As his black Corvette glides through the night, over the quiet, open roads of upstate New York, Creature replays Michael Mercer's words in his head.  He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and makes a sharp turn, muttering to himself.

Creature: "Creach, you wear a fucking jockstrap on your fucking head, you're fucking scared!"  Blah.

Creature glances up at himself in the rear-view mirror.

Creature: I'd hardly call that a jockstrap, but then again, I'd hardly call Michael Mercer a man.  It seems I was all wrong about him.  He isn't a great competitor who not only has something to prove to me, but damn well could prove it this Thursday, he's a fucking moron.  First and foremost, he needs to get his facts straight.

Seated behind the steering wheel, draped in a black coat and bearing a trademark mask, Creature executes another turn with the expensive vehicle.  As he does, he noticed that someone else has joined him on the road, just behind him, no doubt a rich kid who has had everything in life handed to him, and is simply visiting one of his many homes.  Creature more or less ignores the man, and continues to rant to himself about Michael Mercer.

Creature: Number one- he seems to believe that my feelings about him have changed.  He said, "Haha, one fucking minute you fucking said you were fucking scared as hell of me damn it, the next fucking minute you fucking said I'm a motherfucking asshole who licks your fucking boots," or something like that.  I never said I feared him.  But I have always RESPECTED him as a competitor, and his skills.  Of course now that I have really taken a moment to sit down and listen to the damn cuss box, I realize that he isn't the brightest in the bunch, and have to wonder if his success so far has just been pure luck.  I suppose it is selective memory, and he can only remember the items which masturbate his ego.  Or maybe it is creative memory- because he certainly made a lot of bullshit up.  Bullshit about Inphino Blitz, in fact...

The slender country road grows wider as Creature, and the young man still behind him, who drives a maroon Lexus, near the city.

Creature: Number two- Mercer is not only a fan of Inphino, but he is so infatuated with him that has begun to make things up to build Blitz up on a platform of lies, as if he hasn't been already.  "Creach, you NEVER beat Inphino Blitz," stop right there, Mikey.  I DISTINCTLY remember Mercer saying something along those lines, and let me say, it is total CRAP.  If Mercer gave a shit about anyone else in the fucking HCW, maybe he would keep up with the other matches on the shows, or go take a look at our records of the past.  Hell- I damn near ORDER Mercer to go check out the record of the first show back in the so called "New Era."  Because at the very end of the night, in the main event, a place he may have been once or twice but will never return to, it was I Creature defeating not JUST Blitz, but some jack-off HWA reject as well.  Oh, and then he basically called Blitz's win over me at Born Again clean.  I'm not even going to respond to that, because Mercer obviously has more problems than meet the eye.

Creature, so caught up thinking about Mercer and his annoying words, neglects to notice a red light up ahead.  He glances up and catches it before it is too late however, and slams down hard on his breaks.  He comes to a complete stop, but has no time to enjoy his victory over the red light and his quick reflexes, because moments later, the maroon Lexus manned by the young rich kid slams into the back of his Corvette!  There is a sickening crunch, and Creature is jolted forward in the car.  It takes a moment for Creature to realize what has happened, but when he does, his eyes light up with rage and all thoughts about Thursday or Michael Mercer are burnt away in his mind by a fiery inferno fueled by anger.  He throws open the door to his Corvette and practically leaps out.  His eyes lock on to the young man, who has exited his car and stands observing the damage.

The man's hair is short, spiked, and bleached blonde.  He bears an artificial tan, and wears an immaculate blue shirt, brown leather belt, and white slacks.  His feet are adorn in fine leather, and on his left wrist he wears a gold Rolex watch.  He glances up from the damaged area of the car and at Creature.  He opens his mouth to speak, but can only chuckle a bit at Creature's appearance.

Man: What....what's going on with you?  Did you just come from a costume party or something?  Ah, nevermind.  Listen...

The man reaches into his pocket and withdraws his wallet.  As he opens it, Creature approaches him.

Man: I'm willing to pay you right here, on the spot for the damages.  No need to go through insurance.

Creature glances down at the rear end of his car.  The bumper hangs to the ground, and both lights have been completely smashed out.  His eyes move over to the Lexus that hit him, and is shocked to find that their is little to no cosmetic damage.  Deep down inside, he secretly hopes that internally, the car is fucked.  He looks back up at the man.

Man: So how much do you think that will cost?

Creature: How much....do I think it will cost?

Creature begins to blink rapidly behind his mask, and his entire skull begins to burn from the inside out.  He finds himself having trouble thinking clearly, and he shakes his head.  The man raises an eyebrow.

Man: What's the matter?

Creature: I....need....my....pills.

The man extends his left hand and places it on Creature's arm, which is visibly quivering.

Man: Should-should I call nine one one?

Creature: NO!  Look what you did to my car!

Creature's anger overtakes him, and he explodes!  He grabs the man's arm and twists it around, then sends a the palm of his free hand up into the man's nose.  A crack is heard, and the man throws his head back in pain, sending blood into the air.  Creature applies some pressure to the man's arm which he has captured, in an attempt to hyper-extend his elbow.  The man yells out in pain, and Creature releases his arm, only to grab the man by his short, spikey hair and drive him face first into the maroon hood of his elegant luxury vehicle.  The man slumps down to the road, moaning in pain.  Creature glares down at him as his anger subsides.

Creature: Hmph.  Stupid prick.

Something beside the man on the ground catches his eye at this moment.  He kneels down and picks the shiny object up, and smirks.  He looks over at the man as he straps it around his wrist.

Creature: This will cover everything.

Creature rises, with a new Rolex around his wrist, and slowly saunters back to his Corvette.  He climbs in and quickly races off away from the scene of the fight.

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                Tuesday, January 8th, 2002.  Creature guides his car up a broad, concrete ramp and through the huge, open door of the autoshop.  He watches as a mechanic directs him in, and then parks the car.  He climbs out and observes the autoshop.

The aroma of grease and gasoline fills the air inside the large garage.  The floor is solid concrete, and is cracked and stained with oil.  The ceiling is high, and the walls are covered in tool racks, diagrams, and certain calendars.  Aside from his black Corvette, there a three other cars in the autoshop being worked on at this time, a Honda with a dented door, a Toyota with a busted windshield and three flat tires, and an almost totaled Ford truck.  The room is populated with mechanics, all wearing the same basic uniform, and all very busy.

The mechanics, including the one that guided Creature and his injured car into the shop, wear a basic blue jumpsuit, most of which have been decorated in dirt, grime, grease, and filth.  Over their left breast they bear name tags, and the mechanic serving Creature's name tag reads "David."  David is a massive man, tall and muscular.  In one hand he clutches a clipboard with several papers attached to it with a pen dangling from a chain.  In the other he holds an orange hankerchief, which he occasionally uses to wipe his sweaty brow.  His hair is short and brown, and his eyes are eternally squinting.

For this day, Creature is wearing a black sweater, a brown leather belt, some black leather pants, and some black boots.  The dominant color of his mask is of course black, but the designs are a light gray.  Over his right wrist, he still bears the rich man's Rolex watch.  David, squinting of course, peers at Creature and addresses him.  He talks slow and his voice is deep.

David: Well...Mr. Creature, is it?

Creature: Just Creature will do.

David: Haha, you are a funny one.  How bout I just call you Creach?

Creature sighs, and glares at David.

Creature: An HCW fan, I see.

David smiles and nods.

David: Indeed I am, indeed I am.  And may I just say that I cannot wait until this Thursday night.

Creature gives a quick nod and a slight smirk, then tilts his head slightly and attempts to change the subject of the conversation to his car.

Creature: That really is great...David.  So, uh, when can I pick up my car?

David glances over at the car and shrugs.

David: The damage isn't too bad at all, Creach.  Let's say two hours from now.

Creature: Great...don't call me Creach, okay?

David laughs a hearty laugh and slams a meaty paw into Creature's shoulder.

David: You are a riot!  So then...do you really think you can beat Michael Mercer?

Creature snorts.

Creature: Of course I can.  The question is, can he beat me?  I don't think so.  Now, I've got to run.  So-

David: (interrupting) Wait a sec, are you saying that you don't think the Continental Champ can kick your ass?  Hahaha, you can't be serious.

Creature begins to walk out of the autoshop and down the ramp, still facing David.

Creature: Don't worry about me David.  The win is as good as mine.  Just fix my damn car.

As Creature walks backwards out of the shop, David waves to him.

David: Will do, sir!  Will do!

Creature nods back to him and then turns away from the garage.  He glances around at his surroundings, and spots a cafe not too far off.  He checks his new Rolex watch and grins.

Creature: Hmm.  I suppose I can kill the two hours in there.

As Creature sets off down the sidewalk, in the direction of the cafe, he observes the world around him.  The air is cool and crisp, but the sun shines brightly down upon New York City.  The streets are packed with cars, and the sidewalks are packed with people.  He passes two young boys, probably around twelve or eleven years of age, playing in a back alleyway, not far from where they live he assumes.  He halts his pace and watches the two children for a moment.  They are messing with a large, collarless dog, no doubt a stray.  Creature snorts.

Creature: Look at them...they remind me so much of Michael Mercer.  They take the vicious animal as nothing more than a game, they find him amusing, and they certainly believe they are better than him.  Exactly the way Mercer thinks of me.  He thinks he is better than me, he thinks he intimidates me, and he just KNOWS he is going to beat me on Loaded.  Now, while I'll always admit that I find him a formidable foe in the ring, I must also admit that his attitude will only bite him in the ass in the end.  He may not find me dangerous now, but he'll be left begging for his life once I lash out and attack.  Now.  Watch for it...

Creature looks on as the children become more arrogant around the dog, which scrambles around with its tail tucked between its legs.  They soon find themselves yelling loudly, and treating the dog with a great deal of disrespect.  Finally, when one of the boys decides to tug on the dog's head to force it do what he wants, the dog has enough- in a quick motion, its jaws clamp around the boy's right arm and its teeth sink deep into his flesh, drawing blood, and screams of fear.  Creature simply shakes his head and watches as the boys' mother appears from around a corner, apparently busying herself with something other than the care of her children.  Creature leaves before the boy is freed from the dog, lest he ruin the moment for himself with a happy ending.  He resumes his walk, still thinking about Mercer.

Creature: In the past, I compared Slayer to an old dog.  Now I compare myself to a similar dog.  A dog waiting to strike.  A dog who respects his peers, but gets none in return.  And a dog that is just waiting to strike out and seize his opposition by the throat, and tear his jugular in half.  Michael Mercer thinks I'm a joke, knows he will win, and can't seem to understand a single word I'm saying.  He rewrites history to suit himself, and he puts words in my mouth to backup his case.  But I don't care.  So what if he can't see that I RESPECT him for his skills.  So what if he never realizes it is HE that has something to prove.  So what if I totally humiliate him and leave him on his knees weeping at center ring, all because of his attitude.  The fact is that I will not go easy on Mercer, and while I may not be HCW Champion YET, I am still the man to beat around here- so, if he refuses to bring his work boots and his game face like I asked him, so be it.  He'll pay the price.  His winning streak, his credibility, maybe even his career- he'll lose it all.  And I won't feel sorry for him one fucking bit.

With the brisk air in his lungs and the warm sun on his masked face, Creature moves towards the cafe.  He continues to take in the sights and sounds around him, and a large Hearse driving by catches his eye.  He stops once again, and watches as it passes down the street, and turns a corner before disappearing from view.  He smirks.

Creature: A Hearse...a casket inside.  Speaking of caskets...why is Michael Mercer fixated on putting me in a casket?  It is not a casket match.  His uncle did not put me in a casket.  And if his remarks, which I'm sure they do, pertain to Wolverine stuffing me in a casket and leaving me to die, might I remind him that I have since not only buried Wolverine's body, but his career as well.  Look at him now that he has tasted my vengeance...competing for the United States Title.  Hmph.  I won that title, and I did so to spite Chris Mercer, I did so to take a crucial step in our "Grand Slam Race," something which neither of us ever won.  But Michael doesn't care about his uncle, or Wolverine, or my vengeance, because he's Michael fucking Mercer.  Hmph.  So what?  Michael- where's your  name on the list of former HCW Champions?  Oh yeah, you never held the HCW Title.  Michael- where's your Hall of Fame Induction?  Oh yeah, you'll never get one.  Michael- where's your memories of the time Creature kicked your ass?  Oh yeah- you'll be getting those this Thursday.

Once again resuming his trot, Creature continues thinking about Mercer- he cannot get his empty, arrogant words out his head, and he cannot stop contemplating this Thursday's match, the "Biggest Match in Loaded History," where "Two Champions Will Collide."  Indeed, it will be one hell of a contest.

Creature: January 10th is closing in on us.  The day when I will face Michael Mercer is almost here.  And all Michael can do is make fun of the way I look, and promise a victory?  All he can do is bicker with "cousin" Justin, and pretend that he doesn't have anything at all to worry about by claiming that raccoons are better than me?  I find it disappointing that he isn't taking the match more seriously, because I am, I sure as hell am.  This isn't a battle of egos, or catchphrases, or cliche`s- it is a battle of two of the best in HCW, in the world.  But all he can muster are jokes.  Pathetic.  I've heard it all before Mikey.  And I'm not Zev Sanesca, I'm not Rage, I'm not Jory Johnson, I'm Creature.  I'm the man in HCW.  There is still time to prepare for the match.  There is still time for you to realize that you are going up against your toughest opponent ever, and if you don't treat the match as such, you will NO DOUBT lose.  So for your sake Mikey, I hope you catch on.  Because don't step into my ring unprepared- I'll fucking kill you.

Creature finally reaches the cafe.  He pauses just outside the door, and examines it.  The building is small, and you can see right in through many large windows.  The door is a single, glass, swinging door, with business hours posted in white.  The cafe is located at the corner of the street, and behind it there is a long alleyway with several dumpsters.

He enters the small establishment, known as "Monk's," and scans it with his eyes from behind his mask.  Immediately to the left of the door is the cashier's counter, where a large woman adorn in a yellow outfit and a white apron, with tall, red hair, sits.  There are then two columns of booths, one directly across from the door, and the other stretching out in front of the windows.  At the center of the cafe there are a series of circular tables, each with two chairs, and at the back of the room is counter where people may sit on stools and dine, directly in front of the kitchen.  Creature glances around, and the opts to claim the booth directly across from the cashier's counter.

He sits down, and sighs.  In front of him there is a silver, metallic napkin dispenser, a pair of bottles- one red containing ketchup, and the other yellow containing mustard.  On the opposite side of the napkin dispenser from the two condiments is a salt and a pepper shaker.  Aside from these things, the booth is plain brown leather, cracked in some areas, and the table, bolted to the white tile floor, features a white top and beige rim.  Tucked between the ketchup and the napkin dispenser is a manila menu.

Creature places his left hand in his right and cracks his knuckles, then vice versa.  He glances around the establishment, which via sign attached to the cashier's counter, claims to have been in business for forty years.

Creature: Hmph.  Forty years, that seems about as long as Michael Mercer has been running his mouth about my "jockstrap" mask and the "casket ride" he is apparently going to send me on.  I certainly hope he heeds my warnings and comes prepared, because if not, the beating he will take will seem like forty years.

Just then, a waitress wearing the same yellow uniform as the cashier, along with a similar white apron, approaches Creature.  In her hands she holds a pad and a pen.  She has short, brown hair, and a slim face.  She also doesn't seem to know who Creature is.

Waitress: Hello sir, what would you like?

She is polite, but peers quizzically at Creature's mask.  Creature reaches forward and grabs a menu, flicks it open, glances at it but doesn't really read it, then looks up at the waitress to respond, but finds her staring at his facial attire.

Creature: Is there a problem?

The waitress breaks her stare with a quick shake of her head.

Waitress: I'm sorry sir, it's just that I'm not used to customers wearing a mask.

Creature smirks.

Creature: You obviously don't know who I am.

Waitress: No, I'm afraid I don't.  But what would you like?

Creature ignores her last comment and begins to speak loudly.

Creature: I am the HWA World Champion, Creature.  I compete in the HCW, Hardcore Championship Wrestling.  You can see me Thursday nights on our program, Loaded.  And this Thursday night, I plan on defeating Michael Mercer for the first time in a non-title contest.

The waitress acts as if she understands, than repeats her previous question.

Waitress: Oh, okay.  So what would you like?

Creature shrugs and drops the menu.

Creature: I don't, uh, just- how about some fried calamari?

The waitress tilts her head and looks puzzled.

Waitress: I don't think we have that, sir.

Creature snorts.

Creature: Okay.  Fine.  Lobster bisque.  Do you have lobster bisque?

The woman shakes her head no.

Waitress: Sorry.

Creature slams a fist down on the table in anger, shaking the condiments, dispenser, and shakers.

Creature: I know I shouldn't have come to his little piece of shit crap hole.

Creature glares up at the waitress.

Creature: What do you recommend?

Waitress: The...the turkey club?

Creature looks back down at the table and nods slightly, filling the anger build inside of him.  He exhales deeply and calms himself.

Creature: Fine.  I'll have the turkey club.

The waitress jots down the information on her pad.

Waitress: And what would you like to drink?

Creature growls.

Creature: Just get me my damn sandwich!

This sends the waitress scurrying off, and Creature sighs and leans back in the booth.

Creature: Idiot.

Creature raises his right wrist and examines his new Rolex watch.

Creature: Still have some time to kill.  Maybe I should hit the gym after I eat.

Creature makes a quick assessment of his shape by flexing his right bicep.

Creature: Ha!  I'm in the best shape of my life, no need to waste my time "pumping iron" with a bunch of fat slobs and skinny punks.

Growing impatient already, Creature looks over at the kitchen and yells out.

Creature: Where's my food?  I'm a busy person you know!

Creature is ignored, aside from the cashier who shakes her head in disgust.  Creature in turn, disregards her.

Creature: I suppose I could come up with a strategy for dealing with Mercer.  He's a crafty high-flyer, so my best bet would be to keep him grounded.  I wonder how he is looking at the match?  He certainly seems to think he will beat the greatest HCW superstar ever with ease.  Hmph.  It will be interesting to see just what happens when the King of Cliche`s faces off with the Prince of Wrestlers.  I cannot wait to find out if Mercer will disappoint me with a lackluster effort and an easy Creature victory, or if he will put up a valiant effort, and truly prove to me that he is worth the air he takes up.

Creature's stomach emits a low pitch noise, and Creature slams an open palm down on the table and glances over at the kitchen.

Creature: Hello?  Where is my food?

Creature grins as the waitress emerges from the kitchen carrying a small white plate with a sandwich on it.  The waitress, the same woman as before, moves over to his table and sets the plate down, along with a white and yellow piece of paper.

Waitress: There you go.  Enjoy your meal, sir.

Creature simply sneers at her and examines his food.

Creature: Look at this terrible presentation.  I can only hope the taste makes up for this poor looking meal.

The sandwich indeed is not elegant, but it is nothing to scoff at.  It is twelve inches in length, and consists of two slices of whole wheat bread, with several cuts of white turkey meat, many slices of tomato, lettuce, some pickles, and a few slabs of cheese.

Creature: Here we go.

Creature seizes the sandwich roughly in one hand, and brings it to his mouth, the only totally exposed area of his face.  He opens wide and savagely tears into the sandwich.  He chews for a moment, then swallows.  He snorts and shakes his head.

Creature: Pathetic.  How much did this lesson in mediocrity for my tastebuds cost me?

He sets the remaining eight inches of the sandwich back down on the plate, never intending to touch it again.  He then picks up the sheet of white and yellow paper, otherwise known as the bill.  He looks it over and sighs.

Creature: Seven dollars and fifty cents.  Hmph.

Creature withdraws with wallet and produces the monitary amount needed, using exact change.  He then pauses and contemplates leaving a tip for the waitress.

Creature: Does the wench deserve any of my hard earned money, the only payment I receive for bleeding, sweating, and toiling three hundred and sixty-five days a year?  Hahaha, hell no.  She can burn in hell for all I care.

Creature rises with the seven dollar bills and two quarters, and approaches the cashier's counter without leaving a tip for the waitress.  The full figured red headed woman behind the counter looks up at him and begins to speak, but Creature simply slams the money down on the counter.

Creature: I won't be coming back.

The cashier grunts and watches as Creature throws the swinging door open and exits the cafe, a business which has never seen a customer so rude as Creature in over fort years.  Back on the street, the time has almost come for Creature to pick up his Corvette at the autoshop.  He stands outside the cafe, about to begin the long walk back to the garage, when he sees a Taxi cab pull to a stop at a red light across the street.

Creature: Ah, why walk, when I can ride?

He sets off across the street, causing two cars to come to a halting stop in the process, with his index and middle fingers raises over his head, flicking his hand back and forth.  He is signaling to the cab, and the driver waves back, basically telling him to get in.  Creature reaches the Taxi and throws the right side back door open, and climbs in, slamming the door behind him.  The driver glances at him using the rear view mirror.

Driver: Where to pal?

Creature: 8-Ball's Autoshop.

The driver nods, and begins to move forward as the light turns green.  The interior of the cab is small and cramped.  The back and front seats are divided by a dirty, scratched, plastic window with an opening at the center to allow communication between driver and passenger.  The seats are brown leather, and are ripped and cracked.  The floor is stained and coming up, and the stench of cigarette smoke fills the air.

The drive in the front seat wears a New York Yankees cap on his head, and sports some dark stubble.  He wears a stained white tanktop with some torn blue jeans.

As the driver commands the vehicle, he occasionally looks back at Creature in the mirror.  Finally he speaks up.

Driver: Do I know you from somewhere pal?

Creature looks up at the rear view mirror and shrugs.

Creature: I don't know.  How many people you see with masks on?

The driver chuckles a bit.

Driver: Not many.  So who are you?  I can't put a name to ya, but I know I've seen you somewhere.

Creature: Just get me to the Autoshop.

The driver nods and returns his concentration to the road, but before long, he finds himself looking back at his passenger.  He squints up at the rear view mirror, desperately trying to figure out who this man is.

Driver: Aren't you that wrestler?

Creature shrugs.

Creature: There are a lot of wrestlers.

The driver smirks and makes a turn, heading around the block where the cafe and autoshop are located.

Driver: Yeah, but you're that one.  The guy who lost the last time the HCW Title as on the line.

Creature smirks for a moment, but when he speaks, he is dead serious.

Creature: Yes, that's right.  I am the man who lose to Inphino Blitz the last time the HCW Title was defended.  But make no mistake about it- I have waited a long time for my revenge, and on January 27th, I will have it.  I will face Inphino Blitz one on one in the most grueling, physically taxing match of all time, the sixty minute Iron Man Match, and I will emerge with the most falls, and the HCW Championship around MY waist.  Once again- I did lose last time.  I am that man.  But I will not be defeated this time.  Nor ever again.  I vow that starting with this Thursday's Loaded, when I face Michael Mercer, I will begin a winning streak the likes of which the HCW and the entire world have never seen before!

The cab driver's eyes light up.

Driver: I know who you are!  You Creature, right?

Creature nods slowly.

Creature: I am Creature.  I am the God of HCW.  I have many nicknames, Slayer's Bane, the Masked Man of HCW, the Master of the Abyss.  I have done it all in HCW, including reign as the first, last, and greatest HWA Champion of all time.  And this Thursday night I will add one more accomplishment to the list, as I do something that somehow many others have failed to do- defeat Michael Mercer.

The driver laughs a bit.

Driver: You think you can beat Michael Mercer?

Creature tilts his head.

Creature: Of course I do.  Going into the match, certainly I am concerned about his in-ring ability.  But as time has passed, I've come to realize that he is underestimating MY abilities.  Unless he undergoes a serious attitude change, then I've got his number.

The driver furrows his bushy brow.

Driver: So you are saying his too arrogant?  That he won't be prepared for the match or something like that?

Creature nods slightly.

Creature: More or less.  I'm no fool.  I know he is a great athlete, and he has done a lot in HCW.  But he's still a cocky little bitch, and frankly, I'm afraid he doesn't know what he is getting into.  You watch- if he isn't careful at Loaded, his career may very well end.  It won't be pretty.

Driver: I see.  Well, good luck.  Many a man have called Mercer cocky, but he can more than back up his claims.  He knows what he is talking about.

Creature grins.

Creature: I hope he does.  Because once again, whether he comes expecting to wage war with a legend or to squash someone like Jeo, I will be ready.  He can sing his little songs and he can rough house with that adopted fruit Justin, but there will be no playing around inside the squared circle on Loaded.

Driver: Will he feel the Abyss?

Creature: He'll feel every move I've got.  From my high flying risks to my technical expertise, he'll gain a true understanding of what it is like to be in the ring with a true master of the sport.  I guarantee THAT.

The driver reaches up with his left hand and caresses his stubble.

Driver: Can you guarantee a win?

Creature snorts.

Creature: I can guarantee an ass kicking he won't soon forget.  As for who wins...hmph.  Unless he comes to grips with the fact that I am his toughest opponent yet, then I'll win.

Driver: And what if he does?

Creature: Haha...then he'll prove he can run with the big boys.  But I'll still win.  This is a match I've looked forward to for a long time.  When he "saved" me from his uncle, I wanted to face him then.  When I was with Kate Anarchy and he and that he-bitch Jaden were HCW Intergender Tag Champions, I wanted to face him then.  And when he pledged his allegiance to Inphino Blitz, I wanted to face him then.  This match has been brewing for a while, and I will personally make sure that no one ever forgets it.

At long last, the cab pulls up to the curb just a few feet away from the concrete ramp leading up into the auto garage.  Creature throws the door open and steps out, then takes a step or two and looks in at the driver through the open passenger's side window.

Driver: Eight dollars even.

Creature: Hmph.

Creature once again retrieves his wallet, and removes a ten dollar bill.  He tosses it through the window.

Creature: Keep the change.

The driver nods and pulls away from the curb.  Creature shakes his head and then turns his attention towards the autoshop.  He checks his Rolex.

Creature: Perfect timing.

Creature begins walking up the ramp, and as he draws closer to the open entrance of the garage, the pungent odor of grease and oil becomes stronger and stronger.  He waltzes right into the garage, and a mechanic in the standard issue blue jumpsuit approaches him.  His name tag reads "Edward."  Out of all the mechanics, he seems the cleanest, with short, slicked back hair, and a small stud in his left ear.  Around his neck he wears a gold chain, and his outfit is not stained or dirty in the least.

Edward: Can I help you sir?

Creature gives Edward a once over.

Creature: Why are you so clean, Ed?  Aren't you a grease monkey?

Edward furrows his brow and frowns.

Edward: I could ask you why you wear a mask, but-

Creature: (interrupting) Yeah, yeah, where the hell is David?

Edward: I'll go get him.

Creature motions for Edward to move along.

Creature: Damn straight you will.  Go on.

Edward shakes his head and sets off to find David.

Creature: Stupid grease monkey.

A few moments later, David lumbers up to Creature with a goofy smile on his face.  He jabs his hand out for a quick shake.

David: Hi there, Creach.

Creature glances down at David's extended hand and grunts.

Creature: Don't call me Creach.  Is my car ready?

David nods happily.

David: Sure is, want me to bring her around for ya?

Creature: Please do.

David: Alright.  Be right back.

David quickly sets off back from where he came, probably to the lot behind the garage, as the Corvette is clearly not in the shop.

Creature: Hurry it up, Dave.  Hmph.

A few moments later, David pulls around the shop at the foot of the ramp in the black Corvette.  He waves to Creature, then climbs out.  Creature heads down the ramp and out of the garage to meet him.

Creature: Thank you.

David: Yep, she's a sweet ride.

Creature smirks.

Creature: That's nice.  How much did this cost me?

A blank look comes over David's face, and he stares off into the distance for a minute.  He then looks back at Creature.

David: Somewhere around twelve hundred dollars.

Creature frowns.

Creature: Damn it...so be it.

David: We'll send you the bill.

Creature: I'm sure you will.  Now then...give me the keys.

David: Oh...right.

Creature extends an open palm and David slowly drops the keys to the Corvette into it.

Creature: Thank you.

Creature briskly moves around David and climbs into his car.  David watches him as he does and waves once more.

David: Come back again anytime!

Creature mutters his response under his breath while smiling back at David.

Creature: Not a chance in hell.

Creature once again starts his car up, takes the steering wheel, and stares straight forward.

Creature: It's almost time Mercer, it's almost time.

With that, Creature drives off, his destination known only to the man behind the mask.