For what can best be described as reasons, Walter Whezl(esquire natch.) is standing with BATTLE DOOM OCULTA and WARGOAT IMMORTUM. Despite the change in name, the only noticeable change is they now have a “1” and a “2” written on their hoods.
This troop of “goons”, the term used lightly, are standing in front of an obviously fake wall. It has been put up in the middle of a parking lot, which is not helping whatever cause they are trying to lead.
“GENTLEMAN! BEHOLD! THE END!” Whezl’s hands shoot skyward. BDO and WI stand there. More of a loom, than looming despite their best attempts.
As his hands shot skywards, fireworks definitely not purchased at the bargain fireworks stand directly behind them went off. Like a busted sparkler, small plumes of silvery light dot the evening. And crashing through the wall and falling flat on his face is the Lord Mol.. Colossus. Like a heroic chubby duckling who didn’t get the memo, he wasn’t ever going to be a Swan, he belly flops tripping on his own cloak as bits of plywood and broken wood pile around him.
“Oh for the sake of the void.” Whezl is fuming. He waits impatiently tapping his foot, waiting for THE Lord Colossuser to rise.
It’s not happening. He has twisted himself into his cloak, a burrito of the everlasting void. Obviously not gluten-free.
“Help him up!” Whezl harangues the two voidlings who were snickering a little too loudly for their own good.
This, however, turns into the classic “whodunit” of three incompetent boobs guided by a slightly less incompetent boob. Whezl’s face turns red enough beneath his face paint that it is becoming visible, stamping around and issuing orders. BDO and WI doing their community college best to try and help THE lord Colossus out of his cloak, who himself is discovering more and more notions that defy physics in tangling himself. Somehow a nearby shrubbery became involved.
This is all enough to distract them from the temperature dropping precipitously in the early evening of this charade.
Whezl’s neck and arm hair begin to stand up. An uncomfortable feeling washing over him. Familiar, yet unwanted.
The wooden frame crumbles as boots shod for war come crunching through the barrier, not even a mild inconvenience.
Distracted as they are, the grouping doesn’t notice this auditory output. Nor do they notice the heavy, rhythmic breathing of an apex predator behind them.
Whezl instinctually in service to the void notices first. It’s sweat despite the cold, the clammy feeling of being observed. He stops directing the nonsense behind him and stands, eyes wider than the plates at Denny’s. Slowly, BDO and WI stopped, they noticed Whezl no longer screaming at them like a pigeon thinking it was a raven. Lord Molasses was forgotten.
His three servants looked at him, his back bare, his head not visible, though likely unmasked. Massive heaving breaths sounded somehow lightly distorted. A graininess seeps through the very fabric of reality. Fists gloved in black leather, one holding a battle hammer. The other flexing and unflexing reflexively. Clad ready for the end tymes.
Whezl is the first to attempt to offer prostration before the blight upon sentient thought. The hammerless hand points to Lord Molasses who has stopped struggling and accepted his fate as a shrub person.
Whezl again attempts to explain…
“Silence.”
Whezl’s mouth snaps shut with such rapidity he could’ve trapped a bear betwixt his teeth. He surveys his two servants, only noticeable as they shrink before his piercing gaze. They each in turn have their moments of piercing anxiety.
“Ever was I surrounded by fools. Jesters and Fools alone. Before me stands the horses that pull the chariot to the black dawn of CLASSIC wrestling.
Though I desire four horses in accordance with the apocalypse, I see only mules before me. Not fit to pull the cart carrying the dead. Not strong enough to lead. Ony weak enough to become nothing.”
His hammer points at Whezl.
“This craven attempts to replace me. As though he could replace the very power of the black hole itself. For WHAT.”
He roared.
“For currency?! For assumptions of POWER?!”
His back expanded and contracted with renewed vigor.
“I possess all the power I need to bring about the END of CLASSIC WRESTLING myself. The power of the void as it rends flesh, and hope. Hunter will learn there is no glorious end. Only Silence. Oblivion. Wilt. No new dawn awaits Hunter. Nor CLASSIC.”
Dead.
Black.