A spooky, sexy collaboration with GuavaJagular (@guavajagular.bsky.social). Daemian wants to impress Colt by throwing the creepiest, scariest, goriest wrestling night ever seen...with Spike's encouragement, of course. Still, the first rule of Halloween is to expect the unexpected...and things may not go according to Daemian's sinister plans.
Certainly not if Spike's old flame, and current badboy heel crush, has anything to say about it!
Panels will update once a day up until the complete release finishing on October 31st, Daemian's birthday (and Halloween too, I guess).
Death was a lot noisier than Spike expected. He wanted to sleep. His eyes fluttered open, senses coming back online. It was hard to keep his eyes open. Sleep. Sleep was good.
"Daemian, please do not swear. You know it makes me uncomforta--HOLY SH**"
Where Spike had just been had been nothing but calm. A tranquillity still embraced him, but now everything suddenly felt more real. His body ached. His head throbbed. His vision blurred. Who were these familiar voices? What did they want? Why had they been calling his name?
"I'll get the nurse! Spike, bicha, I swear if you don't wake up I will break both your arms."
Iggy? Iggy wants to break my arm? They always want to break my arm. So...rude...
Spike's eyes fluttered open unto halogen light. For a moment, he thought he might actually be in Heaven. Then, he saw Deadboy's face--a rare mix of concern and surprise.
Spike groaned. "I'm in Hell. I guess that tracks..."
Daemian glared. "That's what you say to the bloke who BROUGHT YOU BACK FROM THE DEAD, C***?"
This was real. Spike wondered if this was what it was like to be born--to come back into existence. Everything was so strange, even though it should be familiar. Deadboy just stared at him. So odd to see him look concerned.
"Why...the hell is your hair like that?" Spike said slowly.
Gobsmacked, Deadboy--wearing a cut-off jean jacket, ran his fingers through his dark mullet, streak with purple. "You've been asleep for a bloody week and the first thing you want to do is make fun of my haircut?" Daemian's lip quivered slightly, before he threw his arms around Spike's neck. "You little idiot."
Spike turned his weary head, ready to pass out again. He was in a hospital bed. IV drip in his arms. EKG. He just knew he looked like shit. "A...week?" he said, as his eyes scanned a bedside table stacked high with get-well-cards and flowers. He recognized some of the handwriting. He certainly recognized Buck's art (damn, great pic of me holding the title belt). Spike looked toward Kengo, dressed (rather fetchingly) in a suit and tie. The lanyard around his neck confused Spike, but he was in no position to demand elaboration.
"The spirits are good," Kengo whispered under his breath. "Roomie. We thought..." His eyes filled with tears. "We brought you back from the..." Kengo shook his head. Daemian and I."
Spike groaned. His head hurt. He felt like someone had opened him up and stuffed him with cotton. Pinned on the wall next to him was a simply designed, woven dreamcatcher.
"Robbie made that for you," Daemian said, cracking open a can of coke and sitting in the chair next to Spike. "Said he wanted you to have good dreams. Did it work?"
Spike remembered everything, though he could not place when it had happened--his meeting his dad (if that were real), and seeing Salim in the 'metaphor thing' that had taken the shape of John Henry's gym. "I think so. I...I saw my dad."
Daemian blinked. "Oath?"
Spike nodded. "Oath."
"Oh. Then you must have really died." Daemiain shrugged, put his can down, and belched loudly. He rested his Doc Martin's on Spike's bed. "Kengo and I used our glyphs to try and bring your soul back while the docs did their thing."
"There is no medical explanation for what happened to you," Kengo said. placing a cold, wet towel on Spike's forehead. "You absorbed a lot of energy. It completely short circuited your nervous system. You were clinically dead for quite some time. It is a miracle you stabilized."
Spike tried not to pass out, hearing this information alone. "A week, you said?" He thought about it. "Does that mean...?"
"Ha!" Daemian laughed. "Yeah. Bedpan. Don't worry--wasn't Ken and me changin' it."
He wasn't even embarrassed about that. In fact, Spike wanted to laugh, but his chest hurt. His life hurt.
"We're in New York City," Kengo told Spike. "St. Milia Hospital in Manhattan. It is a very good one. They treat a lot of injuries like yours here, so I thought..."
"I thought it felt a lot like home," Spike said, smiling. "Still...something feels...off..."
He tried to crane his neck, but Kengo gently encouraged him to stay still. Though Spike didn't have enough energy to process what was going on, there were tell-tale signs of something being...off, that bothered him. There was black box on the wall, with bright red numbers. It took Spike several seconds to realize it was some sort of time display.
"What the hell is that thing?" Spike said, nodding to the object.
Kengo looked over his shoulder. "Oh? It is a clock."
"THAT'S a clock?"
Daemian and Kengo's eyes met. "Oh no, he doesn't realize..."
But before Spike could utter the obvious 'realize WHAT?' the sound of oncoming footsteps, and a whole team of medical staff, drew his eyes towards the door.
Nurses and doctors flocked to Spike's bedside, muttering shocked medical phraseology that Spike couldn't even begin to understand. Besides, he was too distracted by the tall, muscular figure in the tight shirt and light-pink blazer. Their crossly cropped hair, almost a mohawk, threw Spike completely off.
"Ig...Iggy?"
Spike's malicious mentor smiled. "Bom dia, sleepy head." Iggy posed, letting free a small shower of sprakles. "What do you think of the new do?"
"You got new hair too?" Spike asked, confused. "Why does everyone have new hair? Did we all treat ourselves to the salon after savin' the world, or what?"
"Ah, yeah...about that." Iggy nodded to the doctors. "Let's...get you back on your feet first before we blow your mind."
Spike felt dizzy. "My mind's already been blown for one lifetime, friend."
Spike's fatigue soon caught up with him (as did the medications) and he found himself in a welcome, dreamless sleep before long. By morning, however, he felt full of vim and vigor. The doctors told him they'd need to monitor him throughout the day. Spike had no choice but to agree.
"I left the boss a message on the ol' answering machine," Daemian said, coming back into the room.
"That 'what'?" Spike shook his head. "A machine that answers you?"
The doctors had briefly asked all guests to leave while they checked Spike's vitals. They were all shocked to find him, suddenly, the picture of health. The punk (with the mullet) nodded to Spike. "You...don't know what an answering machine is?"
"Duh?"
Daemian glared. "Want me to send you back to the underworld again, s***c***? Ugh. But that's right--we didn't have widely available answering machines in the sixties, yeah?"
Spike couldn't follow. His head still hurt. As he tried to make sense, Kengo sprung back into the room, red faced and panting.
"It's...it's Sandra Iron."
Spike forced himself up, wincing, trying to stabilize himself. He wasn't dizzy. Good. "Whaddya' mean? Did she get hurt too? She wasn't even there! Is Mr. Iron okay? Why aren't you answering me!?"
"OY! Because you're talkin' a kilometre-a-minute, mate!" Daemian spat. "One thing at a time, or do you want your pretty head to nearly explode again? Didn't think so."
"She gave birth!" Kengo said, catching his breath at last. "A healthy baby boy!"
Spike's face lit up like the sun. "Whaaaaa!? World champion and a new dad? Mr. Iron must feel on top of the world." As he should. Goddess knows coach deserved it. "When do we get to see the baby?"
Kengo walked over and gently pressed his massive hand on Spike's forehead, lowering back to the pillow. "When this baby is cleared to get on his feet." He poured Spike a glass of water. "Minoru sends his regards too. He said he knew you'd come back, that you were too much of a..." Kengo blushed. "Expletiveexpletive to die. In my system of belief, when someone recovers from a grave illness around the same time as a new birth in their community, it is believed the two souls become interlinked."
The sudden realization, that he'd nearly died, made Spike's head swim. "Damn. Huh. Waitaminute...does that mean...Mr. Iron appointed me the kid's Goddess Father?"
"Nah," Daemian laughed. "He said that'd be Colt. The president is back in San Antonio, dealing with..." Daemian shrugged. "Everything. Did you know we had to all get interviewed and debriefed by the bloody CIA? Aradia's been called into the UN and everything. Weirdly enough though, what happened at the world championships has cooled the heels of both Russia and the US. They're still pointin' nukes at each other, but they took what happened in Kitezh as a warning. I'm sure Lily is chuffed to know he org is gonna get heaps of funding now..."
Spike still had a million questions. Kengo tried his best to answer. Kengo was a resident now, at this hospital. When the glyph had run amok, Deadboy used his dark magick to teleport the rest of the spellbreakers to safety. But when they'd come out the other side of the dark corridor, the New York City they'd appeared in was...well...
"Changed," Kengo explained. "Uh...you see..."
Spike's heart skipped a beat. "How long have I really been asleep, Kuma?"
Kengo smiled, nervously. "A week."
"And you became a resident of a New York City hospital WITHIN A WEEK? I mean, I knew you were smart, but--"
"It is...complicated. We still don't understand it. But...it seems Salim did something to...well...I...can't..." Kengo was tongued tied.
Spike, glad to be walking around, tugged on his hospital gown. "Never mind, you'll either give me or yourself a panic attack. Salim mentioned to me that he had to something to...the timeline?" Spike scratched his head.
Kengo nervously handed Spike a pile of clothing. "We couldn't find your old clothing when we escaped Kitezh. Iggy and Daemian seemed to think you'd appreciate these?"
Spike frowned as he picked up the navy blue top. "Kengo. This shirt is missing its bottom." Spike tossed off the hospital gown and looked at himself in the mirror, giving himself a flirty wink and 'finger gun'. "Still got the bod, at least. And...THE HAIR!?"
Spike's eyes bugged out of his head. His hair was no longer shortly cropped, Navy style, but long and luscious and full (just like it had been, briefly, in his showdown with Salim). He looked more like the old Iggy Astro! Spike couldn't help but run his fingers through it.
"Yesss. YES. LOOK AT ME. Kengo! Look how pretty I am." He tossed his hair back and forth, like a shampoo model. "What's my secret? Well, I'll never tell. Oh yes. YESSSS."
Growing rapidly excited with his new 'look' (not even questioning how his hair had grown in the span of a week) Spike tugged his new shirt over his body. His abs were completely visible.
"It's called a...crop...top?" Kengo explained. "Apparently they are quite popular with men these days."
These days? Spike put on the short shorts and admired himself in the mirror. "This is...the singular best piece of clothing that's ever been invented. Kinda' weird though. Don't ya think people will look at me funny wearing something like this?"
Iggy waltzed into the room and whistled at his mentee. "Lookin' good and slutty."
Spike frowned. "I dunno, Igs. Even I don't think is appropriate to wear to see a baby."
"Here," Daemian said, tossing him his jean jacket. "Just don't get baby vomit on it."
---
"OH HE'S THE MOST PRECIOUS THING!"
John and Sandra's kid looked like a little peanut. He slept against his mother's chest. Sandra, looking very glamorous for a woman who'd just given birth to her first kid, smiled down at him.
"He was pretty easy," Sandra said. "My momma always said that an easy labor meant rearing an easy kid."
"Bet you were a difficult birth," Mr. Iron said, winking at his wife.
"John Henry, you're lucky I'm in this bed!" She laughed. "Do you want to hold him?" She offered Spike.
"What!?" Spike balked. "No. I'm...what if I drop him?"
"He's an Iron," John said, gently taking his son (nearly lost in his father's arms) and placing him in Spike's hands. "He'd probably just bounce."
Spike swallowed. He looked down at the sleeping baby. He decided then that he'd gladly throw himself in front of a runaway glyph again for this kid. "What's his name?" Come on, you named him Spike, right.
"We named him Spike," Sandra said.
"REALLY!?"
"No!" the woman laughed. "But I just wanted to see your face. It was worth it."
"Aurelio," Mr. Iron said. "A name as good as gold."
"My father was Cornelio," Sandra explained. "And 'Au' is the periodic symbol for gold. I think he'll probably just end up being called 'Lio' though. I don't want him to get beat up on the playground."
"If he's our kid," John said, "he'll be the one doing the beating up."
"Oh, John! We don't even know if he'll have a glyph yet." Sandra took back her kid. "And it won't matter. It's a new world, now. He's going to be just fine."
Spike was inclined to agree. For the first time in awhile, he felt hopeful and calm.
While Sandra tended to Aurelio, Mr. Iron took Spike on a walk down the hospital corridor. More and more, Spike picked up on the strange technology about the place--vending machines with glass windows and electronic buttons; windowed boxes with green, electronic text that nurses and doctors communicated with via some sort of typewriter board, signs telling people not to smoke.
"Notice anything...interesting?" Mr. Iron said, slyly.
"This hospital is state of the art," Spike marvelled. "I've never seen machines like these before."
"We've had a week to get used to it. It's odd. You look at something like a computer, are confused for a moment or two, and then it's like you suddenly remember everything about it. I reckon that snake Salim had some hand in it."
Spike bit his lip. "Yeah. He said had to do something to fix the mess he made. Also, what's a computer?"
"Fine mess indeed. I'd crack his skull again if I could...but he's seemed to have dropped off the face of the Earth. International wanted man, they say."
"How's it feel to be champion?"
"Meh." Mr. Iron, dressed in a fine, charcoal suit (the cut and tie also very 'modern') smiled at his young apprentice. "Being World Champ is all well and good, but it's just a title. Sure, it's nice to be recognized but...I'm much more concerned about the state of the world."
Spike and Mr. Iron stopped at the lobby lounge. A nurse slept on the couch. A doctor handed a different nurse some coffee in a plastic cup. It was strangely quiet. The music over the loudspeakers had unusual instrumentation that Spike had never heard before--a sort of tinny, electronic sound. He liked it.
"The music is different too," Mr. Iron said, absently.
"Salim told me that you didn't make a wish," Spike said.
"No."
"Why, coach?"
Mr. Iron sighed and leaned against the corridor wall. "I really should have. It just didn't feel right. There's no shortcuts in life, blondie. Certainly not when it comes to changing the world. I just...I hope I made the right choice."
"Coach, it's you--of course you did, big guy. I'd trust you with the world. And I guess...we all kinda' did."
Mr. Iron gave him a wan, sad smile. "I keep forgetting. And funny that, nobody will know. But I guess that's being selfless, eh? I've managed to brush up on history. Since the world suddenly changed over night. History books say we've come a long way, people like you and I. I suspect though, we haven't come long enough. We still have a tough fight on our hands. That's the thing about being a face, Spike. There's always a new heel to tangle with--always another battle."
Sobering words. Spike wasn't sure he was ready to hear them so soon, after all that had happened.
"We'll beat them," he said, confidently.
---
Manhattan's towers were as tall as ever...and even taller than Spike had remembered. New York had become an arcology of glittering spires illuminated by massive, swinging spotlights. Gone were the aesthetics of brass and chrome--the art deco skyscrapers had since been dwarfed by pyramidal apartment blocks numbering the thousands. Old Manhattan was dead.
Neon reigned supreme.
New wave spilled forth, cold and distant, from out of the goth's boombox as the girl with the black eyeliner gave dumbfounded Spike a confused look. Across the street, a woman in a spandex leotard, with a teased-out, hair-sprayed mane, hailed a taxi cab that appeared to be hovering several inches off the ground. The women around Spike dressed in business suits with padded shoulders. Glowing signs of neon fury rose around Spike, dazzled by this strange Manhattan of the modern.
His eyes followed the chyron wrapping around the news tower in front of him. April 12th. 1985.
Spike fell backwards, caught at the last second by Iggy Astro, chewing a piece of gun. "Welcome to the future, Spike."
"I...need to sit down," Spike said, taking a seat at the hospital bench. In front of him, the poster on the bus stop advertised a band of psychedelic, spandex-clad rock stars. Iggy recognized the one in the front. Vanity Paradise and Iggy Astro--Live!
Revelling in his bewilderment, Iggy wrapped their arm around Spike and held them close. "The future has been kind to the Cosmic Crusher! Imagine that. I step out of the nineteen-sixties into 1985 and suddenly I'm more famous for my music than my spellbreaking." He beamed. Hearts of solid light floated up from their head. "I always thought my sound was much too ahead of its time. Turns out, it's right at home here the eighties."
Spike was on the verge of puking. "But...HOW ARE WE NOT LIKE...FORTY YEARS OLD!?"
Then Spike remembered. 'Cut-and-paste job', Salim had said.
Iggy shrugged. "Well, after what we saw in Kitezh, I don't really question much any more. It is weird though. Only the GSA and the Aradia task force seem to remember that last week we were still years away from putting a man on the moon. Now..." Iggy shrugged.
Spike's jaw dropped. "WE PUT A MAN ON THE MOON?"
Nonplussed, Iggy pointed to the road. "Hover cars, Spike. Please keep up. Oh yeah, it also looks like spellbreaking has gotten pretty popular. Look." Iggy nodded to one of the many electronic signs hanging off the side of the news tower across the way.
Spike squinted. Then, his heart dropped. "YOU GOTTA BE FRIGGIN' KIDDIN' ME!"
Full of sound and fury and light, the TV advertisement for Sunday Night Spellbreaking showcased a hole slew of spellbreakers Spike had never crossed paths before--all of them more colorful, dazzling, and RIPPED than Spike had ever seen. Mr. Iron shirtless, flexed for the camera, grinning, with his world champ belt slung over his shoulders.
Spike smiled. "He's still champ. Great."
Then, his smile faded. Spike never liked seeing himself on TV (a surprise to everyone, considering his ego). Here he was, decked out in navy and gold gear, posing on top of the turnbuckle. Spike had never seen himself look so...confident before.
Spike on TV raised the mic to his lips. "That's right--get a look at all this perfection." Spike gestured to his enviable, muscular body.
"Wow, that's a lot of baby oil I've got on." On the street, Spike noted his double's new gear. Blue velvet, trimmed white, like the cushioning of a crown. Royal. Gone, however, was the anchor--replaced instead with the golden emblem of a lion rearing up for attack.
Spike couldn't believe it. "That's...me, right, Igs? Not Cian in disguise or anything weird, right?"
Iggy flicked Spike's nose. "Shh. Yes. Watch."
Spike on TV tossed back his mane and allowed his loyal subjects to finish their cheers. "Yes. You all see it. I'm shinin' like the sun. And that mouthy hick who claims he's gonna dethrone me is in for a shock to the system when I kick his teeth in next week!"
The crowd popped.
"WOAH! I sound like a heel!" Spike squeaked.
"You're welcome," Iggy answered.
"Huh. So...I'm still in a hot rivalry with Vahni?"
Iggy, grinning with mischief, turned away. "You'll see..."
Spike on TV grabbed the camera and brought it closer to his face. "You hear that, sports fans? Next Sunday...you're gonna watch a young lion take down a buck. Wild Buck, that is. You say you aren't your daddy's boy, Buck Tamberly? Damn right. By the time I'm done with you, you'll be calling ME daddy." Spike dropped the mic. The crowd went berserk.
On the bench, Spike's face nearly fell off into the concrete. "Whaaaaaaaaaaaaa????"
Before Iggy could even butt in with something snarky or clever, the two spellbreakers heard a gasp from their right. A young teen, dressed in a basketball jersey, with gelled-up hair, pointed at them. "YO! Check it out! It's the Young Lion!"
Spike cocked his head to the side. "Igs, is that youth talkin' to us?"
Nearby, a girl with teased out, blonder hair squeaked and ran towards them, her beaded necklaces dangling in the wind. Others too, young and old, closed in.
Spike jumped back into the bench. "What's goin' on!?" He was already freaked out enough as is. These people, with big hair, and strange, colorful outfits, swarmed him.
"Autograph! Please!"
"Spike, my son loves you!"
"Young Lion, put me in a lion clutch, please!"
Spike blinked, trying his best to recompose himself. He cleared his throat, glanced briefly at his smug mug on the TV, and tried his best to emulate this spellbreaker he apparently was in this timeline. "Well...of course. Only my most loyal subjects could recognize me in the wild. Obviously you aren't peasants."
Spike had missed this. Whatever Salim had done to the time line, he'd thrown them a bone. But what had happened to Spike's 'Sailorboy' moniker? Everything on the TV set showed a world where spellbreaking was bigger, bolder, brighter. Was this perhaps the 'Golden Age' of spellbreaking that Colt had long-hope was somewhere on the horizon?
And what of Buck? Wild Buck? Where was he now?
Spike did his best to keep up his kayfabe (he enjoyed being ab it of a cocky dick) signing autographs and kissing cheeks. Iggy took the role of makeshift manager, shooing away the riff raff (and clearly indulging in the role). Soon, though, the crowd became overwhelming. Spike stood on the bench and called for order.
Just as he did, a bright flash threw the sidewalk meet-and-greet into a tizzy. Spike's 'loyal subjects' drew back from the blazing circle of fire that had sprouted at Spike and Iggy's feet. Spike looked to Iggy. "Rage?"
The ring of fire widened, pushing away the manic audience. It divided in front of Spike, forming a corridor for him to follow. With no other choice, Spike walked forward, craning his head over his shoulder and watching Iggy, lounging on the bench, wave him on.
A white limousine, trimmed in gold, zoomed down the road towards Spike. As it did, the so-called 'Young Lion' looked up across the street, noticing two familiar faces.
Seemed time hadn't caught up with Cian yet. He wore a tight ringer tee (green, of course), looking every bit like the high school jock. Next to him, face barely concealed by a black cowboy hat...
"Buck!?"
The handsome Buck tipped up his hat, looking at Spike with an intense expression. He looked tougher, now (maybe it was his lack of glasses ). Like a more cleaned up, yet intimidating, version of his father.
He smiled.
Spike smiled back.
The white limo pulled up alongside Spike, just as the flames (and crowd) died down. The door opened upward, on its hinges. Spike looked inside the lit interior.
Arms stretched across upholstered seats, a martini sitting on a table in front of him, the man in the suit adjusted his collar. Spike's first thought was that he was looking at Salim.
But he'd know Vahni Rage's glamorous hair and handsome face anywhere. The well-suited heel's smirk could still cut deeply into Spike's heart. He reached down towards the table, picked something up, and threw it outside the limo.
A gold collar landed at Spike's feet. He looked down at it, and then at the handsome rogue waiting for him in the limo.
Rage shrugged. Your choice.
Mischief on his mind (and a whole host of more lascivious ides) Spike bent down and picked up the collar. He placed it across his neck and latched it, flicking the little name-tag that read "SPIKE".
He stepped into the car, finding the door automatically shut behind him. Without fear, Spike took a seat next to Vahni Rage, who looked down at him with a hunger--and a softness--in his eyes.
This time, Spike grabbed Rage's neck first, pulling him and kissing him passionately. Thank goodness the limo's partition was up. Spike and Rage would need their privacy.
As the limo pulled away, Cian and Spike, left on a sidewalk strewn with litter and discarded newspaper, watched their friend vanish into the skyways of modern Manhattan.
Buck's fists tightened. Cian looked at him with empathy. "Don't worry, boyo. He always does that."
Buck's shoulders raised, and then fell. He tipped his head. "I know," he said. "That's Spike. Just makes things more interesting now."
Cian turned his head towards his friend, now a spellbreaker--and a deadly one--in his own right. "What do you mean?"
Buck's smile flashed just as brightly as his eyes lit up, wicked green. "You think you're king of the jungle, Spike? The hunt is on. And you will be mine..."
Standing in the 'home' arena of the GSA (a glorified warehouse with posters of the fed's all-stars strung up on the walls) Deadboy Daemian looked upon the familiar ring and scowled. Granted, it was an affectionate scowl.
The lean, muscle bound punk scratched his armpits and yawned. "Bloody hell, I have up world domination for this?" Still, he caught himself smiling. "Can't wait to break my old mate's skulls again." Leas of all, Tiger. Then again, if I knock him flat, I won't be able to pash him after the match. Hmmm. Okay, D, note to self; figure out to destroy lover without....destroying lover.
Dressed in a black, shredded cut-off, and wearing and purple short-shorts with the stanza "Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here' on the butt, Daemian went about setting up for the show. He was fully aware that this rigorous 'set up' work was partial punishment from Colt, a way to humble him and prove Daemian was worthy of re-joining the fed. The joke was on the boss, though--Daemian liked working solo. Didn't have to bark orders at some wet-behind-the-ears rookie who didn't know a ring apron from a bib, or get chewed out for touching someone's gear the wrong way. Between set up, Daemian could even help himself to a nice coldie from the communal fridge. Time for a break.
The demon summoner slammed the switch on the boom box, quietly head banging to his sick, Aussie punk music.
As Demonic D chugged down looked upon the ring with thoughtful reminiscence. The last time he'd been here, White Tiger had thrashed him for the championship belt. Now, they were dating. How strange, the ebb and flow of fate.
"Bloody annoying too," Daemian snarled, punctuating his annoyance with a loud belch. He crushed his empty can against his head and chucked it towards the bin (he missed). With all that done, the punk with the shredded abs perched on the side of the entrance arch platform, and pretending as if he was about to suicide drop some unfortunate opponent below him. It had been awhile since he'd slaked his blood lust. But, in the few months since going 'reformed', Deadboy had learned to focus on priorities. Namely, the spooky, silk-lined coffin sitting on top of the trap door platform at the bottom of the ring.
He already knew who'd be going inside it...
"Earth to Deadboy," Colt said, coming around the side of the stage with an extension chord. The muscular, long-haired cowboy, wearing a white undershirt and jeans, looked down at the frayed chord with a frown, and tossed it away. "That's the second one today. Must be nerves."
Daemian grimaced at his manager. "Wanna practice again?" Bludger's lucky my skull is indestructible...and not much brain to begin with neither. All those piledrivers would turn a nuclear scientist into...well...Spike.
Before Colt could answer, Bruce--always in his black business suit and red tie--entered from the righthand stage, clipboard in hand. "You blokes are really gonna put on a fake fight tonight?" His jovial tone didn't match his fake derision. "Colt, this is a spellbreaking match, not a circus, mate!"
"Look at this c***," Deadboy said, nodding to his old co-worker. "Thinks he can come in and take Buck's job. How ya doin', Bazza?"
Colt rolled his eyes at the unruly Australians. "Look, y'all. I don't wanna turn into an old geezer..."
Too late, Deadboy thought.
"...and those guys who do pro sometimes have the right idea staging it. Scripted and staged allows us to keep our guys and gals in top condition for the championships. Plus, these marks don't know the difference anyway, half the time!"
Bruce was one of those businessmen who always hid his opinions behind a smile. Thankfully, his and Colt's relationship had been amicable these last few weeks--especially in the wake of Colt taking back the company from his erstwhile son. Daemian, truthfully, felt bad about what had happened. He liked Buck. The kid was a straight-shooter, and had a bit of bite to him. A bona fide talent, and never a tall poppy about it either. When Daemian had gone good, Buck was the first person to welcome him back open arms.
Now the kid's gone and got himself a bloody glyph too. What a legend.
Also, Daemian was fully aware how much of a blowhard Colt could be when he wasn't in a good mood. Even though Daemian was content to throw back beers and break the empty bottles over people's heads for fun, he was quite perceptive too. Colt had been hitting the liquor and hitting the boys even harder in the wake of Buck's absence. Though he kept up his magnanimous façade of cowboy rowdiness, Daemian (as well as other emotional sleuths like El Amante) had picked up the vibrations from Colt's wounded heart.
Bruce put the clipboard down on top of one of the amps, set to pump out Colt's country rock anthem, and Deadboy's melodic metal entrance music, later tonight. He scratched his head with his pinky--a gesture Daemian had seen him do back in Sydney...usually before breaking bad news.
"And...what happens when it gets out that you're staging your matches?" Bruce asked solemnly.
Handsome Colt waved it off. "Does that stop people from going to see pro wrestling fights? You're damned stupid if you think those bereft boys don't have a magick of their own. They're performers, born and bred. Hell, I always told Buck that if he ever wanted to get into..." He stopped, swallowed, and looked away. "Anyway"
Deadboy and Colt met eyes, and exchanged a wordless acknowledgment, before turning back to the conversation. "Where is old mate, anyway?" Daemian asked his boss.
Behind them, a small lightbulb on the stage perimeter burst. "Grrr." Colt glared at the damage. "He's with Varla and John Henry in New Orleans. Probably suckin' down hurricanes and having a grand ol' time without PUBLIC OUTLAW NUMBER ONE." Colt's forehead crackled with little needles of electricity, teasing out his hair. He shook his head and flattered his blonde mane, all at once deeply embarrassed with himself.
Bruce and Daemian let the Texan have his tantrum. "Mr. Iron's big comeback is an unexpected but welcome surprise," Bruce said, which was something everyone in the room could agree with. "Could be a contender to watch at the championships."
That talked Colt down from his ledge. Truth be told, Colt had tremendous pride in his dear friend and tag team partner. "Shucks, would be a long time comin' too. Fact of the matter is, John was the best there was." Colt twisted his head side to side, to make sure nobody else was present, before he lowered his voice. "Maybe even better than me. But back then, the feds were all crooked and exploitative as all hell. John's only flaw was being born in a time where your skin color could cost you an opportunity. Truth be told, I don't think we've come much further since."
"Didn't think you were much of a civil rights activist," Bruce laughed, uncomfortably. Deadboy glared at him for that.
"My boy's bi," Colt laughed. "And most of my boys are a bit...well...fruity. Hell, who hasn't had a romp in the hay with a cute, doe-eyed, muscle boy with a big..." Colt looked around to see Deadboy and Bruce turning several shades. "Er, anyways, you can't spend your life clinging to the old ways. My old man did that and caused me all kinds of grief."
"Peas in a pod, you are," Bruce huffed. He stuck his thumb at Daemian. "Back home, this one was always harping on about treaties and stuff."
"I don't like the government telling people what to do," Daemin sniffed. "Especially the people who lived on the land first, before the Albans dumped heaps of dark magi on the arse end of the world".
Daemian twisted his mouth to the side. It was hard to hate Colt. He generally tried to make space for people. Hell, he'd picked a grub like him to fight in his fed. That counted for something.
"Anyway," Bruce began, checking over one of Daemian's ring props, a cheese grater, "where is our 'Million-Dollar Manager', Mr. Salim?"
"Speaking of the ends of the Earth, he dropped off the damn face of the planet," Colt said. "Nobody can contact him. And considering he's the reigning world champ, that's a bit of concern, isn't it? Oh well, show must go on."
Colt stood up. Daemian fully realized this man could break him in half, if he wanted to (not that such a thing would ruin him) and was suddenly very excited to go toe-to-toe with the fed president. Spike and Rage was a hard act to follow, but Colt and Deadboy promised some unexpectedly delightful carnage. They'd give those marks a show alright.
Colt stretched out his meaty arms, and yawned. "Deadboy--I'm ready to rehearse in five." He thumbed towards the ring. "Let me confirm medical for tonight just in case I snap your arm off."
Daemian pointed to his 'surgical stitching tattoo' on his biceps. "No wockas, mate. I've beaten guys with my own arm before just fine."
Colt did the finger guns at him. "Now there's the attitude I'm looking for." Minding Bruce, Colt approached Deadboy and put a hand on his shoulder.
Deadboy stared at it as if Colt had just wiped his nose and smeared it on his shoulder. "Er...?"
"Was just gonna say. It's good to have you back around the corral, spooky stud. I know you love this sport just as much as I do, and...you just let me know what you need. Don't need to get mushy about it." He winked.
Deadboy's first instinct was to throw back something snarky and rude. He swallowed his tongue. "Right...boss. It's bloody good to be back."
Colt exited, whistling one of his country tunes. "I'll be back in two shakes."
Deadboy took a deep breath. Alright. So far, so good.
He leaned over the coffin, trying to get a better look at the rigging. He usually came out of these things at the start of the match, so it was weirder to going into one at the end.
Tonight's script was to have Colt and D go fifty-fifty, with Colt positioned a the seasoned hero taking down the punk coming back for revenge (art imitating life). A coffin match already demanded a bit of suspension of disbelief--nobody really expected either of the two men to actually die and get buried. But it was an edgy idea, and with the championships only a week or so away, they needed to push the GSA one last time before the big leagues.
Deadboy had already decided not to compete for the world champs. His resurgent love for spellbreaking was solely in entertainment. He'd cheer on White Tiger from the shadows, however.
"So, the demonic prince of darkness is going to take a tumble into his own coffin tonight?"
Deamian heard Bruce come up behind him. The demonic jock from down under patted the side of the (fake) mahogany coffin. "Yeah, yeah, don't bloody remind me. This is Colt's little trust exercise. A lesson in humility or whatever." He sighed and stood. "I've made a real dog's breakfast of my position here in the GSA. I might as well suck up a little and give the boss a free win. Plus, he's a bit too excited to see my healing magick in effect."
Daemian snickered to himself as he leaned over to wrap up the lighting chord, picking up and making a noose. "I'm gonna have him break my bloody neck, choke me out hang-man style, and then dump me into the damn thing. It'll make the audience puke! I can't wait. It'll also make Colt look like a real bad bastard! Maybe even set him up for a heel turn--for massacring his own pupil!" Daemian laughed. "Like that'd bloody happen. Then, I just gotta wait in that coffin til the boys downstairs at the bottom of the lift pull me out."
"And...no concerns if something goes awry?" Bruce said, voice low. He stepped foerward. "Would be a terrible way to die, yeah?"
"You think this is my first time in the forever-box, mate?" Daemian snorted. "I practically sleep in these things. By the way." All smiles and fangs, the punk turned about face and swept back his shock of purple and black hair. "When were you going to tell me?"
Bruce played dumb. "Tell you what?"
"Oh, you know." A dark aura radiated off Daemian as he reached out and pat Bruce on the head. "Kind of a rotten thing to see an old mate turn out to be the assassin who tried to murder his boyfriend."
Daemian's eyes turned solid black and a cold chill swept over the arena.
Bruce barely flinched. His smile, thought not as wide as his former employee's, was somehow even more sinister than the demon summoner's. "You little fool," he seethed. "You could have just kept quiet."
The palm of Bruce's hand flattened itself against the exposed nape of Daemian's neck, just above his chiselled chest. A brief flash of green light sparked off Bruce's hand.
Daemian's eyes transitioned back to his violet-colored irises, and then rolled up inside his head. He fell backwards, over the stage, and into the coffin. The lid shut loudly behind him, echoing throughout the arena.
Bruce paced the stage, surveying his work. "Whoops!" He looked down and examined his head, still crackling with venomous magick. "Your little tricks weren't enough for my venom. Guess you'll be taking that dirt nap a lot sooner than tonight. Shame I've just botched the big show, but I guess the spellbreaking fans will have your name on their lips tonight for different reasons. Deadboy. R.I.P.!"
After collecting himself, Bruce turned back towards the stage and cleared his throat. "Help! HELP! There's been an accident!"
----
One Day Later...
The Firebird board room--an official, more-than-intimidating chamber panelled with dark wood and circled by the federation's banners. Like most old buildings in old Moscow, it carried a palatial air, helped by marble flooring and vaulted ceilings. Training barracks were to the left side of the compound; dorms to the right, with the mess hall square in the middle. It had been an old training ground for the Tsar's battle mages during the war. Like most of the nobility's properties, however, the palace had desperately sold it off during the final days of the conflict.
The board room's long table ran the length of the great, crimson carpet. Seated there were Firebird's top stars: Ivan 'The Wolf', the handsome babyface champion with a winning smile (or sinister, depending on who you asked). Or all gathered, the descendent of Russian folk heroes appeared the most nervous. He was flanked by white-haired Yaya Baga, one of the fed's devious transformation magi along with the giant Bear Misha, who sat opposite Ivan.
Rage had left an empty seat laid out for Slayer St. George, long absent and missed. And, at the head of the table, sat Vahni Rage in his burgundy, tailored suit. He sat with his hands folded, eyes on the door, one hand on his expensive, gold watch.
He was starting to wonder if they had been stood up. He glowered, making everyone else in the room deeply nervous. Vahno had forbade the rest of the roster from attending, not because he thought them unworthy (not all of them, anyway), but because he suspected matters might turn violent, and didn't want the younger blood damaged on his watch.
Finally, with a loud creak, the door pulled open. Semyon Grigorivich, with his dark suit and skull-cane, looked somewhat more dishevelled than normal (which was already saying a lot). He looked at Ivan--his babyface champion--and sullen, gray-haired, Yaya, then at bearded, bald, and mean Misha. Usually, they were all quick to avoid his cold stare.
Not today.
Rage stood, eyes full of resolve. "Please," he said, gesturing to a seat at the far end.
Semyon glared. Still, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. "It seems you have made an error, sweet Vahni. You appear to be in my chair."
Rage looked at him up and down. "You mean...my chair?"
Semyon's hand gripped tighter around the top of his skull. "So, is this a mutiny? A takeover?" He laughed. "What do you expect me to do, beat my chest and gnash my teeth and cry out, 'After all the things I've done for your ungrateful dogs!'."
"Something like that," Rage sniffed. "We've held a vote. After a thorough investigation of the events surrounding the match between Sailorboy Spike and Vahni Rage, it's been discovered that Spike's soma was tampered with, pre-match."
Semyon smirked. "An investigation done by your impartial soma refining corporation?"
But Rage had come with the receipts. He slammed down a folder, bursting with papers. "All of us gathered here have also submitted documented and dated evidence, over the course of the last year, of Firebird's use of alchemical rubedo as an enhancement drug. This has been submitted to the ISC for review. Furthermore," Rage said, tossing another manila envelop down on the desk, "A joint investigation between INTERPOL and Aradia is now underway, looking into the business dealings of one Semyon Grigorivich and his ties to the former Russian monarchy. The new provincial government, of course, has been more than happy to provide this investigation with anything they need."
Punctuating his statement with great finality, Rage leaned back in his chair and waited for Semyon to say something.
The man took a deep breath. "Let me skip to the plain truth--I could so easily have you all killed. Or, barring such extremes, ensure you are held just as accountable in whatever silly government kangaroo court has been set up in a pathetic attempt to undermine me. I could have your careers ended."
"How, darling?" Yaya challenged him. "We voted Rage in as president. It was a unanimous vote. He may be...brusque...but when it comes to loyalty, he has always had our interests in check."
"Do not make me seem like such a face, Yaya," Rage huffed. He looked to Ivan. "That is our golden boy's prerogative, not mine." Still, he couldn't help but smile. "This is just good business." Besides, if you'd killed Spike before I had the chance to ravish him, I would set this damn world on fire!
Semyon turned his nose up at this former employees. "Hostile takeovers are usually more elegant than this, Rage. I'm disappointed."
It seemed quite apparent to all in the room that Semyon was more than happy to stand and pass his judgments. Still, Rage waited. He picked up a remote control on the desk and held it, one eye on the TV screen behind him.
"The championships no longer matter," Semyon said, icily quiet. "Nor does this federation. Congratulations, Rage. You enjoy your time as president of Firebird. It will be a short one. You've already given me what I need. I still have the Black Library."
Semyon felt the air behind him move, as the door opened. What other clown had been invited to this circus, he wondered bemusedly.
"Oh, do you?"
Semyon cringed, just as Rage began to smile. "Mr. Netjeer," he said, turning to face the giant, handsome man with the long braid and golden jewellery on his fingers. "Oh, I do apologise. King Anubis. Or Jackal or..."
"Or Rasputin, or Koschei, or Semyon Grigorivich," Mr. Salim said, smiling ear to ear. "Funny thing about us long lived bastards--we never really can settle on a name!" Salim nodded to Rage. "And the thing about libraries, Semsem, is that they're full of books. Books, as you know, are full of paper. And the thing about paper is that, well, it's quite flammable."
Without looking at the set, Rage pointed the remote at the TV and flicked the power on. The other spellbreakers in the room turned their heads towards footage of a stately Russian building in the background of the Kremlin, burning.
Semyon's mouth twitched. "I see."
The movement between Semyon and Salim was so quick that normal eyes could not perceive it. Semyon raised his cane, the red skull glowing, meeting the eye-shaped, luminous blue pendant in Salim's hand. The two artefacts touched, and exploded into light.
Semyon flew across the room, sliding across the table, stopping just inches away from Rage, who didn't so much flinch. The others pushed their chairs away out of shock. Breathing ragged, and wide eyed, Semyon rose his head and looked towards Salim.
What was left of the Eye of Osiris crumbled to the ground into charred carbon, right next to the sunken-in skull that housed Semyon's Eye of Set. "Masks off," Salim said, wiping his hand on an expensive, silk kerchief inside his breast pocket. "And just in time for the world championships, too!" Semyon bolted off the table, onto his feet, before Rage could dare harm him.
"Redback has been sent to kill both Colt and Deadboy," Semyon snarled. He realized there was only one way out of the room, but he already knew Salim would allow him to leave. "And your precious little Sailor is nowhere to be found!"
Salim rolled his eyes. "Yeah, we know about Redback. He's dead. Well, not dead. But he won't be bothering us any time soon." Salim made a circular motion with his index finger around his temple. Crazy.
Semyon blinked. "What?"
Now, it was Rage who stood. "Mr. Netjeer, I trust you've already summoned the authorities to manage the ex-president?"
Salim looked to Semyon, and then up to Rage. "Nah."
"...What?"
Salim stepped aside, giving Semyon clearance. The mad monk looked briefly at the smug giant, before growling and bolting out the room.
"Why the hell did you let him go?" Rage said, trying to suppress his anger. Cooler heads, it seemed, tended to prevail, these days.
At last, Salim took a seat at the table, clunking down a concealed (and rather large) bottle of champagne. "Semsem still has a part to play in this drama, I'm afraid. You want an interesting world championship, Mr. President? Then we let fate unfold as designed. Rest assured, Semyon will not be the one who gets the happy ending."
Rage's jaw clenched, but he sat back in his chair and said nothing. He had the company in his hands now, and Semyon on the run. He had his win. It was best not to push things further.
But he still had his pride. "And who will be fighting the world champion at the tournament?"
Salim smiled. "I thought you might put your hat into the ring, Rage. Well, metaphorically speaking. I've never seen you in a hat before. Of course, you won't be the only one." He twisted the cork off the champagne in one swift motion, the pop startling everyone else in the room. He watched and allowed the frothy liquid to flow onto the carpet.
"But first, we allow Semyon to reveal his hand. We backed him into a corner. That's when snakes and scorpions are their deadliest. But...in this instance, we need Semyon desperate. Trust me, Ragey, it's alllll part of the plan. Now, are you going to sit there and let me drink this Veuve all by myself, or are you cuties going to join me in celebrating?"
He held the bottle up to Rage's stunned face "To Vahni Rage. Champion and President of Firebird. Long may he reign in Hell!"
----
One Day Earlier...
"Cheap beer."
Spike placed a can of disgusting, imported beer down at the triangle at the north point of the salt pentacle he'd created in the center of Varla's kitchen floor.
He grabbed the package of chocolate covered biscuits from the counter and placed it on the eastern corner. "TimTams," he said. He paused, removed one of the biscuits for himself and popped it into his mouth. All that time travel had made him hungry.
He used a heavy metal vinyl (Talbane and the Werewolves) for the western point. Already stressed out, Spike examined the list that Deadboy had jotted down for him some time back. "Wait, seriously? Where the hell am I gonna find..."
Spike looked over at Varla's glass armoire, wherein a series of taxidermized ravens, foxes, and a vaguely human looking skull resides. Cringing, Spike took out the skull, made a face, and placed it in the center.
Finally (and most embarrassing of all), Spike ran to the guestroom where he'd been staying and withdrew the magazine hidden beneath the bed cushion. On the cover, a muscular, green-skinned demon man with horns (and pierced nipples) winked at the viewer as he coquettishly tugged down his speedo. HELLBOUND HUNKS.
"And finally...er..." Spike bit his lip as he placed the magazine in the center. "Weirdly specific smut." After examining the coffee-stained note one last time, Spike stepped out of the summoning circle and took a deep breath. He'd never performed dark magick before, let alone 'old' magick.
"Back in Black,
Hit the sack,
I summon thee, Deadboy,
Aussie, Aussie, Aussie,
Oy! Oy! Oy!"
A wind kicked up in Varla's kitchen. Shadows danced across the room, forming a vortex of violet, dark energy in the middle of the salt circle. A poof of black smoke later, and there stood a tall, muscular man--clad only in his skull-print boxers--midway through brushing his teeth.
Deadboy glared around the room, noticed Spike, and spit a wad of toothpaste on Varla's kitchen floor. "Really?"
"Not on the floor, not on the floor!" Spike winced. "I gotta' clean that up. And...uh...you...do hygiene now?"
Daemian rolled his eyes. "It's Joseph. He...wait, why the hell am I tellin' you this, you dog?" He stepped out of the circle and immediately arm dragged Spike into a headlock. "What the bloody hell am I doin' here, Spikey!? You better have summoned me for a damn good reason, you little bludger!"
Spike easily removed himself from under Deadboy's (Strangely washed) armpit, pulling him into a hug instead. "Daemian! I missed you so much. And you smell...good? (Is that lavender and mint?) I'm a bit concerned..."
"Awww, Spikey. I missed you too, chook." Deadboy held him out at arms length, then looked him up and down. "Hey, since I'm just in my boxers..." He said, slowly starting to pull them off. "Wait...IS THAT MY PORN!?"
Spike pressed his hand over the towel, to Daemian's abs. "There's no friggin' time for that now! Something really scary is happening. That's why I called you here. We gotta' get to the GSA on the double!"
"Scary's my middle name, Spikey! Well, actually, it's Matthew. But what's going on?"
"Bruce...is Redback!"
"WHAT!?" Daemian's eyes turned hollow black. "That bastard. Ugh, figures. He was a right s*** PR agent."
"Oh...er...I didn't expect you take that at face value." Spike scratched his head.
The demon summoning Aussie crossed his arms. "I'd had my suspicions. Damn it; he's at the bloody GSA ready to set up a match with me and Colt!"
"OH NO!"
"Don't worry." Deadboy nodded. It was probably the first time Spike had ever felt like the crazed punk had remotely grasped the concept of empathy. "Leave this one to your big mate, Damo."
"But Damo, my guy, he's like a deadly assassin!"
"Yeah, well I'm deadlier. And CRAZIER. So, he's the one who tried to hurt White Tiger?"
Spike's jaw dropped. "Damn it, that's right. He's been on our case for awhile, huh? Do we call the cops or what?"
"Nah, don't trust the pigs." Deadboy stuck his hand out. Clouds of darkness and swirls of purple light formed around him. "I'll open us a portal back to the GSA. Go grab your jump bag, Spike."
"I'm a pizza waiter, Deadboy," Spike called over his shoulder as he ran to the bedroom to get his suitcase. "Do you think I even have a friggin' jump bag! Besides, Colt doesn't even want me back at the GSA."
"Yeah? Well, everyone else does. I'm on the card tonight, and I can choose whichever damn person I want to do valet for me. Colt can kiss my bloody arse if he wants to have a whinge about it."
Spike returned with a clumsily stuffed suitcase. "Damn it, I forgot to water the plants. It's fine. I'm sure Varla will understand."
Daemian summoned his darkness, and opened the portal onto a long, black corridor. "Oh, Bazza. You bloody mucked up now..."
----
One Day Later...
Colt nearly tripped over his own massive legs trying to make his way from the stage. "Lachlan!"
Bruce leaned over the trap door leading to the basement--the mechanism that was meant to take Deadboy's coffin down "into the earth" and deliver him safely to the crew and staff below. The red-faced man dabbed at his face with a kerchief. "Oh, thank Goddess! Colt, I tried to stop the damn thing, but it locked up and took him under. I...I...couldn't get him out."
For a moment, Colt said nothing. His eyes darted back and forth, and he took a step back. "Lachlan..."
"You should go call the authorities," Bruce said, sullenly. "It...may be too late, however."
Colt placed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, head bowed low. "Really?"
"I know. This must be quite a shock."
"No, it's just...funny."
"I...beg your pardon?"
Colt shrugged, putting on his best country-boy smile. "Yeah, real funny. Because, Brucey, you ol' son of a gun--the kid looks like he's just fine to me!" Colt looked over Bruce's shoulder.
The middle aged Australian man frowned. Then, he felt the air around him grow colder, more tense. A chill slithered down his back. He didn't need to turn around. Nevertheless, he felt the icy hand on his shoulder...and the fingers digging in deep.
"Long time no see....mate."
Bruce swallowed. He turned around, coming face to face with the devil.
Or, close enough. Deadboy Daemian stood there, no worse for wear, giving Bruce his most sinister of smiles, while plumes of dark energy dissipated off his intimidating, muscular form.
Bruce took another step back. "D...Daemian! Well, a bloody miracle, that is." His path backward was suddenly blocked by Colt's hard body.
He was trapped.
Daemian maintained his evil aura, savouring his old co-worker's fear--especially as Deadboy reached up to his chest and peeled off the thin, nearly invisible layer of plastic-like bandaging that he'd placed on his chest and exposed limbs, knowing Bruce would most likely target one of those areas. Nurse Wheeler had set him up with the material, normally reserved for banding wounds and burns.
Bruce had been so shocked by this sudden deception that he failed to notice the coffin, sitting upright, behind Daemian--just like in his eerie entrances.
"Shadow magick," Daemian explained, sticking his tongue out and licking his teeth in a maniacal, wolfish display. "Cheap and nasty teleportation."
"Well!" Bruce stammered, trying to slowly manoeuvre himself out of the way. "That's great!"
Just as he turned on his heels, Colt caught him by the throat. "You poked the wrong armadillo today, hoss," Colt leered. "Messin' with my kids."
Bruce had not retaliation. He went numb with Colt's quick and sharp injection of enough voltage to bring the man to his knees.
"Redback," Daemian spat, circling around the man, on the hunt. "Of course it just had to be a fellow Aussie with a name like that." He yanked the man up by the neck, forcing his face dangerously close to Daemian's own. "You tried to kill Tiger. Not only my boyfriend, but a Goddess-damn saint in my eyes. Do you think I'd forgive you for that?"
Bruce found his tongue, momentarily looking up into Colt's eyes, pleading mercy. Then, the killer remembered his pride. His tone changed. "Well, have a sook why don't you, miserable brat! Ice Cream Man should have left you to rot in prison. Descendent of convicts and warlocks alike. Nothing but filth!"
Daemian leered, digging his nails into the man's cheek, drawing blood. "Do you know why I ended up in prison in the first place?"
Now, Colt felt the need to intervene. "Woah there, Tex. We agreed to call the sheriff."
Daemian vibrated with rage. The shadowy miasma around him only grew and intensified. "You agreed, boss." His voice dripped with syrupy venom.
Of course, Redback knew all about the later. With a cutting sneer, he shot his hand out at Deadboy, eager to put him away for good.
Lachlan caught his wrist with little difficulty. His hands covered by motorcycle gloves, he was immune to Redback's toxic magick. He twisted Bruce's hand into a wristlock, forcing him to stand up.
"YEAH, NAH! Don't try it, mate. You're f***ed."
Bruce winced. "GAH! My hand."
Colt couldn't tell if Daemian had broken it, but if not, he was on the verge. "D. That's enough."
It wasn't. "You leave this one with me, boss!" Daemian snarled. "He's about to find out why you don't f*** with my mates. OR MY BOYFRIEND."
Bruce had no defense. He forced himself to stand taller, leveraging Deadboy's joint lock. Deadboy just laughed and revered his arm into a hammer lock, driving it up Bruce's back.
"How much taller on your tippy toes can you stand," Deadboy whispered, sadistically into his ear.
"Lachlan, we can talk this out! I can tell you everything I know about Firebird. About Semyon Grigorivich."
Colt's eyes bugged out. "Wait...Deadboy."
"I AIN'T LISTENING!" Daemian shrieked. Choosing violence, Deadboy pushed Bruce away with a kick from his Doc Martins, positioning Bruce for maximum punishment. The dark magi made a swirling motion with his leather-clad glove, channelling a vortex of shadow on the ground. "Come to me, tag partner."
On his hands and knees, all Bruce could do was look up at the growing, dark shape rising out from the hollow black. Piercing, glowing white eyes burrowed into his soul. The hulking, muscular leather-clad demon--Braxius--loomed over his prey, growling.
"You..." The demon said in his resonate, bone-chilling baritone. "You've hurt many. Without remorse. You bring pain and death to the innocent. All for what? It matters not. Nothing you say will you spare you...from the judgment of The Infernals."
Bruce sputtered, one final please. "B...Brax. Please. Beggin' ya, mate! Don't..."
The demon didn't allow the accused to state his case. The monster shoved Bruce's head into his massive thighs and hoisted him into the air, darkened with shadowy cloud. With man tucked squarely between his thighs, the demon jumped onto the stage, and turned around to face the ring.
Colt whippsed his head towards Deadboy. "You ain't..."
"Oh," Deadboy laughed, making a slit-throat motion towards Brax. "I am. You're ridin' the Highway to Hell mate!"
Brax flew through the air. Colt thought he even hung there, suspended, for a moment. Then, he brought his massive weight down, spiking Bruce into the floor. By the time he landed, Deadboy was already mid-air, bringing down his weight onto Bruce's chest with his boots.
Total destruction.
Redback, bloodied and bruised, yet still somehow conscious (but barely) found himself hoisted onto his toes by his former coworker. The demoniac looked into his eyes (now facing the opposite directions), examining him.
Deadboy acknowledge Colt. If only to get the man off his case. "I'm not gonna kill him, champ. Nah. I'm just gonna have my friends on the other side...play with him for a little while." He laughed, maliciously. "When I drag him out of Gehenna--say, an hour or so from now--he'll be a changed man. Trust me."
Then, he shoved Bruce's body forward. It landed in the silk-lined coffin. The lid shut.
Deadboy snapped his fingers, opening up a new portal. Colt reeled back at the sudden rush of cold wind and the reeking stench of sulphur. A hundred or more squirming, tendrils and shadowy arms thrust through the gateway, entwining themselves around the coffin, dragging it into the dark corridor. Cold barely registered Bruce's screams, from inside his confines, as the box vanished into the portal, which shut close with a flash of light.
All was quiet. Colt, wordlessly, looked at The Infernals. Daemian's head was lowered. Brax, sniffing the air, wrapped his meaty arm around his partner's neck, and nuzzled him affectionately.
He was crying.
Patient, and concerned, Colt moved closer to his employee. He understood the man needed to enact the justice he through Bruce deserved, and he knew he'd be a damned hypocrite if he chastised him for it.
"Never really could trust anyone..." Deadboy sniffed. "Not even my own fed, apparently."
Colt nodded. "I think the scary Ice Cream guy would disagree, cowboy. Hell, he'll probably be just as shocked when he finds out. And I sure as hell promise you, kiddo, that you can trust us mavericks here in the GSA. We're family, boy."
Deadboy sighed and looked away.
"Hell, Daemian, I'd have dug up the earth with my own hands and dug you out myself, if I had to."
"Even after everything I did to you guys?" Daemian said.
Colt laughed. "Kid, you're one psycho heel. But you're a good little dogie too. You just saved our hides from that creep, for starters."
At Brax's silent encouragement, Deadboy nodded, forcing a smile. "Well, wasn't just me and Brax, boss. We...er...had help, yeah?" He looked askance.
"O'course," Colt went on, tapping his chin, "y'all will need to yank that yellow-belly'd so-and-so outta' hell eventually. As a bonafide babyface, I can't well let a bunch of demons torture him in perpetuity....even if the sum'bitch did deserve it. And what do you mean you had help?"
"Deadboy!" A somewhat grizzled, feminine voice--like the gayest mobster or old timey paperboy--called from the other side of the room.
Colt blinked, registering who'd just spike. "What in tarnation?"
From the top rope, Spike--dressed in one of Colt's old promo T-shirts--flipped off the top rope and landed easily on his feet. He gave his 'audience' a winning smile. But he refused to meet Colt's eyes.
Deadboy immediately jumped to his friend's defense, as Brax bounded forward to give Spike a tight (too tight) hug and nuzzle. "Now, don't go an spit the dummy, Tambo--"
Colt blinked. "Tambo?"
"Short for Tamberly," Spike demured. "It's...an Aussie thing."
Brax held Spike close to him, protectively, like a mama bear guarding a cub, while Daemian did the talking. "Listen, yous. Spike warned me about Bruce. He even used my own spell to summon me!"
"You're...crushing my lungs," Spike squeeked, struggling in the affectionate demon's bear hug. The monster let him go. Finally, Spike acknowledge Colt. "Oh. Er...hi."
Colt growled. Outside, a roll of thunder matched his displeasure.
Smiling awkwardly, Spike did his best to state his case. "I came through Daemian's shadow corridor. Nearly lost my lunch too. Look, Colt, I'm sorry for everything! I didn't mean to get Buck in trouble. I got...I got too cocky. But I was just lookin' out for his pride, I swear!"
Colt crossed his arms and gave Spike a stare-down. "Go on...give me a Goddess-damn reason why I don't shock you silly and have you throw out into the desert, boy."
Spike took a deep breath. The one time he didn't find Colt calling him 'boy's sexy. "I got a crush on your son, boss. And sometimes that means sticking up for him. But...I also have a lot of respect for his dad. You were and will always be my hero, and original favorite spellbreaker."
"Only favorite spellbreaker would suffice," Colt sniffed.
"And I know you were just lookin' out for me too," Spike continued. "Sometimes, even though you do your best, I think you can still be a bit old school. But I know by now that it comes from a place of love. You're worried. You try to protect us. But...Colt, we gotta' f*** up and let the universe knock us up the head sometimes."
"Knock you silly, boy," Colt said. He sighed. "Nah, Yankee, I should...." He swallowed, as if he had just been presented with a spoonful of particular foul tasting medicine. "Apologise." He looked to Daemian.
Deadboy made a rolling otion with his hands. "Come on, champ, you can say it."
"To..." Colt winced. "...Yoooou? I was..." He looked as if he might puke. "Wrrrr. Wrrrr. WrrrroOHnnn....OH I can't say it!"
"It's...okay, boss," Spike said, trying not to sound so defeated. "I'm not here as an employee. I'm here as a friend."
Colt blew a stray hair out his eyes, and slicked back his frizzy, electrified hair. "Look, son. I know you hold a candle for my kid. You want to court him? Start by talking some damn sense into him and easing him into his magick. He listens to you."
Spike couldn't believe it. Even Deadboy gave him a sly thumbs up. "Really? I have your blessing? I mean...Buck and I haven't really sealed the deal yet, y'know. And with his recent...er...developments, I'd want to go slow."
Colt crossed his arms. "If you do decide to make my boy an honest man, then you have my blessing. BUT...you better treat him right." Colt winked. "After all, you know who his daddy is." Thank goodness Buck or Spike can't get pregnant, he thought.
Spike was so relieved, and ecstatic, that he nearly forgot the real reason he'd come with Deadboy. "What's gonna' happen to that schmuck, Redback?"
"We'll have the sheriff hold him in the county jail," Colt explained. "Then again, he's one dangerous hombre. I wouldn't even trust him after Deadboy's demon buddies learn him good. I'll contact Aradia and see if they can get the feds on this."
That was good news. But it didn't offer Spike much relief. The situation was much more dire than Colt probably realized. "That's...not the only thing I came here to tell you about. You see, Salim isn't who he says he is."
Colt scratched his head. "He's not the world champion? Would you reckon, I damn near forgot that!"
"Because he made you forget," Spike said. He looked to Deadboy and Brax. "He made us all forget. He's an extremely powerful magi."
Colt winced. "I'll be damned. I can clearly remember conversations where he told me he didn't have magick. But...I knew he was King Anubis...didn't I?"
"He rewrote time!"
Colt blinked and tossed Deadboy a concerned look. "Did you...er...power bomb Spike one too many times?"
"I'm friggin' serious, Colt! He's like, a demi god, or an immortal, or some kind of time traveller--I'm still trying to figure it out. I don't think he's bad though. Hell, he kicked Semyon's butt--oh, and by the way...Semyon Grigorivich is friggin' RASPUTIN!"
The president of the GSA cocked his head to the side. "The trumpet player guy?"
"No, you're thinking Louis Armstrong." Spike shook his head. He was being out-himbo'd. "Look. I'm tired. All I can tell you is that we need to contact Lily at Aradia. I think...really bad things are about to happen!"
