Saint Row: Part II The Doctor He inserts the syringe into my jugular and draws blood, spurting into the cylindrical container. Securely seated on my chest, he then makes precise incisions around my eyelids and attempts to extract my eyeballs in one swift motion. I can see his round face, crooked teeth, and shiny black eyes, perched under bushy eyebrows. A tiny muscle flutters above his clenched jaw. His doctor's white robe flaps as he bestrides me and pins down my unthrashing arms. There is only the stench of sweat and the muffled inhalations of tortured lungs. Mine. In my ears a drumbeat and a faraway shriek, like a seagull being butchered in mid-flight. My brain gives orders to phantom organs. I see them from the corners of my bloodshot eyes: my arms, my legs, like beached whales, bluish, gelatinous, and useless. I scream. I strike at him but he evades my thrust and recedes into the murky background. I won't give chase. The doors and windows are locked, alarm systems everywhere. He stands no chance. He turns to vapor and materializes next to me in bed, clad in his robe, eyes shut, a contented smile on his face. This is my only chance. I turn to my side, relieved that motility is restored. I grab his slender neck. I feel his pulse: it's fast and irregular. I squeeze. He grunts. And harder. He clasps my forearms and mewls. Something's not right. The doctor never whimpers. Every night, as he peels the skin off my face with delicacy and care, he makes no sound, except belabored breathing. When he extracts tooth after nail, castrates me time and again, injects detergents into my crumbling veins, he does so inaudibly and expertly. I hesitate. "COLE!" Her voice. "Cole!" I can't wake up as I am not asleep. The doctor's there, in our bed, a danger to us both. I must exterminate him finally. "Cole! You are having another nightmare! Please, you are hurting me!" The doctor's head turns around full circle and at the back of his flattened skull there is the face of Sarah, my lover and my friend. I recoil. I let go. My heart threatens to break through rib and skin, its thrumming in my ears, my brain, my eye sockets, my violated jugular. I sleep Sarah Her bags are packed, my scarlet fingerprints blemish the whiteness of her skin, she is crying. I reach for her but she retreats in horror, nostrils flared, eyes moist, a nervous tic above her clenched jaw. "I am afraid of you." "I didn't mean to." "Yesterday, I thought I'd die." Her hand shoots to her neck involuntarily, caressing the sore bruises, where I attempted to strangle her at night. "It's him, you know, the doctor." She shudders. "I saw him yesterday again; manicured, besuited, coiffed, as elegant as ever. He was injecting me with something that burned, it was not phenol, I would have died. It was something else." "It's over." "He's still alive, They haven't caught him, you know. They say he is in Argentina." "Wherever he may be, there's nothing he can do to you." She steps forward, palm extended towards my cheek, and then thinks better of it, picks up her tattered suitcase and leaves. The Doctor A rigid plastic pipe, through the large vein in my leg, towards my ovaries. I am a woman. I am to be sterilized. The doctor crouches at the foot of my bed, inspecting with mounting interest my private parts. There is a greenish liquid in a giant plunger connected to an IV stand. He nods with satisfaction. He brandishes a glinting surgical knife and slices my abdomen. He takes out a squarish organ mired in gory slime, my womb, and inspects it thoroughly. There's blood everywhere. I can see my intestines curled in the cavity, wrapped tight in an opaque and pulsating sheet. Two ribs are visible and underneath them, my oversized heart. My breathing sears. I chose tonight to be a woman. I want him to be at ease, not on the alert. I want him to be immersed in rearranging my organs, tearing them apart, sowing them back reversed. I want him to forget himself in the sandbox that is my body. He leans over me, to study whether my left breast is lactating. It is not. I reach for the hypodermic and detach it in one swift motion. I stick it in his jugular. I press the plunger. The doctor gurgles. He whimpers and mewls. He watches me intently as his senses dull and his body grows limp. There is blood everywhere. The doctor drowns in it, my blood and his, a forbidden mixture. The Police "Was he a medical doctor?" "Not that I am aware of." The burly policeman scrawled in his threadbare pad. The psychiatrist shifted in her overstuffed armchair: "Why are you asking?" She was a scrawny, bleached blonde and wore high heels and a plate-sized pendant to work. The cop sighed and slid a crime scene photograph across the burrowed surface of the desk. "It's tough viewing. I hope you didn't have breakfast." She covered her mouth with a dainty, wrinkled hand as she absorbed the details. "I can explain that." She literally threw the photo back at her interlocutor. "Go ahead, then." "My patient is wearing the white doctor's robe because one of his alters was a Nazi camp doctor." The policeman blinked: "Beg your pardon?" "My patient was a Polish Jew. He spent three years in various concentration camps, including Auschwitz." "I heard of Auschwitz." "There, he and his young wife, Sarah, were subjected to medical experiments conducted by Nazi doctors in white robes." "Medical experiments?" "You don't want to know the details, believe me." But the officer was insistent. "They sterilized his wife. At first, they injected some substance to her ovaries through a vein in her leg. Then they extracted her womb and what was left of her reproductive system. She was awake the entire time. They did not bother with antiseptics. She died of infection in excruciating pain." The policeman coughed nervously. "When my patient was liberated, at the beginning of 1945, he developed a host of mental health problems. One of them was Dissociative Identity Disorder, formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder." The cop scribbled something and mumbled to himself. "He had three alters. In other words, his original personality fractured to at least three parts: the original He, another part that assumed the identity of his dead wife, and a part that became the doctor that tortured them. In the last few years, every night, he enacted scenes from their incarceration. The doctor would come to him, an hour or so after he fell asleep, and conduct various procedures on his body." "Jesus!" Blurted the policeman and went visibly pale. "This is called 'night terror'. The subject is asleep. You cannot wake him up. But he believes himself to be wide awake and experiences extremes of terror. Usually, he cannot even respond because he is momentarily paralyzed. We call it 'sleep paralysis'" "But then, if he cannot move, how did he kill himself? It was clearly suicide. We found the syringe. Only his fingerprints are on it. We were able to trace down the pharmacy where he bought it. He injected himself with some kind of acidic home detergent." "Yes, it was suicide." Agreed the psychiatrist, shut her eyes, and rubbed her temples "As he grew older, he also developed Rapid Eye Movement Behavioral Disorder. This meant that after he was paralyzed by the night terror, he was actually able to enact it at a later stage of his sleep. He played the doctor, he played himself resisting the doctor, he played his wife being mutilated by the doctor. He wielded knives, syringes, wounded himself numerous times. You can find all the hospital admission forms in his file. I gave him anti-depressants. We talked. Nothing helped. He was beyond help. Some patients are beyond help." Help "I killed him, Sarah, he's dead." "I am glad." "He will no longer bother us. We can be together again. I won't be having the dreams. I won't be attacking you anymore." "That's good, Cole." "I peeled his face back, as he did to me. I injected him with the green liquid as he did to you. Revenge is sweet. I know it now." "I love you, Cole." "And I never stopped loving you, Sarah. Not for a single moment." * * * Saints Row: Cole Marr II * * * I’ve got plenty to say about all of the unfortunates who will participate in this tournament. Before I get started though, I must first say that I’m truly disappointed with what I’ve seen from some of you thus far. So, I’m going to take pity on you, which may very well come back to bite me in the ass in the end We’ll start with the man who everyone thinks will be my downfall, and that’s none other than Sean Galen. I’m not going to lie, there’s no point in it. I’ll be upfront and honest with you, Sean. Something about you makes me like you. Perhaps it’s your attitude on things. I’ve done some research on you, I know what you are capable of if you are pushed to the limit. You are a competitor to be feared in this industry. Your swift, agile technique has caught the attention of the wrestling world. But not only that, huh? Your quick, sharp tongue seems to have gotten you a lot of recognition as well. I like a man who can stand up to me in a war or words. Those who can claim to be on the same field as me in such a battle are a dime a dozen. In other words, there aren’t many who can say they can hold their own against yours truly. It’s a trait I like, a trait that’s hard to find. I’m the man with the Golden Tongue in this fuckin’ place as of right now. No one has stepped up to lay claim on such a title as of yet, so I will be the one who will reach out and take it. If it’s a title you seek to covet, then by all means, fire back, my boy. Say whatever it is you want to say. I’m tired of hearing your praises, I’m ready to see some action. So show it to me! Make me hand over the title of Golden Tongue to you. Do something. Anything. Give me a reason to lay into you, shred you of your dignity and your pride. I know full well that you want to come at me like you have the eye of the tiger and ready for this challenge. But this aint a movie... Your Rocky story is about to meet a tragic end. Hey, you can always no-show and show Dom how much of a bitch your really are If that isn't enough motivational, then how bout you take a long look at yourself long and hard in a mirror, much like you ordinarily do you cocky bastard, but while doing it at this particular moment, think about what it is I’m about to say. To guys like me, you are nothing. I compare you to an aggravating mosquito. Flying around, looking to hit your target to feed off of whatever it is they offer. Sure, you will get lucky and outsmart some, but as time progresses, and your confidence begins to build, you will run into the one being who will be your downfall. That confidence will direct you onto a path of destruction. You will swoop and buzz around as this individual watches your every move. You will plunge down, to take what it is that confidence of yours feeds upon, and this creature will SQUASH you. That is your fate That is your destiny This is your final chapter Do with that what you will, Sean. Take it to heart or blow it off. It really doesn’t matter to me. Just know that you’ve been warned. I do look forward to seeing if you live up to what people hype you up ass Jason Styles was a name that I had heard would be a potential threat. You’ve done nothing these past weeks, but sell your own praises since nobody will do it for you. You can sell them all you want, ole bud, but I will not buy it. I'm unbiased, I know nothing of you, nor do I want to know of you. I don’t listen to what you have to say, because I simply don’t care what you have to say. I don't pay attention to your little Twitter beefs, I don't follow your social networks. I will treat you like all the rest, kid, no mater what your pedigree here in NLCW is. I have the opportunity to single handley defeat a handful of the golden era stars of NLCW, a opportunity I will take full advantage of I will walk you down a path of pain that will be most unbearable; intolerable even. I can also imagine you making the same mistakes I’ve watched others make on there return to the ring, only focusing on your first round foe, no looking ahead into what lays after that. That, my friend, is why you are not ready for the world championship match at Slamfest. That mistake alone has cost you the opportunity and prize you seek. So when it’s all over, thank yourself for your mistake. Then, thank me for making you that much better, for preventing such an oversight the next time such an opportunity is handed to you RYAN COLEMAN! YEAH RIGHT! NOT A CHANCE! Have you ever stopped, and evaluated where you currently stand Rick? It seems when were above all highs, we tend to forget that were up there. We tend to forget that there’s an entire world below you, trying to pull you back down to earth, back down to their level. All for the opportunity of one of those reaching hands, to climb up to atop, themselves. The moment, we forget is the moment we remember; how it is to be pulled down, your head ripped from cloud 9 where you though you’d forever hang. I’ve been up there myself, and I’ve been pulled down and ripped back into a world of reality. A world that tells me, I’m not unstoppable. And I’m glad, I’ve been pulled down to realize that. You Rick? You've been in the clouds since you decided to climb back into the ring. You've been living the illusion, that nobody is going to take stop you on this most recent return. What you don't realize is that the one hand reaching out for yea, is the one hand that’s going to be single handily resulting in your down fall, a shame. Sometimes we have to remember, how it feels to be down on ground level. We need to remember how it feels to stretch our arms out, to reach and pull down that man above you in the rankings. Above you in status. I remember how it feels, Rick? You too will remember how it feels, and once your down here? You’ll never forget. You’ll be just one of those tuggers, trying to pull that new man down. The new man, that is me. By god, lay witness to my writings. I will take what you have built here, your legacy and you’ll never get it back. No matter how hard you tug. I must admit. You’ve built up an incredible worldly status of yourself. Everyone, everywhere seemingly knows your name and knows what your about. Rick Majors, dare I say it you’re even a bigger star than the man you face first round. But now, I really want you to think about that. I really want you to raise your big head, and open your eyes and realize the box you’ve been placed in all along. Because with even your star status, even your glitz and glamour? If you happen to stand across from me. I mean, who the fuck knew what I was about before I stepped into this tournament? Who the fuck, predicted me to slay everyone in my way? Slim to none, barely any. Rick; I’m not going to put on some kind front. You’ll hurt me. You’ll break a few bones. You’ll draw a few gallons of blood. You will fight me and you will give it your all, but it simply won’t be enough. You’re a beast of a man, a modern day fire breathing dragon but the time where your body draws the last breath of air is soon coming. With the sword above the ring, I’ll slay you. But none of this matters if you can't get out of the first round... Next on the agenda would have to be the one I’ve yet to see since my arrival, and that’s Jaden London. Really don't got shit to say. Should you show in the next few days, only then will I grace you with my words. I will not claim to know why you have yet to show your faces since myself have showed up. Perhaps it is fear? Ah, fuck it. That’s all the time I’m going to waste on you One man though I will not count out, is Mr. Carmine Vestieri. Honestly though, Carmine, you do not stand the slightest chance against myself, and I proved that weeks ago. While you do have the ability, you lack what it takes mentally to outdo one such as myself. You’re took laid back, too calm headed. You have to dig down deep and find your personal torment to be able to hang with someone such as myself. You have to use all of your pent up aggression, all of that rage, every ounce of that hurt. You laid back guys have the hardest time finding that side of yourself. You simply cant allow yourself to become what is you despise, refuse to lose yourself in your insanity. That is why you kid, are not ready for the task of meeting with me in this tournament, I mean there is little doubt bout you getting out the first round, but come on can you see yourself getting by Rick or Dom? We saw your feud with Dom, we watched the one sided massacre. Guess you can see why I've already counted you out And then there was One... How does it feel, Dom. That when this is all said and done, you’ll be just another name to add to my resume? You’ll be just another name, who was stop dead in his tracks, with the bracket to animate it? How would it feel to be so close to completing your goal, your rematch with Chris Champion, only for it to be snatched away from you, by my hand? You see, Dom. Talk to statues, talk to your fucking therapist, Kiss your wife and child goodbye, cry over the current status of Chris Champion, a status you pushed on him by the way, because in the end, not a bit of it matters. Nobody decides your fate, but me. I decide when to break you, I decide if I break you, and I decide where to dispose of you. I’m the man that can and will beat you, Dom If we were to meet. You’ve already defeated yourself my friend, simply by worrying about Chris' health, its the only thing your focus on. Your a wreck Dom Your slowly falling apart, your wearing your faults on your chest like a damn bullseye Dom, I want you to evaluate the danger you’re stepping in, very closely. I want you to down at where you stand—I want you to look at the ceiling above you. Now imagine, me wrapping my hand around it. Imagine your very foundations you stand on, shaking violently back and forth. Look up the roof; watch it as it caves it. Duck for cover, plan your escape, and prepare for your survival. Dom if we were to meet, It will be Chris who is worried for your health, as your struggle to stay afloat, struggle to survive...