The bell over the door jingles as Kris walks in, his neon shades reflecting the room as he gives it a once over.

“The fuck am I doing here?”

He pulls out his phone and dials Gravy.

No rings, just straight to—”the number you have dialed has a voice mailbox that has not been set up…

Goodbye!”

No answer. A deep exhale. He flicks back over to the message. One line. No explanation.

“MS debut be here at 7 12907 Foothill Blvd, Sylmar, CA 91342”

Another long sigh. “I get us a shot against the Rollarwhores, and he brings me to an adult store? Low hanging fruit, and he’s not even here to grab it.”


A sad excuse for pyro poofs from behind a shelf and out of it walks Micheal Graves, both eyes and grin too wide.

“MIDNIGHT”—Graves chokes on the smoke—*HACK*—but recovers instantly—”Stalkers!”

He throws his arms up like he’s balancing the world.

Like the moment landed.

Like any second now, Kris is going to eat this shit up and be impressed.

He isn’t.

“You done?”

Graves holds his pose a few seconds longer… 

Just in case.

Then waves it off, quickly moving past it.

“C’mon man, it’s a good name.”

“What? Was the Midnight Males taken? They're the Dolls, right? Why not call us the Midnight Ken's?”

The sarcasm falls flat on Graves, but the connection to the Midnight Dolls doesn't!

“Who?”—he feigns—”Oh! Yeah, sheesh, I forgot! Dolly Waters and that vampire chick… Huh… Well, I guess we would be… Still a hell of a name! Midnight Kin's ain't bad either. Maybe drop the plural and jazz it up with a Y. Midnight Kyn... Yeah! Let's vote!”

“We don’t need a name. We’re not even a team. You said it yourself. I can’t trust you.”

Graves looks shocked by this admission.

Saddened even.

He lets out a soft broken sigh.

Tilts his head.

Leans back.

Straightens.

And raises a finger to pose a question.

“You know how you know you can trust me?”

“You said we didn't need trust, but”—sigh—“How?” Kris asks, reluctantly.

Graves fingers his chin.

Searching for an answer he hadn’t found before posing the question.

“Because I used my influence to get us this title shot!”

You lying son of a—“Bullshit!”

Thankfully the cashier returns to head off the argument.

“Okay guys, I got razor covered dildos, double razor covered dildos, and quad razor covered dildos. We were all out of three’s unfortunately.”

Kris gesticulates to the pile of awful dildos. “Wh-why?”

Graves picks up a dildo and inspects it carefully. “Well you said you wanted to do some damage, and I wanna show KindaCarver what it looks like when someone’s actually willing to take his schtick all the way.”

“Take it anywhere you want, but not with dildos!” Kris huffs. “I meant in the ring. Where it counts to, ya know, win a championship. I want to strip Samael and his little cult of everything they have!”

“Well intact anuses is probably something they have. We can damn sure strip ‘em of those.”

“I’m honestly not even sure we can guarantee they have intact anuses.” Kris pauses. “Anii?”

“It’s anuses. Trust me.”

The clerk chirps up again. “We also have an assortment of barbed whips, chains, cat-o-nine tails, and clamps.”

Graves muses, knuckle on chin. “Give me one of each.”

“Did you not hear a word I said?”

“I did. I’m just ignoring you.”

The cashier begins scannin’ and baggin’.

“You know what I think?”

“Please, enlighten me.”

Sarcasm again.

Misses Gravy.

“I think everybody’s got a line.”

Graves rolls a razorwire dildo across the counter.

“The problem with KindaCarver is he thinks crossing ‘em makes him dangerous.

It don’t.

It makes him sound tired.”

“You really calling the guy with chained up roller girls and a body count… tired?”

“Damn right!” Graves fires back. “Cause him and them girls seem to think all this sex shit, blood, screaming, dead body, murder speeches—makes him XTREME!”

Graves scratches his eye as the cashier continues to bag items and avoid eye contact.

“Nah, that’s just nostalgia for a time in XWF history that nobody—‘cept for me—is nostalgic for.

And…

..well, maybe Sammy–boy.

But the difference…” Graves leans in closer to Kris. “And there IS a difference!”

Graves straightens. With Kris’s wallet. Credit card already slipped to the cashier.

“He emulates it.

I lived it.

He grew up watching it.

I survived it.”

Graves leans back in. “And since he’s such a big fan, I say that we give the little fucker a front row ticket to 2010’s XTREME in all its bodily-fluid-glory!”

Graves straightens, having successfully slipped Kris’s wallet back unnoticed.

“Now—Midnight Stalkers, onto our second location!”

“What second location!?”



























“Jesus Arroyo, you really suck at First Blood matches.” Graves intones, as he flicks a small thin dart underneath his fingernail.

Kris reclines in his seat and sniffs admonishingly. “Don’t remind me.” He looks around at the bar and, well, seedy isn’t even the word for it. It’s all dark corners and misty miasmas of cigarette smoke. “Some drunkard gets a lucky shot and it’s all anyone can talk about. How about we talk about the fact that I’ve been pinned ONCE in seven months. Hell with these hardcore stipulations.”

“Well you told 'em to bring it—he brought it—shit happens...

Anyway...” 

Graves removes the dart from under his nail. “We need to figure out what we’re doing to the whores.”

“Well evidently I’m not allowed to kill them.”

“Ain't gotta kill 'em to make 'em wish we did for what they and Samael did to you.” Graves jerks his head to the right. “Take a look at the board.”

Kris looks, and sees that the nearby dart board has a number of haphazard scraps of paper stapled to it. He narrows his eyes and starts to read off some of the papers:

Bleach to the eyes. 

Fire ants funnelled up the asshole. 

Pliers to fingernails. 

Kris turns to look at Graves. “It sounds like a fine beginning to a snuff film.”

“Hope you’re a good shot because this is how we decide our angle of attack!”

Kris muses for a moment. “How many shots do I get?”

“One...

Blindfolded.”

“Wait, why blindfolded?”

“Make it more fun.”

Graves sidles up behind Kris with a blindfold and wraps it around his eyes.

“Gimme your hand.”

Kris splays out one of his hands and Graves drops some darts into it.

“You’re not gonna spin me around a whole bunch of times, right?”

“Well, now that you mention it”—Graves muses for a sec—but Kris throws a dart before his partner can finish the thought. 

It sails clear over the board and we hear a shout of pain from off camera.

“Ah, shit! SORRY!”

“HA—dummy! You’re like 300 years old, have you never played darts before?”

“Not blindfolded!” Kris retrains his attention on the general direction of the dart board. He throws another one, and it lands a respectable distance from the bullseye.

Graves narrows his eyes as he reads off the slip of paper on the board. “Vacuum cleaner anal avulsion! Nice one!”

“I don’t even know what that means—”

”I don’t know what half the shit you say means!”

“—Look Graves….” Kris slips off the blindfold. “Like I said back at the shop. I wanna take this seriously. I want to win this match legitimately so Samael has no room to cry foul.”

“Well they’ll be crying about SOMETHING with their anuses avulsed….”

“Why is it always anuses?” Kris breathes to himself before continuing. “Nobody’s done me as dirty as Samael has in my entire 300 year existence. For the last 3 years he let me think he counted me as a friend. And the worst part? I naively believed it. I’ve never felt so goddamn stupid in my life. I mean, sure, I’ve made mistakes. But falling for his perverse cult of personality for as long as I did? There’s no excuse for that. None.”

“Look man, we’ve all done shit we regret—”

“But I should know better! I’ve survived plagues. Wars. The disco era! Nobody should be more immune to his bullshit than me.”

“Bah!” Graves waves a dismissive hand. “You know what that tells me, Krissy? It tells me you’re LOYAL. And that you can put up with a lot of shit. But mostly loyal. Which bodes well for this team.” Graves pauses, itching the back of his head. “Truth be told this is kind of a new experience, having somebody be ride or die with me that isn’t Green or Dangerous…”

“Green I get, but why’d you ever team with Darren Dangerous?”

”The man once beat a cop with a turkey leg to save me from arrest… Long story.”

“No, that sentence explained enough…”

Graves excitedly points at him. ”See! That’s chemistry! I don’t even need to get into it, you just know!”

Kris rubs his temples. “I don’t think you understand what chemistry means…”

“You felt it too, don’t lie! Two monsters, sitting in a bar discussing revenge torture while you throw darts like a woman.”

Kris raises a finger to  interject, but Graves doesn’t stop.

”Point is, loyalty ain’t stupidity. People like Sammy-boy survive because loyal people keep giving away shit, hopin’ eventually they’ll get treated like people and not tools.

And maybe I ain’t the poster child for healthy friendships…” He scratches his beard. ”But I know users when I see ‘em.

You gave that fucker 3 years.

I usually give people 3 minutes.

Generous.

I know.”

The bartender slides down a drink that neither remembers ordering. Graves eyes it suspiciously.

”What’s this? Someone trying to roofie me!?”

The bartender doesn’t even look up as he wipes a glass clean. “Probably.”

”Nice!”

Graves downs the drink.

Kris shakes his head in disbelief. “See, THIS is what concerns me with you. You say insane things so casually that people don’t even react anymore.”

”Mmm, adaptation. Human beings are beautiful like that.”

“You’re not human?”

Graves points again.

”See!? Team chemistry!”

Graves casually tosses a dart in the direction of the board.


Nearly missed the board.

Graves squints to read the wording on the paper he barely hit.

A grin slowly spreads across his face. The kind that should signal everyone nearby to evac STAT.

Kris notices. “...What?”

Graves looks to Kris with that same grin.

Then bursts out into delighted laughter.

”Oh Sammy-boy’s gonna LOVE this one!”

Kris already sounds exhausted. “What’s it say?”

”Go. Like. Frodo.”

There’s a long silence as Kris stares at him.

“...What the fuck does that even mean!?”

”It means, we take those toys you bought—”

“I what?”

”—and we go full cattle mutilation on Sammy’s herd!”

Kris stares at him so hard that even Gravy starts to lose steam.

“...That sounds fun… In a deeply illegal sort of way.”

”THANK YOU!”

“That wasn’t a compliment, and it doesn’t win us the belts.”

That gets Graves' attention.

“No razorwire dildos. No torture. No weird Hobbit sex crimes. I want those championships, Graves. Dyson took three years from me, and I aim on taking something back. To do it, I need the Graves everyone pretends doesn’t exist.”

Graves squints. “...The handsome one?”

“The wrestler!”

Silence.

“I need the guy who shocked everybody. The guy who can actually chain wrestle when he feels like it.”

”That shit’s for fa—”

“The guy who keeps suckering people into thinking he’s some sort of deranged clown until he’s throwing them across the ring and stomping holes through their ribs.”

Graves scratches his beard again as he considers.

Kris presses him. “Samael expects a psychopath. Fine. Be one after the bell. But during it, I need the guy who can go.”

Graves exhales through his nose.

”You really think taking the belts will hurt him more than the razorwire dildos?”

Kris smiles for the first time all night. “I know it will.”