The shot opens on the brilliant blood red effigy of Mars.

So near yet so very far from the machinations of man. Truly representing that last bastion of the uncivilized and the untamed in our cosmos. A place that can charitably be described as inhospitable, and yet retains a stalwart place in the human imagination….

….yes…

….oh wait…you thought we were talking about outer space?

Nah, bro.

The shot tumbles quickly back down to Earth, before landing in….



We in Antarctica, bitch.

“And it’s fucking freezing!” Samael Dyson hollers, shivering wildly in his parka as frozen snot encrusts the bottom half of his face. He drags a furred sleeve across the snot, dislodging most of it, when a voice calls out to him.

“Master! Maaaaaaster!”

“WHAT?!”

One of Samael’s legion of Insignificants, also wearing a parka and also still wearing a paper sack over his head, rushes over to Samael. The shot pans out a bit and we see an arctic encampment in the background. More Insignificants in cold weather gear seem to be milling about the camp.

“We have a little problem master.” the Insignificant speaks timidly.

“....what now?” Sam growls.

“It would appear the heater broke in Guide Insigniciant’s tent last night and he froze to death.”

Sam’s gloved hands curl into fists. “God DAMN IT!” He casts a glance over at the milling Insignificants. “Now I have to make another one.” He pulls a dagger out of one of the many large pockets in his parka, revealing a dagger with a swastika (!!!!) on the sheath. Unsheathing the dagger, he calls out to the Insignificants. “Insignificants! APPROACH!”

The gaggle of nameless minions waste no time running, tripping and struggling through the snow to be the first to stand at attention before their master. Once assembled, Sam addresses the throng.

“Guide Insignificant died last night. So we need a new guide. You know what that entails.” He waves the dagger. “So who’s gonna….”

“Pick me, master!!” “I’ll do it!!” “It would be my honor, master!!” “Please, pick me, pick me!”

“Okay, okay, shut the fuck up already! Okay….uhhhh…..you!” Sam points at a random Insignificant who proceeds to act like he just won the Miss Universe pageant.

“Oh thank you master! I won’t let you down!”

Sam hands the Insignificant the Nazi dagger, the minion taking hold of it with a degree of reverence. Then, absolutely without hesitation, he drives the dagger through one of the eye holes of his paper sack mask. Blood gushes forth over the paper, and the Insignificant lets out a moan that's some perverse amalgamation of pleasure and pain. Then, withdrawing the dagger, he puts out his other eye. By this point a thin stream of crimson is mottling the snow at the minion’s feet. “Where we’re going, we don’t need to see!” the blinded Insignificant cajoles ecstatically.

“We don’t need to see!” the other Insignificants cheer in unison.

“Yeah…yeah….anyway, do you know the way to the bunker now?” Sam asks the grieviously wounded goon.

“Of course, master” The Insignificant holds aloft one blood splattered arm and waves it over the Antarctic tundra. “It’s that way.”

“Great! All right, Insignificants, we move out in five!”

MANY GRUELING HOURS LATER!

“I thought you said we were close!”

The eyeless Insignificant, now coated in a fine layer of frozen blood, replies, “We are master! It’s just over this next ridge!”

Sam turns away from the guide with a snarl, and starts to address the camera directly. One hopes this camera operator is getting a hefty bonus.

“Corey Smith thought he destroyed all of my mother’s Nazi artifacts, but the truth is that he only got the mundane shit! The fun occult stuff was all in a U-Haul storage unit around the block. So close, yet so far away Corey you ponce! Anyway, amongst my mother’s manuscripts I found that eyeball stabbing dagger rolled up in some manuscripts referencing a secret Arctic Nazi base called Ultima Thule, where they were supposedly working to develop the ultimate German superman…THE UBERMENSCH! Finally, a replacement for Kristoffer Arroyo that I can really trust, because hell, if you can’t trust a nearly century old fascist science experiment then who can you, right?

Okay, that’s enough narrative hand holding, I-AHHHHHHHHHH!”

One moment Samael is monologuing into the camera, and the next he’s disappeared from sight!

“MASTER!” the eyeless minion cries as he leads a gaggle of Insignificants to where Samael seems to have tumbled down some sort of hole in the icy terrain. “Are you okay, Master?!”

Samael gets up gingerly, and casts his gaze up towards the portal he tumbled through. Next to him is a weathered metal ladder, and across from that, a steel door with German writing on it. “I think I found the bunker! You got it wrong you imbecile! The bunker wasn’t over the ridge, it IS the ridge!”

“Shall I self flaggelate now or later, master?”

Sam waves a hand dismissively. “Later! Just get your asses down here and help me open this door.”

LATER….

Samael picks his way carefully through the dilapidated lab, full of all the accoutrements you would expect from a deserted Nazi science station: beakers full of mysterious substances, esoteric old machinery, items that look vaguely sado-masochistic in nature. All under the auspices of a glowering portrait of Adolf Hitler stabbing his pointer finger in your direction accusingly.

What it didn’t have, unfortunately, was an Ubermensch.

Sam settled onto a stool near a lab station, sending up a plume of dust as he did so. “Where the fuck is my UBERMENSCH?!”

“Maybe the documents were wrong, master.”

“Maybe your mother FAKED them, master!”

“Maybe the stars have aligned such that we are just doomed to fail. Alas, we are but a cosmic joke, sport for the Gods themselves!”

Samael looks at the last Insignificant strangely. “Remind me to kick the shit out of you when I’m less depressed.” Then, after a pause. “Guide Insignificant! What do you sense?”

“Do not despair, master! I sense our goal is near!”

“But where?! We’ve combed over this entire lab!” Samael huffs. “Turn this fucking place upside down!” Naturally, the Insignificants hop to it, and Sam turns to the camera.

“You know, I’ve always felt that art doesn’t need to be pretty to be good. Sometimes it’s ugly. Sometimes it’s terrible. And sometimes it reeks of stale beer and has trackmarks in it’s dick from shooting up copious amounts of heroin.

Hello Frances.

I’m sure this isn’t something you’ve heard often, but I like you. And not just because you humiliated Kristoffer Arroyo, although that certainly helps. But no. It’s because, as I mentioned, I think you’re art. The grisly, dirty kind. The kind I like. There’s an authenticity to you that I appreciate, coming from one unabashedly authentic man to another. You’re poor white trash with a substance abuse problem who has nothing to lose. That’s precisely what makes you dangerous.

And that’s precisely what that idiot fuckwit Kristoffer failed to see.

You’re not like the SEB’s and Dickie Watson’s of the world. People with good looks and status. People for whom losses actually matter. People who have things to look forward to beyond bare knuckle fighting and drowning in bottom shelf liquor at a dilapidated strip club. You’re so simple in your low level debauchery that it just might make you the most dangerous son of a bitch in the entire promotion.

Yeah.

Nothing. To. Lose.

And I fucking love it.

In fact, I love it enough to kill it.

Because you know what? Fuck Jenny Myst (not literally, I’m too young and attractive to have my cock fall off already). Fuck Kieran King. Fuck everybody else in the XWF I’ve gotten the better of. You? You’re the bench mark. Low key, for certain, but it’s YOU. Because you have nothing but “go”. It’s the only gear you have because quite frankly it’s the only way you can afford your next meal. These pampered rich fucks? They don’t get it. They don’t see the desperate slavering ANIMAL in you that I do.

And deep down inside, I think you know that. Most people look at you and probably think you’re too stupid to have a shred of insight, but I know better. The starving dog can’t afford to be stupid because that means DEATH. The starving dog knows what it is: pure uninhibited ID. And it has no choice but to embrace that or push up daisies.”

Sam casts a glance behind him, where his goons are upending tables, shattering glass and just generally turning the room inside out.

“Have you found anything yet?!”

“Not yet, master!” One of them pipes up.

Sam rolls his eyes. “God dammit what do I not pay you for?!”

Returning his trademark glower to the camera, the XTreme champion proceeds.”But now’s the part where I stop tickling your balls and go for the throat. Because for as impressive a piece of art as you are….”

Sam licks his chapped lips. It’s gross.

“You are still in my fucking way.”

He throws his arms out.

“Briefcase, baby. The quintessential ticket to the top. And you all might have thought I forgot what with all this bullshit with Kristoffer, but of course I didn’t. I’m no fool. I know just how close I am. One pay per view defense and one Anarchy defense. And then I get to ratfuck Scoops, or SEB, or whoever the fuck busts their load early and cashes in their Leap of Faith case before me. Point is, it doesn’t matter. That briefcase is a loaded gun in my hand. And Frances….

YOU. WILL. NOT. STOP. ME.”

“Master, we found it!”

Sam whips around in his seat and we see that someone has dislodged the massive portrait of Hitler, and behind that is a cobweb encrusted switch.

“Or at least I think we found it.”

Sam hops off his chair and storms over to the switch.

“Do I have to do everything myself you fools?!”

Sam pushes the switch down and at first, nothing happens. But then, a loud mechanical groan emanates from the far side of the lab. Everyone turns their attention to the noise, to see that a secret door is now yawning open. Sam pushes past a duo of Insignificants and goes to the newly appeared doorway. He snatches a flashlight from a third Insignificant and shines the beam through the threshold.

“It looks like there’s another lab in there.”

Plunging through the threshold, Sam bats aside more stringy cobwebs. His attention is immediately drawn to an upraised dias in the middle of the hidden lab that has a metallic chamber built into it. But, the face of the chamber has cracked and a skeletal corpse is half hanging out of the front of it. Sam slaps a hand to his mouth and draws it down the length of his face in irritation.

“No. No way. Tell me that’s not our Ubermensch!” He stabs a finger at the corpse and turns about to look at the Insignificants working their way into the lab behind him. “Tell me we didn’t come all this fucking way for…”

“GRRRRRAAAAAHHHHHHHHH”

An angry howl cuts through the darkness! Sam yelps in fear, and from out of the bowels of the lab a massive hulking figure emerges and crashes into the assembly of Insignificants! The Insignificants immediately form a ring of protection around Samael. Well, all but one, who was unlucky enough to find himself in this giant figure’s clutches. The hulk screws the Insignificant's head around so it’s facing backwards, and then he pries it off, sending a gout of blood splashing up to the ceiling! The headless corpse topples over, and the figure rips the paper bag mask off the head and bites down into the minion’s face! The sound of crunching bone and tearing flesh inundates the group, as Samael shines his flashlight on the grisly scene and winces.

“Don’t come any closer! We’re armed and….”

The hulk looks up with blood lacquered lips and we finally get a good look at the beast.

“Holy hell….”



“Wer zur Hölle bist du – und warum ist dieser Mann so köstlich?” the giant of a man speaks, spitting bits of flesh everywhere.

Sam clears his throat. “Of course, German! Uhhhh….I spreeken see Dooch muy bueno!”

The giant seems to cant his head in confusion.

“Kann ich nach diesem hier noch etwas haben? Mir ist vor zwei Jahrzehnten das Essen ausgegangen.”

“Uhhhh…..” Sam looks at the eyeless Insignificant. “I didn’t quite catch that. What is he saying?”

But then, another random Insignificant steps to the fore and speaks.

“Seid gegrüßt! Wir kommen in Frieden! Und ihr dürft so viele von uns verschlingen, wie der Meister es gestattet!”

“Der Meister? Adolf Hitler ist hier?”

“Holy shit! Why didn’t you tell me you spoke German! What’s he saying?!”

“He’s asking if Adolf Hitler is here, master.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “Hmmmm…..tell him old Adolf isn’t here, but his grandson Samael Hitler is!”

The Insignificant nods and turns to the mystery man, who is still devouring his brethren in between pauses to speak. “Seien Sie unbesorgt – Adolf Hitlers Enkel ist hier, um Sie aus diesem Gefängnis zu befreien!”

The giant’s jaw drops, as well as the corpse he was devouring, and he runs at Samael. Samael throws his hands up defensively….but the German giant prostrates himself at Samael’s feet and bows!

“Oh, danke, ihr höchst ehrenwerten Brüder meines Anführers!”

“I told him we’re here to free him, and he says “thank you” master!”

Sam’s smile curls up into a winning malicious grin. “Insignificant, you’ve just earned yourself extra “grovel at my feet” time!”

“Oh thank you so much master!”

Sam looks down at the huge mass of humanity at his feet. “Insignificant, ask him if he’s the Ubermensch.”

The Insignificant does so, and the giant German proceeds to launch into a protracted dialogue in his native tongue. And by protracted, I mean, like an entire fucking hour. By the end of it, Sam’s eyes are half lidded and threatening sleep. Once it’s clear the man has finished, Sam turns to the translation Insignificant and barks, “Give me the Reader’s Digest version!”

The Insignificant shrugs and says, “Yes.”

Sam grins again and he motions for the Ubermensch to rise. The huge man does so, looking at Sam with the sort of look a puppy dog grants it’s owner. “Menschy, grab your coat! We’re outta here!”

STILL LATER….

Sam’s gaze wanders over the expanse of the Antartctic wasteland from his seat in the modified military troop transport helicopter. The two Insignificants he had to leave behind to make room for the Ubermensch wave goodbye from the ground, having gladly accepted the frozen death that now awaits them. Sam turns away from the window without returning the gesture, and ogles at the massive freak of nature that’s sitting across from him. Sam granted him another Insignificant to eat, this time the eyeless Guide Insignificant, and the Ubermensch is presently pawing through his guts and withdrawing a length of small intestine to dip into his mouth.

“Mmmm ... so gut!”

“Yes, yes, very gut!” Sam utters. “So, very, very gut indeed. Oh the plans I have for you my friend!”

"Freundin?"

“Yes! Freundin! Heh heh. You see Menschy, I’ve got a bit of a vampire problem and I think you’re perfectly suited to deal with it.”

He perks up at the word “vampire”. “Dracula?”

Sam waggles his hand as if to say “sorta”. “A little bit, except way more Mexican and much, much gayer.” He looks back out the window at the cerulean blue skies racing past.

“I do so love it when a plan comes together. Especially when it’s an occult Nazi plan I lifted from my rotten dead mother.” He waggles a finger at the camera. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. You bastards TRIED. You tried so, so hard. The trillionaires. Dolly. You couldn’t have made this more obvious if you bedecked it in ten foot high neon fuckin’ lights!” Sam spits. “I mean, making Kris the special referee? Putting Frances Marigold in a match he feels right at home in? I get it you boring, tepid fucks! You don’t want to see Samael Dyson with a 24/7 briefcase. Because that way lies chaos….lies anarchy! Sweet beautiful anarchy. But what’s the alternative, huh? Hauling out Scoops McGee for title defense after title defense until he shits his britches and dies in the ring? Another bland as paste Sebastian Bryce title reign? Oh, oh, oh! But maybe one of the Leapers will save the day, eh?

Isaiah King….aka SEB part deux only more “urban”.

XXXVI....who no matter how you parse it spells MEDIOCRE.

Betsy Granger….the “main eventer” who COULDN’T.

Korvayne….the wet behind the ears Jenny Myst lite.

Charlie Nickles….whose been trying to steal my Xtreme title for three months and FAILING.

Game Girl….whose relevance is fading faster than Elon’s hairline.

Dickie Warson…..who couldn’t even get his shit together long enough to beat Kris.

Rowan Vance….Jesus Christ, Rowan fucking WHO?!

And I won’t even get into the short bus kids!

I mean, given the alternative, do I REALLY look so bad as your Universal Champion? Would it be such a crime?

*Sigh*

You visionless philistines!”

Sam shakes his head with disdain.

“Anyway, back to you Frances and how I’m not tonguing your scrote anymore. I bet you think you got this shit on lock down, eh? Well swallow my shaft. Just because I called you a piece of gutter trash art doesn’t mean I’m not gonna pull your asshole out through your mouth. Art is, after all, ephemeral. It fades. It burns.

It can be destroyed.

But why? To replay that classic acting line, “What’s my motivation?” And at the risk of sounding like a broken record, my motivation is my mother. Or the incessant comparisons to her! I’m so fucking sick and tired of every hack in the XWF thinking they’ve been stricken with some flash of divine insight every time they mention Madison Dyson in my presence. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was expecting it. It’s what people do, lazily grasp for that low hanging fruit. But for the XWF to be chock full of so many unimaginative plebians as it is is utterly mind blowing.

So, yeah, I tore her throat out with my teeth.

But even in death, the spectre of everything she was haunts me and fuels the idiot imaginations of my coworkers. So I have to do one better. I can’t just kill her, but I have to supercede her by ERASURE. I have to sever the tether than binds us for GOOD. And to do that I have to be everything she never was.

The Universal Champion.

So you want my motivation, Frances? There you have it. And you know what? My motivation trumps yours in spades! What are you fighting for? Eh? Another warm meal? Another week with a roof over your head? A six pack of whatever piss water passes as beer for you? You fight to continue a low brow paltry existence that is effectively a living death! Never growing. Never evolving. Just throwing yourself into the meat grinder night after depressing night so you don’t DIE. And just how fucking sad is that? And you know that too. I already told you you have more insight than most give you credit for. You know there’s no light at the end of the tunnel. Just another blood soaked massacre. Another night of stumbling into the gutter. Another needle sticking in a vein. And shit, man, you think the XWF is EVER gonna let you touch the Universal Championship? You might be an old man, but you’re not Scoops. You’re not “cute”, you’re not “funny”, and you’re not some lame ass Hallmark story of inspiration like he is. You’re just PATHETIC.

Nah fam. Fuck that noise. Me? I’m fighting to better myself. I’m fighting to be something MORE. To be something nobody expected me to be! Not just Madison Dyson redux. But the legitimate FINAL FUCKING BOSS OF WRESTLING.

And I’m going to do it too. Because in just two more matches I’ll have my briefcase. And in THIS match, my Ubermensch is going to have that traitor Kristoffer Arroyo in traction if he steps one foot out of line. And then I’m just going to have you…..some fossil from the land before the land before time, whose probably done so much cocaine he can’t control his bowels anymore. Some slow moving, slow thinking, borderline coma case who does nothing better than BLEED on COMMAND.

Frances, you are the inevitable tremulous march towards death itself. Whereas me? I am youth and virility DEFINED. Full of hot spunk and ready to impregnate the hearts and minds of the XWF viewership with the notion of the kind of Universal Champion that COULD BE. No more boring salty old farts like you and Scoops. No more pompous rich prettyboys. No more egomaniacs playing at being royalty.

Just Samael Dyson. Filling every single one of your orifices with the unfiltered essence of something new, something different….heh…..something ME.

If you’re art, Frances, then I am that which supercedes art.

I am THE DIVINE.

Prepare for the smiting of a lifetime.”

Sam turns away from the camera and shouts to the pilot. “What’s our ETA? I’ve got a spaceship to Mars to catch.”

“I’d say we’ve got….”

Suddenly, the entire aircraft is rocked by a violent explosion! Sam, once recovered, screams for the pilot. “What the fuck was that?!”

“I….I don’t….oh…oh God….”

Sam looks out the nearest window and sees the lappings of fire coming from the top of the aircraft. And then, as if things couldn’t get any worse.

“Sir, there seems to be an incoming transmission. I don’t know the source!”

A voice sounds out from the ship’s intercom system. Cool. Icy. And above all else, paternalistic in it’s jeering cadence.

“Samael, this is your father. You’ve been ignoring me, and now you’re paying the price.”

“No! NO! This can’t be happening!”

Everyone lurches in their seats as the craft starts to lose altitude. The Ubermensch seems unmoved, and he continues eating their unfortunate guide as though it’s a last supper. Which it may very well be.

“I’ll see you in hell you little rat bastard.”

Samael starts to unstrap himself. “Insignificants, start collecting the parachutes!”

They dutifully do so, each struggling to remain erect as the helicopter starts to plummet.

“Thank goodness there’s one for each of us!” An Insignificant says.

“No! There will be three for me and three for the Ubermensch. One primary chute and two backups each!”

The Insignificant doesn’t even begin to dispute the faulty logic. “Oh, of course sir!”

The pilot, having abandoned his post, sounds off, “Fuck that! I’m getting out of here!” But he’s savegly cut off by the Ubermensch, who explodes out of his restraints and slams the pilot’s head into the wall of the aircraft, splitting his skull like an overripe melon.

The Insignificants help Samael and the towering German into parachutes and then hand over their own parachutes to both of them.

“Good luck, master!”

Sam hits the button for the rear bay door and it yawns open as they continue to lose altitude.

“Whatever.” Sam mutters. He gulps in fear as the open sky stretches out before him, but before he can jump himself the Ubermensch takes hold of Samael and protects him with his own body as they leap from the failing aircraft! Sam spirals into the air, just barely remembering to pull his ripcord. As the tethers stretch taut and the parachute opens, he drops the extra parachutes into the abyss and screams.