Post by Dean Harper on Aug 26, 2017 18:45:54 GMT
“Heir to the Throne…”
“This is Sara Otis, with our second episode on the PAS Podcast about the disappearance of Ilona Harper. Normally I know we don’t focus on one case for more than a single episode, but after our last broadcast I found myself… I don’t know. Restless, I suppose. I couldn’t sleep. My mind kept coming back to how someone could just vanish, with all signs of its previous occupant gone. After our podcast reports came out that the absence of evidence was even deeper than we originally thought. It wasn’t just her possessions that were missing. There was no trace of… anything at all. No hairs or skin flakes in the carpet, no residue in the bathroom. In all the time I’ve been looking into cases like this I’ve never heard of someone being so… thoroughly erased. We do weird mysteries all the time, of course, anyone who has ever listened to PAS knows that, but… something about this one just got under my skin.
It became clear to me after our last broadcast that there wouldn’t be any conclusive results to any investigation of where Ilona Harper is known to have lived as recently as a few weeks ago. Regardless of the fact that the trailer seemed as though nobody had ever stepped foot inside it when it was searched, people have known that’s where she lived for decades. So… as an investigative reporter, I took it upon myself to try to figure out more about her disappearance through methods other than forensics… going back to investigative roots and learning as much as possible about the people involved, rather than the facts of the case itself.
It’s at this point that my producers have told me to ensure you that this is the point in the podcast where we move away from the hard facts of the case, and start moving into speculation, and I am legally obligated to tell you that none of what I’m about to say should be considered actual evidence as to Ilona’s disappearance. With that said… let’s dive in to what will be a four – yes, four – episode series about Ilona Harper, her family, and the events leading up to her disappearance. Why so many? Well... however unusual this case already looked like it was going to be, looking into her past, her family, and some of the disturbing stories I uncovered add new levels to the mystery that challenge belief. That said… out of respect to the missing woman… I felt it important to share her story.
So, with that… who is... or was... Ilona Harper? And is she still alive?”
The camera turns on in a different part of the warehouse than has been shown before. There are two candles giving the only light. In the shadows, you can see the floor has been covered in wax from multiple candles and some kind of dark stain on the floor.
Dean is standing with an excited smile on his face, bordering on manic. He stretches, cracking his back slightly with an audible pop. “Hey, IWF, how are things? I’m… I’m better than perfect.”
“When I watched my lady grind Sara Garcia and Pandora Freeman under her boot… when I witnessed her fulfilling her prophecy and ascending to take her rightful place at the top of the Diamonds Division… I cannot describe with true fullness of how it felt. So few of you know what it’s like to see the object of your faith proving to the world that you were right to worship them. No Christian has looked into the eyes of their God. No Heathen stood alive in Valhalla. It’s not even right to say that my feelings towards Her are just faith, as faith implies a belief and devotion towards the unproven… to be me is to know utter certainty. There’s no unsteadiness. No questioning of my place or purpose. My devotion is to something tangible, and the harvest that said devotion yields is just as real as She is. You can’t comprehend how… valuable… that is to one’s mind, one’s heart, when walking into the fire. Because of Her, I don’t even remember fear – because what is the purpose of fear when you are the most loyal to a Goddess who walks the earth?”
Dean smiles, almost serenely, and shakes his head. “So when I say that my place in Heir to the Throne is a matter of devotion… I need you all to understand how literally I mean that. I don’t intend to win Heir to the Throne, and from there unseat the Unbreakable Imperial Champion, just because of my own interests in fame and glory. Everything that I am about to do at Legacy, every broken bone, every drop of blood shed, every scream of pain coaxed from the throats of the faithless and the lost, will be to show the IWF and the entire world the strength derived from conviction in my Dark Lady. As I walk with my head held high into Legacy, standing alongside giants of this industry, I will show everyone the strength that my conviction can unleash. As they all fight for a Throne, for a strap of metal and leather, I will fight for a Queen and Goddess… not aloof and on high, invisible and uncaring… but present, watching, and having named me Her champion. They will fight for their lesser glories, only to look up with dawning, horrified comprehension… as the proof of their folly comes down upon them, Screaming from the Sky.”
He leans forward, eyes glinting with malicious anticipation, as he looks hard into the camera. “My sister has already seen the truth. Through agony she was reforged, stronger than ever before, never to be broken again. No victory, no title, no championship could compare to the exaltation I felt when we welcomed her into the fold. I can only hope that what I am about to do will sway the hearts of yet more still. Seeing her in the ring, back in fighting shape after all the work we did to help her find the way. That was exhilarating. I am so proud of her. We are so proud of her.”
“It’s oddly peaceful here.” Maxine said as they walked past the sign telling them likely to stay on the path.
“It’s all the green. Green makes people feel at peace.” Dean suggested. “It’s very quiet. I feel like I could scream and no one would hear me.”
“Anything specific you want to scream?” Maxine smiled teasingly.
“Not at the moment.” Dean grinned back. “How are you feeling?”
She stops walking and looks up at the night sky. “Better.”
“Good.”
“Why are we here?”
“She wants us to see something.” Dean looked around. “Or find something?”
“The dead bodies or the forest?”
“Can’t see the forest without them, can we? Sort of like not seeing the forest without the trees.”
“…That was terrible.”
“I thought it was funny.”
Maxine pushed him with a tired smile. The two of them walk continue to walk through the forest. Looking at the trees, walking past roped off areas every now and again. Maxine stopped walking and stared ahead.
“…Do you see that?”
“Yeah, my gym teacher from 3rd grade, ignore him.” Dean waved it off.
“What’s he doing here?” Maxine asked.
“The forest is showing you what it thinks you fear.” The sound of Rowan behind them made Dean stand up straighter, he turned to see her standing just behind them.
“Oh.” Dean nodded. Then after a moment he added: “Good.”
“Is that why we are here?” Maxine asked.
“It’s one of the most powerful predators in the world… and definitely the largest,” she explained lightly, her voice showing no indication of concern. “It’s been feeding for centuries. Constantly feeding despite what the government does to try to stop people from coming in. Always feeding, never full. Likely never will be.” Rowan’s eyes gleamed in the darkness.
“So we’re here to see that?”
“To pay respects, Dean.”
“Right.”
“We will still be able to find our way to the car, right?” Maxine asked.
“If it lets us.” Rowan had that smirking look in her eyes as she walked past them through the forest.
“…Kinky.” Dean grinned.
“Dean.”
“Sorry, old habits.”
The two of them continued walking for a few more moments – or perhaps it was hours? The smothering silence and stillness of the forest seemed to warp time to the point where it barely had meaning. After a long silence Maxine nudged Dean again, drawing his attention to a tent in the distance. It looked at least a decade old, and Dean could clearly see two bodies together under the tattered fabric. Dean sighed as the two of them stared for a time before Maxine broke the silence.
“Did they come here to die, do you think? Or did the forest take them by force?”
Dean shrugged. “Hard to say. Whatever their reason was when they came, though… it doesn’t look like they cared to survive by the end. I bet that’s how this place… feeds. It’s so easy to get lost out here… and the ground could just open into a cave at any moment with all of this volcanic rock. It feels like the sort of place that would break most.”
Maxine nodded. “Not us. Broken once…”
“… Never again,” Dean finished with a slight smile. “It’s a Hell of a thing, isn’t it?”
Maxine turned and stared at him with an odd face. “Did… did you just make a demon pun?”
Dean smirked and shrugged. “What can I say? I like living on the edge.”
“And so I walk through eight men. Eight men between me and the bloodied throne, eight men squabbling for personal glories and pathetic ambition. Eight seals to be broken to call in the new, glorious era of domination. And their names are Ryan Shane, Mason St. Croix, Seth Evans, Jayson Matthews, Chris Card, Kole Kaos, Jason Sandman, and Ulf Hednir.”
“So starting with everyone’s favorite of Laura Howlett’s peons, Ryan Shane – the King of Detroit.” He laughs suddenly, seeming barely able to control himself. “Sorry, sorry… heh… it’s the whole ‘King of Detroit’ thing, bandied about like it’s something to be proud of. The fact that you are, Ryan, is a pretty big part of why you’re kind of a fucking joke. You get that, right? Because I tell you, if anyone deserves to be called the King of America’s most legendary failure of a city, it’s you. So lost trying to reinvent yourself that you’re willing to throw yourself in with a stable that’s ALREADY failed before, and is trying so desperately to try to make itself relevant again. Just like Detroit! You’re trying to catch a fire like you had back in your glory days, but even with a title in hand it’s just not enough, so you’re reaching again to another one… and the attempt will make you fall into irrelevance and failure… just like Detroit! And after this tournament, when you’ve failed, when you’ve lost, you’ll slink back into your lane, cling to the last bit of relevance you have left to hold on to, marinating in smog and muck surrounded by fading images of previous greatness barely propped up by their mouldering frame as everyone leaves you for better… just… like… Detroit.”
He shakes his head, still grinning widely. “But hey, at least you HAVE a championship to your name, right? And if you’re living in Detroit, you can probably hear a car backfiring without jumping to the ground and pissing your pants, which leaves you a step above Mason St. Croix. The American Hero, the Solider, the man who boasts about how having killed children somehow makes him better than everyone else. Yeah, that sounds like the hero of Modern America to me. I tell you, Mason, I’m almost wishing that I didn’t have to be in the ring when you lose – much less be the guy who beats you. The way you went off, flipping out like a child who’d lost his sucker, when your tag partner let you down? Hell, I lost a tag match last week thanks to my partner’s incompetence, and you didn’t see me throwing a temper tantrum about it. Stamping your foot on the ground and whining about how you refuse to be in any tag matches anymore… I wonder, was that why you’re not in the army anymore? Are you just too sore a loser, too shitty a team player, that you’ll abandon your partners in the ring and then blame them when they get taken out? How many of them did you leave, Mason? How many of your brothers did you leave out there like Dre, then throw up the ‘not my fault’ declarations like a shield. Do you still hear them screaming? Do you still, when you close your eyes, hear someone yelling for your help as you’re too scared to help them? Do you tell yourself that it’s not your fault? Did you throw your hands in the air and walk from the army just like you did tag competition?”
He leans into the camera. “You’re not altogether all together, are you, Mace? I see it when I look at you. I can tell when I see your eyes. The haunting. The trauma. You’re more fucked up than I am, good sir, and that… I almost want to tip my hat, if I wore one. Not to you, of course, but to all that left you in this state. Knowing that all I have to do to send your head screaming out of the game is to clap my hands behind your head as hard as I can-“ he SLAPS them together very suddenly right in front of the camera with enough force that it sounds eerily like a gunshot. “And you won’t be in the ring anymore. You’ll be in your dark place, running from the abyss. The difference between you and me, Mason, is that when you saw the darkness you ran all the way here to the IWF to escape it. Me? I saw the abyss too… but it was right here where you ran to, and I jumped in. So run along, little soldier boy. If you came here to escape your abyss, then you should keep running.”
“And oh man, speaking of people who wander about pretending they’re heroes… Seth Evans. The so-called savior who pretends to have all of these unshakable morals… but really, take a good hard look, and it’s all just window dressing. He’ll talk about how he’ll never compete in an unfair match… UNLESS management makes him. He’ll talk about how he’ll-“ he puts up finger quotes “- always compete with fair play… UNLESS something big is on the line. He’ll fight in tag team matches, but he’s too ‘honorable’ to help his partner by breaking up a pin or submission... but he still calls himself the savior, even while refusing to save the person he’s supposed to be fighting alongside. Now, I’m not going to lie to you all and try to say that I’m somehow a better man than Seth Evans – far from it. I am a man who has done – and will continue to do – terrible things… but the difference between Seth and I is that I’m at least honest about it. In the meantime he’s taking a shower in his hypocrisy while having someone make a video that makes him look like some Batman knockoff.” He chuckles. “The guardian of the IWF… what have you done to earn that title? Who exactly have you been guarding? Where were you when Jason Sandman spilled acid on Jayson Matthews? Why does someone need to hire a Samurai to keep the backroom safe if you’re supposedly so busy being our savior? It’s just another lie. Another thing to cling to while you tell yourself that you’re a good man. A comforting lie to keep you warm as the icy chill of your failures seep in through the window. Exposing you for what you are… that’ll be a joy.”
He spits on the ground. “Now, Chris Card is at least honest about who he is. I can appreciate that. You and me, Chris, we’re a lot alike. We’re both willing to go to some pretty unethical lengths to accomplish what needs to be done, but neither of us are going to try to lie through our teeth about it. You’re a slimy, no-good cheating son of a bitch, and I’m a bad man devoted to the greatest force of Darkness that walks this world. Peas in a pod. With how much hype you get, I honestly kinda keep forgetting that I’ve been wrestling in this company even longer than you have. You’ve had two matches, and I’ve had three – and we’ve both won the same number. But I’ve also noticed that your style just isn’t ready for a match like what we’re going to be thrown into. You don’t have the big, dramatic, show-and-heartstopping pieces of offense to make it in a fatal four way – not when something this big is on the line. One on one, killing your opponent by way of a thousand cuts just won’t cut it against three other men at the same time… so you’ll have to rely on one of your trademark ‘cunning plans’. Black Adder was one of my favorite shows as a teenager, buddy – cunning plans never work for guys like you. You’ll sit back trying to put your Bond Villain plot into play, and I’ll just climb up onto the top rope and flatten your mustache-twirling ass with one of those big, high-flying moves you think you’re too good for. Death of a thousand cuts doesn’t work on someone who’s been trained to revel and draw strength from pain, Chris – you might be technical perfection, but you Can’t. Beat. Me.”
He gets a bit serious. “Jayson Matthews, though… Jayson’s someone I come dangerously close to respecting. See, unlike Mason or Seth, Jayson’s done his time and earned his keep, holding his own as Invictus Champion for a few months, now. I don’t know how he does it, but that man keeps winning that title but still manages to do it looking like the perpetual underdog. The ability to be on top but act like you’re on the bottom… oh, wow, that got weirdly sexual.” He gives a shrug and a wink, “But seriously – Jayson, I kinda like you. You’re like a puppy, all bouncy and weirdly adorable, flopping around doing little tricks and always acting like you’re having just the best, most exciting day ever. I should hate it. I should hate every second that you’re around me, but your so fucking infectiously charming that I just… can’t.”
His eyes get serious. “Here’s the thing, though, Jayson. You want to know one of the things that really makes me who I am today? One of the most important things that I learned along the way from my Lady? How not to flinch when crushing something you love. No matter how much it makes you want to smile, she taught me how to smile right back before snapping its little neck. And that’s what I’m going to do to you, Jayson. I’ve watched you close for longer than you realize, be it through the camera before my ascension or recently from the locker room. I’ve seen you turn Ulf Hednir into a chew toy. I’ve seen you manage to beat the Unbreakable Champion himself. I’ve watched every move, every little dance, and every smile into the camera. I’m going to do the same thing to you that my Lady did to Pandora Freeman – take this bright, shining beacon of hope and light, and drown it in a pool of its own despair. I won’t take your championship from you, Jay – but I will extinguish your light. And once I’ve done that, you and I both know that it’ll only be a matter of time before someone comes along to take the Invictus away from you and leave you alone in the dark. That… that will bring me great pleasure to watch, Jayson. I can’t wait.”
He laughs, eyes wide with anticipation. “But the last three of those names bring me more excitement than the others – those names on the Council who think that they are the true forces of chaos within this world, personified in this company. There have been many words thrown about of these three men and the would-be king who leads them – that they are hooligans, that they are dangerous. Some even say that they are unlike anything we have seen in the IWF before. To me, however… to me they illicit only laughter. While they see themselves as kings and monsters, conquerors and gods on Earth, I see them only as children playing with matches in comparison to that which they think is their ally. For months I have sat in the background, smiling in the dark, watching as the Council parades my Lady – the only among them to have earned a championship of any kind here – about as though she is one of them, part of them. I was there when she joined them. I heard the warnings she gave of how she would betray them all, how she would make them regret ever approaching her. To make a deal with the devil is to face oblivion or servitude… and they are too proud to bend the knee.”
He scoffs. “The so-called ‘God of Chaos’, hiding behind smaller men and telling the world to pray… hinting at a future that will never come. You have had your chance at this battle, Kole… and when all the cards were on the table you were too weak to even take a drop of the champion’s blood, much less break his reign. You continue to talk and preach stories of darkness and fire, but the IWF has seen that you’re little more than a weak, broken toy wailing in the corner for toys you aren’t strong enough to earn. You think you can scare me with parlor tricks and a burning ring? You think you can intimidate me with Halloween faces a pillar of green fire? I have seen things, Kole, that you wouldn’t even fathom. The places that she took me filled my eyes with images that would leave men like you broken and screaming, because men like you are too drunk on your own self-destructive pride to recognize just how utterly superfluous you are. You’re no god, Kole. You’re barely a man. And for all your talk, you haven’t the slightest idea what chaos really is… but believe me when I say that am damn excited to show you in a few days.”
He stops and considers for a few moments before continuing. “I’ll give you this, though… you and fuckboy Cross did a good job pulling the wool over little Ulf’s eyes. Though my lady tells me that you haven’t exactly been alone in the efforts to pour the poison of mischief into his ear.” He smirks again. “Oh, but you did certainly light the flames under his ass, and now he’s gone full on dark side. There’s nothing like watching someone cast their honor to the side for the sake of ambition, and even Rowan admits that you show some real grit and promise, Ulf. What you’ve sacrificed along the way in your quest to become the youngest Imperial Champion in IWF history… it’s a hell of a thing to watch from the sidelines. Your honor. Your dignity. Your morality. But you keep plodding on, too stubborn to realize that you’re no longer the hero of your own damned story. You’ve weaved this story that you’re the best and most heroic little engine that could, but your capacity for self-delusion is your finest feature.”
Dean laughs. “Give yourself a hard and honest look in the mirror and you’ll just see a washed-up kid reaching desperately for daddy’s attention, trying to be something he’ll never be while constantly getting punked by Jayson Matthews. You can’t even take on the Invictus champion, but you’ve actually convinced yourself that you can somehow take down Andrew Jacobsen. That’s… that’s rich, friend. That’s especially rich given that Matthews is quite literally IN this tournament. He has beaten you over and over again, and you still seriously think that you’re gonna pull this one off? I almost wish I could see what the world was like through your rose-colored blindfold, but I’m worried that I’d catch the “nobody can understand what the fuck I’m talking about” disease. Seriously, buddy, I’m not gonna drag you for not having English as your first language, but the whole switching languages mid-sentence with the same rapid randomness of a tweaked-out Yorkshire terrier has GOT to stop.” He sighs, amused. “But all joking aside… you don’t have a chance. Somewhere deep down you probably even know it. You backstabbed your brothers into getting as far as you have, and it’s all going to be for nothing. When the end comes, little Ulf… I’m going to enjoy looking right into your eyes and watching your hopes and dreams wither and die... and I can’t help but wonder what you’ll be then? Just remember – if you need someone to help you find the path, you can always find family with us.”
He grins sadistically. “And finally… last and least, Jason ‘Has-Been’ Sandman. Jason Sandman might be a threat if he wasn’t too busy trying to be edgy and scary, with his head too lost in the early nineties to even know what that means anymore. Jason was a terrifying man once, but now he’s just an old relic of a forgotten era who thinks all he needs to be cool are a sleeve of tattoos, a few occult symbols, and to say cunt every once and a while. What a fucking joke. My Lady says that he has the Angel of Death bound into his soul – and I believe her. But what that tells me is that he’s frail enough that he’s died in the ring before, which makes him the most miserably fragile little stain of a man competing in this tournament at Legacy. Legacy… assuming you survive the week, old man, I’ll enjoy ripping that Legacy right out of you. You’re too at war with yourself to be a success in this company as long as you’re struggling against the weight of your inner monsters. I’m looking forward to taking your legacy from your still-beating heart, Sandman... because I want you to know this – both you and you’re little angelic murder-tumor.” He looks dead into the camera and smirks. “She was talking about me. When you’re left a broken, lonely husk with no more voices in your head… I’ll be the one to give that Angel the home that it deserves - and together we’ll do things that you never had the stomach to.”
She wasn’t sure how long she had been asleep. Maybe it had only been a moment, maybe hours. She awoke with the very sudden feeling of not being alone. Her bedroom was dark, she always had the trailer dark but something felt off. She listened, laying still in her bed to see if maybe it had been something else. Maybe the Meyer boys driving down the main road playing the god-awful music too loud again? Maybe it was some out of towner getting lost and turning around in her makeshift driveway?
There was no sound. None.
That made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. There should have been crickets, wind blowing through the wind chimes, or at least a low hum from the fan across the room. But there was nothing. It wasn’t the first time she’d found herself transported to a dangerous thought in the middle of the night. She was old enough to know sometimes bad things happened. She watched the news often enough to know the world was going mad. Who’d have thought she’d live so long anyway? She was eight-five years old, outlived her daughter and the man who she’d loved as a younger woman. She outlived many people in her life.
She believed she had lead a good life, not perfect but good enough. Maybe in her younger days she’d played fast and loose with morality but she’d made her peace with God. She might not be like the people on the television who seemed to interpret his will like he talked to them personally but she felt she and him were on good enough terms. She went to church, she said a prayer for unselfish things most of the time. She didn’t curse, she didn’t steal. Sure, she gossiped but who didn’t?
She moved slowly in the dark and reached to her bedside table. She fumbled in the dark, feeling the plain wooden table but not her bible. She always kept it there, she often read a passage when the night gave her these feelings. A passage bolstered her spirits, gave her armor in the spiritual force of the creator. But it was not there. She wasn’t so old that her mind was playing tricks on her was it?
Fear pumped through her veins in a way she had not felt since she was a small girl. She sat up fully in the dark, tried to make her eyes see something in the dark. Tried to see if there was anything in the shadows. When she had been a girl her mother had warned her of evil spirits, her mother hadn’t believed in God but evil was universal. It was dark, a pitch and shadow less mass that was without shape or form yet full of too many things. Was the devil standing over her bed? Was it wild spirits from her people come to yell at her for forgetting her roots and taking a white man’s god?
“Who’s there?” A stupid comment leapt from her throat into the air, into the silence.
A light turned on across the room, and she was blinded for a moment. Whether it was the sudden light in the dark space or the fact that someone was there. Someone was in her room. She wasn’t sure. It took a long moment for her eyes to adjust to the light. She blinked against it until it came into focus.
“Hey Gran.” He smiled at her and for a moment her heart relaxed. For a moment, the situation was forgotten and it was just her grandson. Little thin, clearly not eating enough or getting into that work out craze the news warned about. He was dressed in black, sitting in the rocking chair she kept by the closet. He’d spent a lot of time there as a child, where he would sit and read the good book until she was sure he’d learned the lesson.
But that smile wasn’t right… her heart faltered.
“…Get out.”
“That hurts Gran.” He said, it sounded the same, he looked the same but something was different. She couldn’t place it but a grandmother knows. “I know I should have called first but you always said the door was open to me.”
“It’s the middle of the night, Dean.” She tried to keep her voice even but it wavered.
“You’re scared.” Dean said, his mouth twitched like he was trying to hold back a smile. “You don’t have to be... though to be fair, if you weren't I wouldn't be doing my job right, would I?”
“What happened to you?” It was a stupid question, one that she did not want to know the answer to.
“Remember how you always said I needed to find god?” Dean asked. He had her bible in his hands. “How I needed to understand good boys didn’t have the thoughts I was having. That I needed to be better. That if I could accept him he would wash away all those dark things?”
He didn’t wait for her to respond standing up grabbing the baseball bat off the dresser. She knew that bat, it had been his father’s - the good for nothing lowlife. He’d left it when he had walked out. She’d had it on a shelf in the living room to remind him not to be his father. “Scaring me to god, that’s what you called it. It’s… funny… really funny actually. I did find Her through fear, so I guess it wasn’t like you were completely off, were you?”
“Dean…What have you done?” she watched him play with the bat, adjusting his grip on the thing like he was trying to judge the weight.
“It’s not about what I did so much about what I’m going to do.” Dean said it in an oddly gleeful way. “My becoming had to be someone and of course it should be you, don’t you think? Only makes sense.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“That’s the point.” Dean advised. “You raised me to be afraid. Of everything. Of being my father. Of being my mother. Of being like the other boys. For my thoughts. For my feelings. I think it’s only fair I share that with you.”
“Dean….”
“Before you go.” Dean put the bat on his shoulder. “I want you to know I have found a god. She’s everything you warned me about. She made me look into the darkness, made me really take it in. It made me better, so much better. I’m so close now. Wish you could meet her. But sacrifices have to be made.”
“Dean—” she wanted to come up with apologies, maybe say something quick to God about how she tried her best. Make Dean understand she was trying to help. Wanted to save him. But the first time the bat hit her in the head she felt her body hit the floor. All the words left, all the rational thought was just beyond her grasp.
“What did you always say?” he asked as he lifted the bat for a second blow. “‘Don’t do it quick if you can do it right’? I’ll try to keep that in mind for your final moments, Gran.”
Dean stands, picking a baseball bat off the ground and slinging it over his shoulder. He grins at the camera, a wicked glint in his eye as he turns and saunters away. “See you all at Legacy, boys. It’s going to be awesome making you all bleed.”
He whistles a haunting tune as he vanishes into the shadow, and the video fades to black.
“This is Sara Otis, with our second episode on the PAS Podcast about the disappearance of Ilona Harper. Normally I know we don’t focus on one case for more than a single episode, but after our last broadcast I found myself… I don’t know. Restless, I suppose. I couldn’t sleep. My mind kept coming back to how someone could just vanish, with all signs of its previous occupant gone. After our podcast reports came out that the absence of evidence was even deeper than we originally thought. It wasn’t just her possessions that were missing. There was no trace of… anything at all. No hairs or skin flakes in the carpet, no residue in the bathroom. In all the time I’ve been looking into cases like this I’ve never heard of someone being so… thoroughly erased. We do weird mysteries all the time, of course, anyone who has ever listened to PAS knows that, but… something about this one just got under my skin.
It became clear to me after our last broadcast that there wouldn’t be any conclusive results to any investigation of where Ilona Harper is known to have lived as recently as a few weeks ago. Regardless of the fact that the trailer seemed as though nobody had ever stepped foot inside it when it was searched, people have known that’s where she lived for decades. So… as an investigative reporter, I took it upon myself to try to figure out more about her disappearance through methods other than forensics… going back to investigative roots and learning as much as possible about the people involved, rather than the facts of the case itself.
It’s at this point that my producers have told me to ensure you that this is the point in the podcast where we move away from the hard facts of the case, and start moving into speculation, and I am legally obligated to tell you that none of what I’m about to say should be considered actual evidence as to Ilona’s disappearance. With that said… let’s dive in to what will be a four – yes, four – episode series about Ilona Harper, her family, and the events leading up to her disappearance. Why so many? Well... however unusual this case already looked like it was going to be, looking into her past, her family, and some of the disturbing stories I uncovered add new levels to the mystery that challenge belief. That said… out of respect to the missing woman… I felt it important to share her story.
So, with that… who is... or was... Ilona Harper? And is she still alive?”
The camera turns on in a different part of the warehouse than has been shown before. There are two candles giving the only light. In the shadows, you can see the floor has been covered in wax from multiple candles and some kind of dark stain on the floor.
Dean is standing with an excited smile on his face, bordering on manic. He stretches, cracking his back slightly with an audible pop. “Hey, IWF, how are things? I’m… I’m better than perfect.”
“When I watched my lady grind Sara Garcia and Pandora Freeman under her boot… when I witnessed her fulfilling her prophecy and ascending to take her rightful place at the top of the Diamonds Division… I cannot describe with true fullness of how it felt. So few of you know what it’s like to see the object of your faith proving to the world that you were right to worship them. No Christian has looked into the eyes of their God. No Heathen stood alive in Valhalla. It’s not even right to say that my feelings towards Her are just faith, as faith implies a belief and devotion towards the unproven… to be me is to know utter certainty. There’s no unsteadiness. No questioning of my place or purpose. My devotion is to something tangible, and the harvest that said devotion yields is just as real as She is. You can’t comprehend how… valuable… that is to one’s mind, one’s heart, when walking into the fire. Because of Her, I don’t even remember fear – because what is the purpose of fear when you are the most loyal to a Goddess who walks the earth?”
Dean smiles, almost serenely, and shakes his head. “So when I say that my place in Heir to the Throne is a matter of devotion… I need you all to understand how literally I mean that. I don’t intend to win Heir to the Throne, and from there unseat the Unbreakable Imperial Champion, just because of my own interests in fame and glory. Everything that I am about to do at Legacy, every broken bone, every drop of blood shed, every scream of pain coaxed from the throats of the faithless and the lost, will be to show the IWF and the entire world the strength derived from conviction in my Dark Lady. As I walk with my head held high into Legacy, standing alongside giants of this industry, I will show everyone the strength that my conviction can unleash. As they all fight for a Throne, for a strap of metal and leather, I will fight for a Queen and Goddess… not aloof and on high, invisible and uncaring… but present, watching, and having named me Her champion. They will fight for their lesser glories, only to look up with dawning, horrified comprehension… as the proof of their folly comes down upon them, Screaming from the Sky.”
He leans forward, eyes glinting with malicious anticipation, as he looks hard into the camera. “My sister has already seen the truth. Through agony she was reforged, stronger than ever before, never to be broken again. No victory, no title, no championship could compare to the exaltation I felt when we welcomed her into the fold. I can only hope that what I am about to do will sway the hearts of yet more still. Seeing her in the ring, back in fighting shape after all the work we did to help her find the way. That was exhilarating. I am so proud of her. We are so proud of her.”
Aokigahara National Forest in Fujikawaguchiko, Japan
“It’s all the green. Green makes people feel at peace.” Dean suggested. “It’s very quiet. I feel like I could scream and no one would hear me.”
“Anything specific you want to scream?” Maxine smiled teasingly.
“Not at the moment.” Dean grinned back. “How are you feeling?”
She stops walking and looks up at the night sky. “Better.”
“Good.”
“Why are we here?”
“She wants us to see something.” Dean looked around. “Or find something?”
“The dead bodies or the forest?”
“Can’t see the forest without them, can we? Sort of like not seeing the forest without the trees.”
“…That was terrible.”
“I thought it was funny.”
Maxine pushed him with a tired smile. The two of them walk continue to walk through the forest. Looking at the trees, walking past roped off areas every now and again. Maxine stopped walking and stared ahead.
“…Do you see that?”
“Yeah, my gym teacher from 3rd grade, ignore him.” Dean waved it off.
“What’s he doing here?” Maxine asked.
“The forest is showing you what it thinks you fear.” The sound of Rowan behind them made Dean stand up straighter, he turned to see her standing just behind them.
“Oh.” Dean nodded. Then after a moment he added: “Good.”
“Is that why we are here?” Maxine asked.
“It’s one of the most powerful predators in the world… and definitely the largest,” she explained lightly, her voice showing no indication of concern. “It’s been feeding for centuries. Constantly feeding despite what the government does to try to stop people from coming in. Always feeding, never full. Likely never will be.” Rowan’s eyes gleamed in the darkness.
“So we’re here to see that?”
“To pay respects, Dean.”
“Right.”
“We will still be able to find our way to the car, right?” Maxine asked.
“If it lets us.” Rowan had that smirking look in her eyes as she walked past them through the forest.
“…Kinky.” Dean grinned.
“Dean.”
“Sorry, old habits.”
The two of them continued walking for a few more moments – or perhaps it was hours? The smothering silence and stillness of the forest seemed to warp time to the point where it barely had meaning. After a long silence Maxine nudged Dean again, drawing his attention to a tent in the distance. It looked at least a decade old, and Dean could clearly see two bodies together under the tattered fabric. Dean sighed as the two of them stared for a time before Maxine broke the silence.
“Did they come here to die, do you think? Or did the forest take them by force?”
Dean shrugged. “Hard to say. Whatever their reason was when they came, though… it doesn’t look like they cared to survive by the end. I bet that’s how this place… feeds. It’s so easy to get lost out here… and the ground could just open into a cave at any moment with all of this volcanic rock. It feels like the sort of place that would break most.”
Maxine nodded. “Not us. Broken once…”
“… Never again,” Dean finished with a slight smile. “It’s a Hell of a thing, isn’t it?”
Maxine turned and stared at him with an odd face. “Did… did you just make a demon pun?”
Dean smirked and shrugged. “What can I say? I like living on the edge.”
“And so I walk through eight men. Eight men between me and the bloodied throne, eight men squabbling for personal glories and pathetic ambition. Eight seals to be broken to call in the new, glorious era of domination. And their names are Ryan Shane, Mason St. Croix, Seth Evans, Jayson Matthews, Chris Card, Kole Kaos, Jason Sandman, and Ulf Hednir.”
“So starting with everyone’s favorite of Laura Howlett’s peons, Ryan Shane – the King of Detroit.” He laughs suddenly, seeming barely able to control himself. “Sorry, sorry… heh… it’s the whole ‘King of Detroit’ thing, bandied about like it’s something to be proud of. The fact that you are, Ryan, is a pretty big part of why you’re kind of a fucking joke. You get that, right? Because I tell you, if anyone deserves to be called the King of America’s most legendary failure of a city, it’s you. So lost trying to reinvent yourself that you’re willing to throw yourself in with a stable that’s ALREADY failed before, and is trying so desperately to try to make itself relevant again. Just like Detroit! You’re trying to catch a fire like you had back in your glory days, but even with a title in hand it’s just not enough, so you’re reaching again to another one… and the attempt will make you fall into irrelevance and failure… just like Detroit! And after this tournament, when you’ve failed, when you’ve lost, you’ll slink back into your lane, cling to the last bit of relevance you have left to hold on to, marinating in smog and muck surrounded by fading images of previous greatness barely propped up by their mouldering frame as everyone leaves you for better… just… like… Detroit.”
He shakes his head, still grinning widely. “But hey, at least you HAVE a championship to your name, right? And if you’re living in Detroit, you can probably hear a car backfiring without jumping to the ground and pissing your pants, which leaves you a step above Mason St. Croix. The American Hero, the Solider, the man who boasts about how having killed children somehow makes him better than everyone else. Yeah, that sounds like the hero of Modern America to me. I tell you, Mason, I’m almost wishing that I didn’t have to be in the ring when you lose – much less be the guy who beats you. The way you went off, flipping out like a child who’d lost his sucker, when your tag partner let you down? Hell, I lost a tag match last week thanks to my partner’s incompetence, and you didn’t see me throwing a temper tantrum about it. Stamping your foot on the ground and whining about how you refuse to be in any tag matches anymore… I wonder, was that why you’re not in the army anymore? Are you just too sore a loser, too shitty a team player, that you’ll abandon your partners in the ring and then blame them when they get taken out? How many of them did you leave, Mason? How many of your brothers did you leave out there like Dre, then throw up the ‘not my fault’ declarations like a shield. Do you still hear them screaming? Do you still, when you close your eyes, hear someone yelling for your help as you’re too scared to help them? Do you tell yourself that it’s not your fault? Did you throw your hands in the air and walk from the army just like you did tag competition?”
He leans into the camera. “You’re not altogether all together, are you, Mace? I see it when I look at you. I can tell when I see your eyes. The haunting. The trauma. You’re more fucked up than I am, good sir, and that… I almost want to tip my hat, if I wore one. Not to you, of course, but to all that left you in this state. Knowing that all I have to do to send your head screaming out of the game is to clap my hands behind your head as hard as I can-“ he SLAPS them together very suddenly right in front of the camera with enough force that it sounds eerily like a gunshot. “And you won’t be in the ring anymore. You’ll be in your dark place, running from the abyss. The difference between you and me, Mason, is that when you saw the darkness you ran all the way here to the IWF to escape it. Me? I saw the abyss too… but it was right here where you ran to, and I jumped in. So run along, little soldier boy. If you came here to escape your abyss, then you should keep running.”
“And oh man, speaking of people who wander about pretending they’re heroes… Seth Evans. The so-called savior who pretends to have all of these unshakable morals… but really, take a good hard look, and it’s all just window dressing. He’ll talk about how he’ll never compete in an unfair match… UNLESS management makes him. He’ll talk about how he’ll-“ he puts up finger quotes “- always compete with fair play… UNLESS something big is on the line. He’ll fight in tag team matches, but he’s too ‘honorable’ to help his partner by breaking up a pin or submission... but he still calls himself the savior, even while refusing to save the person he’s supposed to be fighting alongside. Now, I’m not going to lie to you all and try to say that I’m somehow a better man than Seth Evans – far from it. I am a man who has done – and will continue to do – terrible things… but the difference between Seth and I is that I’m at least honest about it. In the meantime he’s taking a shower in his hypocrisy while having someone make a video that makes him look like some Batman knockoff.” He chuckles. “The guardian of the IWF… what have you done to earn that title? Who exactly have you been guarding? Where were you when Jason Sandman spilled acid on Jayson Matthews? Why does someone need to hire a Samurai to keep the backroom safe if you’re supposedly so busy being our savior? It’s just another lie. Another thing to cling to while you tell yourself that you’re a good man. A comforting lie to keep you warm as the icy chill of your failures seep in through the window. Exposing you for what you are… that’ll be a joy.”
He spits on the ground. “Now, Chris Card is at least honest about who he is. I can appreciate that. You and me, Chris, we’re a lot alike. We’re both willing to go to some pretty unethical lengths to accomplish what needs to be done, but neither of us are going to try to lie through our teeth about it. You’re a slimy, no-good cheating son of a bitch, and I’m a bad man devoted to the greatest force of Darkness that walks this world. Peas in a pod. With how much hype you get, I honestly kinda keep forgetting that I’ve been wrestling in this company even longer than you have. You’ve had two matches, and I’ve had three – and we’ve both won the same number. But I’ve also noticed that your style just isn’t ready for a match like what we’re going to be thrown into. You don’t have the big, dramatic, show-and-heartstopping pieces of offense to make it in a fatal four way – not when something this big is on the line. One on one, killing your opponent by way of a thousand cuts just won’t cut it against three other men at the same time… so you’ll have to rely on one of your trademark ‘cunning plans’. Black Adder was one of my favorite shows as a teenager, buddy – cunning plans never work for guys like you. You’ll sit back trying to put your Bond Villain plot into play, and I’ll just climb up onto the top rope and flatten your mustache-twirling ass with one of those big, high-flying moves you think you’re too good for. Death of a thousand cuts doesn’t work on someone who’s been trained to revel and draw strength from pain, Chris – you might be technical perfection, but you Can’t. Beat. Me.”
He gets a bit serious. “Jayson Matthews, though… Jayson’s someone I come dangerously close to respecting. See, unlike Mason or Seth, Jayson’s done his time and earned his keep, holding his own as Invictus Champion for a few months, now. I don’t know how he does it, but that man keeps winning that title but still manages to do it looking like the perpetual underdog. The ability to be on top but act like you’re on the bottom… oh, wow, that got weirdly sexual.” He gives a shrug and a wink, “But seriously – Jayson, I kinda like you. You’re like a puppy, all bouncy and weirdly adorable, flopping around doing little tricks and always acting like you’re having just the best, most exciting day ever. I should hate it. I should hate every second that you’re around me, but your so fucking infectiously charming that I just… can’t.”
His eyes get serious. “Here’s the thing, though, Jayson. You want to know one of the things that really makes me who I am today? One of the most important things that I learned along the way from my Lady? How not to flinch when crushing something you love. No matter how much it makes you want to smile, she taught me how to smile right back before snapping its little neck. And that’s what I’m going to do to you, Jayson. I’ve watched you close for longer than you realize, be it through the camera before my ascension or recently from the locker room. I’ve seen you turn Ulf Hednir into a chew toy. I’ve seen you manage to beat the Unbreakable Champion himself. I’ve watched every move, every little dance, and every smile into the camera. I’m going to do the same thing to you that my Lady did to Pandora Freeman – take this bright, shining beacon of hope and light, and drown it in a pool of its own despair. I won’t take your championship from you, Jay – but I will extinguish your light. And once I’ve done that, you and I both know that it’ll only be a matter of time before someone comes along to take the Invictus away from you and leave you alone in the dark. That… that will bring me great pleasure to watch, Jayson. I can’t wait.”
He laughs, eyes wide with anticipation. “But the last three of those names bring me more excitement than the others – those names on the Council who think that they are the true forces of chaos within this world, personified in this company. There have been many words thrown about of these three men and the would-be king who leads them – that they are hooligans, that they are dangerous. Some even say that they are unlike anything we have seen in the IWF before. To me, however… to me they illicit only laughter. While they see themselves as kings and monsters, conquerors and gods on Earth, I see them only as children playing with matches in comparison to that which they think is their ally. For months I have sat in the background, smiling in the dark, watching as the Council parades my Lady – the only among them to have earned a championship of any kind here – about as though she is one of them, part of them. I was there when she joined them. I heard the warnings she gave of how she would betray them all, how she would make them regret ever approaching her. To make a deal with the devil is to face oblivion or servitude… and they are too proud to bend the knee.”
He scoffs. “The so-called ‘God of Chaos’, hiding behind smaller men and telling the world to pray… hinting at a future that will never come. You have had your chance at this battle, Kole… and when all the cards were on the table you were too weak to even take a drop of the champion’s blood, much less break his reign. You continue to talk and preach stories of darkness and fire, but the IWF has seen that you’re little more than a weak, broken toy wailing in the corner for toys you aren’t strong enough to earn. You think you can scare me with parlor tricks and a burning ring? You think you can intimidate me with Halloween faces a pillar of green fire? I have seen things, Kole, that you wouldn’t even fathom. The places that she took me filled my eyes with images that would leave men like you broken and screaming, because men like you are too drunk on your own self-destructive pride to recognize just how utterly superfluous you are. You’re no god, Kole. You’re barely a man. And for all your talk, you haven’t the slightest idea what chaos really is… but believe me when I say that am damn excited to show you in a few days.”
He stops and considers for a few moments before continuing. “I’ll give you this, though… you and fuckboy Cross did a good job pulling the wool over little Ulf’s eyes. Though my lady tells me that you haven’t exactly been alone in the efforts to pour the poison of mischief into his ear.” He smirks again. “Oh, but you did certainly light the flames under his ass, and now he’s gone full on dark side. There’s nothing like watching someone cast their honor to the side for the sake of ambition, and even Rowan admits that you show some real grit and promise, Ulf. What you’ve sacrificed along the way in your quest to become the youngest Imperial Champion in IWF history… it’s a hell of a thing to watch from the sidelines. Your honor. Your dignity. Your morality. But you keep plodding on, too stubborn to realize that you’re no longer the hero of your own damned story. You’ve weaved this story that you’re the best and most heroic little engine that could, but your capacity for self-delusion is your finest feature.”
Dean laughs. “Give yourself a hard and honest look in the mirror and you’ll just see a washed-up kid reaching desperately for daddy’s attention, trying to be something he’ll never be while constantly getting punked by Jayson Matthews. You can’t even take on the Invictus champion, but you’ve actually convinced yourself that you can somehow take down Andrew Jacobsen. That’s… that’s rich, friend. That’s especially rich given that Matthews is quite literally IN this tournament. He has beaten you over and over again, and you still seriously think that you’re gonna pull this one off? I almost wish I could see what the world was like through your rose-colored blindfold, but I’m worried that I’d catch the “nobody can understand what the fuck I’m talking about” disease. Seriously, buddy, I’m not gonna drag you for not having English as your first language, but the whole switching languages mid-sentence with the same rapid randomness of a tweaked-out Yorkshire terrier has GOT to stop.” He sighs, amused. “But all joking aside… you don’t have a chance. Somewhere deep down you probably even know it. You backstabbed your brothers into getting as far as you have, and it’s all going to be for nothing. When the end comes, little Ulf… I’m going to enjoy looking right into your eyes and watching your hopes and dreams wither and die... and I can’t help but wonder what you’ll be then? Just remember – if you need someone to help you find the path, you can always find family with us.”
He grins sadistically. “And finally… last and least, Jason ‘Has-Been’ Sandman. Jason Sandman might be a threat if he wasn’t too busy trying to be edgy and scary, with his head too lost in the early nineties to even know what that means anymore. Jason was a terrifying man once, but now he’s just an old relic of a forgotten era who thinks all he needs to be cool are a sleeve of tattoos, a few occult symbols, and to say cunt every once and a while. What a fucking joke. My Lady says that he has the Angel of Death bound into his soul – and I believe her. But what that tells me is that he’s frail enough that he’s died in the ring before, which makes him the most miserably fragile little stain of a man competing in this tournament at Legacy. Legacy… assuming you survive the week, old man, I’ll enjoy ripping that Legacy right out of you. You’re too at war with yourself to be a success in this company as long as you’re struggling against the weight of your inner monsters. I’m looking forward to taking your legacy from your still-beating heart, Sandman... because I want you to know this – both you and you’re little angelic murder-tumor.” He looks dead into the camera and smirks. “She was talking about me. When you’re left a broken, lonely husk with no more voices in your head… I’ll be the one to give that Angel the home that it deserves - and together we’ll do things that you never had the stomach to.”
She wasn’t sure how long she had been asleep. Maybe it had only been a moment, maybe hours. She awoke with the very sudden feeling of not being alone. Her bedroom was dark, she always had the trailer dark but something felt off. She listened, laying still in her bed to see if maybe it had been something else. Maybe the Meyer boys driving down the main road playing the god-awful music too loud again? Maybe it was some out of towner getting lost and turning around in her makeshift driveway?
There was no sound. None.
That made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. There should have been crickets, wind blowing through the wind chimes, or at least a low hum from the fan across the room. But there was nothing. It wasn’t the first time she’d found herself transported to a dangerous thought in the middle of the night. She was old enough to know sometimes bad things happened. She watched the news often enough to know the world was going mad. Who’d have thought she’d live so long anyway? She was eight-five years old, outlived her daughter and the man who she’d loved as a younger woman. She outlived many people in her life.
She believed she had lead a good life, not perfect but good enough. Maybe in her younger days she’d played fast and loose with morality but she’d made her peace with God. She might not be like the people on the television who seemed to interpret his will like he talked to them personally but she felt she and him were on good enough terms. She went to church, she said a prayer for unselfish things most of the time. She didn’t curse, she didn’t steal. Sure, she gossiped but who didn’t?
She moved slowly in the dark and reached to her bedside table. She fumbled in the dark, feeling the plain wooden table but not her bible. She always kept it there, she often read a passage when the night gave her these feelings. A passage bolstered her spirits, gave her armor in the spiritual force of the creator. But it was not there. She wasn’t so old that her mind was playing tricks on her was it?
Fear pumped through her veins in a way she had not felt since she was a small girl. She sat up fully in the dark, tried to make her eyes see something in the dark. Tried to see if there was anything in the shadows. When she had been a girl her mother had warned her of evil spirits, her mother hadn’t believed in God but evil was universal. It was dark, a pitch and shadow less mass that was without shape or form yet full of too many things. Was the devil standing over her bed? Was it wild spirits from her people come to yell at her for forgetting her roots and taking a white man’s god?
“Who’s there?” A stupid comment leapt from her throat into the air, into the silence.
A light turned on across the room, and she was blinded for a moment. Whether it was the sudden light in the dark space or the fact that someone was there. Someone was in her room. She wasn’t sure. It took a long moment for her eyes to adjust to the light. She blinked against it until it came into focus.
“Hey Gran.” He smiled at her and for a moment her heart relaxed. For a moment, the situation was forgotten and it was just her grandson. Little thin, clearly not eating enough or getting into that work out craze the news warned about. He was dressed in black, sitting in the rocking chair she kept by the closet. He’d spent a lot of time there as a child, where he would sit and read the good book until she was sure he’d learned the lesson.
But that smile wasn’t right… her heart faltered.
“…Get out.”
“That hurts Gran.” He said, it sounded the same, he looked the same but something was different. She couldn’t place it but a grandmother knows. “I know I should have called first but you always said the door was open to me.”
“It’s the middle of the night, Dean.” She tried to keep her voice even but it wavered.
“You’re scared.” Dean said, his mouth twitched like he was trying to hold back a smile. “You don’t have to be... though to be fair, if you weren't I wouldn't be doing my job right, would I?”
“What happened to you?” It was a stupid question, one that she did not want to know the answer to.
“Remember how you always said I needed to find god?” Dean asked. He had her bible in his hands. “How I needed to understand good boys didn’t have the thoughts I was having. That I needed to be better. That if I could accept him he would wash away all those dark things?”
He didn’t wait for her to respond standing up grabbing the baseball bat off the dresser. She knew that bat, it had been his father’s - the good for nothing lowlife. He’d left it when he had walked out. She’d had it on a shelf in the living room to remind him not to be his father. “Scaring me to god, that’s what you called it. It’s… funny… really funny actually. I did find Her through fear, so I guess it wasn’t like you were completely off, were you?”
“Dean…What have you done?” she watched him play with the bat, adjusting his grip on the thing like he was trying to judge the weight.
“It’s not about what I did so much about what I’m going to do.” Dean said it in an oddly gleeful way. “My becoming had to be someone and of course it should be you, don’t you think? Only makes sense.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“That’s the point.” Dean advised. “You raised me to be afraid. Of everything. Of being my father. Of being my mother. Of being like the other boys. For my thoughts. For my feelings. I think it’s only fair I share that with you.”
“Dean….”
“Before you go.” Dean put the bat on his shoulder. “I want you to know I have found a god. She’s everything you warned me about. She made me look into the darkness, made me really take it in. It made me better, so much better. I’m so close now. Wish you could meet her. But sacrifices have to be made.”
“Dean—” she wanted to come up with apologies, maybe say something quick to God about how she tried her best. Make Dean understand she was trying to help. Wanted to save him. But the first time the bat hit her in the head she felt her body hit the floor. All the words left, all the rational thought was just beyond her grasp.
“What did you always say?” he asked as he lifted the bat for a second blow. “‘Don’t do it quick if you can do it right’? I’ll try to keep that in mind for your final moments, Gran.”
Dean stands, picking a baseball bat off the ground and slinging it over his shoulder. He grins at the camera, a wicked glint in his eye as he turns and saunters away. “See you all at Legacy, boys. It’s going to be awesome making you all bleed.”
He whistles a haunting tune as he vanishes into the shadow, and the video fades to black.
Well howdy there pardner.