Yesterday is but today's memory, and tomorrow is today's dream.
- Khalil Gibran



SCW backstage reporter Pussy Willow stands in the hall way of an arena alongside rookie sensation Goldenboy Gene Banton Jr. She waits patiently as her crew double checks the lighting and audio while her target busies himself by rubber necking various attractive females milling about the area. Finally she is given the thumbs up by her camera man indicating that they are ready to proceed and promptly brings the microphone to her glossy lips.

"Gene Banton Jr, congratulations on being named the SCW rookie of the year for 2014".

Gene says nothing and merely shrugs, his eyes never leaving the behind of a tall, lithesome brunette. He watches her derriere sashay down the hall in a pair of tight fitting blue jeans, his neck twisting with his eyes to follow the 20 something young woman until she disappears behind a corner.

"It's not that big a deal, really", he says turning back to the reporter. "I mean, it's not like they could give it to anyone else".

"How is that?"

"Have you seen these other so-called super stars?" he asks with a chuckle. "This promotion is like a mortuary. A bunch of old geezers and hags trying desperately to claw out of the graveyard that is their careers, with rigor mortis long having since set in hoping to become relevant again. This place is George Romero's wet dream, Fed of the living dead. I'm telling you this Halloween thing they're doing is perfect. A couple of old zombies wrestling in a graveyard is right up their alley. I can even see the match stipulations; brains on a pole, crematorium match, Hell in a Hearse, Chaos in the coffin, Rigor around the ring, the list goes on. I'm really all SCW has. Without me they may as well just flush".

"So you're.., doing the SCW a favor by being here?"

"Yeah, you'd better believe it," he nods firmly. "Initially I wanted to go to Monaco but my pops wanted me to go and pick up my aunt's promotion off the ground instead".

"Speaking of your father, he is conspicuous by his absence tonight".

"Yeah, I think the old geezer ran out of Depends, so he's prolly sitting on the can somewhere just like mom".

"I'm not sure he or your mother would appreciate that".

"They'll live. Besides they owe me after that huge favor I did for them a while back".

"What favor was that?"

"Being born," he says with a wry grin. "Neither one of them believed in God until they saw me. Their lives sucked and blew at the same time. They were so miserable that they got married, and then I came along, proof positive that God exists". He pauses and turns to directly face the camera. "Mom, pops, I know you're watching this at home, probably touching yourselves to my image and I just wanted to say one thing.., you're welcome".

"Umm.., Gene, if we can get back to wrestling for a moment..,"

"Whatcha got in mind, mud wrestling, oil wrestling.., how about naked jello wrestling?"

Ever the trooper Ms Willow disregards the comment rolling her eyes and presses on, "I was thinking of a four corner match honestly," she says. "Right on the heels of your award you've been booked in a four corners match against Vincent Peterson, Kris Halc and the Canadian Sensation Blaque Hart Bruce Evans".

"Canadian Sensation?" Gene asks with a snicker. "Dude, they must be hurting in Canada to call Bruce Evans a sensation. The guy can't even spell, B-l-a-q-u-e? It sounds like something a drunken Frenchman does after an all night binge". He clutches his abdomen while pretending to vomit "Bleaaacchhhh! Canadian, heh, did you know Adam was Canadian? He sure was, who else could be standing by a naked woman and be tempted by a fruit? But in all honesty though I am sorta tempted to move to Canada myself".

"Really, why?"

"Because my penis size will instantly go from six inches to 15.24 centimeters!"

"Ugh," the reporter groans while burying her face in the palm of her hand. "I should have known". With a sigh she pulls her head away from her right hand and trudges on "What are your thoughts on your three opponents this weekend?"

"Being so close to Halloween everybody has zombies on the brain, probably in more ways than one and I suppose it is a bit fitting that Evans, Peterson and Halc all remind me of exactly that. I mean..,"

"You're saying their careers are dead too?" Willow interrupts. "These are three young men with perhaps less experience than even you. One could argue that their careers haven't even taken off yet".

"Their careers are never going to take off if they have to go up against me, it's kinda like SIDS, you know, sudden infant death syndrome. Their careers are born, but here I come and just like that they're dead and buried. But that's not what I was going to say. If you could just keep your lips off of my stick..," he grins while taking grip of the microphone which Pussy Willow releases with a grimace, "then you'd know that I was going to say the Three Stooges Curly, Larry and Moe. That's what their skills amount to in the ring with me, a slapstick comedy..,"

"Speaking of comedy," Pussy interrupts, looking for a change of subject away from her guest's overbearing arrogance. "Word around the water cooler has it that you want to change your name. Is their any truth to that?"

"Oh it's absolutely true," Gene replies, surprising the reporter. "You see, I transcend human civilization. I'm better than that and to carry a name which may be used by the rank and file of life is beneath me. Gene, Joe or Bob just doesn't cut it, and to be named after somebody else, even my own father is even worse and not worthy of my stature. I need something more befitting of me, something that exudes my greatness, something more regal."

"I take it that you have something in mind?" She asks, not sure if she wants to hear the answer.

"Yes I do," Gene begins. "Once I get back home I intend to file the necessary paperwork to legally change my name from Gene Banton Junior to Swaggus Maximus the first".

"Swaggus Maximus?" Without warning Pussy Willow bursts into peals of rolling laughter as do the cameraman and sound technician just out of sight, their guffaws echoing off of the walls deep within the confines of the building.

"That..," she begins desperately trying to stifle her cachinnation. "That.., sounds like something from an Ancient Roman sitcom".

"Gladiator performed by Leslie Nielsen", the sound technician adds.

"Spartacus starring the Keystone Cops," chortles the cameraman.

"Too bad you lost your ring to Drake Green mighty emperor," Pussy Willow says in mirth. "I might be inclined to kiss it".

"I got something else you can kiss," Gene fires back in annoyance.

The screen suddenly goes blank courtesy of the remote control held in Gene's right hand. With a sigh he leans over and sets it on the night stand beside his hotel room bed. He clasps his hands behind his head and leans back against a trio of large pillows, his expression still bearing the annoyance as shown on the television screen moments before.

Mere hours upon arriving at the Fayetteville regional airport in North Carolina Gene had found himself in tow behind his father and manager who insisted on getting the layout of the Hendrick stadium near the Fort Bragg military installation in preparation for his upcoming match against Bruce Evans, Kris Halc and Vincent Peterson in a four corner special attraction match which was a part of the card being put on to entertain the troops stationed there. This was followed by a meet and greet with the Army personnel on base which, in turn was followed by a guided tour of the facility. Gene had excused himself from the rest of the tour to see the base for himself, never mind the classified nature and happened upon the press room where members of the press were briefed on expected conduct while on base where SCW backstage reporter Pussy Willow had been setting up her equipment in preparation for an interview with the commanding officer.

Now back at the Embassy Suites hotel and with time to reflect on the day's events he finds himself unable to shake his irritation with Pussy Willow and her lackeys over their reaction to his announce of the new name he intends to use. A sitcom they called it, Gladiator by Leslie Nielsen.

"To hell with them," he mutters and switches off the lamp. As the room goes dark images permeate his thoughts, images of Ghosts, Goblins and Witches. Rolling over onto his left side he wonders if the Soldiers on base go trick or treating, or what, if anything they do for Halloween. In his mind's eye he pictures several soldiers, armed with M-16 automatic rifles dressed up as super heroes as another thought enters the fray; he wonders what the SCW staff will dress up as. It only makes sense to him as the promotion has been making such a big deal out of it all. "Probably a bunch of zombies," he muses as his mind slowly begins to drift into the ether-reality of nocturnal slumber.

"Swaggus!"

Maximus!

Swaggus!

Maximus!"

The chanting of the crowd reverberates throughout the stone and marble fittings of the Roman Colosseum. The clanging of brass goblets chime in alongside the heavy stamping of feet. At the center of it all, Gene Banton Junior, clad in dirty brown leather wrist wraps, a balteus perhaps better known as a sword belt with a convenient loop on the right hand side through to sheathe the sword, a wide leather belt situated atop the balteus, reinforced with metal plates, protective thigh guards made of treated leather with metal plates, and an sleeveless leather chest piece which bore no metal plating. Taking in the atmosphere, still riveted following his slaying of another gladiator Gene parades across the dusty surface of the arena floor, his arms outstretched in presentation. After several minutes of thunderous applause the crowd slowly begins to quiet as their attention is diverted towards the Northern box in which sat the co - emperors Markus Ward and Christian Underwood along with their attachment of vestial virgins. Standing between to emperors is the magistrate-editor, or master of ceremonies. Clad in a flowing white toga with burgundy appointments the fat, balding, older man's hands are thrust outwards asking for quiet. Finally, with the noise having been brought down to a suitable level he begins to speak.

"My fellow Romans," he begins. "You have just witnessed the most spectacular gladiator in the empire's history in Swaggus Maximus! His skill truly knows no bounds and with the heart of a lion, he is unbeatable in single combat, as you have all just witnessed". He pauses to allow for the cheers which erupt anew. With a smile he waits patiently for them to die down once more before continuing, "But what about against multiple combatants?" he asks. "How will Swaggus fare against these more daunting odds? Long ago in the second battle of Carthage, the brutal barbarian Hannibal unleashed his most fearsome and terrifying soldier. There was no stopping this terrible monster and nothing and no one dared stand in his path until Ceasar himself ordered his praetorian guard of Kris Halcus, Vincentus Peterson and Bruce Evanus to challenge Hannibal's ferocious warrior".

"My history is a little fuzzy, but when did this supposedly happen?" Rome's co-emperor Christianus Underwood asks in a whispered tone.

The question prompts the magistrate-editor to quickly turn his head towards Chrstianus with the venomous command to "Shut up bitch!"

"Today, for your entertainment we will recreate this most famous of battles", he says turning back to the crowd with his ever present smile."You have seen Hannibal's soldier," he pauses to gesture to Gene, who looks on in confusion while holding a bearskin having been tossed to him with the intent of him wearing it. "Now I present to you, the co-emperors' praetorian guard!"

Another round of raucous cheering erupts as the west gate is raised unleashing the aforementioned triumvirate of Kris Halcus, Bruce Evanus and Vincentus Peterson who slowly amble out onto the floor of the amphitheater. Gene looks on from under the bear headed hood atop his cloak, studying his three fly infested adversaries as they make their way towards the middle of the arena floor. Tendrils of skin hang loosely from the arms of Kris Halcus with a chunk of skull missing, exposing the rotting remains of gray matter while Bruce Evanus stares straight ahead through glassy, lifeless black eyes, his tongue hanging loosely from where his lower jaw would normally reside. Vincentus Peterson drags his left foot behind him which has been broken and clings to his lower leg by a pair of bloody tendons and a vulture sits atop his fleshless shoulder, hungrily pecking away. By the time they reach the center of the 83 by 48 meter wooden, sand covered floor of the arena the crowd has fallen silent, confused by the reposing appearance of the challengers. Hushed whispers are exchanged between the throng as well as the Co-emperor's Markus Ward and Christianus Underwood.

"Umm.., I'd like to think that my Praetorian Guard is a bit better than that," Christianus says scratching his head. "Maybe you should feed them a little more?"

"I think you should get your money back", Markus Ward adds with a soft chuckle.

"If you think you can do a better job of digging up and resurrecting Ceasar's guard then be my guest!" The emcee hisses through clenched teeth. "It was pure hell finding their graves after 400 years, and that was nothing compared to the resurrection. Do you have any idea how much a good Priest charges these days"? The magistrate editor thrusts his hands outward in front and clenches his fists indicating a request for silence from the perplexed crowd. "And now, "he begins. "I would like to direct your attention to the center of the arena and the honored quest of our beloved co-emperors Markus Ward and Christianus Underwood, Senator Erikus Staggs!"

The Senator, a tall, well groomed man of sandy brown hair decked out in a ceremonial toga with a golden laurel and like-colored appointments approaches the quartet of gladiators. With a flick of his wrist he ushers the captain of the guard to his side. The captain, a myrmillone dressed in a short, flowing white toga with gold plating adorning his vital areas replete with matching gal ea with a large, red crest approaches and stands rigidly at attention. His tanned, beefy arms ripple with raw power and on his shoulder the letters S.P.Q.R have been carved into his flesh, the mark of the mighty Roman legion. He is followed by two less ostentatiously dressed foot soldiers, each of them carrying two swords and two shields. They stop two paces behind their commander who orders them to hand one shield and one sword to each gladiator. As the weapons are handed off to the combatants the captain of the guard immediately takes position between them and Senator Erikus with the two soldiers flanking him.

With the crowd looking on, anxious for the festivities to commence, the Senator approaches each gladiator and proceeds to inspect their weapons, insuring that they are not defective in any way. Satisfied he steps back and commands the foursome to face the co-emperors for the obligatory salute. He gestures to Swaggus to lead off.

"We who are about to kick ass, salute you!" He says, raising his right arm towards the co-emperors with a clenched fist.

"I thought the word was die"? Senator Erikus questions beneath his breath. "Whatever," and with a shrug he turns to the zombified Kris Halcus.

Raising the remains of his right arm towards the co-emperors Halcus gurgles loudly, coughing up a bloody blotch of phlegm. He clenches his fist shakily as another coughing fit ensues, only this time he coughs up a live rat which scurries away upon hitting the ground. Another gurgle follows as he suddenly turns away from the co-emperors and towards Senator Erikus.

"Braaiiinnnzzz!" He cries in a raspy, bass-laden tone and leaps onto the unsuspecting Senator knocking him to the floor. Before the Captain of the guard and his foot soldiers can react they are blindsided by Vincentus Peterson and Bruce Evanus who bulldoze them down and bite into their heads. Senator Erikus flails away wildly, desperately trying to defend himself and manages to succeed to a small degree, kicking Kris Halcus off of him. Scrambling back to his feet he is treated to a grisly sight, the Captain of the guard and his soldiers lie dead on the floor as Bruce Evanus and Vincentus Peterson gnaw hungrily on the gray matter encased within their skulls.

"Senator!" The cry comes from Swaggus who has taken stock of the situation and leaps into action diving between Kris Halcus and Senator Erikus. With a mighty swing he directs the blade of his sword directly into the side of Halcus' neck. But what would normally be a killing blow only serves to divert the zombie Halcus' attention onto him. "Uh oh," Gene mutters stepping back carefully as the zombie approaches him.

Senator Erikus is quick to take advantage of the situation and promptly flees towards the co-emperor's box, scaling the wall quickly and darting behind the chair occupied by Christianus Underwood. With wide eyes he peeks out over the chair as the games begin in earnest.

On the floor Swaggus backs up slowly, keeping his circling opponent just out of arm's reach. The zombie Halcus has dropped his sword and shield, leaving them near the spot where he tackled the senator, preferring his own limbs, or perhaps just his teeth. sensing an opening Swaggus Maximus lunges in with a hard thrust, driving the sword into and through the chest of his hungry enemy to the delight of the crowd. But the blow has no effect as the zombie merely shrugs it off and continues his attempt to close the gap. Halcus lunges clumsily and Swaggus drops to one knee swinging his sword at the left leg and severing it from the knee down. Halcus drops to the floor but continues his S.L.O.W. pursuit of Gene. Confused the only live gladiator continues to back up as his mind scrambles for a solution. Suddenly he leaps onto the back of the zombie and thrusts his sword through the spine of the creature and into the floor pinning him in place.

"How the hell am I supposed to kill this guy?" he muses while beginning a trek across the floor towards the co-emperor's box.

He passes by the other two zombies Vincentus Peterson and Bruce Evanus who continue to feed on the brains of their victims. The deadites pay him no mind, thoroughly absorbed in their meal. He pauses to pick up a second sword dropped by one of the zombies and proceeds to the box.  Approaching the co-emperors he sheathes his sword and looks up past the wall to them.

"Yo, Aunt Christianus, how am I supposed to kill these dudes?" he asks.

"They're zombies," Christianus replies with a slight groan.

"Duh!" Swaggus snorts. "What gave that away their appetite for brains?"

"No, I mean their bodies are already dead but their brains have been reactivated by some grossly overpaid priest".

"So?"

"So you have to kill their brains Junior, crush their skulls, burn them up or cut their heads off. Geez, don't you watch any movies?"

"Obviously not as many as you do," Junior retorts. "OK, so I can kill their brains and effectively kill them, I got it". He starts back towards the still pinned Kris Halcus but pauses and abruptly spins on his heels directing a stern finger at Christianus. "By the way, if you ever call me 'Junior' again I'm gonna tell Uncle Pump that you're not feeling satisfied in the bedroom, got it? My name is Swaggus Maximus the first."

Without waiting for a reply Swaggus spins around once more and resumes his course towards Halcus, leaving a very nervous looking Christianus in his wake. Unsheathing his sword he draws a bead on the flailing zombie, his blue eyes burning into determined slits as his mind runs through the scenario. He approaches Halcus but remains just out of reach and circles behind him. Suddenly he leaps onto Halcus' back and grabs a clump of dirty, lice infested hair using it to lift the head and expose the neck. And with a grunting heave he swings the sword into the neck and severs the head drawing a wildly enthusiastic response from the crowd. Swaggus looks on as the body goes limp and tosses the head aside.

"One down, two to go," he grunts stepping over the prone body of the vanquished zombie.

He trods with determination across the sand covered wooden floor the arena towards Vincentus Peterson and Bruce Evanus who remain engrossed in their 'dinner'. The crowd cheers madly as Swaggus approaches them from behind. He takes a step to his right selecting Bruce Evanus as his first target and raises his sword. gripping it tightly with both hands he lets loose a throaty shriek as the blade is swung into his neck which sends the head toppling to the ground. The action alerts Vincentus Peterson to the presence of another meal and prompts the zombie to amble to his feet.

"Brains!" he cries turning his attention to Swaggus.

Vincentus leaps towards his intended prey but Swaggus deftly sidesteps the oncoming corpse and spins around behind him. Raising his sword to the ready Swaggus Maximus tenses up as the zombie turns around and leaps again. Gene falls to his back driving his sword into the midsection of Vincentus and flipping him over where he lands with a dust spewing thud. Gene rolls backwards on top of him, pulling his sword out. He quickly stands and drives the tip of the blade through the skull rendering the reanimated cadaver inert. He carefully steps off and to the side as the cheers of the crowd begin to rain down upon him, watching to ensure that his opponents are indeed dead. After several moments without any sign of movement from the trio of zombies Swaggus sheathes his sword and extends his arms in triumph, soaking in the adulation of the crowd.

"Swaggus...!

Maximus..!

Swaggus..!

Maximus..!"

Unseen by the victorious gladiator the co-emperors have leapt from their box and approach him from behind with a five gallon Gatorade cooler. With wild eyed grins on their collective faces they stop just behind him, sizing up the champion of the Colosseum, lifting the cooler higher and higher..,

"Agh!" He cries. The water is cold and shocks Gene from his slumber. He bolts upright, his eyes are wide and quivering as his body trembles uncontrollably. "Dude, what the fuck?"

"Alright Swaggus..," a voice he recognizes as belonging to his mother bellows. "You and I need to have a little chat young man!"

 A guardian angel is an angel assigned to protect and guide a particular person or group, kingdom or country. Belief in guardian angels can be traced throughout all antiquity. The concept of tutelary angels and their hierarchy was extensively developed in Christianity in the 5th century by Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite.

The theology of angels and tutelary spirits has undergone many refinements since the 400s. Belief in both the East and the West is that guardian angels serve to protect whichever person God assigns them to, and present prayer to God on that person's behalf.

But suppose the individual holds themselves in greater esteem than they do the creator? Or perhaps the assigned guardian angel has taken respite from their senses, what happens to the angel, what happens to the individual?

It has been nearly two hours since Gene Banton Junior excused himself from the dining room table following another heated argument over lunch with his father. So many arguments in so many days can wear thin on a person and Junior quickly found himself wanting none of it and removed himself from the scene, and further aggravation in favor of an afternoon nap.

His body stirs abreast the billowy king-sized Serta mattress, nestled beneath a royal purple satin blanket. He clutches one of four pillows tightly to his chest with a second tucked in between his legs and the remaining two serving as the intended head rests. But try as he may, his mind could not escape the contentious scene with his father and replayed it incessantly, going over every little nuance with a fine toothed comb, refusing to leave matters to be.

”You need to pull your head out of your ass for once and listen to me”! His father’s eyes burned into him with a molten gaze singing his thoughts with fiery retort. “Yes, you did indeed look good against Simon Jones last time out, but you have got to understand that it was in an inter gender tag team match. He didn’t have anything to lose against you that night..,”

“He had the tournament to lose pops,” Junior replies smugly, interrupting.

“Bullshit!” Gene Senior fires back. “Let me explain something to you boy, he had just won the Heavyweight title and that’s where all of his focus was the last time. He didn’t give a rat’s hairy ass about the tournament once the big one was his. You conveniently forget that I’ve been there myself and I can tell you for certain that he was just going through the motions that night; he wanted to preserve his energy for title defenses which, in case you haven’t been watching, he has yet to lose! You haven’t experienced him on top of his game yet. You have no idea what he has in store for you, and you have no idea how athletic he really is..,”

“Oh please..,” Junior snorts obnoxiously. “My bowel movements are more athletic than Simon Jones. He is the one who has no idea of what he is in for”.

“Oh I think he understands better than you do. You know how ferocious a cornered animal can be and it will be him who is cornered Sunday night. Remember, Simon is the champion and that makes him a giant among the men in this sport and he has everything to lose, not to mention everything to gain by being the one the derail this train ride you’ve been on lately and you can bet your mother’s subscription to Weekly World News that he’s going to be studying everything he can about you in preparation”.

“And you can bet my subscription to I don’t give a fuck weekly that I am going to beat his ass”.

“I don’t believe it..,” Gene senior sighs while reaching up for a double fisted grip on his hair which he pulls upwards with an anguished groan. “You’re proceeding through all of this with blinders on as if nothing can touch you. Damn it son, I don’t think your Guardian Angel gives two zits on a zombie’s ass whether you win or lose this match. They’re not going to be in that ring getting their heads kicked in by Simon Jones, it’s going to be you. You need to wake your arrogant ass up smell the coffee. Take those flippin’ blinders off, pull your head out of your ass this one time and listen to me. I’m trying to help you”.

“Yeah..,” Junior mutters while rising from the table, pushing his plate in. “Migraines are great motivators. Look, I’m gonna go take a nap and maybe pray to my Guardian Angel for help against the giant Simon Jones,” he says sarcastically stepping towards the stair way. “Why don’t you go masturbate to his picture?”

“God damn it”.

“God didn’t damn it pops, the beavers did”.

Over and over the scene replayed itself in his thoughts as he tossed and turned beneath the blanket. He wraps a pillow around his head hoping to stifle the thoughts and allow sleep to overtake them. Slowly but surely his heart rate begins to decline and his breathing slows as the images of his father’s scowling face are enveloped by the darkness brought forth beneath the veil of sleep.



”I don’t believe it! Junior is being manhandled by Simon ‘The Skull crusher’ Jones! It’s as if he is nothing more than cannon fodder to the champ!”

“It doesn’t help that Geno is normal sized while Simon is 143 feet tall and weighs over 25 tons”.

“FEE – FI – FO - FUM..,
I smell the blood of a little one!
Be he alive, or be he dead,
I’ll grind his bones to make my bread”.

The crowd collectively gasps in horror as the giant reaches down and grasps Junior with a beefy hand. Lifting the youngster up the giant pulls his head in closer for a good whiff.

“Yes,” the giant smiles in approval while hoisting Junior up high overhead. “This one will make a delightful morsel”.

Suddenly Simon Jones slams his challenger into the mat with bone jarring force resulting in a thunderous jolt to the arena floor. Geno lies unconscious on the mat as the champions covers him with a single toe and the official drops into position to make the count..,

One..,

Two..,

Three!

“Incredible! Simon Jones has successfully defended his SCW heavyweight championship for the 16,437th consecutive time”.

“Somebody grab the spatula to scrape what’s left of the challenger from the floor”.

The show concludes as Junior remains prone on the floor with the announcers saying their goodbyes to the fans at home. The fans filter from their seats and into the aisles, their hopes of seeing a new champion for the first time in 36 years dashed by the heavy foot of the champion. The arena crew slowly begins to emerge from the back and start disassembling the ring, oblivious to the still unconscious challenger while the outer lights are shut down, leaving only the overhead lights for the crew to work under.

“Hey stupid, wake up, the show is over”.

Feeling the soft sting of a hand being gently slapped across his cheek, Junior’s eye flutter briefly before opening where they are greeted by a lovely sight; a dark hair angel with a gleaming gold halo and shimmering black wings leaning over him. The woman, with a porcelain complexion which is offset by piercing blue eyes and a bronze crucifix dangling from a spiked leather choker around her neck looks over the battered challenger with a frown.

“Who.., who are you?” Gene stammers trying to regain his bearings.

“My name is Dina, and God hates me,” she says reaching out with a hand to help him up. “So he made me your guardian angel”.

“Please..,” Junior groans while bringing himself back to his feet. “You’re just another one of my groupies, only you’re wearing a kickass pair of wings”.

“You don’t have any groupies’ dumbass,” she snaps. “Not unless you count your love dolls”.

“Hey, those are action figures!” He fires back. “Besides, I’ve seen those bible pictures and stuff and every angel looks like a cherub with white wings. Your wings are black”.

“That’s because God works on this idiotic demerit system,” she replies gruffly. “We all start with white wings but every time we fuck up he turns a feather black”.

“A single feather?” he muses aloud upon noticing only four white feathers left.  “Damn, you’ve been busy. What about the clothes?” He challenges. “Every angel I’ve seen wore a white toga, but you’re wearing black halter top – nice boobs by the way – with a skull and cross bones with cutoff jeans, torn fishnets and hiking boots. That’s hardly angelic, you know? And what’s with the spiked dog collar?”

“That’s my choker you shit for brains! The fact is God lets us dress any way we want, he doesn’t care”.

“Uh huh,” Gene replies smugly, “says the goth babe”.

“Look, what do I need to do to prove to you that I am your guardian angel?”

“Throw me on the ground and screw my brains out”, Junior says with a shrug.

“Ugh!” Dina exclaims with a twisted grimace. “I’d rather not, besides, God has forbidden us to have sex with morons.., err, with mortals. You’ll have to come up with another idea, something that won’t make me sick, even if I could get sick”.

“That would be motion sickness my little tootsie roll, it’d pass. But hey, It’s your loss baby,” Gene replies with a smug grin. He lowers his head in thought planting his square jaw into the cusp of his right hand as he sets his mind to work. “Ok,” he says hitting upon an idea. “How about you blow up the city? I’ve never liked this place anyway.., too damned hot”. He lifts his eyes towards Dina with uncertainty, not fully expecting her to accept.

“Now you’re talking!” Dina cries out gleefully, her brightened eyes surprising him. “If there’s one thing I’m good at its blowing shit all to hell”, she says rubbing her hands together in excited anticipation. “Let’s take a ride, find a good vantage point”.

Suddenly a cloud appears beneath the duo’s feet, gripping them firmly and then hoisting them aloft. They ride on the cloud high above the cityscape, elevating with each passing moment until the entire valley can be seen, the expansive, over the top mega resorts appearing to them as small specks against the desert backdrop. Taking in the scene beneath her Dina raises her hands, stretching them outwards and appears ready to fulfill her charge’s wish but abruptly stops short.

“Wait,” she says.

“Wait? Wait for what?” Junior demands.

“I need some music, music to destroy to”, she answers with a light gesture of her right hand. No sooner than she completes her sentence the pair finds themselves enveloped by the hard slashing guitar riffs of “Symphony of Destruction” by Megadeath. “There we go, now we’re ready to blow some shit up”.

Obeying a silent command, a large, round yellow bomb materializes before them, its bright metal coat gleaming beneath the warm rays of the afternoon sun. Dina looks over the device and extends her index finger beginning to draw a ‘smiley face’ on the sides of the device.
“A bomb..?” Geno asks while raising his left eyebrow. “Why not just wave your hands or do something magical?”

“A bomb is more personal,” she replies. “You can assemble it, touch it, and feel the warm, wholesome radioactive goodness pulsing beneath the shell. It’s like being pregnant and feeling the baby kick for the first time. You smile and relax, knowing that your baby is destined for great things”.

With a final gesture of her hands Dina adds the finishing touches to the device. Stepping back she looks on smiling in satisfaction only to see her smile dissipate upon the realization of an omission. Quickly she raises her right hand as a black sharpie marker materializes in its grasp. Gripping the marker she leans against the side of the bomb and writes out ‘Gia’ and then steps back allowing the smile to return to her face.

It’s important to name your children, isn’t it?” She says with a loving gleam in her eyes before enclosing the youngster in a tinted, though transparent shield. “This will protect your face and body from the opening flash of light and the heat. Now watch and learn young padawan”.

Her pale face evolves into a twisted grin, her bright blue eyes shimmering with delight as the bomb is cut loose from its unseen tether and starts its freefall to the bustling city below. Looking over the edge of the cloud Gene finds himself held into place by an unseen barrier encircling the cusp of the plush base on which they stand.
Both now lean over the edge looking down intently as a sharp whistle trails the falling bomb. Suddenly, and with a great deal of alacrity a blinding flash of white light envelopes the entire city as the hydrogen isotopes are fused together to form helium which is promptly ignited to create the first stage of the explosion. The heat from the fused hydrogen atoms quickly expands outwards fusing additional atoms and fueling the additional stages which accelerate the heated expansion thereby creating a hot zone measuring in excess of a hundred million degrees Celsius around the center of the blast.

The flash of light, as quick as a lightning strike but more than ten times as bright gives way to the super-heated radiation of the fused isotopes which burns material and creates intense x ray pulses lethal over a distance of nearly 87 miles. As the fireball begins to emerge and rise a sudden over pressure created by the heat and well above atmospheric level propagates away from the center as a shockwave containing the majority of the energy released creating winds strong enough the make even the fiercest F5 tornados appear more like simpering wimps, especially as it combines with the heat and vaporizes anything and everything within its considerable radius.

The shockwave continues to expand until its outer edges have encircled the entire Las Vegas valley. At this point it finally begins to lose steam and is pulled back towards the center of the blast zone by a sharp and near instantaneous drop in air pressure created by the burning of the oxygen in an after wind which is violently thrust upwards upon reaching the epicenter creating the frighteningly familiar mushroom cloud. The violent tremors wrought by the massive force of the explosion slowly begin to subside as the after wind reaches the center of the blast forcing the mushroom cloud higher and higher into the sky.

As the head of the mushroom cloud continues to rise, matching the height of the mischievous pair’s base, Dina extends her right index finger with a light smirk and draws another ‘smiley face’ onto it as she had done with the fuselage of the bomb moments ago.

More than ten thousand feet below them, the dust finally begins to settle and allows Junior to finally gauge the extent of the destruction. Peering over the edge he is able to discern a crater, more than 15 miles in diameter occupying what was once the famous Las Vegas strip and extending further still, past the remains of Nellis Air Force base billions of tons of rubble reaching out in every direction towards the base of the mountains enveloping the valley. Fires burn brightly all about, enough to make even the most vaunted wildfire appear more like a campfire. The city landmarks, including the ‘Welcome to Las Vegas’ sign at the south end of the strip, the 1,148 foot high Stratosphere tower, the scaled down Eiffel tower, and even the recreated Egyptian Sphinxes for the Luxor Hotel have all been reduced to smoldering ruins, now completely unrecognizable. Taking in the scope of the devastation Geno lets loose an incredulous whistle while rising back to his feet.

He turns around to face his guardian angel only to find Dina fondling her breasts, and with her back arched in ecstasy a soft moan slips through pursed lips alerting him to how she perceives the devastation wrought by her creation.

“Whoah”, he says, taking a step back. “Maybe I should leave you and your bomb alone”. Shaking his head he looks on in amazement. “God must really be hurting for angels”.

“Mmmm..,” she sighs softly turning to face her charge and showing no signs of personal shame. “Ooooh.., there’s nothing like a four stage 100 megaton thermonuclear detonation to get a girl’s juices flowing”.

“Whatever floats your boat I guess,” Gene mutters indifferently. “I’ve always preferred chicks myself”.

Gene turns his attention back to the edge of the cloud and leans over for another glance at the havoc only to find.., nothing out of the ordinary. The city, along with its landmarks and outlying suburbs have all been restored back to their natural splendor giving the young man a moment for pause as he contemplates the sudden change. His contemplation is interrupted by a thunderous voice emanating from the clouds overhead, striking down as a thunderbolt with its sudden fury..,

“Dina!” the voice cries angrily.

“Oh shit, it’s him.., run!”

Without waiting for a reply Dina the Guardian Angel lassoes her charge around the neck and pulls him behind her as she flies off of the cloud and hustles down towards the city in search of refuge with Junior dangling helplessly as would a dog tethered to a speeding car.

“Aren’t you an angel?” Gene protests while tugging at the lasso around his neck. “Why would you run from anyone?”

“Because, you knucklehead.., it’s him! You know.., the lord and savior, the almighty, the big kahuna? Now shut up and let me find a good place for us to hide”.

“We’re hiding from God?” He asks in disbelief. “Is that even possible?”

Flying through the city unbeknownst to the thousands of people milling about, the angel Dina and Gene Banton Jr. dart into and out of several buildings in search of a suitable place to hide from the creator of humanity. But she dismisses them nearly as quickly as she discovers them, casting them off with laconic remarks alluding to their stature, state of repair, visibility and foot traffic. Looking over the strip she spies a large congregation of people circling the Circus Circus resort and casino which has taken to shuttling their performers in and out of the big top tent and into the street in hopes of attracting people inside of their establishment. With her charge reluctantly in tow she touches down on the blistering concrete sidewalk as it bakes beneath the ultra violet rays of the omnipresent sun.

“This should work,” she says finally loosening Gene’s pseudo leash. “With all these people around he won’t pay it any mind”.

“Umm.., this is God we’re talking about right?” Gene asks. Receiving a faint nod from his angel in the affirmative he continues, “We’re trying to hide from the guy who created the heavens, the earth and me! Somehow I’m not sure that’s even possible”.

“You’re right Junior, it isn’t possible,” a soothing baritone voice blurts out from behind them and startling the pair. They spin on their heels and find themselves face to face with a tall, impeccably dressed older man wearing a white suit, tie, slacks and painfully polished shoes off of which the second generation star could discern his own image glaring back at him. “Hello Dina,” he says with the slightest hint of a smirk which draws an extended gasp from the black winged angel. “I see you’ve been misbehaving again”.

“Oh shit..,” Dina’s voice trails off once the identity of the dark skinned man with greyed hair dawns on her. “Err.., Hi God”.

“Extend your wings please,” the Lord and Savior says in a subtle command.

“Oh come on!” she cries. “He wanted me to prove that I’m an angel”.

“So you obliterated a city of over one million people? I think you could have done so more subtly than that young lady”. He extends his right hand reaching out to her, “Now extend your wings please”.

“But.., but I only have four white feathers left!” Can’t you just overlook it this one time? I mean, you’ve already fixed it, so no harm no foul, right?”

“So you can obliterate a city of 20 million next time?” He challenges. “I don’t think so”. He brushes the tip of his index finger over a soft, white feather at the edge of her left wing turning it black and nods to Junior, “You’re right,” he says. “I am hurting for angels”.

“So then why are you complaining?” Dina demands. “I just gave you a million fresh candidates!”

“I would prefer candidates who died by natural means, not on the whims of one of my screwball angels. Now, you’ve already interrupted my game to repair your handiwork so I feel it incumbent upon me to remind you of why you are here in the first place and that is to..,” he pauses allowing for his errant angel to finish his sentence for him.

“You want me to help Geno realize his destiny by taking the gold from the Giant Simon Jones,” she answers with a belated sigh. “Can I at least use a Trident 2 SLBM?”

“No.” God replies sternly while rolling his brown eyes upwards. “You may not use a nuclear tipped missile”.

“Oh come on!” Dina protests. “It’s only a 300 kiloton yield”.

“Don’t make me give you a 300 kiloton thermonuclear swat on the behind,” God says in warning.  “Now get your butt to work so I can finish my game or I’m going to turn the rest of your feathers black and you know what comes next”.

“Sex..?” Gene muses aloud.

“No, not quite,” The Almighty replies with a muted chuckle. “Once an Angel’s wings are entirely black the offending Angel must submit to me for punishment. The punishment is generally dictated by the month and this month happens to be Justin Bieber month”. He pauses allowing for an ornery smirk to cross his face and then continues, “that’s right.., an entire month listening to Justin Bieber’s music. That means no food, no water, no nukes.., nothing but Bieber”.

Before Gene or his Guardian angel can react God disappears in a brief flash of white light leaving behind a warning which echoes off of the walls..,

“Get to work missy”.

“Shit, Dina exclaims while spitting on the ground. “I have to find some way to finish the month without getting in trouble again”.

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask..,” Geno speaks up as an ageless question brought forth by God’s reference to ‘my game’ ventures to the fore front of his mind. “I always see these football basketball and baseball players thanking God and talking about how God willed them to win and so on.., Is God really that big a sports junkie?”

“You have no idea..,” Dina replies almost indignantly. “He bets on every single sporting event he can find. I’ve even seen him betting on Little League baseball! I have to give credit where it’s due though, I’ve never seen him lose a bet”. Spreading her wings Dina takes to the air reaching down to grab her charge before flying away. “Now come on, I have to help you get Simon Jones’ gold”.

Flying among the clouds the land below stretches out for as far as the eye can see, bestowing the sights and sounds of birds chirping and flapping their wings, an airliner roaring past, and the silhouette of the mountains which serves as a backdrop to another unexpected site, a beanstalk looming over the horizon from the confines of a crater within Nevada’s nuclear test sight. It towers above all, its leaves as large as a football field, with a stalk nearly a mile wide and thorns as large as a human body. Dina flies them closer to the beanstalk and sets Junior down carefully on one of the leaves.

“You have to climb this beanstalk to reach the giant Simon Jones’ castle in the sky,” she advises. “Once you’re there we have to figure out a way to take the gold from him. Now get to climbing! You can use the thorns as steps”.

Gene does as instructed, reaching out and grabbing one thorn to pull himself upwards and close enough to the next to grab that one as well. Step by step he begins his ascent up the giant beanstalk slowly climbing towards a destination obscured by the clouds. The trek is a long and arduous one, filled with many unforeseen obstacles; although posing no danger to the safety of Junior who occupies his time engaging in idle chit chat with his protector.

“So.., don’t you think God would have been better off making you an angel of destruction rather than a guardian angel?” He asks.

“I’ve said that a thousand times to him,” Dina replies floating lazily on her back with her hands cusped behind her head. Her eyes bear a taint of annoyance, which is echoed in her voice. Not at Junior or his question but at the almighty’s reasoning behind his declination. “God said that mankind is entering a new age and that he wants love and fellowship to reign over the earth”. Her voice trails off as her eyes travel downwards briefly before darting back up to meet Geno’s, “… fucking peace monger”.

“Wow, what a waste of talent”. Pulling himself up to the next rung Gene pauses to catch his breath. “Yeah..,” he huffs with renewed effort. “Peace does kinda suck. Hey.., what would you say was your best work; I mean which blast are you most proud of?”

“Hmmm..,” The angel rubs her chin in thought as images of wanton destruction cascade before her eyes as a silken curtain of blissful memories; mushroom clouds dancing in the sky, fires emblazoning entire mountain sides, volcanic eruptions laying waste to the countryside, and guided missiles exploding and releasing thousands of tiny cluster bombs which wreak havoc over an equal number of frightened soldiers. She smiles in fondness and says, “I think Mt. Vesuvius is probably my best work. Up in heaven they nick named it ‘Dina’s Joy’. Yeah, I’m pretty fond of that one”.

SIX HOURS LATER…

“Man.., does this thing ever end?” Pausing once more to catch his breath and to replenish his waning strength Geno plops his head down atop a branch and looks questioningly at his guardian angel. “Why can’t you just zap me a pair of wings too and we can just fly up there?”

“Ohh no..,” Dina exclaims while thrusting her palms outward. “You heard God, its Justin Bieber month and I only have three white feathers left. It’s too risky”.

“So spend two and save the last until after the end of the month,” Gene suggests in a dry heave. “The air is too thin up here, I can’t even breathe. Come on, surely God doesn’t want me to die here?”

“I don’t know..,” Dina sighs while pausing to consider the words of her charge. Justin Bieber month is by far and away the most diabolical punishment God has ever dreamed up before, but at the same time the month is nearly half over. Besides, God said nukes; he did not mention anything of helping to preserve the life of her charge. Finally, and with a shrug she acquiesces and a pair of black wings matching her own materializes on Junior’s back. “Just think what you want to do,” she advises. “The wings will take care of the rest”.

“That’s it huh..?” Gene asks. “Just think it and it will happen.., cool”. Closing his eyes Gene bows his head in thought as the right wings arches forward and then gently slips it into his pants. “Oh man, this feels awesome!”

“Get that wing out of your pants!” Dina demands. “You don’t know where that wing has been. Besides, we have to go get the giant Simon Jones’ gold”.

“Way to spoil the fun,” Gene relents, bringing the wing back out and joining Dina on a flight into the clouds. “I hope this is worth it that was better than sitting on my hand and putting it to sleep”. As the duo ascends towards the top of the beanstalk they fail to notice a short lived glow hovering over Dina’s wings as another feather is turned black, leaving only two white ones left.

Finally reaching the top; Gene and Dina rise to their feet to survey the landscape. For as far as they eye could see were fields of wheat and corn with a great castle off in the distance and a broad road winding through the fields leading directly to the front gate. After an extended trek the pair sees themselves approaching the front door. A truly massive structure, the door towers over them making everything near and far appear small and frail. Gene’s eyes gaze upwards in awe at the structure as he extends his hand to knock.

“I wonder if he has a hot wife.” He says, rapping his knuckles against the cold hard wood. “I sure hope so”.

“How do you know he even has a wife?” Dina asks.

“Her clothes are drying on the clothesline to the right of the house..,” he replies. “Unless Simon has a secret fetish we don’t know about”.

A thundering is heard across the valley as footsteps approach the door. With a creaking of the door knob it is opened and Gene finds himself looking up, way up at the wife of the Giant Simon Jones. The towering woman is a well-kept specimen, her head sporting glistening rows of sun kissed locks which gently frame a smiling face which looks down at him through shimmering hazel orbs. Craning his neck and standing on his toes Gene notices her figure hugging black mini skirt with matching bodice and a flowing gold sash. Her legs are clad with sheer nylons leading from her torso to her heeled feet. Looking into the skirt between her legs Gene grins,

“She’s not wearing any under wear,” he observes with delight.

“I was wondering if you could spare something to eat ma’am,” Gene lies. “I have not eaten since yesterday and my travels have been long. I am so hungry”.

Normally strangers do not lend themselves to kindness, but the giantess is far from normal and bears a kind heart. She looks down at him smiling warmly and says; “Very well little man; come in. But you must be quick about it, for if my husband Simon the Giant finds you here he will eat you up, bones and all”.

So in Gene went and Simon’s wife prepared for him a good breakfast, but before he had half-finished there came a thunderous knock at the front door which shook even the thick walls of the castle.

“Oh dear, it is my husband!” said the giantess in a terrible fright. “I must hide you somehow, somewhere he will never look”. Suddenly she lifted Geno from his seat and drops him into her bodice, between her heaving breasts.

No sooner than the Giant’s wife opened the door than her husband roared out;

“Fee fi fo fum,
I smell the blood of a little one.
Be he alive or be he dead,
I will grind his bones to make my bread”.

“Oh nonsense Simon,” his wife said. “You must be mistaken. “It is the Ox’s hide you smell”. Pausing to scratch below her bosom the giantess serves up a generous portion which she sets down on the table for him.

Simon takes his seat and digs into the meal vigorously; tearing the meat from the bone with authority and once finished with the meal he pushes back his plate to release a belch which rattles the walls.

“My wife,” he says. “Bring me my gold, I wish to relax”.

The giantess excuses herself from the kitchen and disappears into the hallway, scratching at her stomach before returning with Simon Jones’ SCW championship belt. He takes the belt from her and cradles it lovingly in his arm while counting the notches carved into the leather strap; symbols of previous triumphs. He does not notice as his wife continues to scratch herself, her hand inching ever lower, chasing an unseen antagonist. Before long the Giant’s head begins to drop as he falls into slumber and then he begins to snore; his snoring echoing off of the walls like a heavy thunder in the sky.

Upon seeing her husband fast asleep, the Giantess reaches into her skirt and pulls out the naked, squirming Gene. His arms and legs flail helplessly away as she takes him to the door which she opens with an aggravated huff. Dropping him into a free fall, her foot makes contact with his behind and lands with a muted thump which sends him careening through the air.

He sails across the sky and into the horizon with Dina in pursuit. It is nearly an hour of uncontrolled flight before Gene finally regains his bearings and uses the wings provided by his guardian angel to stop his fall. He stands still midair and shakes the cobwebs out as Dina approaches, her face bearing a menacing snarl.

“You fucking idiot!” she shouts. “You were supposed to steal the gold while he slept not get drop kicked across 27 time zones”.

Bringing his wings into action Gene glances at his perturbed protector; “I guess we’ll just have to try again”, he says. He flaps his wings directing his body back towards the direction of the castle in the sky and rockets away, again with Dina in pursuit.

The flight, controlled this time, is not so long as Gene learns that the capabilities of the wings allow him to travel faster than he had dared to imagine and in short order the two trouble makers find themselves back at the front door to the home of the giant Simon Jones. They land on the ground and Gene starts to muss his hair, subtly attempting to rearrange his appearance. Dina looks on in confusion, watching her charge go from his hair and on to his face. Peering into a pocket mirror he practices different facial expressions before settling on one sporting bloated cheeks, courtesy of blowing into a closed mouth. Reaching down to his wings he plucks a single black feather, a feather which is instantly replaced and brings it to his upper lip as a pseudo mustache.

“Ok, just what the hell are you planning?” Dina demands, not really sure if she is ready for the answer.

“It’s a disguise,” Gene says. “She may recognize me from the last time so I’m gonna pretend to be somebody else now”.

“That was barely an hour ago you meathead”.

“Trust me,” Gene replies with a sly wink and then turns to face the door. “I know what I’m doing”.

Just as before the giantess answered the door and glared down at the unexpected visitor, not recognizing him from earlier. She regards the tiny man with a frown as he speaks up to her with a faux lisp,

“"If you please, ma'am," said he, "will you give me some breakfast?"

"Run away," said she, "or my husband the giant will eat you up, bones and all. The last boy who visited crawled through my bra and into my under wear – off with you!” But the giantess has a kind heart and after a moment of thought she allows Gene back inside with a snickering Dina watching from above. She sits him in the kitchen in the same chair as before. Looking around he notes that the giant Simon Jones is nowhere to be seen. The giantess quickly prepares a plate and sets it before him; eggs the size of horses, bacon longer than a city bus, and biscuits heavy enough to crush a car; it is enough food to last him for months. Scarcely has he begun to eat than there is a great rumbling like an earthquake, and the giantess has only time to bundle Gene into the oven when in came the giant. No sooner was he inside than he roared;

“Fee fi fo fum,
I smell the blood of a little one.
Be he alive or be he dead
I will grind his bones to make my bread”.

His wife softly informs him he is mistaken and sits him down at the table where Gene had sat moments before. The giant polishes off the mammoth breakfast just as if it were a lark and calls out;

“Wife, bring me my hen”.

His wife does as instructed as reappears in the kitchen carrying a brown hen which she sets down on the table before the giant.

“Lay!” says the giant Simon Jones and at once the hen laid a golden egg. "Lay!" says the giant a second time; and she laid another golden egg. "Lay!" says the giant a third time; and she laid a third golden egg. Satisfied the giant then stretches out in his chair for another nap. His snoring soon begins to reverberate off of the walls clueing his ‘challenger’ in to his state of sleep.

The giantess, having forgotten about her small visitor ambles outside to tend the laundry as Gene, with a little help from his guardian angel opens the oven door and climbs up the table cloth and onto the top. He regards the golden eggs briefly with an arched eyebrow and continues to scan the kitchen for the coveted ten thousand pounds of gold; namely the SCW championship belt. With a shrug of his shoulders he begins to descend from the table to the floor, the belt nowhere to be seen.

“I guess I’ll just have to do his wife instead,” he says.

“Like hell,” Dina fires back in retort. “I’m not chasing you halfway around the world again; just use your wings and let’s go find it”.

Grudgingly the Goldenboy puts his wings to use and begins to flutter about the house in search of the elusive prize with Dina scanning a separate section. He searches the broom closet to no avail and darts into the bathroom. Finding nothing inside the bathroom he quickly flutters back out with a wrinkled face and quickly shuts the door behind him. He flies through the hallway and into the master bedroom where he spies the belt sitting atop a display case. The belt leans against a trio of golden eggs, precariously balanced into place and reflecting the light from the ceiling off of its golden plate. Gene rubs his chin pondering for a moment as for how to proceed.

“You have wings, remember?” Dina says having joined him in the master bedroom. “Just grab the belt, fly off and live happily ever after”.

“I guess you’re right,” Gene replies while reaching for the belt. “Let’s get the hell out of here”. Unfortunately his strength is not up to the task of hoisting the ten thousand pounds of gold as he is barely able to budge the SCW championship. The belt teeters atop the display case for a moment and tips over. It falls through the air followed by the golden eggs and lands on the solid wooden floor with a resounding crash. “Oh, shit”.

“Fee fi fo fum,
I smell the blood of a little one.
Be he alive or be he dead,
I will grind his bones to make my bread”.

With a fearful roar the awakened giant grabs his oak club and thunders through the hall and into the master bedroom while Gene struggles mightily with the belt. Dina quickly shrinks the belt to normal size allowing Gene to grab it, but no sooner than he begins his dash to freedom than the giant is on top of him, his beefy fingers wrapping around the little man tightly. Gene clings tightly onto the belt as he is carried back into the kitchen and summarily slammed onto the table. Taking a cleaver into his hand Simon Jones spreads Junior out while preparing to filet the squirming youngster.

Suddenly the cleaver falls onto the table, landing safely away from Junior. He looks up to see what has happened to find that the giant has been turned into a hen by his guardian angel. With a smirk Dina lands on the table to help Gene to his feet and as the pair are about to depart she turn to the excitedly clucking hen and says,

“Lay, mother fucker..,”

On command the hen instantly lays a golden bomb with a name inscribed on the casing which begins to tick. Gene, seeing what is transpiring draws his breath and shoots through an open window with Dina hot on his heels. The bomb continues to tick as Gene cradles the title belt with visions of grandeur permeating his conscious thoughts, singing his own praises and proclaiming himself the greatest SCW champion in history to the silent annoyance of his guardian angel. The pair dashes madly to the beanstalk but before they can reach it and begin their descent back to Earth the golden bomb affectionately named Junior’s Folly explodes. The blinding flash of light by the nuclear detonation is followed by a super-heated shockwave which slams into Gene and his angel with massive force thumping them with a thunderous jolt.

“Get your ass up!”

Shocked by the sudden lifting and dropping of his bed by his father Gene shoots into an upright position gawking at the senior man as he prepares to lift the bed again. Junior quickly waves him off, showing that is awake and alert.

“Yo pops, hey it’s cool man, I’m awake”.

“Good, now let’s go get you ready for Simon Jones,” his father says while setting the bed back down.

“It’s all good pops,” Junior replies while stretching out his arms with a heaving yawn. “My guardian angel is with me”.

 Ego is a word that has a negative connotation in society but don't confuse the perceived definition of ego with the actual one. Ego is associated with self-esteem, drive and determination; it only becomes negative when it is selfish. Leaders are by nature proud people and it is doubtful that a person claiming to have no ego would likely climb to the top of any profession or organization. The constant challenge is avoiding the threat of the dreaded ego trip, a destination that is fuelled by the constant need for feeding to the point that sense of true direction is lost.

Pride and ego can blind people and often makes them guilty of unwise choices and rash decisions that they may later come to regret. Pride can cloud judgment and cause emotional stupidity; the only thing worse than wounded pride is taking action based on the state of mind that it creates. Many leaders have severely limited their ability to lead because of pride and ego. An out of control ego can become so over inflated that it can come crashing down like a house of cards if left untended.

The Goldenboy Gene Banton Jr. rolls his eyes upwards while drawing a breath. Cradling the telephone receiver against his cheek he listens with apathy to the voice on the other end of the line droning on, his mind preferring to be elsewhere. Finally, with a heavy sigh he pushes himself away from the cluttered mahogany desk and steps out from behind it, electing to take a seat on the black leather sectional to the right. Plopping down the sofa cushions hiss under his weight as air is pushed out and, kicking up his feet on the coffee table in front he leans back and stretches out while continuing to listen to the reporter on the other end rambling on about his scheduled match this coming weekend against Steve Ramone.

“Look,” He says, having grown weary of the incessant droning of the SCW magazine sports writer. “I understand that Steve Ramone is supposedly fearless and that he has a wealth of experience over me, but if you look at my performances lately you’d also understand that this guy has never encountered anyone like me”. No less than three times he has counted the same question being posed to him; albeit with different phrasing and enough is enough he reasons seizing control of the conversation. “I don’t care if he’s a daredevil taking all sorts of risks because the biggest risk that he’s taking is to his sense of pride by stepping into the ring with someone of my caliber. He says he’ll do anything? I have news for you, he’s gonna need to do everything if he hopes to have a shot with me”.

Kicking his shoes off Jr leans back into the plush sofa allowing himself to be enveloped by its comfort as his verbal sparring partner hurls additional jabs in his direction. Having never cared much for the press, a trait picked up from his father, he nonetheless realizes their usefulness as a promotional tool and grudgingly indulges them from time to time, no matter how inane their lines of questioning may become.

“What the hell does my age have to do with this?” he demands, his voice rising in annoyance.  “I’m 19, big deal! He’s a geriatric old man in comparison to me. His experience doesn’t mean squat, ok? Listen, I am a one man think tank! There is nobody in this business who can match my level of preparedness, nobody who can match my ability to think on my feet and nobody who can match my natural athleticism. If Steve Ramone were twice as good as he thinks he is he still wouldn’t be half as good as me”.

With another sigh he pulls his heft from the grateful sofa cushions and lumbers across the white shag carpeting of the home office to retrieve a bottle of Dasani water from the portable refrigerator tucked down on the floor to the left of the desk. Twisting the cap off, he takes a swallow and replaces the cap on the bottle before returning to his seat at the corner of the sofa.

“Jesus Christ man!” he cries. “That’s the fifth time you’ve tried to ask me in one vernacular or another about the experience difference between us. How many times do I have to tell you? Look dude, the dinosaurs went extinct for a reason; because younger, faster, better versions came along. He’s like a decrepit old T-Rex trying desperately to cling to his last bastion of glory but then someone like me is gonna come along at the Club Theatro in Marrakech and beat him over the head with it and there’s not a damned thing he can do about it. This is my time to shine and much like Steve Ramone’s, your time is up”.

Without waiting for another word Gene abruptly hangs up the phone and rises again from his seat. Looking across the room his eyes settle on a desktop computer nestled against the wall and he strides to the machine and sets himself down in the reclining, high-back executive’s chair.

“I don’t have to wait until Sunday to starting pwning noobs,” he says while double clicking the World of Warcraft launch icon.

He types in his username and password and waits for the character selection screen to appear. He then scrolls though a short list of available characters and settles on a blond, male blood elf Paladin appropriately named ‘Goldenboy’ and double clicks the image to launch the game. He leans back into the chair as his character appears where he last left it, standing in the middle of the makeshift basecamp of the Timeless Isle. The camp is presided over by a quartet of Pandaren quest givers seeking to enlist the aid of plays to do battle with an automated enemy. The Isle serves as a central hub for players seeking to advance their characters through the various quests and dungeons offered in addition to boosting their in game currency, gold.
Although his Paladin has also out leveled the zone in which he currently finds himself, Gene still prefers to stay here, away from the obnoxious ranting and trolling in trade chat in favor of the peace and relative quiet. Besides, he eschews the never ending dungeon crawling loot chase, preferring to spend his time in battlegrounds engaging in player vs player combat. Selecting the battleground queue feature he scrolls down a list of available engagements and selects random, having no favorites. He guides his character through the sparsely populated aisles with vendors of numerous races hawking their wares while waiting for the queue to pop, which it does in quick order. Glancing at the screen he wonders which battleground he is about to be thrust into, but the ambiguous mural of the loading screen refuses to divulge the information.

The screen finally loads and he notes a red horde banner against the wall behind him and tucked into a nook, a flag bearing similar markings. The room is moderately sized, built of concrete with a small, closed off room in the left rear corner and above it, a second level with an enclosed hallway leading to a platform from which to jump onto the first floor. Above that sits a wooden awning tucked back to the rear wall and an open view of tree tops which frame the open faced roof. He is in the Warsong Gulch flag room.

Warsong Gulch is a 10 vs. 10 player battleground nestled in the southern region of the Ashenvale forest where the Horde cut huge swaths of woodlands raising the ire of the Night Elf population who strove to preserve it. The objective of Warsong Gulch is to take the flag from the enemy flag room and carry it to your own faction’s base, thereby earning a capture. The game is won by the first team to score three flag captures.

The terrain features a small number of hills tucked away on either side of the map with a smattering of upended trees lying on their sides. These too, are mostly settled off to the sides leaving a spacious center designed to force opposing teams into direct combat. The participants on both side wait anxiously for the gates sealing them within their respective flag rooms to rise and allow them to join the battle in earnest.  A timer is displayed in the center of the screen informing them how much longer they have to wait for the gates to rise and upon reaching ten seconds it begins to count down with a loud hiss accompanying each second until the timer reaches zero. The gates rise and all ten players rush out of the flag rooms and onto the field where they summon their mounts, the battle for Warsong Gulch has begun!

“Alright, I’m the battleground leader,” Gene says, speaking for his character through the keyboard. “So if everybody follows directions and does what I say we’re gonna win this easy”.

Now fully mounted the group charges into the fray, Goldenboy, the Paladin leads the pack by virtue of crusader aura, a class specific spell allowing players to travel an additional 20% faster while mounted. Peering to his left as he jumps down the small hill leading into the barren center he notices the Alliance team doing likewise, only they are traveling the opposite side of the map, a tactic developed long ago to delay the initial engagement until each team has something to fight for; namely a flag in their possession.

A human Rogue catches an unsuspecting Orc Shaman midfield and begins stabbing away, dismounting the Orc and forcing him to fight back. Despite his efforts however; the Rogue is extremely well geared and quickly slices away at his health pool. He calls to Goldenboy for help as the Paladin passes by but is ignored as the Blood Elf continues to ride towards the enemy base, his sights clearly set on the flag within.

“Fucking asshole!” the now dead Orc curses in chat. “Just rides by me while I get stunlocked to death, real team spirit jerk!”

“Don’t be a scrub next time”, Goldenboy advises. “I gotta get the flag and win this for the rest of you”.

Approaching the foot of the Alliance base he guides his plated horse into the tunnel leading to the flag room and is automatically dismounted as no mounted riding is permitted indoors in the game rules. Goldenboy proceeds through the rocky cavern and notices that the speed boost remains up, an effort by the designers to allow flag carriers a short burst of speed to clear the enemy base and get onto the field as an in game announcement pops up on his screen,

Purrfection has taken the Horde flag!

Blowing the announcement off he charges into the flag room and grabs the blue and gold Alliance flag and quickly darts through the corridor opposite from which he came, ignoring the other tunnel and the speed boost, trusting in his own skill and gear to get the job done.

Goldenboy has taken the Alliance flag!

Emerging from the mouth of the tunnel he drives directly into the center of the field with the flag where his teammates do battle with the opposing players. A pair of players, a Death Knight and a Warrior quickly converges on him to attempt to retrieve their flag. Engaging them he applies repentance on the Death Knight, a Paladin class spell which effectively puts the enemy player to ‘sleep’ for up to six seconds which allows him to focus on the warrior. The warrior strikes him hard, knocking out a sizeable chunk of his health pool but then suddenly backs off. Rather than look a gift horse in the mouth Goldenboy continues on his way towards his flag room, unaware of a grey cat, a druid in cat form, with dark blue markings following him closely.

Purrfection loves you.

Noticing the game announcement he pivots on his heels to find himself face to face with the enemy flag carrier. Purrfection, a Night Elf druid instantly shape shifts into travel form which resembles a grey stag with similar, tribal-like markings and bearing a golden wreath around its neck. Druids are the master shape shifters in World of Warcraft, a class capable of changing into various animal forms including a bear for tanking, a cat for dealing quick, effective damage, a bird for flying, and of course, a stag for running where flight or mounted travel is not permitted, such as in battle grounds. They are the most exclusive class in the game in terms of possible class/race combinations in addition to being the most notoriously difficult flag runners with their unparalleled mobility, ability to self-heal and their defensive capabilities by virtue of their various animal forms.

Purrfection hugs you.

Paying no mind to the emotes by the druid directed at him, Goldenboy quickly levels his oversized sword at the stag but finds himself rooted in place by tree-like roots which have sprung up from the ground. He recognizes it as Nature’s grasp, a Druid ability that roots the enemy in place upon striking the Druid to afford them one of several means of escape, but Purrfection does not run. Instead the Druid directs another emote to the Paladin.

Purrfection dances with you.

The Paladin charges the Druid upon his release by the roots and strikes Purrfection as his teammates quickly converge on the enemy flag carrier. A quick hammer a justice by Gene stuns the Druid as they all begin their attack but the Druid’s team is also quick to arrive and defends their flag carrier. Purrfection shape-shifts into cat form and then activates dash, an ability that temporarily allows the Druid to run an additional 70% faster, but rather than run towards its own flag room the Druid instead begins to run circles, quite literally around the Paladin. Goldenboy desperately tries to strike Purrfection but the Druid is a great deal faster and more agile and easily avoids his blows.

So absorbed is he in his fight with the Druid, Gene fails to notice the members of his team dropping rapidly around him as they are beaten and killed off by the Alliance team. He continues to chase the Druid, which has reverted to stag form and playfully leads him on a chase across the battlefield from one side to another until finally the Alliance team manages to corner him. No matter his perceived skill, even one as bloated on himself as Gene is, they will be quickly killed by the opposing players who all attack them at once. Upon his death the flag is automatically dropped and clicked on by enemy combatants to be returned to its base.

Purrfection loves you.

He watches from a worm’s eye view as the Druid runs off with the flag before releasing his spirit. Anxiously Gene watches the timer slowly counting down, itching for another shot at the Druid which thoroughly embarrassed him. Finally his character is resurrected and he wastes no time in summoning his mount hoping to retrieve the flag, but another in game announcement informs him that it is too late.

“LMAO dude,” a Warlock teammate of Gene’s named Perseus says; “That Druid rofflestomped you”.

Purrfection has captured the Horde flag!

He surveys the landscape and sees the Druid off in the distance sprinting down the far side of the field towards his flag room and Gene jumps off of the resurrection platform which has taken shape as a small hill to give chase. Despite his efforts however; the Druid has too big of a head start and quickly disappears into the Horde tunnel with a pair of Warriors in riding shotgun.

Purrfection has taken the Horde flag!

Sensing an opportunity Goldenoy steers his warhorse towards the tunnel with the speed boost, dismounts and waits patiently for the enemy flag carrier to emerge through the mouth. Several moments pass by as his team engages the Alliance team mid-field but the Druid does not appear. Growing more anxious he turns to see his team being slowly dismantled by the other players but does not charge off to their aid, instead electing to wait for the Druid which has yet to appear.

Purrfection loves you.

Once more the emote alerts him to the presence of the Druid, bearing his team’s flag standing behind him in travel form. He immediately swings his weapon but his attack is interrupted by disorienting roar, a Druid class ability which briefly dazes all enemies within a short distance. Suddenly the Druid shifts into its bear form and launches an assault of its own. His health pool is almost effortlessly depleted by the raging beast, so quickly in fact that Goldenboy is forced to use Lay on hands, a Paladin class ability that instantly heals the Paladin back to full health. Purrfection withdraws and shifts back into travel form inviting him to give chase. He quietly obliges, chasing the into the melee at mid field where his team once again finds themselves dropping like proverbial flies to the onslaught of the better equipped Alliance team. He pays them no mind, his focus squarely on the Druid, even as he is stunned and killed by them as Purrfection dashes away towards the Alliance base and another capture.

Purrfection has captured the Horde flag!

“Fuck dude, you suck,” an Undead Hunter named Kittylitter says in chat to Gene. “We’re getting stomped all over the place and all you do is chase that Druid around. How about helping us out a bit?”

“Because I’m the leader and this is my show,” Goldenboy replies. “If you don’t like it then leave”.

Kittylitter has left the battle.

Perseus has left the battle.

Noobzilla has left the battle.

Suzieq has left the battle.

Hotpantz has left the battle.

Now finding himself severely outnumbered with the departure of five members of his team, Gene looks on to see the other four dancing in the graveyard, effectively out of reach of the Alliance team waiting for the game to end. The Paladin has no such designs however; as he remains steadfastly determined to kill the Druid that has tormented him for seven minutes now.

Purrfection has taken the Horde flag!

He spies the Druid emerging from the tunnel with the flag and quickly summons his mount to give chase. Fully expecting to be targeted by the Alliance team players travelling with their flag carrier he is surprised as they let him ride right through their ranks and closes on the Druid. Now within striking distance he stuns the Druid with his hammer of justice and quickly begins slashing away only to see the Druid shift into Tree form and heal itself to full before reverting back into stag form.

Purrfection loves you.

Undeterred Gene continues swinging away at the Druid but thanks to the support of its teammates with their quick heals Purrfection remains at full health.

Purrfection dances with you.

“God damn it you fucking asshole,” he rages. “Stand still so I can kill you!”

Although he is surrounded by the opposing players, ten in all, while his own team continues to dance at their grave yard, they make no moves to attack him, instead just keeping their flag carrier’s health full. He reads another game announcement an emote by Purrfection motioning for him to follow. He does so, while continuing to try in vain to kill the Druid. The Night Elf shifts into cat form and walks slowly up the tunnel towards the flag room shrugging off Goldenboy’s melee strikes until it reaches the main room. Walking up to the flag base Purrfection turns to him and offers one final emote,

Purrfection loves you.

And on that note captures the flag ending the game. Gene sits staring at the screen in a stunned silence, his reddened face ripe with frustration. After several moments of stewing in the humiliation he exits the game and waits for the loading screen while his character is returned to his original starting point of the Timeless Isle.

With a sigh he aimlessly guides his character through the vendors and quest givers, his mind still fixated on the battle of moments ago. He ignores a quest giver shouting out to him, stopping and staring blankly as another player engages in a challenge fight against one of the elite NPCs.

Purrfection loves you.

Recognizing the emote he spins his character around and immediately strikes, rapidly pushing buttons on his keyboard trying to activate every ability available in hopes of finally killing the druid. Unfortunately for him, player vs player combat is frowned upon by the governing NPCs of Timeless Isle who enforce their rules with a cadre of guards who automatically attack any and all players engaging in combat with each other in their vicinity. Their health pools are a great deal larger than the average player and their strikes considerably more powerful than those of the average non player character. They swarm on Goldenboy and chop him down with blinding speed forcing him once more into a worm’s eye view of the Druid who has shifted into travel form.

Purrfection rolls on the floor laughing at you.

“Son of a bitch!” He cries, slamming his fists down on either side of the keyboard as the shrill ring of the telephone alerts him to an incoming phone call. Angrily he pushes himself away from the desk and walks over to pick up the phone, “What is it?” he snaps.

“Oh, hey Cassie,” his tone softens upon recognizing the voice of his sister, but a frown slides down the sides of his face as he denotes heavy laughter on the other end.  “Look sis, I don’t know what you’re laughing about and I don’t really care, ok? I’m in the middle of a crisis right now and I don’t have time for your crap”.

He sets the phone down and pokes his head into the hallway. “Mom,” he announces. “Cassie is on the phone, you wanna talk to her?”

He waits quietly listening to his sister giggling for his mother to pick up the other phone by her seat in the kitchen before hanging it up. Returning to his seat behind the computer he stares at the corpse of his character for a few moments before reaching into the side pocket of his jeans to fish out his cell phone. He punches in a telephone number and brings it to his ear waiting for the other end to answer.

“Hey, Aunt Christian,” he says. “I gotta question for you.., does Steve Ramone play a Druid named Purrfection in World of Warcraft?”

 SIX MONTHS AGO

Simone: Oh my… god… That can’t be good! I heard her head collide with the mat all the way over here!

Adams: Is that blood? This is serious. Drew Patton is calling for medical attention immediately.

Cassie slowly gets up, seeing the medics rush to the ring, and she is confused. She turns to look for Amanda, only to quickly get hit with the #1 Stunner! Amanda watches them file in and then quickly drops down for the cover.

Before the match reaches its apparent conclusion the television screen flickers once before going dark. With a hefty sigh, Goldenboy Gene Banton sets the remote control atop the coffee table and leans back into his padded, tan leather recliner. He glances to his right at his friend and trainer Erika Stark, who brushes back a strand of chestnut curls and bows her head as if sharing the same thought.

“Clumsy, awkward, unsure..,” He begins in a somber growl. “I’m at a loss for adjectives to describe it. It’s as if the arrival of the medics confused her”.
“I think it may be more than that”, Erika offers, casting a sidelong glance to him. “Throughout the match she seemed.., well, slow, and not deliberately so. Don’t get the wrong idea,” She quickly interjects to defuse any possible misunderstanding, “she certainly knows what to do, we’ve gone through that. It’s just..; it just occurs to me that perhaps she isn’t comfortable with the style she’s learned”. Her voice trails off as her thoughts shift to an image of Cassie slowly reacting to the actions of her opponent. “Her mind is telling her to do one thing while her body wants to do another”.

“Do you really think so?” Gene asks as his friend nods her silken mane in affirmation. “It’s certainly possible”, he agrees.  “The catch style we taught her is pretty easy to break away from and Lord knows she had plenty of opportunity to escalate matters..,” his voice backpedals into the darkness of silence, chased away by an intruding muse, “opportunities she ignored. Why?” Once more his voice is fleeting as the muse takes shape. “God damn it Erika, you’re a genius”! Casting a grin in her direction he bolts to his feet and darts towards a large, mahogany desk across the room by a draped window and swipes a cell phone from atop a stack of papers bearing the SCW logo.

“What are you thinking”? Erika asks, rising up to join him by the desk, her brown eyes glancing curiously over his shoulder, watching as he plays with the silver cased device.

“I made a mistake”, he replies, thumbing through a list of phone numbers, “I assumed that just because she was so similar physically and athletically to you that she would acclimate to the same style that worked so well for you. But I didn’t take her personality into account, and that’s where you two are apples to oranges. “You’re a thinker, methodical while Cassie is emotional, whimsical. She has a temper like her mother..,”

“So you want to take the leash off”, she says, finishing the sentence for him.

“In a manner of speaking, yes”, Gene acknowledges with a light bob of his head. “As you noticed she wanted to do a few things differently but was conflicted, as if she were questioning herself. I want to remove any questions and expose her to a different style. Another style can only help her during transitions, more options to draw upon”. With the phone firmly in hand he plods across the royal blue shag carpeting of his office floor back to the sofa he had vacated moments before with Erika in tow.

“I have a friend”, he says dropping his bulky frame into the heavily padded seat with a soft groan, “Well, not a friend, more of an acquaintance I suppose from our PWL days, you may remember, Brandi Constantino”?

“Sure, I remember her quite well”, Erika nods. “But as I recall she was more of an enemy back then”, she says with a wry grin. “What makes you think she’ll help”?

“Well, money is a pretty good motivator”, he replies, flashing a wry grin of his own. “But I’ll be honest here; I’m also counting on father time to heal some of those old wounds”.

“You have the same wounds”, Erika smartly observes. “How has he treated you”?

“In all honesty, I could walk up to her and shake her hand and thank her for bringing out the best in me”, he answers while pulling the phone back into his gaze. “I’ve moved on and I’m confident... not to mention hopeful that she has done the same”.

“Well you do have her number”, Erika notes. “I would say that’s a good indicator”.

“Christian got it for me a while back”, he chuckles, “payment on an old debt. He was on much better terms with Brandi and her people than I was. I never used it though, “he casts a thoughtful gaze on the screen bearing the name, number and address of the subject. “To this day and after all of those years I never thought I would need it, but for some reason I kept it any way, and now, here we are”. Bringing his thumb and index finger to the touch screen pad he brings the number to the center of the screen but pauses, his brow furrowed into a frown.

“What is it”?

“Nothing, he mutters. I’m day dreaming”.




Has anyone ever noted the similarities between school and prison? Both serve up garbage and call it food. Both have guards and wardens, though they may go by different titles their jobs are effectively the same. Both tend to stuff as many people into as small a space as possible and both punish one by adding additional time to their ‘sentence’, although a school refers to it as detention. Teachers, guards, principals, wardens, it did not matter. In the eyes of Gene Banton Jr. they were all the same. For 19 years of his life he has had to endure such a sentence, told when he could take a break, when he could eat lunch and when he could speak. Even now, as he sits trapped in an auditorium on the UNLV college campus forced to listen to the ramblings of professor Herk he found himself wishing he were elsewhere.

They say that misery loves company and he was appreciative that his twin sister Cassie has also been forced to endure the same sentence as he. Glancing over to her in the seat beside him he could tell that she seemed to be as bored as he was looking on in ambivalence as the professor’s voice echoed off the painfully gleaming walls, his monotone voice droning on and on. Was he even breathing? Finally, with an indifferent shrug he leans over against his sister. At least he could use her shoulder for a pillow.

“Remember, don’t suck your thumb in public”, she whispers, her satiny voice quivering with a hint of a giggle.

“Kiss my ass, and try not to make any noise”, he fires back through a stifled yawn. Nestling his head against her shoulder his eyes slowly close, his mind focusing on the toneless treadmill of the Professor’s words. The silken top of Cassie’s sweater feels good against his cheek and helps to quickly chase away the remaining remnants of consciousness.

”Whoah, fluffy”.

Looking down Junior finds himself floating through the air atop creamy white tufts of nebula, his body at ease with the sensation of weightlessness. Reining his gaze back in, he directs it to survey his surroundings taking in a sky full of nebulosity as he is lifted higher and higher until reaching a billowy pedestal. Carefully stepping off of his woolpack and onto the plinth, his blue eyes make contact with another young man, roughly his own age, and sporting straight, shoulder length blond hair which frames a somewhat oblong face which greets him with a smirk. Matching the smirk with one of his own Junior strides toward the other caramel skinned young man and looks him over. His trim, hairless body, clad only in a pair of nauseously colored board shorts leaning against  gossamer surf board, a pair of white, feathered wings folded behind.
“Who are you?” Junior asks of the unusual looking surfer.

“Dude, I’m Saint Pete!” he exclaims, extending his right hand to a fist bump. “I’m like, the keeper of the pearly gates or something!”

“Wait..,” Junior demands extending his arms out. “I’m dead?”

“Oh totally!” he cries excitedly.  “Dude, it was the most awesome thing. God wakes up with this gnarly head cold, right? So he like, gets up and totally sneezes but he don’t have any Kleenex so the snot like, turns into this radical meteor shower that slams into the Earth causing a total wipeout!”

“Cool!” Junior says, his eyes coming to life.

“You know it dude, so now I gotta take you to heaven”.

“This isn’t heaven?”

“Naw dude, this is the lobby where all of God’s appointments have to wait and stuff. Normally we would totally cruise the elevator up there, but it broke down and his Gnarleyness can’t afford to have it fixed yet so we gotta take the stairway to heaven”. He gestures for Gene to follow him as he sets off towards an impossibly tall spiral staircase which winds through several layers of clouds seeming to continue on without end. “Let’s rock!”

Gene follows Saint Pete closely and the pair begins their ascent of the stairway to heaven, his mind suddenly bloated with thoughts and questions over the news just given him. He tries in vein to sort them out, to categorize them in order of importance, but some thoughts simply refuse to take a backseat so he instead elects to blurt out whatever comes to his mind first.

“So we can have sex in heaven right?” He asks.

“Oh dude, dude, dude! Check it out.., so God’s on the can scoping out the newspaper one day right? So he’s checking out this story on the camel dudes in the Middle East and he says like, whoa, those Muslim dudes got it right! So he calls all of us; me, Moses, Jesus, Mike, Gabe and Arnold to a meeting and says that we’re switching everybody to Muslim faith. Moses is like, no way! But God says way! free virgins for life, I’m there! So now when you get to heaven you get a different babe to do every day! Everywhere you look its wall to wall dudettes rockin’ see through veils, edible panties and stuff. Don’t even need a dude pack. It is the mostest!”

Glancing down at the puffy foundation on which he stood moments ago Gene notices it slowly shrinking as they climb further up the staircase. Pressing his hand firmly against the pearl banister he presses on matching stride with Saint Pete.

“That’s freaking awesome!” He says enthusiastically just as his thoughts turn to his sister Cassie. “But wait.., what about Redheads, do they go to heaven too?”

“No way dude,” Saint Pete replies shaking his head. “Redheads are mutants and God don’t like them, so they have to go to hell”.

“Nice knowing ya sis”, Gene says softly with an indifferent shrug, casting another glance down. “So hold on..,” he says, raising his tone. “All the cool people like us get free virgins for life, but how do we know they’re virgins? I mean if they’re free and everybody’s doin’ ‘em then how can we be sure?”

“That’s easy, we just recycle them, that’s all, like tin cans”.

“That’s cool, but suppose the dude going to heaven is a Christian or Baptist or something, what do they get?”

“Christians, Baptists, Lutherans and Catholics are cool with the big dude, so they get the virgins”.

“Right on, but what about Scientologists, atheists and Wiccans, do they get virgins too?”

“Dude..,” Saint Pete starts with a stifled snort, “That’s funny.  Atheists are already going to hell or something so they get all the mutants. Besides, Satan has a thing for red hair and freckles. Scientologists get a free nudie of Tom Cruise with a different pose every day and Wiccans get free brooms for life”.
Gene chuckles softly, his chest beginning to heave as the climb starts to take its toll on his lungs. “How about Lesbians, chicks and gay dudes?” he asks.
“Lesbians are totally set already ya know? But regular chicks are gonna have to start liking babes and gay dudes are sorta sol, know what I mean? God says he’s gonna make proper plumbers outta those dudes one way or another”.
Joining with his heaving chest, his thighs start to burn in concert, together creating a symphony of misery. Looking down again, he pauses to catch his breath and allow his quadriceps a moment to recover. “Damn, man. Does this thing ever end?”

“Brah, it’s not like we’re going to the second floor. Heaven is the friggen penthouse suite!”

“So how come you’re not tired?”

“I been climbing this every day since ’82 when that Nurse shark got me off the coast of Nebraska, I’m used to it. I was hangin’ 10 fully macking a double overhead corduroy to the horizon when that sharkie just laid down some epic buggery on me. Now just hang loose, we’ll be there soon then you’re gonna be all stockaboka”.

“You got killed by a shark in 1982?”

“Ya,” Saint Pete replies.  “That was way hairy”.

His brow furrows as he ponders the reply, continuing his ascent. He reaches out with his right hand gripping the rail tightly to pull himself along, doing anything he can to ease the tightened inferno that was once his legs. “Hey, if you were killed in ’82, how did you become a Saint so fast”?

“Duuuude! That was totally tubular! I get up top and the big dude tells me that he hosed it, right? So he says he created Nurse Sharks to help take care of us and stuff, even made them take the Hippocratic Oath. So then he gives me these rad wings and says he’s making it up to me by turning me into a Saint”.

His lungs are now heaving mightily devouring precious oxygen as quickly as they can. Now using both hands to help pull himself along, each foot landing with a breathless thud, each step becoming an imposing cliff over which he must climb. Gene pulls his body over yet another step his legs trembling in submission. He glances down at the stairs desperately wanting to take a moment of rest but images of naked women flood his mind, luring him further along reaching through his thoughts to pull him onward and upward. There is nothing quite like a little motivation, no matter how fleeting it may be. He allows his thoughts to take over, day dreaming of the coming moments, and the beginning of his afterlife. Catching a second or perhaps a 50th wind he trudges on, determined to finish his arduous journey. An angel appears in his mind’s eye blowing him a kiss and shaking a pair of pom poms to cheer him on.

“Uh oh!” Saint Pete cries out with his raspy California drawl jolting Gene from his reverie. “Aww, no way dude”! He groans.

“What, what, what is it?” Gene asks anxiously, his voice quivering with dread.

“I think I see me some sweet nectar”!

Saint Pete finally stops and looks on as Gene determinedly pulls himself over the final step. His weary eyes are greeted by a surreal visage; a thankfully short flight of steps through a puffy white veil leading to an erected marble pulpit. Gleaming pillars of white and gold encircle the dais with wisps providing celestial scaffolding. Several figures mill about the terrace their feathery wings providing testament to their status. Junior slowly makes his way towards them, his legs not yet released from their burden but resolute in their stride. Approaching the tiresomely clean belvedere he settles his gaze on a lone redhead seated at the top of the steps clad in a sheer frosted toga, her hands folded across her lap. She pays no mind to the newcomer as he takes note of her milky skin bearing a smattering of freckles. Looking on through distant beryl faculty the woman appears indifferent as he sets his heft down beside her with a heavy sigh.

“Later dude,” Saint Pete says flashing the two fingered sign of peace. “His dudeliness just hit Singapore with a typhoon so I’m gonna go catch me a mack corduroy”.

Gene absently waves to the departing surfer, his attention focused solely on the comely young woman beside him. “What’s your name babe?” he asks, reaching up to brush his fingers along her silken cardinal mane. She remains silent, her gaze fixated on some unseen object far in the distance. Taking his hand he runs it gently along her sinewy shoulder, down her arm and brings it to a rest on her thigh, giving it a light squeeze. “You’re the silent type huh? That’s cool; words only tend to slow things down”. She responds by lifting his hand from her leg and setting it back down in his lap.

“Oh baby, don’t be like that,” he whispers, bringing his hand back into action. “We’re in Heaven where everything is perfect, especially me”. Once more his right hand slithers onto her thigh while he raises his left arm to place it along her shoulder. Again she lifts his hand from her knee and sets it back down into his lap, this time with a bit more emphasis.

He would not be deterred however; and brings the hand to her stomach, running it upwards over the velvety fabric. “I get it”, he says. “You’re not into foreplay and that’s cool, because neither am I”. Continuing its carnal odyssey his hand ventures further north until it reaches a spongy apex and he whispers breathily into her ear, “You just wanna get down to business”, finally giving it a firm squeeze.

“That’s my tit you fucking hillbilly!”

Courtesy of his sister's foot Gene lands with a thud and the woman prematurely retreats into the hazy cobwebs of his flickering chimera. The lecture hall suddenly breaks into a rolling laughter as he distinguishes the angry visage of his sister glowering down at him.

“What the.., was I dreaming?” he asks clamoring to his knees.

“Hey, you gotta get it somehow!” a voice rings out fueling additional laughter.

The laughter is brought to a quick conclusion by the sharp wallop of a yardstick slamming into a chalkboard. “Cassiopeia and Eugene Banton, you are both dismissed!” a shrill voice cries out, a voice belong to professor Herk.

“Wait a minute,” Cassie laments. “I was listening to you when this idiot started fondling me!”

“This is a lecture hall not an arena”, Herk replies in a nascent tone, “and I will not tolerate interruptions. Now pick up your belongings and please exit the building”.

With a heavy groan Cassie picks up her satchel and flings it over her shoulder. Following her listless brother into the aisle she places a swift kick into his behind. “You fucking asshole”, she growls.




“Hunh”, the elder Gene Banton declares, cradling the warm butt of the phone against his cheek“, she was more receptive than I expected”.

“What did she say?” Erika asks leaning forward.

“She thought it was a great idea”, he says setting the phone back down on the desk. Cupping his hands together he brings them up and perches his angled jaw atop them casting a thoughtful gaze to his friend seated across him. “She says it would be advantageous for any wrestler to undergo training in multiple styles. In fact, if this works out she proposed a talent exchange where we would expose some of our more promising students to this sort of cross training”.

“It sounds like this could get very big very quickly”, she dryly observes leaning back in her seat and clasping her hands behind the back of her head. “We’d have to proceed slowly and carefully”.

“Yeah”, Gene mumbles in agreement, “that much is obvious. Brandi saw it too and suggested we treat Cassie as a trial run. So while she runs Cassie through the ringer we focus our attention on Junior..,”

“Which won’t be a problem since we were already planning on that and booked him”, Erika adds in tawny articulation.

“Mmm hmm,” Gene grunts pushing his chair from the desk and rising to his feet. “I’m just concerned how separating he from Cassie is going to affect his concentration. Being fraternal twins those two are a lot closer than their behavior would have anyone believe”. Clasping his hands together he raises them overhead, stretching his limbs to promote blood flow. “This is no easy match either; Jordan Williams is one tough nut to crack, and we don’t know much of anything about Karina Koji”.

“I’ll try to dig up some tape on her”, Erika offers also rising to her feet. “When do you plan on breaking the news to them?” she asks.

“In a few minutes”, he replies curtly. “I just want to talk it over with Morrigan first”.

“So how do you think your wife is going to react then?”

“I’m sure she’ll be favorable. Hell, she’ll probably relish the peace and quiet. Junior shouldn’t be a problem either; he is usually pretty open-minded. It’s Cassie I’m worried about. I’m not sure how she’s going to take it”.



“Un – fucking – believable!” her voice echoes off of the walls leading from the lecture hall towards the campus parking lot.  “I just don’t believe this!” She sputters semi coherently while ambling through the corridor. “Of the entire weirdo fucking incestuous pervert population in this world my own brother has to go and grab my breasts in class!”

“Hey..,” Junior’s voice trails behind her as he traipses several paces behind his sister. “In my own defense, you are kinda hot”.

“Ugh!” sharply spinning around Cassie stops in her tracks allowing her bother to close the gap. Sternly she pinches his lips closed with her thumb and fore finger and venomously admonishes him, “One more word, just one fucking word more out of you and so help me you’ll be leaving this campus wearing your balls as earrings”.

Just as abruptly she turns about face leaving her snickering brother in her wake. Emerging through a pair of double doors and into the sunlight of an unseasonably cool Las Vegas day she does not notice the afternoon shadows trailing behind them, her attention focused on the parking lot a hundred yards ahead. She walks briskly over the sidewalk past the rows of freshly mowed grass, oblivious to the stragglers heading towards them on their way to class.
Trailing behind his sister a good ten feet Gene sighs, grateful for being excused from Herk the jerk’s ever so boring lecture on economics in the new age. He soaks in his newfound freedom with a deep breath of crisp, cool air and fumbles about his pockets looking for something to occupy himself with during their journey to the parking lot. Feeling over his right front pocket he detects the rigid outline of a smartphone, a detection which prompts him to furrow a brow in puzzlement having no recollection of bringing a phone to class. Reaching in; he pulls out a gold colored Apple Iphone 5c for inspection. Gazing at the cracked touch screen he suddenly remembers having borrowed the phone the night before from his friend Anthony to make an anonymous call and forgetting to return it. Looking ahead to the hotly marching redhead and then back to the phone his lips purse into a tight grin. He turns the device on and puts his fingers to work in earnest; dialing in his sister’s number and then brings up the onscreen keyboard typing away.

Hearing the chirp of her own phone alerting her to an incoming text message Cassie pulls it from her pocket and glances at the message appearing on the screen. ‘y r u nt n skul?’ the message reads. “What the hell?” she mutters aloud staring at the so-called text speak. Redheads have long been notorious for their tempers. Often this stems from certain intolerances to matters perceived as trivial and one such intolerance in Cassie’s case happens to be the over abundant use of text speak which she often described as lazy and likened it to the efforts of chimpanzees chained to typewriters. ‘Because some asshole who types like a damned orangutan needs class time more than me’, she fires back, her thumbs a tangled blur as she writes and sends the message.

Gene reads the message, trying not to snicker out loud, his eyes carefully monitor his sister in case she was to suspect him. She does not appear to have given the message a second thought having already returned the phone to her hip pocket and continues on her way. Putting his thumbs to work the young trouble maker begins typing out his next message; ‘skul mks u smrt u nd 2 go bk’.

Minding the chirp Cassie retrieves the Black Samsung Galaxy S4 Zoom phone and stares incredulously at the inane appearing message. “Of all the..,” she mutters, her voice trailing off as her mind is lost in a smoldering sea of annoyance. She ponders briefly trying to forge a reply but elects to keep it simple, ‘Says the poster child for dyslexia’. She sends the reply and is about to return the phone to her pocket but then decides to fire off another message, a not subtle warning; ‘If you text or call me one more time I am going to find out who you are, rip off your head at the waist and go bowling in a minefield’. Satisfied with her response Cassie shoves the phone back into her pocket, hoping to have received the last message from her mysterious antagonist.

Behind her Junior carefully dials up a different phone number and sends another text, ‘Mom, please call Cassie”, it says. Without any further diversions he powers the device down and returns it to his pocket waiting for the fireworks to begin. He does not have to wait long as the “Ride of the Valkyries’ ringtone alerts his sister to the call.

“God damn it!” Cassie grumbles reaching for the phone. “It’s on now asshole”. Without bothering to check the return number Cassie angrily accepts the call pressing the device to her cheek. “Listen you slobbering, knuckle dragging, mouth breathing, uni-brow having, anencephalic troglodyte if you bother me one more God damned time I swear to Christ I’m going to..,” her voice suddenly trails off as she comes to a stop, her eyes shrinking in realization of a very big mistake. “Yes ma’am” she says demurely. “I – I’m sorry mother, please accept my apologies I thought you were somebody else..,” with a grimace she yanks the phone from her ear as the tongue lashing grows louder, loud enough in fact for Junior to make out his mother’s voice on the other end.

“Hey sis, how many times have I warned you about that temper?” he asks ripe with laughter.

“Fuck you, you half-baked Happy Meal!” she cries returning the phone to her ear. “No! Not you mom! Please, Junior’s just being a shithead again!” enduring another diatribe from her mother, Cassie grimaces but bears the brunt of the verbal assault, maintaining her grip on the phone. It carries on for several moments much to the delight of Gene who wallows in the scene, chuckling heartily. Finally the blast subsides and Cassie is again allowed to speak, “Yes Ma’am”, she answers softly with a nod of her head. “Yes ma’am he’s right here behind me”. Turning around to face her teary eyed brother she hands him the phone, “Mom wants to talk to you”, she sedately informs him.

Cradling the device into his palm Junior slowly brings it to his cheek, his gaze belying the grin on his face. “Yo mom, what’s cracking babe?” he answers brightly, masking the underlying fear of a tongue lashing of his own. Fortunately he does not receive one, “Umm no,” he says with an audible exhale. “I just forgot it at home today. What’s pop want any way?” He listens intently as his mother explains the events having unfolded at the homestead. “You mean that Blast from the Past tag team tournament? Yeah, that’s cool, we’ll be home soon..,” he pauses to allow that familiar smirk to return to his face, “assuming Cassie can still sit down after that ass chewing”. With a chuckle he powers the device down and hands it back to his suddenly timid sister. “We gotta get home; pop’s got something going down”.




He lands with a heavy thud, his broad back bearing the brunt of the impact of the tiled kitchen floor having taken a spill off of a shaky ladder. With a profound groan the elder Gene Banton battles the pain of the fall while shakily rising to his feet.

“It might help if you could hold the ladder steady”, he says gruffly casting a slightly annoyed glance to his wife hanging up the phone. “This floor isn’t exactly made by Serta”.

“I’m sorry, I was on the phone with the kids”, she replies nonchalantly. “They’ll be home in a few minutes. I informed Junior about his being booked in the match”. Quietly she scuttles across the soft blue tiling towards the kitchen table with an opened copy of the Weekly world News lying face down on the glass surface. Taking a seat in the gold piped chair she lifts the magazine and begins reading, the headline on the cover boldly proclaims “Bat boy elected to British Parliament!”

Looking on Gene Senior sighs loudly and leans against the ladder hoping to draw her attention to the task at hand but his wife seems not to notice, her head buried in her literature. Shaking the ladder, he rattles the plastic covered metal base against the floor hoping to divert her attention but to no avail.

“Keep it down please, I’m reading”, she says without looking up.

“Fine,” Gene announces sorely. “I’m sure we can eat in the dark”.

“Or you can change the light bulb when I’m not busy”, Morrigan retorts.

Folding the tool he prepares to take it outside to the patio but his intent is interrupted by the animated chatter of his son as he enters the house followed by his surprisingly reticent sibling. “I’m telling you Cassie, this match is the ladder I’m gonna use on my path to greatness!”

“You can start your ascent by climbing it now and screwing in this light bulb”, Gene Senior announces, setting the tool back up as his son approaches. “I’ll hold it steady and give you the low down on the match”.

“Pop, come on dude,” he complains. “I’m gonna be world champion! I don’t have time for this Mickey Mouse junk!”

“Do as your father says young man,” Morrigan says sternly, “and Cassie, you’re grounded”.

“But Mom… I’m 19!” Cassie cries plaintively.

“You are also grounded, now get moving missy”.

Cassie grudgingly obeys, the plodding of her footsteps languidly disappearing into the hallway as she exits the kitchen. Her father looks on in silence as she fades from view before turning his attention back to the six foot step ladder in hand, which he erects anew beneath the blown bulb in the ceiling.

“Huh, she must have screwed up”, he observes, holding it steadily as Junior starts to climb.

“Big time pop”, he says.

“To put it mildly”, Morrigan adds softly.

“Alright, so I’ve booked you for this weekend”, the father says looking up at his son watching him scale the steps. “You will be teaming with Amy Marshal to take on Karina Koji and Jordan Williams in a mixed tag team match, the entire tournament is mixed tag team matches”. He pauses to ensure his grip on the ladder bearing his son’s weight and continues, “Erika is digging up some film on Karina Koji but for the most part she’s not going to be your problem given that’s it is mixed tag team rules. Jordan Williams on the other hand is your problem and a very big one at that. This guy not only won this same tournament last year, but he’s also a multiple time champion. He’s been around the block and really knows his stuff so I’m going to need you to be focused when we hit the gym”.

“Come on Dad,” Junior replies pompously. “It’s me!”

“That’s what I’m worried about meathead”, the elder snaps back, “that you won’t take this guy seriously. He’s an 18 year veteran, got it? He’s been doing this for about as long as you’ve been alive. His style is also quite similar to yours so anything you have up your sleeve, the chances are pretty good that he will have a counter”.

“Yeah, yeah, sure thing pops”, Junior replies dismissively. “Now hand me that light bulb”. Taking the bulb offered by his father the youngster steadies himself on the top rung of the ladder preparing to put it in. “That’s the thing about you old folks”, he continues, “You worry too much, and for what, some geriatric dinosaur who can’t get it up? His time has passed; it’s my time to shine”.

“You weren’t ready for Blade Alexander and you know what happened. Trust me when I tell you that you’re not ready for Jordan Williams. If you go into this match thinking he’s too old he’s going to light your ass up and run circles around you”.

“That was just bad luck against Alexander, and as for Jordan, he’s not ready for me,” Junior says, tightening the bulb into its socket. “Hell, mom wasn’t ready for me, which is why I popped a week early, the world isn’t ready for me and you know it! Hey, when that bell sounds you know I’m in it”. He stands on the ladder extending his arms in fabricated presentation, “They’re gonna fall in love with me”, he says. He brings his arms outward, rubbing them across his stomach while slinking into an impromptu dance. “Trust me pops, when we hit the gym tonight I’m gonna show you what it’s all about. Just like I’m gonna show Jordan Williams. There’s just one thing though..,” he says casting a glance down to his father. “You haven’t told me the important stuff about this match”.

“What? I just gave you all the details, what did I leave out?”

“My partner, Amy Marshal” he answers. “Is she hot?”

Sensing an opportunity the elder Gene quickly nods in approval. “She’s smoking”, he says, and she even told me what turns her on most in this world”.

“Really, what’s that?”

“She says nothing turns her on more than a man who gets things done in the ring. If you can go out there and tackle somebody like Jordan Williams you have a good shot at scoring”.

“Oh hell yeah!” Junior cries clenching his fist and pumping it excitedly. “I’m gonna get laid I can’t wait!”

Suddenly the ladder topples over onto its side spilling the delighted youngster onto the floor with a violent crash accompanied by the heavy thud of his body landing. Looking up bewilderedly he notices his mother having risen from her feet return to her seat at the kitchen table and groans.

“Heaven can’t wait either if you’re going to interrupt my reading”, she says.