[Son of Salem]

 
Kedron Williams: “I still don’t understand why we have to wear these ridiculous masks!”

It was late in the hour. The sun had set hours ago and even though the stars were hidden in the heavens thanks to the lights of the Las Vegas Strip, you knew well enough that they were there. And the famed Strip itself? It had just started to return to life, as some of the famed hotels and casinos had opened under ill-advisement, while still more were preparing to open their own doors early next week. And the people who filed in and out acted as if they had not a care in the world, laughing and socializing, eating, gambling and drinking as if a pandemic was not threatening everything they held dear; themselves included.

Enter Kedron and Rinoa Williams. The two were, by nature, ‘night owls’ and when Rinoa felt a desire to stretch her legs from the confines of their room at the Saxon, Kedron was only too willing to oblige his wife’s desire. True, he was not the sociable sort, but even he felt the stirrings of desire to be in the cool night air of the Vegas desert.

His complaint was about the masks that Rinoa had insisted they both don, despite the fact that due to who (and what) they were, both were immune to this dreaded disease. All too used to her husband’s blatant complaints, Rinoa stroked his arm with her fingers and smiled.

Rinoa Williams: “Appearances, darling. And besides, if we go without, you know one of those ‘holier than thou’ sorts would be up in our business and we’d end up on some social media video -- for good or ill.”

Kedron slowly turned to his wife as they walked and smiled, prompting her to scoff playfully.

Rinoa Williams: “Kedron, we are not getting rid of these masks just to cause a small riot.”

Kedron’s smile was infectious, pun not intended, and Rinoa had the wisp of one on her lips as she listened to her husband pout.

Kedron Williams: “You never let me have any fun.”

They continued walking, and Kedron’s eyes fell down in front of them and he sighed.

Kedron Williams: “And them? Was their accompanying us absolutely necessary?”

And by ‘them,’ Kedron was referring to his wife’s babies, the three Sphinx felines; Cleopatra, Achilles and Isis. The three cats were weaving through their legs expertly, without causing either of ‘their humans’ to trip and fall, walking ahead of them both as some form of honored escort.

Rinoa Williams: “What? You could hardly expect me to leave them cooped up in our room, could you?”

Kedron Williams: “We leave them out every night to hunt. Las Vegas is filled with murders and thieves. One of these days your ‘babies’ will hurt one of them.”

Of course Rinoa knew that Kedron was merely teasing her. Well, for the most part. Kedron adored all the innocent creatures of the world save for human beings, but her three cats took some getting used to. And for the longest of time, all three of the cats would hiss and swipe at her husband for merely being in the same room as them. It did not make for the most harmonious of co-existing. And now that Kedron was whole once more, the three cats met him now with more acceptance and curiosity than ever before. To a degree, it was something he had wanted, but cats could be persistently annoying at times!

Rinoa Williams: “Go play, babies.”

All three felines’ heads turned up at their mistress and they then turned and took off into the roaming shadows of the city surrounding them, confident in their safe return. The three cats had a sixth sense it seemed and no matter where they were here in Las Vegas, they never had an issue in returning to their ‘mothers’ loving embrace.

Cleopatra led her two siblings in a merry chase around the feet of many a tourist, deftly avoiding any outstretched hands that sought a soft pet or to perhaps take hold of them. They wound about between two casinos and into the shadows of one where it was in the process of repairs and being added on to, when they came to a halt and looked up…

At the hooded figure standing over them with the mark of the ‘Blood Cult’ emblazoned on his (or her) chest.



“‘Crazy demon clown dude.’”

“That is how our esteemed ‘King’ referred to me as in his production of this week’s card, and in my assigned match against a familiar face in Griffin Hawkins, is it not? That’s alright. I have been called much worse by much better. And I bear the man no grudges or ill will for such a low key attempt to be humorous or witty. It is not the fault of Jack Washington that he has so little imagination that this is the best that he can come up with when speaking of yours truly.”

“I mean, ‘crazy?’ Okay, perhaps that I can give him at least a partial point. To have done the things that I have one would have to be at least somewhat crazed. ‘Demon?’ I have been associated with those of the infernal realms so I suppose I could be compared to such, that whole guilt by association and all that. Despite the aid of my wife and Ben Jordan, not so easy a thing to shake as one might hope or imagine. But -- clown? I can forgive the ‘dude’ part because that is just a remnant of lower class intellect, but the clown part has me confused. I mean, do you see me walking around in that garish clown makeup like our former star Anthrax or lurking in storm drains with a red balloon, trying to entice children? No? What then? Do my eyes or eyelashes attract Jack’s wanton attention and that is simply his way to notify me of his fatal attraction? Sorry Jack, but not only do I not bend that way, but I am a man spoken for.”

“Therefore I can only assume these subtle digs on your part are either from a simple lack of thought on your part, or a desperate bid for your name and personality to remain relevant on the minds and tongues of the so-called SCW Universe. I mean, let’s face it. You don’t exactly stand out, do you? You look like the same cookie cutter template of what seventy-five percent of the roster thinks a wrestler should look like. Your appearance, your very being, is what the whole ‘dime a dozen’ saying was created for. There is nothing about you that is original or stands out. Then when you see someone who thinks, acts or looks different, you decide to whisper a few insults from behind the safety of a computer screen. You did it to me, and you did it to Griffin Hawkins, the very same man that you booked me against.”

“But do you know what the difference is between men such as us, and yourself? Take me for example. After my final encounter with Ben Jordan at last year’s Summer XXXTreme VII, I took time off. I took a ‘lot’ of time off, but my name remained. So much so that when I finally made my return, it was to secure a shot at a championship title. When SCW had reopened, Griffin’s name was on the lips of so many to make a return and when he did, he became a record setting champion for the very same title that I now hold. Why is that, I wonder? Because people remembered us. Our names remained. Griffin’s many championship accomplishments and his feud with Christian Underwood. My storied rivalry with Ben Jordan and everything that came along with it. And you, Jack?”

“Even if you emerge as the new World Champion this weekend, a year from now your name will be lost. Nobody will even care that you were here. You will be at best a footnote in SCW history, and where the title lineage is concerned, a transitional champion at best. But, that’s if you win, and speaking as a man who has been in the ring with Ben Jordan numerous times? You haven’t got what it takes to put that man down for the count.”

“But I’ve wasted enough time talking of an even bigger waste. No, this time it should be all about a certain someone else. A man who I am familiar with both inside and out of the ring; Griffin Hawkins.”

“Ah Griffin, what cruel twist of ironic fate has brought us to this dance of the macabre once again? We met in the ring only one time before, and yes indeed. It was you who walked away as the winner. Times change, however. In more ways than one it would seem by recent events. You see, I am no longer that blind derelict of a man whose heart was blackened by vengeance and allowed that same emotion to blind him to the ways of the world, especially the world inside of the ring. If I were, I never would have defeated Stephen Callaway or Caleb Storms to get the chance to face Jack Russow. I never would have ended up defeating Russow and sending that whining little bitch crying to his friends in search of easier pastures to make himself feel better and more emboldened! But we all know enough about Russow’s measure of a man. As I said before; this is about you and me.”

“History can not so easily be erased or overlooked, and where you and I are concerned, things do tend to become complicated. You bested me once inside of the ring, and you aided me outside of it -- even if you weren’t aware that you were doing so. It’s the thought that counts. But just as I stressed I was not the same man that you once defeated, I can see that you are no longer the man that once defeated me. You haven’t been ever since you lost the Roulette title to Russow and staked a claim to bigger and better things. Now a great many men would try and take advantage of this and make fun of you for it, but me…?”

“Well, I will attempt to take advantage, but to make fun of? What is there to insult? Even the greatest wrestlers in this business lose matches, some many times over, but that does not make them any less great. Take me for example, and yes I admit a foul taste at this slice of humble pie, but my own win-loss record is far from spotless. I suffered many more losses than wins, one being to yours truly, but I simply moved on and used each one as a learning point. The wins that I did get were against top level competition, and that fact alone spurred me on to keep going.”

“My point is that I did not let the losses define me. Even my first match after winning this trinket -- I lost to Lachlan Kane. Mainly thanks to the assistance of that bitch he joined in wedlock. But unfortunately all the people see in the end is a win for Lachlan, no matter how he accomplished it. And as upsetting as it was, it helped me in the end, Griffin. Because now I know I will have to face him with higher stakes, namely my championship being on the line, and that will just serve to make defeating him even sweeter.”

“But look at you now, Griffin. You stepping up and deciding that you want Ben Jordan and the World Heavyweight Championship! Well, while the end goal is admirable, you’ve had your eyes on that particular prize even when you still reigned as the Roulette Champion. And for that reason alone, you have to be careful because greed can bring about change in a man, and none for the better. I imagine that is why I am stuck in my second non-title match in a row since winning this title, as if you are granted the championship match, facing me and possibly winning would put a real wrench in whatever Summer XXXTreme VIII plans the bosses have in mind. Not that it matters, mind you. Because I have no intention of walking away from that ring with anything less than a victory. This little downward spiral that you’ve been on? It’s only going to get worse -- for one more match at least. Because I have much more to lose over this encounter against you, even though the material risk is virtually nonexistent.”

“Win or lose, our World Champion is a giving man, and I am fairly certain you’ll get what you ask for whether you technically qualify or not. Me? Two back-to-back losses after winning a championship? Well, even I know that does not speak well of your status as said champion, so I am afraid that I am going to have to end your aspirations to stop that slump that you’ve found yourself in. No offense, it’s strictly business.”

“You understand.”