Uncomfortable, Uncouth, and Unbearable

Dan Van Slade isn’t happy. He’s chock-full of emotions. The Deviant rests on a large padded throne with a skeletal structure made of marble and located in the center of his crystallized cave known as the Fortress of Deviance. The level of displeasure is obvious according to the look on his face as he presses his hairy chin deep into his knuckles and blankly stares.

Animated question marks fade in and out above his head. Frustration grows into anger as he slams his fist into the marble arm of his throne then releases a growl. The marble splits into a web of lacerations beneath his fist.

It probably doesn’t help his case that he’s staring at a wall covered in 8x10 photos representing PRIME superstars. Bryan Dawkins and Mar’s photos have a big red X painted over it while Coral Avalon’s is a crude frown. The images indicate Dan’s want to defeat every member of the PRIME roster. That goal came to an end at the last ReVival.

The Devious Prince’s concentration is broken as his agent, David, enters the Fortress with Starbucks in one hand and his cell phone in the other. David’s eyes are locked in on the iPhone screen while his body leads him to sit on a small boulder lodged into the Fortress’ floor. Dan’s snarl and focus is now on his preoccupied agent. Several seconds pass as David ignores his client, but his attention rises with Dan’s throat clearing hem. The agent jerks his head and connects with his client’s scowl.

“Sorry,” David responds. “I was just - well, um - we need to give the car back to Fred,” and he sets his phone onto the rock so that he’s giving Dan his full attention. “It’s odd that the police were not involved. I mean - who doesn't call the police when they're car jacked? I don't know, Danny boy, something isn't hitting right.”

The topic regarding Dan’s theft of Fred Dick’s rental car does not change the vexed visage of the Deviant. The men share a brutal moment of silence. Dan has not moved and stares a hole through his agent. David, concerned, leans forward, sips whatever latte is in the Starbucks cup, and glares.

“Why are you so-wait-are you high?” David’s examination does not sit well with his client. Dan peels his face from his calloused knuckles.

“No, I'm not high, David,” he scoffs, and his demeanor changes from irritated to calm. “Well, I'm naturally high since I'm consistently having psychotic episodes, but I'm not Tommy Chong’in it. Plus - pot is for pussies. I don't need a plant telling me what to do. I let all the voices in mi cabeza do that.”

There’s a sudden tension building in the Fortress as Dan eerily rises from his throne. A cold draft blows the Super Deviant’s red cape and gives David a sudden chill. That chill might be more symbolic than David suspects and the atmosphere suddenly shifts with the light fading into a sadistic red hue; reminiscent of Dan’s current attitude.

“David - I don't feel right. Something is…off,” the Prince takes a few steps forward but pauses to contemplate the direction of his irksome vent. “I lost to Coral Avalon. I lost to a whore, a self righteous turd with an acceptance issue, a food stamp level performer who sucks the life out of every bit of the show by being part of it. He's like a pimple that just keeps coming back in the same spot or a crotch itch that’s been scratched raw. I lost to that? How? I'll tell you how. This place is out to get me, that's how. That stupid excuse for a referee was in on it. What a stupid stipulation. Honestly - the entire company is trash; it’s a dumpster fire. Fuck this place. Whatever happened to the other place?”

“Sold to a sister company,” David responds. It’s evident in his face that he’s concerned with the direction of this dialogue. “It’s still around, but quite a bit different. You wouldn't like it there.”

“Ha, right. Change,” the Deviant mocks with a grin as he begins to pace with arms behind his back. “Everything changes, David. Nine years surrounded by padding, conversing with several variations of my psyche, and I'm released into a world where artificial intelligence, click bait and Fred Dick thrive. Donald Trump was President once. Gee golly willickers! Christ, David, I was better off institutionalized and locked away from this grand mutation of human existence. The kids are fucked, not that I care, but they're 100% f-u-c-k-e-d: fucked. I don't have to even try to influence them. They have uber influence at their fingertips. They've got Tic Tac.”

“Tik Tok,” David interrupts. “You mean Tik Tok.”

The Deviant stops on a dime. His nose crinkles and his eyes squint as if he’s smelling the pungent aroma of burned hair, or cat shit. The pacing continues.

“I don't give a puckered rat's ass, kind sir,” DVS sternly retorts. “I've been sitting here for an entire week thinking about everything that I've seen. The mall and the school? Disgusting! Worse than ever. The kids all look like devolved, pussified, posers. The nostalgia is gagging me. An “Are You Afraid of the Dark” Nickelodeon T-shirt? Now, I'm not saying that's a bad thing, but screw the dude who was wearing it. He doesn't deserve to celebrate the same thing that influenced my life. He had to have been what, 16? That little waste of zygote wasn't even conjured up in the pool of ejaculate when that show was kicking my ass on a nightly basis.”

“Nickelodeon is still around. Kids still watch it.” David quickly adds his two cents into Dan’s tirade.

“Not the point,” says the Deviant.

“And you used to wear Chuck Berry t-shirts. Have you ever seen him in concert?” David’s question has a slight sting to it. More of a sharp jab. Dan recognizes the tone and gives David a preternatural gaze.

“You can kiss my ass with that logic,” the Deviant taunts. “I'm a hateful, hypocritical, human being. Don't sit here and try to tell me that I'm just as bad as they are. I already know that. The problem is that there's far more hip on this planet then ever before and everyone is a fucking intellectual that speaks a language riddled with video game lingo, memes, and wokeness. What the fuck is a pronoun? Don't answer that, jerk. I know what a pronoun is. But, why the fuck do I need to tell people what mine is? Here - take a look at my big…”

The Super Deviant begins to remove his gray sweatpants and David’s eyes widen. Dan stops before he can reveal anything his agent wouldn’t care to see. A smile tells David all he needs to know.

“Ahhh - gotcha!” Dan points at his agent with a devious cackle. His sweats are back around his waist. “Actually, mine is average. It's still a dick though. I'm still a dick. Man, what a world. But, it's all free and inclusive! Nah. It’s not. There's nothing free and inclusive on this galactic kidney stone we call a planet.”

David stands and his concern is genuine. “Let me ask you this. Why do you care? Let’s be serious for a moment. Why? You're from a different planet, right? You can always go back. You don’t have to care about anything.”

“What are you talking about?” Dan sneers. “I'm from Montana. Unabomber country. Don't play with me, David. You know who your client is.” This response catches David off guard. It’s not every day that Dan references reality. His agent can only respond with pursed lips and a raised brow.

“You seem to forget that I'm a big fucking lie,” Dan continues. “I'm an amalgamation of shit and clay. I'm a piece of liturgical dog crap. I'm the flesh and blood of Christ. I am a son of God.”

It’s difficult to understand where Dan dialogue so David shakes it off and looks away.  It's just another day with Dan Van Slade.  There’s not much David can do or say that can bandaid whatever wound infected Dan with this nonsense. David is used to this behavior but there’s something off at this moment. The Super Deviant is uncomfortable, uncouth and unbearable. That’s certainly normal for Dan Van Slade, but it’s not normal for David to feel uncomfortable. He’s usually more indifferent about his clients hot takes but this vibe is a gradual increase in unhinged anxiety.

An animated lightbulb appears over Dan’s head, it turns on, and then explodes into a dust of tungsten and glass. His jaw drops at this moment of enlightenment and he looks at David as if he’s won the lottery.

“I think PRIME tried to humble me! Those dirty sons’a’bitches. They know I am better than Coral Avalon. Everything that I do is better than Snore-al Avalon. They didn't want to see their eGG baby defeated by a wackadoo in only his second match. Ohhhhh but his story is so gripping! Grip these nuts. He's got friends in high places. Friends? Friends don't exist. Not in this business. Think about that one,” he taps his index finger against his temple. “You don't politick a person like Dan Van Slade and get away with it. They may just have to fire me, or kill me, because I plan to make all their lives miserable. Like mine!” He immediately points at an 8x10. “Starting…with Fred Dick.” He dry heaves.

“I think he’s already a miserable person,” David cleverly adds. “Fred Dick is a pretty pitiful and pathetic person as it is. I hate to use the word pretty in a sentence with Fred Dick. Speaking of Fred: we still need to get the car back to him.”

The thought of returning Fred’s rental brings a smile to the Deviant’s face. “No,” Dan responds. “Not until he shaves and removes those atrocious face tattoos. Shaving includes the fucking disgusting mullet. That guy can eat my ass. Actually, no, he looks like a guy that would do that. So, he can kick rocks instead.”

“I look around PRIME and I see a lot of absurdity,” Dan continues. “I see Russians. I hate Russia. I see eGG Bandits. I hate eggs. I see the Crash’s, Flamebergers, Maxine Kale’s, and they all look the same. A jumbled mess of coattail riders on the spectrum. The Anglo Luchadore? Hmph! El Taimado has been my schtick since forever so fuck you for stealing that. What a damned mess. This place is like a biblical brothel. I can't wait to see it wiped from the face of the Earth. And it will. One day. Some day. I plan to be here and witness the carnage. I'll dance through the fire. I'll step on their charred carcases. I might even stop to piss and when I do: I'll intentionally miss their burning bodies.” His tirade continues.

“Everyone here, the Clarence's and Karen's, all suck on the same teet that produce the same poison. That teet belongs to Lindsay Troy.”

David’s eyes widen and he extends his hand in an attempt to stop his client from going any further. David wants to interrupt, but Dan is quick with the trigger.

“Yea, I said it. They're sucking you dry, lady. And your 2% brainwash is a cancer to the business. Actually, in today's world, they probably don't even drink milk. It's probably almond, or oat milk, or something pretentious and healthy. Fuck’em. They're all a bunch of suckling nitwits.”

David grinds his teeth and slams a fist into his thigh. Agents work hard in an attempt to pacify their clients’ opinion on the workplace. It often fails.

It’s not necessarily taboo to say something ludicrous about Lindsay Troy. She’s been around this business for a very long time. This is one of Dan’s superiors, and someone that can easily control the direction of Dan’s future. She doesn’t care if he’s been in contact with gamma rays and can now turn into a colorful muscle riddled goliath; or if he’s the President of the United States. She has morals, but she’ll crush you if she’s been wronged.

In this instance Dan is speaking out of his ass and obviously trying to get David’s attention. Or, anyone’s attention for that matter. People say all kinds of stupid things when they’re angry. Ignorance is bliss.

“You can't say that. You're going to -” but David’s response is hijacked by the Deviant.

“What? Get fired? GOOD! I've been fired before. I've been shit canned. It's a liberating sensation. It's like ASMR. Actually, you know what, David? There comes a time in a man’s life when they must disconnect and start anew. This Dan Van Slade that you see before you is ENLIGHTENED. He is, as the kids say, woke. So, what I'm about to say might be a surprise to you, but it must be done.” He points at David. “You…are fired.”

“Ha, right,” David laughs it off. “Funny stuff.”

Not the right move, but David doesn't understand that Dan is serious. The Super Deviant smirks and slithers toward David. Then he unleashes.

“You are responsible for getting that match booked,” he gradually raises his voice. “It was you! YOU’RE WORKING FOR THEM! YOU’RE FUCKING FIRED, DAVID! TERMINATED.”

David cowers and realizes that the only way out is to go through the demented man standing before him. The best thing for David would be to work his magic. A large part of his job is negotiating, but normally with more mentally balanced individuals.

“C’mon, Dan, don't do this,” David says sincerely. “I still need contextual molding in this story. I haven't been fleshed out, yet. I have so much to offer to your angle, your career, and this masterpiece that you're orchestrating. Help me become substantial. Build me more as a character.”

Dan points toward the exit. “Don't let the door hit you on the ass. You'll need that while you're grabbing your ankles and getting PRIME’d,”

There’s more that David would like to say, but his strategy is calling Dan’s bluff.

“I'll call you tomorrow,” David says as he maneuvers around the Deviant and toward the door.

“I destroyed my phone after the match,” Dan says as David walks past him. “Jabber was blowing up. Fucking Ria and Ivan Coleslav jibber-jabbering. PING PING PING. I was pissed. I couldn't remember my login information. I kept fucking up the bot test. I'm off the grid. I don't need a phone. Who am I gonna call? Seriously. You were the only person to visit me, and that was to get me out of that institution. Nobody gives a shit about me as much as I do. So, about being fired. Go see Human Resources and sign your termination notice. YOU’RE FUCKING FIRED, DAVID!”

David stops before a large door made of aged wood and held together with bands of smithed iron. He squeezes his eyes closed, and then shakes his head. He looks over his shoulder. This is the moment where David is thinking that he could leave it be, or he can make another attempt to see if this is one of Dan Van Slade’s long and drawn out ruses.

“You're going to let go of your only friend?” David asks and he turns to look back at Dan before exiting. “The one person in this world that understands you. I've been by your side since day one. We've shared so much success. I support you. I am your number one fan. You're my best friend. You're going to -”

“¡Vete a la mierda!” Dan shouts. “出ていけ！Haal die fok uit! ਬਾਹਰ ਪ੍ਰਾਪਤ ਕਰੋ! Ga verdomme weg! I just said GET THE FUCK OUT in six languages, including Afrikaans. I can say it in Khoisan, too, if you want me to click and whistle. So, yea, get a hint.”

“Well. OK then,” and David opens the door. “This is…this is disappointing. Good luck.” David exits but doesn’t shut the door immediately. He says one last thing before departing. “I’m rooting for you.” The door shuts, but that doesn’t mean Dan Van Slade can’t reply.

“Go root for your Alias Champion since it's not me!” Dan yells. “Better yet, go root for Fred Dick! Braid his mullet! Give him a bikini wax! BUY HIM A GYM MEMBERSHIP!”

Let’s take a moment to understand that the Fortress of Deviance is a projection of Dan Van Slade’s third eye. It doesn’t exist. It’s a manifestation that only Dan can see.

As Dan's anger subsides, the fantastical facade of the Fortress of Deviance begins to crumble. The crystals that once adorned the walls like cave acne fade away, revealing the plain, white walls of a nondescript motel room. The marble throne with the Great Seal of Deviance vanishes into thin air, leaving behind a simple, unassuming dresser. The floor, once imagined as made of diamonds and bones, is now just a worn carpet.

Dan blinks, and the room comes into focus. It's a standard motel room, with two beds, a dresser, a mirror where the 8x10's are taped, a lamp, and a cheap flat-screen television. A framed print of a boorishly painted purple orchid hanging on the wall brings the aesthetic together.

Dan looks down at himself, still clad in his gray sweatpants, trademark blue Super Deviant t-shirt, and red cape. The reality of his situation sinks in, and he can't help but feel a pang of disappointment at the stark contrast between his fantasy and the bleak reality of his surroundings.

“I'll be my own agent from this point forward,” he says, turning toward the mirror. “These asshats want to see the real Dan Van Slade? That's fine. The Super Deviant has only just begun. I will exterminate each one of these tasteless cowards. That includes the folks in charge. I'm about to Homelander each and every one of you motherfuckers.” He removes the image of Fred Dick from the mirror.

“I'll start at the bottom,” and he crushes the photo in his hands. “The bottom of the barrel.