“Make sure you get all of this. This dude makes me nervous,” says the voice of whoever is in charge of the Sin City camera crew. They were making their way down the driveway on the way to their destination. To some, the property may seem isolated, inconveniently far from a 7-Eleven or a multiplex cinema. But for Ken Davison, whose pleasures would never be understood by most neighbors, relative isolation is the fundamental requirement when he is shopping for secondary real estate. His primary residence, back in Baltimore, was selected for the proximity to more modern amenities, designed for functionality as it pertained to his mostly public life. This property, however, was for some other purpose.
On a summer afternoon or evening, however, Davison could see himself sitting in a bentwood rocker on the front porch, gazing out at the deep yard and the acres of wildflowers in the fields cleared by the logger and his sons, or staring at the great spread of stars, even the meekest and citified man would agree that isolation has its appeal. In good weather, Ken Davison would have liked to take his dinner and a couple of beers on the porch. If the silences were to become boring, he could always allow himself to hear the voices of those who are buried in the field: their groveling and lamentations, the music that he prefers to any on the radio.
However, this was not the summer. This was winter and the cold air prevented any such activity. The vehicle carrying the camera crew rolls up the driveway, it audibly kicks up rocks underneath the tires as they slowly travel up the gravel. As they close in on the residence, they can see that in addition to the house, there is a small barn. It is not there because the original owner of the property farmed any of the lands that he cleared of trees but because he kept horses. This second building is of traditional wood-frame construction on a concrete footing and fieldstone stem wall; wind, rain, and sun long ago laid down a silver patina on the durable cedar siding, which Davison finds lovely. Since he owns no horses, he uses the barn as a garage. Now, however, the crew pulls to a stop beside the house, rather than continuing to the barn.
Switching off the engine but not the windshield wipers, the crew waits. The early-December morning is animate with slanting rain and wind-shaken things, but nothing moves of its own deliberation. Unbeknownst to the camera crew, four Dobermans are awaiting any intruders. They have been trained not to charge willy-nilly at approaching vehicles and even to bide their time with intruders who are on foot, the better to lure them into a zone from which escape is impossible. These guards know that stealth is as important as savage fury, that the most successful assaults are preceded by calculated stillnesses to lull the quarry into false confidence. They had been trained in the same ways as their master. The locker room, catering, the hallways backstage… no one in Sin City Wrestling was TRULY safe.
The first black head appears, bullet sleek but for its pricked ears, low to the ground at the rear corner of the house. The dog hesitates to reveal more of himself, surveying the scene to make sure that he understands what is happening, just as Davison himself would do. At the nearest comer of the barn, between the cedar siding and the trunk of a winter-bare maple, another dog appears. It is little more than a shadow of a shadow in the rain. Davison himself wouldn't have noticed these silent sentinels if he didn't know to look for them. As the camera crew began to unload their equipment, the dogs remained, still and silent. Their self-control is remarkable, a testament to Davison’s abilities as a trainer.
Two more dogs lurk somewhere, perhaps behind the barn or belly crawling through shrubbery where they can't be seen. They are all Dobermans, five and six years old, in their prime. Davison would not crop their ears or bob their tails, as is usually done with Dobermans, for he has an affinity for nature's predators. He is able to perceive the world to a degree as he believes that animals perceive it-the elemental nature of their view, their needs, the importance of raw sensation. They have a kinship. They are one and the same, the lone exception being that he is the Alpha.
The dog by the corner of the house slinks into the open, and the dog at the barn emerges from beneath the black-limbed maple. A third Doberman rises from behind the massive and half-petrified stump of a long-vanquished cedar in the side yard, around which has grown a tangled mass of holly.
“Achtung!” Davison’s voice booms out of a speaker nearby. The dogs’ ears perk up. The crew looks up. There is some kind of speaker attached to the porch directly underneath a surveillance camera. The Dobermans hear the voice of their master, however, they don't wag their tails or in any way exhibit pleasure, because they are still on duty. The fourth dog remains hidden, but these three drift warily around the crew through the rain and the mist. Their heads are lifted, pointy cars flicked up and forward. In their disciplined silence and indifference to the storm, they remind him of a herd of elk in a redwood grove. The big difference, of course, is that these creatures, if confronted by anyone other than their beloved master, would not respond with the timidity of elk but would tear the throat out of that luckless person.
The fourth comes out from behind their vehicle as the camera crew, still recording with their singular camera, remains motionless. The four dogs are all quivering with excitement still holding themselves in check, not wanting to be thought derelict in their duty. Davison could have the canines attack by speaking the name ‘Suess,’ at which point they would kill anyone else who walks onto the property. The irony of the command is that it is the name of the famous children’s author, This always amused him. They will remain primed to kill anyone who walks onto the property until he speaks a different name. “Rommel” comes Davison’s voice again. Upon hearing the name of the famous German war strategist, it is as though a light switch is flipped, the vicious guard dogs become as affable as any other group of sociable mutts-except, of course, if anyone unwisely threatens their master. “Box,” Davison further instructs them. “Come inside. I am ready for you,” Davison commands the camera crew as the dogs scurry away to the back of the barn, leaving the camera crew alone in the rain. Still, they do not bark, for he has schooled them in silence.
The crew gathers the rest of their equipment and walks through the soggy grass to the old log house and climbs a set of fieldstone steps to the front porch. A mobile hangs at one corner of the porch, from the fascia board at the edge of the shake-shingle roof. It is made of twenty-eight white seashells, all quite small, some with lovely pink interiors; most are spiral in form, and all are relatively exotic. The bentwood rocker that Davison was dreaming about has been stored away until spring. The rustic aesthetic is otherwise intact.
The front room on the ground floor ran the entire width of the small house. It was illuminated only by the gray light from the window. There were hunter-green leather armchairs with footstools, a tartan plaid sofa on large ball feet, rustic oak end tables, and a section of bookshelves that held perhaps three hundred volumes. On the hearth of the big river-rock fireplace were gleaming brass and irons, and on the mantel was an old clock with two bronze stags rearing up on their hind legs. The decor was thoroughly but not aggressively masculine. No glassily staring deer or bear heads on the walls, no hunting prints, no rifles on display, just cozy and comfortable. For a man who proclaimed he wanted the best of everything, his second residence was surprisingly underwhelming.
The house was redolent of lemon-oil furniture polish and a subtle pine-scented air freshener, as well as the faint and pleasant smell of char from the fireplace. The camera crew, still nervous, hurriedly crosses the front room to a half-open door. They opened it and went through and found a kitchen. Canary-yellow ceramic tile with knotty-pine cabinets. On the floor, gray vinyl tile speckled with yellow and green and red. Well scrubbed. Everything in its place. Quite rustic. Taped to the side of the refrigerator was a calendar already turned forward to April, with a color photograph that showed one white and one black kitten-both with dazzling green eyes-peering out from a huge spray of lilies. Based on his recent behavior, the normalcy of the house was terrifying. The gleaming surfaces, the tidiness, the homey touches, It was too perfect. You could easily picture Rose, Blanche, Dorothy, and Sophia sitting down for a slice of cheesecake.
“Anyone else think this is weird?” one of the crew members blurts out. There is a collective murmur amongst the rest of the crew as they make their way through the kitchen. The ambiance was very much a physical representation of Davison’s skewed mentality. The house serves its purpose much the same way each and every person in his life and has their purpose.
Through the four glass panes in the upper half, they see a back porch, a green yard, a couple of big trees, and the barn. They make their way past the rear door, pausing only momentarily to see if anyone was on the other side of it. Without any partition, the kitchen opened into the dining area, and the combined space was probably two-thirds the width of the house. The round dinette table was dark pine, supported by a thick central drum rather than legs; the four heavy pine captain's chairs featured tie-on back and seat cushions.
The noise of a running shower was apparent in the kitchen because the pipes were routed through the rear wall of the old house. Water being drawn upward to the bathroom made an urgent, hollow rushing sound through copper. Furthermore, the pipe wasn't tied down and insulated as well as it ought to have been, and at some point along its course, it vibrated against a wall stud: rapid knocking behind the plasterboard, tatta-tatta-tatta-tatta-tatta. The noise could be construed as either comforting, as there theoretically should be someone else in the home, or rather disconcerting, as the vibrations make you feel as though everything is moving, even though all except the pipes are perfectly still.
At the north end of the dining area was another door. Adorning the door is a hand-painted sign, the color of blood, are the words “This way.” The leader of the camera crew, one would assume the producer, turns the knob as quietly as she could, hand visibly shaking. She crosses the threshold with caution, motioning for the rest of the crew to follow her. Beyond lay a combination of laundry and storage room. A washer. An electric dryer. Boxes and bottles of laundry supplies were stored in an orderly fashion on two open shelves, and the air smells like detergent and bleach. The rush of water and the knocking pipe was even louder here than they had been in the kitchen. To the left, past the washer and dryer, was another door-rough pine, painted lime green. She opens it and sees stairs leading down to a black cellar. Her heart begins to beat faster.
Black. Pitch black.
There are absolutely no windows at all below. Not even a turbid leak of gray storm light seeping through narrow casements or screened ventilation cutouts. Dungeon dark. It’s the sort of thing where you would expect to turn on a light and find someone locked up. But if Davison were that demented and was keeping a captive down there, how odd that he wouldn't have added a lock to this upper door. It offered only the spring latch that retracted with a twist of the knob, not a real lock of any kind.
But that’s part of the game for Davison. Even without his presence, he is deep in the collective minds of the camera crew. The hopefully hypothetical captive might be sealed in a windowless room deep below, of course, or even manacled. They would have no hope of reaching these stairs and this upper door, even if left alone for days to worry at her restraints, which would explain why Davison would be confident that one more barrier to their flight wasn't necessary even when he was away from home.
The producer is snapped back into reality by the lights that came on behind her. In this day and age, everyone had a flashlight on their phones. Her shadow cast against the wall, she is leaning through the doorway, feeling along the stairwell wall for the switch, and snapped it up. Lights came on both at the upper landing and in the basement. ‘How in the hell can they aim a camera but not a flashlight?’ she thinks to herself. The bare concrete steps-a single flight-were steep. They appeared to be much newer than the house itself, perhaps even a relatively recent addition. “Be careful of the stairs, everyone. We don’t need anyone busting their ass.”
Halfway down the stairs, she glanced back and up. At the end of a trail of her wet shoe prints, the landing seemed a quarter of a mile above her, as far away as the top of the knoll had seemed from the front porch of the house. Alice down the rabbit hole into madness without a tea party.
“Do we really have to do this? It seems a little outside of our pay grade,” one of the crew members questions.
“Unfortunately,” the producer responds. She had a feeling of uneasiness. To her, this feels like one of those haunted houses that you go to on Halloween. At the open doorway between the in-kitchen dining area and the laundry room, Davison hears the mystery woman call out, hoping to hear his voice. She and the rest of the crew are only a few feet away from him, around the comer, past the washer and the dryer. He stands blinking but otherwise motionless in the fragrance of laundry detergent and in the wall-muffled rattle of copper pipes. ‘This is going to be fun,’ Davison muses.
“Davison? Ken? We know you’re here… somewhere.”
The cellar door stands open. The stairwell light is on. The crew is not in sight. On those infrequent occasions when he has guests to the house for dinner or a business meeting, he always leaves a Doberman in the laundry room. The dog lies in here, silent and dozing. But if anyone other than Davison were to enter, the dog would bark and snarl and drive them backward. Völsung was his go-to for such things. As the runt of the litter, he vaguely reminded Davison of.himself Undersized when compared to most others of his breed, but still capable of putting a callous contravention upon a calamitous casualty. When the master is away, Dobermans vigilantly patrol the entire property, and no one has a hope of getting into the house itself, let alone into the cellar.
Truth be told, Davison has never put a lock on the door to the cellar steps because he is concerned that it might accidentally trip, imprisoning him down there when he is at play and unaware. With a key-operated deadbolt, of course, this catastrophe could never happen. He, himself, is incapable of imagining how any such mechanism could malfunction and trap him; nevertheless, he's too concerned about the prospect to take the risk. Just as he does inside of the ring, he considers every possibility outside of it.
After a hesitation, he leans through the open door and looks down the cellar stairs. The last member of the camera crew, a towheaded young man, short and slender, is only a few steps from the bottom. He's got one hand on the railing. His full attention is aimed in front of him, following the direction of the producer. as though she were the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Regardless, even if she were the piper, he was the puppetmaster pulling her strings. He could have just as easily met the crew somewhere else, but he enjoyed this feeling of control.
He eases through the doorway onto the upper landing. As close as they are, they do not hear him because all is concrete, nothing to creak. He aims his hand as though it were a pistol, pointing at the center of the blonde gentleman's back. The first shot would catapult him off his feet, send him flying with arms spread like an eagle. Instead of taking flight, the body would fall toward the basement below. The second shot would take him as he is in flight. Davison would then race down the stairs, firing the third and fourth rounds, hitting other members of the camera crew in the legs if possible. He would then tackle the producer from behind while she took in the carnage. He would drop on top of her, press the muzzle into the back of her head, and then, then, when he's totally in control of her, dominant, he can decide what to do with her. Just as the minds of the camera crew had wandered, so had Davison’s. This, however, was not that kind of hunt. For as much as the idea intrigued him, he was no killer.
The outer wall of mortared stone was to their right. There was nowhere to go in that direction. To her left was a chamber about ten feet from front to back, and as wide as the house. The crew moved away from the foot of the stairs, into this new space. At one end stood an oil-fired furnace and a large electric water heater. At the other end were tall metal storage cabinets with vent slits in the doors, a workbench, and a tool chest on wheels. Nothing that would seem out of the ordinary, with a lone exception. Directly ahead, in a concrete-block wall, a strange door waited. Click-whoosh. The sound of the furnace startles the crew, revealing exactly how on edge they are. Over the sound of the furnace, they could still hear the vibrating pipe. Tatta-tatta-tatta. It was faint here, but still audible.
The door in the back wall was padded like a theater door, in leather grain maroon vinyl divided into quilt-like squares by eight upholstery nails with large round heads covered in matching vinyl. The frame was upholstered in the same material. No lock, not even a spring latch, prevented her from proceeding. Putting her hand on the vinyl, the producer discovers that the padding was even plusher than it appeared to be. As much as two inches of foam covered the underlying wood. She gripped the long stainless-steel, U-shaped handle. When she pulled, the vinyl-encased door softly scraped and squeaked across the upholstery on the jamb. The fit was snug: When the door swung all the way free of the jamb and the seal was broken, there was a faint sound similar to that made when one opened a jar of vacuum-packed peanuts. The door was upholstered on the inside as well. The overall thickness was in excess of five inches. Beyond this new threshold lay a six-foot-square chamber with a low ceiling, which reminded her of an elevator, except that every surface other than the floor was upholstered. The floor was covered with a rubber mat of the kind used in many restaurant kitchens for the comfort of cooks who worked on their feet for hours at a time. In the dim light from the recessed overhead bulb, she saw that the fabric here wasn't vinyl but gray cotton with a nubbly texture.
Directly opposite the door that the producer held open was one more door. It was also padded and set in an upholstered frame. Finally, there were locks. The gray upholstery plumped around two heavy-duty brass lock cylinders. She and the rest of the crew couldn't proceed without keys. Then she noticed a small padded panel overlying the door itself at eye level, perhaps six by ten inches with a knob attached. It was like the sliding panel over the viewport in the solid door of a maximum-security prison cell. Tatta-tatta-tatta… whoever was in the shower seemed to be taking an unusually long shower. On the other hand, they hadn't been in the house more than three or four minutes; it just seemed longer. If he was having a leisurely scrub, he might not be half done.
Tatta-tatta-tatta. Beyond was rose-colored light. The port was fitted with a sturdy screen to protect the viewer from assault by whoever or whatever was within. The producer puts her face to the port and saw a large chamber nearly the size of the living room under which it was situated. In portions of the space, shadows were pooled deep, and the only light came from three lamps with fringed fabric shades and pink bulbs that were each putting out about forty watts. At two places along the back wall were panels of red and gold brocade that hung from brass rods as if covering windows, but there could be no windows underground; the brocade was just set dressing to make the room more comfortable… or maybe it was designed to make the room more uncomfortable. It was hard to say. On the wall to the left, barely touched by light, was a large tattered tapestry: a scene of women in long dresses and cloche hats riding horses side-saddle through spring grass and flowers, past a verdant forest.
The furnishings included a plump armchair with antimacassars, a double bed with a white headboard painted with a scene not quite discernible in the rose light, bookcases with acanthus-leaf molding, cabinets with mullioned doors, a small dining table with a heavily carved apron, two Directoire chairs with flower-pattern upholstery flanking the table, and a refrigerator. An immense dark-stained armoire, featuring crackle-glazed flower appliques on all the door panels, was old but probably not a genuine antique, battered but handsome. A padded vanity bench sat before a makeup table with a triptych mirror in a gilded, fluted frame. In a far comer were a toilet and a sink. As weird as this subterranean room was, like a storage vault for the stage furniture from a production of Arsenic and Old Lace, it housed terrifying horror and Halloween-based decorations.
On the side table next to one of the Directoire chairs is a severed pig’s head, covered in a rather convincing version of fake blood. Bookshelves are lined with several iconic weapons, a replica of Freddy Krueger’s bladed gauntlet, Jason Vorheese’s machete, as well as the pride of Davison’s collection, and a handmade version of Lucille from ‘The Walking Dead.’. Perhaps, the most disturbing of all the decor is a tree, carefully positioned in one of the darker corners of the room. The branches are adorned with several bloody body parts. From the size of them, one could assume that they belonged to a small child.
“What’s red and hangs around trees?” The entire production team jumps, startled by their host appearing suddenly behind them. “A baby hit by a snowblower.” The room was overrun with these kinds of things. The entire production team jumps, startled by their host appearing suddenly behind them. “What’s green and hangs around trees? Same baby three weeks later.”[/color]
Davison was obviously going for shock value, not that he needed it. His memorabilia was shocking enough. They filled the bookshelves, peered out through the glass doors of some of the cabinets, perched on the armoire, sat atop the refrigerator, stood and sat on the floor along the walls. Others were piled atop one another in a different corner and even some at the foot of the bed, legs and arms jutting at odd stiff angles, heads cocked as on broken necks, like stacks of gaily attired corpses awaiting transport to a crematorium. Two, maybe three hundred or so small faces either glowed in the gentle light or were ghost pale in the shadows.
“Get setup. Now. There is no time to waste.” Davison commands. The truth is that Davison has all the time in the world, he is simply done with his game The crew scurries to finish setting up while Davison walks over to a panel of some sort, flipping the switches so the ambiance changes from the gentle rose color to the harshness of a deep crimson. He takes his place in the chair next to the bloody pig’s head and sits down as though it isn’t even there.
“You know, despite my general hatred of people, I love my dogs. They live in an enormous kennel against the back of the barn, which they can enter and leave at will. It is electrically heated during cold weather to ensure their comfort and their continued good health. I have rigged electrically operated dispensers inside the kennel. The system clock has a backup battery to continue timing meals even during a power failure of short duration. If there is a long-term loss of power, the dogs can always resort to hunting for their food. The surrounding meadows are full of field mice and rabbits and squirrels, and the Dobermans are fierce predators. The water trough is fed by a drip line, but if it should ever stop working, they can find their way to the spring that runs through the property.”
“They constitute quite the efficient and reliable security system: never a short in any circuit, never a failed motion detector, never a corroded magnetic contact-and never a false alarm. Oh, and how they love me, how unreservedly and loyally, as no memory chips and wires and cameras and infrared heat sensors ever could. They have been taught to kill not merely in self-defense, not just for food; with a degree of iron self-control, they have been taught to kill for the sheer savage pleasure of it. They understand that I, their master, can and will match their savagery.” Davison raises an eyebrow. “Unlike them, I never needed to be taught.”
Davison smiles slyly. His mood certainly did not miss the macabre tone of his surroundings.
“I come into this match having the advantage of being a relative unknown, aside from reputation. However, I happen to have the good fortune to have first hand knowledge of Brandon Hendrix…”
Davison leans forward in his chair, hands folded. He turns his hands towards the camera, to make certain that he is the center of attention.
“You see, I find it highly unusual that the company would simply give you a match without any kind of fanfare. You’re not even listed on the company’s roster page on the website. Yet, on your very own Twitter, your pinned tweet from October 6th is you proudly proclaiming your victory for the SCW Heavy Metal Championship. Bravo, Brand-o. Bravo, indeed. The problem here is THIS SCW doesn’t have that title. So, I don’t even know if that was the same guy or if there is a second, probably more talented wrestler, running around with the same name.”
“Brandon Hendrix, your only purpose, prior to offering yourself to me like Marvel and Glimmer, volunteer tributes from District 1, was to run around and take up space. You just happen to be enough of a name in this business to be somewhat recognizable, in that “I know him from somewhere but I can’t remember” sort of way. Despite how I am going to persecute you, you are not someone to root for. You’re just along for the ride. You do not belong in a match vying for a championship opportunity. You are not worthy of your position.”
Davison sits back and crosses his legs, giving a vibe of total relaxation.
“You remind me of the famous, or more appropriately infamous, document from the Mormon faith called “The Salamander Letter.” People initially believed the document to be a legitimate piece of history from within the Latter Day Saint history. The document was so convincing that it was accepted as legitimate, people believed that the document was authentic. In the end, it was proven to be a forgery, painstakingly crafted to make people believe that it was exactly what it appeared to be at face value. I would like to think that is what you are. I would like to think that you have crafted your persona in such a way that people would look at you and dismiss you as a joke. I have a hard time believing that any human being could possibly be as ignorant as you appear to be. You act like you belong in the ring with a wrestler of the caliber of the GKD, “Godly” Ken Davison.But, alas, you do not.”
“For all of my faults, there is one thing that I cannot be accused of. I am exactly the person I present myself to be. I have shown my intellect. I have shown my skill and physical prowess in the ring. When I say that I am going to knock you out for a ten count, it is believable. When I say that I will put you down for the three, you can take that to the bank. When I tell someone that I will shove my hand down their throat and make them squirm until they can’t move anymore, you can take that to the bank. I’d like to say that it will be easy, but that would be a lie. Whether or not you are authentic or not, one thing that I can say is irrevocably true about you is that if you are the Brandon Hendrix I know, you are a scrapper. You are the type of competitor that can hang around far longer than you have any business doing. That can be dangerous if that characteristic is downplayed or ignored. While I know that you should not hope to beat me, we both know that you do hope to beat me. We both know that you will not back down. So, I shall take my payment from you in a pound as though I was a loan shark. You may not be taking my money, but you are taking MY time, MY energy and MY focus that I should be using to prepare for an Internet Championship match. ”
Davison turns his wrist, giving a visible representation of dismissing Brandon to the audience at home.
“ Now, we have Austin James Mercer and Jack Washington. Is the 2 of you are former world champions peris champions. The 2 of you are exactly what I've been asking for since the moment I arrived. Mercer, you in particular are like mana from heaven, the gift from God that I have desired. I didn't ask for just the best. What I asked for was those who have sinned. I have asked for opponents that were not only amongst the elite, but those who deserve their own personal reckoning.”
“I want you to realize that people like you are the reason that I exist in this current incarnation. People like you need to understand that I will not only stoop to your level, I will go lower. People like you need to realize that I will not only find your weakness, I will exploit that weakness, and I will enjoy your suffering.”
Davison sits up straight, no longer relaxed, but completely serious.
“Mercer, you, Washington, and myself all have resumes that speak for themselves. What separates me from the 2 of you is that I am not a cliche. Mercer, you walk around acting like you are something special. When I started in this business, I was the anomaly. Everyone else was six and a half feet tall and almost 300 pounds. You claim that you're some kind of all around great athlete. You're like a Mary Sue with a penis.”
“None of your natural talents will mean anything once we meet in the ring.. I have got 25 years of experience in this business.. Just like your height, experience cannot be taught. Dare I say that my experience advantage makes me far more dangerous than any of your physical gifts. I am going to make it my mission to single you out. I am going to make sure that you suffer. However, I am a kind and benevolent God. I won't completely destroy you. I'll make sure there's at least a couple of scraps to send home to Lisa and Marcus.”
Davison smirks, knowing full well he was beginning the assault on Mercer’s weakness ahead of the match.
“Jack Washington, you are special in a different way. I see a lot of myself and you. Like yourself, I too only deal in facts. The fact is that that I am cut of the same cloth as Alex Jones. Is in fact Kala I was recently reminded that he and I were attacked him for a short while. Unfortunately, my personal life went to shit and I had to leave the company before we could both see the mutual benefits of that partnership. Is that having been said, you dropped the ball. By your own admission, you lost focus and you lost the match. I may not understand the way things work around here, at least not yet. What I do understand is that both you and Mercer are in this match, being given this opportunity, for no reason other than your resumes.”
“You used to be World Champion. Fact. You lost at High Stakes. Fact. You do not deserve an opportunity at the Internet Championship, nor any other championship. Fact. You have fallen from grace and will continue to fall. Fact. You lack both the warmth and the depth to be a cunt. Fact/ Everyone who's ever loved you was wrong. Fact. You state the obvious with a sense of childlike discovery. Fact. You aren't pretty enough to be the stupid. Fact. I am not insulting you. I am describing you. Fact. ”
“I could go on, but I think you get the point. While you may have bested Mac, I am not Bane. I was the one who first referred to Bane as the “Gentleman Wolf.” However, I do not have the reservations he has. I have the physical and intellectual prowess to end your career, but lack the conscience and remorse to prevent me from doing so. You think what I did to you back in Stanford was fun? That was just an introduction.”
Davison stands up, petting the pig’s head while looking directly at the camera.
“This match is a warning. It is a warning to Agostino Romero. It is a warning to Bill Barnhart. This is a warning to each and every man, woman, and child that would dare to stand in the path of the Saviors. Mercer… Hendrix… Washington…you are the sacrificial lambs. I am the slaughter.”
Davison pauses long enough to smirk into the camera.
Davison stands confidently as the camera fades to black.