Many days ago, it was a dark, dark night. And on that dark, dark night there was a dark, dark wasteland. And in that dark, dark wasteland there was a dark, dark tower. And in that dark, dark tower there was a dark, dark room. And in that dark, dark room, a Jackrabbit hid. The sound of an organ is the first sense, its eerie melancholy echoing around the black expanse, the forbidden wasteland that stretched for endless miles and was home to the machination of a long forgotten mind, the foreboding tower that rose into the forsaken night. Lightning crashes around the structure, the scene shaking under the pressing power of riveting rain. A calm, chilling wind; a full moon, bright, round, staring down with mournful eyes on this place. Somewhere in the distance, a village burns down. The organ reaches its crescendo, the hallowed notes whispering untold stories to unseen ears. The lightning strikes the tower, but is contained, illuminating an ancient gargoyle wrought of ageless stone. The camera, existing somehow in this damned place, enters the dark tower. Entry has been gained at the lowest of levels, the very foot of this rising monolith, through a rusted portcullis. It is dank and it is damp, the distant sound of a leak dripping in a monotonous tenor. The only light in this disregarded dungeon of sorts is from a small, barred window, shining its beam of luminance on the dusty concrete of this torturous hole. From its perch in a corner, a spider surveys the scarce scene. Into the dungeon, crawls a sorry figure, his hunched figure withdrawn into a torn and tattered suit, long past its days of respect and prestige, his dark hair matted to his head with sweat, his arms huddled around him, his eyes shifty in their sockets. Perhaps he fears for his life, perhaps he believes this wretched cell will be his tomb, perhaps the shackles bolted into the far wall will be the final bracelets of a lost soul. He shivers. There is a noise now, behind him, only barely audible over the incessant drip drip drip. Flinching away from the sound, the sorry man falls against the nearest wall, paying no mind to the cobwebs now attached to his ruined suit. Something approaches. Something sinister, something wicked, something dark and unforgiving. The creature, for that is what it truly is, ambles towards him, a shadow of a life lost and damnation to come. A broken shell of a wasted existence, a tortured essence of a haunted past. The sorry man tries to scream, but his voice remains trapped in his throat. But instead, the creature speaks, and these are its words. �Happy Halloween!� �You jerk, �scared me half to death, man!� The Jackrabbit flicks on the light, revealing the monstrous apparition that are his blue tartan longshorts and trademark T-shirt, the horrific sight of his blonde ponytail and mirrored sunshades, the frightening truth of his wrestling boots and silver necklaces. Stevie Sol straightens up against the wall, brushing a cobweb off himself. THE JACKRABBIT: �It was just a joke, Stevieo...� STEVIE SOL: �...you ripped my suit to pieces!� He tugs at the tattered garment with more than a mild annoyance. The New Legends of Wrestling superstar gives a playful shrug. Stevie tries to get his ruined suit and yellow tie combo to look respectful, but it is a wasted effort. Resignedly, he returns his baseball cap to his head, slightly off-centre. THE JACKRABBIT: �It�s all in the spirit of Halloweeeeen, Stevieo! This is the time when the ghouls and ghosties come out, the time when the zombies and vampires and devils and monsters play, this is the time when Frankenstein and the werewolf and the boogeyman and...� STEVIE SOL: �I know what Halloween is, �Rabbit... I just don�t see why that means my suit needs to get wrecked...� THE JACKRABBIT: �Comes with the territories, silly!� STEVIE SOL: �Riiiight... well seems fitting don�t it, us being stuck living in an ancient dark tower over the Halloween period. Go figure.� THE JACKRABBIT: �I knows! Methinks if we stay around in these spooky dungeons often enough, we might even get to make friends with a ghost!� STEVIE SOL: �...uh, �friends�?� THE JACKRABBIT: �Yush, like Casper?� STEVIE SOL: �Ah... d�uh.� Stevie rolls his eyes up and melodramatically facepalms. Slowly he begins to eye the dungeon around them, the cold concrete, the multiple shackles... he would even swear some of them look blood-stained. Frowning and hunching up just a little, he turns to look as his new associate, the NLW wrestler who is now a flaming inferno. Stevie yelps in horror, leaping away from the burning yellow eyes, the pointed demonic smile, the waxy orange flesh... THE JACKRABBIT: �Like my pumpkin?� STEVIE SOL: �Your...?� THE JACKRABBIT: �I�m the Jackrabbit-O�-Lantern!� STEVIE SOL: �Oh, give me a break!� The Jackrabbit looks thoroughly pleased with his hand-carved vegetable, despite its cag-handedness and generally inaccurate presentation, but the candle burns brightly inside. Stevie Sol wipes his sweating brow, and sighs with exasperation. STEVIE SOL: �Listen, �Rabbit... I hate to be a party-crasher an� all, and I�m as much a fan of Halloween as the next guy, but.... shouldn�t you be more focused on NLW right now? You�re coming off the back of a big time loss to Draco, and with all that�s going on with Radnik, maybe you should bail out this week man...� THE JACKRABBIT: �Stevieo, you know what? I was considering bailing out on En-El-Dub for a likkle while... but then, I realiseded, I�m not going no-place �cos I got too much hard works to do to prove that I am not gonna be held down by a little boo-boo in the Gold Russian tournie...� STEVIE SOL: �So you�re... on form?� THE JACKRABBIT: �Stevieo, you saw us destrominate in Oh-Dub-Ef, right?� STEVIE SOL: �Destrominate?� THE JACKRABBIT: �Oooh yes, utter destromination! Those poor jobbers didn�t have a hope against the ultimate might of Bumblebee and Optimus Prime!� STEVIE SOL: �What..?!� THE JACKRABBIT: �And by Bumblebee and Optimus Prime, I obviously meant The Jackrabbit and Talon! But worry not little Stevieo, that accidental woopsy with Dracey won�t bother your friendly neighbourhood Jackrabbit... Oh noes, �cos this little �Rabbit gots his beady little sunshades set firmly on the next match that silly Sully is throwing at him. You see, apparently somebody wants me to jerk off some curtains, or something. Not something I really haves experience with, but The Jackrabbit is never one to moan. I will like and lump and like the curtain-jerkening with this Iguana..� STEVIE SOL: �Nirvana...� THE JACKRABBIT: �...and no amount of colour-changing tacticals are gonna help him. Everybody who�s anybody knows that rabbits eat lizards for breakfast... or supper, depending on the time... so come Uprisening, The Jackrabbit returns to his home turf of En-El-Dub, and The Jackrabbit returns to his winning ways of winningness. Iguana, I�m sorry that silly Sully decided to make you the sacrifice-ul lizard, but until I proved enough that I deserve to be doing bigger and betterer things, then jerking off curtains with lizards will suffice, and I will be happy. Why? �Cos I�m always happy, silly, it�s what I do bestest! You see, Iguana, you, me, Uprisening... it�s all one big laughing matter, hahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaa!!� The Jackrabbit hits a high-note in his rapturous laughter, and Stevie Sol smiles, almost proudly. He then almost double-takes, as he becomes re-aware of their current location. Immediately he re-folds his arms, and looks around the dungeon suspiciously. STEVIE SOL: �Sweet... can we leave yet?� THE JACKRABBIT: �Oh, you wanna go to a graveyard now?� STEVIE SOL: �NO!� The Jackrabbit pouts. Poor Jackrabbit. He produces a small bag from his pocket and holds it out to his exuberated companion. THE JACKRABBIT: �Trick or treat!?� STEVIE SOL: �Oh, I give up.� Computers surround the scene, an encirclement of electronic life, a torrent of data and information. On one screen is a picture of the man known as The Enigma, Talon, below a scarce amount of known facts. On another, The Jackrabbit, and a blank page labelled �Background.� A third screen bares the resemblance of Stevie Sol, beside his stern face an unusual corporate logo of some kind, and a plethora of data follows it. Stevie Sol is the only solved link in the puzzle, the only entity not surrounded by an indecipherable mist. Dr. Libor Radnik is seen in his usual chair, in his usual lab coat, literally tugging at the frayed, silver hair on his head. He is scrutinizing the page on Talon, which seems to bare facts about known locations, but unfortunately for the doctor... DR. RADNIK: �No �dark tower.�� He scoffs at himself. DR. RADNIK: �Well, of course... what type of postal address is �Dark Tower�... Untraceable... I see why they call him �Enigma...�... ARGH!� The doctor�s frustration echoes around the empty lab, and he bangs his fist on the desk. The computer window swaps accidentally, and the image of a multi-building complex opens. Radnik stares at the image, just for a moment, and scratches his chin. A small, but telling, smirk crosses his face. DR. RADNIK: �Yes....�