The hole in the hull defied the crew’s attempts,
To bail us out.
And flooded the engines and radio,
And half buried bow.

___________--____________

The following promotion is brought to you by the World Television KING... Shawn Christopher.

Welcome, XWF, to the beginning of a new era. Yes, yes; it is true. Imperialism strikes again.

The Xtreme is now an Unfuckable State, as deemed by your King.

It really is for the best, you know? Title Belts are sooooo passé. I needed a method of display that proves to everyone two things: a) I am not to be fucked with, b) I do as I please, and c) I am not to be fucked with. Okay, that’s three things. But you get the point.

Assholes want to keep testing me? Saying I’m not worth it? Fuck that shit, Thursday night, I’ll teach that punk Bigg Rigg who the King is and then everyone will realize. They’ll know I’m the real deal.

They’ll be all “Well he kicked Famine’s ass, and then he kicked that over-rated punk’s ass—HE MUST BE A DEMI-GOD!”

I don’t even know what a demi-god is, but I like the sound of it.

Just like Christian introducing me, these people need to learn that I AM THEIR KING. No matter what way you slice it, I’m at the top and I’m going to stay there.

And being at the top comes with its perks. I feel so powerful; so wealthy. I am more than obligated to share my wealth, so I do.

Fuck yeah, I’m good—what the hell does Bigg Rigg want?

A World title Shot?

And the mother fucker has his name recognition that basically tells me I have no choice but to let him in.

I fucking hate that shit! Mother fucker thinks he can throw a fucking monkey wrench in my plans! Such a blatant disrespect of authority, I’ll show him.

He’s just like Violater. He thinks because he tied with Hunter Ryan, a loser that no one even cares about, that he has free merit to disrespect me like that? Fuck off, Violater, you aren’t in my league. Think I’ll let you walk all over me like Bigg Rigg thinks he can? Mother fucker please... you don't frighten me in the least. Just like everyone in this fed, you've never given me a reason to. But hey, keep thinking you have a shot kid. Keep thinking that you're the man who can set my world ablaze. I'ma show you that you're just like the rest. Nothing more thna a pretender to the throne.

Back to Bigg Rigg, that fool is probably pissed because he knows Orchid wants me. I don’t blame him.

But if he thinks he’s got a sure-shot to this World Belt—er, I mean, Crown since Famine Is gone, he’s in for a rude awakening.

I’m not going down like a bitch. I’ll prove it to him. I’ll prove it to everyone.

And it starts Thursday night.

______________--______________

10/31/06

'The fuck?'

'Good morning sunshine!'

The sun glares balefully down into the front seat of a rather grungy looking car. Jordan White blinks away unconsciousness and immedietly tenses.

'Fuck did I get here?'

'It doesn't matter.' Click. 'All that matters is that you don't make me shoot you.

Shawn Christopher glances past the metallic sheen of a stainless steel snub nosed .38 with a deadly serious expression.

'Alright. Okay. Then, fuck is going on?'

'It's called pay back Jordan, and let me tell you, it's a son of a bitch!' SC suddenly veers the vehicle to the right, Jordan jumps as the car bounces and shakes its way onto a dusty side road. 'Don't you just love the desert?!' Shawn yells over the roar of the trek.

Dunes stretch off for miles in every direction, broken only by jagged stone peaks and small, scattered signs of shrub clinging tenaciously to a life best left alone. There was nothing for miles, and in Jordan's widening eyes he started to suspect the horrible truth.

'Look, kid.' He begins but SC interjects, one hand firmly on the wheel and the other still gripping his pistol.

'Nope!' He flashes a toothy smile full of menace. 'We're past that Jordan, I've been listening to you for three years now, I've been haunted by your words for far too long. This is my turn, now you're going to listen to me.'

'Say something good.'

'Trey told me everything.' SC tones flattens as if he's telling Jordan the truth about who shot JFK. 'He felt bad, man, as fucked up as you left that kid he felt bad about what you did to me. He told me about it all, he told me about Eva, the peyote, leaving me to die in Mexico, stealing my company, my money, my home. You took my fucking life!'

'God damn, Trey. Alright, Shawn-'

The pistol halts any furthur protest, waving haphazardly in White's direction. 'No man, you took everything I ever wanted in life and then left me to die. And when that didn't work, you flaunted it in my face, you gave me a mask to hide behind, you gave me another lie.'

Jordan's clutching the 'holy-shit' handle in a white knuckled grip as SC's steering and compsure slips more from calm into frenzied.

'You walk around with a label for everybody, a come back for every quip. You treat the world as if it's one big joke and you, only you, get the punch line. When Jordan wanted a way to avoid the feds, who did he turn to? You turned to me man, you turned to me and I gave you the means to survive. I didn't tell you to put that fucking mask on, I didn't push you into becoming the Marauder, you put your own head in that leather, and you brought your ass to me!' Shawn slams on the brakes as he cranks the wheel to the left and slams into a ditch.

Jordan's head connects with the wind sheild, sending cracks spider webbing out in a perfectly unique pattern around the tiny blot of blood left behind. With a groan Jordan holds his suddenly pounding skull in both hands. SC undoes his seat belt and shifts in his seat to better face his victim, the .38 leveled between them in a steady iron grip. Jordan slumps back and looks through winced eyes at a half grinning, half scowling Christopher.

'Well. Fuck.' Jordan croaks.

'I know about everything now, I know about you setting me up from the very beginning to take that fall. I know you brought Eva in to get close to me, I know she switched my pills before my match with Trey. I know it was you, Jordan, who orchestrated the collapse of my entire life.'

'Crazy fuckin'-'

'Hey! Focus man!' Shawn throws his door open before lunging for Jordan with his free hand. Jordan tries to pull away but the much larger Christopher grabs him by the arm and drags him from the car. Throwing White to the ground Shawn aims the pistol at him, the sun at his back forcing Jordan to keep his eyes down against the glare.

'But it wasn't enough to take my money, ruin my career, and steal my company. You had to drug me and then strand me out here in the middle of fucking no-where to die, to disappear. You tried to make me and my name vanish.' Shawn pauses as Jordan starts to stand. 'And you almost got away with it.'

'Almost? Goddamn. Shit. How'd you do it?'

Jordan straightens his shoulders and holds a hand to shade his eyes, Shawn's wearing a pair of black jeans and a white shirt left unbuttoned and blowing in the wind. The sun gleams off the barrel of the gun aimed at Jordan's chest and Shawn snorts.

'How did I do what?'

'How the fuck did you survive? Four fucking grams of peyote from me, and you gave yourself that bottle of tequilla. Can't pass that 'I walked out of the desert' bull shit on me.' Jordan points a finger accussingly. 'I dragged you to the most cut-ass, out of the way place I could think of, crashed my fucking car, and let your loaded ass wander around the dunes. Crazy shit happens, yeah, and I'm impressed and all, but I mean, how the fuck you survive that?'

'I sucked the putrid life out of cactuses for five fucking days, baking in the sun and struggeling to bring my mind together from the brink of insanity. And then, then I had to fight dirty little mexican's in dirty little mexican rings for dirty little mexican money. I stole and killed a pig because I thought I was starving to death, but you made it look like an accident, so imagine my reliefe to find out you'd not only survived, but you had made it back home.'

Shawn begines to walk as he talks, waving his weapon and hand about to emphasize certain points.

To be continued...