Evil is as Evil does…
Darkness. Slowly, our point of view rises up to see an aging television set, standing in an abandoned apartment. Slowly, silently, we move toward the dusty screen.
A brief burst of static.
A flickering confusion of images and sounds.
A figure, wreathed in shadows. Jagged lines flicker over the scene in random, staccato patterns.
The picture vanishes in a second burst of static.
A deserted arena. Grainy black-and-white footage. A wrestling ring dominates the area, lit by a single white spotlight. A female voice, echoing and distant.
“You’re going back, aren’t you? Back on the road?”
The response is quiet, the voice of a young man.
“I have to. I’m sorry Selina… but I have to.”
“Bullshit. How many times do you have to do this? And why? It’s not the money.”
“No.”
“So why go? You’ve got nothing left to prove.”
“No. I have everything to prove.”
“To me?”
“No. To myself. I’m sorry… I’ll call you.”
A door opens, spilling light across the arena. A long shadow of a figure stretches down the aisle. Measured footfalls echo as he walks toward the ring, a long trenchcoat hissing around his feet. His face, however, remains hidden from us in shifting shadows. His voice is heard again, stronger, more determined than before as a rapid sequnce of cuts flickers across the screen.
“Once. There were three…
Three wrestlers, shown in lightning-fast, sepia-toned footage. More lines crackle across the screen, defying any attempts at identifing them.
“The iAd. Incurable. Apathy. Disorder. It was a joke at first. Travelling the country, breaking hearts and killing towns. Putting on matches that no-one wanted to follow. Always the best show in town… For us, if not always for the fans. And then it became something more. A brotherhood. United, we conquered and prospered.”
A montage of one man, heavily muscled, in action in the squared circle. A Death Valley Driver, shot from a dozen different angles. The camera shakes with each impact.
“But then… there was but two.”
The same man, being aided from the ring, his right arm dangling uselessly. Agony written across his face. Static. The trenchcoat-clad man in the arenas’ balcony, looking down to the empty ring below. Soft music begins to play, the melody faint, though ominous.
“The iAd… split asunder for the first time. Since then… we have travelled our own paths. And for a time, I found somewhere where I felt could belong. Where I could take off my mask, and step from the darkness for a time. And then, abrubtly… it was gone.”
The young man, standing in the center of the ring, facing away from us. Faint noises of a ghostly, etheral crowd.
“But finally… There shall be a second chance. And this time… there is another.”
More ghostly voices… a throaty growl this time.
“You going back, Meat? Can’t keep away, huh? It’s in the blood.”
A deep chuckle. The younger man responds quietly.
“Yours too.”
“Yeah. You got it. Just remember to keep in touch… I got bills to pay and aggression to work out. You get my drift?”
“Understood.”
Static. The young man approaches, shilloutted in harsh white light. Rundown bootheels click on the floor as he looms closer with each step.
“The time has come. I shall rise once more. Pain is nothing more than a distant memory. Gravity no longer affects me. History is soon to be written… And I shall be its author.”
His shadow engulfs us. Jagged lines dance once more. A single word flashes as thunder cracks like the stroke of a lash.
DARKSIDER
“Welcome to Hell.”
Blackness.
“Don’t be late.”
Static.
Darkness.
=======
Cut to the backstage area of a run-down BOB arena. Seth Harker and Homicidal Hank are watching the previous promo on a battered 14-inch TV set.
Seth: Great stuff, huh? Five days to film the thing, a week of editing… and then we find out that the president of “Blood, Sweat and Chairs Wrestling” has pulled a BigBOSS and skipped town. God-fucking-DAMN!
HH: Ah, same shit, different fed, meat. We’ll find somewhere worthwhile. Somewhere with plenty of weedy little jobbers to mutilate.
Seth: You been taking your meds, Hank?
HH: Nope…
Seth: Excellent.
Fade to Black.
Where to from here, fellas? Time to pick a place and raise a little hell? Or a lot of hell?
I vote for a lot of hell…
…whadda you say, Trey?