, and I’m much too complicated an individual to be defined by such simplicities.”

“That’s a fair assumption,” she said, crossing her legs as the figure continued to peruse around her home. “There are a number of factors that contribute to troubled minds, just as there are many things that help define who we are, or aspire to be. Simply put, we’re made of flesh and bones, thoughts and feelings. But everything is not so transparent. It’s those things that define us the most, that make us who we are.”

“I know who I am… or more importantly what I’m made of, Dr. Collins.” He said harshly, turning away from the bookcase before seating himself in a lounge chair across from her, with a small wooden table serving as a slight barrier between the two. “I’m afraid of the fact that I’d probably feel a lot better about myself if I wasn’t equipped with the knowledge.” He laughed lightly, wringing the back of his neck with his hand to intimate the immense stress he was under.

“And what are you made of, Magnus?” She asked, looking right into his eyes. They were devoid of light, or any signs of humanity. They were dried by rancor and made cold by self-revulsion.

“I’m made of scars.” He said intensely, gritting his teeth as the words escaped him.

“Tell me about these scars.”



May 20, 2015:
Flint, Michigan:

“He forgets I have eyes everywhere,” murmured the madman as he watched a familiar face from his past enter the coffee shop. “You look well, Arishima.”

The Sword of the New Age regards his senpai with a lighthearted smile as he sits across from him.

“Is it safe to assume you were not seen,” the Michigander inquires.

“Of course not, senpai. You taught me how to blend in with my surroundings,” he answered in a tone eager to gain Furor’s approval. “And what have you learned from Strike, Furor-san?”

The former World Champion laughed to himself. “I’ve learned what desperation can do to a man. It turns his virtues into vices, and warps his mind toward savagery. He is so desperate to keep what he perceives to be control, that he’s willing to enlist the services of someone who could lead to his undoing. And Christopher is heading for an unfortunate demise. That much is guaranteed regardless if I see to it myself, or not.”

“Because of them?”

“They’re merely pawns in my scheme as well, Naoki.” The villain replied coldly. “I’ve been pulling strings from beyond the grave, and now the puppets are all on stage dancing for my mere amusement. But unfortunately, I can’t take all the credit. Some of them are more willing to dive onto swords than others, yet they’re all heading into the slaughterhouse. And how ironic, that those who swore to destroy me, now beg for me to stand with them. EXODUS was once a place that embodied the idea of hope, but now all they know is hopelessness, so much that they would trust me with the key to their salvations.”

“What did you plan to do, Furor-san,” Arishima asked.

“I plan to give them all what they want, a resolution. When everyone wants to rule the world Naoki, the world ceases to be worth ruling.” He claimed, staring out the window now as he gazed at the scenery.

“But isn’t that what you want?”

With a wicked grin Furor turned his focus back toward his disciple. “I want what’s left of this cesspit once the wars of men have burned it to ashes.”



The scene opens up to the darkened RIMAC arena. After a few seconds, a spotlight shines down upon the squared circle, illuminating the figure, and consequently revealing the presence of the figure presiding inside of it. Seated in a steel chair in the heart of the ring is none other than Christum Furor, his head lying askew as his vision is fixated on his miracle working hands. As the cloud of contempt widens over him like a shadow, the former two time Champion lifts his head, his lips beginning to temor as commences his sermon.

“Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” he started, showing no rust at all when it comes to grandiloquence. “For six months I was draped in a cloak of anonymity and resided in the purgatory known as oblivion. For six months the world I created had been shaped in the image of a man who dedicated his existence to destroying. But in one night, I rose from the catacombs to shift the balance of power back into my divine right, for only with that change in power can order be restored to EXODUS.”

Furor runs his fingers along his hair until they bounce off his ponytail - his appearance a noticeable contrast to his usual look, appearing more composed than disheveled.

“And the only order is chaos. And when I look at EXODUS, I see exactly that. Anarchy runs through her veins, feeding on her like a symbiote - feeding on her greed, her glory, and her gamble. But it’s just as I predicted,” he said, flashing a devilish grin. “Everything I’ve ever said has come to fruition. Everything I have prophesied has come to pass. Even faced with a certain demise, I told the world that Christopher Strike would cease to be the man he pretended to be, and become the man I knew him to be. And did he disappoint, did he?” The madman cackled. “Christopher fell from that pedestal you placed him on, and plunged his hands into the very darkness you thought he buried. He bathes not in the fountain of prosperity, but of gluttony. He has a hunger for power, and superiority that he can never satisfy, and that appetite has turned him into the villain he disdains.”

“But just as much as we love to raise are heroes up, do we enjoy watching them fall,” he smiled. “All along I’ve prided myself on my ability to see through facades, to see the forest from the trees, and to see what lies beneath these intricate disguises known as the human flesh to find the fault in our stars. I showed EXODUS the real Fiona Collins, just as I warned you about the real Christopher Strike. But you didn’t listen. You didn’t heed my words, you merely regarded them as fallacy, and as the deranged ramblings of a psychopath. But now you see that my word was what I claimed it to be... gospel. However, hindsight is twenty-twenty.” He scoffed. “It’s too late for me to tell you I told you so, just as it is too late for you to tell me I’m right. I know I’m right. I knew I was right the minute I stepped into this company and listened to your Stardust Seraph grandstand about how heroic, and noble she was, and about how much she cared about the people. I said from day one that Fiona Collins has only ever had the best interests of one person - Fiona Collins. And two weeks ago, she proved that to be true, just as she confirmed another one of my declarations. And that is the notion that there are no such thing as heroes to begin with. There’s only how much we’re willing to do, and how far we’ll go to justify the human condition - a condition of covetousness, treachery, and barbarism.” He proclaimed.

“Conditions flaunted by the man who arguably saved EXODUS at The Autumn Effect 2,” he said, grinning as his teeth sparkled with malevolence. “If only you had trusted him. If only you would have put your faith in, and showed solidarity toward him. Then maybe… just maybe you could have avoided this grim reality. But alas, we know that not to be accurate.” He said, rubbing his chin as he basked in it all. “For a year I architected, and weaved a vision into reality. That vision was a world where those who lived large and left nothing for the rest of humanity would feel despair, and those who knew only grief and misfortune would feel what it’s like to rest their heads at night with no worries. That disruption of the established order caused EXODUS to descend into strife. And to this day, EXODUS continues to feast on itself.”

“Look closely enough, and you can see my influence everywhere. Even in death I’ve lived on as my devout followers walk in my footsteps in an attempt to carry out my life’s work. The Revolution, so eerily similar to LEGION, so similar to Gods & Monsters. Though different in design, method and execution, the message is all the same. It’s a message that's also been carved in the thoughts of Nick Kramer. That the only sensible way to survive in this world is to discard morality, and rewrite the rules with nihilism. EXODUS was built on deception, and fraudulence, and the only way to fix a broken system is to destroy it. It takes immeasurable foresight, and a logical understanding of the fundamental structure of one’s ecosystem for a predator to reinvent the entire food chain - but is that not what I’ve accomplished,” he inquired, looking out into the empty seats surrounding him for confirmation, yet from the self-assured look in his eyes you could already tell he knew the answer. “Indeed it is. I’ve armed the less fortunate with a weaponized hate, and I’ve brung the self righteous down to the level of the sinners while the world spins in a pool of fire.” He said, visibly satisfied and amused by what he just described.

“They thought by banishing Chuck Matthews from the company, and burying me in a black box beneath the Earth’s core that they could maintain their way of life, and preserve the EXODUS of Old - but I knew from the moment I ascended to take the throne that there was no going back, that I had changed things, forever. My death did not bring an end to the New Age, it merely served to cement it. I achieved my manifesto. EXODUS is now governed by Murphy's Law. What’s down is up, what’s left is right, what’s good is now evil and what’s evil never felt so good,” he exclaimed. “However, that all begs the question: why? Why have I risen from the grave after all this time. Well, it’s simple. A chaotic world can only be ruled by a man who has mastered his madness - and that man is Christum Furor.”

“The Honor Cup represents my path back to the crown - a crown that sits on heads unworthy - a crown fit only for a GOD. And I am the only deity whose godship has validity. My divinity has been validated by my actions - actions that whisper in the shadows, that preach in the chapels, and yell from the rooftops. I rescued Savannah Taylor from a life of obscurity, and destitution, and gave her a wealth of knowledge - a knowledge of self that allowed her to carve out a legacy that can never be tarnished as the longest reigning San Diego Bay Champion in history. I opened Sally Talfourd’s eyes, turning her into a clairvoyant that could predict the future. She had premonitions. She foresaw a world shrouded in an ominous cloud of darkness. And that reality has come to maturation.”

“And yet, they still doubt my power,” he scoffed. “They send a monster to put me back in my grave. But who better to combat a monstrosity, than the biggest one that ever lived,” he said with a truculent disposition. “Miedo from HELL seeks to return me back to a hell of a much different kind. But I’m afraid I have lived in perdition long enough. And Miedo, when you’ve lost everything, you develop an appreciation for the things you do have. And what I have are these,” he raises his miracle workers in front of his eyes. “Hands that work miracles. Hands that rip through falsehoods. Hands that change fate. Hands that will smite you down, just as they have smitten down countless others who have come for my head. Miedo, with these hands you will crumble beneath my almighty force, but not for a lack of trying.”

The madman clasps his hands together, placing them in his lap as he leans forward in deep contemplation. Finally, with a twisted smirk on his visage he rises from his seat. “I can see it all, Miedo. I can see it through my eyes, all three. Nothing escapes them. They show me everything, from the things that reside on the surface down to the deepest, darkest corners of your memory palace. They show me your incredible strength, your raw, animalistic power and your feral rage. If it’s true that bad things come in threes, you are without a doubt one of the baddest men on the planet. You possess qualities that make you a near unconquerable foe for a lesser man. Qualities that you use to intimidate a lesser man. Qualities that would bring a lesser man to his knees. But I am not a mere mortal. In fact, I am something else entirely.”

“What I am is a force of nature - the perfect storm. And Miedo, you are caught in the eye of it. The Honor Cup is the landscape I’ve been set on course to tear through with winds of change, a lightning quick synapses, and a silver tongue that will flood the airwaves. You’ve escaped HELL only to become a sacrificial lamb. How far the mighty have fallen. Your blood and your tears will be used to paint a beautiful portrait - a portrait of what lies on the horizon. The Autumn Effect 3. That’s the site of my triumph, and rise to superiority for an unprecedented third time. And the only way for me to see that vision into existence is to seize the Honor Cup trophy for myself, and to do that I must tear you apart limb from limb.”

“Miedo, I come not to wrestle you, but to make an example out of you - an example of what I am capable of doing when my mind is focused on achieving a goal. I’ve done it twice in the last year due to an ambition that cannot be juxtaposed with that of my counterparts. That ambition makes me a nightmare opponent for someone of your distinction, for while you can threaten society with all your strength, you have absolutely nothing at your disposal that can strike fear into my soul because to do that you would have to understand fear itself. And you cannot do such a thing as a man that knows no fear. Being bigger and stronger than everyone around you has prevented you from experiencing such a feeling, but I will ensure that you finally become acquainted.” His grin vanished, as a somber scowl manifesting on his countenance.

“Miedo, on June 22nd, 2015 you will come face to face with the greatest wrestler in EXODUS Pro. And on that night, you will come to the realization that you don’t have the means to handle someone this mean. And when that reality sets in, so will the dread and consternation as the world as you know it vanishes along with everything you believe in.” He says with the utmost conviction. “And though you will talk confidently, and make claims that you cannot back, I implore you to do so. Talk to every ear willing to lend itself to your cries. Tell stories of your brilliance, and tales of your dominance. Spread your words through the land for as long as you can because time is running out for you. I PROMISE that your vocal chords will have their final hurrah on Monday, because they will be MINE for the TAKING… as will your SPIRIT… as will your SOUL! When you stand face to face with the GOD OF EXODUS you will see that you do not measure up…. because those driven by vein, lust, gluttony and hypocrisy…”

Furor grabs the chair, folding it up before grabbing it by the handle and pointing it at the camera.

“Must suffer the consequences, and the punishment is death, with a sentence carried out by the Hammer of Dawn as it crashes down upon you.

The eloquent madman outstretches his arms in a familiar crucifix pose as the feed fades to black.