PRELUDE: THE CONQUEROR WORM“Misery loves company?”
“Lo! ‘Tis a gala night,
Within the lonesome latter years!"“That don’t mean nothing to me…”
“An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears…”*Fade in.*
*As the opening chords of The Amity Affliction’s “Misery” play us in, accompanied by narration from an unseen source, we open on a quiet, still shot of a children’s playground. The area is largely abandoned, save for one single child, who sits alone on a plain steel swing-set in the centre of a large sandpit. The child - a boy, with jet-black hair and a pale complexion - is dressed in shabby, moth-eaten clothing that has clearly not been washed recently, and his gaze is pointed at the ground. A few tears drop from his face into the sand as the music picks up.*
“I’ve seen the future where I don’t wanna die;
Sorrow wrapped around my heart like an unwanted vine.”
*The boy suddenly looks up, as dark and ominous clouds begin to gather over his head, and the video sputters for a split second as though the footage is corrupt. A shadow falls over the boy, then, of a much taller figure standing in front of him. The boy looks up and we see a black-gloved hand enter the frame from off-camera.*
“I’ve seen the future break the burden of my past,
Painted black and all forgotten; you lit the fire in my heart.”
*The boy’s eyes widen as another hand appears on his shoulder. The footage flickers as we jump-cut to a side view which allows us to see the source of this hand; seated next to the boy on another swing is the adult Jonathan Sanders, whose facial features, hair colour and complexion match those of the boy next to him, belying that he IS this boy as an adult. Sanders regards his child self with a solemn-yet-sympathetic expression, managing a soft smile, as the boy looks back to the hand in front of him.*
“Sorrow floats where my dreams won’t…”
*The boy looks back at his adult self and Sanders gives him one small nod, before the boy’s frown grows into a wicked smile and he reaches forward to clasp the outstretched hand.*
“Yeah, sorrow floats where my dreams won’t.”
*There is a brief lull in the music as the two hands reach for each other, and the footage slows to a crawl. In this pause, we get more narration.*
“Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears…”
*The music swells again as the two hands make contact, with our shot switching once again to young Sanders as he takes the hand of the black-gloved figure. At this moment, the sky opens with a huge clap of thunder, and as the rain begins to fall in earnest we see the boy’s eyes widen, then contort into a picture of surprise and agony as the black hand begins to engulf him in shadow. It begins with his hand and starts spreading rapidly until his entire body is covered, with adult Sanders grinning his sadistic grin all the while. This scene seems to freeze in place as the background fades to black at the same time, beginning to play through a collection of the boy’s worst memories. We see young Sanders sobbing as he’s dragged away from his mother’s casket, followed by him sitting alone in his bedroom staring into a flaming match, then flash through to his commission to the mental health facility as his father watches with a sneer, and finally we finish with him being blindsided by Mike Hawk at PWS: Apex Crusade and losing the Collateral Damage Championship.*
“Misery loves company?
LOVES COMPANY, LOVES COMPANY!
That don’t mean nothing to me!
NOTHING TO ME, NOTHING TO ME!”
*As the chorus fades, we get another brief pause with only instruments in the background, over which more narration plays to finish the poem’s first stanza.*
“While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.”
*For our next shot, we zoom in on the young boy’s eyes, tearing up around the edges, and continue to zoom until his pupil takes up the entire lens. We then pull back swiftly from this blackness to see the eyes of ADULT Jonathan Sanders, and as we zoom out further we can see he’s seated on a bench in a darkened pro wrestling locker room. Adult Sanders’ hair is matted to his forehead and he’s covered head-to-toe in blood, very similar to the way that he looked following his loss of the Collateral Damage championship which we glimpsed earlier. His hardened steel-grey eyes stare downwards towards his own lap, and as we follow his gaze we can see a photo clutched in both hands of an older, blonde woman that frequent PWS viewers will recognize as Sanders’ mother. His face plays through the gamut of emotions, belying rage but also deep sorrow and regret, and another tear drops from his face to land upon the photo before his thumb wipes it away.*
“I’ve seen the future and I wanted to live;
Gotta think of that life each time I’m crossing a bridge.”
*As we watch Sanders sob, he suddenly snaps upright and turns his gaze off-camera towards some unseen source. As we once again pan upwards to follow his gaze, we spy a familiar full-length mirror on the opposite wall of the locker room. Watching Sanders through it is not his own reflection, but another version of himself, clad in a long black robe and a devil mask to match. The reflection’s eyes glint white in the darkness, and Sanders tilts his head to one side, intrigued, as he watches it.*
“If hope floats and sorrow too, I guess I’ll just hold on to you;
The only one who really knows what I’ve been through…”
*Sanders stands, now, the camera following close behind him as he strides towards the mirror, reaching out to place his palm upon the glass. As his hand makes contact, the glass ripples like water, prompting Jonathan to smirk a devilish smirk.*
“Sorrow floats where my dreams won’t…”
*Sanders takes a few steps back from the mirror then takes off towards it at a sprint, the footage slowing to a crawl again as he crashes through the surface.*
“Yeah, sorrow floats where my dreams won’t.”
*Shards of glass fly around Sanders as he breaks through the mirror into the nebulous, void-like space on the other side, which PWS viewers will have seen before. As with last time, flames begin to lick around the edges of his form as he flies through this space, with each of the glass shards expanding into a sort of “window” that looks in on each other member of the upcoming Olla Rumble. As Sanders passes each of these windows - still moving in slow-motion through this section - he reaches out to touch it, and we flash from the wrestler in one of their happiest moments to one of their most miserable; losing a high-profile match or being ambushed and beaten down by enemies.*
“Misery loves company?
LOVES COMPANY, LOVES COMPANY!
That don’t mean nothing to me!
NOTHING TO ME, NOTHING TO ME!”
*The final frame Sanders passes is that of Alexis Makarios, someone with whom he has some history in PWS: Apex. When he reaches out to touch this one it actually cycles through a FEW key defining moments of her misery; most notably, her mental breakdown after losing the tag team titles, her failed comeback match, and finally the most recent event, where she and KAllie Reznik were jumped and beaten down with a barbed-wire baseball bat by Jonathan Sanders himself.*
“Misery loves company?
LOVES COMPANY, LOVES COMPANY!
That don’t mean nothing to me!
NOTHING TO ME, NOTHING TO ME!”
“I just wanna die!”
*As the song enters its musical interlude, the Lost Cause comes to a stop, hovering in the middle of this space, suspended between two shattered mirrors - one above and one below. As the guitars pick up we see the flames around Sanders begin to grow, fed by streams from each infected frame, and the black-robed figure from earlier looms over him in immense form, its right arm raised and left extended in the classic “Baphomet pose.” One by one, the frames Sanders touched go dark, and as this happens his narration fades in over the music.*
“Out - out are the lights - out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm…”
“I just wanna die!
DIE!”
*The footage sputters and we jump-cut again to the young Jonathan Sanders, crying alone in the park. The scene flickers and glitches once again, not unlike an old VHS tape, and suddenly we cut to the boy kneeling in front of the swing in the Baphomet pose while the park burns behind him.*
“BLACK OUT THE SUN WHEN I’M FEELING LOW!”
*Another smash-cut back to adult Jonathan Sanders in the locker room following his high-profile defeat, and this footage corrupts as well into a shot of him kneeling in the Baphomet pose in the centre of a blazing locker room, grinning psychotically into the camera.*
“PULL BACK THE HAMMER WHEN IT’S TIME TO GO!”
*The footage then corrupts and sputters in time with the drum beat of the song, and when it returns to normal we see Jonathan Sanders, clad in the long black robe from earlier but sans devil mask, walking along a long and sandy beach. The man is very clearly ablaze, the flames and smoke licking high into the sky at his back, and he’s carrying polaroid photos of each of his Olla Rumble opponents, discarding one into the sand with each step. The photos seem to catch fire as he tosses them away, the edges blackening and curling inwards.*
“Misery loves company?
LOVES COMPANY, LOVES COMPANY!
That don’t mean nothing to me!
NOTHING TO ME, NOTHING TO ME!
Misery loves company?
LOVES COMPANY, LOVES COMPANY!
That don’t mean nothing to me!
NOTHING TO ME, NOTHING TO ME!”
*The final photo Jonathan tosses away is that of Alexis Makarios, and this is what we close in on as the song begins to fade. We can see the edges of the photo begin to burn and as the flames draw nearer and nearer to the centre, Sanders’ narration picks up one final time.*
“That the play is the tragedy, ‘Man’,
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.”*We hold on the polaroid for just a beat longer, and the image in the centre fades to black before our camera feed does the same.*
*Fade out.*
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ANTITHESIS: MORALIA“It is said that when Alexander heard the philosopher Anaxarchus discuss the possibility of infinite worlds, the great conqueror fell to his knees and began to weep…” *Fade in.*
*We open on a simple shot of a small, sparsely-furnished locker room, with the source of our voiceover - Jonathan Sanders - seated on a bench, applying wrist tape to his left arm.*
“When his servants rushed to his side, asking after the source of their master’s tears, he simply asked them this: ‘Have I not good cause to weep? For there be infinite worlds, and I am not yet lord of one.’”*Here, Sanders pauses, visibly wincing as he rolls his left wrist. He takes a moment to let his eyes trail along the inside of his forearm, following a long and winding scar that runs from just below his wrist to just shy of the bend of his elbow. It has since been covered by tattoos, but the old wound is still visible to those looking for it, and the camera picks it up clearly.*
“I have been doing this for far too long. This…danse macabre of the modern gladiator. It has not often been fulfilling. To sacrifice one’s body night in and night out for the fleeting adulation of a fickle group of sycophantic blood-sport fans is, more often than not, a thankless task. Yet, I have endured. Through all that I have suffered - all that I have lost - I have never let it break me. …Why? Why do I fight so hard for a goal I know is pointless? Why do I give so much of myself to a sport that I profess to loathe?”*Sanders pauses, looking wistful.*
“I do not have that answer. I have laboured on the thought for quite some time, but still it has eluded me. Perhaps I am addicted; this business is a powerful hypnotic for the kind of mind who needs it, and it has a history of absorbing the forgotten with nowhere else to turn. I am precisely the type it would attract; the perfectly little fly this hungry spider could ensnare. I’ve spoken on this before; how we struggle in the web, yet we know there’s no escaping. How the futility and the dread of our impending execution drives the most strong-willed of us to wild desperation, and our only hope of anything approaching salvation is to learn to eat the spider BEFORE it feeds on us. I still maintain that this is true. This business is an abattoir. A wicked charnel house that grinds the weak into fuel that will make killers of the strong. That is all it’s ever been, and yet…I suspect that this is something deeper. Something more sinister, even, than the fueling of my bloodlust, that has me trapped within the pull of professional wrestling’s irresistible influence. I suspect I’ve been infected…by the virus that is hope.”
*Here, the Lost Cause pauses again, having finished with his wrist tape on the left. He stands, slowly, inhaling deeply as he paces to the opposite side of the spartan locker room and lets his hands run slowly over the locker he’s been using. Just inside the door, held in place with a single strand of clear scotch tape, is an old polaroid photo of Jonathan and his mother. He is a young boy in this photo - the same boy, in fact, that we saw in the earlier music video - and the pair are smiling brightly, standing on a beach somewhere in Southern Ontario, Canada. It appears to be a cloudy day, though the photo may have faded with age, so it’s difficult to tell whether the greyness comes from the surroundings or that aging. The former champion stares at this photo for a few long moments, gathering his thoughts as his face runs the gamut of emotions. He keeps himself composed, but in his eyes we can read sorrow, anger, fear, and - for only a split second - just a tinge of vulnerability. A momentary flash of the helpless child he once was. Having collected himself enough, the Snake of Eden inhales sharply and whirls back around to face the camera, his steel-grey eyes hardened as he begins to speak again.*
“I have not always felt a…purpose, to my existence in this world. For a long time, I was bereft; a ship without a rudder, guided solely by the current of the river I was borne on. I have quite often lacked ambition to ‘prove myself’ the way so many other wrestlers my age seem so keen to do, I have had no real ego to inflate by winning accolades from strangers. It is why those of you who know my history will know I’ve not often stayed in one place for long. When I lost that spark of motivation in my then-place of employment, or when the winds began to blow in ominous directions for its future or longevity, I allowed that ennui to get the best of me and I left without a word. I developed a bit of a reputation, for a while; I would be called a ‘no-show’, or a ‘flake’, when the truth was…I simply hadn’t found my purpose yet. I hadn’t realized who - or, more accurately, WHAT - I was always meant to be. But then I won that belt…”*Sanders pauses again, glancing towards his empty duffel bag on the bench.*
“The PWS: Apex Collateral Damage Championship. The first crown I ever won in the sport of professional wrestling. I still remember the feeling, when they raised my hand and handed me the strap. I believed that I had conquered this world. I had vanquished not one, but three other competitors - two of whom would go on to be champions themselves, one a blood-brother of mine - and I had finally obtained something worthy of recognition. I had finally proved that I matter to this business. But it was even more than that. This belt was NOTHING. It was NOBODY. In other words…it was just like ME. But it had not always been that way; once, it was the most prestigious belt within the company…but when I found it, it was reduced to a shadow of its former glory. It had become an afterthought; a tertiary title; a forgotten child…until it came to me. I do not care for glory…but I do care for violence, and that is precisely what this belt empowered me to inflict. I could REVEL in the violence - the only thing that had ever made me feel WHOLE, that had ever quieted that hateful voice inside my mind. This was the title…for the violent. The key to the kingdom of the sadomasochistic. And now it was mine.”*Sanders pauses here again, glaring daggers through the camera, his expression having blossomed into a wicked and sadistic grin.*
“It was in that moment that I finally understood. In the aftermath of conquest, I finally found my purpose. The violence WAS my purpose…and I was being rewarded for it. As it happens, it was a reward I had well earned. Because I had no interest in making this the topmost prize in PWS again…but that is precisely what I did. Simply by virtue of being who and WHAT I am, simply through the very PROCESS of inflicting the violence I have so come to love, I managed to drag that belt back up from Hell and crown myself the undisputed KING of Collateral Damage! …And THAT was my mistake.”*He pauses once again, the grin slowly flickering out into another deep and bitter frown.*
“For no great Kingdom lasts forever. The most successful rulers are those who come upon the job by happenstance, who never lose sight of the fact that they are mortal. But this is precisely what I did. I began to believe that I deserved this championship, that it ITSELF was my purpose…and in so doing, I allowed myself to hope. To hope that I could prove my doubters wrong - that I could silence every nagging voice that had ever told me I was not enough…including my own. I grew too fond of my new image, this…thing that I had made myself, and I lost sight of my own message. That NOTHING in this world of ours will EVER truly matter. We are all simply dust…and the void is waiting for us all.”*Here, Sanders pauses again, and an eerie sense of calm falls over him. He seems almost…relieved to fall back into his familiar nihilistic outlook, and it is reflected in his movements as he evenly strides slowly, deliberately, to the other side of the locker room. The camera moves to follow, but he does not wait for it before his diatribe continues.*
“So once more we come to the question of WHY I choose to do this. If I have reminded myself it’s all for naught, that we will struggle endlessly against a vast and uncaring universe which will inevitably swallow everything with entropy, why do I still compete? Am I still infected with the toxin that is hope? Have I still allowed myself to believe I could be MORE than this some day? Not exactly…”
*Sanders pauses again, and the camera catches up to him. We find him staring at a dartboard on the far wall of his small locker-room, which has, tacked to it, photos of each competitor in the “Olla Rumble” match. In the very centre - affixed to the bullseye by a long and ornate blade - is a photo of the Outsider’s PWS: Apex compatriot, Alexis Makarios.*
“See, in losing this belt, a revelation was bestowed upon me. I remembered who I was - who I have ALWAYS BEEN. I am the Lost Cause. The Horseman of Plague. The SNAKE OF EDEN! I am the devil of professional wrestling, the ever-growing black hole of pain and hatred that will swallow all the light of everyone and everything I touch…and I still have infinite worlds to conquer. Starting with this one.”
“PWE Magnificence. The Olla Rumble. A ring full of fresh-faced competitors from across the many worlds within this business, all vying for a slot at the top of the food chain. Every one of them hungry, eager to PROVE that they are worthy…and every single one set up to fail.”*Here Sanders pauses, lips curling into a sardonic and derisive smirk.*
“I am not familiar with most of you. Consider that your saving grace. You have not yet had the pleasure of being subjected to my truth, of learning firsthand just how futile and insignificant we are…but rest assured, that soon will change. Tonight, you will all learn PRECISELY who and what I am, and each of you will help me rediscover my purpose…by falling BROKEN and BLOODIED at my feet. But some of you will not escape so easily. Some of you will not be granted the mercy of a swift death. Because SOME of you, I do know…and you know exactly why you should be very, VERY concerned.”
“The first is Aaliyah Landerson. I believe you’ve crossed my path before, little girl - or at least the path of ANTITHESIS, my blood-brothers who all spread the same message. If you did not learn from them, perhaps you will learn it from ME: this is not a place for little girls. You will not impress your father by dying in the ring tonight because you bit off more than you could chew. Go home, little one; you are not prepared for the beast that is this business…and you are even LESS prepared for ME. I know that you are young, you are full of vim and fire and a burning NEED to prove your worth…but please know that none of that will save you, and I will so enjoy getting to watch that flame go out. This will be your only warning.”*Sanders pauses once again, his smirk blossoming into a grin. He reaches forward to pluck Aaliyah’s picture from its place on the dartboard, and slowly, methodically, tears it in half.*
“The second is Dylan Howell. Now, we have NOT crossed paths yet, Dylan, but I have seen some of your work since your debut in PWS. I know you think you’re ‘crazy’, Dylan, but please believe me when I tell you that you do not know the MEANING of that word. ‘Crazy’ is not breast-feeding title belts on live television, nor is it repeating the same hackneyed ‘wacky’ phrases that would get you a late-night television slot in 1976, oh no…crazy is something far more DANGEROUS than you. What YOU are, Dylan Howell - the only thing that you will ever BE - is a joke. A bad punchline in a professional wrestling pub quiz. ‘Who did Jonathan Sanders annihilate to win the 2022 PWE Olla Rumble?’ Is that the legacy you want for yourself, Dylan? Is this how you wish your story to end? If it is not…you know how this rumble works. As soon as you hear my theme music, do yourself a favour and leap over the top rope…and MAYBE I will let you live.”
*Sanders pauses here again, inhaling sharply, as he rips the photo of Dylan Howell from the dart board, tearing it in two. He throws the pieces to the floor and locks eyes with the camera once again.*
“And then we come…to Alexis Makarios. Hello, Lexi. Did you miss me? I’m certain you have had some…choice words for me tonight. I know you did on Twitter, following the lesson I imparted to you on the episode of Riot two weeks ago. I look forward to hearing them in person. I look forward to the violence that we can unleash on one another. Because that is why I DID this, Lexi - why I chose YOU to be the target of my beating. I needed to remind you of who you really are. Who YOU have always been! Alexis Makarios does not CARE for her opponents; she does not feel SHAME and GUILT and pathetic, HUMAN things. Alexis Makarios is VICIOUS. She is CRUEL. The Alexis Makarios that I remember - the one who once HELD the Collateral Damage Championship that I hold so dear - was, plainly put, a monster. So I was doing you a FAVOUR when I took that bat to you, Alexis. I was attempting to reawaken that monster.”
“I know you’ve felt it too. You know that there is strength in anger, a clarity of purpose in that RAGE. You will feel that power later tonight; you will finally REMEMBER that purpose…and I am only too happy to have been the enemy you needed to enable you to do that. So, Lexi, I suppose what I am trying to say is this…”*Sanders pauses, grinning into the camera.*
“You’re welcome.”*He pauses one more time, pulling down Alexis’ picture and gently folding it in half, laying it down on the bench beside him before turning back to the camera.*
“And the REST of you will thank me too. For PWE is one more kingdom for me to conquer. Another vein to spread my sickness. I will not rest until I’ve brought this entire WORLD to ruin…and then I shall move to every world beyond. Because misery, after all, truly DOES love company…and I have oh so much of it to share. So much pain still left to spread. And the Olla Rumble is my opportunity to do exactly that. So many fragile little souls for me to push to their breaking point. So many naive minds…still in need of suffering. It will be my honour to provide it. To give you ALL the clarity and purpose I have gifted to Alexis.”
“Because that is what will happen. When I conquer this company - when I vanquish all who stand before me and I CAPTURE the Pro Wrestling Excellence crown - I will give you all an enemy to fight against. I will give you reason to rise up and rebel. Just as Alexander did in days gone by, I will move to motivate those of you who would test yourselves against a superior opposition. Those who would fight tooth and nail to see my Kingdom fall.”
*Sanders pauses one final time here, his steel-grey eyes glinting as he glares into the camera lens.*
“We shall see which one of you is worthy of the task.”
