Caledonia, I’m honestly kinda sorry.

We live in a fantastical world, Mrs. Highlander, and I mean that in the worst possible way. There’s all sorts of fucked up shit going on, from the Amoralists’ ruling with an iron fist in their post-Apotheosis splendor, to your cousin avoiding cancelation for his old nickname so adeptly that he’s technically immortal, to whatever the fuck is going on with Ataxia at any given moment. Like - seriously - I’m not convinced at all that guy is gone; I don’t care what anyone says.

I’m getting off track here.

We live in a world filled with all of these horrors, the likes of which would be perfectly at home in the most fucked-up version of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and despite all of that awfulness, you managed to pick up a little piece of Happily Ever After at Frozen Over, didn’t you? I mean, you had odds stacked against you from the jump; you had to face off against Elijah, a match I know is no mean feat, just to get a chance at the main event. You had to wait, with bated breath, to see if your husband would manage to survive Anhellica. Then, in the main event, you were stacked up against three superior athletes, plus The Ripper, and despite all of those difficulties, all of those obstacles, all of those challenges, you left The Colosseum with gold around your waist.

Like I said, the stuff of fairy tales.

—

“I don’t understand.”

Commander Glace glowered over the diminutive doctor, his thick glasses amplifying his watery eyes, giving his whole demeanour a quivering quality that left him seeming even more terrified by the statuesque, muscle-bound and weapon-laden brunette. She was doing little to set his mind at ease, invading his personal space with pointed, aggressive, intimidating intent, and her voice didn’t really convey a lack of understanding, but rather murderous intent being barely, just barely, held back. She would do anything to protect me.

I knew this because King Jarvis knew this.

It’s fucking weird - actually, weird doesn’t begin to describe it, but that’s the only word I’ve got right now - to inhabit a body that isn’t yours. It’s even stranger to know things that you didn’t know before you inhabited that body, like the previous occupant had left a note on the refrigerator.

Gone to the shops. You were meant to die but I sacrificed my own consciousness so it wouldn’t happen. Make yourself at home.

Fucking bizarre.

“H-his vitals are all stable,” replied the small Dr. Russell, his quaking voice pathetically thin and weak next to the force of nature in a woman’s body stood next to him. He gestured to printed readings. “This is the first time I’ve done this with living flesh; the readings of brain function point to my hypothesis of –”

“Hypothesis?!” growled Glace, imposing, somehow, an even more intimidating presence over the small man.

Russell shrank as he stammered out the explanation that I knew - because King Jarvis knew - was the case; that the procedure was unprecedented, but that the science was, in theory, sound. That there would inevitably be an adjustment period when the consciousness of King Jarvis left his body, where a coma-like state would be likely. That it would take time, it would take patience, but the readings indicated brain function, it indicated success, it indicated a step forward in neuroscience that would have far reaching implications on the world.

It indicated that Jarvis King was back.

I tried, and failed, to wiggle King Jarvis’s - well, I suppose my - extremities, as the doctor had indicated I should. This, Russell had explained to King Jarvis as he had hooked him up with the various monitors and probes, would be the first steps towards taking control of my new body. He said that it was like rehabilitating an atrophied body on fast-forward, that the steps would be small at first, but significant, and then rapid.

“There!” Russell said, as I managed, somehow, to make a toe twitch.

—

Here’s the thing, Cali - in a world where vampires are your family members, a world where there’s fucking two Dans, a world where science has created super powers that would make Stan Lee blush, in a world where, again, Ataxia just kinda…fits in - there’s only one thing about fairy tales that doesn’t exist.

Happily Ever After.

So yeah - I’m honestly kind of sorry, Caledonia. You got your blazing moment in the sun once again, but you have to turn right around and exit the frying pan, just to go right into the fire. You got away with it at Frozen Over. I’ll grant you that, but this upcoming Infernalia? The distractions, the absurdities, the sideshows are all gone. You managed to give King Jarvis his first loss at Frozen Over. Great work.

You’ve lived in a fairy tale world, Cali, and you probably figured that this week would just be a continuation of the story for you. The Priestess vs. The King, after all, sounds like a storybook tale worthy of your little fairy tale existence, doesn’t it?

Once again, I’m sorry Cali. I have to report that your little story ends now. It’s where mine picks up. It’s where I go from finding you kind of annoying to actively hating you, because you have something I want. You have something I need. You have something that, by rights, should be mine.

Ask your hubby what it’s like to stand opposed to me when I want something. Ask your cousin in all his years, whose thirst outstrips his own vampiric desires when it comes to success, to prestige, to championship gold. Ask yourself why wearing that title means a fucking whit in the first place; it’s not because of Dan Highlander, or even your previous success. See, that’s a different story altogether, isn’t it?

It’s because of me. Caledonia. It’s always been me. I’ve always been the one this story’s been about. You’ve just had a moment where you got to think you’re the fucking protagonist. All because you’re fighting off the evil King.

Well, the King is dead, Cali. And I’m so sorry to report that means something truly awful for you.

It means The Icon is back.

—

“Fuck bud, what a slapshot to the nutsack, eh?”

Excuse me?

Dr. Russell and Commander Glace’s expressions matched my own feelings picture-perfectly, as the first syllables left my lips since the procedure began. The words left my mouth, the sounds formed by my tongue, the air vibrating through my vocal chords, and yet nothing about the words themselves were mine. What’s more, I couldn’t correct the record.

The silence in the room was more than the absence of sound. It was a tangible, living thing, in those interminable moments. I sat up on the hospital bed. It wasn’t me making my body sit up, much like it wasn’t me who spoke those words. If inhabiting a new body is a strange experience, haunting a body, being a prisoner in that body, is truly alien. And it was what I was experiencing.

Dr. Russell studied a new output while Glace studied my face. Our face?

It was she that broke the silence, asking the pertinent question.

“Who am I speaking to?” she posited, slowly.

“Gordy King, nice to be meetin’ ya,” came the reply.

Gordy?!

If I had control over my body, I would’ve vomited.

Gordy King was - I guess is a cousin of mine who, I am to understand, mostly played hockey in a beer league, emphasis on the beer, until he had a short stint as a wrestler on the independent scene, coasting off his tenuous familial connection to me during my rise to superstardom.

Superstardom? Hohoho, buddy - you got a fuckin’ set of grapes on ya, I’ll give ya that.

Wait. You can hear me?

Does the pope shit in the woods wearing a silly hat? Of course, we got the same brain right now I think.

This is a nightmare.

Oh, well it ain’t no picnic for me neither - I was just pickin’ up a two-four from the LC when this shit happened to me. Was gonna sit down and enjoy the Leafs fucking up another season.

It happened to both of us.

The Leafs happen to every red blooded Canadian, bud. The CBC makes sure of it.

No, this, whatever this is.

Right, I guess you’re right there, hoser.

Hoser? Does anyone actually say that anymore?

Yer damn right, hoser.

“This is fascinating,” said Russell, his interest in the circumstances outweighing the fear he had been feeling moments before. To his great luck, Glace was transfixed on our face, rather than strangling the small doctor. “It seems that, somehow, both Gordy and Jarvis were simultaneously meant to meet the same fate,” a fun euphemism for dying, I guess, “so when I started the procedure, the wrong King was transported here.”

This seemed to snap Glace back to reality. “The wrong King?” she said, incredulously. She was right; the wrong King was in charge.

I don’t think I’m wrong, bud.

You certainly are.

Well, I’m the one in control of our body, ain’t I?

…

Yeah, you ain’t got much to says about that, do yas? So lemme put it to ya this way, Jarvis - I, Gordy King, am gonna take control of things for a little while. And you're gonna shut up for the time being, because if I'm bein' honest, it's been long enough that you've run the show. Seems ole King Jarvis had a few good pals, and a bit of good fortune his way, and I'm gonna enjoy it a bit - but I’ll makes a deal with ya - I’m here for a good time, not a long time like ole Trooper said, so once you get your shit together and want to take the driver’s seat, I won’t be too proud to prevent yas from doin’ so.

Course, in the mean time, I get to do things my way. Like, for example, Caledonia. Now, I don’t quite understand why it is that King Jarvis hated yas, and I don’t rightly know why I’m meant to too, since you seem like a lovely young lady. A bright young thing indeed - but lemme just put it to you like this…I ain’t never been a champion before, and to be honest with ya, I’d like to be one. So, you get your duds all dudded up, bring your Priestess powers, and I’ll bring the power of the power play, and we’ll see just what it is when you come up against the Most Canadian Man Alive, alright?

I don’t want you to think that just because you’re a hell of a spinner and a looker too that I’m not about to give you the ole donnybrook treatment, neither. I mean, I’m a perfect gentleman, but that don’t mean nothin’ when it comes to when the bell rings. You’re there, same reason as I am - to be heavyweight champion of the worlds, and I ain’t about to balk at the idea of dropping the gloves and giving you a five minute major’s worth of hurtin’.

“Right then,” I said, slapping my thighs and grinning big. Glace was definitely about to put the hurtin' on Doc Russell, but I managed to stop that whole thing with my little interruption “Where can a fella get a cold beer round here anyhow?”

Glace looked away from the doc, fire in her eyes. Dang if she isn’t a looker, though. “Excuse me?” she said, looking about as stunned as a fisherman on payday.

“No need to excuse yerself,” I said, smirking. “Seems I gots some work to do and I’d like to have a little liquid motivation to get er done, that’s all. Seems unlikely there'll be a Timmy's nearby, so a couple suds'll do better than a double-double.”

Hoo buddy. This ought to be fun.