Danny, Danny, Danny.

Listen bud, I've heard the old saying before - those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it - but the way that you're taking a header into making the same mistakes again and again is makin' me wonder if you take some sort of sexual thrill outta being embarrassed by The Pact. Like, Shane beat you in the tournament. We embarrassed you at the pay per view. You couldn't get the job done last week against Harlan.

I'll be honest, bud, I'm trying to get myself all worked up but I'm having a harder time than you do picking out your favourite pastel.

Like fuck, bud - the only thing more predictable than you failing to impress in the ring is the Leafs failing at playoff time. Except they end up playing a lot more golf, whereas you're sittin' there with your dick in your hands like a virgin on prom night.

I mean...I guess you don't play golf. I never really gave it much thought, I guess; it's technically possible that you golf, but like it's technically possible for a feller to have a pet moose. Doesn't mean it's particularly likely. Besides, the idea of your pasty Hot Topic-clad ass being out getting fresh air feels somehow unwholesome.

Certainly more unwholesome than your little Tumblr-coded slash-fiction demon love affair thing you've got goin' on. Like, the only thing about that whole situation that's unwholesome is how you're out here doing the same shit all over again. I mean, Jesus Christmas, Dan - you're palling around with a new Anubis?

A-New-Bis? Is that anything? I dunno, I think it works better said out loud.

Initial CT and PET scans indicate that while there have been unintended side effects in the shape of Gordy King, the technically botched procedure performed by Dr. Russell was at least a partial success; the Jarvis King of old’s consciousness has been brought forward to the 24th Century. That said, as Gordy King apparently perished simultaneously with Jarvis, and given their blood relation, complications have arisen. Dr. Russell claims that as this procedure has never been performed on a living host subject, unforeseen outcomes were a possibility.

I will, per my King’s wishes, do whatever work is necessary to undo this error. This desire trumps my instincts to...punish the offending doctor.

In short, Dr. Russell lives by the grace of my King. Long live King Jarvis I.

(nts: The army for which I pledged my service is no more. I will remain my King’s protector, but I shall be a commander no longer).

And like, making fun of you really isn't fair, because it means that people who ain't even included in our conversation end up catching strays. Like, anything I say about you is just repeating things that have been said about the people that you're trying so desperately to be, and that's just not fair to Chaolin Sahn, my cousin Jarvis, a kid on Halloween wearing a Dracula costume, and the colour beige.

Anyhow, like I was sayin' - you're such a fuckin' copycat that you're copying yourself now; you're bringing your Demon Daddy to play again, and as much as I like to be affirming, I also like consent. And Harlan and I are already indulging your humiliation kink this week, so I think it's not too much to ask that you keep your bedroom play to yourself.

Arik, that brings me to you, I guess. A warning for you - Danny B is a bad guy. And I'm not talking about how bad he is in the ring - he is certainly that - but I'm talking about the fact that he's so malignantly awful that he makes a literal demon seem as commonplace as a mosquito in cottage country. My advice for you - get out while you still can. I don't know a lot about the 2300s, but there's gotta be a suburban teen goth haunting a mall somewhere that'd be a more worthy partner in evil or whatever than ole Rip.

---

I do not wish to understate the fact that Gordy King is, in a word, a buffoon. He is, seemingly, an affront to the sweet sadistic cruelty that my King stood for in his waking days, and stands in stark contrast to his very essence. He is crass, crude, and frankly betrays no sense of decorum or even a concept of what is couth.

But when the bell rang...a savagery unmatched. Caledonia, even without the betrayal of the vampire she counts as kin, was no match for his drive, his competive spirit, his hunger.

We sat in the locker room a mere hour after the close of the Infernalia. With a case of condensation-laden beer at his feet and a sickening mixture of fried potatoes, gravy and cheese curds in a Styrofoam container his hands, the newly minted World’s Champion seemed completely uninterested in the location of his title belt. For my part, I was kicking myself for not having kept a closer eye on the title; this was a lapse on my part, and surely one that ought to have been punished. Gordy, however, seemed blissful in his ignorance.

“Where in the hell did you get poutine, anyhow?” asked Donovan, apparently naming the greasy concoction in Gordy’s hands. He and Moretti had joined us in the locker room shortly after the main event; a banner event for The Pact, even if only one of the two of Moretti and Donovan could find success that evening.

Gordy let out a putrid belch and grinned as he drained the last of a bottle of beer before grabbing another, expertly slapping it against the side of the bench on which he sat to pop its top off. “C’mon,” he said. “Ya gotta have a proper victory meal after a good old scrap, plus,” he said, smiling even more goofily and raising his new bottle in a toast, “some of Alexander Keith’s finest.”

I tried with a grimace to sip a bit of the gradually warming bitter beer that Gordy had, somehow, also procured and insisted that I partake in. Moretti and Donovan also held bottles with similarly polite sips taken from the, objectively terrible, beer. Moretti, for his part, made his bottle look like a toy with the sheer girth of his bear paw-like hands, and rather than suffer through any more of the lager, he put his down on the ground next to him.

He let out a low grunt, and stepped towards Gordy, clear intent in his posture, gait and eyes that made me take immediate notice. Before he could say word one, however, we were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Ah,” said Gordy, swallowing his last cheesy, gravy-laden mouthful of fries before tossing the container aside. “That’s gotta be him!”

Pushing past the number one contender, Gordy bounded towards the door and flung it open with aplomb. There, dumbfounded and awkwardly carrying a platinum, cylindrical trophy at least wide and double as tall as he was, stood the diminutive interviewer, Ian Ambrose.

I rankled at his presence in this sacred space, a sentiment perhaps shared by the other members of The Pact, as Moretti spoke up. “What,” he said, pointing at the trophy ignoring the creature carrying it, “is that?”

Gordy guffawed. “C’mon Harlan,” he said, taking the cup into his hands. The shine on the mammoth prize was certainly impressive. “You’re like...Mr. Casino. Surely you, of all people, can recognize the Stanley Cup when you see it.”

“Is... that the actual cup?” asked Donovan with some skepticism in his voice, but still clearly impressed by this apparent relic of the 21st century that Gordy had somehow summoned, much like the beer and the so-called poutine.

Gordy shrugged as he kissed the cool metal of the trophy. “I dunno. I don’t think so, but like...I figure this is a better proof of me bein’ a champion any day. I asked some hooded Watcher feller before the match to see if it could be done, and...well...Ian here came through, didn’tcha, bud?”

Apparently hoping that he was invisible, Ambrose squeaked an ascent. Gordy laughed, and slapped him on the back, nearly toppling him over. “C’mon kid,” he said, “let’s go do a deke drill. There’s gotta be a couple of hockey sticks and a tennis ball somewhere...”

With that, he left. I set down my beer, and made to leave the room, but as I did I could hear the low-rumbling growl of Moretti once again. “When the time comes,” he said, to no one in particular, “that trophy is mine. It’s only a matter of time until I collect.”

I wheeled around, and made myself as big as I could. I have no fear for any man, and size matters not to me, but even I have to admit that The House’s presence is nothing short of impressive. He towered over me, but met my fiery gaze with what I can only presume to be respect, as I stood toe-to-toe with him. “What happens in the ring,” I said, my voice even and betraying no sense of concern, much less intimidation, “is between you and King. It is your business. Anything else,” I said, my eyes narrowing to put a finer point on it, “becomes my business.”

Moretti nodded. “Of course,” he said. “I only deal in regulation play. Anything else is not becoming of how I do business.” His own eyes narrowed. “I think we understand each other,” he said, sticking a hand out.

We shook, when like a hurricane, Gordy blew back into the room, his now-beloved trophy tucked underneath his right arm. He grabbed my beer from my hands and shoved it into the nearly full 24-pack case before hoisting it up onto his left shoulder and hustling out of the room. “C’mon,” he said to the three of us. “Yer missin’ all the fun!”

And this son of a bitch has the Timbits to believe that he’s better than The Pact. Despite ample evidence to the contrary. What a fuckin’ idiot, bud. And this is your boy...I mean, I’d run if I were you...or whatever it is that Demons that wrestle do. Can you fly? Flying away would be advisable if you can.

But, y'know what - I know you're not gonna listen to me...so instead, we'll drop the gloves at Infernalia. That's fine by me. The circumstance might not be unique, but the pain Harlan and I will inflict on the Demons of Dumbass will be.

Keep your stick on the ice, boys. Because this one is gonna go three periods, and you don’t have a chance to send it to overtime.