The Not So Remarkable Discovery

Characters: Ken Kaze, Jay Dubb, & Polar

The search for the whereabouts of the enigmatic Superbeast and incarcerated Hero of Hardcore had gone absolutely nowhere. Polar had explored every distinct inch of the HSBC Arena in Buffalo, New York and hadn’t found a single clue – not even an inkling of a hint of a clue – as to where either of the two men could be. Wherever the destination of both Ken Kaze and Sylo may have been, it certainly was not within the proximity of the destined location of Tuesday Night Intense.

The Iceman had decided to call it a night and end his expedition as he rounded a corner of the backstage corridors. He specifically ended his pursuit as he approached a lone, wooden door displaying a white sign. Logically, the sign read “POLAR” until it seemed to be vanishing before the inhabitant’s very eyes, as he pressed the door ajar. This was the first time throughout the evening he had even bothered to visit his individually assigned locker room. He had been too wrapped up in searching for his adversaries.

The authentic Abominable Snowman made his entrance into his comfortable residence as his hand reached to the right, clinging to the concrete wall, rummaging for something.

“F[BEEP!]kin’ switch. Can’t never find it,” he grumbled to himself.

FLICK.

With a quick flick, illumination enlightened the habitat of one Alaskan native. Instantly, his eyes swelled up as they appeared ready to bulge right out of his eye sockets. Laying before him was something coiled into a furrowed heap on the floor. A quick investigation of the room led to the remarkable discovery of many instruments of apparent torture.

Two steel chairs. Duo of enormous, chain-linked shackles. A vestigial table that seemed out of place. Car battery. Set of jumper cables. Blowtorch. A water hose suspended from the ceiling. A gold-plated championship belt of some kind. And last, but not least, George the Trashcan.

As the pieces to the jigsaw puzzle fell into place – as the solution to the riddle had at last been solved – as the options to the dilemma had finally narrowed down . . . he had understood everything.

Polar had realized that for the past couple of weeks, Ken Kaze’s confinement from civilization – his solitude from society, his imprisonment from humanity – all along, had been within the depths of the catacombs that is the HSBC Arena.

Sylo had chosen this location for a reason. He knew two weeks in advance that Jolt Wrestling would be traveling to Buffalo, New York. He knew they would make their stop inside the HSBC Arena. Most important of all, he had known in advance which locker room the Iceman would be assigned to. Everything had been premeditated perfectly. His preparation. His abduction. His location. His mind game.

Sylo’s mind game.

Everything was now apparent as Polar nudged the motionless pile of human flesh and bones that laid at his feet. It was none other than the battered, damaged, and decrepit bodily form of Jolt’s Resident Moron, Ken Kaze. The panoramic outlook resembled a homicide scene, only minus the yellow caution tape. Fresh blood pumped through the veins of the Hero of Hardcore as it surged like a stream onto the unforgiving, spine chilling concrete floor. The entire room was bathed in crimson, coupled with a few scattered luminous white specks glinting through the literal bloodbath. Possibly teeth.

However, the most important aspect of this designated room was neither the specific instruments of destruction of one grotesque Superbeast, nor the comatose physique of Ken Kaze. It was a simple message written on the wall. Yes, another one of those messages.

This memorandum’s nature was different than the past messages, however. Rather than the typical sky blue writing, it resembled a lonesome, scarlet rose that stood out beyond the other roses. A vermilion bulletin.

TURN AROUND

Fathoming the situation to its entirety, Polar was apprehensive to obey the statement’s order. Lurking inside the deep cryptic chambers of the Alaskan Assassin’s psyche was the order to never turn around. However, a second voice spoke to him, playing Devil’s advocate: Turn around. This is the chance you’ve been waiting for all night. He cost you the match at the Retort. Destroy him now. DESTROY HIM NOW!

Instantly overflowing with vehemence and overwhelmed with a newfound vigor to devastate, Polar executed an about face in the doorway, ready to meet his maker.

Only, to his surprise . . .

“The f[BEEP!]k? Motherf[BEEP!]kin’ Jay Dubb?”

Leaning against the wall was none other than the four foot tall Jolt Wrestling Mascot, who as usual reeked with the stench of alcohol, which was most likely saturated into his cartoon-version suit of former Jolt Wrestling superstar Graphic Violence.

“What the hell are you doing here? What is all of this? What is this s[BEEP!]t? Why is this retard in my locker room? What is with Sylo’s fun toys decorating my comfortable abode? More importantly,” Polar said, growing more irate by the second, “allow me to reiterate myself: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?!”

Fearing the vicious trademark headbutt-to-the-midget of DOOM~! from the behemoth that was the Iceman, Jay Dubb slowly began to choke out an explanation.

“S… Some blue-haired fell… fellow told me I… I could find a crap load of beer in… in here.”

Sneering in disgust, Polar turned around to look down at the immobile mass of tissue that was Ken Kaze. Out of sheer rage, his right leg reared back before embarking onto a journey to Jolt Wrestling’s Resident Moron’s abdomen. The dull thud was not enough to invigorate the Hero of Hardcore; however, it was enough to revolve his body until he rested on his back, facing the ceiling.

“Sylo,” Polar muttered under his breath.

He glanced over to see Jay Dubb, terrified, frozen against the wall.

“Well? Get the hell outta here!” the Iceman roared as he started toward Jay.

Showing just how agile midgets could be, Jolt Wrestling’s Mascot was gone in a flash.

“So, Sylo . . . you wanna play mind games? Ha! Forget that. You can f[BEEP!]k up poor Kenny all you want. I’m not getting involved with your bulls[BEEP]t. You were most fortunate to get to him before I did. If I had gotten my humungous hands around his puny little neck, his current state would’ve been the condition we would become familiar with for an eternity as they lowered his corpse six feet under.”

A sinister smile became present upon his face before he lifted the stationary frame of Ken Kaze. With a simple heave, Ken was soaring through the air into the backstage corridor. Not too far behind was George as he crash-landed on top of his compatriot’s cranium. The door slammed shut behind them both, as it seemed our unconscious hero of idiocy began streaming into consciousness.