Lethal Lottery IV: Black Dragon vs. Celeste Crimson vs. Chris K.O. (Eurasian Title)

[Ty Burna]

Deadline is Tuesday, February 28th at 11:59 PM EST.

 

[Gelgarin]

Book of the Dragon​

~ Chapter 19 – A Prayer to the God of Small Things ~​

The Shadow draws in a deep breath, steadying himself for what is to come. All the roads that he has walked have carried him here; everything has built towards this moment. He has stalked and prowled and hunted for years, and now finally the prey stands in before him. He has survived skirmishes and setbacks, always outnumbered, but tonight at long last, there is a chance at a fair fight.

The Shadow explodes forward, fists flying, driving the Demon back. In front of twenty-thousand onlookers the Darkness and the Demon dance to the piper's tune, fists meet faces in rhythm with the beet as both men seek to drive the other backwards. The Black Shadow is winning; for every blow he takes he responds with two in kind. Gradually, agonizingly, step by step by step; he drives the Demon back towards the abyss. Three steps to go: a knuckle bites into the Shadow’s temple causing him to rock violently. Two steps: the Demon unleashes a desperate flurry of blows to the skull. One step: the Shadow feels nauseous and dazed. What is he doing here? Why is he fighting? Too late to stop now. A final flurry and the Demon is teetering on the very edge of the abyss. The Shadow knows he must drive this fiend over the edge, but for some reason his mind is full of fog and he cannot remember why. Still, firm of purpose the Shadow steps back and fires a final kick. His foot travels like an arrow, straight and true, cutting through the air to strike firmly at the place the Demon’s head would have been had the Fiend not ducked at the final moment.

The Shadow rocks as his balance departs him, grey mist covers his eyes as his foot plants down on the edge of the abyss. He teeters, foe forgotten, arms flapping at the air as he fights to regain his footing. The abyss calls to him, drags him towards it, but the Shadow is strong. He fights gravity, fights against the darkness, and summons reserves of strength he did not know that he possessed to pull himself back from the void and stand square upon solid ground…

…a boot connects with the back of his head. The fog shrouding his thoughts consumes him. The balance he fought so hard to hold escapes him. The strength that carried him here departs him. The Shadow falls, first to his knees, then to sprawl out unconscious on the edge of the abyss.

The Demon looks down at its fallen foe with eyes full of contempt. Casually it plants its heel into the Shadow’s side and pushes him down into the abyss.

Darkness falls.

* * *

Darkness.

“Hello?”

“Good evening.”

A voice, much like his own. He turns his head towards the sound but can make out nothing; the darkness is so thick he cannot even tell if his eyes are open or closed.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“I’m you of course”

The boy brings his hands to his head. His mind is full of fog and he cannot think. Somewhere deep inside a tiny voice is shouting at him, but he cannot make out any of the words. He tries to concentrate.

“That… that doesn’t make sense.”

“Don’t go blaming me; this is your dream.”

“I’m… dreaming?”

“Let’s see. Pitched darkness, no idea how you got here and a mysterious voice claiming to be you. Yep, I’d say this definitely sounds like a dream to me.”

“Why am I… here?”

“Don’t ask me. If you’re hoping for some deep spiritual advice then forget it; this is a dream, I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”

The boy tries to think. He’s dreamt before, lying on the edge of consciousness, half way between waking and slumber. This is different. Dreams for him are flimsy ethereal fantasies that change one moment to the next; he is never confused in dreams, there is never a voice in his head telling him that none of this makes sense. This feels solid, real, and deeper than a dream. He tries to reach out with his mind, to push his consciousness towards waking, but he cannot find the way back. The mysterious voice starts up again, this time the sound circles him as if the speaker is walking as he talks.

“You know,” the voice says, “this is a pretty contemptible dream. A pitch black void is somewhat lacking in imagination don’t you think? I’d have gone with some grand setting emphasising scale and telling a subtle meta-narrative. I know there’s something to be said for keeping things simple, but what are people going to say when you wake up? ‘I had this bizarre dream’; ‘really what was it about?’ ‘Oh, nothing really.’ Not much of a story is it?

The boy is at a complete loss. He is floating in a world of darkness, unable to wake up and unable to make sense of the sensations around him. Still, he struggles feebly to bring logic into an alien world.

“If you’re me… wouldn’t this be your dream as well?”

The figure in the darkness laughs, as If enjoying a private joke.

“I’m afraid not. I’m not that part of you.”

Every answer begets two more questions.

“When can I wake up?”

“When you find the part that’s real.”

* * *​

06:42 – half an hour’s sleep – fuck.

The headaches are back this morning with a burning vengeance. That final kick went through my skull and left a bruise on my brain, a bruise that refuses to heel. Pain is fine. I have no problem with pain, pain is an old friend, but with pain comes sleepless nights. Nicotine takes off the edge, but only for a few precious minutes. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to smoke and sleep, but I assure you that it’s one or the other, you can’t do both at once. I fumble at the bedside for my hundredth… no wait, dawn has passed… I fumble at the bedside for my first cigarette of the day. It’s been five nights since Burna sent me tumbling into the abyss, and whatever I’ve been doing with those nights, it hasn’t been sleeping. Even when consciousness temporarily flies away I find myself trapped in nonsensical darkness, only to wake feeling more exhausted than I was before.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and wince as shards of broken glass embed themselves in my foot. A stain on the wall marks where a tumbler of cheep whisky connected with it last night. I don’t drink as a rule, but I needed sleep and honey and lemon wasn’t doing the job. Blood leaking between my toes I kick the more dangerous looking shards of shrapnel into the corner and limp slowly across the room.

Fridge is empty but for some expired milk and a jar of lime pickle I don’t remember buying. Cash on hand all got transformed into nicotine pain relief. I’m not even hungry, but right now a Spartan fridge is enough to push me back over the edge… back into the abyss.

You can’t slam a fridge properly, the magnetic seal makes is just close quietly; no satisfaction to be had there. I wrench a draw from its socket and grin mirthlessly as the cutlery spills out; shards of silver dancing with the broken glass on the floor. I think the display needs more colour. I reclaim the pickle from the fridge and send in crashing down to explode on the tiles. Better, but still lacking something. I take my already bloody foot and grind the broken glass into the floor with my heel. Skin is sliced, and the sweet agony as salt enters the wound finally takes me away from my throbbing temples. But it’s not enough, never enough; the pain comes back as swiftly as it left. Five nights without respite; I think I was saner in the dream.

I fall to my knees, clawing at my face. Fingernails sink in deep and claw black skin away. The mask tears. I pull it away and sit there tearing at it, scraps of black plastic floating to the ground to mingle with the blood and glass and silver and chutney and tears. I need sleep. I need help. I need a cigarette but right now they’re on the other side of the room. I try to attend to the mess I have created but succeed only in making it worse. The anger is building again, chasing slumber even further away. Nothing to do. Only one thing for it. I grope at the counter, grasp the phone and dial the only number that I know.

“I need you.”

“I’ll be right over.”

That’s it. No questions, no complaints, no animosity or I told you so’s, no mention of the time or anything else. She’s on her way, she’ll be here soon and the world will somehow be better. I should probably do something about the floor, but all of a sudden I’m too tired to move. I sink back down, sprawling in the mess I’ve made, and try to close my eyes. I can’t imagine what I must look like when she lets herself in; later I’ll be embarrassed about it but for now I’m simply too exhausted. My eyes refuse to close more than half way, so I can see her legs moving about the apartment. She’s talking to me but the words don’t make it past my ringing ears. I can’t move myself anymore and she certainly has no prospect of moving me. Instead she claims a pillow from the bed and gently slides it under my head. Next she brings a blanket, then a second pillow. The blanket it draped over me, the pillow placed next to me. Muse pauses to sweep away the worst of the broken glass, then she slides down next to me and we lie together on a bed of cold tiles, spoons and lime pickle. The last thing I remember is her reaching two fingers up to my face and tenderly closing my eyes before wrapping an arm around me as I pass into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

* * *​

Darkness has fallen outside by the time I finally open my eyes again. The floor not directly underneath me has been swept clear of debris, the wall has been washed and the rest of my apartment has been generally tidied. Muse is now on the other side of the room, reclining on the bed thumbing through a dog eared copy of Midnight’s Children, but she feels my gaze fall upon her and smiles.

“Feeling better?”

A fork is digging uncomfortably into my spine.

“Have you been here all day?”

She gestures to some bags on the counter top.

“I went shopping. Did you know you have no food in this house?”

“It might have crossed my mind at some point.”

“There’s pasta if you want it.”

“You cooked?”

Suddenly the idea that I’m still dreaming seems considerably more probable. Muse chuckles.

“Not likely. I want to get you better, not poison you. There’s a rather nice deli down the road, and you know that I can heat food up with the very best of them.”

For some reason, right now, that’s incredibly funny. Muse throws a pillow at my head, misses and then pouts theatrically. I grasp the counter and pull myself to my feet. My body is unbelievably stiff; the cold, hard floor has left every part of my aching as if I have just wrestled a match, but the fog is lifted from my mind and the pain has vacated my head. I’m still not hungry, but I want to show Muse that I appreciate her efforts so I swing myself into the counter and tuck into the contents of the polystyrene container. It doesn’t taste bad.

“So,” she says after a while, “do you want to tell me what all of this was about?”

I knew the question was coming, but I don’t have an answer. I can’t put the dreams into words, they don’t make sense to me yet; how could they possibly make any sense to her? Likewise, the headaches will remain mine and mine alone; they’re just the simple result of getting kicked in the head, and I’ve made Muse fret more than enough for one day.

“I’m… I’m not sure. I remember being angry, about everything really.”

Muse doesn’t say anything. It’s strange; the girl has her own very special way of being quiet. I’ve seen her do it countless times with other people; she just sits there projecting an aura of silence that the other person feels obliged to fill. I think it’s the way she really listens to you when you talk. Most people don’t really listen; they use your half of the conversation to think about what they are going to say next. Muse never does that; she has the unique ability to give you her full attention, and some how you find yourself still talking long after you thought you’d run out of things to say.

“I finally got my shot to end Burna. I had him teetering atop a precipice. One more blow and I would have accomplished something; I would have introduced him to justice. Instead I missed, I failed, and now I’m right back at the beginning again. I’m expected to trim crab grass and kick the shit out of a woman for my meal ticket.”

Muse sits there, silent and attentive, drawing the words from my mouth.

“I’ll tell you this right now; I’m not playing this game. You know all this things I’ve done, all the pain I’ve caused in the name of survival, but I have never, never raised my hand to a woman and I don’t intend to start now. My mother, Sara and Amy… Ria; I’ve seen men who enjoy slapping girls around and I won’t become one of them. Ever. I don’t care if they take my title or fire me or do whatever the fuck they want, I’m not doing it.”

The anger is building inside again. The nerve; whoever the fuck thought forcing me to lay waste to a woman would be entertaining is a sick bastard. Muse senses the change and comes across the kitchen to rest an arm on my shoulder; shielding me from the worst of my own aggression.

The inclusion of Sam Masters is simply a trivial extra frustration. Sam Masters, Chris KO, whatever he calls himself now; still needs to pay the piper. My mind may have been foggy, but I still recall him striking my from behind. I’ve dropped him on his head twice now, but like crab grass he has proved difficult to kill, and like crab grass he keeps on coming back.

“I’m not playing their game. I won’t. Sam Masters needs to pay his debts, but once I’ve taken a pound of flesh from him I’m leaving. Celeste can have the belt; I never wanted it in the first place.”

“And that’s why you’ve been so angry?” Muse finally speaks.

“The lime pickle was salt in the wound.”

Muse pauses for a moment, clearly framing her next remarks carefully.

“I don’t suppose it would help if I told you you’re full of crap would it Hano?”

“What?”

I expected many responses from her, but not that. I forecast comfort or contestation or concern; but not to be told I was full of crap. I feel lost again, it’s like being back in the dream; things aren’t working the way I think that they should work. Muse registers my obvious shock and smiles at me.

“Why exactly do you object to fighting Celeste?”

“She’s a woman.”

“So?”

“So? It’s reprehensible.”

“Why?”

“She’s physically weaker than I am; it’s not a fair fight.”

“Jack Skinner was physically weaker than you, so were Stark and Sasumu, you didn’t have a problem knocking them around.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“They knew what they were getting themselves into.”

“And you think Celeste doesn’t? She’s been doing this for longer than you have Hano. She’s not a helpless damsel in distress and she’s not your little sister. She’s a world class athlete, a Jujitsu black belt, an accomplished martial artist and if you try telling her that she’s physically inferior to you then she’s liable to respond with a kick to the face.”

“But…”

I can hear the feebleness in my own protestations. All my life I’ve known that to raise a hand to a woman was wrong; daddy beat that lesson into me long and hard. But now I come to explain precisely why it’s so amoral I find myself at a loss. Muse senses my struggle and pecks me on the cheek.

“You’re hearts in the right place Hano, and it’s nice to know that chivalry isn’t totally dead, but Celeste is an exception to the rule. She’s a world class competitor, she deserves to be taken seriously and you owe it to her to do everything in your power to win the match.”

“You sound like you admire her.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“I’m a woman who spends a great deal of her time in the company of a male professional wrestler. Have you any idea how often you guys deserve a stiff ding round the ear? It’s refreshing to see a woman out there who’s actually prepared to give you one.”

Muse sticks out her tongue and I sit there open mouthed. Oh to be inside her head; everything is so simple there.

“Now,” she continues, failing to notice as usual the way she has totally changed the world around me, “I think you need to finish eating that pasta that I lovingly heated up for you, let me have a look at that foot of yours and then try and get some sleep on a bed made of something softer than cutlery. I’m staying over tonight; no arguments. I get the bed because I’m a girl; you’re on the couch.”

“What happened to gender equality?”

“Only when convenient.”

She sticks out her tongue again; then dives sideways to avoid the pillow that I fire back at her.

“You stop that right now or you’re not getting your present.”

“Present?”

She skips over to me, claiming something from the bags on the counter.

“I thought you’d be needing this. That old one was getting very tatty anyway. Try it on.”

She folds into my hand a disk of black stretch nylon with faux leather appliqué and a Velcro chin strap. Slowly I bring the Dragon mask up and slide it over my head. It pains me to admit it, but it’s rather more comfortable than my homemade creation.

“A perfect fit. Very sinister.”

She kisses my nylon covered cheek.

“Where on earth did you get a Dragon mask at such short notice?”

“You think I don’t have a trunk full of them? One of these days I plan to make you sign a bunch, auction them and then retire to the Cayman Islands. You can come too if you cooperate.”

She’s just playing, but it’s a nice fantasy.

“You seem very cheerful tonight.”

She cups my chin and looks directly into the eyes of the mask, all playfulness momentarily forgotten.

“I’ve missed you too Hano.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“That’s OK, just don’t go pushing me away again; it never ends well.”

I nod; she’s right. I don’t want to keep exposing her to me, but I simply can’t exist without her. I need the little things: the jokes, the smiles, the kisses; I need them to keep me human. We’ve danced this dance before, we’ll dance it again, but we’ll always come together at the end. She’s as much a part of me as any mysterious figure in my dreams.

A faint twinge at the back of my head is all that remains of the pain of previous days. Muse has found some iodine and teasers and is occupying herself with the soles of my feet as I write. There’s a strange euphoria that comes from hitting rock bottom; and right now I feel better than I have for weeks. In a few nights I shall face far and away my toughest battle to date; double duty against more foes than I can name, but right now I feel up to any challenge that they can throw at me. I will play their games and I will win.

Chris KO. Celeste Crimson. You picked the wrong week.

Game on.

 

[Kermit]

"Take your EurAsian title and shove it."

-Unknown​

The scene opens up to a bright room. The floor is covered in shiny white tile, and the walls are a patterned baby blue. A large coffee bean brown desk guards a door that sits behind it. Facing the desk are several black plush couches. All of them are vacant, except for one. A tired man is sitting in a hunched-over position on the couch that is furthest away from the desk. It is Chris K.O. His eyes are half opened as he holds his curse within his hands. A manila envelope sits dryly between his fingertips.

He is too tired to think. So, the only logical explanation that he can arrive to is to have someone think for him. It was a dangerous chance, but he had no other choice.

???: Chris.

Chris looks up from his hunched-over position. His hollowed eyes catch the receptionist behind the desk.

Receptionist: He said that he will see you now.

Chris slumps his head back down and looks at the envelope. He begins to flirt with the idea of opening it and just leaving the office before he continues, but he cannot bring himself to do it. Chris scrunches his face and tenses up his brain. He shoves the envelope into his pocket and stands up from his perch. He slowly makes his way to the door behind the desk.

His palm firmly grabs the handle and he steps into unknown territory. He shuts the door behind him and examines the spacey room. The light from the outside is being filtered by purple curtains, so the room is of violet hue. Several small lamps fill the darkness of the room. Random furniture and bookcases line the walls with thousands of literary works. A single spot is left open on the wall, where plaques and picture frames hang from it. The floor is hard wood and it creaks as he slowly steps forward. Twenty feet ahead of him is a grunge green chase lounge chair. And beyond that is man, with his back towards Chris. He is sitting in a rather large brown spinning chair. His arm pokes out of the side with a glass of tonic liquid.

???: Take a seat Chris.

Chris is hesitant, but follows the man’s decree. He sits on the chase lounge, but quickly comes to the conclusion that it would be better to lay down rather than to sit. The man behind the chair pulls the glass to his mouth and takes a drink. The sound of the ice clanking inside of the glass gives the awkward silence company.

Chris: Uh- um- …thanks for meeting with me today. I know that you are rather busy at this time in your life.

The man chuckles behind the chair.

???: I cancelled everything I had this week in order to prepare my upcoming trial. However, I received a call this morning and was informed that a certain man was sitting in my waiting room, regardless of the fact that I was not in office.

The man takes another drink.

???: I began to inform my receptionist that she should force you to leave, but I was stopped dead in my tracks when she told me your name. I thought surely that this must be something that Ty Burna had devised in order to sabotage my plans for the Lethal Lottery. I was about to call the police, but then suddenly I felt something wrong in my spirit. I felt as though I must meet with you today…

The man pushes off of the ground with his left foot and spins around in order to reveal himself to the camera.

???: So, tell me. Why did you come here today to meet with Professor Steven Kurtesy.

Kurtesy smiles as he lounges back in his chair. He pulls his glass to his lips and takes a sip of drink.

Chris: Three things…

Kurtesy focuses on Chris’ words.

Chris: An envelope, a woman, and a man.

Kurtesy rubs ins chin in curiosity.

Kurtesy: What is it about these three things that bring you here?

Chris: They weigh my soul down. So much that I can’t sleep, I can’t think, and I can’t even compete anymore.

Kurtesy: Have you talked to Ty about this?

Chris: No… He just thinks that it’s part of my growing pains.

Kurtesy: I see…

Kurtesy takes a drink from his glass.

Kurtesy: Let’s begin with the three things that you mentioned. The envelope; what does that mean? Why does it bother you?

Chris is hesitant at first, but slowly reaches into his pocket and pulls out the manila envelope that he has been carrying for several weeks. Kurtesy waits for Chris to open it, but chooses to interject whenever he doesn’t.

Kurtesy: What is in it?

Chris: I haven’t opened it…

Kurtesy: Why does it scare you to open it?

Chris shoots a quick look at Kurtesy. Despite his failure to open the envelope, he had never thought about himself being scared to do so. He looks back at the envelope.

Chris: I don’t know…

Kurtesy: I do not think that is the truth. If you cannot be honest with me Chris, then I cannot help you.

Chris: It’s something from the past. Something important.

Kurtesy: Why do you carry this envelope around? I thought you hated your past?

Chris: I was planning to destroy it, but then something happened. I saw her.

Kurtesy perks up in his seat.

Kurtesy: Her?

Chris: In the backstage of the lottery rounds. I was talking to James King and Dr. Alhazred about things that Ty had planned for us. I was planning on leaving that meeting and then disposing of the envelope. I began to think of how silly it was that I was carrying it around, but there she was. I saw her.

Kurtesy: Chris, who is her?

Tears begin to roll down Chris’ cheek.

Chris: My mother.

Chris quickly wipes away the tears on his face and presses on.

Chris: She was there, walking in the hallway. She passed right by me and I watched her walk away, but then I blinked. Why did I have to blink? She disappeared and I saw Celeste Crimson turning down the hall.

Kurtesy: Chris, is your mother still alive?

Chris sniffs as he rubs out the rest of the tears inside of his eye lids.

Chris: No, she died. She died when I was nine.

Kurtesy: So, you have been without a mother figure for that long?

Chris: Yes, and now I can’t even compete whenever I see her. It’s like I see flashes of her face in Celeste’s face and I become stunned. I don’t want to fight Celeste…

Kurtesy finishes off his glass and rises from his seat. He slowly walks over to a desk table as he grasps a lonely bottle of scotch and refills his glass. He begins to talk as he walks back to his seat.

Kurtesy: It sounds like to me that you are projecting your mother onto Celeste Crimson. There seems to be some feature that you are relating from Celeste to your mother.

Chris thinks on Kurtesy’s words and remains silent.

Kurtesy: So, because of that you cannot harm her. Simply because you cannot harm your mother.

The concept seemed so basic, but the mush inside of Chris’ mind had never allowed him to connect the dots. Kurtesy had given him an epiphany. Chris could feel the abstract chains within his mind begin to release.

Chris: I miss her.

Kurtesy stops mid-drink as he stares at Chris.

Chris: She always encouraged me to be independent. I just didn’t feel the same from---

Kurtesy: Yes?

Chris turns his head away from Kurtesy and stares into the emptiness of the room. Kurtesy responds by taking a slow sip of his drink.

Kurtesy: An envelope, a woman, and a man. We have already talked about two of the three. Let us discuss the third.

Kurtesy plays with the rim of his glass as he examines Chris, who still has his face turned away.

Kurtesy: The man you speak of is not Black Dragon is it?

Chris: ….No.

Kurtesy: I can only imagine that you do not even care about the EurAsian title. Am I correct?

Chris: Yes. I was shoved into the feud in order to progress into my destiny.

Kurtesy chuckles as the ice inside of his glass clank inside of it.

Kurtesy: You know what is interesting about your destiny, Chris? I view destiny as a personal revelation. I divine feeling that tells us what we are suppose to do. Tell me Chris. Do you feel this destiny, or does someone else for you?

Chris turns his face back towards Kurtesy and looks at him with a confused stare. After a few seconds, he turns his head and stares up at the ceiling.

Kurtesy: Let me guess? The man you mentioned is not Black Dragon, but your master Ty Burna.

Chris: No.

Kurtesy is shocked at Chris’ response.

Chris: The man who I am talking about, if I had to be honest, is a man whose approval I seek more than Ty Burna himself. I never felt like I could achieve it, so I ran away.

Chris sits up from his lying position and clenches the manila envelope in his hands.

Chris: He weighs so heavily on my heart that I can’t sleep at night or even think clearly at times. The man who I am talking about is probably involved in the content inside of this very envelope that I hold. That man…

Chris lowers his heads as tears begin falling from his face and stain the top of the manila envelope.

Chris: Is my father.