Nightmares
Scene One | Off-Camera | 12th April 2023
“Inescapable, even across the world. You truly do enjoy haunting me.”
It was a dream he was quite used to. The forgiveness of an ex-lover. The touch of kindness, ripped away in a instant by the return of the domineering aggression of his mind. Dreams filled with self-deprecation and abuse. Always in the form of his father. Always there to remind him of his own self-doubt.
“I’m in your fucking head boy. You can’t run away from me. There is nowhere in this world, that you can escape your own mind. I’ll always be with you Alex. You cannot escape me. I’m just another thing you fail to understand.”
The off-white, cigarette stained world of his childhood kitchen was his prison this time. Sitting across from the sharp, stern man. His hard features were as crisp in his mind today, as they had been twenty years ago. For everything he’d done to suppress the memories of the abuser, he also could never forget the man he had once adored.
“So, how do I hate myself today?”
“Why ask me? You know what I would say. You failed, again. Ever the failure, and yet you will rise above it. You always need to rise above your failures, or you’ll be washed in your inadequacy once again. Run, run away little bird. Run far away, and let them be true. Everything they say about you, it will all be true. And you can go back to pouring amber piss for all the drunkards who pretend that you are their friend.”
Echoing laughter, the clink of bottles. Memories of the past flooding his mind. The drunken slurring of his father. ‘Failure! Pathetic! Worthless!’ The descriptors of his past. Anger misdirected and taken out on the innocent. He’d always thought he’d come to terms with it. That in forgiving and working with his father all those years ago, he’d overcome his demons. But his dreams always taught him otherwise. His dreams always showed him the real truth.
“Why are you never able to be proud of me?”
The figure of his father faded for a moment, feeling a heavy hand fall upon his shoulder. The coffee stained grin, the hard and empty eyes. Devoid of life.
“Failure makes you me, boy. The more you fail, the more you become me. Addicted to your vices, losing your faith in the world. Heartless, disconnected. She melts your icy heart, but what happens when the truth of their deceptions comes to light? Do you reserve yourself? Become my mirror? That is your fate, little bird. To become what you resent, if you fail to climb your mountain. To become, me.”
Never.
He reached up to grab the hand on his shoulder, but found himself alone. Sitting in the kitchen. Alone. The world around him seemed to warp and distort, the echoes in his head. Voices of his friends, of James, of Luna. Accusations of failure. Calaway’s blaming of him, Luna’s manipulations of his mind. The radio silence of all those who had spent the last year mocking him. Jack’s laughter.
“Get out of my head. Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out!
His hands go up to his own ears, pressing his palms tightly against the sides of his head. The sounds didn’t mute, they just got louder. Bouncing around inside his own head, pushing on the backs of his eyes. The pressure threatening to push his mind out through his eyes.
“It’s okay, bird boy.”
Arms wrapping around his head, covering his ears, arms covering his eyes. The gentle touch, the softness of lips to the top of his head. His peace. Lauren.
“Be kind to yourself. You have so much good in your life, Alex. So much. Don’t let the small things get you down, my king. Don’t let the bad parts, obfuscate the good. She loves you, like I loved you. James loves you. The world, loves you, Alex. You’re doing so much good. Let them see that. Let them see, your good.”
And then he woke up. His arms wrapped tightly around Luna, her face serene. Softness, and gentle. The world beyond his own mind so much more gentle. Even in the depths of his own despair, he had someone to save him. Luna in reality, Lauren in his dreams. His mind was always in constant turmoil, and it was ever harder to stop it. He put on a face for the world. A face of confidence, a face of vanity.
Yet here, in the dark of night. In his own bed, he was weak. He had no confidence. He had no strength. His self-love dependent on others acknowledgment of him. And they could never know. They were broken too, all of them. James, Luna, Sullivan, Harrison and even Leon. Broken children, born of trauma and abuse. And they all expected him to keep it together, because they needed him to.
And maybe he couldn’t do it anymore. Maybe he was lacking the strength that he once had. His body ached constantly. He was sore, he was hurt. He hadn’t fully recovered from the pace of his Internet title reign, and the brutality of the encounters. His nose hadn’t ever fully set correctly, his breathing laboured. The beers flowed more freely, and he was smoking more than he had. He was dangling by a thread, and he was putting so much emphasis on being able to succeed in his next venture.
But maybe it wasn’t about him now. Luna was now a champion. And she wore her emotions on her sleeve. In a world where he was so unsure of himself, he knew he had to be sure of her. Regardless of the deceit. Regardless of the secrets. They all had secrets, and she was entitled to keeping hers. So he would be there for her, and hold her high whilst she was soaring. He would forge his own path, but it was about her success. For in his own journey, hers could emerge.
“Lexi, you think too loud.”
Luna grumbled at him, turning to press her face into his chest. He smiled, truly smiled, as he pulled her head into his chest tightly. Even in his silence, she could hear it all.
The Napalm Kingslayer
Scene Two | On-Camera | 13th April 2023
“Failure demands payment. The payment of The Conspiracy is blood. Be it your own, or anothers. It does not matter. Blood must be paid, and payment will be taken.”
A man stands with his back towards the world, a large wooden table in front of him. Black and white, everything devoid of colour. A wooden cabin, with mounted deer heads line the walls, pelts and furs. Hanging grouse and pigeon. A hunter’s cabin.
The man at the table has both hands on the table, leaning down. Spatters of a darker grey spot the edges of the table, and a steady stream of similarly coloured liquid pool at the end of the slight tilt, dribbling down into a bucket at the end of it.
“There is a mistake that people make when it comes to Alexander Raven. This idea that Alexander Raven is a man of cowardice, and words. Someone who can fight, but is never the strong man in the contest. Dirty tactics, poor behaviours. A king of chance for nearly half a year. What they don’t understand, is there is a lot more beneath the surface of the words and behaviours. There is a lot more that happens beneath the bravado of the One True King. True and False at the same time, there is a world of happenings beneath the generally maintained demeanour. Blood, sweat and tears, these are just a few of the things that take daily penance. Blood, sweat and tears are the payment that is made to keep control of the masses that expect nothing but regal perfection from the Broken Messiah. Guidance is given to the broken masses, but only in success do they listen. So blood is paid, and in failure, blood is taken. But what is truly disappointing, is that not a single person was willing to step to the king to silence him. Everyone has an opinion on the King, yet when offered the opportunity to insult, to demean and to reduce him. They all fall silent. Keyboard warriors of the Internet, and silent bastards without the balls to step to the plate. No one answered the challenge, and in it, a validation.”
“A validation, that I am the hunter. The one who seeks, the one who reaches. I am the one who must take the brass ring in hand and pull it down. I am the one who must reach into the depths, pull the blade free and plunge it into the necrotic flesh of incestuous decay. A failure of the Sin City, is a failure on all who would pretend to abide by its lies. The Stained Glass Lies now sit above us, fractured and shattered. The glass ready to collapse and the freedom of truth standing beyond. Truth for the broken and the disconnected. I offer only guidance to a better light, and yet. For all those who deny my truth, they also stand in the depths afraid of stepping forward. So, I will be what I claim.”
His right hand moves forward, fingers wrapping around the handle of a large butcher’s cleaver. He lifts it up high, and slams it down onto something on the table. An arterial spray spurts into the air, a cacophony of screams filling the air. Men, women, animals. A deafening mixture of cries in pain. The cleaver raised up again, the screams slowly fading away.
“So I will take my payment. I will be the hunter, and this time. Steel will beget flesh, and a man who I owe a final reckoning to, stands in my path. A year ago, Bulldog Bill Barnhart, denied me the beginning that is now offered to my sweet queen, Luna. In what would have been my mirrored third match, I had a chance to dethrone the Guardian of Fate, Bill Barnhart. I failed. Not once, but twice. I failed to dethrone the Bulldog, twice. A flash in the pan, a man full of potential but failing to live up to it. That was what was thought of me. Every person had something to say about it. Finn Whelan, Fenris, Austin James Mercer, hell even Bulldog and Ken Davison had doubts. Who can blame them? I failed, time and time again, because that is who I am at heart in the eyes of the many. A failure. Someone who has all the potential but continues to fall short. A man who cannot meet the expectations of all those who place them upon him. A Broken Messiah, whose own flock demand truth that I cannot give them. A False Prophet, who speaks more truth than the lies he tries to push as prophecy. The One True King, who has never been more than the False One. I am aware of who the fuck I am, and yet. Everyone wants to tell me who I am. Fenris, King James, Jack fucking Washington. Arrogant and over indulgent bullies who think that anything they say holds more sway than anything I do. Yet I will step into the circle of combat over and over, between the ropes time and time again. I will climb into the cage, and I wear the collars of steel and blood. I will do it over and over, because at the end of the day, nobody has the fucking passion that I do. Nobody has the desire that I do. Nobody is as inventive, nobody is as hungry. I do not look at this as a point of proving anything. I have nothing to prove, for I am exactly what I am. I am Alexander Raven, the man who will take payment in blood.”
The cleaver slams down once more, another spurt of fluid, everything swathed in the black and grey cover. Cleaver up, and then down. Up, then down. Up, and then it is held there. The man turns, his face awash with the grey, spotting all over his face. Dripping down into his mouth, onto his beard, down onto his clothes. Heavily and thick, it continues to drip. Similarly to the blood pooling into the bucket.
“I have one goal, and that is to bring the truth to all. With their eyes open, and their minds closed. I do not care. For every single person will be forced to understand the bloody truth. That Alexander Raven is not just a man of bluster, shadows and mirrors. That the arrogance that builds into every single one of them is not validated in my mind. That by the end of this year, I can guarantee. I will either be the Worlds Champion, or I will have taken down every single person who stands in the way of truth. And the journey, starts with you, Bulldog. The man who started it all, for Alexander Raven.”
The smile crosses his face, as the black and white begins to fade away. Colour returning to the word. The grey turning to red, the cabin bathed in a low sickening yellow glow. His face, covered in thick slashes of red, blood. His body obscuring whatever was being hacked in to on the table. Another person steps in, holding a white sheet, handing it to Alexander Raven. A nod in acknowledgement as the second disappears, Alex spinning on his heel to throw the white sheet wide over the table. Splotches of red instantly soaking through the white sheet. He steps to the side, and moves towards the bucket that is now full, his hands wrapping around the sides of the steel bucket.
“Bulldog, we’ve gone to war before. Thumbtacks, submissions, an embarrassing dive into a pool. Speedo Barnhart, as you were dubbed. A man who mocks everything that I stand for. A man who belittles everything I do. Someone who continues to benefit from the falsification of reality that ebbs and flows through the effluvial grime of Sin City. What has Bulldog done to deserve to challenge Mac Bane? I busted my back for months. Taking challengers that everyone fears. Fenris, Mercer, Davison. Former World Champions, Kings of the delusional. I took them, over and over. There has not been an Internet Champion in recent times that has been as dominant, and as consistent as Alexander Raven. A pace that none other has even come close to matching, and a reign that dwarfs the flippant World Title Scene. Davison, Finn, Davison, Bane, Harris. Five changes in the time that I have stood as the One True King of this Sin City. And you, Bulldog. You were given the opportunity to dethrone Mac Bane, before me? Placating me. That was what the Internet Championship was. A peace offer, to keep me occupied. To keep me silent. To keep me from reaching the heights that every single person is afraid of Alexander Raven reaching. The offer of the hunt wasn’t in respect for me, Bill. No they did it keep me occupied. To focus my obsession elsewhere, so that I didn’t expose the filth that controls us.”
“But no more. I told them, I would be here. If nobody was willing to step to the plate, they needed to find someone. And so here we go. Match five, two wins a piece. Everything comes full circle, for the mouthy mutts are what started my journey towards this point. And the mouthy mutts, started with you, Bulldog. I have blooded every dog that I’ve come across. So it is fortunate that the world takes us back to here. That my next journey, begins where my first started. Redemption for my the failures of a younger man. Redemption for failures. And Blood in payment. Twenty feet of steel, six metres of agony for the home grown audience. Collar to collar. A dog collar match is generally reserved for the bloodiest of feuds. The deepest of anger. For battles that require an outcome that is as bloody as the participants within it. And so some may think it unnecessary. Some may think it too much for something borne from my own aggression. But that is where they are wrong, Bulldog. There is nothing better than a Dog Collar match to mark the fifth encounter. There is nothing more poetic, than putting to heel the Bulldog himself, with the dog collar that should be restraining his arrogant, bastard ass. I am not afraid of Bulldog, despite the fact that everyone will always say to expect the unexpected from the veteran. No, I fear no man, for at the end of the day. There will always be a winner and a loser. I know this very fucking well. So Bulldog, I do have to apologise. For this match, it isn’t for you. It’s isn’t for us. It is to show that I am completely dedicated to the path before me.”
He throws the contents of the bucket over the table. Instead of the red however, it is far more yellow in colour. Almost opaque, somewhat amber. Dropping the bucket, his smile is etched deep on his face. A hand going up to his face, and wiping it, smearing the blood more over his features. All of his skin hidden behind the mask of red. He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a silver flip lighter, igniting the flame. His eyes locked on the flicker of fire.
“So let me tell you, Bulldog. Blood is the price we pay this week. Blood is the price that everyone will pay. But I need you understand something as well. Baptism in fire is the expectation of my emergence into the world. Though it is the messenger of death that stands as my spirit creature, the phoenix is more emblematic of the journey I take. Each failure is not a death knell for me. Each collapse is not a fault. It is another chance to succeed. For each time I fall, I will rise again. I will pay the boatsman fee, and in that. My own true freedom. Yet I refuse to allow my blood to be the only currency, and in that, Bulldog. My redemption requires yours. For I will be the one stand tall after our fifth encounter. I will be the one who demands the attention of the World Deceiver at the end of Into the Void. King James can have his moment of arrogance, but I will be the one who stands tall at the end. For I will do anything necessary to prove the truth. The Dog collar is symbolic for the joint passage of my journey to this point, and in suffocating you with it, freedom from it. Yet this is more than just us Bulldog. I want you to listen well. I want Jack Washington to listen well. I want Mac Bane and Kenneth to listen well. I want Michael Harris and King James to listen well. Every single one of them, needs to listen. For there is a target on the back of every single one of them. Former kings, people deserving of holy retribution in the light of truth that I offer. The Conspiracy is coming, and in it, the Napalm death will be their freedom. For cleansed in the flames of my coming, they will realise the folly of their paths. The folly of their existence. The folly of everything they have worked for. Jack Washington’s arrogance will be washed from him, and in the end he will have to answer to the flames themselves. Kenneth wanted my head, and in turn he will lose his own. Mac Bane is the shadow that looms over the World championship, and only in his failure, can someone truly call themselves the Kingslayer. Michael Harris. The man who is everything that accuse me of. Who hides behind his false queens. Dangerous game you play, old man. For if it necessary, I will break everything you love. If I cannot cut the flesh from you…”
Holding the lighter in his left, still burning the flame, he once again grips the bloodied cleaver in his right, and holds it up high. Lowering the light, it touches to the white sheet, flames beginning to lap at the edges. And then.
White hot flames, an explosion. The sounds of screeching, crying men and women. The croak and cry of panicked birds. The flutter of wings. Everything obscured by the burning flames.
“Then I will burn everything you love. I am, the Kingslayer Alexander Raven. And I will slay the mouthy mutt known as Bulldog Bill Barnhart. I will blood him for the last time, and then I turn the light of absolution upon all Kings who stand in the way of the truth. Broken and collapsed, they will burn in the truth that I bring forward. For like Napalm, everything will be devoured in me.”
The cabin is gone, as is the table. The flicked up snow of the rough winds of the Scottish mountain tops. Flame dances in the snow, burning away. Alexander Raven is kneeling in the snow, his eyes cast to the heavens. On the other side of the flames, a taller, more distorted version of him. Thick hair, an almost grey tinge to him. The real Alexander Raven wraps his arms around himself, his face dangerously close to the violently flickering fire. The grey Raven stepping into the flames, seemingly untouched.
“Bill. I want to thank you. You may not have taken the challenge earnestly, but you will be the one who acts it appropriately. So when I wrap that chain around your throat. When I pound my fist into your skull, over and over and cause the crimson flow to ebb from the wounds. When I break you, and everyone is baying for the violence. I want to thank you, for being the next victim in the list of Kings. For I am, the Kingslayer. And in napalm, all will be cleansed.”
Alex stands slowly, still with arms wrapped around himself. The grey figure standing in the flames still, stretching a hand out to him. Alex leans down slowly, and picks up some snow, throwing some into the flames. Before kicking, over and over, kicking whirls of the snow into the flames. Snuffing it out slowly. In a wash of white and smoke, the grey figure disappears, and Alex is left alone on the mountain with the smoldering ground.
“Things will change.”
“The Conspiracy is here.”
And then.
Darkness.
Silence.
Nothing.
