Camera fades in to a black and white image of a rundown factory. Moving forward toward the building, the camera pans showing scraps of metal littering the barren, sandy lot. Camera progresses forward, through the large metal double doors leading to the factory's main floor. Inside the building is an open workshop area where desolate work stations containing various machinery and hand tools are scattered throughout. Camera continues on, down a flight of rusted metal stairs to the building’s sub-floor.
*The intro to SLAYER’s “Seasons in the Abyss” begins to play*
Panning the lower level, slowly weaving in and out of free standing boilers and steel and copper piping, a shadowed figure appears at the far end of the shot. The camera stops as the figure begins to stagger slowly toward it.
*The music stops*
Dorian Slaughter: It has been said throughout time that to be the old guard is often less desirable than to be the new wave.
The figure continues his progression across the slotted steel walkway, speaking softly, yet directly.
Slaughter: Next week at Aftershock, Daddy Mack shall be afforded this less than desirable opportunity. After years of glory, decades in service of a life devoted to achieving success and triumph, what is left?
Slaughter leans against a boiler, the warmth of the hammered steel brings a quiver to his left eye.
Slaughter: A lifetime devoted to victory and personal gain can make you a bitter man. I raise the question then, how do you achieve victory over that which refuses to acknowledge defeat?
Slaughter sits down on the grated floor, crossing his legs in front of him, leaning forward, he speaks.
Slaughter: You see, I am not of this life. My psyche is not clouded with illusions of grandeur and success. For I, am of death. And from the dark recesses of this forsaken, decrepit Hell, I have come forth. I have touched hands with death itself and carried on physically unscathed. For death’s grasp is not of the physical realm, but rather of a mental state.
Slaughter leans back, extending his legs in front of him, his head resting against the boiler.
Slaughter(speaking swiftly): Molded to live under a blanket of hatred, compelled to spread this blanket to cover even the farthest depths of life. It is with this hatred that I come to you at Aftershock.
Slaughter begins to lift and drop his right work boot repeatedly, the ping of the steel producing a muffled thud throughout the room.
Slaughter: Do you hear that?
He drops his boot harder.
Slaughter: That is the sound of death drawing near. The sound of life briskly ticking away. The sound of the approaching reaper surveying his next soul.
Slaughter drops his leg and sits motionless, the camera pans in, closely to his face, glistening with dampness, his eyes steady, peering into it.
Slaughter: Won’t you invite death in?
Slaughter stands and begins pacing back and forth across the walkway, speaking faster now.
Slaughter: I was afraid that your weathered pride would prevent you from opening your heart to the Angel of Death. Ignoring the fact that there’s simply nothing left to live for, nothing to fight for.
The pacing becomes frantic, lunging across the walkway, his voice growing louder.
Slaughter: Rather than submit to death, you would rather subject yourself to an unrelenting onslaught of hatred and punishment. Punishment for sins of iniquity. Punishment that shall not be swift nor guarded, but rather, enduring, everlasting punishment. Punishment such that your remaining breaths of life shall be spent begging for death. Punishment that I am all but unfamiliar with.
The pacing stops, Slaughter staggers forward toward the camera, seemingly composing his thoughts.
Slaughter: You see Daddy Mack, I do not measure success in terms of victory and defeat. Rather, I do not measure success at all. I measure the infliction of punishment upon the unjust. And in this realm, where death is master and life is slave, your punishment is overdue.
Slaughter staggers back into the corner of the walkway, the camera follow. Amidst the hollow boilers, he sits on a corner of the guardrail bordering the walkway.
Slaughter: Ready your tomb, for the Angel of Death has ascended into your midst. Fabricate your victory speeches, as I shall fabricate the torch that will burn your kingdom to the ground. Make haste…
Rocking back and forth gently on the railing, Slaughter leans forward as the camera zooms in.
Slaughter: For Hell awaits you.
He leans back, his head toward the damp cement floor of the level above.
Slaughter: At Shockwave, you will acknowledge the presence of death. You will feel its cold hand upon your shoulder and realize that your life’s expiration is at hand. Knowing that neither victory nor defeat shall spare you from the fury of death’s hateful onslaught, you will choose to invite death in. And when you do, oh how your kingdom shall crumble. For when death becomes you… you… become…. death.
Camera fades out with an image of Slaughter continuing to rock back and forth on the railing, swaying his torso side to side, humming in a frantic pattern.
