The Second Great Awakening: For Your Consideration

ReVival 45 was already well underway by the time the Uber pulled into the backlot of the TD Garden. PRIME’s stalwart gofer stood at the ready beside a waiting tour bus, waving the taxi over as it arrived. Parking next to him, the back door of the Tesla swung open and a pair of brown gatorskin derbies clicked against the tarmac, a straw fedora hovering behind untinted glass as pudgy little manicured fingers clamped around the metal and heaved it shut to reveal the rest of Cyril Salazar; dressed to the four-and-a-halfs in an open silk shirt, string vest and tan chinos like it was Weekend at That Yellow Bastard’s.

“The incomparable Douglas Jay Timberbottom, as I live and breathe!” Cyril quipped excitedly, flashing a grin of pearly white stubs beneath a newly grown pencil mustache.

“Right this way, sir,” Doug Tim replied nonchalantly, ushering the dwarf onboard the Prevost X3-45 and giving a thumbs-up to the driver, “thanks Stevie.”

The driver nodded dutifully and placed the bag of chips he’d been enjoying on the console, bounding outside to collect and stow Cyril’s luggage. He appeared to be in good health despite his flushed complexion, and he smelled clean under the heavy scent of cologne. His short-cropped, wavy hair was every shade of gray and had a wet look to it, and he wore a gold bracelet on his wrist.

“Stevie’s a shagger,” Cyril concluded.

“These will be your quarters,” Doug continued unperturbed, “fridge is stocked, toilet’s just down there past the lounge. After that you’ve got your bedroom to the left, Stevie’s to the right and Angelus is way in the back. Oh and you can control the lights, temp and TV with this…”

He reached over and plucked an iPad from its nook in the wall, handing it down to Cyril.

“I’ll check back in after the show and collect your contract, if you decide you’re staying with us,” Doug said over his shoulder as he exited the bus, clapping a friendly hand over the driver’s shoulder as they passed one another. “You need anything else just ask Stevie.”

“It’s Angelus’s decision!” Cyril yelled to him, but he was already out of earshot.

With a shrug he focused on the iPad and started spamming the icons on the screen. Drawers and compartments opened and closed repeatedly and the interior lights flashed like a rave scene prompting the driver to intervene. He explained the system to his new guest then gave him a tour of the luxurious motorhome before returning to his seat while Cyril settled in to watch the show in the decadent lounge area.

It was around the time Ivan and Alexei stormed into LT’s office during the broadcast that Coocoo Haggerty, Cyril’s older brother’s business associate, called.

“Tonight’s the night, kid! How ya holdin’ up? I ain’t seen ya on the show yet?” came the gruff, northeastern brogue.

“Hey I’m good Cooc, thanks, feels surreal being out here,” Cyril beamed, eyes fixed on the screen. “They put me up in his tour bus for the night, I only get my credentials to go indoors after the contract’s signed.”

“And what happens if the big man drops the ball?” Coocoo asked before wheezing out a strained cough.

“I’m signing regardless of what he does,” Cyril affirmed after a pause, contradicting what he’d told Doug, “the world’s finally gonna get the full Cyril Salazar experience whether he wins or not. No more Minion the Imp, no more carny bullshit cartoon escapades. My name’s gonna be the name on everyone’s lips after the pay-per-view!”

He broke off as the coughing intensified on the other end of the line, pulling the phone away as if spittle might shoot through the receiver and spatter him otherwise.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Peachy, kid. Listen, about that. Your brother doesn’t want the family name getting out there, ‘specially not during an election year. Ya gotta take on a pseudonym.”

Cyril felt his size all of a sudden. The silence was so palpable that even Stevie noticed, glancing up at him through the rear-view before going back to his chips. He took a moment to sieve the utter deflation out of his tone before addressing Cecil Salazar’s right-hand man.

“Cooc…” he croaked.

“Ain’t up for debate kid, I’m sorry,” Coocoo cut in, anticipating the somber attitude, “Cecil loves you enough to not stand in your way and you’re gonna respect that by keeping your hands clean. Yours and his.”

“I understand. I’ll come up with something,” Cyril moped, “just figured he’d be proud is all…”

“He is, but he’ll never show it, we both know that. Your brother doesn’t want you losing your head in the clouds and poppin’ the lid he’s worked hard to hold down all these years. That’s all there is to it. So let me say this on his behalf; we love you and we wish you all the best, Cyril. You take care out there and give ’em hell.”

“I will.”

“And if you hook up with any eurotrash you send those pics straight to Uncle Cooc, y’hear?”

Cyril snorted, “you got it Cooc.”

“God bless.”

The line went dead. He sat in a daze for the rest of the show staring a hole through the TV, blinking occasionally only to clear the glassy sheen from his eyes.

“That proof enough for ya?” came a deep rumbling, then, “ha..did you dye the mustache and the eyebrows?”

The Murder Show stood before him in sweatpants and a vest. Fresh out a shower, beard all fluffy. No bruises or bandages. Cyril didn’t notice the initial surreptitious glare towards the back of the bus, only the stupefaction that had come over Hessian’s face upon seeing the imp in pimp mode.

“Pubes are still gray if that helps,” Cyril frowned, “Interpol’s gonna need an accurate mugshot for the missing posters if you get snatched in Europe. I’m TV ready if you must know, bitch.”

He grabbed his crotch and shook a handful of nads at the giant.

“Coming from the pockmarked ballsack with the expressionless-face emoji printed over it?” Von Kelsig lobbed back at him with a click, point and wink as he breezed past the dwarf and disappeared into the rear cabin. “You’re barely microwave ready.”

The sound of a large case closing with a heavy metallic clack caught Cyril’s attention enough for him to lean forward to get a better look, just in time to see the door close behind Hessian as he returned with a wad of papers in hand. The dwarf tapped his fingertips hungrily, cooing as he was presented with the contract and pen.

“If you wanted my forgiveness so bad, why’d you break the ten-counts?” Cyril queried as he double-checked the wording.

“And cheat the hangman?” Von Kelsig balked. “No, has to be in the ring unless the stip states otherwise. I had Hayes stunned after the slap, put him down first chance I got and did it without disrespecting him or the Glue. That’s a promise kept and one less can of worms to worry about in Cardiff.”

With an exaggerated scribble the contract was handed back with a flourish. Doug appeared in the doorway as if on cue, took the papers with a nod and was gone again, backpack rustling into the distance.

“Admirable,” Cyril said earnestly. “Color me impressed.”

The giant gave a curt nod and took a seat opposite his new partner. “Oh,” he rose again and from an overhead cabinet produced a lidded ice bucket and two tumblers, each containing a 50ml bottle of deep-amber whisky.

“To everyone getting what they deserve,” Hessian declared after pouring the measures.

Cyril clinked glasses and echoed the sentiment, reluctantly gulping the lot to disguise his grimace. He waited for some kind of follow-up, feeling gradually more awkward in the silence and averting his gaze back to the grand interior of the bus while Von Kelsig pondered.

“We ship out Sunday,” the Murder Show said eventually. “Then I’ve got ten days to figure out how to cram seven-thousand pounds of shit into a thirty-five-hundred pound sack...”

“The hell does that mean?” Cyril asked as Von Kelsig tipped back the rest of his drink, crunching the ice like a horse.

“Means I was just in the middle of a goddamn riot out there and the cage wasn’t even set up,” he said, sucking down a mouthful of slush, “there’s no soloing this. I need to make sure the guys know I’ve got their backs and hope they have mine in return. Defeating Hanlon should put me in good stead with Avalon, and the beatdown seemed to appease Jiles.”

“And the others? How do you plan on seducing them?”

“With a wing and a prayer. Stevie!” Von Kelsig called up front, catching the driver’s attention. “Can we make one final stop before we board on Sunday? I need to pick up a thousand-dollars worth of chicken for a big strong boy..”

He got a thumbs-up, then smirked at Cyril.

They fell between forward planning and reminiscing during the two-day sojourn in Boston, and were quietly thrilled when it came time to crawl through the toothless mouth of the leviathan that was the USS Octane and into its cavernous hangar-bay belly with the rest of the group.

The novelty of it all wore off quickly. For its awesome size the aircraft carrier was hauntingly barren. Every encounter was a journey apart, and frustrating wrong turns fuelled nightmares aboard the Sulaco, absent monsters. They were thankful for the mod-cons and mood-lighting the bus provided, easy distractions amidst the endless gray.

“That better not be one of Winters’ kids I see in that gingerbread bus of yours,” Tony Gamble had remarked loudly one day during a wander far from the upper decks.

“You make a habit of smilin’ at kids?” Cyril sniped back through the window. When Von Kelsig scolded the dwarf he snapped at the giant, “fuck that, don’t shush me! Who does he think he is?”

“He’s the guy everyone overlooks.” Hessian growled quietly through a forced smile as he beckoned the old thorn in his paw into his den, “and I’ve never beaten him. So bite your damn tongue.”

“Oh, wow…you're not a kid. My mistake…uhm…sir, can’t be too careful these days,” Gamble sarcastically excused himself as he climbed aboard briefly to get a better look at Cyril. To the Murder Show he brazenly said, “I hope you’re planning on making yourself useful. If you think you’re gonna hide down here the whole time and get carried to a win you better think again…’cause I already called dibs.”

“You’ll be seeing plenty of me, don’t worry,” Hessian hastily assured The Grin. “We need to talk tactics and I can’t decide whether to swing you around by the arms or the legs.”

Gamble offered a slow-clap in response.

“We’ll talk after you flush all those garbage thoughts outta that thick skull of yours. Wasn't my idea, but we’re putting a lot of faith in you. I just hope you don't make us look bad in Cardiff, because things won’t look so good for you going forward if you know what I mean. So do yourself a favor-”

The Murder Show nodded politely, “-I want to make the same statement you do Tone, and between the seven of us we have every base covered. I’ll do my part. Gotta earn that rematch against you somehow, don’t I?”

Tony’s eyes narrowed, that sick grin creeping across his face. “Right...I were you though? I’d start makin’ friends with the God-botherer.”

When Gamble departed, Cyril kicked the giant in the shin, lambasting him.

“Smooth as fuckin’ silk you are, thanks for nothing! What’s the plan now babydick babyface? You gonna go cuck for Christ now you’ve handed him your leash??”

But the Murder Show only watched as Gamble disappeared into the guts of the ship, transfixed by the insurmountable weight he carried in his short swagger.

It was only when Cyril was confronted by a hand puppet that he understood the look Hessian had given Gamble then. Of all the star power aboard the Octane, the dwarf never imagined that a rag would be so over.

While Von Kelsig joined some of his teammates for a workout on deck, Cyril bumbled around the fringe. During his casual stroll he was struck by how rapt the children from Don Winters’ group were with the little felt penguin while being surrounded by some of the greatest entertainers on television.

The way they discarded it on the ground and ran off shrieking excitedly to their next adventure was innocent enough. The look in the lifeless eyes of the prop? Not so much. It bothered Cyril that it continued to lie there unnoticed. Like it belonged there. Damn thing was probably possessed.

Von Kelsig had gotten off to a good start with The Revelator. “That’s a sick moniker,” he’d complimented Winters. “I’ve worked with a lot of zealots and prophets in my time but you might be the most badass…and the most marketable.”

Don seemed receptive, telling him, “I appreciate your candor, even if the wording is off. Give thanks to His Word and Light for that which you praise.”

Whether it was that posturing or simply an in-game miscommunication, something turned the mood sour during a round of volleyball. In the background, meanwhile, the dwarf examined the hand puppet.

“So you’re the little star on Donaldinho’s Christmas tree, huh?” Cyril mused, turning it over in his hands. “I’d have wiped my ass with you in oh-two.”

Release me, trickster.

“I don’t see what all the fuzz is about! HA!” Cyril popped himself, drawing the attention of the athletes to which he held up Pious Penguin and switched faces. “Kids, huh? They’d scribble over the Mona Lisa, you gave ‘em half a chance!”

Deceiver.

The dwarf pulled the puppet to his ear as though it were getting its two cents in.

Repent.

“What’s that buddy?” he feigned surprise. “You wanna go to the bar and discuss a management proposal? Okay, if you’re buyin’!”

“It’s noble of you to share your platform with him,” Winters sighed as he watched Cyril, Pious and the volleyball all disappear. “If only your game were as such.”

“It won’t be volleyballs that I’ll be hitting out your way at Culture Shock though, will it?” Von Kelsig replied with a shrug. “I’m playing to my strengths.”

“His Word and Light is all the strength we need,” Winters smiled back. “You are but the first rock the tide shall dash.”

The First Mate of the USS Octane was the one to keep the peace, goading the giant away with a challenge.

“You owe me fifty laps for that,” Annabelle called out as she jogged ahead. “Fall behind and you lose your bus privileges!”

The Murder Show pulled away in a panic, leaving his hubris behind.

“I can see why you don’t hang out in groups much,” the First Mate said as they beat a path down the tarmac. “So I appreciate you going along with all this.”

“I’ll give your husband credit, ma’am,” Von Kelsig puffed beside her. “With what we’re heading into, he made a very wise choice.”

“He made a necessary choice,” Annabelle stated firmly, picking up her pace as the giant fumbled a step. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Donovan, but I’m in favor of that sentiment of yours. Can I trust that you’re going to look out for the guys and not just hulk out on everyone like Fenton the sheepdog?”

Hessian’s beard whipped wildly as the wind picked up. “I know my way around a cage,” he proclaimed as he pounded ahead into the endless gray, “but Don said it best. I’ll part the waves for as long as I can.”

“That’s all I ask,” Annabelle said as she peeled off back in the opposite direction. “Fifty laps remember! Or you go get the ball back!”

The Murder Show bowed his head humbly and dragged himself along like the roaring waves that saw in each long day.

Somewhere out there amid the roiling tumult was a man actually parting waves, however. Grinding against mother-nature tirelessly. Day in and day out, riding the bitch hard. Rumors and hearsay filtered through to Von Kelsig more often than updates, but he was as captivated as everyone else by the thrilling notion of such a phenomenal feat. He told Daytona Diamonds as much when the Rhinestone Cowboy miraculously returned to the fold, spit back out by the Atlantic in one piece.

“You’re outta your goddamn mind, sir,” Hessian congratulated him with a stoic handshake. “But you got my respect. You beat the man that beat me for the PTC Elite Title and then you cross the Atlantic on a jet-ski? Savage. Proud to be standing with you and not against you.”

“As long as you’re keepin’ notes, hoss,'' Daytona doffed his hat with a weary wink. “Reckon I know how Hayes felt after Forty-Five, mind ya. Fuckin’ wrecked like a whore in a room full’a sailors.”

“You ever find yourself ‘round my neck of the woods? I’ve got a lake at Parts Unknown you can rip up to your heart’s content. Lifetime pass. Hell if we win at WarGames I’ll buy you any chariot you want, how’s that sound?”

“Well, hellfire. It's like that, huh?!” Daytona whooped, invigorated by the offer. “Sounds like a fuckin’ deal, pardner. You just oughta know, ‘fore you go makin’ any promises, I'm a man with very expensive tastes.”

It felt good making a positive impact. The giant was practically giddy bringing it up again to Cyril later on, after a rallying speech by Coral that left everyone feeling hyped and looking for more glory to bask in.

“Did you specify chariot? What if he comes back asking for a jet-plane??” the dwarf had asked, perplexed at the giant’s generosity.

“Then Daytona Diamonds gets a jet-plane. The son of a bitch deserves it for that stunt, and he’s damn sure earned it if we win at WarGames.”

“Everyone gets what they deserve,” Cyril echoed petulantly. He was startled by a sudden snap of the giant’s fingers.

“Oh! Have I got something for you,” Von Kelsig whooped, disappearing into the back of the bus. “I was gonna wait ‘til we got to the stadium, but I’m in a good mood…”

Cyril chuckled, amused by the Murder Show’s chipperness. “What is it? A volleyball? If you roll an Isetta out here I’ll beat the shit out of you, I swear..”

He heard the heavy metallic clank of the large case once more, and the hastened footfalls of a giant bolstered by pride. Cyril’s expression dropped in horror as Von Kelsig bundled a familiar looking garment into his hands. He topped the pile off with a cumbersome mask bearing a ghoulish expression, fitted with straps at the sides, and a matching pair of intricately woven and sturdy looking gloves to go with it. Both were a heartbreaking shade of purple.

“Wha-” he stuttered over a palpitation.

“You’re welcome!” Von Kelsig beamed. “Courtesy of PRIME’s costume department.”

His enthused cadence rang hollow. Cyril sat in stunned silence as the Murder Show started raving about the quality of the mold, the assured comfort of the fit, the innovative technology embedded between the layers. All lost on him.

The giant snatched up a glove, fiddled with something inside the wrist then tapped one of the fingers against the thumb. The ghoulish expression on the mask contorted with a mechanical suddenness into a look of anguish, alarming the dwarf.

Cyril put the cloak aside and picked the mask back up, stretching it out and examining the caricaturistic features resembling his own. Hessian prattled on about the exorbitant price and how they would sell out for every costume party for the next several years. How Minion the Imp’s face was going to be everywhere.

“Are you serious?” he asked sternly, holding up the mask beside his face. “We talked about this Angelus…”

“It’s just a hook Cyril, I’m not asking you to wear it full-time. It’s battle gear for television and merchandise for the store. You’d be crazy not to capitalize on the name.”

Ya gotta take on a pseudonym, the younger Salazar brother heard in the back of his head. Menacing visions swirled in his mind’s eye, of a dead-eyed penguin puppet wheezing with squeaky laughter like a chew toy, and a giant blotting out the sun with his big, boring, beige back. Wrecking everything all around him. He felt his eyelid twitch, and sharply pulled the mask to his skin, secreting a gurn of his own behind that of the faux latex.

“Fine, fuck it. Have it your way,” Minion glowered behind his other face. “You want Minion the Imp? You got him.”

Hessian tapped a different finger against the thumb on the glove, changing the mask’s expression to an obnoxiously wide smile to match his own.

“Attaboy.”