Hunter S. Kravinoff, dressed in his three-piece suit and alligator flats (his “disguise,” as he’d described it in the past) and carrying his gym bag over his shoulder, was manoeuvring a large, flat rectangular object covered in brown shipping paper into a dressing room with the help of a WZCW stagehand. Once in the dressing room, Hunter directs his assistant to place the object on the floor and unwrap it until the only thing obstructing one from seeing what secrets the parcel held was a single piece of shipping paper covering once side of the object. After this, the two mov the object over to a bench that’s resting against a wall and hang it (using a thin metal wire on the back of the object) on two clothes hooks situated above the bench.
Exhausted, the stagehand wipes his brow while Kravinoff takes a couple steps back and stares with an ominous, almost proud, grin at his handiwork. He breaks his gaze after a few seconds to drop his gym bag to the floor and then resigns himself once more to staring at the mysterious, obstructed portrait.
Stagehand: “So what’s the deal, Hunt? What are we looking at here?”
Without breaking his gaze towards the well hung object, Hunter spreads his arms expressively before responding.
Hunter Kravinoff: “This... This is what Doug Crashin has driven me to.”
Hunter lowers his hands as the stagehand begins to look bewildered.
Stagehand: “Driven you to? Have you guys ever met?”
Hunter Kravinoff: “No, we haven’t. But that is irrelevant here. He, like the fanbase of WZCW, has challenged my honor. He...”
Hunter closes his eyes and turns his head thoughtfully towards the floor, almost in an effort to remain composed.
Hunter Kravinoff: “He called me a gimmick.”
The frustration in Hunter’s voice was evident. He raised his head and looked into the eyes of the stagehand.
Hunter Kravinoff: “He begged me for originality and then challenged my credibility as a hunter. He hasn’t a clue what he’s done in his haste to build himself up as hard. All he’s done in his profanity laced rants and character exposing tirades is reveal himself to be weak. Fragile. Unoriginal. Ignorant. In my preparation for my bout, I heard every word he had to say about me. And it sickens me that anyone dares to have such gall.”
Stagehand: “I don’t understand. What does that thing hanging on the wall have to do with what Doug said about you?”
Hunter Kravinoff: “I’ll show you. You see, while I’m sure he thinks that his cushy lifestyle is something special, that his uninhibited ranting and raving make him brazen and genuine, I intend to show what little he knows about real value. I’m going to show you that the man with all the sporty cars, Rolexes, and priceless art he could ever want knows nothing about the real currency of man... About true honesty... About the hunt. I’m going to show you that he’s as unoriginal as anyone. He’s the gimmick and I am the man of substance.”
Stagehand: “Why does any of that matter?”
Hunter begins to look slightly angrier and his brow twitches just a tad. He moves closer to the stagehand and puts extreme emphasis on each of his words, making sure his conversation partner knows how deeply he believes in his message.
Hunter Kravinoff: “From the moment I shared my birth in blood and my killer thirst with the WZCW audience, I was laughed at. I was considered a joke and an afterthought. My search for connection with other cognitive beings was undermined. Compromised. But I know I can make you believe. And I need to. Tonight is my first chance to turn things around. On a national stage, the cognisant beings of this world will see that my prowess as a hunter is no joke. But I can’t stop there.”
Stagehand: “Why?”
Hunter Kravinoff: “Becauase if I am to truly make people appreciate my brazen animal tendencies and make them form a significant relationship with the animal inside of me, they need to understand how hollow their own existence is. They need an education in real value, in the currency of the animal. Doug Crashin, for example, is in need of a deep humbling. When I said earlier that he is the gimmick, I meant it. He hides behind his money and all it brings him. But it is empty. In the jungle, one doesn’t deal in Van Gogh paintings and Armani clothing. And although I dress well to hunt among you, I do not believe in these clothes or the culture of consumption and decadence they represent. To blow one’s gasket over the destruction of something as frivolous as a chandelier is... unnatural. Shameful. Unmanly. A lesson must be dished out.”
Stagehand: “And how is this thing on the wall going to get people to believe you’re different?”
Hunter Kravinoff: “How about you remove the rest of that shipping paper and glean that for yourself?”
Stagehand: “Alright, sure. I’ll admit it, I’m more than a little curious.”
Hunter begins smiling widely, his mouth open, his tongue subtly running over his top front teeth, as the stagehand makes his way over to the object and ribs off the remaining paper in one swift motion. He looks bewildered at the sight of an intricate painting of the night sky covered in several dark red streaks. Hunter’s expression merely showed greater glee than had been evident in the past few minutes. He seemed to even have a small hop in his stance. The great hunter was almost giddy.
Hunter Kravinoff: “Ta-da!”
Stagehand: “What am I looking at hunt?”
Hunter Kravinoff: “Blood.”
A deafening silence ensues as the stagehand looks straight at Hunter, seeing for the first time that something beyond a gimmick was standing in front of him. Something real.
Stagehand: “Whose blood?”
Hunter Kravinoff: “I didn’t get a name. Don’t worry. It’s something nobody will miss.”
Stagehand: “Why did you... ruin that painting?”
Hunter Kravinoff: “I didn’t! Oh no, I most certain did not ruin it... I’ve instilled REAL value in it! What was once a worthless piece of over sought aesthetic junk is now a sign of one’s stature in the jungle, an emblem of what one can and will do to survive. It’s a trophy soaked in the currency of the hunt. The currency of the jungle. A gold medal given out only in the realm of true sport. And it’s a foreboding indication of what Mr. Crahin has in store for him.”
Almost trepidatiously, the stagehand pressed forward.
Stagehand: “How so?”
Hunter Kravinoff: “I’m going to take a shallow, hollow, worthless person, and give him meaning. The beating I lay upon him will define his life. From here forth, he will be a man who I will have broken so badly that he will have felt himself coming closer and closer to his maker. He will feel his worldly possessions and wealth slipping away and he will understand that there are bigger things to worry about than chandeliers and art openings. I will take him to the mountain top. I will give him substance. He will have no desire for his meaningless existence when we finish. He will be... changed. Today, I’m going to make Doug Crashin more than a gimmick. Today, I’m going to give him a real... defeat. I will stain his consumption and frivolity in blood.”
Stagehand: “What if people still don’t believe you?”
Hunter Kravinoff: “You believe me and you’ve never seen me lay a finger on anyone. I can smell your fear. It’s fogging up this entire room. I doubt anyone who sees the physicality I lay on Crashin will have any doubt.”
Stagehand: “Yeah, but what if that’s not enough for some people?”
Hunter Kravinoff: “If that happens, then I feel sorry for whoever stands in front of me in the future. For if there is any doubt after I finish giving Crashin’s life a sense of value, the violence will only escalate. Now if you will excuse me, I’ve got some preparation to do for tonight.”
The stagehand realized that he had asked just enough questions to truly dispel any disbelief he had in Kravinoff, but that he in questioning the reception to tonight’s match he was overstaying his welcome. He dared not to utter a word past that. Kravinoff had made a direct request of him, and he felt compelled to be obedient to the true blood-letter whose presence he stood in. Without another word, the stagehand turned on his heel as his fear led him to leave Kravinoff to prepare for the biggest night of his life up until this point. A night of truth. A night for blood.
