BRO, THIS DICK HAS ME SEEING RED

..A few months ago..

..In an afterlife far, far away..

The screams of the various different Kael’s fill His ears like an untuned piano playing songs of panic, fear and confusion.

Time wasn’t really a thing in the afterlife. Minutes have passed since Max Kael?’s body unceremoniously appeared while in the living world the body hasn’t even hit the floor.

“They killed us!” cries Max Best.

“AGAIN!” wails Cyborg Max.

Max Kael Prime remains seated in his chair, staring down at the corpse. It looked like he could have been a half-brother, a bastard brother if you will.

“..so do you not need me or..?” Max looks up toward Him hoping there might be some answer amidst all the screaming his Fragments were doing.

“..You.” Lord Farthington’s voice cuts through the chaos, a finger stretching out toward Shell, the wise Bandit. “Give us options.”

Shell stops mid-swing, his Yolkele held over his head while staring down at a cowering Hobo King Kael. The manic grin on Shell’s face slides to thoughtful. The other Fragments pause, their eyes turning toward the eGG Bandit.

“Well..” Shell begins, lowering his Yolkele. His fingers pluck the strings of his instrument releasing the Yolkele’s summer sweet voice. “He recently defeated Anna Daniels. She was a Timelord, or so they claim. By the rules of wrestling that constitutes a gimmick.”

“By God, we stole their Gimmick!” the Hobo King exclaims from his cowering position.

“So what did we steal? We’re a Timelord?” Prime asks, scratching his chin. He gives the Questionable Kael a nudge with his foot, the lifeless body not yet stiffened from rigor.

The Fragments quiet down, their attention turning to Shell expectantly. A few more thoughtful strums of the Yolkele and the wisest of the Fragments had it sorted.

“No, just the Regenerations. I doubt Max Kael? was aware that he had that ability buried deep inside. Probably picked it up off of one of us when we were cobbling his personality together. Being reflexive, it just grabbed a piece of the gimmick. Thirteen fresh lives.” Shell’s golden eye glowed triumphantly. “..thirteen chances to avoid oblivion.”

Prime peers up from the corpse toward Shell.

“So if he died.. Who does he regenerate into?”

A murmur rises from the Fragments as they begin to theory craft among themselves. The strumming of his Yolkele’s stops.

“Well I guess it makes sense that it would be one of u-”

Before Shell can finish his thought he vanishes in a flash of bright light. Panic once again grips the gathered Fragment..

Prime lets a smile slowly spread across his face, the sound of the chaos around him warming his soul. If this was hell, at least there were people having a worse time than he was. Then the corpse at his feet decides to stand up.

Fully healed from his fatal head wound, the Questionable Kael locks eyes with Prime.

“Who the fuck is this scrub?”

-

..The Primrose Summer Chateau, France..

..A Few Days After ReVival 48..

Violent Purple couldn’t believe she was here.

She didn’t have much choice in the matter. The invitation hadn’t exactly been the kind one turned down.

Sequestered along the coast in Northern France, Chateau de Primrose sat on a lonely bluff overlooking the ocean. She had been smart enough to keep an active geo-pin on her phone. If Max was going to try something, Crash would know where she was at least. .

“He’s waiting for you in the parlor. Father is away with Mother right now, at the castle in England. They only come down here for the summer. This is technically my grandfather’s house but he only stays in the East wing.” the Herald informed Violent Purple, leading her up a wide central staircase leading them to the second floor of the stately manor. “Mother says he stays in one room and never leaves. What a weirdo! I’ve only met him once.”

Purple nods her head barely paying attention to the Herald. She’s distracted by the opulence of the sizable manor and her own anxiety about the meeting that awaits her.

“Sounds cool, Bentley.” she replies dismissively.

He leads her down a dark hall before motioning toward a large oak door with the Primrose family crest carved into it.

“Good luck!” the Herald chimes up cheerfully before prancing away.

She might have gawked at his absurd exit but her eyes are on the door. Beyond it, the promise of this month's long nightmare ending. It was paradoxically too good to be true while also being too good to pass up.

Gathering her courage she knocks on the door. To her surprise it creaks open under the force of her knock. She swallows hard before pushing her head into the room. The hair on her arm stands up as she feels unseen eyes fall upon her. .

“Will you walk into my parlor?”

Max’s voice calls out from the darkness at the far end of the room. VP huffs, pushing the door the rest of the way open. Arms crossed across her chest she steps into the room putting on a brave face.

“..said the spider to the fly..”

The second voice catches Purple off guard. The posh English voice is distinct and separate from Max’s yet comes from the same, shadow drenched direction.

“Who the fuck is that? You said we’d be meeting alone, cocksucker.”

Purple takes a step back, her fist rising in preparation for a fight.. An answer comes in the form of a low, contemptuous chuckle from the shadows.

“My apologies, Miss Purple, we’ve never formally been introduced.”

The voice is both menacing and yet pleasantly inviting. It draws Violent Purple back into the room, enticing her curiosity.

A soft click precedes a desk lamp  coming to life. Its warm light illuminates the darkness that had previously engulfed the far side of the room. It exposes an elegant rosewood desk with two chairs on the side facing VP. Seated on the other side was Maximillian Wilhelm Kael, or rather, a man who appears riding his flesh..

“What the fuck are you up to, Max? Practicing for a career in voice acting for when someone finally breaks your fucking neck?” Purple snaps. A quick scan of the room revealed no second third party.

The man behind the desk shifts, smacking his lips with annoyance.

“Ah, I often forget what I look like when I’m up here. No, Miss Purple, I’m afraid I’m not Mister Kael. But don’t let that put you off, Miss Purple, I assure you, the deal that has been extended to you is very real, as real as I am in fact.” He politely informs Violent. “You may call me Lord Farthington.”

The look on VP’s face is wide eyed disbelief. Still, she finds herself drawn further into the room, moving toward one of the small chairs set on the opposite side of the desk from the deranged Max Kael who was currently claiming to be someone else.

“Okay, let’s start with telling me what the fuck is going on here cause you definitely look like that bitch Max Kael, whom I know and hate.”

He scoffs with a shake of his head.

“In truth, who I am is unimportant. What is important is that I am offering. Five million dollars to walk away from all of this. From Max Kael. From Jackson. From PRIME. From all of this insanity and heartbreak. You’ve already lost your aunt, do you really want to find out what you will lose next?”

Opening the drawer to the desk he retrieves a cashier's check for the full sum of five million dollars. He extends it out to VP.

“I call bullshit. Max doesn’t have five million dollars, there is no way.. this..is..real” the conviction in Violent Purple's voice wanes as she studies the very real check. The name of the account catches her attention specifically. “..this is from the Farthington Estate.”

“You are a truly unrivaled observer of obvious facts, Miss Purple.”

“How?”

“How is never as important as why, Miss Purple. Five million dollars will set you up comfortably for life. Professional wrestling is an abomination, it corrupts and destroys everything it touches. Save yourself.”

Lord Farthington leans forward, his hands clasping together on the desk.

“And that is to say nothing of the harm you will save Crash Jackson from. If you stay, I can’t promise that Mister Kael will do something truly.. Unspeakable to him. But if you agree to leave now I will do my best to asway his darker predilections. And trust me, I’ve been in this head for awhile now, the things this man is capable of? Chilling, Miss Purple. Absolutely chilling.”

Purple chews on her lip as she considers His words.

“So the deal is if I take this money you’ll let me walk away and keep Max from hurting Crash? As though leaving Crash wouldn’t hurt him? Fuck off.”

Lord Farthington attempts a warm, trustworthy smile. It’s a difficult expression for Max’s face to pull off. As such it is more alarming looking than comforting, as intended.

“On my word if you take that money you’ll be free of all this and I’ll ensure that Max brings no harm to Crash Jackson. And while the boy may be hurt but your abandonment, you’ll be sparing him from far greater harm. Think of your future. And dear Jason’s.”

She doesn’t particularly care about her own wellbeing. The money isn’t important to her, she’s in this for revenge at this point, not to make a profit.

Crash was another thing. He is kind, brave and loyal. He could be a horn dog but behind that was a respectable man.

Crash didn’t deserve any of this suffering.

“I’ll hold you to that fucking promise.” Violent says, stuffing the check into her pocket.

“A promise is a promise is a promise.”

Purple glares at the man on the other side of the desk.  She doesn’t believe him. She knows better than to trust anything that comes out of the mouth of Max Kael or whatever the fuck he’s pretending to be right now.

But it’s the quickest way out of this room.

And maybe, just fucking maybe, he’s telling the truth.

“Let’s never see each other again.”

She turns and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her. The fake smile on His face is dropped immediately, a sour frown replacing it. Leaning back in the chair, he retrieves his phone from his pocket, hitting the speed dial.

“She’s just left with the check. You know what to do.”

-

..The Mirror Room, Chateau de Primrose..

..A Few Days Later..

“{Death. That unknown Horizon. It’s out there, waiting. I can see it from the window, hiding just beyond where the waves break. It hopes to lure me out there to oblivion. But, I tell you,  I’ve outwitted death, found a place beyond her reach. In this house. In this room. That Horizon will never find me.}”

The Herald had informed Max that the man who occupied this room was his grandfather. The Patriarch of the Primrose family, Vicomte Edouard François Primrose del Grande Valeur VI. However the handsome man that sat before him looked to be thirty. He had an undiminishing youthfulness about him that seemed.. Unnatural.

The Vicomte was dressed in blue though his lavish outfit looked to have been in fashion some two hundred years ago. His face was framed by the kind of facial hair that would make a Hipster quietly envious. Edouard’s dialect of French was particularly archaic making it difficult for Max to understand everything that was being said. .

“{What’s with the mirrors?}” Kael replies, his eyes sweeping over all the mirrors that covered the walls and ceiling around them.

The man’s head tilts to the side, his nose turning up as he looks in disgust at his guest.

“{..your French is offensive to my ears. Like listening to a pig fucking goat in the asshole while it’s shitting. Is there some other language you speak better?}”

The Unquestionable One feels his neck run hot as the Vicomte belittles his French. Max’s ears burn as he feels his blood pressure rising. In the back of his mind he feels a warning from Him curbing his violent desires. He can feel a hand on the nape of his neck, twisting hard, the Master reminding Max that this life is not his own.

“How about my English? Does it sound like dogs fucking chickens?” Max sneers.

“{Oh, an American. That explains why you sound like a dullard. I could have sworn you were a Farthington otherwise I wouldn’t have granted this audience.}” the Primrose Patriarch bemoans, turning to look at a mirror to his left. {“Who are you then and why are you in my home?}”

“Maximillian Wilhelm Kael and it’s funny you should mention the Farthington thing. Technically I’m fifty percent Farthington, it’s hard to explain but I’m part of the family tree. Also I’m here because my Herald, Bentley, invited me to stay here for the duration of my tour in Europe.  Lord Farthington is.. my..huh..”

Max’s words trail off as he notices that the reflection of the Vicomte is that of an old man. His dark hair has thinned and turned snow white. His face has grown wizened, wrinkles crackling across his papery flesh. He looks tired,  his opulent clothing weighing the once powerful man down.

“{Bentley? That useless tit of a grandchild? He’s a waste of my son’s seed. Crawled back home has he? I was under the impression we sold him to a medical research facility. How unfortunate to learn he’s still alive.}”

Max grimaces further.

“No, you sold him to me. He’s my Herald.” the Unquestionable Kael begins, leaning toward del Grande Valeur VI. “I’m something of noble myself.”

The Vicomte laughs, amused at the idea that this strange Farthington bastard that sat across from him had a title of some sort. .

“No, really! If Bentley were here he’d rattle off all my fancy titles. Suffice to say, where I come from I’m something of a big deal. I’m a Lord, dontcha know? Also ever heard of Cecilworth Farthington?”

The man in the blue suit hums as he mulls the name over. Of course he knows who Lord Cecilworth Farthington is but it wasn’t a name talked about in polite conversation in his social circles.

“{I know the misbegotten inheritor of Lord Farthington’s title and lands. Such a shame. Do you know how hard it was to get my own son married to a Farthington woman? It was to be an alliance that would ensure both of our families prospered. Legacy, Lord Kael.}” the Primrose Patriarch laments. There is enough sarcasm applied to the title of Lord that it transcended translation. “{In the Aristocracy we understand the value of it. It’s how our estates have stood the test of time. But these new Generations.. FEH!}”

Edouard looks to his right, admiring his reflection.

“{Cecilworth will be the end of his lineage, the end of generations of that bloodline. There was a time I might have relished the fall of the British aristocracy. But there are so few families left. So many have fallen, become polluted by.. Peasant blood.}”

Following Edouard's gaze to the mirror Max sees a youthful young Vicomte, his face filled with boyish mischief. Taken in by the innocence of the reflection, Max is ignorant to the disgusted, vicious look Edouard aims toward Max when referring to peasant blood.

“Well I don’t know about all that.” Max replies, tearing his eyes away from the mirror and back to the Vicomte. “But I was selected by Lord Farthington himself to murder Cecilworth. And if I do that, I heard a rumor that I might get rewarded with the title and land myself, what with me being the closest living relative and all.”

While Max was telling the truth for the first part, his little brag spirals into a lie designed to try and impress del Grande Valeur VI.

It does not.

“{Feh, what does Lord Farthington know? He died choking on a peasant’s semen. He died like a filthy poor, far beneath his station. Now his lineage passed to an heir as weak as the seed that drowned him. Laughable.}”

The comfortable arrogance in the Vicomte’s voice told of a life detached from reality, lacking in empathy nor kindness. Edouard fawns over his younger reflection before he turns back toward Max. The Unquestionable Kael feels the grip loosen on his neck as He processes French noble’s words. Edouard’s lip curls, waving his hand dismissively toward the door..

“{I tire of your unpleasant presence. Go.}”

The hand on the back of Max’s neck releases allowing rage filled adrenaline to pump through his spine. The warnings that once kept him in check turn over to furious demands. His eyes close as he feels the world rushing around him.

“{I said GO!}”

The Vicomte stands, his hand pointing toward the door more forcefully as his face flushes red with impudent rage.

A smile tugs at the corners of Max’s mouth as he stands. A sigh escapes his lips. Not an angry sigh or one of resignation. It was a happy sigh, the kind you make when you wake up next to the person who makes you whole. He stretches, the bones in his back and neck popping loudly..

“{I have good news and bad news, Edouard.}” He says, grinning at the Frechman. His French is impeccable, matching the Vicomte tone and inflection. This sudden shift catches Edouard off guard, his heat of his childish fury smothered by recognition of the voice.

The color drains from the Vicomte’s face.. The many different reflections of the Vicomte begin to feel with dawning dread.

“I’ll keep to the King's-English so as to not offend your sensitive French ears. The good news is I forgive you for your less than kind words. I’ve always known the true value of you and your family, you fickle French lickspittle. It is unsurprising your words live up to that estimation. Thankfully for you, I am a reasonable man.”

He straightens his tie before slowly moving to the window, staring out over the ocean and that far distant line that separates the sea from the sky. .

“{..and the bad news, Lord Farthington?}”

Folding his hands across his waist, He turns to look at the French noble, a Cheshire grin stretching painfully across his face.

“I am the Hō̸̡͔͉̙͍̫̲̠̣̮riz̴̧̡̢̰̙̪̖͓̹̱̳̫̪̗̟͚̠͎̱̋̊͐̌̋̈́̌̾̆͜ͅoń̷̡̛̛̠̭̳̯͉̜̃̆͒̈́̈͜.”

 -

Dear Fred Dick,

I know that it’s been made very clear by the People Against Fred Dick that you are a man not to be trusted. Your alliance with Daytona Diamonds, provides further evidence of your deceptive nature.

One should have known better but hope springs eternal in an optimistic, nice guy like me.

When you break a promise with most people, Dick, they get angry. Maybe they form a posse of people to protest your existence. Create a committee. Complain online.

That seems like a lot of work.

Me?

I’m just going to beat my schadenfreude out of you. PRIME's gonna treat our match like a Uvalde school shooting; They’re going to have to mute the live feed with a disclaimer that reads “Sounds of Fred Dick screaming have been removed”.

Why am I so upset?

Was it because your deplorable antics distracted Crash Jackson and set him down the path he’s on? No.

Was it because you joined the Poor Whorsemen and were there when I tasted my first defeat in the year 2024? Tempting but I’m better than such pettiness.

No, Dick.

You promised over Jabber that you would try and kill Cecilworth Farthington at War Games. You didn't even show up. Now I'm feeling rather Red in Tooth and Claw.

I will slap you so fucking hard I’ll be able to surf the ripple white trash flesh from Barcelona to Madrid. I’m going to slap those ratchet tattoos straight back to whatever episode of INKMASTER: Juniors they were conceived at. I’m going to slap you so goddamn hard, they’re gonna think our match is a P. Diddy after party.

Then, once I’ve beaten some fresh character development into you, I’ll do you a solid.

We're gonna climb aboard the Dreamweaver train and take away your worries for the day.

XOXO,

Maximillian Wilhelm Kael

PS - Also a quick reminder, if you’re bringing friends make sure they’re wearing protection. Chances are good if you’re in Barcelona during Rev49, you might catch Hepatitis D. That’s when you get a piece of that fat piece of shit, Fred Dick, on you and then eat food.

PPS - Actually fuck you, Fred Dick.