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!"
