Far-off drums pound.
Thrum…
Thrum…
Thrum…
Thrum…
The rhythmic pounding of mallets upon taut animal skin. A breeze is carried from a far-flung and unseen field of battle and over rolling hills and through densely packed forests of pine. Boots crunch in the undergrowth of fallen pine cones and detritus on the forest floors.
The sound of boots trudging through the turf, the wet squelch of ground churned into a pit of mud. Fields becoming mires. The roar of feral power as sword clenched in fists raised into the air filled with the heat rising from decaying bodies, entropy returning energy to the cosmos as energy is expended.
All of this lineage was lost on Walt Whezl as he idly swatted at a fly that had landed on his neck. Walt Whezl was concerned, he thought he wasn’t letting on about this worry, but Wlat Whezl had rolled subterfuge scores of single digits to match his Charisma. Walt Whezl doesn’t understand dump stats and neither do you. What Walt Whezl worryingly wonders is how this is going to work. Standing in a field and feeling uneasy are two things Walt Whezl does quite well.
Dressed like a cross between a carnival barker and Satan’s accountant, however, is doing him no favors, a heavy layer of make-up has small rivulets of sweat running down it. Thankfully his black on black on black wardrobe kept the otherwise growing sweat stains under arms and behind knees would be visible. Whezl wails waggling his first finger violently as though he was trying to remove it.
“Chiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick Grillbreast! You think you have accomplished something at Classic Wrestling, don’t you! Do you think taking the mask of THEE Lord Colossus and breaking it was a blow?! IT WAS NOT! WHILE YOU FANTASIZE ABOUT THE FUTURE OF CLASSIC WRESTLING, KNOW THAT THE ARROW OF TIME ONLY BRINGS YOU CLOSER TO ENTROPY!”
Whezl’s voice raised from its nasal Halfordian whine to a full-on banshee-level shriek. Whezl cascaded with visible rage, spittle, and sweat flying from him in the same manner as water is repulsed from a spinning orb.
“DON’T YOU SEE! LORD COLOSSUS HAS DONNED THE EXECUTIONERS HOOD JUST FOR YOU CHIIIIICK GRIIIIILBREAST!”
Sure enough, standing right behind Whezl is a large shape, draped in his usual cloak. An executioner’s cloth hood over his face. No Mouth Piece, but two eyes stare out from under that hood…
Brown Eyes. Eyes that look like they are ready to be led off to an execution themselves.
“The Great LORD COLOSSUS doesn’t even need to speak! Look at how he looms over the very fabric of CLASSIC WRESTLING CHICK GRILLBREAST!”
Whezl capers and wildly flails arms up and down to show the great size of Lord Colossus.
“He was the first and he WILL be the last of CLASSIC WRESTLING. For far longer than you have been drinking wall paste and calling it protein powder the void has drawn ALL towards it. None have dared before now, NOT EVEN VITO, have dared to so brazenly call for the apocalypse from the heavens! FROM BEYOND THE DEPTHS!”
Lord Colossus nods behind him. Whezl’s cane is pulled from beside Lord Colossus, where boots should perhaps be in the center of the Gigantic Cloak of Unending midnight, there are not.
Whezl’s cane, known to produce that Noxious substance that has fearsomely put many of Classic’s would-be heroes down for the omega moment seems especially deadly as the little man’s erratic behavior sprays puffs of the gas around him.
“Chick Grillbreast! You have called upon the void, NOW YOU WILL BE MADE TO BECOME A SUPPPPPLICANT THERE IN!”
Lord Colossus nods behind him. Whezl stops and notices the man moving shooting him a withering glance. Whezl continues sermonizing.
“IF YOU THINK THE DESICCATION OF LARRY ROCKFIELD AND FREDDY KILGORE WERE ANYTHING BEFORE THE RAW POWER THAT WILL BE LEVELED UPON YOU… YOU ARE SORELY MISTAKEN!”
“Yeah!”
A voice that is neither profound nor resonant comes from Lord Colossus. Walt stops capering so fast he almost faceplants into the muck. Only catching himself with his cane, wherein he narrowly misses a shot from its business end.
“I TOLD YOU TO BE SILENT YOU ABSOLUTE BUFOON!”
Whelz shakes his cane at Lord Colossus.
“ABSOLUTELY SILENT. NOT A SINGLE WORD.”
Lord Colossus shrugs. Notably, the width of his shoulder have begun to dip unevenly. Walt Whezl reaches up and bonks Lord Colossus quite hard on the top of his head.
“DAMNATION CALLS ALL!”
Black.