Before the shroud of the blackest midnight descended upon the studio audience of CLASSIC WRESTLING, the hellebore sound of a black hole rotating began the incantations of the damned “first prayer” intermingled with inordinate sounds grinding.
A white light shone down over the entrance wherein flanking the looming Shadow over Innsmouth that was Lord Colossus stood Huninn and Muninn. The pleather and pewter of the Bolts paled in comparison to all that which is their Colossal Lord.
Walt Whezl capered, as Lord Colossus simply gloamed towards the stage. Whezl reached the microphone first, whereupon Huginn and Muninn shuffled up to him, lackeys lacking in both spinal fluid and that object it surrounds. The three men who were almost one Lord Colossus if they stuffed into a trench coat had more confidence than they were due.
The entire reason was the miasmatic monstrosity behind them.
Whezl: If you seek a monument! Look around you! If you seek salvation, KNOW THE LIGHTS HAVE GONE OUT ON CLASSIC WRESTLING THIS DAY!
Lord Colossus stood immobile behind him.
Whezl: Not only today do we offer sacrifices to the great miasma in the form of Both LARRY ROCKFIELD but also, The Amazing Amarettoes are offered up! CURSED IS HE WHO TRUSTS MANKIND! THEY WHO MAKE THEIR STRENGTH IN THE FLESH AND CLEVERNESS! The cursed constellation has formed over Classic wrestling and on this day…
A single hand of spikes reached over the top of the three men, and grabbed the microphone briefly lifting Whezl from the ground before he relinquished the stick.
Lord Colossus: Every letter is a codex of abject horror to men like Larry Rockfield who presume to stand in the unlight of feverish convulsions. Before me are three supplicants to the void themselves. Willing or not.
Both Huginn and Muninn cower at the inference of choice. As if there was any.
Lord Colossus: The shadow of terror casts long, very low it brings the strongest of men, very low it brings all whom would stand before it.
Lord Colossus looks at the three men before him.
Lord Colossus: The presumptions of constellations and the lack of knowledge in their distances and non-archimedean distances reveal the greatest weakness. That before me are supplicants. Desiring to be brought to nothing. Desiring to be brought to the void.
They must walk alone. For though the great maw spins ad infinitum, not even the splinters of your spines will adorn it, if not from your own hand. Suck the marrow of darkness each of you on your own, and you will have proven yourself to me. But those devices are yours. YOURS ALONE.
The voice of Lord Colossus took up the power of the astral drain.
Lord Colossus: LE VENT DE LA VERITE A REPONDU COMME UNE GIFLE A LA JOUE TENDUE DE LA PIETE!
He dropped the mic and left his lackey’s befuddled.