Mark Sommers: The Devious Cathedral.

The driver nods, and closes the door after Sommers walks away from the limo. Mark wears a nice, khaki suit, complete with jacket and all. He brushes his sleeve off as he walks up the short flight of stairs, and knocks on one of the large wooden doors that seal up the entrance. After a few seconds of waiting, the door creeks open, and a large man stands in the doorway.

Mark Sommers: Ahh, Craig Carson. How are you doing these days? Running any promotions lately?

Carson runs his hand through his short brown hair and chuckles as he shakes his head.

Craig Carson: Nope, not since Outlaw Pro. I’ve resigned to my fate of Real Estate Brokering.

Sommers chuckles to himself and pats Carson on the shoulder as Mark walks in past Craig. Mark looks up at the astonishing painting on the vaulted ceiling. Not of Jesus, or anything biblical, but of the most devastating match in multiple federations’ pasts; The Devious Cathedral Match. Sommers puffs on his pipe as he moves his tie on his neck, feeling the cool, drafty air against his skin. Mark looks at Craig, who has a slight smirk to his face.

Mark Sommers: It’s been a while since I’ve been in here; I didn’t realize how cool it can get, even in the Georgia summer.

Craig chuckles.

Craig Carson: What did you say you wanted to rent this for, again?

Mark Sommers: Oh, Craig. You and I both know you remember why.

Craig Carson: Sure I do. I just… can’t fathom why he would want to get back into wrestling again.

Mark looks at Craig and puffs off the pipe once more.

Mark Sommers: If you must kn-

Cyrus O’Haire: An itch, Mark.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Cyrus appears at the door. Both Carson and Sommers jump at the sound of his voice, turning around and looking at him.

Craig Carson: Jesus Christ, Cyrus!

Cyrus looks at Craig, then to Mark, whom he lingers on just on the verge of uncomfortably. Cyrus walks into the Cathedral and looks around. The silent screams from past warriors echo through the walls and from the rafters. Cyrus looks to the far end, and then back to Carson.

Cyrus O’Haire: I hope Mark’s offer was good enough for you.

Craig nods, and takes the white envelope that Sommers hands to him.

Craig Carson: I hope you know what you’re doing here, Cyrus. The last time you called this place home for even a short amount of time, you went batshit insane and threw a psychiatrist from the top window.

Cyrus smirks.

Cyrus O’Haire: Almost forgot about that. Must have cost an arm and a leg to get that stained glass window put back in.

Craig looks at Cyrus, unsure if that was a joke.

Craig Carson: You… you do know that he didn’t make it out of the hospital, right?

Cyrus takes a deep breath, and exhales through his nose, ignoring the question.

Mark Sommers: Well then. Craig? If we may?

Mark motions towards the door with his pipe. The two men walk out of the Cathedral together, closing the door behind them. Mark looks at Carson and pats him on the shoulder again.

Mark Sommers: It’ll be fine. He’s been off of his meds for two weeks now, he’s starting to feel a little… different.

Carson shudders.

Craig Carson: Even as his old boss, that man gives me the creeps.

Mark Sommers: Well, be glad you agreed to this little arrangement.

Craig looks at Mark, smirking nervously.

Craig Carson: Why is that?

Mark Sommers: He’s still upset you never gave him a shot at the big title. I’m not sure if it’s worse when he’s doped up or not, either. Well! I think we’d better hit the road.

Craig motions with his thumb to the door, implying Cyrus.

Craig Carson: And him?

Mark Sommers: I’ll come get him on the 28th. He’ll be fine.

Inside the Cathedral, Cyrus stands in the middle of the floor. He looks around at all the different stained glass murals, representing all of the Devious Cathedral matches that had taken place inside of the large building’s walls.

They used to call this The Devious Cathedral, back when I wrestled for the Devious International Wrestling Federation. It belonged to the sickest man in DIWF history, who just happened to be the one that owned the business.

Cyrus walks to one of the windows, running his hands down the glass, feeling the details put into it.

It hadn’t been used for religious purposes in nearly fifty years when DIWF staged its first match, and yet there were sacrifices paid to these walls. Blood… bones… skin. People have fallen from the floor way above us, all the way through the solid, wooden floors we stand on. The mere fact that the victims survived, let alone wrestled again is a testament to the supernatural powers of this place.

Cyrus turned to the camera.

Bodies were crippled in here, only to be fine within weeks of action. It was like you could MURDER your worst enemy in here, get out all of those feelings of anger and hate, and the more you anger drove you, the bloodier your opponent was hurt. And when you bled on the floors, the Cathedral came to life, and breathed its own twisted sort of protection. It knew you were giving everything for it. It knew you were willing to go the distance to come out victorious, and it rewarded you for it. It was very... maddening.

He smirked a bit.

But all that anger, all the hate you let loose had to go somewhere. It had to be absorbed somewhere. Most people think it harbors itself in these walls; that when darkness falls and the bewitching hour is upon us, the Cathedral comes to life, replaying its biggest triumphs, and lowest of defeats. The ghosts of matches past haunt this place and keep it at a stage of unrest. They say, if you don't make a sound, and you listen attentively, you can hear the screams of the fallen. When you come in the Cathedral, it takes a hold of you. It makes your breathing... weaker, your thoughts... darker. Your good intentions... evil.

He paused for a second, eyes looking away as though he was listening. A soft sound is heard in the distance.

These walls haven’t seen a wrestling match in almost ten years, and yet they yearn for blood. I stand in this room, and I feel it start to drag me to the wall. I can feel it beckoning me to the bell tower. ‘Jump. Jump. Jump’. Echoing through my head. I know, right now, that’s not the thing to do, but that’s enough to drive a man insane. And that’s exactly why I’m here.

He smirks.

Today, I can tell the Cathedral, ‘NO’, with a strong passion. But tomorrow, I’ll grow weaker. The next day, even more. I’ll sit here and tell the Cathedral, ‘No’, until finally the Cathedral breaks me… Until it consumes me… Until it controls me. I'll sit here, and listen to the rain beat down on the windows. I'll watch the moon shine in through cracks in the walls, and dance across the hardwood floor. Sooner or later, I'll start to see things. Demons of the past - HEROES of the past that paid their dues with blood, will come to life and do battle once again.

And when that time comes, that's when I'll step in the ring with you.

Cyrus smirks.

You're McW's two time former champion. You're the best that McW has to offer. On August 28th, you'll dance, or you'll become another ghost of my past.

He puts his head against the wall, closing his eyes.

Violence begets violence, Bishop. There is no cure once you step into the ring with The Vyrus.

A flash of lightning. Cyrus' eyes flash open in time, only white is seen for a split second before the camera feed cuts.