RecyKaeling Old Friends

 "Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow. And always use lots of Bolognese.” - Victor Frankenstein, Probably

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…Colonial Life Arena, Columbia, South Carolina…

…Immediately following his match with Sage Pontiff…

“I’m so proud of you!”

Max’s shrill voice echoes in Sutler’s ears as the pair pass from the crowd’s view into the bowels of the backstage production. The Son of Scion scowls, staring ahead hoping that his shitgoblin of a father would get distracted by something, anything other than himself.

“That’s what being a Kael is all about! Taking advantage of a situation, controlling the narrative, WINNING!” the manic words spill from Max’s lips, dribbling down his chin like spit.

Sutler remains silent, marching forward, hoping to outlast his obnoxious hanger-on.

“With you by my side, there isn’t anything I can’t accomplish.” Kael continues with a sinister gleam in his eye. “And, of course, when the time is right, you’ll grow like begonia in the shade, flowering brilliantly despite never being able to leave my shadow… heh-heh!”

The young man’s nostrils flare as he finally pushes Max away, eyes aflame with rage and disgust.

“Fuck. Off. I was one of the youngest World Champions in wrestling history without you by my side. I was trained by your brother, who killed your fucking ass and Cecilworth Farthington, who beat your fucking ass. I don’t linger in your shadow, I’m the fire that casts it away.” the SRK snarls, jabbing a finger into Max’s chest.

His father blinks a few times, seemingly caught off guard by Sutler’s words. His jubilation is replaced by a cruel snarl.

“Well then, if you’re so good I guess you don’t need me in your corner when you face them Fuse Boys.” he threatens in a low, ominous voice. “And you don’t need to sponge off me by living rent free at the Kael Estate either. You can always stay with your Uncle in Chicago.”

Max pauses, shaking his head.

“Oh wait. He’s dead.”

An over exaggerated frown touches Max’s lips.

“Well I guess you can go stay with Cecilworth then.”

Touching his finger to his temple, Max waves off the idea.

“Oh wait. He’s already got a Joe Fontaine.”

An intense silence falls between the two, both men tense and ready to exchange fists if need be. Sutler considers the ramifications of striking Max, weighing the positives and the negatives and even despite that, he decides to back down.

Patience, he tells himself, his revenge will come eventually, just as she promised him.

“Fine.” Sutler spits the words at Max’s feet before stepping back.

The snarl on Max’s face instantly melts back into a manic grin as he rubs his hands together. “Goooood! That’s a good lad!”

The elder Kael swings his arm over Sutler’s shoulder.

“You’re gonna be the Starscream to my Megatron! The Cobra Commander to my Serpentor! The Goldar to my Lord Zedd!”

With a sigh, Sutler continues his walk of shame into the back, wrapped in the clutches of his deranged father.

“There'll be no one to stop us this time… heh-heh!” 

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…The Mayor’s Office, Arkham, Massachusetts…

…October 20th, 2025…

“So explain your plan to me again?”

Snark Darkly smiles through the words because he’s unsure how to look concerned or confused. Expressing through facial movements is still an alien concept for Max’s business manager.

“It sounds a lot more complicated than it really is.” Max chimes back, his voice sounding like a warbling bell. While you’d expect the Mayor of Arkham to be seated behind his desk, instead he’s standing over a large, long pine box. His hands run across the lid, molesting its surface with explorative fingers. “... in order to understand the Lasagna Boys, I’m going to make my own.”

Darkly nods slowly as a few extra incisors jam their way into his already crowded rows of teeth.

“If I recall the Wikipedia entry, it takes around nine months to produce a human. How are you going to make a Lasagna Boy so hastily?” Snark queries without a hint of sarcasm, he’s legitimately curious.

“Oh we’ve long slipped Nature’s course here, Snark. I went to a mutual friend of ours, Baron York Taterton. He sold me a spell that will bridge the gap between God’s design and Man’s desires. What would normally take nine months of gestation and marination will take me… take me…”

The Mayor of Arkham sputters for a few moments, his brow furrowing in thought before he angrily reaches into his pocket and produces an ancient looking piece of rolled parchment. Unfurling the scroll his hideous green eyes scan the strange markings and heretical diagrams. “... in a single moonless night!”

“Moonless night?” Darkly cants his head to the side like a dog.

“We call that a New Moon for some reason. Personally I think someone said No Moon and some idiot heard New Moon. And the next New Moon is tomorrow, Darkly! So I contacted my old friend Ratimir over in Russia and after a little mild blackmail, got him to ship this over.”

Skipping back around his desk, Max opens a drawer and produces a crowbar labeled “MAYORS CROWBAR”. Snaking his way back to the pine crate he carefully runs his fingers along the top, locating where the nails are located. Satisfied he lines the crowbar up.

CRACK!

Instead of prying the lid off, Max simply begins to smash the crowbar down repeatedly, splintering and shattering the pin lid. He beats that lid in with the gleeful sadism of a sugar-addicted, animal abusing nine year old predicating on a donkey piñata.

Once a large enough hole has been beaten into the lid Max tosses away his crowbar and tears away what remains with his bare hands to reveal an ice packed interior. Buried within was a body bag with Russian markings on it. Giggling to himself, Max pushes the ice away and drags the bag to the surface.

“Behold… the path to understanding and ultimately defeating the Lasagna Boys!” he cackles, unzipping the body bag and throwing it open.

The lifeless eyes of Oleg Barakova stare into nothingness, his face frozen in twisted agony. His chest is marked by a massive cavity, broken bone and torn muscle jutting out as though a bomb exploded inside him. The former commander of the Russian Arkham Embassy and right hand of Wilhelm Kael had been instrumental in Kael’s resurrection at the beginning of the year. Here, nearing its close, he would be useful once again.

“... My Bolognese Bill…”

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…The Kael Estate, Arkham, Massachusetts…

…Under the New Moon…

.

“Do you smell that, Kai!?”

Max screams the words up into the moonless sky before turning to look at his guest, Kai Makana, seated in a wheel chair wearing the same clothes she’s worn since she was forced to read from Snark’s book. Kai stares forward with empty eyes, black tear streaks mirroring her captors run down her pale cheeks. Her face is placid, devoid of emotion, a void just like her eyes.

“That’s right, Kai! An industrial sized vat of ragù alla Bolognese, over one hundred gallons of it made from locally sourced tomatoes and Italian seasons MEAT? Product! You remember MEAT? right? I got to thinking about all those extra carbs lasagna must add to Lasagna Boys and decided my creation was gonna be straight sauce.” Max continues to explain, throwing his hands toward a massive industrial kettle filled with steaming Bolognese.

“The spell doesn’t say anything about filling the body with Bolognese.” Snark Darkly’s voice squelches fiendishly from his cheerful smile. He holds the Taterton scroll up, examining it again to ensure he didn’t miss anything.

“Of course it doesn’t, I added that part! I’m improving the spell to make it stronger! I’m also gonna super charge my creation with electricity to give him lightning powers, I saw that in a movie once.”

Snark decides he really needs to expand his expressions as he continues to smile, lacking any other options. In his mind he’s unsure if this is sound logic but, he figures, Max has been in this reality much longer than he has, he probably knows what he’s talking about. Instead he turns his attention to Oleg’s corpse, double checking that the blood inked sigils painted onto the dead flesh are accurate.

“I know what you’re thinking, Darkly. That I’ve gone mad and don’t know what I’m doing but it’s not true! Why do you think I’m doing this on the lawn and not in the house? Clean up is gonna be hella easy out here!” Kael giggles to himself before throwing a cooking apron over his black suit. He throws a black trash bag over Kai, ripping a hole into the top so she can breathe cause he’s nice like that. “It’s time to kick this pig!”

Max prances proudly to the giant vat of Bolognese, grabbing a thick rubber hose at the bottom before guiding it into the blown out chest cavity of Oleg’s corpse. As he does so, Snark Darkly raises his hands over his head and begins chanting in a language that makes the air taste like almonds.

There is a wet chugging sound as the vat begins to churn, pumping hot, fresh Bolognese into the voided out bowels of Oleg Barakova’s chest. The moonless sky grows angry as dark clouds gather above. The wind bowls through the surrounding trees which crack and groan in ghastly complaint.

“And now, for the piece de resistance!” Kael bellows over the growing cacophony of chaos that surrounds them. Snark Darkly’s chanting mixes with the sound of the raging sky while Bolognese sputters and spills from the hole in Oleg’s chest.

Dragging a car battery with jumper cables next to the slab with Oleg’s corpse upon it, Max’s eyes glimmer with twisted, vibrant insanity. Unsure where to secure the jumper cable clamps, Max simply drives both down into the growing pool of meat sauce bubbling out of the desecrated corpse before him.

The high pitch scream that belches from Max’s mouth cuts through the surrounding noise. It is followed by a bright flash and then an explosion sending Max flying backward through the air. The Mayor of Arkham’s flight is rudely interrupted by the side of his house, his body splatting against the wall like a ball of wet clay. His apron has done little to protect him from becoming covered in Bolognese. Tiny crackles of electricity dance across his skin while white smoke curls free of his mouth and ears.

“... ouch.”

His body peels off the wall and falls to the ground with an unceremonious thud.

Back at the altar, Snark Darkly continues to chat, his eyes white while small tendrils, like worms, crawl beneath his exposed flesh. The words that tumble from his mouth contrast with the natural laws of nature, their very existence distorting the reality they are breathed into. The sigils on Oleg’s body pulse and glow in colors humanity has yet to create names for.

With a final bellow, Snark slams his hands together. The sky fills with a sickly, molding green flash before the gathered clouds are burned away in its hideous light. As the flash dissipates the darkness of a New Moon once again settles over Arkham.

Scrambling to his feet, Max races to the altar eager to see if his handiwork paid off.

“Did it work!? Do I have my Bolognese Boy!?” he cries, resentful green eyes scanning for any traces of life, or unlife such as the case may be.

“The right words were spoken, the correct gestures performed. And… whatever it was you did.” Snark replies. The scroll in his hand suddenly bursts into blue-green flame, its magical power consumed.

“FUCK, I had to trick a hobo into signing their soul over to Taterton for that!” gasps Max as he watches the scroll vanish.

Holding a hand up, Snark shakes his head, easing his clients fears, “No-no, that’s a good thing. It means the spell was successfully cast. Now we wait.”

“For about how lo-”

Before Max can even finish his sentence there is a low, gurgling noise from the corpse on the table. This causes Max to jump back, half torn between fear and elation. The gurgle is soon followed by a twitch of the hand.

“Holy fuck, it worked.” the Mayor of Arkham remarks, green eyes turning to Darkly. “... it fucking WORKED!”

The gurgle soon turns to a growl as the body begins to twitch and spasm.

“... uh…”

Max takes another step back as the thing on the altar shifts and grows. The growing pool of Bolognese begins to bubble and churn, no longer overfilling. The growling turns to snarls and low, deep roars, the flow of Bolognese into Oleg increasing, as if the body was drawing it in.

“Fascinating, I think you actually did alter the spell.” Snark whispers with a hint of wonder in his voice. Unlike his client, Snark doesn’t step away, fully enthralled by this new development. “He’s getting bigger.”

“I don’t know if that’s a great thing…” Kael replies, words dripping with cowardice.

On the slab Oleg’s one maimed but normal body had warped and swollen with MEAT? Bolognese, skin stretching, bones cracking and resetting. Muscle ripples, tears, and grows, entangling bone.

The twisting monster falls from the altar, crashing to the ground, the holes from the Bolognese vat ripped free its chest. A wet, hungry growl replaces the sound of unfettered, uncontrolled mutation.

Cautiously Max approaches as Snark watches with intense interest.

A massive hand reaches up, slamming down loudly up on the surface of the altar. The hand is used to steady the hulking abomination that rises from the shadows. This profanity that wears the face of Oleg Barakov glowers down at Max and Snark Darkly, thick strands of drool dripping from their mouth.

Max’s fear is banished as a wicked, metal toothed smile expands across his face.

“No… no, you’re no Bolognese Bill!”

Max’s excited screech rises through the moonless night as the monstrous thing before him arches its head back unleashing a terrible roar.

“You’re my Bolognese Bull… heh-heh… heh-HAH-HAH-HAA!”

☠️☠️☠️☠️

… The Kael Estate, Arkham, Massachusetts…

…A few days later…

The Herald darts down the long dark hallways of the Kael Estate, a tiny mouse strangely well adapted to the ever changing twists and turns. He had learned the trick wasn’t trying to follow a set path or direction but rather to envision where you wanted to go. After that it was just a matter shuffling through the corridors until you arrived.

Over the last few months that envisioned destination had been Kai’s room. Since Max had forced her to read from the book, unfortunately, her door had been locked. That didn’t stop Bentley from trying, night after night. He hadn’t given up trying to help the Bryan Dawkins, even when he blocked Bentley. He certainly was going to give up on Kai over a locked door.

Skittering to a halt, the Herald stares at the door to Kai’s room. Biting his lip anxiously he reaches out and grabs the doorknob. With a gulp he attempts to turn the handle.

To his surprise it turns followed by the soft click of the door opening. Excitement and hope bubbles up in his chest as he carefully peers inside to see if he can see Kai.

In the corner of the room was the bagged up Kai, still in her wheelchair, unmoving.

“... Kai is that you?” Bentley whispers in her direction before slipping into the room, closing the door behind him. “Kai, it’s me, the Herald, Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Farthington.”

Creeping toward her his childlike face goes from glowing excitement to pained guilt.

“You’re still in the trash bag from the end of the second act?” he mutters, shaking his head. With a sigh he plops down on the bed staring down at his hands, the bells on his tunic jingling softly.

“I’m sorry. I failed you and Dawkins. I had no idea Max was gonna kidnap you for a whole year and… and then Snark Darkly showed up and things just got stranger. Max pulled away, he’s different. I mean he’s always been kinda cruel and evil but…”

Bentley twiddles his fingers.

“He used to be fun on top of the cruel and evil but now? All he cares about is burning down the world to prove something to my cousin, Cecilworth. And then there’s also Snark Darkly… he’s completely stolen Max’s time. I can’t remember the last time Max even took me on an adventure. And then there’s what he’s been doing to you. I.. I sure have done more…”

His eyes glass over, lip quivering as he looks over at the trash bag.

“I tried to tell Dawkins where you were but he wouldn’t listen. When I was helping you sneak into the NEWS feed, I left the keys to the NEWS van in a place I knew he’d find them. He probably just thinks I was dumb and dropped them, that’s fine. Whatever gets him closer to you. I should have just screamed the truth into his face but.. But I’m a coward. I’m just… I’ve only ever been Max’s Herald. What am I without this?”

Tears begin to stain the front of his powder blue tunic as Bentley realizes he’s begun to cry. He quickly wipes the tears away, jumping back up to his feet.

“What am I doing, let’s get that trash bag off you! It’s the least I can do.”

Scurrying over the Herald grabs the bag, ripping it away to liberate Kai.

Only it’s not Kai underneath.

Malice in the form of a hateful grin greets the Herald as Max is revealed.

“Hello, my the Herald. Surprised?” Kael begins. While he’s smiling, he’s not happy or cheerful. “Did you think yourself so fuckin’ clever that you’d outsmart a Kael?”

Bentley’s eyes go as wide as dish plates. He tries to reply but he only sputters a few nonsensical noises. As Max rises from the wheelchair the Herald trips on his own feet, collapsing to the ground.

The BLACK HEART of PRIME looms over his Herald, eyes ablaze with a burning, jealous fire. Squatting down to lock a loathing glare with Bentley’s gaze, Max lets out a biting, damning chortle.

“Let’s find out what you are without ME.”

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Dear Lasagna Boys,

Miguel, we’re cool. I got no beef with you so you can sit this one out. 

Just stay out of the way, Miguel, and you won’t get hurt. 

If you choose to ignore that warning, that’s on you. 

The rest of this is for migel 2 or I guess some people call him Toddrick?

I’m not sure which is the worst name. 

What I do know is that when God created Child Cancer, their goal was to keep you from reaching adulthood.

You specifically. 

Unfortunately God isn’t accurate and a lot of innocent kids died.

I’m not like God. 

But I can get Biblical.

I just created my own Italian food themed minion!

However, unlike your odious master, I don’t make boys.

I make monsters. 

Live, laugh, toaster bath,

Maximillian Wilhelm Kael

Mayor of Arkham