The scene fades in to a wide angle shot of the MTS Centre, several hours before the WZCW SuperShow. White lights illuminate the large windows atop the building, the camera pans swiftly to portray the spectacle of the arena at dusk before finally settling upon the front doors. On either side of the doors, large banners hang, one depicting the hometown Winnipeg Jets logo, the other a promo banner for WZCW's event.
The camera enters the building and progresses through the concourse. The scene is crisp, the golden walls, flawlessly accented with directed lighting, provide a spatially and aesthetically pleasing setting.
As the camera moves toward the staircase leading to the upper concourse, a muffled, yet audible clanging can be heard seemingly nearby. The camera jerks quickly to either side, but progresses ahead.
The noise grows louder. The camera stops, regresses.
Cameraman: Alright, that's a wrap, we can't shoot over this shit.
Video Director: C'mon, we'll see what this is all about, keep rolling, I want to get a shot of every nook and cranny of this place for the video, we'll edit out the noise later.
Cameraman: You're the boss.
The camera regains focus and veers from its intended path, through a door marked 'Restricted Access', down a flight of stairs and into a dimly lit hallway. As the camera moves hesitantly through the hall, scanning open doorways on either side, the noise has grown overwhelmingly loud.
Cameraman (shouting): Seriously, Tom, do...
The scene falls silent.
Cameraman: Do we really need to shoot all of this?
A voice enters the scene from a distance, muffled, nondescript.
Dorian Slaughter: Approach me.
Video Director (motioning): Check it out.
The camera enters through an open doorway at the far corner of the hallway. The room is nearly dark. Faint hums of industrial fans provide background noise as the voice, now slightly more identifiable, comes through again.
Slaughter: Here. Approach me.
The camera progresses slowly through the room, focused on the concrete floor as a path through various machinery and panels housing operating controls of the facility. As the camera settles and illuminates its mounted light, the scene is brightened, revealing Dorian Slaughter sitting on the floor against a concrete wall at the far end of the room. His head rests against a steel I-beam, his feet flat on the floor, his knees nestled tightly into his chest. As Slaughter runs a hand through his damp hair, he tilts his head back and thumps it erratically against the concrete.
FLASHBACK
Scene fades in progressing through the halls of a simple, quaint home. Family pictures of proud parents with their new 12 year old son adorn the faded wood paneled walls. A framed adoption certificate hangs above a faded wooden end table, below a small crucifix. Progressing through the kitchen where late night snack plates remain scattered across the faux oak table; a report card taped haphazardly on the refrigerator, next to a hurriedly scratched grocery list.
The camera continues up a flight of steps at the far end of the house. Entering a bedroom where husband and wife have just placed their sleeping son into bed.
Wife: What a long day, he is exhausted.
Husband: He was a champ today, not many kids his age would have sat through that ceremony.
Wife: He did it for you.
She kisses her husband on the cheek, smiling softly at him.
Wife: He might just love you more than I do... and I stress might!
Husband: I love you too, hunny.
A loud creak echoes through the staircase. The boy stirs on the frameless matress resting on the dusty wooden floor.
Husband: Damn this old house, I can't wait 'til we get out of here.
Wife: Soon enough hun, now that you're MISTER VICE PRESIDENT OF MARKETING!!!
Husband: Yeah, I can't get to the bank to cash that bonus check soon enough. 11 years of my life I gave to this company, it's about time they give something back!
Wife: You earned it, that's for sure. I noticed you signed it already, too, you're so excited, and I'm so proud of you!
The stairs creak again as the wind howls past a leaky window, rattling the thin wooden frame along the windowsill.
Husband: C'mon, let's get outta here before we wake him up.
Wife: Good idea, besides, I've been waiting all day for a little alone time with you, Mr. Vice President.
She bats her eyes, one hand on her hip, motioning with her head toward the door.
Wife: Come on daddy...
Child: Jerry?
The steps crack, the wife shifts her focus toward the door abruptly. Somewhat disappointingly she staggers back into the room, leaving the door propped open behind her.
Husband: Go back to sleep buddy, Melody and I were just tucking you in.
Child: Can we still go to the park and hit baseballs tomorrow?
Husband: Ask the boss.
He turns and looks at his wife standing in the door. She nods gently and opens her mouth to respond.
A loud explosion erupts from the hallway behind her.
Looking on as his wife bends slightly at the waist, the front of her white tank top turning a deeper and deeper crimson color.
Husband: MELODY!!!!!
Child: MOMMMMMMMMM
The husband leaps up from the mattress, lunging toward his wife in the doorway.
As her body goes limp, it doubles over and collapses to the floor. The noise in the hallway is muffled by the child's screams inside the room.
Unknown man 1: Go, go, go, he's in there.
A man dressed in all black, a red handkerchief covering the lower half of his face, enters the room holding a shotgun as a faint white smoke still protrudes from its barrel.
Child: DAD!!!!
The child falls backward into the bed and swiftly pulls the covers over his head. He lays flat on the mattress, trembling as the gun discharges a second, then a third, then a fourth time.
Unknown man 2: Dude, what a fucking mess. Come on, let's find that fucking check and get the fuck out of here.
Unknown man 1: Right, you take the room down the hall, I'll take this, whatever you wanna call this fucking shithole, office? I guess? Fuck it, just find the thing and let's go.
Both men exit the room. Amidst heavy footsteps and sounds of breaking glass, the child lifts his covers and stands up. Gazing upon the bloodied, motionless bodies, he doesn't cry. The child doesn't make a sound, he stands, frozen, at the foot of his mattress.
Unknown man 1 (from afar): Got it, let's go.
The footsteps in the hall become more audible as the two men converge outside of the child's bedroom. One of them glances inside as he passes by, stops, retreats, and looks upon the child.
Unknown man 2: Who the fuck are you?
Unknown man 1: What? C'mon, let's go.
Unknown man 2: Um, dude, there's a fucking kid in here.
Unknown man 1: What are you talking about, they don't have any kids. Let's fucking go, now!
Unknown man 2: I'm looking at him right now.
The child raises his eyes and looks upon the man in the doorway. Never shifting his focus, he doesn't speak, his face devoid of expression, his eyes distant.
Unknown man 1: Aghhh.
The first man ascends the stairs, pushes the second out of the way and enters the room.
Stepping over the bodies of his two victims, he stands beside the child. The child's head near his midsection, the child's eyes staring straight ahead toward the vacant doorway.
Unknown man 1: Hey kid...
The boy stares straight ahead. The man, becoming anxious, places two fingers under the child's chin and lifts the child's face toward his own.
Unknown man 1: Death will call you too some day. At least now when it does, you'll be ready.
The child stares into the man's eyes, his face expressionless.
The man removes his hand from beneath the child's chin, the child does not move when the man releases him.
The man shakes his head quickly, wipes the sweat from his brow and retreats toward the doorway.
Unknown man 1(to man 2): C'mon let's get outta this shithole.
Unknown man 2(peering in at the child as he passes the doorway): Fuck.
Both men descend the stairs and exit the house. The grinding sound of rubber tires against gravel fill the scene as a beam of light from their car's headlights pass through the window behind the child.
The child stands motionless, his head still elevated toward where the man formerly stood, as the scene fades to black.
PRESENT DAY
Slaughter sits, his head elevated, pressed back firmly against the concrete. The scene becomes uneasy as he does not speak for several moments.
Slaughter: He was right. All those years ago, he was right.
He bows his head between his knees for a moment and then raises his eyes toward the camera, a slight grin comes across his glistening face.
Slaughter: Death has called, and I have answered. The WZCW has become the newest target standing in the path of the approaching storm. Tonight, one man shall choose...
He turns his right hand palm up and elevates it in front of his face.
Slaughter: Stand by death's side and unleash a fury of hatred upon the opposition, or...
He turns the other hand palm up and raises it to the same height.
Slaughter: Ignore death's beckoning and subject yourself to the equally forceful grasp of the reaper's cold hand. The choice is yours, Veejay. You have peered into death's eyes once and were belittled by its message, don't make the same mistake twice. Retreat from the light, succumb to the darkness, choose death over life, for the option of life is of no quality fit for an international celebrity, a King among men, a leader among peasants such as yourself.
He interlocks his hands and rests them upon his bended knees.
Slaughter: Rather, choosing this option of life, in opposition of death, is to choose the life of an insect; an indiscriminate, meaningless existence. A King dethroned, a hero scorned, a leader forced to live as a subject in the kingdom of death.
He runs both of his hands through his dampened hair, stands up and begins pacing in the cramped area in front of the camera.
Slaughter: Two more shall not be afforded the same choice.
The pacing becomes increasingly frantic.
Slaughter: I wonder if Lexi has my action figure? If she hides it behind unopened books in her bedroom, books that Momma bought her to make her the brightest thing she ever did see. Books that she never opened, but claimed to read cover to cover, only to make Momma proud, but never to reveal as mere articles of treachery.
She won't cheat to win, because what good Southern pumpkin would do such a thing? How could she let down her hordes of fans? What would her countless friends think of her mischievous actions?
He approaches the camera and pulls it in closely to his face.
Slaughter: I see through your lie, Lexi.
I see the melancholy, resentful little girl, striving for friends, worshiping heroes, only to mask her own pain, her own imperfections.
His voice softens.
Slaughter: Give them to me. Give me your imperfections, your blemishes, your inclinations that you don't talk about at dinner parties and sleepovers, give them all to me. Allow me to cleanse you. Release your spirit into the welcoming arms of the reaper. Rest your head on the pillow of serenity that death has provided for you.
He releases the camera and walks toward the doorway of the room.
Slaughter: Walk with me, we've become short on time.
The camera follows as Slaughter retraces the steps seen in the opening of the segment in reverse. He enters the backstage area, progresses through, to the gorilla position just behind the curtain at the top of the ramp. On a nearby control panel, he cues up Jon Hyada's entrance music.
Slaughter: Hero. Quite a word. What sort of hero attempts to come to the aid of a woman in the streets, but fails?
The same sort of hero that dons a mask and a kevlar suit when he emerges through this curtain. A hero shielding himself from danger, from impending doom. Only shedding his armor once he assures himself that he is safe. Once he ensures that no weapons are present.
Slaughter cuts the music and walks through the curtain onto the stage.
Slaughter: Tonight, Jon, you will sense danger. Do not shed your armor. Ready your defenses. For death is approaching, sunken in the thick shadows of the night, willing to meet you face-to-face.
Do not extend your hand in reverence to death, it will be removed from your arm.
Do not bow to death, your head will be removed from your torso.
Do not become enraged and drive yourself to make death submit and show respect, you will become death yourself.
He turns and looks at the ring crew setting up a steel lighting structure at the far end of the stage.
Slaughter: Real heroes.
He motions his head toward the ring crew and then shifts focus back to the camera.
Slaughter: Tonight will not be a test, nor will it be a challenge. Tonight, the reaper of death ascends into your midst to lay waste to this fruitful landscape. To pave the path of revenge and liberation through the deceit and forced sportsmanship that these people shove down the gullets of the world on a daily basis.
He extends his arms and raises his head toward the rafters of the empty arena. He speaks loudly.
Slaughter: Tonight, the era of darkness begins. Tonight, death becomes you.
Fade to black.
